The air was shrouded in a misty vapor, like drifting clouds.
They were in a place resembling a train station, though the distant scenery seemed unfinished, as if it hadn't been constructed yet.
Harry was lying on the ground. The surface beneath him was white, neither cold nor hot.
He sat up. His body was uninjured, and the headache was gone.
When he reached up to touch his face, he realized his glasses were missing—yet his vision remained perfectly clear.
The dreamlike realm was a strange place.
It existed within the soul, suspended between life and death.
And each one was different, shaped by the strongest impression in a person's heart.
For Harry, that place was undoubtedly the spot where he first stepped into the wizarding world—King's Cross Station.
John appeared there, gave Harry a quick glance, and said casually, "Sit wherever you like. Make yourself at home."
Harry stared at him in confusion. What was going on? How had he ended up in a completely different place?
"John, what exactly did you do?" Harry asked warily.
John walked over to a station bench and sat down. He patted the seat beside him, motioning for Harry to come over.
Harry hesitated for a long moment before finally walking over and sitting down.
Right now, John didn't feel dangerous to him.
John gazed at the tracks inside the station and said dreamily, "It feels like we haven't sat together in ages."
Thinking back, before second year, his relationship with Harry hadn't been bad at all.
They had run from Filch together, sneaked into the room where the three-headed dog, Fluffy, was kept, and even shared meals at Christmas.
"...Without realizing it, so much time has passed," Harry sighed in agreement.
There was no hostility between them at this moment. John raised his hand and conjured a Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean, handing it to Harry.
"Thanks." Harry took it and tried it, but his brows furrowed as he asked, "No flavor?"
Of course there wasn't—John had no sense of taste anymore.
"This place is called the Dreamscape. It's a realm that lingers between life and death," John said, bringing up something else entirely.
"Dreamscape? Between life and death?" Harry asked in confusion. "Does that mean we're dead?"
"Strictly speaking… more or less," John replied, popping the bean into his own mouth with a smile. "Have you noticed that there's a conflict between me and Dumbledore?"
Harry mumbled vaguely, "A little."
In truth, he didn't really feel it that strongly.
He had spent the whole year sulking at Dumbledore, so how could he have noticed anything?
John didn't mind and said, "Because he's afraid of me."
"Afraid of you?" Harry found that absurd. This was Dumbledore they were talking about.
"You must have seen Tom—Voldemort," John waved a hand, signaling him to listen carefully. "You saw what he looks like, right? I mean, the no-nose thing."
"He really does look awful," Harry had to admit. Voldemort was hideous, and Harry couldn't understand why so many people followed him.
As someone who cared about appearances, Harry just couldn't get it.
"That's what comes of dabbling in forbidden things."
John tossed another Bertie Bott's bean into the air and caught it in his mouth, speaking easily. "I'm not so different from him."
"But you have a nose," Harry said bluntly.
"Pfft~!!" John choked a little at that, then said speechlessly, "The price of forbidden magic isn't just losing your nose, you know."
Harry gave an embarrassed laugh and asked, "So you crossed into the forbidden?"
"Yeah," John nodded. "Time and soul—both are forbidden. And unfortunately, I've touched both."
Harry didn't really grasp the weight of it. After all, he too had dealt with time, and with souls.
John sighed. "But I'm not you, Harry. You're the prophesied savior of the wizarding world. I'm just an ordinary man."
Harry muttered inwardly—how could John possibly call himself an ordinary man?
"I've always known about Dumbledore's wariness and dissatisfaction toward me," John said with a self-deprecating smile. "I just used to think that no matter what, he'd still treat me fairly… until certain things happened."
He fixed his gaze on Harry, leaving him momentarily speechless.
"Heinrich's matter, I—"
"No need to apologize."
John crumpled the empty Bertie Bott's wrapper in his hand, and it vanished instantly.
He stood up and said, "The reason I'm telling you all this is because, when it comes to souls, I'm an expert."
"There are some things I know even better than Dumbledore."
"For example—the other soul inside you."
"Another… soul?" Harry was stunned, suddenly feeling like the gossip he'd been watching had turned into his own scandal.
John closed his eyes, and glowing orbs appeared in his palm, drifting like tiny sprites.
Once released, they scattered through the station.
Before long, a rope materialized in John's hand.
He gave it a tug—and dragged out a naked, red-skinned child, curled up tightly.
The child was so weak that John needed only a single soul to restrain it.
When it was dragged before Harry, he jumped in fright.
"What is that?"
"This is Tom's soul," John said, staring at the fragile fragment. "Do you remember the diary we destroyed back in second year?"
"I remember. That was when I first learned Tom Riddle was Voldemort's name."
"Strictly speaking, that Tom was a fragment of Voldemort's soul. He split his soul into six pieces and made six Horcruxes."
John stepped forward and pressed his shoe down slowly on the child's body, making it shriek in a piercing, agonized wail.
"As long as the Horcruxes remain, Voldemort cannot die. And this is one of them. You… are the seventh."
Harry felt a pang of pity, but when he heard John's words, he was stunned. "You mean I'm a Horcrux? But I don't remember ever—"
"Your scar," John cut him off. "That night, when your parents were killed and Voldemort fell with them, a piece of his soul entered your body."
John looked at Harry, who was staring back in disbelief, and delivered the fatal truth. "That means as long as you live, Voldemort will never die."
"No one would ever have guessed—not even Voldemort himself—that the Savior would turn out to be his safeguard. Even less would they know that the noble Savior is the vessel of the darkest magic."
"I suspect Dumbledore may already know—that only your death can bring Voldemort's."
Every word cut like a blade. Harry collapsed onto the bench, unable to accept it.
John looked toward the distance where a train was approaching, its whistle echoing through the mist, smoke billowing with it.
Harry turned to look as well, once again asking in confusion, "And what's that supposed to be?"
"An old acquaintance arriving," John replied with a smile as he watched the train draw near.
The train pulled into the station and the doors opened.
Harry, still disoriented, asked, "Are we supposed to get on… or not?"
"Of course, we're getting on," John said, casting a glance at the child at his feet. "Pick up your ticket."
Harry's face twisted in disgust as he looked at the child, but he had no choice.
This place was far too strange—without following John, he might never make it back.
He grabbed the child. Its red skin looked as though it had been peeled raw.
The feel of it was slick and clammy in his hands, making Harry nearly gag, and it was heavier than it looked.
John didn't bat an eye. He walked up to the train doors and called back, "You'd better hurry, it's about to close."
"Coming." Harry steeled himself and lifted the child into his arms.
Just as the doors were about to shut, he stepped inside.
He saw John heading in one direction and hurried to follow.
"Where does this lead?"
John glanced at Harry, as if something had just occurred to him, and snapped his fingers.
His own clothes shifted into ornate robes, while a bow tie appeared at Harry's collar.
"We're about to meet the beginning of the story—and its end."
John walked ahead. The train had already started moving, its swaying carriage steady beneath his steps.
Harry, still clutching the child in one arm, stumbled awkwardly as he followed.
They passed through one carriage, which was completely empty.
It wasn't until two more carriages later that they encountered the first person.
Harry found the sight strange.
Though there was no one else around, this figure wore a cloak like an Invisibility Cloak, hood pulled low over the head.
Harry couldn't make out their features, but an instinctive sense of unease welled up inside him.
Because John had already said—this place was a realm that lingered between life and death.
So how could anyone else be here?
"We meet again," the hooded figure spoke, their voice so indistinct Harry couldn't tell if it was male or female. "It seems I've caught sight of you."
John walked forward and sat down across from the figure.
After a brief hesitation, Harry followed and took a seat as well.
"Then maybe you weren't mistaken," John said with a shrug. "I thought there'd be plenty more of your kind around."
"Heh…" The hooded figure let out a low chuckle. "It's not a pleasant job. Not many are willing to do it."
"Dealing with death has never been a good thing," the figure said, tilting their head slightly.
Harry strained to see, but the darkness under the hood revealed nothing at all.
"You awaken the dead—that is a foolish act, John Wick." The figure hadn't moved a muscle, yet the child in Harry's arms was suddenly gasping harder, as though clinging to life for only a few more breaths.
John waved a hand in front of Harry and sighed. "The deal hasn't even started yet, and you're already trying to collect your fee. That's a bit unethical, don't you think…"
"Death."
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