Harry Potter and the Secret Treasures

Harry’s scar throbbed with waves of pain, and a fierce nausea rose in his throat. He felt suffocated.

This wasn’t the first time he had killed someone through Voldemort’s eyes, but it made him sick every single time.

A life had been taken by his own hands, and when the Killing Curse ripped away the old man’s life, an unprecedented sense of guilt filled Harry’s heart.

Even though he wasn’t the one committing the killing, the realism was palpable.

The night grew even darker, a chilling aura pressing down.

There was no light around; Harry was alone, quietly bound in this place, consumed by inexplicable sorrow and despair.

The intermittent music grew increasingly mournful, and Harry felt that if this continued, he might be driven mad.

He tried to scream, but no sound came out, only intensifying his despair.

Anything — anything — would be better than this. He would rather face Voldemort himself than lie here alone.

Harry wanted to understand what was happening, and where exactly he was.

Suddenly, just as his thoughts spiraled, he heard footsteps.

Someone was approaching. But who?

A faint, pallid glow from a wand cut through the darkness, bringing with it an unpleasant, eerie light. Harry saw a wizard wearing a black cloak.

“Ron, is that you?” Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

The magic binding him was too powerful; he had lost all control of his body, only his soul residing alone within it.

“Harry Potter … the Dark Lord’s destined opponent,” the figure said slowly.

It wasn’t Ron. The voice sounded harsh, aged, so strange and grating it made his skin crawl.

It was an old woman, certainly very old, Harry guessed.

The next second, he realized — it was the Dark Witch!

The woman with so many terrible legends, the terrifying Dark Witch no less powerful than Voldemort.

The Dark Witch walked to Harry’s side, studying him.

“How wondrous, the power of destiny manifests within you, Harry Potter. You possess unparalleled strength,” she said, reaching out from her cloak to touch Harry’s scar.

To Harry’s surprise, the hand was fair, smooth, and delicate, far too beautiful, far too well-kept for a witch, and nothing like the hand of a woman her age should have been. In Harry’s imagination, the Dark Witch’s hands ought to have been rough, wrinkled, and at least match her age.

This was abnormal; how could this old woman have hands like this forever?!

The moment she touched him, his scar exploded with searing pain.

He glared at her; it was the only way he could express his emotions now.

“Child of prophecy … Harry Potter!” the Dark Witch said softly. “Your fate was sealed from the moment you were born. When the Dark Lord destroys you, he will gain the power within you, becoming invincible, and no one will be able to defeat him. He is destined to be the perfect choice.”

“The perfect choice?!”

Harry couldn’t quite understand what the old witch was saying.

“This is your destiny, Harry Potter. I ought to summon the Dark Lord this instant and let him end your life, but there are more pressing matters for me to attend to. Come. We are going to the final place, where you will have the privilege of witnessing history. As a pitiful mortal, you shall see with your own eyes the moment of my master’s return.”

She drew a wand carved all over with tiny skulls and flicked it toward him. Harry rose into the air at once.

He drifted uncontrollably through the air, following the Dark Witch forward, leaving the room.

A night breeze blew, and Harry finally saw their location clearly — very high, as though suspended among the clouds.

They stood atop a tower that pierced the sky. Below them sprawled the vast silhouette of a castle, so ruined it resembled some colossal, slumbering beast. Everywhere Harry looked there were broken walls, collapsed arches, and cracked stones — hardly anything remained of what the structure must once have been.

In the distance, a pale blue light flickered in the darkness; Harry had no idea what was happening there.

The Dark Witch halted, also gazing at the place where the blue light was flashing.

“Such peculiar power — fierce and extraordinary. Your friend, Evan Mason… his coming has worked in my favor,” said the Dark Witch.

Evan!

He was here. Harry felt a surge of joy, which quickly turned to worry.

“I don’t know what method the boy used, but his presence has truly roused the dead that lie beneath this soil — even the wraiths that had long lain dormant,” the Black Witch murmured, half to Harry and half to herself. “Such is the force of ancient sorcery: the unreal forging itself anew in the world of the living, the departed drawing breath once more. Remarkable… the boy must carry some extraordinary magical object, one capable of countering the darkness that enshrouds this place. It was he who woke the sleepers.

He means to dispel the darkness, but the attempt is hopeless. The dead are risen; nothing stands in my way now. I shall claim the incantation and aid the Dark Lord in attaining immortality. And when all is done, my master’s return will at last be complete. Then the calamity will begin, and unending night shall fall forever upon this land.”

The Dark Witch burst into shrill, grating laughter. Harry desperately wished she would stop.

The woman had gone mad, spouting nonsensical ramblings about masters, calamities, and destruction.

She was a complete madwoman; Harry thought she was even more insane than Professor Trelawney, and he had no patience left for her rambling.

He kept trying to control his body, to break free from the magical shackles, but to no avail.

The Dark witch continued her incoherent ramblings for a while, while the blue light in the distance rapidly expanded. Soon, the castle beneath Harry’s feet was also covered by the blue light, and to his astonishment, the ruins began knitting themselves back together before his eyes, returning to the castle’s former glory.

Collapsed walls mended, shattered stones reformed, broken towers rose whole again. It was incredible. Above the highest spire, a statue of a warrior maiden was beginning to take shape.

The Dark witch’s laughter abruptly stopped; touched by the blue light, she seemed to have suffered unbearable pain.

Harry saw it clearly: her hands were changing; the fair, smooth skin began to dull, losing all its luster, like a tree rapidly withering. Life was draining from her fingers. With a piercing scream, her hands quickly became unrecognizable, resembling the claws of a monster.

They were bluish-gray, wrinkled and grotesque.

“Damn magic!” the Dark Witch cursed, dodging the blue light while wildly waving her wand.

She seemed to be trying to stop the blue light from spreading, but to no avail.

Harry exclaimed with joy; he had regained control of his body.