The Great Hall of Winterfell was silent. The air still crackled with the lingering energy of Harry's magic, the last remnants of his fire spell dancing in the hearth. The Stark family, seated at the high table, stared at him—some in awe, others in deep suspicion.
Arya leaned forward on her elbows, eyes gleaming with excitement. "That was incredible!" she blurted out. "Can you do more?"
Sansa, sitting beside her, frowned. "It could be a trick," she muttered, casting a nervous glance at her mother, Catelyn.
Harry sighed. He had been in this situation before—surrounded by people who didn't understand magic, who feared it. But here, in this medieval world where power meant everything, it was even worse. He had no Ministry of Magic to vouch for him. No Dumbledore to guide him. He was alone, and his survival depended on their trust.
Lord Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North, finally broke the silence. "Magic," he said, the word heavy on his tongue. "I have seen many things in my life, but this… I have not seen in many years."
Catelyn's grip tightened on her goblet. "The last time magic touched this world, it was in the form of Targaryen dragons and the sorcery of the east," she said warily. "Magic has brought nothing but war and ruin."
Harry met her gaze evenly. "I didn't come here to bring ruin, Lady Stark," he said. "But I won't pretend that I know why I'm here."
Bran, the young Stark boy, sat forward in his chair. "Are you a wizard?"
Harry nodded. "I am."
Bran's eyes widened with wonder, but it was Maester Luwin, standing to the side, who spoke next. "If you are truly a sorcerer, then what proof do you have beyond tricks of fire and floating goblets?" He gestured to the long wooden table before them. "Can you do something no illusionist could?"
Harry took a deep breath. If they needed proof, he would give them proof. He raised his wand and whispered, "Expecto Patronum."
The Great Hall was suddenly bathed in silver light as a massive, glowing stag burst forth from his wand, its antlers stretching high, its hooves striking the stone floor. The ghostly creature shimmered in the firelight, its ethereal form casting long shadows against the walls.
Gasps filled the room. Bran looked utterly entranced. Arya nearly stood from her seat. Even Robb, the eldest Stark son, stared in disbelief.
"The gods…" Maester Luwin breathed. "This is no mere trick."
Ghost, Jon Snow's direwolf, stepped forward from the shadows. His red eyes glowed in the dim hall, yet he did not growl. Instead, he tilted his head, studying the Patronus with eerie recognition.
Jon, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. "What… is it?"
"My Patronus," Harry answered. "A guardian against the dark. It is pure magic, a force of light that no dark creature can stand against." He let the stag linger for a moment before allowing it to fade. "No illusion can do that."
Eddard Stark exhaled slowly. "If what you say is true, then magic is not as dead as we once thought." His gaze sharpened. "But why are you here? You say you do not know, but no man simply appears from nowhere."
Harry hesitated. That was the question that haunted him. He had fallen through the Veil of Death in the Department of Mysteries—he had been ready to die. But instead of the afterlife, he had ended up here, in Westeros.
"I fell through something called the Veil of Death," he admitted. "It should have killed me. Instead, I woke up beyond the Wall, in the snow, surrounded by the dead." He clenched his fists. "They weren't just corpses. They moved. They fought."
A dark shadow passed over Ned's expression. "White Walkers."
The name sent a ripple of unease through the room.
Bran shivered. "Old Nan used to tell stories about them," he said. "They're real?"
"They are," Jon confirmed. "The Night's Watch has seen them."
Harry nodded grimly. "And if they are real, then this world is in danger." He looked at Ned. "I don't know why I'm here, Lord Stark. But I think… I think I was sent for a reason."
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A Stark Decision
After the meeting, Harry was led to a guest chamber in the castle, but he could not sleep. The weight of the day's events pressed heavily on him.
A soft knock came at his door.
"Come in," he said.
The door creaked open, and Jon Snow stepped inside, Ghost at his heels. The direwolf sat by the hearth, watching them with knowing eyes.
Jon crossed his arms. "My father trusts you," he said carefully. "Or at least, he trusts what he saw. But I need to know—can you really fight?"
Harry studied him. Jon was a warrior, trained with a sword, hardened by life in the North. But he had not faced what Harry had faced.
"I can," Harry said. "I've fought dark wizards, monsters, and armies. I've led men into battle. And I know one thing." He met Jon's gaze. "You can't fight what's coming with just swords and shields."
Jon clenched his jaw. "Then what do we need?"
Harry's eyes darkened. "Fire. Magic. And unity." He paused. "And you, Jon. You're important in this. I can feel it."
Jon frowned. "Why?"
Harry exhaled. "I don't know yet. But when I look at you, I see someone who is meant for more than just the Wall."
Jon looked away, as if the thought was too dangerous to entertain. But Harry could see the uncertainty in his eyes.
"Get some rest," Jon finally said. "Tomorrow, we ride for the Wall. If the White Walkers are returning, we need to see for ourselves."
Harry nodded, but as Jon left, he couldn't shake the feeling that things were moving faster than he could control. The war had already begun, and he was right in the middle of it.
And this time, there would be no Hogwarts, no Dumbledore, no Ministry.
Just war, blood, and the cold of winter.