Saturday started quietly. As soon as the other students went off to breakfast or their own affairs, I headed to the library, first hiding from Malfoy and Crabbe, planning later to lie that I got lost in the vast castle. The spacious hall with endless bookshelves was almost empty, with only Madam Pince, the school librarian, keeping a vigilant eye on order.
The library door closed behind me with a dull click, cutting me off from the noise of the rest of the castle. The shelves stretched so high that the ceiling vanished into the dimness. The smell of old paper and dust created a strange mixture, both calming and unsettling. This place was more than just a library; it breathed history, secrets, and magic.
I hid in a distant corner, away from prying eyes—if anyone saw my unintelligent face reading smart books in the very first week at Hogwarts, my image as a dumb strongman would be ruined—and began my search. Books on mind protection, magical barriers, ways to fight nightmares—I grabbed everything that could somehow relate to my problems. But hour after hour passed with little progress.
Most books contained simple, rare descriptions of spells useful for everyday purposes, padded with so much filler that if I were truly an eleven-year-old boy, I would have abandoned the effort after the first hour. Some were so detailed that mental pictures formed: wizards fortifying their homes, drawing intricate enchantment patterns on walls, resembling more literary fantasy than practical magical instruction. Yet nothing about dreams or whispers in the dark appeared.
By noon, I was getting irritated. The librarian was glaring at me disapprovingly, noticing how I grabbed books from various shelves and piled them up, clearly disrupting order. Her stern gaze resembled a hawk's, sharply tracking every move, but I was too focused to pay attention.
Finally, I came across a book that mentioned Occlumency— the art of protecting the mind. The pages spoke of closing one's thoughts to outside interference, learning to control the mind, and defending against mental attacks. The book was clearly basic, with most content covering philosophical ideas rather than practical methods. Still, it was the first mention of something that might help me cope with the voice.
On the adjacent page, it stated that Occlumency required immense concentration, self-control, and constant practice. Only a few wizards mastered it fully, as it demanded near-complete emotional isolation. This made me wonder: maybe that's why the teachers always seemed so composed? Perhaps they possessed this skill? And if so, how could I be sure they couldn't read thoughts? Legilimency was only briefly mentioned, with little practical info, except that mastering it even at a basic level required either a natural predisposition or an enormous investment of time. But I was sure at least Dumbledore could read minds—the way he looked... piercing.
Yet for now, it was all out of reach. The book contained no concrete instructions, only hints. Where could I find more detailed information? The Restricted Section might hold the key, but I didn't have access. I'd overheard older students whisper about it, but what books it contained—or how to even get in—remained a mystery.
Setting that book aside, I found another interesting mention. An article discussed creatures dwelling on the border between dreams and reality. One of them was a Mara—a spirit that brings nightmares. According to the text, the Mara fed on fear and doubt, visiting victims at their most vulnerable. It could take any form to inspire terror. Sometimes called a "night demon," sometimes a "shadow of dreams."
Another book spoke of Nokkis—ghostly pale beings that lured people into traps, creating illusions of reality. Their whispers could drive a person mad if unprepared to confront the darkness within.
By evening, I was surrounded by a mountain of books but hadn't found clear answers. Only theories, conjectures, and descriptions of creatures that could be related to my nightmares. But if it was a Mara, how could I protect myself? If Nokkis—what then? Or was it something entirely different?
Annoyed, I began returning the books to their shelves. Madam Pince nodded approvingly when she saw me trying to restore order. But the words I'd read still buzzed in my head: mind protection... Occlumency... dark creatures... Too many questions and too few answers.
At the library exit, I glanced at the endless rows of shelves. Somewhere in this sea of knowledge lay my answer. I just needed to find it. But was it rational to spend so much time on it? Even now, I was sure Malfoy had searched for me, and if I kept disappearing into the library regularly, he'd certainly become suspicious.
As an alternative, I could write home, to my father, and ask for advice. I hadn't found anything about Occlumency in the memories of the former Goyle, but his father—well, my father—had to know something, being an experienced dark wizard, if not especially gifted. Otherwise, he wouldn't have fallen into the traps of Malfoy Sr. Yes, my kid definitely inherited from him. I doubted he could explain the voice tormenting me, but he surely had some information. Perhaps he could even send me a protective amulet, something to help until I learned to shield my thoughts and dreams from intruders. I quickly drafted a letter to my father.
"Dear Father,
I write to you with only one hope: that you can help me. Lately, I've been facing rather strange occurrences. A voice speaks in my head, talking about power, control, and... murder. These words haunt me. I do not know where they come from or why they address me, but I feel it is more than just nightmares.
Today I spent the entire day in the library searching for answers. Some books mentioned Occlumency—the art of protecting the mind. However, all sources I found were superficial and contained no specific instructions. I believe this could be key to solving my problem, but I lack the knowledge to continue alone.
I also came across descriptions of creatures connected to nightmares. One is the Mara, a spirit feeding on fear and doubt. Perhaps it is trying to invade my mind. But how can I defend myself against it?
Is there some amulet for protection? Potter and Malfoy carry various charms. Surely we have something similar.
I don't know whom else to turn to. You have always been a model of strength and wisdom. Please help me understand what is happening and teach me to protect my mind.
With hope, your son, Gregory."
On my way to the Owlery, I ran into someone I had hoped to avoid. On a narrow dark staircase, I bumped into Argus Filch, reeking of cheap liquor and prank bombs—likely caught in a surprise from Peeves or some students. His cat, Mrs. Norris, appeared silently beside him, eyes gleaming malevolently.
"Ah! What do we have here?" Filch rasped, squinting at me. "Late-night strolls? Why aren't you in the common room like your snotty friends? Maybe you stole something from the library?"
"I didn't steal anything," I muttered, trying to pass.
Filch blocked my way, waving his lantern.
"Don't think I don't know you, Goyle. Slytherins always stir trouble! What's that behind your back? Show me!"
I clenched the letter in my hand, unwilling to show it. Mrs. Norris, as if sensing something, sniffed my bag. Filch seized the strap and tugged.
"What's this?" he growled, pulling the scroll from my bag.
"It's a private letter!" I said, keeping calm.
Filch squinted disdainfully.
"Private? Maybe you're sending something forbidden. I saw you sneaking from the library. What were you doing so long, Goyle?" His voice rose.
I knew arguing was useless.
"Just writing a letter to my father," I said briefly, trying to look unfazed.
Filch sniffed suspiciously, unrolling the scroll.
"'Problems with dreams and Occlumency'? Hmm..." His face twisted like he'd bitten a lemon.
"Leave it," I said in a Malfoy-like tone. "This is important. If my father doesn't receive it, he'll make sure someone pays."
Filch froze. He knew that parents of old pure-blood families could be dangerous. His eyes flicked from the scroll to me.
"Go on, then, before I change my mind," he muttered, handing back the letter and gesturing to the stairs.
I didn't hesitate. The old man was in a foul mood and looking for someone to vent on. I quickly moved toward the Owlery, feeling Mrs. Norris's gaze on my back.
The evening air was cold, as if the night itself wanted to close the day. I chose the largest, fastest owl, carefully tied the letter, and whispered:
"Return with a reply as soon as you can."
The owl shot into the night, disappearing into darkness. I stayed on the roof, watching it go, a small hope flickering deep inside that this body's father could help.
"Where were you?" Malfoy asked impatiently. "Eating all day again?"
"I... uh, I got lost. The castle's so big..." I mumbled the excuse I had prepared.
"Don't continue," the pale-haired boy grimaced. "You're an idiot, Goyle. Even Crabbe didn't get lost in Hogwarts. Don't ever say that again."
"Well, sorry, first week and all..."
"Never mind," Malfoy waved it off. "Have I told you how I escaped from muggle aurors on my Comet?"
He went on boasting about flying skills. I mostly tuned him out, occasionally nodding or mumbling, "Yeah... seems so," and that was enough for him. He really did talk endlessly about flights, always finishing with how he narrowly escaped Muggle helicopters.
Starting Tuesday, broom lessons began. First-years from Gryffindor and Slytherin would learn to fly together. So Malfoy wasn't the only one talking about it—Weasley couldn't stop telling anyone how he once borrowed his older brother's broom and narrowly avoided a collision with a hang-glider.
All wizard-born kids obsessed over Quidditch, an analog of basketball and football. Even among them were exceptions, like unlucky Longbottom, who claimed he never had a broom because his grandmother forbade him to even think of flying. Malfoy mocked him for it, forgetting about helicopters for a moment. Crabbe admitted he flew only slightly better than a stone.
On breakfast Tuesday, the students were buzzing. Even pure-blood kids imagined it would determine their entire careers. Longbottom's owl delivered a small package from his grandmother—a glass sphere with white smoke.
"It's a Remembrall!" Longbottom explained. "She knows I forget things. Hold it, and if it glows red..."
Suddenly, the sphere turned bright red in his hand.
"Well..." Longbottom muttered, puzzled.
Malfoy snatched the sphere, while Potter seemed about to intervene. Professor McGonagall quickly stepped in.
"What's happening?" she demanded.
"Malfoy took my Remembrall, Professor," Longbottom complained.
Malfoy frowned, dropping it on the table.
"I just wanted to look at it, Professor," he said innocently, shrinking to avoid further trouble.
Crabbe and I exchanged looks and followed. I still had to obey this cowardly kid. Maybe if I pushed him hard enough... could I break the vow? That memory lingered like a splinter—reminding me I had to obey someone here too. And whom? A pathetic, cowardly eleven-year-old brat?
Flight instructor Madam Hooch resembled a hawk herself—short gray hair and piercing yellow eyes.
"What are you waiting for?!" she barked. "Everyone, stand by your brooms! Lift your right hand and say: 'Up!'"
I wasn't particularly interested in flying, but I did as told.
"UP!" we shouted in unison.
Potter's and Malfoy's brooms jumped into their hands, but most others were less lucky. Longbottom's and Parkinson's brooms didn't move, and Hermione's rolled on the ground. Crabbe's broom behaved similarly, seemingly frightened by his shouting. I wasn't surprised when my calm command made my broom obey, though not as swiftly as Malfoy's.
Madam Hooch then showed how to sit correctly to avoid slipping, walking down the line to check everyone. Gryffindors cheered when she told Malfoy he was holding his broom wrong.
"But I've flown for years!" Malfoy protested, offended.
She clarified firmly—it just meant he had been flying incorrectly all along. Malfoy fell silent, realizing he wasn't the expert he claimed.
"Now, when I blow my whistle, push off the ground, rise a meter or two, then descend slightly leaning forward. On my whistle—three, two..."
Longbottom panicked, launching upwards before she blew the whistle.
"Come back, boy!" she shouted. He shot five meters high, mouth wide with terror, and...
BOOM! He hit the ground. His broom floated away lazily toward the Forbidden Forest. Madam Hooch bent over him, face even paler than his.
"Broken wrist," she muttered. "Get up, boy! Are you alright?" She turned to the others. "Stay put until I return. Touch the brooms and you'll be expelled faster than you can say 'Quidditch.' Move along."
Once they were far enough, Malfoy laughed.
"Did you see his face? Clumsy—what a sack of meat!"
The other Slytherin first-years joined in. I smiled along—supporting Malfoy was all that mattered.
"Shut up, Malfoy," interrupted Parvati Patil from Gryffindor.
"Oh? You defending this wimp?" asked Slytherin girl Pansy Parkinson, looking like a little puppy. "Never thought you liked fat crybabies."
"Look!" Malfoy picked something up from the ground—the silly Remembrall Longbottom's grandmother sent.
Potter opened his mouth to intervene, but I decided to end it; children could be irritating.
"Leave it, or McGonagall will hear again," whispered I. "Don't want punishment in the first month. Your father wouldn't like it."
"Tch, sometimes your head works," Malfoy clicked, eyes glinting dangerously. "Hey, Potter, you wanted this? Catch!"
He threw the Remembrall toward the lake. Potter and Weasley stepped forward, but Crabbe, I, and the others had to retreat.
"I can handle you one-on-one anytime," Malfoy declared. "Tonight, if you want. Wizard duel. No fists—just wands. What about you, Potter? Never dueled?"
"He's heard of it," Weasley quickly replied. "I'll be his second. Who's yours?"
Malfoy scanned us, choosing the most suitable.
"Goyle," he finally said. "Midnight? Then meet in the trophy room—it's always open. Come on, boys. Looks like class is over."
Hmm... maybe this was my chance to get Potter in my hands? Then I could claim Malfoy accidentally took him out? Duels can be unpredictable. Perhaps I could settle this and make the voice leave me? I had to think it through.