Dream

James stirred in his sleep, face twitching slightly against the pillow as the dream pulled him deeper.

The air was thick with smoke. Flames licked the crumbling edges of a ruined city. Buildings lay broken like forgotten toys, windows shattered, stone scorched. In the heart of the devastation, a massive crater yawned in the earth like a wound.

At its center stood James.

Beneath him, a man knelt, broken, screaming through the smoke.

"You killed them! They were innocent!"

His voice cracked with grief, with rage. Ash clung to his robes, his face stained with soot and tears.

James—calm, unmoved—simply smirked.

Then the dream shattered.

He jolted upright in bed with a sharp breath, chest heaving, drenched in cold sweat. His fingers fumbled toward the nightstand, closing around a glass of water. He drained it in heavy gulps, each swallow grounding him just a little more in reality.

The silence of his room was stark in contrast to the chaos of the dream. No screaming. No fire. Just the soft whisper of wind brushing against the windowpane and the faint creak of the bedframe beneath him.

James ran a hand through his hair, damp at the roots. His fingers trembled slightly.

"Another one," he muttered under his breath, voice dry and bitter. "Bloody brilliant."

These dreams had become more frequent. Ever since the World Cup.

He closed his eyes, but the images were still there—burned into his mind like the runes he'd carved that night. The stench of burnt flesh. The terror in their eyes. The way the blood pooled, warm and slow, around his boots.

And then—

The moment after.

He remembered Apparating away from the wreckage, lungs clenched, hands shaking. He'd barely made it to the edge of the forest before vomiting up everything he had left in him—his dinner, his breath, his certainty.

His first real kill. Not in theory. Not in training. Not in dreams.

Actual death. Actual bodies.

He remembered Goyle's face on the train. The others in Slytherin whose parents might have been among the men in that circle. They were fathers, husbands… people.

His jaw clenched. He shoved the thought away.

"No," he whispered to the empty room. "No self-doubt."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands. The muscles in his arms were taut, veins drawn up like cords, pulsing with tension.

"Self-doubt is the killer of confidence. It makes you hesitate. And I can't afford hesitation—not now. Not with what's coming."

He stood up, slowly, walked toward the mirror across the room, and stared at his reflection.

"They tried to take lives," he murmured. "I responded in kind."

His gaze didn't flinch.

"They were loved? So what? That doesn't absolve them. Actions have consequences. Just like mine will."

He took a breath, deep and steady. The face in the mirror looked the same—but something beneath the surface had shifted. There was weight behind the eyes now. Something darker. Colder.

He turned away and made his way back to bed.

The sheets were cool, untouched on the other side. He lay back down and let his arm fall across his forehead.

"Mind is what you feed it," he reminded himself, almost like a mantra. "Keep feeding it purpose. Not guilt. Not regret."

His eyelids grew heavy again.

"Just don't dream tonight," he whispered, barely audible. "Not like that."

And with that, he let sleep take him once more—uncertain of what might follow.

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so tell me how the writing quality till now .