Harry Potter: The Bard of Hogwarts

Dreams, to most people, are just peculiar, flickering things. A dance of memory and imagination, both confusing and forgettable.

Perhaps that's because nearly everyone dreams. And like most things that are universal, they lose their mystery.

But not everyone sees dreams so simply.

In certain branches of magical theory, dreams are far more than random brain activity. Some believe they are glimpses into alternate realities. Others whisper they can open doorways to places that do not exist on any map, not even magical ones.

Of course, for the young students at Hogwarts, such musings are still far too distant to grasp.

Most simply woke that morning feeling unusually happy, vaguely recalling a beautiful dream.

Harry and Neville were not like the others.

In fact, sitting quietly in the Gryffindor common room, both boys looked out of place among the others' laughter and yawns. There was something deeper behind their eyes. Something that set them apart.

In truth, Harry and Neville had always shared a quiet sort of bond. Both were born in July. Both had grown up without the warmth of their parents.

Yet if one compared the two, Neville might seem the luckier. He had no fame to his name, no lightning scar, but he could still visit his parents, even if they no longer recognized him. They were alive, tucked away in the secure ward at St. Mungo's.

Harry, on the other hand, had only fading photographs and the Echo of the Mirror of Erised.

But that night had changed everything.

Somewhere in the ruins of the Potter family home in Godric's Hollow, within the safety of a dream that felt more real than any waking moment, Harry saw them again.

His parents.

They were older than the people in his photos, more tired around the eyes, but unmistakably them. The moment he saw them, the tears came without warning, spilling freely down his cheeks.

He had always imagined what he would say if he ever met them. He wanted to tell them about the Dursleys, about the cupboard under the stairs, about the first owl that changed everything. He wanted to describe the joy and terror of finding out he was a wizard.

But when he finally stood in front of them, all those words melted away. He didn't need them.

They pulled him into their arms, and the past seemed to slip off his shoulders like a heavy coat.

They held him, simply held him, and that was enough.

The air in the house was warm and still. A soft breeze drifted through the broken windowpanes, rustling the curtains like it didn't want to disturb the peace.

And then, something extraordinary happened. They celebrated his birthday.

It didn't matter that it was now October and Harry's birthday was long gone. What mattered was the laughter, the flickering candles, the cake his mother had baked herself. His father, grinning, poured him a sip of aged Ogden's Firewhisky with all the ceremony of a sacred ritual. The firelight danced in their eyes, and Harry, for the first time in his life, felt whole.

Time didn't pass normally there. Hours seemed like minutes, and yet every moment glowed.

It was not the Mirror of Erised this time. This wasn't fantasy. Harry knew, deep down, that this had been real in some way the waking world could never explain.

And far from Hogwarts, in the quiet ward of St. Mungo's, Neville Longbottom was living a dream of his own.

It had started in the most impossible way.

His birthday party was being held in his parents' hospital room.

Frank and Alice Longbottom were sitting upright in bed. Awake. Aware.

His mother's hair was nearly white, and though she was barely in her forties, she looked decades older. But her eyes were clear, sharp with recognition.

And when she spoke, her voice was rough with disuse but steady.

"Neville… you've grown so tall," she said, her gaze fixed lovingly on her son.

The words struck Neville like a Bludger to the chest. He had never heard her say his name like that. Not in all the times he had visited. Not once.

He stood frozen, overwhelmed, until something moved behind him.

It was his grandmother.

The stern, unyielding Augusta Longbottom was hiding behind him, weeping silently.

It was such a reversal of their usual roles that Neville almost didn't believe it. She had always been the strong one, the unshakeable force in his life. Yet now, she hid like a child, afraid to disturb the fragile moment with a single sound.

He remembered, suddenly, how he used to clutch her robes as a small boy, peeking out from behind her whenever he was afraid.

Now she was the one holding on.

Neville's knees buckled as he rushed to his mother's side. He knelt at her bed, tears blurring his vision.

"Mum…"

"Sweetheart… I couldn't speak before, but I felt everything," she said gently, brushing his cheek with one trembling hand. "Every time you came, I knew. I always knew."

She smiled, then reached toward the bedside drawer.

"I've made something for you," she said. "I wanted to finish it… but time isn't always kind to me."

From the drawer, she pulled out a folded paper flower. It was made of sweet wrapper foil, the same kind she had always tried to press into his hands when he visited.

Only now, the wrappers had been shaped into a dazzling bouquet of enchanted carnations. Around them were dozens of small magical creations. Leaping paper frogs, enchanted wizard chess pieces, and glittering origami stars that fluttered into the air the moment the drawer opened.

The room lit up with soft, glowing colors as the tiny paper creatures began to orbit the bed like fireflies.

Neville didn't speak. He couldn't.

He watched as the magic unfolded around him, more real and more beautiful than anything he had ever known.

A moment later, his father, slower but just as alert, walked over, gently guiding Augusta to a chair.

For the first time in Neville's life, the four of them were together. Three generations seated in a hospital room that had never felt more alive.

There was no cake, no candles, no Firewhisky. Only a bouquet of sweet wrapper flowers and the kind of love that made the air shimmer.

It was, undeniably, the best birthday he had ever had.

And then came morning.

The sun rose. The dreams faded.

In Gryffindor Tower, two boys awoke at the exact same moment.

Their beds were draped with thick curtains, their breathing soft in the hush of dawn.

Neither spoke, yet both slowly opened their hands at the same time, as if guided by something invisible.

In Neville's palm was a crumpled, faded sweet wrapper.

In Harry's, a polished Firewhisky cork, warm from the heat of his fingers.

Neither understood what had happened. Neither could explain it.

Far away, deep within the Ministry of Magic, inside the Department of Mysteries, something quietly vanished from one of the endless shelves in the Hall of Prophecies.

A single glass orb shimmered… then was gone.

It disappeared so quietly, no one noticed. No one ever would.

Back in the dormitory, the curtains were drawn back, and the room stirred with the usual bustle of waking boys.

Yet something had shifted.

Neville stood taller, not in stature, but in presence. He radiated a quiet strength, not forced, but natural, like old stone weathered by time. Steady. Unmoving.

Harry's transformation was just as striking.

He no longer looked weary or worn. He sat upright, eyes clear, movements sharp, as though some ancient magic had passed through him and left a light behind.

It wasn't something the others could name.

But they noticed.

And perhaps, if one had been watching very closely, they might have sensed that fate itself had tilted, just slightly, in that single shared night of dreams.