For Harry Potter, these past few weeks had felt like living inside a dream.
He was no longer the ignored boy who slept in a cupboard under the stairs. He was the Boy Who Lived, the youngest Seeker Gryffindor had seen in a century. He had friends, endless roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and even Peeves pelting him with chalk felt infinitely more entertaining than being used as Dudley's personal punching bag.
Except for two things.
The first was Potions class. Snape's naked hatred toward him made no sense at all.
The second thing confused him even more—and left him quietly unsettled.
It was Lucian Ashford.
Friday evening. The Gryffindor common room fire roared warmly. Hermione had curled up in an armchair, attempting to beat some basic Transfiguration conversion principles into Ron's skull with her copy of Magical Theory.
Harry sat cross-legged on the rug, fiddling absently with his holly-and-phoenix-feather wand, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.
"Hey, Harry—you listening?" Ron rubbed his sore arm and grumbled. "Hermione's lost it. She actually thinks that Ashford bloke's performance in Charms was 'not just skill, but art'."
"Art? I call it creepy!"
At the mention of the name, Harry stiffened. A thin wisp of smoke curled from his wand tip.
"I don't understand why you two are so prejudiced against him," Hermione said, closing her book with a snap. "Yes, he's cold and distant, but he helped us out. On the train he put Malfoy in his place, and during flying lesson—even though it didn't end up helping—he at least tried to save Neville. Objectively speaking, he's a genius."
"Genius?" Ron snorted. "Fred and George also call him a genius—said he fixed their auto-quill. But I just… don't like him."
Ron leaned closer to Harry and dropped his voice. "I don't like the way he looks at you."
"That's just your inferiority complex talking, Ron," Hermione shot back mercilessly.
"No."
Harry, who had been silent until now, finally spoke.
He felt something else entirely.
"It's not just the way he looks," Harry said, struggling to put the sensation into words. "Every time I get near him, I feel… scared."
"Scared?" Hermione frowned. "You mean he's ugly? I mean, he always has that poker face, but objectively he's actually—"
"No. Not that kind of scared." Harry shook his head; his face had gone pale. "It's like… like reaching into a cold sink and touching something slimy and dead. Or catching the faint, unmistakable smell of poison—even if it's only a trace."
Harry remembered the few times he'd passed Lucian in the corridor.
The black-haired boy always walked with his notebook, eyes straight ahead, never glancing sideways.
But whenever their paths brought them within a certain distance, something deep inside Harry recoiled violently.
It was a feeling that made him want to run. To vomit. Even—to his own horror—to draw his wand and fire a curse at that retreating back. The impulse terrified him. He wasn't supposed to be someone filled with malice.
"Maybe it's because he's too perfect?" Hermione tried to rationalize. "There's a psychological thing called the uncanny valley—when something is almost, but not quite, human, it triggers revulsion."
"Come off it, Hermione." Ron shivered. "I reckon it's dark magic. Dad always said some dark wizards carry the scent of curses—animals and little kids can sense it. We're not kids anymore, but Harry's the Boy Who Lived. His instincts have to be right."
Harry said nothing. He stared into the dancing flames, the unease clinging to him like a shadow.
That Ashford… was there something wrong with his soul?
The wall clock struck eleven with a dull, heavy chime.
Harry shot to his feet.
The sharp intuition and bone-deep fear he'd felt moments ago were suddenly, forcibly wiped away—as though an invisible hand had reached inside his skull and scrubbed them clean.
In their place rose a sudden, illogical surge of hot blood and rage.
A rage he recognized.
The same fury he'd felt on the Hogwarts Express when Malfoy insulted Ron's family.
The same fury he'd felt on the flying lawn when Malfoy stole Neville's Remembrall.
Only this time, there was no trigger. No reason at all.
"It's time," Harry said. His eyes had gone strangely blank yet feverish. "Malfoy challenged us to a duel in the trophy room. If you're too scared to come, Ron—"
The words left his mouth before he even registered them.
A faint voice deep in his mind flickered with confusion: Wait—why do I have to go? It was just an argument. And Hermione's right—we'll lose house points…
But the doubt vanished as quickly as it came.
If I don't go, Malfoy will laugh at me. I'm a Gryffindor. I have to go.
The logic was paper-thin, but his body was already moving.
A voice screamed inside his head: Stop—this isn't right!
The earlier fear and revulsion toward Lucian hadn't even faded—yet now he was suddenly consumed by rage over something trivial?
But the magnified, tenfold hatred toward Malfoy drowned out every rational thought.
"I'm a Gryffindor. I'm not a coward!"
The conviction burned into his brain.
"Who says I'm scared!" Ron leaped up like a wound-up puppet, face flushed scarlet. "I'm going to kick that ferret's arse!"
"You're both mad!" Hermione jumped out of her chair in outrage. "If you get caught, Gryffindor will lose points! I'm only coming to stop you!"
They slipped out through the Fat Lady's portrait and vanished into the pitch-black corridor.
Like three marionettes being pulled, step by inexorable step, toward center stage—where the trap had long been set.
In the final moment before the darkness swallowed them, Harry glanced back instinctively.
Behind them, the common-room fire still crackled cheerfully, as though mocking something that could not be defied.