A knock too quiet
The room was still, the only sound the faint crackling of the fire in the hearth. Harry sat by the window, watching the stars shift across the night sky, his thoughts far away—too far, perhaps, for his liking. He had long since learned the art of patience, but even now, after all these eons of wandering between worlds, a peculiar sensation stirred within him. It was the feeling of being watched—of being known.
The knock at the door came quietly, yet with enough authority to break the fragile silence of the room. Harry’s breath caught, and instinctively, his magic rippled, weaving a shroud of invisibility around him. He moved to the door without a sound, his mind sharp, already running through the possibilities. Whoever it was had not been invited, that much was certain. The danger was palpable. Another knock. This time, the sound was harder, more insistent.
“Mr. Evans,” came the voice, low and measured, thick German accent, carrying a hint of something serpentine, something deadly. “I know you’re there.”
Harry’s fingers brushed the door, but he did not open it. There was a quiet pressure in the air, something like a magnetic pull drawing him closer to the visitor, yet he resisted. He did not need to open the door. He did not need to engage. But a strange force—the same force that had led him to this place, this universe, this moment in time—compelled him to listen. A third knock—this time almost a soft thud, as though someone were deliberately pressing their fist to the wood.
“Mr. Evans,” the voice again. “It’s imperative that we speak.”
Harry’s hand stilled on the door. The air outside was thick with the weight of it. Whoever stood on the other side was not a fool. They knew exactly who he was, knew too much.
He opened the door. A man stood there, not tall, but imposing nonetheless. He was dressed in a long, dark coat that seemed to swallow the night around him. His eyes were pale, cold—frigid—and his face, though young, had the kind of sharpness that suggested cruelty, that suggested purpose. A ring, with the mark of the Deathly Hallows, glinted on his left hand.
Harry said nothing, only raised an eyebrow, letting the silence hang between them.
“I’ve come to speak on behalf of my master,” the man said, his voice deliberate, soft. “Grindelwald has... taken an interest in you, Mr. Evans.”
Harry’s heart tightened imperceptibly. Grindelwald. Of course. He had known, in some part of his mind, that the dark wizard would eventually turn his attention toward him. He’d felt the tremors of it when he’d first arrived in this universe—a ripple in the currents of magic that spoke of power, of control.
“Grindelwald has no business with me,” Harry replied coolly, his voice low. “And I suggest you leave.”
The man smiled, but it was the kind of smile that chilled the blood. “You’re mistaken, Mr. Evans,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. “Grindelwald has every business with you. You are... quite the enigma, aren’t you? No one knows where you came from, what you truly are. And you’ve been quietly observing us all, haven’t you?”
Harry tilted his head slightly. “And what would you have me do about it?”
The man’s smile flickered for a second, replaced with a colder edge. “That’s the problem, Mr. Evans. You think you have a choice. The moment you entered Hogwarts Faculty”
Harry didn’t flinch. He had played this game before, in different universes, with different rules, and he was very good at it. Still, this was different. This world was teetering on the edge of something far darker than any he had encountered in the past.
“You’re wrong,” Harry said softly, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not a piece in anyone’s game. And Grindelwald will learn that.” The spy’s expression hardened, but he recovered quickly, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. “You’re far too confident for someone who doesn’t know how the game works. Grindelwald doesn't tolerate... anomalies. And believe me, Mr. Evans, you are one.”
He stepped back from the door, his eyes locking with Harry’s for a moment longer than necessary. “I was sent to warn you. Grindelwald doesn’t care to play games with people who don’t know their place. Consider this your first and last warning.”
Before Harry could respond, the man turned and began walking away, his footsteps silent, his presence already receding into the darkness of the night. But Harry knew. He knew that this was no simple spy. This man was a harbinger, sent by Grindelwald himself, and his visit would not be the last. The walls of this world were closing in, and the puzzle pieces were moving, aligning in ways Harry couldn’t yet predict. But he would not be controlled. Not by Grindelwald. Not by anyone.
With a quiet sigh, Harry closed the door, his thoughts already shifting toward the next move in the game. He understood the fact that his identity was revealed the moment the fucking prophecy screamed from head to toe. But this doesn’t make this less annoying. Harry doubts Grindlewald knows the true extent of his power, and his role in the Great Cycle. Grindlewald has his suspicions, Dumbledore has his suspicions, and Baby Voldemort also has his suspicions. “Fate hates me.” Harry thought bitterly, as he sat down on a chair. “
"I’m not a toy to be played with, nor a puzzle to be solved. I’m the force you never saw coming."