The moon slipped out from behind the clouds, casting a pale glow over the quiet suburb of Little Whinging. Its light fell directly on the upper window of Number Four, Privet Drive—on the small, cluttered bedroom at the top of the stairs, where Harry Potter lay awake.
The room was in its usual state of chaos. A half-packed trunk sat in the middle of the floor, one side hanging open like it had given up trying to contain its contents. Socks spilt over the edge. Spellbooks towered dangerously high on the desk, some still open, their corners curling with wear. Hedwig's cage rested precariously atop the stack, her amber eyes sharp and watchful in the moonlight.
A faint breeze stirred the curtain, letting the moonbeam land squarely on the front page of the Daily Prophet, half-buried beneath the mess.
STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF DEMENTORS PERSISTED, the headline declared in thick, black type.
Harry didn't need to reread it. He'd already gone over every word, again and again, as if staring hard enough might make the Ministry sound less clueless.
He lay on his side, curled tightly beneath the sheets, back to the window. The moonlight caught the corner of a broken mirror on his bedside table—just enough to reflect the white flash of Hedwig's feathers as she blinked down from her cage. She was still awake too. She always seemed to know when he couldn't sleep.
He hadn't slept much at all since coming back here.
The Prophet's article had gone on about how Dementors had started acting… wrong. Drifting from their posts. Ignoring prisoners. Almost like they were talking to each other. Not just the ones who'd defected to Voldemort—no, even the ones still guarding Azkaban were being weird about it. Creepy, even for soul-sucking monsters.
And the ministry's big answer?
"We don't really know. We're investigating."
Useless, as always.
Harry turned his face into his pillow and let out a quiet, angry groan. It didn't help. His jaw was clenched so tight it hurt.
Everything was wrong. Again.
But this time, it wasn't just about Dementors. Not really. That was just another knot in the growing tangle of guilt and frustration that had taken root in his chest since—
Since Sirius.
His stomach twisted.
The ache in his chest flared up again. Three days since he'd come back to the Dursleys. Three days since he'd stepped through the front door and been greeted by silence and the smell of floor polish. And every second since then had been spent trying to shove down the truth: Sirius was gone.
Gone, because Harry had been stupid enough to fall for a trap.
He slammed a fist into his pillow, then shoved his face into it to muffle the sound. "I'm such an idiot," he muttered. It came out hoarse.
He rolled onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling as the moonlight slid across it like a spotlight on a stage he never asked to stand on. He could still hear Sirius shouting his name, still see him falling through that veil—like it wasn't real, like maybe if he just rewound the moment in his head enough times, he could change it.
But every time, it ended the same.
And then there was the mirror.
His eyes flicked to the jagged piece of it on the bedside table. He'd pulled it from the bottom of his trunk that morning, hoping—praying, really—that Sirius's face would just appear, smirking as always. Maybe say something like, "Took you long enough, kid."
But all it had shown was Harry's own face. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Older, somehow.
He swallowed hard, hating the guilt that burnt at the back of his throat. That mirror… Sirius had given it to him months ago. Told him to use it if he ever needed to talk. And Harry—bloody genius that he was—had shoved it in the bottom of his trunk and forgotten it even existed.
If I'd opened it, I could've talked to him. He'd have told me to stay put. He wouldn't have come…
Maybe Sirius would still be alive.
The thought hit him like a punch to the ribs, sharp and cruel. He reached over and turned the mirror face down.
The Dursleys were asleep. The house was silent except for the ticking clock on the wall and the occasional rustle of Hedwig shifting in her cage. Harry stared at the ceiling, fists clenched in the bed sheets.
The world out there was falling apart. Dementors were behaving like they had minds of their own, Voldemort was growing stronger, and the only person who'd ever felt like family had died because of him.
And yet here he was. Trapped in Privet Drive. Again. Doing nothing.
Nothing except blaming himself.
And that… that was the one thing he was getting rather good at.
He couldn't stop thinking about it. Couldn't stop wishing—just for a second—that he could undo it all. That he could rewind the last few days, the last few hours, and stop Sirius from falling through that cursed veil.
But no amount of wishing would change anything. He knew that.
Dumbledore's voice echoed relentlessly in his mind, low and final: "No spell can reawaken the dead."
Harry shut his eyes. He didn't want to remember, but it played again anyway—the fall, the silence, the way Sirius had disappeared like smoke into the archway. Gone. Just like that.
But what if there was another way?
The Time-Turners. He'd seen them in the Department of Mysteries—glass ticking back and forth, resetting time in tiny loops. Could he have used one? Could he still? Could someone?
But even that hope was snuffed out by the memory of Nearly Headless Nick's voice—gentle, apologetic, but absolute. "He will not come back. He will have… gone on."
Gone on where? Harry's thoughts screamed. What did that even mean? Heaven? Another dimension? Oblivion?
His fists clenched in the sheets. The answers felt like mist, always just out of reach. And no one—no one—had the courage to say it plainly. Everyone just looked at him, with that same awful sympathy in their eyes.
He opened his eyes, throat tight, and reached out again. The mirror shard was cold against his fingers. Stupid thing. Stupid of him for forgetting about it.
He stared into it now, barely breathing, as though sheer force of will might summon Sirius's face. Might conjure a wink or a grin or anything.
"…Sirius," Harry whispered, barely audible.
Nothing.
Only his own face stared back—tired, pale, and far too old for sixteen.
But just as he was about to lower the mirror, something flickered. For the briefest moment, he thought he saw—blue eyes. Not Sirius's, no. Someone else.
He blinked, and it vanished.
Harry sat up a little. He wasn't sure, but… it looked like Dumbledore. Those eyes had that same strange weight to them. That same knowing sort of calm that made Harry both trust and resent him.
But Dumbledore couldn't have the other mirror. Could he? Sirius had said they were just for the two of them.
Unless…
Unless he'd known more than he'd let on. Which, if Harry was being honest, wouldn't surprise him.
He dropped the shard back on the table with a quiet clink and turned his face into the pillow. His thoughts were racing, a storm he couldn't quiet, not even here in the dead of night.
He just wanted it to stop.
To stop feeling.
To stop thinking about Sirius and what he could've done differently, what he should have done, and all the moments he'd never get back. The mirror. The fire conversations. The letters. The laugh. All of it was gone.
With effort, Harry drew a slow, shuddering breath and forced himself to let go—just for tonight. He needed sleep. He needed… something. If only to get through another bloody day of this.
Eventually, exhaustion crept in, heavy and thick. He drifted off without meaning to.
And the dreams came.
He was back in Professor Trelawney's dusty, perfumed classroom. Everything was dim and flickering, as if the whole room were underwater. She moved about like some sort of eerie bird, handing out glass spheres to the students.
Inside each orb, Harry saw his own face—spinning slowly like some awful magical snow globe.
He knew exactly what they were: prophecy orbs. Just like the ones in the Department of Mysteries. The ones Voldemort had sent people to kill for.
"Professor," Harry said sharply, stepping forward, heart hammering, "you have to hide these! If Voldemort finds out—"
But Neville just laughed from across the room.
"Hide them? What're you on about?" He said cheerfully. "We passed the crystal-gazing test, remember? This is our reward!"
Ron waved his own orb in Harry's face. "Look at this one—brilliant!"
Harry stared.
Inside the glass sphere, he saw himself—standing beside Voldemort. Their hands clasped. Smiling. Crowds bowed to them. A crown hovered over Harry's head like some twisted honour.
"New Dark Lord of the Century!" Ron said, beaming. "Knew you had it in you, mate!"
Harry felt his stomach twist. He wanted to smash the thing—but his hand wouldn't move.
Then everything shifted.
He was standing again in that vast, echoing chamber deep beneath the Ministry—the one with the stone archway. The Veil loomed before him, its black curtain rippling softly though there was no breeze.
"Sirius?" Harry said, breath catching.
There—behind the veil—he saw him. Sirius, pounding against the invisible wall, eyes wide and desperate.
"Sirius!"
Harry ran forward. But there was no one else in the room. No Dumbledore, no Order, no friends.
Just him.
And Sirius.
And that cursed Veil.
Harry hesitated. If he reached out—could he pull Sirius through? Or would he be dragged in himself?
Then Sirius stopped moving.
His expression twisted—not with pain, but fear.
He turned and stared behind him—into the darkness beyond the Veil.
Harry strained to see. "What? What is it? Sirius, look at me!"
But Sirius didn't look back. He backed away from the barrier, step by step.
And then—he vanished.
"Sirius—no!"
Harry lunged forward, hand outstretched—only for a hoot to pierce the dream and yank him back into his body.
He gasped awake, drenched in sweat, the echo of his own voice ringing in his ears.
Hedwig watched him from her perch.
Harry clutched the sheet to his chest, breathing hard.
Bright sunlight sliced across the room, stabbing at Harry's eyes as he blinked awake. He squinted against it, groggy and annoyed, the ghost of his dream still clinging to him. For one fleeting moment, he hated the light for pulling him back.
He turned his head stiffly on the pillow, glaring half-heartedly at Hedwig. She was ruffling her feathers in the cage, completely unbothered.
"Cheers," he muttered at her. "Just when I was getting somewhere."
He'd been dreaming again—of the Veil, of Sirius. This time it hadn't been the Department of Mysteries as a whole, just that awful, swaying curtain and the sick feeling in his gut that he'd never be able to follow. Sirius had been there. Closer than before. Waiting. Needing him.
And he'd woken up.
Harry closed his eyes, trying to recall the sound of his godfather's voice, the expression in his eyes. But the details were already slipping like sand through his fingers.
If only I could get through… He swallowed hard. He hated how tempting the thought was.
A sharp knock exploded against the door, making him jolt upright.
"GET THAT BLOODY BIRD TO SHUT IT!" came the familiar bellow.
Seconds later, the door flew open with a bang, and Uncle Vernon stormed in, his face already approaching beetroot levels. His moustache twitched with fury.
"It's not even six, and that thing is shrieking like it owns the house!"
Harry sat up, brushing sleep from his eyes. "She probably just wanted to stretch her wings."
"I don't care what she wants!" Vernon thundered. "If that ruddy animal wakes me up one more time, I'll—!"
"I'll let her out now," Harry cut in quickly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
"You'd better! And don't let it come back, you hear me?"
Harry stood, already moving toward the cage. "She needs to come back sometime."
"DO I LOOK LIKE I GIVE A DAMN?" Vernon shouted, his voice echoing down the hall.
Harry flung open the cage, and Hedwig immediately took off with a sharp hoot, brushing Vernon's shoulder with the tip of her wing on the way out. Vernon flinched like he'd been stung and rounded on Harry, face puce.
"IF I HAVE TO—"
"Yeah, all right, all right," Harry muttered, hands raised in surrender.
Uncle Vernon lingered a moment longer, puffing himself up like an affronted walrus, then huffed and stomped off down the hallway, muttering threats that Harry had heard a dozen times before.
As the house fell back into silence, Harry remained at the window, watching the trail Hedwig left across the sky. She'd vanished into the blue almost instantly—probably eager to get as far from Number Four as she could. He didn't blame her.
Smart bird.
She'd be back later, though. She always came back. And Harry had a letter to send anyway—another update to the Order to say he was alive and still cooped up with the Dursleys.
He didn't know if Moody or Lupin actually read the letters or if they just passed them around the kitchen table at Grimmauld Place while muttering, "Good, he's not dead." But writing them gave him a strange kind of comfort. Like anchoring himself to a world beyond the drab wallpaper and petty shouting.
Harry leaned on the sill, resting his arms there as the morning breeze touched his skin. He looked out at Privet Drive—so neat and peaceful it made him want to break something.
Three days, he thought bitterly. Three bloody days since I came back here. And it already feels like a year.
If Sirius were alive… the thought stopped him cold. He couldn't stop thinking it. Couldn't stop imagining what could've been. They'd have gone off somewhere, just the two of them. Anywhere. Somewhere the Ministry couldn't find them. Somewhere Voldemort couldn't touch them.
But instead, he was here.
Alone.
Again.
Downstairs, he could hear clattering in the kitchen—Aunt Petunia, already bustling about. But no call came to demand he make the bacon or clean the floor. Funny how being threatened by a wizard with a magical eye and a foul temper could suddenly inspire the Dursleys to offer some space.
Not that they liked it. Vernon still shot him looks like he was about to erupt into flames. But they didn't bark orders. Not anymore.
Still, Harry did the chores anyway—took out the bins, weeded the garden. Not to please them, but to remind himself that he wasn't above doing his part. That even if they didn't want him, he'd pull his own weight. The Dursleys could ignore him all they liked, but he wouldn't be the useless burden they painted him as.
By the time he made it to the kitchen, Uncle Vernon was already at the table, reading the paper with a look of profound suffering. Aunt Petunia hovered nearby, washing up.
Harry paused in the doorway, uncertain if he should say something. But neither of them looked up. They were pretending he wasn't there.
He preferred it, honestly. The silence might be cold, but it didn't sting like their contempt.
So he sat down, helped himself to toast without asking, and began draughting the words he'd write to the Order later.
Still here. Still fine. Still trapped. No new attacks. Still dreaming about the dead.
Nothing worth reporting, really.
But he'd write it all the same.
Harry had just placed the frying pan on the hob when he heard a low mutter from behind him.
Uncle Vernon cleared his throat, louder this time, and slapped the newspaper down on the kitchen table with a thud that made Aunt Petunia flinch. His eyes—small and suspicious—locked onto Harry like a hawk eyeing a rat.
"So," he said, voice tight and low. "Are we getting another one of those letters this summer?"
Harry frowned, turning halfway toward him. "Another one of what?"
Vernon leaned forward, as if he didn't trust the walls not to sprout ears. "Dudley told us… last year. About them. The ones that—" he lowered his voice to a whisper—"fly. Are they coming again?"
For a moment, Harry just stared at him, stunned by the question. Then it clicked. "If you mean the Dementors—"
"Ssshh!" Aunt Petunia hissed, darting toward the window and pushing it shut with shaking fingers. "Do you want the neighbours to hear?"
Harry bit back the urge to snap something sharp. What would the neighbours do—write to The Times?
"Well?" Vernon pressed, eyes bulging slightly. "Are we?"
Harry didn't answer straight away. He was tempted to say yes, just to watch them scurry into hiding. But he sighed instead, returning his attention to the bacon. "No. They're not coming back, I think."
Or, he thought, at least he hoped not.
Uncle Vernon's moustache twitched. "What d'you mean, 'I think'?"
"I mean they're acting strange," said Harry evenly, placing the rashers into the pan with a loud hiss. "Even the ministry doesn't know what's going on."
That was true, as far as he knew. The newspaper article had said as much.
He glanced over his shoulder and found Aunt Petunia had gone pale, her lips pressed into a tight line.
"They're not… getting stronger, are they?" She asked faintly. "Because of—him?" She didn't say Voldemort's name, but Harry heard it in the tremble of her voice.
Harry shrugged. "Could be. No one really knows."
"Well, your lot had better sort it," Vernon barked, gripping the table edge so tightly his knuckles went white. "We can't have those things hanging about here, traumatising our son again!"
Harry rolled his eyes. "Speaking of which… where is Dudley?"
There was a tense beat of silence. Uncle Vernon stiffened. Aunt Petunia's eyes darted to her husband as though checking whether to tell the truth.
"We sent him away," Uncle Vernon said at last, tone clipped.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Where?"
"Never you mind," Aunt Petunia snapped too quickly.
Harry smirked faintly. "He's with Aunt Marge, isn't he?"
Another silence. That was answer enough.
"He'll only be gone a couple of weeks," said Petunia, her voice wobbling slightly.
Uncle Vernon leaned in across the table, his voice a low growl. "Or until your lot decides to take you away from here."
Harry blinked, caught slightly off guard. They'd actually sent Dudley away because he was back?
He turned away before they saw the sting of that.
He focused instead on flipping the bacon, watching one rasher blacken and curl in the pan.
"Are we really doing the right thing?" Petunia whispered behind him. "Is it best for our Diddykins? Will he be safe?"
Harry resisted the urge to groan.
"He'll be fine," Uncle Vernon said firmly, putting a hand on her shoulder. "You know how he loves it there. And besides," he added, glancing at Harry like something unpleasant stuck to his shoe, "he won't be around himanymore."
That did it.
Harry turned, the pan handle clenched tightly in his fist. "I'm not the one who made the Dementors attack him! Or made him walk around like a zombie for weeks!"
"YOU are the reason those things came after him!" Vernon roared, jumping to his feet. "As long as you're under this roof, we're all at risk!"
"Then maybe I should leave!" Harry snapped. "I'll send an owl today—ask Dumbledore to come fetch me. I'll be gone by tomorrow!"
"YES, DO THAT!" Vernon shouted, jabbing a thick finger at the door. "AND TAKE YOUR SODDING OWL AND WHATEVER ELSE YOU'VE GOT WITH YOU!"
A silence fell in the kitchen, broken only by the faint hiss of the bacon in the pan.
Harry looked down and saw the rasher he'd forgotten had burnt to a crisp.
Vernon followed his gaze and sneered. "And stop ruining our bloody food while you're at it."
Harry yanked the pan off the hob and dumped the contents onto a plate without ceremony. "Fine," he muttered. "Won't be here tomorrow to cook it anyway."
He doubted the Order would come rushing to his rescue after only three days back at Privet Drive. No doubt Dumbledore would insist, with that maddening calm of his, that Harry was "safest here"—never mind that it was also the most miserable place on earth.
Given the choice between the Dursleys and literally anywhere else, Harry would've packed up yesterday. His trunk was practically still packed, just sitting there by the wall like it was hoping too. All it would take was a word from Dumbledore. But the word never came.
Still… It wouldn't hurt to ask, would it?
Maybe he could send a letter. Just float the idea of the Burrow. Or even Grimmauld Place. He winced at the thought of that empty house now. The echo of Sirius's voice that would never greet him again.
But first—chores.
Harry wolfed down his breakfast quickly, slipping a bit of extra bacon onto his plate while Uncle Vernon buried his face in the paper and Aunt Petunia rattled crockery with unnecessary force. Then, without another word, he escaped into the back garden, inhaling the sharp scent of trimmed grass and late-summer air like it was his first breath all morning.
Weeding. Pruning. Watering. Nothing magical about it, but Harry found he didn't mind. With his hands in the dirt and the sun on his back, at least no one was shouting at him. At least no one was expecting anything of him.
Around him, the neighbourhood moved as though on a separate plane. Children played in driveways, laughing and chasing after a Frisbee. A pair of girls sat on a kerb, sipping from identical pink water bottles, giggling over something on a phone.
To them, he was invisible. Or maybe worse—irrelevant. Just some quiet boy in a tattered T-shirt kneeling in a flowerbed like a punishment.
Harry watched them all from the corner of his eye, wondering—how many of them had ever really thought about the future? Not what they'd be when they grew up, but what the world might expect of them. Would they ever have to choose between dying and becoming a murderer?
He didn't need to ask. He already knew.
Yes, came the voice in his head. You are the only one.
The only one marked from birth, cornered into fate by a madman's prophecy. Kill or be killed. No middle ground. No normal.
Harry wiped the sweat from his brow and sat back on his heels, frowning as he yanked a stubborn weed from between the roses. He'd tried to follow the rules. Dumbledore's rules. Stay quiet. Stay put. Stay alive.
But the rules hadn't saved Sirius, had they?
Once, Harry had believed good would always triumph. That as long as he followed orders and trusted the adults, things would somehow work out. That evil could be contained. Predicted. Beaten with enough courage and careful planning.
But lately, he'd begun to realise that life didn't work like that.
The warnings still echoed in his mind: don't leave the house. Don't do anything foolish. Don't get involved. Stay out of trouble. He'd tried, hadn't he?
And still, nothing felt safe. Nothing felt fair. Voldemort had returned, Sirius was dead, and the world seemed poised on the edge of something awful.
Harry glanced back at the children playing on the street. How he envied them—their laughter, their lightness. Not a care in the world, beyond the arc of a flying disc.
They don't know anything about prophecies, he thought bitterly. They've never lost anyone to Death Eaters. Never stared down a Dementor or watched someone disappear through the Veil.
Another sigh escaped him—he'd been doing that a lot lately. Everything seemed… wrong. The world was too quiet, too bright, too normal for what he carried around inside him.
Sure, he had a break from homework, and Hogwarts was still a couple of months off. But what good was free time when the Daily Prophet filled its pages with reports of disappearances, strange weather patterns, and unexplained deaths?
And Sirius—Sirius was gone. That hollow ache in his chest hadn't dulled. If anything, it had settled in like an unwelcome tenant.
Gone were the afternoons when Harry could scribble a note and send it to someone who actually understoodhim. No more advice. No more late-night chats. No more hope of escape to a godfather's home that no longer felt like home.
By the time he'd finished weeding the last flowerbed, the day had already faded to a dusty gold. His arms ached, his shirt clung to his back, and every inch of him screamed for a shower and sleep.
He might've headed up early if he hadn't caught sight of Dudley's gang swaggering down the road, all noise and bravado, jeering at a younger boy across the street.
Harry paused at the edge of the lawn, watching from the shadows. He no longer feared them—not with his wand under his pillow and enough defiance in his veins to drown a dozen Dudleys.
Still, it felt strange without his cousin skulking around, throwing his weight about the house. The silence indoors was a rare relief. No thudding footsteps, no fake crying for attention. Just… emptiness.
And as much as he disliked the lump, Harry had to admit—it was probably for the best that Dudley was away. Safer for him, really. If Dementors returned, or Voldemort decided to send a message, Dudley would be an easy target.
No magic. No defence. No clue.
Harry tore his eyes away from the street. He didn't need another reason to feel guilty.
He just wished someone—anyone—would tell him when this storm was finally going to break.
The dream of Sirius returned before Harry could stop it.
"It's just a coincidence," he muttered to himself for what felt like the tenth time that day.
He'd read so much about Dementors in the Daily Prophet lately; it made sense he'd be dreaming about them, didn't it? That had to be it. The Veil and the Dementors weren't connected—not really. One was a gateway to death; the other, its chilling heralds. But then why, in his dreams, did Sirius look so terrified? What had filled his eyes with such raw, helpless fear?
He saw something. Harry knew that much. Even if he didn't want to admit it. Even if it didn't make any sense.
But there couldn't be Dementors in the Veil… Could there?
Harry shook his head. "It's only a dream," he told himself again. "Anything can happen in dreams."
But that didn't stop the cold knot forming in his chest.
He sighed and cast one last look at the darkening skyline. The street lamps flickered to life one by one, their dull glow no comfort at all. With heavy steps, he headed back inside.
The moment he collapsed onto his bed, the aches in his muscles made themselves known. He sank into the mattress, utterly spent. No appetite. No energy. Not even enough to pull off his trainers.
A low hoot drew his eyes to the window. Hedwig returned, triumphant and proud, with a dead frog dangling from her beak like a grotesque little medal. Harry managed a faint smile and whispered, "Good girl," before letting his eyelids fall shut.
Darkness.
And then—
The Veil.
Again.
There he stood, in the Department of Mysteries, surrounded by that same eerie silence. The curtain rippled gently in a non-existent breeze, its whispery fabric calling to him with impossible familiarity.
"Sirius?" he called out softly, already knowing—already hoping.
A whisper reached him, like wind through a graveyard.
Help me… anyone… please…
His heart thudded. Slowly, he stepped forward, the voices growing clearer with each careful stride.
Harry…
That voice.
"Sirius?" he breathed.
Harry… The voice came again, thin and desperate.
He stretched out a trembling hand toward the archway. "Are you there?" he asked, barely louder than the whisper itself. "Sirius?"
And then—
"Master Harry Potter!"
Harry jolted awake, chest heaving.
The voice wasn't Sirius's. Not even close.
Something tugged at his sleeve. Still blinking, disoriented, he looked down and saw a pale face framed by enormous green eyes and bat-like ears.
"Dobby?" he croaked.
The elf nodded furiously, a nervous smile plastered across his face. "Harry Potter must wake up, sir!"
Rubbing his temples, Harry sat up groggily. The dream clung to him like cobwebs. He patted the bedside table for his glasses, only for Dobby to offer them up with trembling fingers. Harry slid them on and squinted at the clock—half past nine. No surprise the Dursleys hadn't bothered to call him for dinner. Not that he had any appetite left.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"
The last time Dobby had appeared uninvited in his bedroom, there had been a rogue Bludger, a near-expulsion, and an angry Lucius Malfoy involved.
Dobby's lower lip wobbled. "I believe so, sir."
Harry sat up straighter, a ripple of unease coursing through him. "Has something happened? Is it Voldemort?"
Dobby flinched but shook his head. Instead, he glanced nervously at the lamp on Harry's desk.
Harry rolled his eyes and quickly reached behind him to hide it. "You're not bashing your head with that, alright? Let's skip the self-punishment bit tonight."
The elf looked relieved but still visibly shaken.
"Dobby only came to check on Harry Potter… to make sure he's alright," he said in a small voice.
Harry frowned. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Dobby wrung his hands. "I—I've heard Harry Potter muttering in his sleep, sir. Saying Sirius Black's name…"
Harry's shoulders sagged. Of course. Of course even in sleep he couldn't escape it.
"It's nothing," he said, but even he didn't believe it.
Dobby did, in the dramatic way only he could: bursting into noisy sobs.
"Harry Potter mustn't dream of it! He mustn't!"
"I can't exactly stop myself, can I?" Harry snapped, sharper than intended. "I don't ask for these dreams."
Dobby sniffled. "But—but when Harry Potter mumbles in his sleep… Dobby hears him."
Harry blinked. "Wait a minute—have you been watching me?"
The elf shifted guiltily on the spot. "Dobby hides… so he doesn't scare Harry Potter."
Harry stared. "How long has this been going on?"
Dobby looked up with big, blinking eyes. "Since the day Harry Potter returned to the Muggle house. Dobby heard from Winky that he was… not well."
Something flickered behind Harry's ribs. Annoyance, sure. But also something softer. Embarrassed warmth, maybe. No one had noticed—not the Dursleys, not even the Order. But Dobby had. And as much as it unnerved him to be secretly observed while sleeping, Harry couldn't quite bring himself to tell the elf off.
"You know you don't have to hide," he said at last. "If you're worried about me, just come say hello."
Dobby's eyes filled with tears—happy ones, apparently—and he beamed as though Harry had just offered him a house in Little Winging.
"Harry Potter is always so good and kind… But Dobby knows Harry Potter is hurting so much after his loss, and Dobby has come to help," he said gently, blinking rapidly through the shimmer in his eyes.
Harry gave a weak smile, but it faded quickly as he looked down at his lap.
"I'm alright, Dobby. I just…" He exhaled slowly, "…miss him sometimes, you know? It's hard not to think about what happened."
Dobby shook his head with such force his ears flapped like worn bunting in the wind. "But Harry Potter must not dream of it!"
Harry frowned, something in his chest tightening. "Why?" he asked. "You don't even know exactly what I'm dreaming about, so why tell me not to?"
Dobby suddenly looked very small, very fragile. "Dobby knows, Harry Potter, sir… If only Dobby could say…"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "You know I'm dreaming about the Veil?"
Silence. The kind of silence that told Harry everything.
He leaned forward, voice low and urgent. "The dream won't stop. If you know something, tell me. Maybe I can stop it—prevent something from happening."
Dobby looked like he wanted to crawl into the sock drawer and never come out. His voice trembled when he finally replied, "It has begun, sir. And there is nothing Harry Potter can do to stop it."
Harry's stomach lurched.
It. There it was again—that ominous, horrible little word. It. The thing behind the dreams, behind Sirius's voice, behind the fluttering of the Veil.
"What has begun, Dobby?" He asked, heart pounding so fast he felt it in his throat. "Is Sirius… Is he—" But the words wouldn't come. He couldn't say in trouble, not when Sirius was meant to be dead. He couldn't say alive, either. Not when every bit of logic screamed otherwise.
But Dobby's terrified expression said enough.
The elf stumbled backwards toward the wall. Harry shot up from bed, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him away just before he could slam his head against the plaster.
"Stop that!" Harry snapped, letting go as Dobby swayed on his feet. "Tell me what's going on! My godfather couldn't be in trouble because he's—" He choked on the word. Dead. He's dead. But he couldn't say it aloud. Not when Sirius's voice still echoed in his sleep.
"Dobby cannot speak of it, sir," the elf whispered, trembling. "Dobby must punish himself for coming to see Harry Potter. If only—if only Harry Potter knew the danger of the legend we house-elves have been told…"
Harry's eyes narrowed. "Legend?"
His mind flashed, without permission, to another legend. A snake in the walls. A voice no one else could hear. The blood-written warnings. "It's not another Chamber of Secrets, is it?" he asked, only half-joking.
Dobby flinched and gave a furtive nod. "The legend of the Veil, sir…"
Harry sat back down heavily on the edge of his bed, mind whirring. He'd had questions about the Veil from the first moment he'd seen it, that haunting archway in the Department of Mysteries. What was it for? Why was it so carefully guarded, yet seemingly untouched? Why did the Unspeakables spend hours staring at it as if it might stare back? Could they hear the whispers too?
And if so, had they ever tried speaking back?
"How come we've never heard the full story about this Veil before now?" he asked.
Dobby's voice dropped into something barely audible. "It wasn't ours to tell, sir. Our ancestors were so distressed when they learnt of the Veil's use that they vowed never to speak of it again. Not even amongst ourselves."
He gave a little shudder, as if the memory of something ancient had clawed its way back to the surface.
"It was not a pleasant tale," he added.
Harry looked hard at him. "Then why tell me now, if you're forbidden?"
Dobby's answer came without hesitation.
"Because Harry Potter is Dobby's friend." He puffed out his chest, eyes full of wobbling pride. "Dobby musthelp Harry Potter, sir—even if Dobby must dangle himself upside down in the kitchen!"
Harry gave a frustrated huff. "You are not dangling yourself anywhere, Dobby. I forbid it."
He leaned in, voice softer now. "But please. Just tell me. Are the dreams real? Is something happening right now?"
Dobby trembled all over. His eyes were wider than Harry had ever seen them.
"Harry Potter must cease dreaming of the Veil," the elf whispered. "He must learn to close his mind."
Harry stared.
"That's not an answer," he said slowly.
But Dobby just gave a sorrowful look and took a shaky step back.
In that moment, the air in the room felt colder. He didn't know what unnerved him more—the dream of Sirius calling through the Veil or the fact that Dobby, who had once tried to save him from a rogue Bludger and the Malfoys, was too afraid to tell him what was really happening.
Frustration surged through Harry as the memory of his failed Occlumency lessons with Snape surfaced like a bad taste in his mouth.
"I can't do it," he muttered, shaking his head. "I'm still learning, Dobby. And it's not easy. Occlumency was a disaster." He paused, then added, more bitterly, "And frankly, I don't see the point. If dreaming is the only way I'm getting close to what's happening to Sirius, then I'm not about to shut that out."
"Harry Potter must not be stubborn, sir… Dobby only wants to help," the elf pleaded, wringing his hands.
"Well," Harry snapped, the edge in his voice surprising even himself, "I'll remain as stubborn as ever unless you start telling me what's going on."
Dobby bowed his head, his ears drooping low with resignation. For a long moment, he said nothing—just stood there, twitching slightly, as though running calculations in his tiny, overburdened mind. But in the end, he merely shook his head.
"If Harry Potter is determined to know the truth," he said sadly, "then Dobby has no choice but to punish himself afterwards."
"Stop it," Harry sighed, softening slightly. "You don't need to punish yourself. Let's make a deal—look, I promise to tryto stop dreaming about the Veil… if you tell me everything you know about it."
He met Dobby's eyes, watching carefully. The elf hesitated, clearly torn, but at last gave a small, reluctant nod.
"They is not happy, Harry Potter…" Dobby whispered, voice low and strange. "They is not…"
Harry felt a chill creep up his spine. "Who's not happy, Dobby?"
But Dobby didn't seem to hear him. His eyes had gone glassy, as if he were listening to something far away. "They is not happy at all… They is angry…"
"Who is 'they'?" Harry demanded, seizing Dobby gently but firmly by the shoulders. "Who are you talking about? If this is about the Veil, do you mean the Unspeakables?"
Dobby slowly shook his head, his whole body now trembling. "They is guarding the fortress in the North Sea… They is guarding criminals…"
Harry's breath caught.
Fortress. North Sea.
"Azkaban," he said aloud. "You're talking about the Dementors."
At once, Dobby's ears flapped in frantic confirmation, though he looked as if he might faint.
Harry slumped back against his pillows, heart pounding in his ears. A horrible thought had begun to form, dark and slippery.
"Dobby…" he began cautiously. "If Sirius is… if he's gone… then what would the Dementors want with him?" He frowned. "Why would he be in trouble?"
Dobby gave a strangled noise and blurted, "He isn't gone—"
Then immediately slapped both hands over his mouth, eyes bulging in panic.
There was a beat of silence. Then Dobby let out a wail, spun away from the bed, and began banging his head against the wall.
"Stop!" Harry shot up and grabbed him by the arm. "What did you just say?" he cried. "What do you mean, he isn't gone? Is he alive? Tell me!"
Dobby sagged in Harry's grip, utterly defeated.
"Harry Potter must not dream of his godfather," the elf whispered, eyes filled with dread. "Harry Potter must not follow Sirius from within…"
Harry froze.
From within…
The words echoed strangely. Not follow him where—but how.
His throat felt dry. "He's… behind the Veil," Harry murmured. "That's what you're saying, isn't it? He's trapped. Alive—but trapped. And you think I can reach him through dreams."
The idea was mad. Impossible. And yet, he couldn't shake the certainty that it was true.
But if Sirius could be reached… Why had Dobby told him not to try?
"Dobby, listen to me—" he began urgently.
But at that precise moment, a heavy knock thundered against the door.
"WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING TO MAKE SO MUCH NOISE?" came Uncle Vernon's unmistakable bellow from the hall, full of late-evening irritation.
Harry whipped his head toward the sound—but when he looked back, Dobby was gone.
Vanished without a sound.
And Harry was left alone, wide awake in the dark, heart hammering, mind reeling.