Painful Scar

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As Harry made his way out of the house, a peculiar mirror caught his attention.

The mirror reflected a shabby old man wearing a dark blue hat. His gray hair framed a face etched with deep wrinkles.

Yet, the mirror's surface was imperfect, its craftsmanship rough and uneven. The reflection appeared slightly distorted, giving the old man an eerie, unnatural appearance.

Harry reached out, curious. His fingers brushed the fragile surface, and a thin crack spiderwebbed instantly under his touch.

Within moments, the entire mirror fractured. The old man's distorted image splintered, breaking into fragments before the mirror shattered completely.

Behind it lay an endless void, a deep black nothingness that seemed to pull at Harry's senses.

"Crack. Click."

The sharp sound of breaking glass echoed in Harry's ears, but it wasn't coming from the mirror.

Startled, Harry glanced around. The source of the sound was closer—much closer.

It was his own body.

Harry watched in horror as cracks, like those in the mirror, began to form on his skin. The fissures spread rapidly, covering him entirely.

In the next instant, his body shattered. Harry fragmented like glass, scattering into a thousand pieces.

And then—he woke.

Harry bolted upright in bed, gasping for air. His chest heaved as though he'd been running, and his heart raced wildly. Sweat clung to his brow, and his hands flew to his face, searching for some sense of reality.

Beneath his fingers, the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead burned fiercely. The pain was sharp and searing, as though someone had pressed a brand to his skin.

Fumbling in the dark, Harry reached for his glasses on the bedside table. He slid them on, and the familiar outlines of Gryffindor Tower's dormitory slowly came into focus.

Ron was still asleep, muttering something incoherent as he rolled over in his bed. The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the pounding of Harry's heart.

He touched his scar again, wincing. The pain lingered, refusing to fade.

Harry tried to recall the dream—so vivid moments ago—but the details began slipping away, like water running through his fingers. What had been clear now felt foggy and elusive, a blurred memory fading into obscurity.

A few images clung to his mind: a dimly lit room, a serpent coiled on a rug near a fireplace, the witch Alecto, and a monstrous figure.

Then there was the voice.

Cold, high-pitched, and unmistakable. Voldemort's voice.

The mere memory of it sent a shiver down Harry's spine, as though a shard of ice had pierced his stomach.

He clenched his eyes shut, straining to remember Voldemort's words, but the harder he tried, the faster the details slipped away.

Fragments surfaced—plans, his name being mentioned—but the specifics dissolved into nothingness.

A terrible conspiracy was unfolding, and Harry knew he'd glimpsed it in his dream. Yet, he could no longer grasp its essence.

Frustration surged within him. He stood abruptly, his fingers once again brushing his scar, which continued to throb.

Harry forced himself to breathe, to steady his thoughts. He was at Hogwarts—safe within its walls.

Voldemort couldn't reach him here. Not now. Not while he was under the castle's protection.

Still, the ache in his scar and the fragments of his dream lingered, leaving him restless and uneasy.

The idea seemed too absurd—absolutely impossible.

But Harry had no time to dwell on it. He had more pressing matters to handle, like finding his lost wand.

Ron was still fast asleep, snoring softly in his bed. Not wanting to disturb him, Harry decided to search for the wand on his own.

For what felt like hours, Harry wandered through the corridors and common areas of Hogwarts, retracing his steps.

His search, however, proved fruitless. Each corner he turned, and every nook he checked left him more frustrated.

By the time he returned to the Gryffindor common room, dark circles shadowed his eyes. Defeated, he pushed open the portrait hole to find only Hermione and Ron in the lounge.

Hermione was seated on the sofa, engrossed in a newspaper, her brows knitted in concentration. A bold headline splashed across the front page caught Harry's eye:

"Sudden and Serious Violence at Quidditch World Cup: Ministry of Magic Responds Swiftly to Control Chaos."

"Hermione! I lost my wand!" Harry blurted, ignoring the newspaper entirely as his worry bubbled to the surface.

Hermione glanced up sharply.

"Ron told me," she said, her face mirroring his concern.

"We'll go see Professor McGonagall soon. Professors have authority over magical items on campus. I'm sure she'll have a way to help you retrieve it!"

Her reassuring words brought Harry a small sense of relief, and he nodded, sinking onto the sofa beside her.

"Hermione, what's in the paper?" Harry asked, his curiosity finally catching up.

Hermione sighed and held up the newspaper. "It's about the Quidditch World Cup." She scanned the article aloud:

"At the Quidditch World Cup, the wizarding world's largest sporting event, a horrific attack injured many wizards and Muggles alike. The chaos was contained thanks to the quick actions of young Ministry of Magic wizard Ethan and the Aurors. Further updates to follow."

Accompanying the article were several photos. The first showed the Dark Mark suspended ominously over a treetop, its black and green haze glowing eerily. The remaining images captured Ethan commanding Aurors during the chaos, his face tense but determined.

"Rita Skeeter, learning to sound professional for once," Hermione muttered, setting the newspaper down.

"Harry, what do you think?" she asked, but her question trailed off as she noticed Harry absently rubbing his scar.

"Harry, is your scar hurting again?" Hermione asked, her tone immediately shifting to concern.

Ron, now fully awake, leaned forward. The memory of Harry's last bout of scar pain still lingered, and it had caused more than its share of trouble.

Reluctantly, Harry recounted the strange, vivid dream he'd just experienced. He described the cracked mirror, the distorted reflections, and the moment his own body shattered like glass.

Then he spoke of the dimly lit room, the serpent by the fire, Alecto, and—most chillingly—Voldemort's cold, high-pitched voice.

Hermione's face paled. "Oh, Harry! You dreamed of… You-Know-Who? This isn't something to ignore! You need to tell Dumbledore immediately!"

Ron nodded fervently, his expression mirroring Hermione's alarm.

"And your scar hurting—Harry, that's serious," Hermione pressed.

"I'll look up magical pain symptoms and dream interpretation in the library. Maybe I'll find something useful."

Without waiting for a reply, she stood, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and headed for the girls' dormitory.

At that moment, the door to the common room burst open with a resounding click.

Startled, the trio turned toward the entrance, wondering who could be visiting the lounge before the school year had officially begun.

To their surprise, Ethan stood framed in the doorway, his presence commanding the room.