The war was over, but Harry Potter's scars remained. Not the lightning-shaped one on his forehead—that had faded into nothing more than a faint line. No, the real scars were the ones no spell could heal. The hollow ache in his chest. The restless nights spent staring at the ceiling, listening to the echo of curses, screams, and the suffocating silence that followed them.
London was too loud, yet too quiet. Grimmauld Place felt like a tomb. The Ministry was eager to pin medals on his chest, to turn him into a symbol. But symbols didn't bleed. Symbols didn't wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, haunted by faces long gone.
Harry wanted to feel something again—something more than just surviving.
It was a rainy evening when the letter arrived. No owl. No knock at the door. Just an envelope, black as midnight, lying on the dusty table in the kitchen as if it had always been there. There was no name, no seal—just a single crimson wax stamp, a symbol pressed into it: a serpent devouring its own tail, endless and eternal.
Harry hesitated only for a moment before breaking the seal.
Mr. Potter,
Your presence is requested at Academia Nocturna.
Term begins in seven days. Your acceptance is non-negotiable.
No sender. No instructions. Just coordinates scribbled beneath the message—somewhere in Knockturn Alley.
Most people would've ignored it. Hermione would've burned it. Ron would've laughed.
Harry tucked it into his coat pocket.
The entrance was hidden between a crumbling apothecary and a shop that sold cursed artifacts. A narrow alley choked with shadows, the stench of damp stone, and the faint metallic tang of blood in the air. He followed the coordinates to an iron door with no handle, just the same serpent symbol etched deep into the metal.
As soon as he touched it, the door dissolved into mist.
Stepping through felt like falling. His stomach twisted, magic surging around him like cold water pulling him under. Then—solid ground.
Academia Nocturna was nothing like Hogwarts. No warmth. No whimsical charm. Just towering spires of black stone, sharp angles that clawed at the sky, and windows that glowed with flickering, unnatural light. The air was thick with magic—old, oppressive, and hungry.
Students moved through the courtyard, dressed in dark robes stitched with crimson threads. They didn't look like children. They were young adults, faces marked with arrogance, ambition, and something else—something darker.
Harry's footsteps echoed as he crossed the stone floor, his heart pounding not with fear but anticipation.
At the far end of the courtyard stood a figure waiting. A man—tall, impossibly elegant, with sharp features and cold, gray eyes that seemed to look right through him. His robes flowed like liquid shadow, and when he spoke, his voice was silk wrapped around steel.
"Harry Potter," the man said, his lips curving into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "The Boy Who Lived. Or should I say… the boy who won?"
Harry said nothing, his fingers brushing the wand in his pocket out of habit.
The man stepped closer, his gaze intense. "Welcome to Academia Nocturna. Here, we don't care about who you were. Only about what you're willing to become."
The words sent a thrill through Harry's chest, dark and electric.
For the first time since the war, he felt alive.
End of Chapter 1