FicWad

Harry Potter lay on the cold, damp floor of the Chamber of Secrets, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Each inhale felt like fire, searing his lungs and spreading an unrelenting ache through his body. Shadows loomed around him, barely pushed back by the flickering torchlight. The eerie sounds of the labyrinth echoed in the distance, mingling with the faint dripping of water. Nearby, Ginny Weasley lay unconscious, her face pale and still, her breathing so faint it was almost imperceptible.

His vision blurred, the edges of his world turning dark as the poison from the basilisk coursed through his veins. Every beat of his heart seemed to push the venom further, spreading a burning agony from the bite wound on his leg. It felt like liquid fire, consuming him from the inside out, making every movement a struggle.

Tom Riddle's sinister laughter echoed in Harry's mind, haunting him even though he knew it had just been a spell. The sound seemed to bounce off the cold, stone walls, reverberating through the darkness like a relentless taunt. Each mocking cackle seemed to grow louder, filling the chamber with an oppressive sense of dread.

Fawkes, Dumbledore's loyal phoenix, had flown down into the Chamber in a brilliant flash of red and gold, his majestic wings beating with urgency. The bird's descent was impressive; his vibrant plumage stood out against the oppressive gloom of the chamber. His body radiated heat, offering some warmth to the freezing air, and for just a moment, the air felt a little easier for Harry to breathe.

The bird landed beside him, his plumage exuding some otherworldly light onto the gloom around him. Gentle, swirling patterns danced across the stone floor from the reflected light. With a low, lamenting cry, Fawkes bent his head over Harry's leg, where the basilisk had bitten him. The wound throbbed with a searing pain, the venom spreading its cruel touch through his veins.

With a soft, mournful cry, Fawkes bent his head over Harry's leg, where the basilisk had bitten him. The wound throbbed with a searing pain, the venom spreading its cruel touch through his veins. Fawkes' tears, known for their powerful healing properties, began to flow, dripping onto the wound. The liquid felt warm and soothing against Harry's skin, momentarily easing the burning agony.

Harry felt as the tears trickled into the puncture marks, hoping the miraculous healing he had heard so much about would take effect. But as the moments passed, the pain didn't lessen. The venom's grip remained unyielding, its dark magic resisting the phoenix's tears. Fawkes cried harder, his tears flowing more freely, but still, Harry didn't heal. The realization that even the phoenix's tears could not save him was a cruel twist of fate.

Harry felt the cold fingers of dread creeping in, the poison continuing its relentless assault on his body. Fawkes, sensing the futility of his efforts, let out another sorrowful cry. The phoenix looked at Harry with sad, intelligent eyes, as if apologizing for his inability to help. Then, with a final, mournful note, Fawkes spread his wings and took flight, disappearing into the darkness of the Chamber.

Harry's heart sank as he watched the phoenix leave, taking the last bit of warmth with him. He didn't know where Fawkes had gone, but the departure left him with a pit in the bottom of his stomach. Tom Riddle's laughter was back in his head and now seemed louder, echoing triumphantly throughout the chamber, mocking his helplessness.

Despite the pain he felt radiating though his body, Harry's thoughts drifted to Ginny, lying so still and lifeless just a few feet away. The sight of her pale face and the sound of her faint, uneven breathing filled him with a desperate urgency. He couldn't bear the thought of her suffering alone.

Summoning every ounce of his remaining strength, Harry managed to roll onto his stomach and tried to crawl towards her. He stretched out his arm, his fingers straining to touch her, but his body betrayed him. The poison coursing through his veins sapped his strength, leaving him immobile and weak. His arms trembled with the effort, and he could barely manage to drag himself forward a few inches. The rough stone floor scraped against his skin, adding to his agony. Every movement sent waves of pain radiating from the basilisk bite on his leg, but Harry refused to give up. He dug his fingers into the cold, hard ground, trying to gain any purchase he could. His progress was agonizingly slow, each inch feeling like a mile.

The memory of Ginny's frightened eyes before she succumbed to the basilisk's influence played over and over in his mind, haunting him. He could still see the terror and helplessness in her gaze, and it tore at his heart. He felt a deep, aching guilt for not being able to protect her, for not being able to save her from Tom Riddle's twisted ploy.

Harry abandoned his efforts to reach Ginny, his body contorting as he struggled to roll onto his back for a attempt to gather more air into his lungs. Each gasp was ragged, the pain in his lungs growing sharper with every movement. The crushing realization hit him—he was supposed to be the hero, the one who faced the darkness head-on. Yet here he was, incapable of even reaching the girl who needed him the most. What good was he?

Tears of frustration welled up in Harry's eyes, further blurring his vision through his bent and cracked glasses. He had never felt so powerless, so utterly defeated. Even when his Uncle had beaten him down year after year, he had always clung to the hope that things would get better. But now, as he felt consciousness slipping away, he knew the grim reality. He was going to die here, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

As the world began to fade around him, fear surged through Harry. The prospect of dying and the unknown that awaited him was terrifying. But even more frightening was the thought of leaving his friends behind, especially Ginny in this dark, foreboding place. The idea of her waking up alone, scared, and confused ignited a desperate need within him to fight and hold on just a little longer.

Yet his body was betraying him. The cold grip of despair tightened with each passing moment, and Harry felt himself slipping further into the abyss. The darkness crept in, swallowing the edges of his vision, making it increasingly difficult to focus, to think. He could feel the poison winning, his heart slowing, his breaths becoming shallower.

His thoughts then drifted to his parents. If he died, would he be able to see them? The question lingered in his mind, a bittersweet hope mingled with uncertainty. Would they welcome him with open arms, proud of the son they had never truly known, or would they be disappointed by his failure? He wondered what they were really like, beyond the stories and photographs. Were they kind and brave as everyone said? Harry yearned for their presence, for a chance to finally meet them and feel the warmth of their love.

In those final moments of consciousness, Harry's mind was a whirlwind of regret and sorrow. He regretted not being able to save Ginny, not becoming the hero he had always dreamed of being. He wondered if his friends would miss him, if they would feel his absence as deeply as he feared. The thought of his relatives made him chuckle bitterly, a sound that echoed painfully in his chest; he knew they wouldn't care. They had never cared. His life, filled with their neglect and scorn, seemed so distant now, almost irrelevant.

As he lay there, the world around him grew quieter, the once menacing sounds of the labyrinth fading into a distant hum. Harry's last coherent thought before the darkness took him was of Ginny—her pale, delicate face and fiery red hair, a vivid image that burned brightly in his mind. The memory of her smile, the sound of her laughter, gave him a fleeting sense of peace. He wished he could have done more, been stronger for her, for all of them.

With a final, shuddering breath, Harry succumbed to the encroaching darkness. His body grew heavy, his limbs numb as the world around him dissolved into black. His last conscious sensation was a profound sense of loss and the faintest hope that, somehow, he could still make things right. And then, with a quiet sigh, he slipped into unconsciousness, the labyrinth and all its horrors fading into nothingness.

Severus Snape arrived mere moments later, guided by Fawkes' mournful cries. The phoenix's bright plumage illuminated the dark chamber, casting flickering shadows on the cold stone walls. Each step he took echoed eerily in the silence, his robes billowing around him as he hurried toward where the children lay. His heart pounded in his chest, fear driving him forward.

On his way down, Severus had stumbled upon Gilderoy Lockhart, who looked at him with wide, confused eyes, clearly unable to remember who he was. Ron Weasley was beside him, grimacing in pain with a broken leg. With a swift, practiced movement, Severus splinted Ron's leg, giving him a potion to ease the pain. Lockhart, in his current state, was actually useful, offering to help Ron out of the chamber.

"Take him and get out of here," Severus commanded, his voice tight with urgency. Lockhart nodded, a rare seriousness in his usually vacant expression, and supported Ron as they made their slow way back up the passage.

With that brief detour behind him, Severus continued his descent, his mind solely focused on the two children he had yet to reach. The sight that greeted him when he reached the final chamber made him pause, his breath catching in his throat as he allowed his heart to settle. Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter were both sprawled on the ground, unmoving. Ginny's fiery hair spread out around her pale face, contrasting with the cold, unforgiving floor. Harry lay beside her, his glasses askew, his usually vibrant eyes closed and lifeless.

He first knelt beside Ginny, his knees hitting the cold stone harder than he intended, the impact sending a jolt of pain through him. His fingers pressed against her neck, searching desperately for a pulse. For a terrifying moment, he felt nothing. Then, there it was—faint but steady, and growing stronger with each passing second. Relief washed over him, and he allowed himself a brief moment of hope. She was alive, but she clearly needed medical attention. Her pale face and shallow breathing indicated she was far from safe, her life hanging by a fragile thread.

Quickly shifting his focus, Severus moved to Harry's side, his knees scraping and protesting on the unforgiving stone floor. His expression tightened as he assessed the boy's condition. Harry's face was ashen, very unlike the vibrant young man he usually was. He lay deathly still, his chest rising and falling in weak, irregular breaths. The wound on his leg drew Snape's immediate attention—angry, red, and oozing, it bore the unmistakable signs of basilisk venom coursing through his veins. The venom's deadly progress was evident, spreading its dark tendrils beneath Harry's skin, threatening to snuff out his life.

"Potter, stay with me," Severus commanded, his voice low and intense, cutting through the heavy silence of the chamber.

He checked Harry's pulse, feeling the weak, thready beat beneath his fingers. The boy was fading fast, and there was no time to waste. His knees ached on the cold hard floor, but he ignored the discomfort, his mind racing to find a solution.

He couldn't let the boy die, not here, not like this. His extensive knowledge of potions and dark magic surged to the forefront of his thoughts. Basilisk venom was notoriously difficult to counteract; there was no specific antidote. There were stories of successes, but they were few and far between, more whispers of legend than reliable cures. His eyes darted around the chamber, thinking of what ingredients he had down in his lab.

Severus turned to Fawkes, the phoenix hovering nearby with a sorrowful look in his eyes. "Fawkes," Severus commanded, his voice firm and authoritative, "go to Albus. Tell him to come here immediately and retrieve Miss Weasley. She needs urgent medical attention, but I cannot leave Potter."

The phoenix seemed to understand the urgency in Severus's tone. With a final, mournful cry, Fawkes spread his magnificent wings and soared out of the Chamber, disappearing into the darkness on his way to find Albus.

Watching Fawkes leave, Severus took a deep breath, steeling himself for what needed to be done. His knees protested painfully as he stood, the sharp ache shooting through his legs, but he ignored it. There was no time for his own discomfort. With surprising gentleness, Severus scooped Harry into his arms, lifting him effortlessly. Harry's head lolled against Severus's shoulder, and the potions master could feel the boy's weak, uneven breaths.

Time was of the essence. Severus navigated the twisting corridors of the Chamber, his reeling over the task at hand. His footsteps echoed in the cold, damp passageways, the urgency of the situation driving him forward. He needed to get Harry to his potions lab, where he had the resources and knowledge to attempt to counteract the basilisk's venom.

As he carried Harry, Severus's mind turned to Lily. He had promised to protect her son, to ensure no harm befell him. The thought of failing her was unacceptable. Lily would haunt him for the rest of his days if he let Harry die. She might even come back from the afterworld to take him with her if he failed her son. There had to be a way to save him.

Severus adjusted Harry's weight in his arms, the boy's limp form growing heavier with each passing moment. His knees ached painfully with every step on the cold stone floor, but he ignored the pain, focusing solely on the boy's shallow breaths and faint pulse. Harry's ashen face occasionally caught his eye, making Severus move faster and think quicker.

Reaching the entrance to the Chamber, Severus quickly ascended the stairs, his grip on Harry tightening. Every step was a struggle as he adjusted Harry's weight, making sure not to jostle him too much. Emerging into the corridors of Hogwarts, Severus wasted no time. His robes became a blur of black as he carried Harry through the castle with long strides. Students and staff turned to stare, but Severus paid them no mind. He had no time to worry about what rumors would would follow this.

Moving swiftly through the dungeons, the flickering torchlight cast long shadows on the walls, creating an almost eerie atmosphere. Severus's mind remained sharp, recalling every bit of knowledge he had about basilisk venom and the rare successes in counteracting it. There was no room for doubt or hesitation.

He moved with purpose, his mind racing with every possible remedy he could use. The journey seemed interminable, every second stretching into an eternity. Finally, they arrived at the potions lab. Severus laid Harry on a table closest to where he would brew so he could keep an eye on him. He immediately set to work, gathering ingredients with an intensity that bordered on frantic. Every second counted.

As Severus worked, he could feel the poison's progression in Harry's weakening pulse, the boy's life slipping away before his eyes. The clock was ticking, and Severus's was working as fast as he possibly could. He would not let Harry die. Not here, not now. He would honor his promise to Lily, no matter the cost.

Severus worked against the clock, his hands moving swiftly as he measured and mixed various ingredients. He constantly glanced over at Harry, whose breathing grew more labored by the minute. The boy's pallor worsened, and the angry red of the basilisk bite seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

Periodically, Severus abandoned his potions to check Harry's pulse and breathing. Each time he touched Harry's wrist or placed his hand on Harry's chest, he found the boy's life force slipping further away. The weak, thready pulse beneath his fingers and the shallow rise and fall of Harry's chest gnawed at his confidence. Anxiety clawed at him, threatening to overwhelm his carefully maintained composure.

Eventually, Severus had to cast a spell that formed a mask around Harry's mouth, designed to help him breathe easier. The mask fit snugly over Harry's nose and mouth, a delicate yet sturdy web of magical filaments that glowed faintly in the dim light of the lab. The enchantment within the mask was complex, a finely tuned piece of magic meant to deliver measured, regular breaths to the struggling boy. Severus watched intently as the mask took shape, its translucent surface shimmering with each enchanted breath.

The mask was enchanted to deliver a controlled flow of air, ensuring that Harry received the oxygen he so desperately needed. It hummed softly, a gentle, rhythmic sound that contrasted sharply with the chaotic thoughts in Severus's mind.

But despite the mask's best efforts, it didn't seem to matter. Harry's chest rose and fell weakly, barely responding to the magical assistance. Severus could feel his heart sink with every labored breath Harry took, the boy's life hanging by an ever-thinning thread.

Severus carefully administered some pain potions to attempt to ease any pain Harry would feel. Using a spell, he directed the potions straight into Harry's stomach. The liquid seeped in, designed to numb the pain and bring some semblance of comfort. Severus watched closely for any sign of relief, but Harry's expression remained strained, his body still wracked with the venom's agony.

"Potter, you have to stay with me," Severus muttered, his voice tight with urgency. "Fight this, Potter. You're stronger than this. Don't give up." The words spilled out of him, a rare plea from a man not known for such sentiment. He hoped that somehow, his voice might reach the boy through the fog of unconsciousness.

Harry, drifting in and out of a hazy awareness, heard the distant, urgent voice. It was familiar, yet he couldn't place it. Through the thick fog clouding his mind, he tried to make sense of who could be speaking to him, who could want him to hold on so desperately.

The voice seemed to be coming from far away, a lifeline in the darkness, but Harry couldn't figure out who it was. Even in his confusion, he felt a sense of relief. He wasn't alone. Someone was with him, and that brought a small comfort.

He knew he was dying, felt the cold, inexorable pull of death on his body. His limbs felt heavy, his breaths shallow and labored. There was likely no chance of coming back from this abyss, but at least he wouldn't die alone. The presence of the voice, the sense of another being beside him, offered a sliver of solace.

Severus took a deep breath and pushed on, his mind racing as he ground rare herbs into fine powders. Each motion was precise, his hands moving with practiced ease despite the urgency that tightened his chest. He mixed volatile liquids, each one hissing and bubbling as it met the finely ground powders, and recited complex incantations in a steady, unwavering voice. His mind ran through every scrap of knowledge he had about basilisk venom, combing through his vast repository of information for the right combination, the precise formula that would neutralize the deadly toxin coursing through Harry's veins.

"Harry, stay with me," Severus urged, his voice softening as he glanced at the pale, unconscious boy on the table. "Think of your friends, think of what you have to live for." His eyes flickered with uncharacteristic tenderness. "You are not alone. You have people who care about you, who need you to survive."

The words echoed in Harry's mind, but they were disjointed, like fragments of a dream. He felt a hand gripping his own, a solid presence in the overwhelming darkness that threatened to swallow him whole. He tried to focus on the voice, to remember why it sounded so familiar, but his thoughts were muddled, slipping away before he could grasp them. Even so, he felt grateful. He could feel the pull of death on his body, knew it wouldn't be long now, but at least he wouldn't face it alone.

Severus checked Harry's pulse again, feeling the weak flutter beneath his fingers, a barely-there rhythm that made his own heart clench with fear. "Don't let go, Potter," he whispered fiercely, his voice a low, urgent growl. "You have to fight. For Lily, for all of us."

As he continued to work, his mind drifted back to memories of Lily, her bright green eyes and infectious laughter. He could see her in Harry, in the stubborn set of his jaw, the defiant spark in his eyes even now, fighting against the venom. He poured all of his everything into the potion he was creating, each ingredient carefully measured, each step meticulously followed.

The room was filled with a tense silence, broken only by the soft murmurs of Severus's incantations and the occasional clink of glass against glass. Sweat trickled down his brow, but he ignored it, his focus unwavering. He knew that every second counted, that any mistake could be fatal. He couldn't afford to think about the consequences if he failed; he had to believe that he could save Harry, that the boy who lived could continue to defy the odds.

Harry's breathing grew more labored, each inhale a struggle against the venom coursing through his veins. His pulse, once a steady beat beneath Severus's fingers, had grown fainter, a barely perceptible flutter that sent a chill down Severus's spine. Yet, Severus refused to give in to despair. His mind raced through every possible solution, every scrap of knowledge he had accumulated over the years. There had to be a way. There had to be.

But even as he worked tirelessly, Severus could feel the inevitability of the outcome. Despite his efforts, the venom continued its deadly course, insidious and unyielding. He could see the life draining from Harry, the boy's skin growing paler. A deep sorrow settled in Severus's chest, a heavy crushing feeling of defeat. He had failed. Lily's face haunted him, her unspoken accusation clear in the depths of his memory. He had promised to protect her son, and now he was losing him.

As he worked, Severus could not shake the image of Lily from his mind. Her piercing green eyes, so much like Harry's, seemed to watch him from the shadows, a silent reminder of the promise he had made. He could almost hear her voice, soft and pleading, urging him not to give up. He had made a vow to her, and he could not break it. The thought of Lily's possible wrath if he failed her son fueled him further. He would not let her down. He couldn't.

Severus pushed himself harder, his movements growing more frantic. He added another rare ingredient to the mixture, his hands trembling slightly as he measured out the precise amount. The potion before him bubbled and hissed, a volatile concoction that could either save or doom Harry. He stirred it carefully, watching as the liquid turned a deep, shimmering blue. It was a delicate balance, one wrong move could spell disaster.

He returned to Harry's side, checking his pulse again. It was weaker than before, a barely perceptible flutter beneath his fingers, causing his heart to clench with dread. Harry's breaths were shallow, each one a struggle, a raspy sound that filled the quiet room. Severus knew he was running out of time. He muttered a curse under his breath, frustration mounting as he returned to his brewing station. Every second counted making his hands tremble slightly as he prepared the next set of ingredients.

Harry's breaths were becoming more shallow, each one a painful rasp that echoed in the silence. The enchanted mask Severus had placed over his nose and mouth seemed to be barely helping now, its magic struggling to keep up with the relentless advance of the venom. Harry's skin was cold and clammy, a sheen of sweat covering his forehead and matting his dark hair. Severus felt a pang of fear, a sensation he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. He couldn't let Harry die, not after coming this far, not after all they had been through.

Finally, the potion was ready. It glowed a brilliant blue, the light reflecting off the walls of the lab in a surreal, almost otherworldly glow. The room seemed to hum with the potion's energy, a subtle vibration that made the hairs on Severus's arms stand on end. He carefully poured the elixir into a vial, sealing it with a stopper, his hands moving with the practiced precision of years of brewing. There was no room for error, not now, not with Harry's life hanging by a thread.

He hurried to Harry's side, his heart pounding in his chest. Harry lay on the table, his body still and lifeless, save for the shallow, labored breaths that barely moved his chest. Severus knew there was no time to waste. He pointed his wand at the vial, murmuring the incantation that would spell the potion directly into Harry's stomach. The liquid shimmered and then disappeared, absorbed into the boy's system in a flash of blue light.

But as the minutes passed, Harry's condition continued to decline. His breathing grew more labored, each inhale a painful rasp that only made his body move slightly. His skin was pallid and clammy, a sheen of sweat covering his forehead and making his dark hair stick to his skin. Severus felt a crushing despair settle in his chest, a weight that threatened to suffocate him. He had done everything he could, but it wasn't enough. The venom was winning.

Despair clawed at Severus as he watched Harry's condition deteriorate. Each breath the boy took was a labored struggle, his chest barely rising and falling. The mask of enchantment Severus had placed over Harry's face was no longer providing the relief it once had, its magic fading against the relentless onslaught of the venom. The makeshift potion had done nothing to halt the deadly progress of the basilisk venom.

Severus didn't know what else to do. He considered sucking the poison out but knew that would just make it spread faster. The idea flickered briefly in his mind, only to be dismissed as quickly as it had appeared. In a final act of hope, he cast a Patronus charm to Albus and Poppy, hoping, praying for anything that might save Harry. The silvery doe leaped from his wand, its graceful form filling the room for a brief moment. It bounded off, carrying his plea for help through the corridors of Hogwarts.

As the ethereal doe disappeared into the shadows, Severus sank down onto a nearby stool beside Harry, his heart pounding. The light cast a faint glow on the scene, highlighting the anguish etched across Severus's face. His hands, usually so steady and controlled, now trembled uncontrollably as he reached out, gripping Harry's hand.

"Hold on, Pot...Harry," he whispered, his voice choked with raw emotion, the words catching in his throat. He could feel the cold sweat on Harry's clammy skin, the irregular rise and fall of his chest. Gently, almost tenderly, Severus began to stroke back Harry's hair.

"Stay with me, Harry," he murmured, his voice a mixture of command and plea, trembling with urgency. "You must fight this. I know it's hard, but you have to keep going." His mind raced, searching for the right words to anchor Harry to the present, to give him something to hold on to. "Think of your friends, think of the people who love you. They need you. You can't leave them behind."

Severus's eyes darted around the room. The damp stone walls of the dungeons seemed to be closing in on him. He silently willed the promised help to arrive faster, each passing second stretching into an agonizing eternity. His grip on Harry's hand tightened, his knuckles whitening as if his sheer willpower alone could transfer some of his dwindling strength to the boy lying before him.

"Help is on the way. You have to hold on," Severus whispered, his voice softer now, a mantra meant as much for himself as for Harry. He could feel the tremor in his own voice, the fear that gnawed at his composure. He watched Harry's chest rise and fall, each breath shallower than the last, and he fought against the growing dread that threatened to consume him.

Harry's mind drifted further, Severus's voice fading to a distant murmur drowned out by the growing silence. His body felt weightless, the pain and coldness slipping away into an almost comforting numbness. In the back of his mind, he could hear the voices of his friends, their laughter echoing softly, their encouragements a whisper on the wind. He wanted to reach out to them, to feel the warmth of their presence, but they seemed so far away, just beyond his grasp.

He was tired, so very tired. The weight of his eyelids grew heavier, and the numbness was so inviting, promising an end to the pain and struggle. Harry's thoughts turned inward, to memories of better days, of moments filled with light. He saw Hermione's bright smile, Ron's infectious laughter, and the comforting presence of those he loved. They seemed to beckon him, offering solace and peace.

Severus watched helplessly as the life slowly ebbed from Harry's pale face. He could feel the boy slipping away, and a sense of profound loss gripped his heart. "Stay with me, Harry," he pleaded, his voice cracking with emotion. "Just a little longer." But deep down, he knew the truth. He could see it in the way Harry's breaths grew fainter, in the way his body seemed to relax into the inevitable.

Albus and Poppy burst into the potions lab, the air thick with tension and the scent of potions ingredients hanging in the air. Poppy rushed forward, her eyes wide with determination, her wand already out and waving frantically. Albus, however, his sharp eyes immediately taking in the scene, saw the poisonous wound on Harry's leg from the basilisk bite and Severus gripping Harry's hand, his head now resting on the table beside Harry. Albus knew. He knew what that meant.

Poppy's incantations filled the room, many spells meant to mend, heal, and save. Her wand moved in intricate patterns, casting charms and counter-charms, but the poison was relentless. She glanced at Albus, her eyes pleading for guidance, but he simply moved to sit on a stool next to Severus, draping an arm around the now softly weeping man.

"Severus," Albus said quietly, his voice steady but laced with sorrow. "You did everything you could."

Severus looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with a despair Albus had never seen before. "It's not enough," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "I couldn't save him."

Albus tightened his grip on Severus's shoulder, his own heart breaking at the sight of Harry lying so still, so pale. "Sometimes, even our best efforts are not enough," he said softly. "But you were here for him. You stayed with him."

Poppy continued to work, her movements growing more frantic as she tried spell after spell. The room seemed to pulse with the magic, the very walls resonating with the intensity of her efforts. But slowly, inevitably, the realization dawned on her as well. She lowered her wand, tears streaming down her face.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head as if to deny the truth. "There must be something... anything..."

Albus rose from his seat and gently took Poppy's hands in his. "Poppy, you have done all you can," he said, his voice filled with a gentle authority. "Sometimes, we must accept that not even magic can alter the course of fate."

Poppy collapsed into Albus's arms, her sobs quiet but heart-wrenching. Severus remained where he was, his hand still clutching Harry's, his eyes fixed on the boy who was still just his student but had become something more in that desperate moment.

In the silence that followed, the weight of their struggle settled over them like a shroud. The air seemed to grow colder, the flickering light from the potions lab casting long shadows on the stone walls. Severus felt as though a part of him was being torn away, leaving a raw, aching void.

"I should have been faster," Severus muttered, his voice thick with self-recrimination. "I should have known what to do."

"Severus," Albus said firmly, his gaze unwavering. "You cannot blame yourself. You fought for him with all your heart. That is what matters."

Poppy's breath caught as she noticed Severus's blood-soaked knees. The sight jarred her, cutting through the haze of her own grief. "Severus," she began, her voice trembling, "what happened? You're bleeding."

Severus shook his head, his dark eyes filled with despair. "It can wait," he muttered, dismissing her concern with a wave of his hand. "It's nothing."

Poppy moved toward him, her healer's instinct compelling her to act, but Albus's hand on her shoulder stopped her. She looked up to see the sorrow in his eyes, a silent plea for her to let it be. With a sigh, she nodded, stepping back and resigning herself to cleaning up the scattered remnants of Severus's potions.

As she busied herself, Poppy's movements were stiff, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. The clink of glass vials and the rustle of parchment filled the air, contacting the stillness surrounding Harry. She wiped down the workbench, her hands shaking slightly, unable to keep still. It was the only way she could manage her grief, channeling it into action.

Albus sat on a stool next to Severus, placing a comforting hand over Severus's that still clung to Harry's. The gesture was simple, but it spoke volumes. They sat like that, in silent vigil, keeping Harry company. Harry's breaths grew shallower and his pulse was fading fast.

Severus watched helplessly, his heart breaking further with each passing moment. The memories of his own struggles, the bitter loneliness, and the unending fight against darkness flooded back. He had fought so hard to protect Harry from the shadows, to give him a chance. And now, as Harry lay before him, slipping away, Severus felt the crushing grip of failure.

"Harry, please," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Stay with us." But even as he spoke, he knew it was futile. His body succumbing to the venom that had no cure.

Albus squeezed Severus's hand gently, offering silent support. He, too, felt the depth of their loss, but he also knew that in this moment, words were inadequate. All they could do was be there, to provide what comfort they could in Harry's final moments.

Poppy's movements slowed, the inevitable truth settling heavily upon her. She turned, tears streaming down her cheeks, and looked at the three of them—Harry, Severus, and Albus—a scene she never imagined seeing, never hoped to see. She wanted to scream, to rage against the unfairness of it all, but instead, she took a deep breath and continued her task. It was all she could do to keep herself from falling apart.

Minutes passed, feeling like hours. The room was heavy with an oppressive silence, broken only by the faint sound of Harry's labored breathing. Severus tightened his grip on Harry's hand, his mind filled with unspoken apologies and regrets. He had failed Lily, and now he was failing her son. The burden of that failure was almost too much to bear.

And then, with one last, shuddering breath, Harry was gone. The stillness that followed was absolute, a crushing void that filled the room. Severus felt it like a physical blow, his body sagging forward as the reality hit him. Albus's hand remained on his, a steady anchor.

Poppy stopped her cleaning, turning to face them fully. Her heart ached with the finality of it, the undeniable truth that no magic could alter. She moved slowly, joining Albus and Severus, her presence quiet.

Severus finally let go of Harry's hand, the lifeless fingers slipping from his grasp. With great effort, he turned to get up, but his legs gave way beneath him, and he collapsed onto his injured knees. A sharp pain shot through him, and he realized with a grimace that it wasn't just age causing the pain—it was blood. His knees had been bleeding since he had fallen in the chamber.

Poppy knelt beside Severus, her hands gentle as she inspected his wounds. "Severus, your knees are scraped up badly," she said softly, her voice filled with concern. "Let me tend to them."

He nodded weakly, too exhausted to protest further. Poppy moved with the practiced efficiency of a healer, her touch light but effective as she cleaned and bandaged his knees. The physical pain was a welcome distraction from the raw, emotional agony that threatened to overwhelm him.

Albus turned and placed a hand on Severus's shoulder as Poppy tended to his knees. "We will arrange a funeral soon," Albus said gently, his voice a soothing presence in the oppressive stillness. "I will take care of everything."

Severus, caught in the rush and haze of the moment, suddenly remembered the other victim of the chamber. His mind, clouded by fatigue and grief, snapped back to the present. "What about the Weasley girl? How is she?" His voice was rough, strained.

Albus's expression softened slightly, a glimmer of relief in his eyes. "She will be alright. The Weasley family is on their way and should be here tonight to retrieve her."

Severus let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. At least one life was spared this night. He glanced at Harry's still form on the table, the boy's face pale and serene. The loss hit him anew, a wave of sorrow that threatened to drown him. He felt Albus's hand squeeze his shoulder, a silent reminder that he wasn't alone.

Poppy continued to work, her movements efficient but filled with care. Her hands, steady and practiced, finished healing and bandaging Severus's knees. She looked up at him, her eyes reflecting the sorrow they all felt. "There," she said softly, her voice barely a whisper. "You should be alright now."

She glanced at Albus, a silent message passing between them. "However," she added, her tone gentle yet firm, "I think it would be best if you spend the night in the hospital wing. Just to be sure."

Severus shook his head immediately, his exhaustion doing little to dull the sharpness in his voice. "No, Poppy. I need to... I can't just lie down and do nothing." His eyes flickered to Harry again. "There are potions to be brewed, inventories to be checked... I can't just leave everything."

Poppy's brow furrowed in concern, but Albus stepped in, his tone gentle but authoritative, a tone that brooked no argument. "Severus, I understand you don't want to be around people right now, but sometimes, in moments of grief, we need the company of others more than we realize. We need you at your best, and that means you need to take some time to rest."

Severus's eyes flashed with defiance. "I can't rest, Albus! Not now. There are... classes to prepare for, and I need to review the student records."

Albus's expression softened, but his resolve remained. "Severus, I will be suspending classes for a while. Everyone, including you, need time to mourn. All those tasks can wait."

The room seemed to hold its breath, Albus's words hanging in the air. Severus's gaze met Albus's, a silent battle of wills. He could see the genuine worry in Albus's eyes, the same worry mirrored in Poppy's.

"Severus," Poppy said softly, stepping closer. "There's nothing so pressing that it can't wait until morning. Let us help you. You don't have to go through this alone."

Severus opened his mouth to argue further, but the excuses felt hollow even to him. The memories of past grief and isolation loomed large, and he knew deep down that they were right. The fight drained out of him, leaving him feeling hollow and exhausted. "Alright," he conceded, his voice a mere whisper. "Alright. But only for tonight."

Poppy's face softened in relief, and she gently helped Severus to his feet. "Let's get you to the hospital wing," she said, her touch reassuring. As they moved towards the door, Severus cast one last glance at Harry.

Albus stayed behind, watching as Poppy and Severus slowly made their way out the door. The sorrow was almost too much to bear. He could hear their footsteps growing fainter as they moved away. Once the door closed behind them with a soft click, he turned to Harry's still form, lying on the cold table. The room seemed to grow quieter, the silence pressing in on him.

He walked over, each one feeling heavier than the last. When he reached Harry, he stood there for a moment, taking in the sight of the boy who had endured so much. With a trembling hand, he gently brushed Harry's hair away from his face, the strands soft under his fingers. "I'm so sorry, Harry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I wasn't there when you needed me the most. I failed you." Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision as the guilt and regret filled his heart. He let out a shuddering breath, trying to steady himself.

Albus sighed deeply. He carefully placed Harry's arms across his chest, straightening the boy's robes with meticulous care, as if this small act could somehow make amends for his failures. With great effort, he lifted Harry into his arms, cradling him gently as if afraid to cause him further pain. He felt the weight of the boy, so light and fragile, and it tore at his heart. "This was never the outcome I wanted," he murmured, his voice trembling. "Not for you, not for anyone."

As he carried Harry towards the hospital wing, he moved slowly, mourning the absence of Harry's laughter that once resounded through these halls. He glanced around at the familiar corridors, now mere shadows of the place where Harry had brought so much light. He dreaded the days to come, knowing the grief and sorrow that would envelop the school. The loss of Harry Potter was not just a tragedy for the wizarding world but a deep, personal loss for Albus. His heart would never truly heal from losing Harry, who had taken a piece of it with him forever.

He entered the hospital wing, the familiar scents of healing potions and clean linens doing little to soothe his troubled mind. Poppy was already there, helping Severus into a bed, her movements efficient yet gentle despite her own grief. She looked up as Albus approached, her eyes red-rimmed. She nodded at him.

Albus returned the nod, his throat too tight to speak. He knew where he needed to go. There was a private room off the hospital wing, seldom used but necessary for moments like this. They had never wanted to use it, but now it was needed. Without a word, Albus headed towards the room.

Once inside the private room, he gently placed Harry down on the bed. The room was quiet, the walls bearing witness to untold grief. Albus took a deep breath, the silence pressing on him, and then he covered Harry with a sheet. He stood there for a moment, looking down at the boy who had endured so much and yet had given so much in return. He placed a hand on Harry's still form, a gesture of farewell, and whispered, "Rest now, Harry. Your fight is over."

A week passed in a blur for the inhabitants of the castle. Hogwarts prepared for the funeral of Harry Potter, a hero and a beloved student. The school grounds were quiet, the usual buzz of student chatter replaced by silence.

The day of the funeral arrived, and the Great Hall was transformed into a place of mourning. The enchanted ceiling reflected a cloudy sky, mirroring the grief that hung over the school. Rows of chairs were set up, filled with students, staff and friends, all dressed in black. The House banners were draped in dark colors, and at the front of the hall stood a simple, elegant casket adorned with lilies and roses.

Albus had forbidden the press from attending, despite their relentless attempts to intrude. This was a funeral for a young boy, not a spectacle for public consumption. The wizarding world would have to mourn from afar. Notably absent were Harry's relatives, the Dursleys. Albus had personally informed them of Harry's passing, and their reaction had filled him with disgust. Instead of mourning, they had cheered, their relief at being rid of the "freak" sickeningly apparent. Albus had walked away from them, with curses on his tongue he dare not utter for it would land him in Azkaban.

As the ceremony began, Albus stood at the front, sorrow evident on his face. He spoke softly, his voice carrying the loss they all felt. "We gather here today to honor Harry James Potter," he began, his eyes sweeping over the assembled crowd. "A boy who showed us all the true meaning of bravery and friendship. Harry faced darkness with a light that never dimmed, and though he is no longer with us, his spirit will live on in each of us."

The students listened in silence, many with tears in their eyes. Hermione Granger clutched Ron Weasley's hand tightly, both of them struggling to keep their emotions in check. Ginny Weasley sat with her family, her face pale and drawn, still not fully recovered, but she had insisted on being there.

After Albus spoke, several others took turns sharing their memories of Harry. Hagrid, his voice choked with emotion, recounted stories of Harry's first year and some of his shenanigans. Professor McGonagall spoke of his exceptional talent and courage, her voice steady but her eyes rimmed in red betraying her stoicism.

After the ceremony at Hogwarts, Harry's body was transferred to Godric's Hollow to be laid to rest beside his parents. The journey was a quiet one, filled with silence as Albus and a few others accompanied Harry to his final resting place. There was no ceremony or fanfare at the gravesite, just a simple burial beside his parents.

The headstone bore a simple inscription:

"Harry James Potter

The Boy Who Lived

Cherish the present, and do not chase ghosts."

Soon afterword back at Hogwarts, life began to move on. Classes resumed, and the castle slowly returned to its usual rhythm. However, for Severus Snape, life would never be the same. The image of Harry's final moments was forever etched into his mind, haunting his thoughts day and night.

Severus found himself standing at the edge of the Black Lake, staring into its depths as if searching for answers. He couldn't escape the memories of that night, the sense of failure pressing down on him like a dark shroud. He had tried so hard to protect Harry, to save him from the fate that had claimed him. But in the end, it hadn't been enough.

Each time Severus found himself out by the lake, Hagrid would emerge from his hut and silently join him. The half-giant would wrap a giant arm around Severus's shoulders, providing warmth against the chill. No words were needed between the two; they just knew. The shared silence spoke volumes, offering a comfort that words could never provide.

With time, Severus's trips to the lake became less frequent. The pain in his heart, though still present, began to ease as the years passed. The sorrow that once consumed him started to lift, allowing him moments of peace. Yet, while the pain became less, Harry's memory never did. The boy who had once been the bane of his existence had also forged a connection between his past and present, remained a constant presence in his thoughts.