Harry Potter was walking through the castle grounds, his hands tucked into the pockets of his robes, the breeze ruffling his already tousled black hair even more. As he walked, he couldn't help but notice the strange and almost miraculous changes taking place at the school.
In the distance, near the Black Lake, a small group of Slytherins was chatting animatedly with some Ravenclaw students about their Transfiguration assignments. Truth be told, Harry didn't care in the least if the serpents had suddenly decided to be friendly. He was simply immensely happy that he no longer had to fight tooth and nail for the use of the Quidditch field every time Gryffindor wanted to practice.
Besides, Harry had to admit that he genuinely enjoyed seeing how Professor Snape seemed to be the only person in the entire castle who was deeply angry and disgusted by the sudden change in student dynamics. As far as he could tell from the rumors circulating in the common room, this whole new atmosphere of camaraderie was purely and exclusively thanks to Aurelian Gaunt's infamous training club.
As he walked toward Hagrid's hut to pay him a visit before dinner, Harry began to think about his own interactions with the Head of Slytherin.
If he was honest with himself, his encounters with Aurelian Gaunt hadn't been all bad. Gaunt was arrogant and calculating, a complete narcissist, but he had never insulted him directly the way Malfoy used to. Although even Malfoy had stopped trying to provoke him. Intrigued by this new thought, Harry frowned and tried to recall in greater detail the times he had seen or spoken with Aurelian over the past year.
He tried to remember the tournament, the times they'd shared the Great Hall, the hallways…
Suddenly, the world stopped.
A sharp, piercing, blinding pain shot through his skull, as if someone were stabbing him with knives right behind his eyes. Harry let out a hoarse groan, stumbling on the grass, and brought his hands to his head, trying to understand what was happening to him, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as his vision blurred and the landscape spun around him.
He felt something warm, thick, and with a strong metallic taste slide across his upper lip. As he lowered a trembling hand and looked at his fingers, he saw the blood gushing from his nose.
The pain in his head became even more unbearable the longer he passed, as if his own mind were fighting against itself. Summoning all the willpower he had left, Harry took a few steps, guided only by the silhouette of smoke he could faintly make out in the distance. Somehow, he managed to reach the cabin's wooden door before his legs gave out completely and the world went black.
About an hour later, Harry opened his eyes, blinking heavily. He felt disoriented, with a dull ringing still echoing in his ears. He was lying on a fur-covered sofa; the unmistakable scent of tea and biscuits filled the room.
As he sat up halfway, he saw Hagrid sitting in his giant chair, looking at him with an expression of deep concern and holding a bloodstained damp cloth in his enormous hands.
"Harry! By Merlin's beard, boy, you gave me quite a scare!" exclaimed Hagrid, jumping to his feet and making the floor of the hut shake. "How are you feeling?"
Harry rubbed his forehead, confused, and tried to sit up fully.
"I'm… I'm fine, Hagrid, thanks. The pain's almost gone," Harry muttered, his voice sounding a little hoarse. "What happened to me? I don't remember much about how I got here."
Hagrid sighed with relief and sat back down, making the wood of his chair creak.
"I was just sitting here peacefully, feeding Fang some pieces of meat, when suddenly I heard a loud, sharp bang on my door," the half-giant explained, pointing toward the entrance. "When I opened it to see who it was, I found you lying there on the floor, unconscious and bleeding from the nose as if you'd been punched in the face. "I brought you inside right away."
"I really appreciate that, Hagrid. I mean it," Harry said, accepting a cup of hot tea the gamekeeper offered him.
As he took a small sip of the tea, Harry looked down at Fang, who was lying on the rug, letting a steady stream of drool drip onto the floor. His mind kept replaying the strange episode. "Why did it hurt so much?" Harry wondered, clutching the cup. "Why, no matter how hard I try, does my mind go blank and I can't remember a thing about that idiot Gaunt from my final year?" It was as if an entire chunk of his memory had been ripped out by the roots, leaving only a painful scar in its place.
Later that same day, after convincing Hagrid that it wasn't necessary to take him to the infirmary to see Madam Pomfrey, Harry returned to the Gryffindor tower.
When he walked into the common room, he found Ron Weasley sitting in front of the fireplace, trying to build a castle out of playing cards. Harry flopped down into the armchair next to him, feeling exhausted.
"Ron, where's Hermione? I haven't seen her all day," Harry asked, noticing his friend's absence.
The redhead didn't take his eyes off his cards, placing one down with great care.
"She left about two hours ago for the seventh floor," Ron informed him, shrugging. "She said she couldn't stand the curiosity anymore and went to check out that famous training club everyone's been talking about. Aurelian's."
A chill ran down Harry's spine upon hearing that.
It wasn't Gaunt himself who scared him. Harry didn't mind provoking the great lord. In fact, he sometimes enjoyed the tension. But he knew exactly who the "assistants" at that club were. The Carrow sisters were the ones who helped run the training sessions and punish those who failed. And honestly, Harry wanted absolutely nothing to do with those two girls.
For Harry, the basic rule for survival at school was simple: he could annoy Gaunt and even defy him when he had the chance, but he wouldn't mess with those two insane, sadistic witches even if his own life depended on it. He'd seen them cast curses in the hallways with a smile, and the level of cruelty they exuded made his blood run cold. It was a resounding NO.
Harry leaned forward, moving closer to Ron, and lowered his voice to a whisper that betrayed his concern.
"Are you crazy, Ron? Are you sure Hermione will be okay in there?" he asked, staring at the portrait as if he expected to see her friend walk in, cursed or torn to pieces.
Ron dropped the last letter, causing the entire castle to explode into a small cloud of smoke. The redhead brushed the ashes from his face and looked at Harry with resignation.
"Harry, you know Hermione," Ron replied calmly. "Of course she, like anyone in their right mind in this castle, is terrified of the Carrow twins. But her uncontrollable drive to improve, to gain knowledge, and not to fall behind everyone else far outweighs her survival instinct. She'll be fine; she's probably just taking notes on how they cast the spells."
Harry stared at the ashes of the cards on the table for a few seconds, taking in Ron's irrefutable logic about Hermione's personality.
He let out a long sigh, running a hand through his messy hair. His stomach felt empty, and he had a strange knot left over from the blood and the headache.
"Anyway…" Harry said, getting up from the armchair. "Do you want to go to the kitchens for something to eat? I feel like I'm starving."
Ron's face lit up immediately. Completely forgetting about the letters and the terrifying Slytherin twins, the redhead jumped to his feet, grinning from ear to ear.
"You read my mind, mate! It's always a good time to eat," Ron replied enthusiastically.
And so, leaving behind the mysteries of his memory and the dangerous Slytherin training sessions, the two friends left the common room in search of something tasty to snack on and forget their troubles, at least for a little while.
Harry and Ron were walking slowly out of the kitchens, rubbing their stomachs with great satisfaction. They had just treated themselves to a delicious, impromptu late-night feast, courtesy of the castle house-elves' wonderful culinary skills.
"I'm telling you, Harry… the chicken sandwiches they make are the best thing I've eaten all week," Ron remarked, letting out a small burp that echoed through the empty hallway.
Harry laughed, nodding in agreement. All the tension and headache from that afternoon seemed to have vanished with the meal.
However, upon reaching the foot of the staircase and looking up, the laughter died in their throats instantly.
Standing on the top landing, bathed only in the flickering light of a torch, was the new caretaker. The man stared down at them from above with those empty, dead, and utterly expressionless eyes that had already become so characteristically terrifying to all the students.
Harry felt the air turn icy. Ron stopped dead in his tracks beside him, swallowing hard.
Before either of the boys could react or take a step back, the caretaker moved.
It happened in the blink of an eye. Literally. One second he was at the top of the stairs, and the next, he was standing right on the bottom step, blocking their path.
Harry and Ron stifled a scream, their hearts pounding wildly against their chests as they watched the man materialize in front of them without making the slightest sound.
The caretaker leaned forward, his tall figure casting a gloomy shadow over the two Gryffindors. He brought his pale face within inches of Harry's. Then, his thin lips stretched slowly, breaking his blank expression into a smile so exaggerated, twisted, and terrifying that it made both boys turn pale.
In a raspy, monotonous voice that sounded like dry leaves being crushed, the caretaker spoke with agonizing slowness.
"Harry James Potter... Ronald Bilius Weasley," he said their full names, savoring each syllable in a disturbing way. "How... are you... tonight... boys?"
Harry felt the little warmth left in his body drain away. As the man drew near, Harry could sense that he gave off an aura of death, and what he felt was a putrid stench that made his blood run cold.
"E-everything... everything is going perfectly, sir," Harry stammered quickly, nodding his head.
"Y-yes, everything's perfect, a very good evening," Ron echoed, visibly trembling, his eyes wide open.
The caretaker's terrifying smile remained fixed for another second. Then, just as slowly, the man turned his face away from Harry's and straightened up.
"The stairs are treacherous in the dark… be careful," he warned them, stepping aside stiffly to let them pass.
Harry and Ron didn't think twice. They didn't exchange a glance, didn't even breathe; they simply brushed past him and vanished from the scene, taking the stairs two at a time and running toward the Gryffindor Tower as fast as their trembling legs would carry them.
The caretaker didn't budge from his spot.
With his hands hanging at his sides, he slowly turned his head, following with his gaze the exact spot where Harry James Potter had fled in terror. His eerie smile faded, returning to his usual expression.
His eyes glinted faintly in the dim light.
"The descendant of Peverell," the creature whispered in the solitude of the hallway, his voice echoing in the darkness. "He is weak… weak… very weak."
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