Chapter 170: DREAM

Over the morning, Harry gained a basic understanding of the Ministry's structure. In truth, it wasn't complicated—someone always had to manage the magical world, which was why Harry hadn't much cared before who exactly was in charge.

After lunch together and seeing off Neville and Hannah, Harry felt a flicker of fatigue. He returned to his room, changed into his pajamas, and prepared for a short nap.

As expected, Harry once again connected with Voldemort's vision. Now he was certain this dream was real-time, not a memory—mainly because he'd seen familiar faces several times. The woman with the gothic makeup, Harry now believed, was truly the rightful "Number One Death Eater," and likely had a relationship with Voldemort. Though her true identity remained unknown, it didn't stop Harry from calling her "Dark Lady."

The second-ranking inner circle Death Eater was Lucius Malfoy—the father of Harry's surface friend Draco Malfoy. He was extremely wealthy and also a member of Hogwarts' Board of Governors. Harry had seen him a few times and recognized him immediately.

Beyond that, Harry couldn't discern clear hierarchies, so he made simple notes based on appearance and traits. He named a pair of strikingly similar man and woman "Hell Siblings"; a long-faced wizard with a twisted face, "Horse-Face Devil"; and the enlarged versions of Goyle and Crabbe—he guessed they might be their fathers—so he borrowed Zhang Qiu's description of them and called them "Dragon and Phoenix."

These might be Voldemort's core circle; few had the right to sit at the table. The giant Goyle and Crabbe barely squeezed in at the very end. What truly caught Harry's attention was William Lee, the agent sent by the Bai Gong. Clearly, Voldemort regarded him as a powerful ally. William's presence confirmed for Harry that the dream was Voldemort's perspective, not a memory—William had only just been dispatched to Britain during Harry's first year.

Occasionally, a stern, hard-faced man sat across from William; the tension between them was palpable. Harry deduced he might be Yanayev's spy embedded among the Death Eaters. He didn't appear often, but each time he drew Voldemort's gaze. Harry felt Voldemort trusted this man more than William.

"My Lord Voldemort, you might try this wand." The man sent by Yanayev placed a rod with a silvery sheen on the long table.

Harry suddenly felt awake—he'd never heard voices before, but today, the day after his birthday, he clearly heard speech within the dream.

"Excellent, Bondarev. Excellent," Harry said—or rather, he felt himself speaking those words—"You've always been sincere. Now, tell me: what is this wand made of?"

"The shaft is tungsten-steel alloy, the core is radium-226—the strongest casing containing the most dangerous substance," said the man named Bondarev. "Its spellcasting ability is average, but when paired with a specific incantation, it unleashes unparalleled power."

"And what is that incantation?" Voldemort asked.

"Doom," Bondarev's face showed a flicker of emotion. "Just that one word."

Voldemort flicked his wrist toward a figure nearby. Harry barely sensed him utter the spell—before he could react, the tip of the metal rod shot a brilliant blue beam that pierced straight through a man's chest, leaving only a charred, ragged hole.

The victim was likely a Muggle—an elderly man with half-gray hair. His face was blank, perhaps already driven mad by some prior curse.

Harry felt intense discomfort—his own terror, nausea, and rage mixed with Voldemort's satisfaction and delight, causing his head to throb violently, as if he'd wake at any moment.

But Harry held on. This was vital intelligence. If Voldemort was commissioning custom wands, it meant—he might already know about the twin core situation. Most likely, someone in the Ministry had leaked it.

"And you, William? Let me see—how much are the people behind you willing to pay?" Voldemort turned his gaze to the man at the table. His face was pale.

"Dragonhide shaft, dragon nerve core," William said gravely. "But we've used new textile techniques to shape it into a glove. You can wear it on your hand and cast spells with your index finger—very discreet."

Voldemort glanced at the dragonhide glove William produced, sneered, and tossed it carelessly to the woman.

"Give it to Delphi," he said.

"Good. Now I have a powerful secondary wand, and with my oldest companion," Voldemort twirled his violet-wood wand in his right hand, "Dumbledore's time is running out."

Harry felt a pang of confusion. What did that mean? Until now, he'd assumed Voldemort was commissioning wands to kill him unexpectedly—but was his target Dumbledore?

"Contact the Bat," he murmured to the Dark Lady's ear. "I want to see him tomorrow."

"Meeting adjourned." As those words fell, Harry's vision plunged into darkness, yet he still heard voices gradually departing—perhaps Voldemort had closed his eyes.

Harry wanted to listen longer, but a violent headache jolted him awake—worse than ever, as if a branding iron had been pressed against his scar.

After waking, Harry half-sat on his bed, recalling the dream. Before analyzing Voldemort's plot, he needed to ask himself: why had voices suddenly appeared? And why today? Perhaps the key was that today was the day after his birthday—in other words, this was Harry's first dream since turning fourteen.

He remembered Zhang Qiu saying ancient Celestial Empire people considered fourteen the age of adulthood, because one then possessed reproductive capability—meaning the soul had fully developed. Harry found this plausible: perhaps only at fourteen could a soul connect to another's vision.

But how to explain the silent images from last month? That puzzled him—silent images were like being half-adult, not fully.

Harry suddenly slapped his thigh—he realized he should've turned fourteen already. Because of the time travel during his third year, his actual age was older than his calendar age. Besides, the Doctor had said the Time-Snap Matrix required about a month's accumulated potential energy. Counting his time spent in the past and inside the TARDIS, it added up to exactly one month.

Thus, Harry had reached fourteen a month ahead of his real-world date—which explained why he'd begun seeing silent images a month early. And why he hadn't connected with Voldemort at night? Simple: Voldemort slept at night too.

After noting this theory, Harry considered another possibility: that Voldemort had manipulated everything, letting Harry believe he was secretly spying on his plans, when in truth, these were deliberate false clues planted by Voldemort. Objectively, this possibility couldn't be ruled out.

Yet Harry believed his time travel was secret—only Ollivander and Dr. Dou knew the duration. If Dr. Dou were Voldemort's mole, he could've harmed Harry long ago. If neither Dou nor Ollivander were compromised, then the leak must lie within the Doctor's own plan.

From Voldemort's crafting of another wand, Harry felt this wasn't baseless. But he knew almost nothing about the Doctor's plan—even if he suspected a mole, he had no way to investigate.

Harry took a deep breath. The situation was this: either he was using his scar's link to secretly observe Voldemort's life, or Voldemort had discovered the link and was now setting a trap. Either way, his course was clear—keep writing the journal, and later, carefully analyze these details with Dumbledore.

Thinking this, Harry rose and went to the desk, spreading out a sheet of parchment. He intended to write Dumbledore a letter—but as he began writing "Dear," he suddenly remembered Voldemort's final gesture.

After declaring the meeting over, Voldemort closed his eyes.

Harry couldn't help wondering: they'd met at a long table, likely after lunch. If Voldemort wanted to rest or nap, why didn't he go to bed? Why close his eyes right there?

If this were merely a personal habit—meditating, reflecting—it wouldn't be strange (Harry knew many had such habits). But what if Voldemort was doing it deliberately? What if, after closing his eyes, he could focus his mind to spy on Harry's life?

Realizing this, Harry quietly folded the letter and picked up his journal instead. He recorded the dream—but deliberately omitted the voices. He wrote vague, nonsensical analysis instead. If Voldemort didn't know, it didn't matter. But if the dream was a projection, and Voldemort could watch Harry through his closed eyes, then this feigned ignorance became a test.

That night, at his usual bedtime, Harry wrote another letter. He didn't elaborate on the dream, only vaguely mentioned that something unusual had happened to him and asked Dumbledore to meet him as soon as possible.