Harry felt it before he could name it—a shift inside him, cold and awful, like something sacred had been snuffed out. A darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating, as if the air itself had turned against him. It wasn't just around him. It was inside him. Wrapping around his ribs. Sinking into his chest. Swallowing the light.
Where am I?
The question echoed in his skull, but there was no answer—only silence. Not silence, exactly. There was the faint clicking of his teeth, the sound sharp in the stillness, a reminder that he could still feel, still shiver.
He spun around, but there was nothing. Just endless, featureless black. No floor. No sky. No walls. He raised a hand—it vanished into the dark as if eaten by it.
Panic crept in, quiet and quick. His breathing turned shallow.
What is this place? How did I get here?
Nothing made sense. It was like waking from a dream into another dream, worse than the first. His mind felt fogged, slippery. Something was wrong—deeply wrong—but he couldn't pin it down.
He closed his eyes, though the darkness was no different behind his lids. His thoughts felt jagged, frantic. He tried to hold on to something—anything—that might anchor him. A memory. A name. A feeling.
He grasped at the edges of his mind, trying to pull the pieces together. A fang… Yes, a basilisk fang. He could almost see it—gripped tight in his hand, white and deadly. The weight of it. The terrible purpose behind it.
Had he used it? Had he died?
The thought hit him like a blow to the chest. Did I die?
But there was no pain, no flame, no light. Just this void.
His hands trembled. He curled them into fists to stop the shaking. His heartbeat was loud now, echoing in his ears.
Was it real? Did I really make that choice?
Another thought slid into place—something said by that haunting, hollow-eyed version of himself. You have the power to erase me… Or pierce yourself and live the life you saw instead. A warning. A fork in the road. Two impossible paths.
Harry swallowed hard. A sharp edge of fear pierced through the haze.
And then—faces. Not imagined. Not dreams. Real. Bright. Beloved.
Hermione.
Ron.
Ginny.
They appeared in his mind all at once—laughing, shouting, crying, alive. His heart clenched with such sudden force that he doubled over, as if the memory had struck him physically.
He knew them. Knew their voices, their strength, their love. And suddenly, he wanted to claw his way back to them, tearing through the dark if he had to.
I can't stay here. I can't leave them behind. I won't.
He gritted his teeth, the panic beginning to give way to something fiercer. Anger. Defiance. A need to fight, even if he didn't yet understand what he was fighting.
Harry opened his eyes.
Still nothing but black.
But now, somewhere deep inside, a spark had returned. Faint, fragile—but real.
And he would follow it.
"NOOO!"
Ginny's scream tore through the silence like lightning. It wasn't just a sound—it was pain, raw and agonising, the kind that made Harry's stomach twist. Somewhere to the side, he saw Ron freeze mid-step, his face blank with shock. Hermione crumpled in on herself, sobbing into her hands, her whole body trembling.
But Harry barely registered them.
Everything else blurred at the edges. All that existed was the figure standing before him—dark, threatening, pulsing with power—and the basilisk fang clenched in his fist. It felt hot, alive almost, like it knew what it was meant to do.
This is it, he thought. I have to end it.
He tightened his grip, the point aimed, his resolve hardening. Every nerve screamed to strike. End it before it was too late.
Then it hit him.
A whisper of movement, a shimmer in the air. Thin, silvery strands drifted toward him—soft, radiant, impossibly delicate. They coiled around him gently, like silk brushing bare skin. It didn't hurt. That was the strangest part. The magic felt… kind. Too kind. Like it knew him.
And then it opened the floodgates.
Memories exploded in his mind—too many, too fast. Like watching his whole life through cracked glass, pieces cutting as they passed.
He gasped and staggered.
No— not now, he thought, I need to stay focused…
But it was too late.
He was back on the Hogwarts Express. Eleven years old. Ron across from him, grinning shyly, smudges of dirt on his nose. Hermione poking her head in through the compartment door, eyes bright and eager.
And then—
The troll. The bathroom. Fear pulsed in his chest as he'd stood between it and his friends. That moment. When they stopped being strangers. When they became something more.
"Merlin, what is happening?" he thought wildly, heart pounding.
The world spun again. The common room. Ron was shrugging. "A second's there to take over if you die," he'd said like it was nothing. They'd all laughed then. Innocent. Naive. Safe.
Harry's throat clenched.
Then Hermione, arms open wide, ran toward him. "You're a great wizard, you know," she'd said and meant it. He remembered the way his younger self had flushed, embarrassed, not knowing how to take kindness like that.
"I'm not as good as you," he'd muttered, barely believing she'd say otherwise.
But she had. "There are more important things—friendship and bravery—"
Her voice faded into the wind.
Next came the flying car—Ron's whooping laughter beside him, their joy soaring higher than the clouds. Then a jolt of nausea as he transformed into Goyle, his insides rebelling. One memory chased another. Too fast to breathe between them.
Blood. The Chamber. Ginny—small, pale, and afraid. Harry remembered the weight of her in his arms, the terror that he'd been too late. The basilisk looming behind him, death seconds away.
And then—
Quidditch. Victory. Joy. Laughter in the common room. Ron's whoops. Hermione's laughter. The feeling of belonging—rare and precious and real.
Each image pulled something loose inside him, some invisible thread tethered to the people who'd mattered most. They weren't just memories. They were pieces of him. Of who he'd become.
Ron. Hermione. Ginny.
They were there through every scar, every victory, and every failure.
He blinked, and the memories stuttered—like a film reel running off track. Then, suddenly, he saw them.
Ron, Hermione, Ginny—real, not memory. Trapped behind a cage of light. Shimmering, magical bars that pulsed with energy. Their faces were frantic, desperate. Hands waving, mouths moving, trying to reach him, to remind him.
His chest clenched painfully.
They were trying to send him something. To connect. But he couldn't hear. Couldn't move.
Guilt crashed over him like a wave.
They've given me everything. Every part of themselves. And what have I done? What am I about to do?
He wanted to run to them, scream, and tell them he saw them. That he remembered everything. That he hadn't forgotten. That none of it was for nothing.
But he was rooted in place.
And their eyes—full of grief and determination—locked him in that moment. A single, unspoken question: was this worth it?
Was the pain, the sacrifice, the years of fear and loss… worth it?
His heart pounded in his ears.
He remembered Ron standing beside him during the Triwizard Tournament, helping him through every task, no matter how terrifying. Hermione poring over spells, losing sleep to find answers that might save them. Ginny, fierce and fearless, fighting Death Eaters shoulder-to-shoulder with him, never asking to be protected.
They had never walked away. Not once.
Harry had always thought he had to carry the burden alone. But the truth was… he never had. They'd carried it with him every step of the way. Even when he hadn't deserved it.
His throat tightened.
They're not just part of the story. They are the reason I survived it.
The silvery strands still clung to his skin, but he no longer fought them. He let the memories flood him. Let the love burnin his chest.
Because that was the truth. The one thing he couldn't forget, no matter how much darkness tried to drown him:
He wasn't alone.
He never had been.
They had laughed, even when the world was falling apart.
Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—they had cracked jokes with him in hospital wings, chuckled in secret corridors, and found sparks of joy in the bleakest corners of their lives. That humour, that stubborn defiance in the face of fear—it had kept them going. It had kept him going.
They didn't have to do any of it.
But they had. Over and over again.
They broke rules that could've gotten them expelled. Lied to professors. Snuck out of bed in the dead of night. Fought battles they didn't ask for. All for him.
For him.
Harry felt a tightness in his throat. The memories were clear now, achingly vivid. Dumbledore's Army, huddled in the Room of Requirement, wands raised, eyes burning with belief. Their loyalty wasn't just to a cause—it was to each other. And in the centre of it all, somehow, was him.
Not because he was the Chosen One. But because they believed in him. Loved him, even when he doubted himself the most.
Their advice had shaped him in ways he hadn't always noticed. Hermione's sharp logic had steered him from reckless paths. Ron's groundedness, his ordinary brilliance, had reminded Harry that courage wasn't always loud. Ginny's fire, her unflinching honesty, had challenged him to grow into someone stronger—someone real.
And yet… for all that truth, something twisted in his chest.
A part of him still hesitated.
Why?
Because the moments weren't all clear. Some had grown foggy, uncertain. He remembered the laughter—but not always the reason. He remembered their faces—but sometimes, not the conversations. There were cracks in the timeline of his life, gaps he couldn't cross.
He saw himself standing by the Black Lake after the war. Staring into the mirror's surface. His reflection stared back, familiar but dulled. His eyes—those unmistakable green eyes—had looked wrong. Not frightened. Not fierce.
Just… empty.
Who am I becoming?
It felt like he was slipping, inch by inch, into some version of himself he didn't recognise. Not just forgetting—but becoming forgotten. Lost in something that looked like his life but wasn't.
The harder he tried to piece together what was real, the more the memories pushed back—fractured and elusive. It was like trying to hold smoke. Were the people he loved still real? Were they memories… or mirages? Were his connections genuine—or cruel echoes meant to weaken his resolve?
What if this isn't my life at all?
What if it was a trick?
A cruel, glittering lie spun to trap him with hope?
The thought hollowed him out.
And yet—there they were. In front of him now. Not memory, not illusion. Present.
Hermione's face streaked with tears. Ginny, biting her lip so hard it bled. Ron, pale but unshaken.
They were watching him like he was all that mattered. Like the fate of everything hinged on what he did next.
Hermione stepped forward first. Her voice was barely a breath, but it carried more weight than a thousand shouted warnings.
"Please…" she whispered. "The memories you saw—they were real. You've changed our lives, Harry. You gave us hope when we had none. That matters. You matter."
Her words wrapped around his heart like a spell. Warm. Steady. True.
But still—doubt clawed at him, sour and bitter. The figure nearby was watching. Silent. Waiting. Its presence was cold and commanding, a reminder that time was running out.
Then—Ron spoke.
Just three words. Quiet. Steady.
"We need you."
Harry turned his head.
Ron wasn't crying. He never did, not really. But his voice was low and hoarse, the way it got when he was barely holding it together.
"We don't want to go on if you're not around, mate."
It hit Harry like a punch to the chest. No theatrics. No grand speeches. Just truth, plain and simple.
And then Ginny.
She looked right at him, her voice soft but certain. "I'll never stop believing in you. I love you."
No hesitation. No fear. Just love. Fierce and bright.
Harry closed his eyes, just for a second.
He felt it.
That unbreakable thread. The one that ran between them all. Not just friendship. Not just loyalty.
Family.
And then the voice came again—cold and familiar.
"The decision lies in your hands," the figure said, tone devoid of feeling. "Erase me from existence… or live the life you saw instead."
The words chilled him to the bone.
Erase me.
Erase himself?
The idea sent a tremor through his arm. He glanced down at the basilisk fang still clutched in his fist. It was heavier now, as if it, too, knew the cost of what was about to happen.
Can I really do this?
Memories surged again—pain, joy, laughter, blood. All of it. The life he'd lived, the lives he'd touched. The triumphs. The failures.
This was no illusion.
This was real.
The fang trembled in his hand.
And Harry stood, heart pounding, on the edge of everything he was and everything he might yet be.
It happened before he even knew what he was doing.
His arm jerked up—like something had taken over—hoisting the basilisk fang high above his head. Not me, he thought in a surge of panic. This isn't me—
But it was. It was him. And the fang was real. Heavy. Final.
His heart crashed against his ribs, loud and fast, each beat pulsing with a name:
Ron. Hermione. Ginny.
"Harry!" Hermione's voice tore through the rising panic—sharp, desperate. The world slowed, collapsing into that one moment. Time itself seemed to pause, as if the universe was holding its breath.
I have to choose.
The weight of everything pressed down—every memory, every scar, every battle, every loss. It all narrowed into the cold hilt in his hand. There was no running. No turning back.
Harry's grip tightened.
He shut his eyes.
And reached for them—not their faces, not their words, but the feeling of them. The feeling of being surrounded by people who loved him, who stood beside him even when he couldn't stand himself.
He saw Ron again—grinning stupidly with a Chocolate Frog halfway in his mouth. Hermione, flustered and brilliant, her hand shooting into the air. Ginny, laughing under the golden glow of the Burrow's kitchen.
The people who had never given up on him.
He breathed them in.
Then—he plunged the fang into his chest.
The pain didn't come slowly. It ripped through him like lightning—white-hot, immediate, unrelenting.
He couldn't even scream at first.
His body twisted, folding in on itself as fire licked up his spine and down his arms. Colours shattered into pieces—violent, unreal. The world was bending and breaking. His own voice echoed in the void, ragged and distant, crying out for something—someone—
Ron—Hermione—Ginny— Where are you—
It was like dying a thousand times over. Light burnt behind his eyes, searing through every nerve. His lungs begged for air. His bones screamed. Reality blurred into a molten tide of pain and sound and nothingness.
But still—he held on.
He clung to their images with everything he had left. Ron stood beside him, wand raised, face full of courage he didn't even know he had. Hermione's hands clasping his, her eyes fierce through her tears. Ginny's voice in the night, whispering hope into the cracks of his fear.
But they were slipping away.
No matter how tightly he tried to hold them, they slid from his grasp—memories melting, warping, dissolving into shadows.
No, no—please—don't leave me—
Their faces blurred, their voices dulled. Like fog swallowing sunlight.
His chest convulsed with a final, broken cry. His limbs went numb. His thoughts scattered.
And in that last breath—cold and jagged—Harry felt it.
The thread snapped.
The world he had fought for, the friends he had bled for—gone.
Darkness took him.
Total, absolute, merciless.
And Harry fell.
Not into death.
But into nothing.
Nothing made sense.
Not the ritual at the Burrow. Not the flash of light. Not the silence that followed.
Harry opened his eyes—or at least, he thought he did—but there was only darkness. Endless, smothering black. He reached out, searching for something solid, something real, but felt only air. No… not even air. Just void.
Panic surged in his chest.
He had no hands.
No body.
He wasn't standing.
He wasn't anywhere.
What is this? What have I done? His thoughts spiralled. Where are they—Hermione, Ron, Ginny? A chill swept through him—one that didn't touch skin, but something deeper, something inside.
He was nothing. Just a soul floating in a place that didn't exist.
This isn't real. It can't be. Wake up. He shut his eyes tightly. Wake up, Harry. Just a dream. A hallucination. Please—
But the weightlessness lingered. The silence pressed in like a scream never let loose. It felt final—like he had slipped out of the world and no one had noticed. Forgotten.
This is death.
But then—suddenly, violently—the ground slammed beneath him, and Harry gasped.
His heart was pounding.
He opened his eyes, and this time, something changed. The darkness twisted, rippled—and sharpened. His hands returned first, visible and solid. Real. He stared at them in disbelief, flexing his fingers. He was whole again. Breathing. Somehow… alive.
And then he saw them—tombstones.
Dozens. Hundreds. They rose up through a pale mist that hugged the earth, their shapes cold and jagged under silver moonlight. A rusted gate stood in front of him, half open, beckoning him forward like a whisper he couldn't ignore.
Harry stepped through.
The hinges groaned, and the sound echoed in the stillness. His feet crunched over gravel as he walked deeper into the graveyard, shadows stretching across the stones like fingers. The quiet was thick, waiting.
And then—he knew.
A shudder ran down his spine.
He had been here before.
The yew tree stood crooked beside the little church, looming like a memory he'd buried deep. The hill sloped upward behind him, and on it—the outline of the Riddle House. The ritual. Voldemort. Blood. Cedric.
Harry staggered, nausea rising in his throat. He clutched his arms around himself, his breath coming fast.
Not here. Not again.
But the graveyard didn't care. It welcomed him back with open arms.
He turned a corner and froze.
The statue stood there, right where he remembered—Angel of Death, its skeletal face frozen in a silent scream, scythe raised to the stars. The moonlight spilt down its blade like it was feeding off the night.
Harry's legs trembled.
He wanted to run—but where?
Instead, he walked. Slowly. Through rows of graves that whispered old names and older pain.
And then—
Cedric.
Lying in the grass, just like before. His limbs splayed, his eyes wide and unseeing. No colour in his cheeks. No breath in his lungs.
Harry dropped to his knees.
"Cedric…"
His voice cracked.
His hands hovered above the boy's still chest. He couldn't touch him—not again. He shouldn't have to. But here he was, back in the place where hope had died.
Hot tears spilt down his cheeks. "I should've done more. I should've saved you."
The memory of the third task hit him like a curse—how it had turned from triumph to tragedy in seconds. He was only there because of me.
And then—
More faces.
More pain.
Remus. Tonks.
Harry's breath caught as their bodies flickered into view in his mind—both of them still, side by side, the light gone from their faces. He remembered their laughter, their bravery, and their hope for a better world.
Now they were just names on a list.
The grief clawed at him, tight and suffocating.
And then—Fred.
That was the one that broke him.
Harry's body convulsed with sobs. Fred Weasley, who'd filled the air with jokes and fireworks and mischief, who had never let the world stay quiet for long—now lay silent, still, lost forever.
His voice cracked into the wind. "Why didn't I stop it? Why wasn't I enough?"
The graveyard answered with silence.
Then they all came—one after the other—faces that had shaped him, saved him:
Dobby, lying in the sand, eyes open but gone. Sirius, falling through the veil. Dumbledore's body at the base of the tower. Mad-Eye's empty eye spinning no more. Snape, bleeding out on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. Hedwig, struck from the sky.
So many.
Too many.
Harry curled into himself, crumpling under the guilt. "You all gave everything," he whispered. "And I'm still here. I'm still breathing. Why?"
No answer came.
Only the cold.
Only the ache.
He fell to his knees, not in surrender—but in grief. Raw, brutal grief. For every soul lost. For every goodbye left unsaid. For every mistake he had carried with him like a second scar.
Maybe I don't deserve to leave this place, he thought, his vision swimming.
Maybe this was his end too.
And maybe it was the only one that made sense.
Just as the shadows began to consume him, a voice broke through the silence—soft, familiar, and achingly clear.
"Harry."
He froze.
His breath hitched, chest tightening. That voice… it stirred something deep inside him, something half-buried beneath the grief and confusion. He turned, eyes scanning the graveyard's dark horizon, unsure if he had imagined it.
Then he saw it—a faint glow in the distance. An open doorway, light spilling out like a memory trying to be remembered.
Drawn toward it, Harry walked.
Each step felt uncertain, unreal. The fog parted as he approached, and then a figure emerged from the light, robes billowing slightly as if moved by a wind Harry couldn't feel.
His heart stuttered.
"Snape?" he whispered.
The figure turned.
It was him. Pale, stern, unchanged. That same sharp gaze, that same ever-present scowl curled faintly on his lips. For a moment, Harry couldn't breathe.
He's dead, his mind protested. I saw him die. I watched him fall.
"You're not real," Harry said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "This is just another dream. A trick."
Snape didn't flinch. "I am merely a memory," he said.
The words landed like a stone in Harry's chest.
Snape. A memory. Like the one Tom Riddle had been in the diary—eerily present, impossibly lifelike. But this felt different. Less sinister. More… grounded.
Still, uncertainty itched beneath his skin.
"Are you saying you're a—?"
"No," Snape cut in sharply. "Absolutely not."
The answer was immediate, final. Whatever this was, it wasn't dark magic. It wasn't Horcruxes or possession. It was something else. And strangely, Harry believed him.
"Memories," Snape continued, his voice steady, "are not idle things. They are threads. They tether us. Give us weight."
Harry looked down at his hands and flexed them slightly. Solid. Real. But this place—this moment—was built from something else. Memory, maybe. Or something beyond it.
"Have your friends shared their memories with you?" Snape asked, his gaze narrowing.
A knot twisted in Harry's stomach.
He remembered Ron's laughter and Hermione's fierce words—the memories they had willingly offered, hoping he'd find strength in them. He'd taken them, yes. Held them close. But he hadn't given anything back.
He nodded slowly. "They have."
Snape tilted his head slightly, studying him. There was no accusation in his voice, only a quiet knowing.
"They trusted you," Snape said. "Their memories are part of you now. They brought you here. Kept you from being lost entirely."
The truth of it struck deep.
He had almost disappeared—been swallowed by the grief, the guilt, and the weight of the dead. But those memories had pulled him back. Ron, Hermione, Ginny—they had believed in him, even when he didn't.
"You still resist," Snape went on, tone shifting. "You act on instinct. Defend yourself before understanding others. It is… habitual."
Harry bristled slightly, the old tension between them flickering back. But there was no real bite to it now. Just recognition. Snape knew him. Maybe better than Harry had ever understood.
"Potter," he said, more softly now, "you retrieved their memories. But did you truly listen?"
Harry didn't answer. He didn't know how to.
He had seen them, lived inside them—but had he understood what they meant? Had he let them change him?
Snape stepped closer. "My presence now—it is not coincidence. My memories drew you toward something greater. You brought me here. Your mind did."
Something shifted in Harry's chest. Not guilt. Not anger. Something quieter. He had spent years fearing Snape, resenting him—only to learn, too late, that Snape had protected him all along.
Their paths had been bound by pain. By loss. And, strangely, by love—hidden and broken, but real.
"This place," Snape said, gesturing to the dreamlike graveyard, "exists because of your mind's need to understand. To reconcile. We are here because your memories allowed it."
Harry swallowed hard.
Maybe he had drawn Snape here—not as an enemy, but as a guide. A final lesson.
He looked up, meeting Snape's eyes. There was no hatred there now. No bitterness.
Only memory.
Only truth.
Something almost like a laugh stirred in Harry's chest—not out of humour, but disbelief. Snape. Of all people, Snape had returned to guide him now, in this space between life and something else. The man who had made his school years a torment… and yet had saved him more times than Harry could count.
He couldn't deny it anymore: Snape's lessons had shaped him. Not gently. Not kindly. But they had carved something lasting. Strength. Caution. A kind of reluctant courage.
And that made everything harder to face.
"Why do you haunt me, Snape?" Harry asked, voice low, heart quickening.
Snape's expression barely shifted. "Perhaps," he said, "because you've not finished learning. And because you still look without truly seeing."
Harry frowned. "What does that mean?"
The graveyard pressed in around him, the dead silent, the air heavy. The faces he had loved—Fred, Tonks, and Lupin—lay motionless in the shadows. Each one a weight on his heart.
Snape looked at them too, his gaze unreadable. When he turned back, his voice was quieter.
"It seems," he said, "that once again you've lost control of the situation."
The words hit a nerve. Harry flinched.
It was true. So much of his life had been chaos. Coincidence. Survival. And now, again, he felt that same helplessness creeping in. Trapped in something too big to understand.
Snape let the silence linger.
Then, finally, he said, "You do know what this place is, don't you?"
Harry didn't answer. His thoughts raced, tangled. Guilt roared beneath the surface.
He had made so many mistakes. And each body on the ground felt like another reminder. He clenched his fists, fighting the rising shame.
"I still don't understand," he admitted, his voice rough.
Snape let out a breath, part sigh, part scoff. "Of course you don't," he muttered. "But that's precisely why you're here." His voice sharpened. "You always needed to be pushed, Potter. You resist understanding until it's nearly too late."
He moved toward his own body—the memory of it, cold and still. For a strange moment, Harry felt an ache of sympathy.
"This is not real," Snape said. "You are seeing what your mind wants to see. What it fears. What it cannot let go of."
The words landed hard. Illusion.
Harry's heart kicked faster. "So… none of this is real?"
Snape turned back. "Not in the way you think," he said. "I am not some ghost. I am a memory. Preserved in you. Just as Dumbledore was."
The mention of Dumbledore pulled Harry back to that strange white room—the quiet, the calm, the impossible peace of it.
"You mean…" he began. "Did he send you?"
Snape raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "And why would he do that?"
Harry hesitated. "Because after I died—after Voldemort's curse—I saw him. We spoke. It felt like… something beyond dreaming."
"Then perhaps," Snape said coolly, "he is here because you need him. As I am now."
Harry's throat tightened. It made sense in a strange, painful way. Dumbledore had guided him with riddles. Snape guided him with sharp truths. Both had been constant, even when Harry hadn't wanted them to be.
"You think he left a mark on me," Harry said quietly.
Snape's eyes darkened, just slightly. "You carry more than his teachings. You carry all of us. Even me."
The thought shook Harry.
The people he had loved—and the ones he hadn't—were still with him, woven into his memories, etched into every choice he made. Maybe this wasn't just about the dead. Maybe this was about how the living keep going.
Harry stepped forward, eyes searching Snape's face. "Then why are you here?" he asked. "Why do you care what I learn?"
For a moment, Snape didn't answer.
Then, quietly, he said, "Because what I gave… what I sacrificed… must mean something. Or it was wasted."
Their eyes locked. Harry felt the weight of those words settle deep.
Snape had never asked for thanks. Had never wanted recognition. But here, in this place built from memory and regret, he had come anyway.
To make sure Harry understood.
To make sure none of it had been for nothing.
Harry stared. The man before him didn't look like the professor who had tormented him for years. Something was different. The sharp edges were still there—but there was weight behind them now. Not cruelty. Understanding. Maybe even grief.
"This is a test, Potter," Snape said. His voice wasn't mocking. It was calm. Certain. "You're trapped. And you're the one holding the lock."
Harry frowned. "Trapped?"
Snape gestured to the bodies, to the graveyard, to the stillness that felt too heavy to be real. "These are your thoughts. Your guilt. You believe their deaths are your fault. That's why you're here."
Harry swallowed hard. He didn't look at the bodies. He couldn't.
"You need to let go," Snape said. "Forgive yourself."
Harry looked away. "I don't know how."
"Then learn," Snape snapped. "Otherwise, this will be your end."
The words sent a tremor through him. Harry could feel it—deep in his chest—that raw, familiar ache. He carried it always. Loss. Blame. What he could have done. What he didn't do.
"I've tried," he said. "But it's too much."
"No," Snape said sharply. "You've chosen to carry it. You let it consume you."
Snape's voice grew colder. "I taught you Occlumency to defend yourself. To control your thoughts. Do you still let them control you?"
Harry's jaw tensed. "No. I'm not the same boy I was."
Snape didn't blink. "Then prove it."
Harry's breath caught.
"Accept that they chose to fight," Snape continued. "They died for something greater than you. Not because of you."
Harry's hands curled into fists. "But if Voldemort hadn't heard the prophecy—"
"Then blame him," Snape interrupted. "Because he made those choices. Not you."
"But if I hadn't been born—"
Snape stepped closer, and for the first time, something in his eyes wasn't cold. It wasn't kind, either. But it wasn't empty.
"You think too little of others," he said. "They loved you. They chose you. Their lives weren't small because of it."
Harry's voice dropped. "I'm sorry."
Snape's stare didn't soften. "Regret won't bring them back. But maybe it can teach you something."
For a heartbeat, there was quiet. Then—
"If you want to move forward," Snape said, "control your emotions. Learn discipline. Stop letting grief define you."
Harry nodded slowly. "I understand, Professor."
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Do you? Then act like it. You've wallowed long enough."
His tone turned scathing again. Familiar. "Even you should be able to grasp this. Why do you think I'm here?"
Harry hesitated. "To help me learn to master my thoughts."
Snape tilted his head. "And?"
Harry faltered. The tension was back, prickling under his skin.
"I'm trying," he said quietly.
Snape leaned in, voice low and cutting. "Try harder."
Harry met his eyes, heart pounding, throat dry. The pressure was unbearable—but not unfamiliar.
This was how Snape had always taught him. Unrelenting. Brutal. But, somehow, it always forced him forward.
And maybe that was the point.
Harry's eyes found Sirius.
He hadn't meant to look. But once he saw him—still, fallen, alone—he couldn't look away. Something twisted hard in his chest.
Sirius lay on the ground, as if caught mid-fall. His face still held the shadow of that final moment—shock, defiance, fear. As though the Veil had never fully released him, only dropped him somewhere else. Somewhere colder.
Harry knelt.
"Sirius," he whispered, barely a breath. His hand found Sirius' arm, cold beneath his touch.
There were no answers in his godfather's face. No jokes. No easy smile. But the ache in Harry's heart spoke of everything Sirius had been—wild, brave, broken—and everything he'd given.
"You once said the ones we love never really leave us," Harry murmured. "I've tried to believe that. I still do."
He didn't know what comfort meant anymore. Only that Sirius had brought it—once. In stolen hours. In letters. In fierce, clumsy love.
"I wouldn't have made it without you," Harry said. "And I'm sorry I didn't get more time."
His throat burnt. A tear slipped down, cutting through the silence.
"I'm alright now," he said. "You don't have to worry."
The words felt heavy. Final.
He closed his eyes. Until we meet again, Padfoot.
When he opened them, his gaze shifted—drawn to where Lupin and Tonks lay side by side. Peaceful. Still.
It broke him all over again.
Too many names. Too many losses. Dumbledore. Fred. Dobby. Each one a weight, pressing down.
He remembered how quiet the castle had felt when Lupin left. Like the warmth had gone with him. It had been the start of something he didn't have a name for then. But he knew it now.
"Thank you," Harry whispered. "For being the kindest person I've ever known. For fighting for what mattered."
He thought, absurdly, of chocolate. The way Lupin used to offer it—softly, like it meant something. He imagined it now. A quiet gesture in a time of grief.
"And you, Tonks," he added, voice low. "I wish Teddy could've known you both."
His chest felt tight, like everything inside him was folding inward.
In the corner of his eye, he caught something. A shimmer—figures just out of reach. Watching.
Maybe it was real. Maybe not.
But he chose to believe it was.
He looked again at the graveyard. At the bodies that had lined it.
Gone.
Vanished like mist in sunlight.
Panic flickered. He turned to Snape. "They've disappeared."
Snape stood still. Watching him with unreadable eyes.
Then—just for a moment—his mouth twitched. Not a smirk. Something gentler. A flicker of something Harry couldn't name.
And somehow, it was enough.
Something shifted.
Harry felt it—not in the air, but inside. Like a thread pulled loose, a weight rearranged. Snape was still there but not quite the same. His eyes, usually sharp, now held something softer. Something like pride.
Then came the words.
"It is time for me to leave."
They dropped into the stillness with weight.
Harry's stomach turned. "Leave?" he echoed, the word brittle on his tongue. "But—"
"My task here is complete," Snape said. Calm. Certain. Final.
Harry opened his mouth, but no argument came. Only a sick rush of dread. The ground beneath this place—this moment—was beginning to fall away again.
Snape didn't offer comfort. He never had. But his gaze held steady, anchored to something far beyond Harry. As though he saw something Harry couldn't yet reach.
"There is someone else who wishes to meet you."
Harry's breath caught. "Who?"
No answer. Just silence.
Snape's eyes didn't waver. His focus fixed, distant. There was no farewell in his posture—no turning back. Only stillness. And then, nothing.
He was gone.
Harry stood alone. The emptiness was sharper now.
Regret clawed at his throat. He hadn't said it. Not properly.
"Thank you," he whispered, voice hoarse. It rang out and was gone.
The dark pressed in, then stirred.
Two shapes. Slowly coming into view. Unclear, like smoke curling into form. He squinted—he knew them, he was sure of it—but their features remained just out of reach.
"Are they—?" he began, but the words faltered.
He didn't finish the sentence.
Didn't need to.
Something inside him already knew.
The space around him quieted. Waiting.
His heart beat fast, not from fear, but from the ache of what might be coming next.
He took a step forward.