Name In The Darkness.
Sleep didn’t come easily.
It never did.
Harry lay on his back, staring at the ceiling of the Ravenclaw dormitory. The castle was quiet, save for the occasional gust of wind rattling against the windows. His dormmates were asleep, their breathing soft and steady.
He wasn’t sure when exhaustion finally won.
But when it did—he knew almost immediately that something was wrong.
—
The room was dark.
Not the kind of darkness that came with night, but something thicker, heavier. It wrapped around him like ink, swallowing sound, suffocating the air.
Harry tried to move.
He couldn’t.
A cold, creeping dread slithered down his spine.
Then—click, click, click.
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
Coming closer.
His breath hitched. He didn’t want to look.
But he couldn’t stop himself.
And there—just at the edge of the shadows—she stood.
The Nun.
Tall, draped in darkness. A hollowed-out thing wearing the shape of a woman.
She did not move.
She did not blink.
She only watched.
A suffocating silence filled the space between them.
Harry’s heart pounded. His mouth was dry. But for the first time, something in him burned—not just terror, not just dread.
Something else.
A flicker of defiance.
His fingers twitched. He forced himself to breathe.
And then—he did something he had never dared before.
He spoke.
“…What are you?”
His voice came out quieter than he intended, barely more than a whisper. But it broke the silence like a crack of thunder.
The Nun tilted her head.
The movement was wrong, too sharp, too slow, like a puppet with tangled strings.
Then—she stepped closer.
The shadows shuddered around her.
Harry swallowed, pressing himself against the unseen floor. His instincts screamed at him to run, but there was nowhere to go.
Her lips parted.
But no words came.
Only a breath.
Cold, damp, curling at the edge of his ear like fingers reaching from the abyss.
And then—she smiled.
The darkness trembled.
And Harry fell.
—
He woke up gasping.
His hands were shaking. His sheets were damp with sweat.
For a moment, he just lay there, heart hammering against his ribs.
The room was silent.
No shadows moving. No whispers in his ears.
But the weight in his pocket—the rosary beads—felt heavier than ever.