It was the middle of the night.
Two figures emerged from the twisting, narrow alleys where Diagon Alley met Knockturn Alley and stepped into the glow of the streetlamps. Only then did it become clear they were a professor and his student.
The young professor was strikingly handsome. The student was a thin, delicate-looking boy of fourteen or fifteen. They walked along the gradually widening, smoother cobblestones toward the pub.
The soon-to-be fourth-year asked, a little puzzled, "Professor, I've heard the word 'Horcrux' a lot. Dumbledore mentioned it back in first year, and you and Sirius have talked about it too. Regulus died because of one. What exactly is it?"
"You can think of it as a kind of protective charm."
"Like the one my mum left me?"
"Completely different magic, but there are some similarities."
Melvin explained patiently, "Voldemort permanently rips a piece of his own soul off and attaches it to an object that has special meaning to him. That object becomes nearly indestructible—ordinary magic can't destroy it. At the same time, as long as the Horcrux exists, Voldemort can't truly be killed."
"So even if he fails, he can survive as some kind of wandering spirit, hiding, possessing people like Quirrell, and waiting for a chance to come back."
"Exactly."
"How many Horcruxes did Voldemort make?"
"Six or seven, I think. We haven't pinned down the exact number yet." Melvin paused. "So far we've found several of them: the diary from his school days, the Gaunt family ring, Ravenclaw's diadem, Hufflepuff's cup, Slytherin's locket, and…"
Harry's eyes widened. There were that many? And somehow they had all ended up in the hands of the professor and the Headmaster.
"And what?"
Harry tilted his head up, confused why the professor had suddenly stopped. He met those deep, dark eyes, and something unreadable flickered in them.
Melvin glanced toward the brightly lit pub ahead. "We're here, and it's getting late. Go up to your room and get some rest."
"…"
That was classic adult deflection.
Harry gave a quiet "Oh," said goodnight to the professor, and slipped into the pub. The Leaky Cauldron was still noisy—fans arguing loudly about Krum's performance, beer mugs thumping on tables.
He didn't disturb the cheerful crowd or the landlord and headed upstairs alone. He'd been out with the professor for nearly two hours. Hedwig was still off hunting; owls were nocturnal creatures, after all.
Maybe because he'd slept so much earlier after being knocked out, Harry wasn't tired at all. He pushed open the window and looked down from the second-floor room. Professor Levent's figure had already disappeared.
If he hadn't needed to walk Harry back, the professor would have Apparated straight from Knockturn Alley. With his skill, he could make the pop almost silent and no one would notice.
The questions in Harry's mind hadn't decreased—they had multiplied.
Why had Professor Levent gone to that printing workshop in Knockturn Alley in the middle of the night? Was Mr. Burke still alive? Exactly how many Horcruxes did Voldemort make? What was the one the professor hadn't finished naming?
A long time passed. The rowdy party downstairs finally broke up and Sirius came upstairs. He paused outside Harry's door, knocked twice lightly, probably checking whether he was asleep.
Harry didn't answer. He wrapped the thin blanket around himself and curled up on the sofa by the window. His thoughts grew hazy. He could faintly hear Sirius's footsteps lingering outside the door.
Those footsteps grew clearer, then faded, as if walking on the old, creaky wooden hallway. Harry kept his eyes closed and let his mind drift. He thought about the Cauldron's old tables, chairs, and windows, and wondered why they suddenly seemed so ancient.
An old, rundown mansion sat halfway up a hillside. A quiet little village lay below in the moonlight. In the distance stood an abandoned church and graveyard. All the villagers had put out their lights. Only the pub still showed a faint glow.
Harry felt confused. He didn't understand why he was seeing this scene. It felt real and detailed, as if he had witnessed it—or even been there—before.
His consciousness suddenly dropped, falling into the bushes beside the road. Thick, lush grass and branches blocked his view, but Harry moved through the hilly woods with a strong, agile body—faster than a centaur. He quickly reached the abandoned old house.
The mansion stood on a slope. Looking back, he could see the entire village. Up close, he noticed several windows had been boarded up. The roof was missing tiles, and ivy and vines had completely taken over the building.
It had clearly been empty for a very long time, yet you could still tell it had once been a beautiful home—probably the grandest in the area for miles. Now, after years of neglect, it was damp and desolate.
This was his destination. Harry knew it without being told.
For some reason, he didn't enter through the front door. Instead he climbed the ivy-covered wall, his flexible body finding every crack and handhold. He could scale vertical surfaces and even overhangs with ease.
Looking down, he saw the overgrown garden, weeds everywhere, strange plants spreading wildly, and a dark, cave-like kitchen. Looking up, only one window on the upper floor still had light.
That was the one…
Harry shook his scales, feeling strangely pleased and at ease. He flicked his tongue and slowly approached.
It was a large sash window. The glass had been broken by stones thrown by children. Firelight and candlelight spilled out. As he drew closer, he could hear a witch's voice inside—soft, coaxing, full of fear and nervousness.
"Respected Master, there's still some in the bottle. If you're still hungry, please drink a little more."
Harry found the voice strangely familiar, though he couldn't place it. A wave of disgust rose in him.
"Wait a moment," a male voice answered. It was oddly high-pitched, as if several voices were layered together—an old man's tone mixed with the hissing of Parseltongue. It cut like an icy winter wind, making the listener shiver.
Harry frowned, confused why the voice felt comforting to him.
"Move me closer to the fire, Umbridge."
There was a series of scraping sounds. The witch set the bottle on the table, then dragged a heavy chair toward the fireplace. The chair legs screeched against the floor.
Through the window, Harry caught a glimpse of a short, stout witch in a long black cloak—the kind people wore to hide their identity.
"Where's Wormtail?" the cold voice asked.
"I'm not entirely sure, Master…" Umbridge's voice trembled slightly. "When he left, he said he was going to Knockturn Alley to gather information and buy a few things."
"He was never this eager before. Now… the wizarding world has no place left for him. He can only serve me with all his heart."
The wizard gave a low, cold laugh. "Before we sleep, squeeze some more venom from Nagini. I'll need another meal tonight. This body is still too weak."
"Leave it to me."
Umbridge immediately flattered him. "Please be patient a little longer, Master. The Quidditch World Cup has just ended. The Ministry is everywhere—patrolling, checking identities. We must stay cautious."
"I have plenty of patience. As long as I get Harry Potter."
"!?"
Harry's heart lurched. Why did the wizard want him? What did any of this have to do with him? And who was Nagini?
The witch inside asked the question for him, her voice especially attentive. "I don't understand, Master. Why does it have to be Harry Potter? Witches and wizards from all over the world are gathered in Britain right now. If we used someone else—man, woman, young or old—Wormtail could turn into a rat and find a perfect substitute in a day or two."
Harry heard the name "Wormtail" for the second time. A rat who could disguise himself. It felt very familiar. The face and full name were right on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite remember.
"Enough!"
The male wizard didn't answer her question. Instead he scolded her quietly.
Yet somehow Harry could sense the wizard's feelings. They felt close, almost like one being. He could clearly tell the wizard was angry now.
Umbridge and Wormtail had dared to question him—to question the Dark Lord's decision.
"It has to be Harry Potter. It can only be Harry Potter. I have my reasons for choosing that boy, not just any random person."
The wizard's tone became calm, but the calmness was somehow more terrifying. "I have already waited thirteen years. A few more months won't matter. As for the heavy protection around the boy, our plan will work."
Umbridge said shakily, "We need to move faster. Once the Ministry finishes dealing with the busy summer, our movements could be discovered."
"Don't worry. You brought us valuable information and Bertha Jorkins. Both are useful. That pitiful, dim-witted witch is the perfect disguise for slipping into the Ministry."
The wizard let out a harsh laugh. "Umbridge, Wormtail—if you two were a little smarter and braver, I wouldn't have to go to so much trouble, using the magic I've painfully gathered to alter her memory… There's risk involved. A powerful enough wizard could break the Memory Charm."
"There's no one like that in the Ministry. Jorkins already proved that before."
Harry felt ice run through him. A witch named Jorkins had fallen into their hands and seemed to have been controlled. They planned to use her as a puppet?
"Oh, I hear Nagini."
The wizard suddenly spoke. Outside the window, Harry felt a strange surge of joy. He flicked his tongue, slithered through the broken pane, and hissed as he drew closer.
Harry suddenly realized—he was Nagini.
Wormtail had found Voldemort. They were working with Umbridge!
Dreams worked like that. While you didn't know who you were, everything felt fine. The moment self-awareness appeared, the whole scene began to collapse. The view blurred. The voices grew distant.
With one last clear thought, Harry looked up at the figure in the chair.
It was a slimy, hideous thing, shaped like a curled-up infant. Its arms were thin and limp, hairless, covered in scales. The skin was dark red, like raw flesh after a burn.
The most horrifying part was the face. It wasn't a human face.
It was a flat snake face with two scarlet, slit-pupiled eyes.
...
Two hundred miles away, Harry's consciousness felt swallowed by those snake eyes. His whole body jerked violently, as if falling into a serpent's jaws. A huge surge of strength rushed through him and he shot upright.
"Hiss…" Sirius's pained gasp brought Harry back to reality.
Sirius was clutching his nose and hissing through his teeth. The noisy sounds, the clear surroundings, and the sharp sting from his scar suddenly flooded his senses. The dream memories slipped away like water through his fingers. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to remember.
"Voldemort is back. Wormtail is back. They're working with a horrible witch!"
"There's another wizard in their hands. Voldemort wants to control her and sneak into the Ministry… into Hogwarts?"
Harry could no longer recall the details of the dream. He couldn't even remember the witch's name. The pain in his scar was already fading fast.
Sirius listened to his godson's mumbled words, eyes wide with shock.
...
The summer of 1994 was over.
Underground Level Five, Ministry of Magic, Department of International Magical Cooperation.
A haggard-looking middle-aged wizard slumped in his chair, staring blankly at the desk lamp. A house-elf stood beside him.
It was already past closing time. The entire Ministry was quiet. After a long day's work, staff members relaxed, chatting as they headed toward the lifts, deciding where to grab a drink. A peaceful, contented atmosphere filled the air.
Barty Crouch had started working here right after graduation—not in International Cooperation, but in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He had once been seen as a stronger candidate for Minister than Fudge or Bones. After being implicated in the wizarding war, he had been quietly transferred here.
International Cooperation was busy but had no real power. It wasn't a prestigious department.
Its main job was arguing with other countries' Ministries.
At International Confederation meetings, the American Magical Congress insisted Britain had violated the Statute of Secrecy. During the World Cup, the Bulgarian Minister had tried to hog all the best seats without paying. When discussing the import of foreign magical goods, Indian wizards kept pushing to sell flying carpets in Britain…
Crouch hated dealing with fools, yet for fourteen years he had worked diligently and meticulously. As long as he stayed busy, he could push his troubles aside and escape reality.
"I knew even when I was young that no secret lasts forever."
"Legilimency, the Imperius Curse, Veritaserum, Memory Charms… there are countless spells that can uncover secrets."
Crouch murmured to the house-elf beside him, "So when she offered to trade herself for little Barty, I refused. That secret would drag our whole family into the abyss. But in the end I agreed. She was already gravely ill. It was her final request."
Winky couldn't hold back her tears. "Master… it wasn't your fault, and it wasn't Mistress's fault either."
"Then whose fault was it?"
Crouch's question had no answer. He stopped talking and quietly straightened the papers on his desk, tidied the scattered pen holder, and finally wiped his face with a handkerchief, hiding every trace.
"Let's go. Time to find Dumbledore and confess. I wonder which cell in Azkaban they'll put me in. If it's the same one little Barty and she once shared, I'll thank them."
Winky wiped her face and followed behind him.