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Chapter 485: Harry's Nightmare
A sharp crack echoed through the air. Sirius Black stood on the road in Hogsmeade, tangled in leaves and burrs, his once-impeccable wizard robes torn and frayed by brush. The sky had darkened, and streetlamps flickered to life early.
Just ahead lay the Three Broomsticks Inn, the warm, savory scents of butterbeer and steak drifting from within. Sirius’s stomach growled. He licked his lips, thoughts consumed by the intelligence he’d just overheard—something too vital to delay. He had to report it to Dumbledore in person.
Winding through narrow alleys, he stepped onto the path leading toward Hogwarts. The atmosphere grew quiet, almost solemn. The trees lining the way stirred memories of his long pursuit of Wormtail. He ground his teeth, his jaw aching as if he could still taste the coppery tang of blood—raw, uncooked—on his tongue.
—Once again… that home had slipped through his fingers.
Back in school, Sirius had mocked Wormtail’s Animagus form, ridiculing it endlessly. But now, face-to-face with a man who could turn into a rat, he understood just how insidious such a shape could be.
Suddenly, something in his pocket twitched—like a restless rabbit trapped beneath his robes. Sirius pulled out the Communication Pea. The tiny bean stilled instantly. He slipped it into his ear, and a thin, urgent voice whispered:
“Harry Potter is requesting a connection… Harry Potter is requesting a connection…”
If it were anyone else, Sirius would’ve ended the call without hesitation. But this was Harry’s call. He answered at once.
“Harry?” Sirius asked, concern threading his voice. “How have you been?”
“Not bad,” Harry replied. “Aunt Petunia’s made us all go on a diet with Dudley Dursley, but the big home sent me plenty of snacks. Remus and Wade came by today. So I’m not starving.”
He didn’t mention the absurdity of the Dursleys’ meals. He brushed it off quickly, then got straight to the point.
“I had a nightmare, Sirius Black.”
“A nightmare?”
To call his godfather during a critical mission over a dream? That sounded even more ridiculous than being abused by his foster family. But Sirius didn’t laugh. He didn’t mock. He simply asked, “What did you dream?”
“I… I dreamed of…” Harry stared blankly at the spellbooks he’d tossed onto his desk the night before, suddenly forgetting what he’d meant to say.
The images from the dream were fading fast—like waves receding from the shore. But just before they vanished, a searing pain flared across his forehead. The scar burned, a sharp, electric agony that yanked at his fading memory.
“I dreamed… I saw Professor Lockhart,” Harry murmured. “And that man from the newspaper—Garr Troke. They were being tortured by me… with the Cruciatus Curse.”
“Wait—by whom?” Sirius’s voice sharpened. He’d stopped moving, his eyes wide.
“By me…” Harry whispered, disbelief twisting his face. He scrunched his brow, desperately trying to recall the dream.
The vision had been so vivid—so real—the screams were almost audible. For a moment, he’d almost believed he’d killed them.
But worse was the absence of guilt. No remorse. No hesitation. Just… coldness. A chilling, almost eager satisfaction. As if some dark, hidden part of himself had finally surfaced.
Harry swallowed hard, pushing the feeling down. “I dreamed I was torturing them… I also saw a huge serpent…”
Silence.
Sirius stood frozen, his expression unreadable.
Lockhart… and Garr… He’d watched them walk into that old house. Then—nothing. No sign of them since.
From “Barty’s” tone, it sounded like Peter Pettigrew had lured them in—used them as offerings to Voldemort.
But that had just happened. How could Harry have seen it in a dream?
And not just seen it… but from Voldemort’s perspective? Even Sirius didn’t know what happened after they entered the house.
This was too strange. Too wrong.
A deep unease settled in Sirius’s chest. His silence only made Harry more anxious. He worried he’d sounded childish—overreacting, unsteady.
So he added, “When I woke up… my scar started hurting again. It hasn’t hurt in ages.”
Sirius froze mid-step. Time seemed to stop. His breath came in shallow, trembling gasps.
For a fleeting second, something flickered in his mind—a thought, sharp and urgent. But it vanished as quickly as it came.
Dazed, he felt himself standing in a dimly lit room. Tall bookshelves loomed around him. The scent of parchment and ink filled the air. His fingers brushed something soft, smooth—warm beneath his touch.
And then, faintly, a voice—innocent, young—asked:
“Sirius Black… what are you doing here?”
“Sirius Black? Sirius Black?” The voice from the Communication Pea was silent for too long. Only wind murmured through the receiver.
Harry pulled the pea from his ear, staring at it. Then, puzzled, he put it back. “Sirius Black?”
“I’m here,” Sirius said at last, taking a deep breath. “I’m on my way to see Dumbledore. I’ll ask him—what do you think could be causing your scar to hurt?”
Harry hesitated. “It’s… maybe not a big deal? It only hurt for a few minutes. Probably just stress.”
“No, Harry,” Sirius said firmly. “No one in the magical world has survived a Killing Curse like you did. Any change tied to that scar is not trivial.”
“Fine,” Harry said, though his tone betrayed his own unease. “It’s not hurting now… you don’t need to worry.”
Even as he said it, he knew—deep down—that the pain wasn’t meaningless.
But Sirius didn’t dismiss it. He took it seriously. That reassured Harry more than any reassurance could. The weight lifted from his shoulders.
He strained to recall more details from the dream and relayed them to Sirius.
When the call ended, Harry climbed back into bed, pulled the blanket over himself, and let his body relax into sleep.
Sirius, however, stood motionless before the towering castle, his face grim. He raised his wand and sent a signal into the dark.
Moments later, Hagrid approached, lantern in hand, creaking open the wooden door with a long, drawn-out creak.
(End of Chapter)
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