Chapter Text
The dreams begin the summer following Harry’s second year at Ilvermorny.
They are unlike the rest of his dreams in that they are all so ordinary. They truly feel like stepping into the shoes of someone else. Often, they take place in large libraries, with the scent of old books hanging in the air. Harry will spend entire nights looking over thick tomes crammed with dense theory he never quite understands. Sometimes the books are written in runes or another language Harry cannot read. Those dreams are the most boring.
But other times, Harry spends the night walking down wide cobblestone streets in European cities. He’s not himself in these dreams—he knows that much—because on occasion he hears the voice of the boy whose eyes he is looking through, and it’s cold and posh, nothing like his own. He sees a slender, elegant hand turning the pages of books or catches a glimpse of dark, smooth hair in a mirrored surface.
What unsettles him most is that the dreams contain truths he has no way of knowing. In one, he eats affogato at a café. Weeks later, in the waking world, he orders the same thing and finds it tastes exactly as it did in the dream.
Harry is certain these dreams carry some significance, but none of the books he’s read have given him any clues. He’s afraid to tell anyone about them—afraid the dreams might be taken away.
The dreams have been happening for a year when, one night, there’s a dramatic shift.
Harry wakes with a scream trapped in his throat after witnessing something horrific: a giant snake, a whimpering man, a monstrous creature murmuring of plans too vast and cruel to grasp, and a man named Frank murdered simply for listening.
If the dream wasn’t terrifying enough, Harry is also struck with the worst headache he’s ever had—strangely radiating from the peculiar spot on his forehead that occasionally itches. The pain is so intense that Harry doubles over in his bed and is sick all over himself.
His scream, of course, wakes his father. From the speed with which he appears in Harry’s doorway, dressing gown billowing, he might not have been sleeping at all. It has been years since Harry has gone to him for anything as childish as a nightmare. While Harry loves his father, giving comfort has never been his forte.
Sometimes, Harry thinks of his mother, who must have once held him and chased away his fear with tender words. But Harry’s father never speaks of her, so he can’t be sure.
“What happened?” his father asks, cold and professional.
Harry thinks he must resemble his mother, because he doesn’t look much like his father at all. They both have dark hair, but Harry’s is wild and curly, while his father’s is thin, straight, and often greasy. Harry has striking green eyes, and his father has eyes so dark they’re nearly black, like deep, dark pits.
It seems that when he looks too deeply into his father’s eyes, all the secrets he holds come tumbling right to the surface. More than once, he’s wondered if his father is a mind reader, though he would never been foolish enough to ask.
“I had a nightmare,” Harry admits, burning with shame. “And my head really hurts.”
His father spells away Harry’s sick. “I will fetch you a draught.”
The potion dulls the pain but doesn’t ease it completely. Still, it makes Harry pleasantly drowsy and more loose-lipped.
“It just felt so real,” he murmurs. “Could it have been real? Am I a Seer?”
“There are some clairvoyants who have premonitions through dreams,” his father replies, “but most who have the Sight manifest it when they are much younger than you.”
Harry hums, a bit disappointed. It would have been cool to be a Seer.
“I am interested, however, in the content of your dream.”
That surprises him. His father rarely indulges anything that isn’t strictly rational. Stranger still is the intensity of his interest as Harry recounts the dream—how he leans forward, how he presses for details.
He asks about the snake. The creatures. The plans. The names.
Frustration grows as more answers are demanded that Harry cannot give. By now, the dream has become fuzzy around the edges, the details slipping away as Harry teeters on the edge of sleep.
Finally, when it is clear that Harry has nothing more to offer, his father stands.
“You will tell me immediately if you have another dream like this,” he tells him.
“What if I’m at school?”
“Then you will send me an owl as soon as possible upon waking.”
Harry agrees, even though it’s starting to feel like a big fuss is being made over nothing. It was only a dream, after all. When he falls asleep again, he doesn’t dream at all.
“Are they insane?” Agatha shrieks from behind her newspaper.
Harry pauses, a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth, waiting for his friend to explain what article has put her in a tizzy today.
“They’re reinstating the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts,” she says. “It’s barbaric! I mean, people have died!”
“Sounds kind of fun,” Harry says, grinning. “I wish Ilvermorny had been invited.”
“We wouldn’t have been allowed to participate either way,” Ozzie chimes in. “They’ve raised the age requirement to seventeen.”
“Well, maybe they’ll have a tournament here when we’re all of age,” Harry says lightly.
Lately, he’s been testing spells he remembers from his dreams, practicing alone in empty classrooms. They don’t always work. Harry assumes those must be advanced—beyond his current capabilities. But some do work, and when they do, the results are startling enough that he keeps them to himself.
“Not a chance,” Agatha scoffs. “Our Headmaster actually cares about our welfare.”
“I think Dumbledore seems pretty cool,” Ozzie says.
His eyes shine with mischief—the comment is clearly goading. But it succeeds in sending Agatha on a frenzied tirade concerning all the man’s faults. Hogwarts does sound rather dangerous, but thrilling as well. Harry’s father attended school there, but it’s one of the many subjects he refuses to discuss, shutting down any of Harry’s questions with a look sharp enough to slice through glass.
Harry quickly forgets about the Triwizard Tournament as he settles into the routine of fourth year. Classes are more rigorous, expectations are higher, and Harry has to work tirelessly to earn the grades his father demands.
When he’s not studying, Harry’s life revolves around Quodpot, a pursuit his father barely tolerates. Harry thinks he has a real chance of going professional some day, but he knows better than to voice that idea to his father.
It could be funny though. Harry imagines steam coming out of his dad’s ears just like a potion left unchecked.
Harry hasn’t had any more violently vivid nightmares or agonizing headaches. The other dreams—the softer dreams—continue. He still doesn’t mention them to anyone.
The next piece of news about the Triwizard Tournament that reaches America concerns the selection of the champions.
“Hey!” Harry says, peering over Agatha’s shoulder at the article. “He’s only fourteen! How’s that fair?”
“Well, he’s Charlie Potter,” Agatha sighs wearily. “There are always exceptions made for the famous and powerful.”
Ozzie laughs. “He looks pretty spooked to me.”
Harry thinks Ozzie has it right. In the photo, the other champions stand tall and proud, basking in the attention. In contrast, Charlie Potter looks small, much too young, hands clenched at his sides like he’s bracing himself.
“You know,” Ozzie says, leaning closer, “he looks a bit like you, Harry.”
Harry squints. “No, he doesn’t. He’s got red hair, and he’s super scrawny. You just think we look alike because we both wear glasses.”
“You have similar bone structure,” Agatha comments, frowning thoughtfully.
Harry laughs dismissively. “Well, you know what they say about British purebloods. All hopelessly inbred. Maybe we’re cousins.”
By the end of the year, the Hogwarts Champion Cedric Diggory is dead.
Right on the front page of The New York Ghost is a haunting photo that sticks in Harry’s mind longer after he views it. Little Charlie Potter on his knees, weeping, desperately clutching his friend’s corpse.
Nobody comments that Harry looks like him then.
It is that summer that Harry begins to dream of the corridor.