Night had fallen over Hogwarts, and time itself seemed to pause in anticipation. I lay on my bed, tiredly staring at the wooden beams above. The distinct creak of beds in the dormitory reminded me of other students' presence, yet sleep stubbornly refused to come. Darkness in the room felt denser than usual, as if someone invisible and hostile lingered there.
But finally, my eyes closed, and the world shifted. I found myself in a vast, empty hall, whose walls were shrouded in unnatural gloom. The floor was laid with ancient tiles, etched with strange symbols that flared a bloody red with every step. The air was thick with a suffocating sense of danger, as if the very place resented human presence.
"Gregory Goyle..." — a voice echoed from above, deep yet laced with madness. It sounded like a madman's laughter, interspersed with whispers that pierced the ears. "You've come to me! Or... I've come to you? What difference does it make? We are bound!" — The voice shifted between icy mockery and hysterical screams. "Do you hear it? Hear the call of the darkness?"
I clenched my fists, trying to locate the source of the voice, but around me was only shadow.
"Who are you?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay steady.
"I... I... I am everything and nothing! The one who whispers in nightmares, the one who laughs at your fears!" — The voice erupted into maniacal laughter, turning into a howl. "I know you, Gregory. Or should I call you Victor? Oh, how well I know you! All your weaknesses, but also your strengths, your desires, dreams, hopes, and of course... your fears. You want power, don't you? To be more than Malfoy's dumb enforcer?"
Malfoy. An unbreakable oath. The words flared in my mind, but I didn't give in.
"Why are you here? What do you want?" I said, feeling anxiety rise in my chest.
"Destroy him! Destroy! KILL!" — the voice roared, then shifted into a whisper that clawed at my hearing. "Kill Potter. Break him. Shatter him. He is an obstacle. He... he is surplus! Don't you see? Don't you feel how the world crumbles because of him? Kill, kill, kill!"
The words struck my mind like a hammer. Figures began to emerge from the darkness—silhouettes woven from shadows. Their eyes burned with madness, and they moved, slowly surrounding me, growing closer with each step.
"And if I refuse?" I asked, looking at the faceless shadows.
"Refuse? REFUSE?" — the voice thundered like rolling thunder, then erupted into hysterical laughter. "Then you will become nothing! Forgotten. Vanish like dust, like ashes. You are nothing without me, Gregory Goyle. Nothing!" — The voice suddenly softened, almost tenderly. "But I can make you everything. Strong. Invincible. All you need to do... is kill."
The darkness thickened around me, threatening to swallow me. A chill crept into my heart, freezing my will. But I clenched my teeth and lifted my head angrily.
"I do not fear threats."
The air exploded with another fit of mad laughter. Then the darkness vanished, and I was alone. Only my reflection in the mirror opposite looked strange—its eyes glowed red.
I woke in my bed, breathing heavily. My forehead was slick with cold sweat. On the neighboring bed, Malfoy slept peacefully, unaware of the nightmares tearing at my consciousness.
But those words, those threats, that command—they would not leave me. Who—or what—was that voice? And why did it choose me? Could it be the same one who had facilitated my arrival in this world after dying from that bullet?
Killing the boy, even one who wielded magic but suspected nothing, should have been easy. Yet vague memories of movies I had watched long ago crept in. Harry Potter constantly faced incredible dangers and always survived. And Dumbledore seemed to protect him as well. I still remembered the aura of the old man and his steely eyes. To the children, he may have seemed like a senile elder, but even at the feast, I understood—this man was dangerous.
No, too risky. At least in the castle. I didn't want to die immediately after gaining a second life. But what if the dream returned and that voice demanded the boy's death again? What if it could really harm me? My new world was magical now, strange as that sounded for the former Victor. But I was no longer entirely Victor either. Too much of Gregory Goyle remained in me. And yes, somehow, I immediately believed the threats I had heard.
Perhaps I could go to the headmaster and tell everything? No, he would probably rip me apart if he realized I was no longer the Gregory Goyle I had been. Maybe I should first look for something in the school library? Something had to be there—something to help me protect my dreams from that voice. It was clearly no ordinary dream. Yes, decided. That's what I would do.
Having made my decision, I calmed down and tried to nap lightly, though not letting myself fall fully asleep. But soon Crabbe shook me awake.
"Hey, get up, Malfoy wants to talk to us. And you'll miss breakfast."
"What's even being served today?" I asked, as if that were the only thing I cared about. But appearances matter, and one shouldn't overdo it.
"No idea, I'm hungry too," Crabbe swallowed, "so let's go, Malfoy said it's important."
"Coming, coming," I mumbled sleepily, getting out of bed with no idea what my new boss needed from me.
Malfoy was already waiting by the fireplace in the common room, fussing over his pale hair. His expression was slightly displeased, but I couldn't care less. I would have ignored him entirely, but for now, until I found a way to remove the oath, I had to keep up the act of a loyal, dimwitted subordinate.
"Well, finally you're here, Goyle. How long do I have to wait for you?" — he drawled, frowning.
I merely shrugged vaguely, sticking to my act.
"All right, sit and listen," — once I settled in a chair, Malfoy continued — "your fathers owe mine heavily, so now you will obey me. Wherever I go, there you go. Now you are my shadows—fat and stupid, but strong shadows," — he giggled slightly — "the main thing to remember: if I get hurt, so do you, and then your parents. But don't think it's all bad. If you perform your duties well, maybe I'll ask my father to write off some of your debts. Malfoys never forget their debts." — He concluded his speech loftily, clearly quoting someone older.
Even with part of Goyle's memory, I still marveled at the happenings in the castle. Hogwarts had over a hundred staircases. Some were wide and spacious; others narrow and rickety. Some stairs on Tuesday led somewhere entirely different than on Wednesday. Some had steps vanish suddenly while someone was climbing or descending. Walking these stairs required jumping at times.
Doors were equally tricky. Some wouldn't open unless politely asked. Others opened only if touched in the right spot. Some were fake, hiding a solid wall.
Remembering the layout of staircases, doors, classrooms, corridors, and dormitories was nearly impossible. Everything in Hogwarts seemed to change constantly. Portraits wandered and conversed with students. Suits of armor in the halls seemed capable of running. Students from non-magical families—Muggles—were constantly amazed, but I kept my mask; Gregory Goyle came from an old, if poor, magical family.
Peeves and Filch added chaos. Peeves, the school poltergeist, flipped trash bins on first-years' heads, yanked carpets, threw items, and once even pushed a Hufflepuff down stairs, breaking their leg. Filch, the caretaker, patrolled with his emaciated gray cat, Mrs. Norris, whose bulging eyes mirrored her master's. The cat detected rule-breakers instantly, and Filch appeared seconds later like a ghost. Students hated him; many dreamed only of daring to kick Mrs. Norris.
Classes for me, like most pure-blood students, were relatively easy, unlike for most Muggle-borns. During lessons and breakfasts, I studied my possible future target—Harry Potter. The boy suspiciously resembled Malfoy: sleek hair, expensive robes, and numerous charms and amulets he didn't bother hiding, unlike many Slytherins. His manners matched—a condescending smile never leaving his face, as if he knew something others didn't. He didn't seem dangerous, despite his small stature and age, but his eyes were smart and composed compared to other first-years.
I didn't intend to act yet, but if I had to, I needed to know my opponent. The boy was evidently capable and often shone in class, unlike his clingy companion—Ron Weasley, a slightly smaller, improved version of Crabbe in behavior. He wouldn't be an obstacle.
On the first Friday, we had two Potions classes with the Gryffindors. I remembered my dream, but having promised to check the library for defenses, I nearly forgot everything. Then it began.
Professor Snape's classroom was in the dungeons—colder and scarier than the rest of the castle. Glass jars lined the walls, each containing preserved animals.
Snape, like other teachers, began by checking attendance. He stopped at Potter's name. He seemed to hate the boy immediately—or more than that—he despised him.
"Oh yes," he said quietly. "Harry Potter. Our new celebrity."
Malfoy and Crabbe snickered mockingly, hiding their faces. I didn't join in. Suddenly, the same terrifying voice echoed in my head, this time whispering: "Kill... Kill Potter... Kill... Kill..." I clutched my head, unsure what to do, while class went on.
"You are here to study the science of potion-making. A precise and delicate science," Snape continued.
He spoke almost in a whisper, yet every word carried. Like McGonagall, Snape commanded the class effortlessly. No one dared whisper or distract themselves, but my inner voice ignored all that: "Kill... Kill... Let the boy die..."
"Waving a wand has nothing to do with this science, so many of you may struggle to believe its importance," Snape went on. "I doubt you can appreciate the beauty of a slowly boiling cauldron, releasing the finest..."
The Slytherin head continued the lesson, but I barely heard him. The voice grew louder, making concentration hard. I tried to respond: "I got it! I'll do it! Give me time!" The voice paused briefly, as if deciding whether to believe me, whispered "Kill" one last time, then fell silent. I knew it wouldn't stay quiet for long.
"Potter!" — Snape suddenly shouted in the sudden silence. "What happens if I mix crushed asphodel root with wormwood tincture?"
"Sleeping potion, professor," the boy answered, beating Hermione Granger, who had eagerly raised her hand.
Snape's face showed displeasure; he hadn't expected the boy to know. Granger's expression mirrored annoyance.
"Hm, if I asked you to bring me a bezoar, where would you look?" Snape asked again.
"In a goat's stomach," Potter answered quickly, again outpacing Granger.
"Sit, Potter. I see you've at least read the textbook. But I doubt you'll perform today's task as well." Snape ended the interrogation, giving the boy no extra points, though any other teacher would have rewarded him.
Then Snape paired students and assigned a basic healing potion. He patrolled, rustling his robes, checking measurements. He criticized everyone except Malfoy, whom he favored. Even I was scolded for careless cutting. Suddenly, when Snape called the class to admire Malfoy brewing horned slugs, the dungeon filled with green smoke and hissing.
Gryffindor Neville Longbottom had somehow overheated Finnegan's cauldron, creating a shapeless blob. The potion spilled, burning holes in students' boots. Everyone climbed onto chairs. The culprit, doused in potion, cried as red blisters formed on his hands and legs.
"Idiot!" Snape growled, sweeping the potion aside. "You added porcupine quills before removing the cauldron from heat?"
Neville just cried; his nose was covered in blisters.
"Take him to the infirmary," Snape said, grimacing. Then he turned to Potter and Weasley. "Potter, why didn't you tell him not to add porcupine quills? Thought you'd look better by his mistake? Five points from Gryffindor."
The boy simply nodded and apologized, again irritating Snape:
"Yes, Professor, sorry, sir."
The first week passed unnoticed. The magical world wasn't as strange as I expected. Even with fragments of Goyle's memory, most lessons were familiar. Still, I relearned old skills from Goyle's body as if for the first time.
I stayed near Draco Malfoy, playing the loyal vassal.
"See how they look at me?" Malfoy asked, pointing to a group of Gryffindors. "They're afraid, Goyle. Know what I can do if they don't shut up?"
I shrugged.
"Let them fear. Better if they try something; then you show who's boss."
Malfoy snorted, lifting his chin.
"Of course, I've always been the boss," he said with smug confidence. I barely held back a smile.
Malfoy was good with words, but power? That was another matter. Even with his father's help, he had no true authority. It was only a show. I kept up my act, showing total loyalty.
At dinner in the Great Hall, Malfoy continued, rambling about his father and how Hogwarts should be stricter—a mere flood of words to show importance.
"My father said this year must be decisive," he began, scanning the hall. "If I succeed..."
He stopped, noticing Crabbe and me weren't listening. Crabbe was eating; I stared at my plate, pondering the voice.
"If you want to do something, do it," I said, turning to Malfoy. "But not too loudly. Time will show who can do what."
Malfoy wanted to argue but stayed silent. Few words, a few actions—that could show real power. Empty chatter meant nothing.
I knew I was a force to be reckoned with, at least for first-years, but no one suspected. Those who act are better than those who merely talk. I preferred the shadows, letting everyone believe I was just a dumb brute. Watching Malfoy continue his performance, unaware he looked foolish, was satisfying.
But none of this mattered. For now, those snot-nosed kids were irrelevant. I finally understood—the voice, even whispering in dreams and waking thoughts, could drive me mad. It was time to do something about it. Since taking this body, I had been too relaxed.