Chapter 328: Chaos Memory
Ron's sudden mumbling echoed faintly in Harry's ears, sending a chill down his spine.
He slowed his steps, leaving the dormitory behind and heading toward the empty common lounge. The castle was quiet at this hour, its silence broken only by the soft hum of magic embedded in the ancient walls. Harry needed space—space to think, to untangle the dream that still clung to his thoughts like mist.
He stopped beneath the domed ceiling, where enchanted stars shimmered faintly above, and let his gaze drift upward.
Slowly, memories resurfaced.
The dream had felt too real.
There had been three people—one he recognized, two he did not.
Harry frowned, closing his eyes as he focused. The image sharpened, fragments aligning themselves one by one. A dimly lit church emerged in his mind. Cracked stone. Faded carvings. Beneath a weathered statue stood an old man with a long white beard—his name unknown, yet somehow connected to Lucius Malfoy.
And then—
That voice.
Cold. Sharp. Inhuman.
Voldemort.
A sensation like ice slid into Harry's stomach. Even recalling the name made his skin prickle. In the dream, Voldemort had invaded the church, demanding information about a wand.
A wand.
Another name surfaced—one Professor Lupin had mentioned before.
Greyback.
Voldemort had been ready to act directly… until something interrupted him.
A majestic, unfamiliar voice rang out.
A figure appeared from nowhere.
And behind him—
A massive clock.
The wizard was dressed like a Muggle, utterly out of place in the sacred gloom of the church. Harry strained to remember his face, but no matter how hard he tried, the details slipped away.
Was it really just a dream?
The scene had grown stranger still.
When the man spoke of "transformation," time itself seemed to stall. A long declaration followed—spoken clearly, deliberately—yet somehow the moment refused to move forward. Then, in the blink of an eye, the wizard transformed into a bizarre, sacred-looking armored figure.
Harry's brow furrowed.
Why did it feel like time itself had paused to listen?
Pain followed.
Sudden. Violent. Brief.
Then the world twisted again.
He was small.
Tiny.
A mouse.
And then—
Darkness.
Pressure.
A suffocating, sticky confinement as he was swallowed alive by a snake.
Harry shuddered.
He knew he would never forget that sensation.
The dream shifted once more.
His body elongated—smooth, powerful, flexible. He slithered across cold stone and rotting refuse, moving soundlessly through abandoned garbage heaps. The night was dark, yet the world glowed in strange hues—faint outlines of objects painted in unnatural colors.
He was a snake.
And yet—
He could think.
Names flooded his mind chaotically.
Azkaban.
Antonin Dolohov.
Lucius Malfoy's wand.
Then pain lanced through his forehead—
Harry jolted awake.
Breathing hard, he pressed a hand to his scar. It throbbed faintly, as though echoing something far away.
Questions piled up faster than he could sort them.
Why had Voldemort regained a physical form?
Why had Greyback's name appeared in that conversation?
What kind of wand was powerful enough to draw Voldemort's attention?
Why would even that mysterious wizard pursue it?
Was the wand really in Lucius Malfoy's possession?
Had Voldemort died again?
And Azkaban—why Azkaban?
Antonin Dolohov…
Was he meant to be Voldemort's next assistant? Another Quirrell?
If the wand truly belonged to Draco's father, did that mean the Malfoy family was in danger?
Or worse—
That they were already involved?
The thoughts tangled into a mess.
Harry buried his face in his hands, blocking out the lounge entirely, trying to hold onto the images of the church and the desolate dump.
It was useless.
The harder he grasped at the memories, the faster they slipped away—like water leaking through his fingers.
All that remained was a vague certainty:
Voldemort had gained a body.
He had lost it again.
And now, his gaze had settled on Lucius Malfoy.
"Hello, Harry. Are you all right?"
Harry flinched, heart jumping, and looked up.
Helena Ravenclaw hovered nearby, her translucent figure framed by the enchanted stars above. Suspended beneath the glowing dome, she looked eerily beautiful—like Chang'e from one of Alexander Smith's old stories, drifting alone beneath a celestial sky.
"I'm fine," Harry said quickly. "Just… a nightmare."
He didn't tell her the truth.
He didn't mind being thought strange—but if Helena believed him unhinged, that would hurt more than he cared to admit.
By noon, the Great Hall buzzed with life.
Harry barely touched his lunch.
Instead, he intercepted Draco as he passed and pulled him toward the Ravenclaw table.
"Antonin Dolohov?" Draco repeated, his expression darkening instantly. "I know him. He's an enemy of my family."
"He murdered my mother's two brothers. And their entire families."
"He's in Azkaban."
Ron stiffened. "And he stopped Draco too," he muttered, as if the name itself left a bad taste.
Ron didn't remember Dolohov personally—his uncles had been killed before he was born. His mother never spoke of them, pretending they were still alive.
But Ron remembered the watch.
A gold watch with an uneven back.
No hands.
Only drifting stars.
"I had a dream," Harry said finally. "You know I have… a connection with Voldemort."
He recounted everything, haltingly but honestly.
When he finished, silence fell.
"If that's true," Draco said slowly, "then somewhere out there… Voldemort has already regained a physical body."
"Then why did he need the Philosopher's Stone last year?" Ron asked.
None of them dismissed it as imagination.
Harry had never heard Dolohov's name before.
That alone made the dream impossible to ignore.
"Maybe it was temporary," Harry said. "Like when he possessed Quirrell."
"I know why Greyback came up," Draco said thoughtfully. "Voldemort must have possessed him. The old wizard recognized it."
"Last year, he could only cling to the back of Quirrell's head," Harry said. "But this time… he could fully occupy another wizard's body. His strength is returning."
"Maybe draining Quirrell restored some of it," Ron added.
"But he died again," Ron said after a pause. "Now he's just a snake in a rubbish dump."
He forced a grin. "Give him ten years. He'll still be crawling."
"No," Harry said quietly.
Draco's expression sharpened. "He thought of Dolohov."
"Dolohov is old," Harry continued. "Still imprisoned."
"If Voldemort needed ten years…"
"He'd be dead by then."
The realization hit them at once.
"So—" Draco began.
Harry and Ron inhaled sharply.
(End of Chapter 328)
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