Chapter Text
Thinking something might happen and knowing it's inevitable are two entirely different beasts, and when Harry learned that he was destined to die at the hands of the Dark Lord, it broke something in him. He’d suspected for months, maybe longer, that Dumbledore was keeping something huge from him, steering him toward some grand sacrifice like a pawn on a bloody chessboard. But to have it confirmed, and not even ten minutes after watching Sirius, his last real family, fall through that cursed veil, was nothing short of cruel.
He had begged the headmaster not to speak of anything important, told him through clenched teeth and tear-glossed eyes that he wasn’t ready, that he couldn’t handle more bad news. Not yet. But Dumbledore, in all his maddening calm and cryptic detachment, hadn’t listened. Instead, he pressed on, dropping the truth like a guillotine blade: Harry was a lamb raised for slaughter.
The fury that followed was volcanic. Harry's grief-fueled rage erupted without warning. Shouting turned to screaming. Glass shattered. Shelves splintered. The headmaster's office, lined with centuries of ancient, irreplaceable nonsense, was practically obliterated by the time Harry’s magic stopped lashing out. He didn’t even care. In that moment, he wanted it all to burn.
Later, when the storm inside him finally began to settle, he apologized, brokenly, sincerely, but Dumbledore merely gave a weary sigh, flicked his wand a few times, and put the room back together like it was nothing more than a spilled cup of tea. No anger. No reprimand. Just a soft, infuriating, “Go back to bed, Harry.”
So he did. Fifteen years old, shattered and sleepless, walking back through the dark corridors like a ghost. The war was coming, and now he knew the truth: he wasn’t just fighting it. He was the sacrifice it demanded.
The Next Day
Despite getting no sleep the night before, Harry was strangely alert. Energized, even. As he lay staring up at the canopy of his bed in the fifth-year boys' dormitory, the early morning light bleeding into the room, an epiphany hit him like a Bludger to the ribs: the only thing Dumbledore had any real power over was his education. And frankly, what use was that if he didn’t even know whether he’d live long enough to graduate? Hell, whether he’d even make it to his sixth year?
Voldemort was on the warpath, more dangerous and reckless now that the world had seen his return at the Ministry. He was striking indiscriminately: Muggles, children, wizards, whole families wiped out overnight. The Prophet could barely keep up with the bloodshed. And Harry? Harry lived every moment in dread, flinching at every name spoken over the wireless, terrified that one day it’d be Remus. Or Fred and George. He dreaded hearing their names in the same cold, clinical tone they'd used for Sirius, like a squirrel sensing the hot breath of a hunting dog behind it.
And looming above even that fear was his own fate. Written, decided, not by choice but by prophecy. He didn’t want to die. Not now, not so young. But it seemed he didn’t have a say in the matter. Apparently, being the 'Boy Who Lived' came with strings tighter than any puppet. There was no room for dreams. Not marriage. Not a family. Not peace.
No. He was supposed to fight a dark wizard with seven decades of experience before he was even legally an adult. The same man trained Aurors couldn’t bring down.
And after he was done being a child soldier, he was expected to settle into some cookie-cutter life: marry a red-haired witch, because “All Potters marry redheads,” have two kids, and become an Auror like his bloody father. A father he never even met, but whom everyone expected him to be just like. Apparently, having his face made him his clone. Except for the eyes, of course. He had his mother’s eyes. That’s all anyone ever said about her. Her eyes. Red hair. That was it. Like that summed up an entire human being.
And as for that “All Potters married redheads” nonsense? It was one Potter. One. His grandmother had blonde hair, and no one seemed to care about that. The whole narrative was built on a lie.
Well, Harry had had enough of their crap.
To start with, while he didn’t mind girls on occasion, he far preferred blokes. Always had. The idea of being forced into some picture-perfect, heteronormative fantasy made him want to scream. But heaven forbid he say that aloud to the Order of Flaming Chickens. They couldn't even make up their minds about whether he was a child or a weapon. One minute he was “too young” to be in meetings about his own death, and the next, he was expected to take on the most powerful Dark wizard of the age with nothing but a school curriculum and a scar.
He was fifteen. That should be enough explanation. Fifteen, thrown into a world of magic at eleven, raised by people who treated him like filth under their shoes. Love and compassion? What the hell would he know about those? He grew up in a cupboard, starving, unloved, and invisible. But now he was expected to be noble, kind, and sacrificial, for a world that had given him nothing.
Harry’s eyes flicked up to the heavy red curtains surrounding his bed. They reminded him of blood. He stared at them, head tilted slightly, a strange calm washing over him as he studied the shade.
“Fitting,” he muttered before finally swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
Enough was enough. If they were going to turn him into a weapon, he’d at least be the one holding the handle.
He padded quietly to the bathroom, the cold stone floor sending a shiver up his spine. He showered quickly, letting the hot water rinse away the tension clinging to his skin like a second layer. In front of the mirror, he made a half-hearted attempt to tame his eternally messy hair. It was getting longer, curling slightly at the ends now. Less chaotic. Maybe he should let it grow out. It wasn’t like anyone could stop him.
Before he could dwell on the thought, the muffled sounds of stirring and yawns echoed from the dormitory behind him, his fellow fifth years waking up. With a sigh, Harry snapped back to routine. He brushed his teeth, splashed cold water on his face, and tugged on his uniform, the fabric stiff against his skin.
When he finally stepped out of the bathroom, he smoothed the expression on his face into something neutral. Passable. Wearable. Ron was already groggily sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes and looking just as drained as Harry felt.
“I’ll meet you downstairs for breakfast,” Harry said, voice still rough from the screaming he’d done the night before.
Ron gave a wordless nod, too tired to reply properly, and Harry left the dorm, stepping into the common room and then out into the corridor beyond.
His feet moved on autopilot, but his mind wasn’t with him. It was still trapped in the strange dream he’d had the night before, or was it a nightmare? It hadn’t been terrifying, not exactly. Just… unsettling. He’d been walking alone through a vast, silent forest, trees towering over him and blocking out the sky. The fear hadn’t come from the darkness, but from something else: the odd, handwritten notes tacked to tree trunks, scrawled in ink that bled into the bark. And that feeling, like static buzzing in the back of his skull, fuzzing the edges of his thoughts.
Probably nothing, he told himself. Just stress. Just another weird dream in a long line of weird dreams.
Still, as he descended staircase after staircase, dodging ghosts and hoping the stairs wouldn’t shift under his feet, that static seemed to linger faintly in the corners of his mind.
By the time he finally reached the Great Hall, he was exhausted all over again. He slid onto the Gryffindor bench, poured himself a cup of tea, and wrapped his fingers around the warm mug, grateful for something solid to hold onto. The hall buzzed with early morning chatter and clinking cutlery, but Harry tuned it out.
He just had to get through the day.
One class at a time.
One lie at a time.
One breath at a time.
Classes passed by like clockwork. Nearly every professor gave Harry looks heavy with pity. All except Professor Snape. That bitter glare, sharp as ever, was almost comforting in its consistency. At least one thing in his world hadn’t shifted.
By dinner, he found himself at the Gryffindor table with Hermione and Ron, picking at a roast dinner while the hall filled with laughter, clinking cutlery, and idle chatter.
"Harry, are you not hungry?" Hermione asked gently, her eyes watching him as he absently pushed his food around his plate.
Harry blinked, dragging himself back to the present at the sound of her voice. He hesitated, searching for words before replying, "Not particularly. I’ll probably have Dobby bring something up later. I think I’m just going to turn in early."
Hermione frowned but didn’t argue. Ron gave him a sideways glance, saying nothing.
Harry stood, ignoring the exchanged looks between his friends as he walked away. He climbed the familiar route to Gryffindor Tower, his thoughts heavy, steps mechanical. After murmuring the password to the Fat Lady, he entered the common room and headed straight for his dormitory.
He changed into pajamas without turning on a light, crawling into bed like a soldier collapsing into a foxhole. The static from his dream still buzzed faintly in his ears, like distant white noise. His mind wouldn’t stop spinning, replaying that strange, haunting forest again and again.
Sleep claimed him quickly, pulling him under before he could fight it.
---The Dream---
He opened his eyes to a view that felt familiar: a dark, desolate forest with towering trees that blotted out the sky. As he turned his head, his gaze caught on a white piece of paper pinned to one of the trunks. It bore an odd drawing. Curious, he stepped closer, the static buzzing in his head intensifying with every footfall.
When he was near enough, he saw the image clearly, a strange symbol: a circle with an X slashed through it. For some reason, he felt compelled to grab the paper. He ripped it from the tack, carefully folded it, and tucked it into his pocket before continuing to wander.
He walked for a while before stumbling upon another page deeper in the forest. This one said "Follows" in black, scratchy writing, accompanied by an unsettling drawing of a large faceless creature in a suit standing beside a dark pine tree. 'How freaky,' he thought before pocketing the page and pressing forward. The static in his head buzzed louder with every step.
Soon, he came across yet another page. This one read "Always watches, no eyes" in the same scratchy handwriting, the words underlined and framed by that strange symbol from the first page. As he reached for it, he heard leaves rustling above him, and the static grew even louder. He tucked the page away quickly, shaking off the chill crawling down his spine.
Another page. The static sharpened, gnawing at the back of his skull. He felt watched. 'It's just a dream. Calm down, Harry,' he told himself. The page read “NO” twelve times, six on each side, surrounding a stick-figure drawing of the same faceless, suited figure. He shoved it into his pocket and moved on, a cold sweat forming. The forest grew denser, darker. After what felt like an hour, he found yet another page. This one had no text, just that figure again, this time surrounded by pine trees. The childish style of the drawing only made it more disturbing.
Soon, he came upon another. This one turned his stomach. It said "Can’t Run" in frantic, uneven letters, alongside a hastily scrawled path, an X marking the ground, and a circle above it. He pocketed the page, his steps quickening. Every twig crack, every rustling leaf made him flinch. Even if it was just a dream, the feeling of being watched had sunk into his bones.
He found another page not long after, glancing at it without slowing down. "LEAVE ME ALONE," it screamed in bold, underlined letters. A jagged drawing of a pine tree sat beneath the message. Harry shivered, dread sinking into his chest. He no longer dared to stop. Just. Keep. Walking.
After what felt like another eternity, he came across what he somehow knew would be the final page. He tore it from the tree and immediately broke into a sprint. His instincts screamed at him to run. He didn’t want to look back—but something told him he had to.
He glanced over his shoulder.
And froze.
The static in his mind was deafening, it buzzed in his mind like a chaotic symphony and there, standing among the trees, was a towering figure. Tentacle-like shadows writhed from its back. It stood nearly as tall as the pine trees, dressed in a fitted black suit. But it had no face. None. Just smooth, blank skin where features should have been.
Harry's breath hitched. He looked down at the page in his hand, praying it might hold some kind of answer, some hint, some clue. But all it said, in thick, jagged letters, was:
"HELP ME."
No drawing. Just those two words. The page was already crumpled, worn, as if someone else had clutched it tightly before him.
His stomach dropped. Heart hammering in his chest, lungs on fire, he ran.
And ran.
And ran.
He saw a house in the distance, or more like a mansion, and ran toward it, slamming open the front door and dashing inside. He knew it was empty, or at least he couldn’t see anyone, but his magic told him there were people inside. Perhaps an invisibility spell? He didn’t care; he just needed to get away.
His hair clung to his forehead, and his chest ached with each breath as he finally came to a stop in the middle of the mansion’s kitchen. The static had faded from his ears, allowing a moment of relief. He looked around in slight awe. The estate was dark and beautiful, like a place Voldemort might have once called home. Despite the fear still coiling in his stomach, Harry felt a strange thrum of excitement as he noticed all the tools and ingredients the kitchen held. He ran a hand along the black marble countertop before pausing. There, on the fridge, were drawings.
But what sent a chill down his spine wasn’t the drawings themselves, it was the paper. The same type of paper, the same style of ink, the same eerie artwork as the notes he’d collected in the forest.
“What the fuck,” he muttered, pulling the eight pages from his pocket and spreading them out on the counter, completely unaware that he was being watched.
---??? POV---
Sally peeked around the corner, nearly gasping when she saw, "A pretty boy has my drawings," but EJ covered her mouth in time. I glanced into the kitchen, confirming that someone had indeed found and collected all of Sally’s drawings, without even a scratch on him.
I watched as he tucked his hair behind his ear, examining the notes, his expression slightly worried. I smirked, a crazed look creeping onto my face. "I call dibs on killing him," I whispered, fingering the handle of my knife.
"No, Jeff. Slender’s obviously chasing him already. You can’t just kill him," EJ hissed back.
I sighed, but agreed. If I killed Slender’s prey without permission, it would be my head on a stick. We continued watching the boy, and just then, we heard Slender coming in. The boy's head shot up. He started glancing around, tucking the pages back into his pocket, clearly looking for an escape.
--3rd Person POV---
Harry felt the static cloud his mind again, and his heart stopped. He quickly gathered the pages and stuffed them into his pocket before scanning for an exit.
The window.
He looked around for something to break it, then remembered: he was a wizard. Hopefully, he had his wand in this dream. He felt along his forearm for the holster and smiled slightly when he found it. He drew his wand, muttered a silencing charm around the room, and removed the glass from the window with a spell.
He moved toward it, about to climb out, when a deep, authoritative voice echoed in his mind: “I don’t recommend doing that.”
Harry froze and turned. There stood the same faceless figure, tall and still, framed in the doorway, which Harry now realized was perfectly sized for it.
Shit. This is obviously his house.
He ignored the voice and moved to climb out again.
“My child, if you do that, you will be torn apart.”
That made Harry pause. He glanced out the window and saw a strange humanoid dog and a little girl with reddish-brown hair in a red dress, holding a stitched purple and blue teddy bear.
“They don’t look very dangerous,” Harry muttered defiantly. Damn it, do you have to be a smartass to everyone who threatens you, Harry? he thought. He immediately regretted it as he turned and came face to face with the creature.
He clutched his wand tightly, ready to cast anything that might help him escape.
“Looks can be deceiving, my child,” the being said again in his mind.
Even without eyes, Harry felt its gaze pierce his soul.
“Don’t call me that,” Harry snapped, crossing his arms. “What are you, one of Voldemort’s weird henchmen?” He raised his wand to point at the creature.
Wait. This is a dream. You can’t die, Harry.
He rubbed his face. “Jeez, I’m getting worked up over nothing. I should just wake myself up.”
“I’m afraid I cannot let you do that right now,” the being responded.
“The fuck do you mean you 'can’t let me do that'? It’s my dream. I can do whatever I want.”
The being seemed to chuckle at his defiance.
“While yes, technically you are asleep, you aren’t technically dreaming. It seems you’ve been sent here by Fate—”
“Fucking Fate, fucking with my life again,” Harry muttered, crossing his arms.
The being waited patiently before continuing. “It seems a higher power wishes us to meet. Your body remains in, I'm assuming, England, based on your accent. But your mind and soul are here, in America, with us.”
Harry frowned. “So… what? I’m possessed again?”
“No—pardon, again?” the being asked, and if it had a face, it would’ve looked confused.
“Nothing. Forget it. So, who, or what, are you?” Harry asked.
“I am Slenderman. I am the embodiment of fear.”
Harry paused. “Embodiment of fear? Is that not just a Dementor? No… you’re too humanoid. And Dementors feed off any negative emotion, not just fear.”
He stared back at the creature. “Are you going to kill me?”
Slender was quiet a moment, then shook his head, the tentacles behind him fizzing away. “No. I don’t think I will, at least, not yet.”
Just then, a small thump echoed outside the kitchen. Slender sighed.
“Sally. Jack. Jeff. Come in,” he called.
Harry’s gaze followed his, and three people entered. First was a small girl with curly brown hair, pale green eyes, a pink dress, and bandages all over. She clutched a teddy bear and looked sheepish but excited.
Next came a man, maybe twenty years old by Harry’s guess, in a black hoodie and jeans. A blue mask with solid black eye holes and streaks resembling tears covered his face.
The final figure was another young man, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, with collarbone-length shaggy black hair and blue eyes. He wore a white hoodie stained with blood and black jeans. What struck Harry most was his mouth, slits cut into each cheek, forming a grotesque smile.
Like the Joker, Harry’s mind supplied, from the few comics he’d seen in Dudley’s room.
They looked like characters from a horror movie. All of them.
And yet… Harry felt a strange fascination, particularly with the last boy who walked in.
“Are we killing him?” the boy asked, glancing in Harry’s direction.
“No. He is a guest,” Slender said sternly. “Be polite.”
“Introduce yourselves,” Slender instructed, looking at the three.
The little girl stepped forward first, her smile bright and innocent, though Harry couldn’t help but feel uneasy, she was covered in bandages.
“Hi! I’m Sally! You’re pretty and you have my drawings!” she beamed, looking up at Harry before stepping back.
Harry frowned. “Her drawings…?” His hand moved to his pocket where the pages were stashed. His eyes widened. “Those were yours…?” he murmured, confusion crossing his face. “But—”
He was cut off by the masked boy stepping up and offering his hand.
“I’m Eyeless Jack, but everyone calls me EJ since there’s another Jack,” he said politely.
Harry shook his hand before EJ stepped back.
Finally, the boy who had fascinated Harry stepped forward, his expression bored.
“I’m Jeff,” he said flatly.
Harry’s eyes remained fixed on Jeff as he crossed his arms and stepped back with an annoyed huff.
“So, what is your name, my child?” Slenderman asked, turning his faceless gaze back to Harry.
“Oh, I’m—” Harry began, but he froze as a blaring alarm echoed in his head. His vision flickered, consciousness slipping.
“I’m—” he tried again, but everything went black.
Harry shot up in bed, panting and drenched in sweat.
“What the fuck was that?” he whispered, eyes darting around the fifth-year Gryffindor boys’ dormitory.