FicWad

Harry felt it before he could name it—a shift, subtle but chilling, like something vital had been extinguished. A coldness wrapped around him, not simply outside but within, as though the very air had turned thick and sour, heavy in his lungs. It pressed in on him—crept beneath his skin, laced through his ribs, and settled in his chest.

Something had gone terribly wrong. He could feel it in his bones.

Where am I?

The question echoed in his mind, hollow and unanswered. Not quite silence surrounded him—there was the sharp clicking of his teeth, a small sound but jarring in the stillness, proof that he could still feel. Still shiver.

He turned—once, twice—but there was nothing. No floor beneath his feet. No ceiling above. Just endless, endless dark. He raised a hand, but it vanished before his eyes, swallowed by the blackness like a stone into deep water.

A prickle of unease began to crawl across his skin. He took a breath, but it was shallow, tight in his chest.

What is this place? How did I get here?

It felt like he’d fallen asleep somewhere and woken into something worse. Like drifting from a dream into a nightmare with no memory of the moment in between. His thoughts were slow, as if swimming through treacle. Slippery, disjointed.

Something had happened—he was sure of that. Something final.

He closed his eyes, but the dark was the same. If anything, it pressed in more tightly. His mind scrabbled to find something—anything—that would tether him, ground him. A name. A voice. A memory.

And then—

A fang.

Yes. A basilisk fang.

He could see it, almost—gripped in his fist, gleaming white, sharp as judgement. The heaviness of it. The choice it had represented.

Had he used it?

Had he died?

The thought struck hard and fast. His breath caught.

But there’d been no pain. No flash of light. No rush of wind or flame. Just this… void.

His hands trembled. He clenched them into fists, trying to force them still, trying to feel real.

Was it real? Did I really make that choice?

And then—another voice. Not someone else’s, but his own. Not quite, though.

A version of him. Hollow-eyed, spectral, haunted.

You have the power to erase me… Or pierce yourself and live the life you saw instead.

A choice. A fork in the road. Two fates. Both were impossible.

Harry swallowed. The cold crept deeper. But with it came a jolt of clarity—small, bright, and sudden.

Faces.

Not imagined. Not conjured.

Real.

Hermione.

Ron.

Ginny.

They burst into his thoughts as if called—laughing, crying, shouting. Alive.

His chest tightened, a wrenching ache, fierce and unbearable. He doubled over, the force of it physical.

He knew them. Knew their touch, their strength, the way they stood beside him even when everything else fell away.

And just like that—he wanted back.

He wanted to fight.

Tear through the dark if he had to, scream himself hoarse, claw his way towards whatever thread still tied him to them.

I can’t stay here.

I won’t leave them behind.

I won’t.

He gritted his teeth. The fear hadn’t gone, but it was no longer alone.

Now, beneath it—anger. Determination. A pulse of something steady and defiant. The will to move, even without knowing the way.

He opened his eyes.

The dark remained. Thick, absolute.

But inside him—deep, buried somewhere near his heart—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 noise—it was raw, soul-rending pain, the kind that made Harry’s stomach lurch. Somewhere off to his right, Ron had stopped mid-step, eyes wide, frozen like a statue. Hermione had folded in on herself, hands pressed to her face, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

But Harry barely saw them.

The world narrowed—blurred at the edges, muffled like he was underwater. All that remained in focus was the figure before him, exuding power like poison. And in his hand—hot, alive somehow—he still clutched the basilisk fang. Its point gleamed, sharp as finality.

This is it, he thought, voice quiet in his own head. I have to end it.

His fingers tightened around the fang. He could feel the decision solidifying inside him, grim and absolute. His muscles tensed, every instinct screaming at him to strike—now, before it’s too late—

And then—

A shift. Almost imperceptible at first. A shimmer in the air.

Something silvery drifted toward him—gossamer threads of magic, faint and glowing, like moonlight spun into silk. They curled through the air and coiled around him, soft as breath. There was no pain. That was the strangest part. The magic didn’t feel dark. It felt… gentle. Familiar, even.

And then—

Everything inside him broke open.

Memories surged, uncontrolled and relentless, crashing through him like a tidal wave. Too many, too fast. A thousand moments, sharp and shining, torn loose from the past.

He gasped—staggered under the weight of it.

No—not now. He tried to resist. I need to focus—

But it was already happening.

The Hogwarts Express. Ron, freckled and awkward, grinning through a mouthful of sandwiches. Hermione at the door, bushy-haired and brisk, full of questions and opinions. So young. All of them were so young.

Then the troll. The girls’ bathroom. Fear like fire in his veins, standing between it and his friends. The moment they’d stopped being strangers. The beginning of something solid. Something true.

“Merlin, what’s happening—?” he thought, but his mind was being dragged onwards.

The Gryffindor common room. Ron: “A second’s there to take over if you die,” said so casually. They’d laughed. Laughed. As if death were a joke. As if they hadn’t known, even then, what was coming.

Hermione, flinging her arms round him. “You’re a great wizard, you know.” Her voice, warm and certain. He remembered the heat in his cheeks, the awkwardness of praise. “I’m not as good as you,” he’d muttered and meant it.

“There are more important things. Friendship. Bravery—”

Her words scattered.

Then the flying car. Ron’s shout of joy, wind in their hair, sky endless above them. Polyjuice. Pain. The taste of being someone else. Everything blurred, too fast to keep up.

The Chamber. Ginny—small and motionless, her skin like paper. The unbearable fear that he’d been too late. The basilisk. Fangs and death and the weight of her in his arms.

Quidditch wins. Firelight and laughter. The weight of the cup in his hands. The feeling of being home.

Each image snapped something loose inside him. Invisible cords tethered to people—his people. His family, not by blood, but by choice.

Ron. Hermione. Ginny.

Not just memories. Not echoes. Parts of him.

Every victory, every scar, every moment of terror—they’d all been there. Holding him up. Catching him when he fell.

The rush slowed. The images fractured.

And then—he saw them.

Not in memory.

Real.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—trapped behind a wall of light. Bars of magic shimmered between them, pulsing, keeping them back. Their faces were etched with fear and desperation. They were shouting. Reaching. Calling to him.

His chest clenched.

He tried to move. To speak. To run to them.

Nothing.

Guilt surged, bitter and hot.

They’ve given me everything. Every piece of themselves. What have I done? What am I about to do?

He wanted to cry out—to tell them he saw them, that he remembered, and that none of it had been for nothing.

But he couldn’t.

He was frozen. Trapped in a moment between past and future, choice and consequence.

And their eyes—those beloved, fierce eyes—held his, asking a single, unbearable question.

Was this worth it?

The years of fear. The pain. The loss.

Was it enough?

His heart pounded, deafening.

And somewhere, beneath the guilt and grief and love—

He knew the answer would change everything.

He remembered Ron beside him during the Triwizard Tournament, never wavering, helping him through every task—dragons, mermaids, mazes—no matter how terrifying it had been. Hermione, bleary-eyed and determined, losing sleep for nights on end to find spells, loopholes, any scrap of knowledge that might keep them alive. And Ginny—Ginny, fierce as flame—fighting Death Eaters without hesitation, side by side with him, never once asking to be spared the danger.

They had never left him. Not once.

For years, he’d believed it was his burden alone. That he had to bear it—all of it—because it was his fate, his scar, his prophecy. But the truth… the truth was he’d never walked it alone.

They’d carried the weight with him, quietly, stubbornly, through every shadow and every stumble. Even when he hadn’t deserved it. Especially then.

His throat tightened.

They’re not just part of the story. They’re the reason I survived it.

The silvery threads still curled around him—soft as breath, warm against the chill—but he didn’t resist them now. He let the memories in. Let the love burn through his chest like a hearthfire, steady and true.

Because that was the truth. The one thing darkness could never quite smother:

He wasn’t alone.

He never had been.

They had laughed—even in the thick of it, even when the world felt like it might break apart beneath their feet. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—they’d shared jokes in hospital wings, snuck sweets from the kitchen, whispered ridiculous theories under Invisibility Cloaks, and found moments of light even in the darkest corridors.

That defiance—laughing in spite of fear—it had saved them as much as spells ever had.

They hadn’t had to do any of it.

But they had. Again and again.

They’d broken rules that could’ve got them expelled, lied to teachers who trusted them, and faced things that should’ve terrified them into silence. And they’d done it all—for him.

For him.

Harry felt his eyes sting. His chest ached with something deeper than sorrow—something like awe. Like gratitude.

The memories were sharp now, blinding in their clarity. Dumbledore’s Army gathered in the Room of Requirement, wands held high, eyes shining with belief—not just in the cause, but in each other. And somehow, at the centre of it all, was him.

Not because of a prophecy.

Not because of his scar.

Because they’d believed in him. Chosen him. Loved him—even when he couldn’t love himself.

Hermione’s reasoning had guided him when anger clouded his judgement. Ron’s unassuming loyalty had grounded him, reminded him that courage didn’t always shout. Ginny’s honesty—blunt, fierce, full of fire—had forced him to be better. To be real.

But still—something twisted inside him.

A hesitation. A flicker of doubt, sharp and cold.

Why?

Because not everything was clear. Some of it had gone… fuzzy. Blurred at the edges. He remembered the laughter, yes—but not always the joke. He could see their faces—but sometimes, not the words they’d said. There were gaps in the story of his life, cracks in the foundation.

He saw himself standing at the edge of the Black Lake, days after the battle. Alone. Staring into the water as if it might give something back. His reflection had looked wrong. Not broken. Not brave.

Just… hollow.

Who am I becoming?

It had been happening slowly. Too slowly to notice at first. Like drifting on a tide you didn’t realise was pulling you under. The world around him had looked the same—but it wasn’t. Not quite. And neither was he.

The harder he tried to piece it all together, the more the memories buckled under pressure. Like glass in a storm. Were the people he loved real? Or were they shadows—half-glimpsed lies conjured to keep him from seeing the trap?

What if this isn’t my life at all?

What if it’s all just… a trick?

A beautiful lie, built from longing. A prison disguised as hope.

The thought hollowed him.

And yet—

There they were.

Not memories. Not visions. Now.

Hermione, her face streaked with tears. Ginny, trembling, biting her lip hard enough to bleed. Ron, pale but steady, eyes locked on his with that quiet, unshakeable faith that had never once wavered.

They were looking at him like he was everything.

Like whatever happened next—whatever he chose—it mattered more than anything.

And in that moment, Harry felt it again. That impossible pull.

Not from darkness.

From them.

The choice, when it came, would be his.

But the strength to make it—

That had always come from them.

Hermione stepped forward first.

Her voice was barely a whisper, but it rang out like a bell in a cathedral—soft, unwavering, filled with a quiet kind of strength that made Harry’s breath catch.

“Please…” she said, her eyes shining. “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.”

The words struck something deep, curling around his heart like a protective charm. Warm. Solid. Familiar.

And yet—doubt still clawed at him. Bitter and black. The figure lurking nearby said nothing, only watched. Its silence pressed like frost against Harry’s skin. There wasn’t much time left.

Then—Ron.

Just three words.

Quiet. Firm.

“We need you.”

Harry turned to him.

Ron wasn’t crying—he rarely did—but his voice was thick, rough at the edges. The way it always got when the emotions were right there, just beneath the surface.

“We don’t want to go on if you’re not around, mate.”

That hit harder than anything else. No drama. No pleading. Just the truth, spoken the way Ron always had—plain, honest, real.

And then Ginny.

She looked at him and said, in a voice that didn’t waver, “I’ll never stop believing in you. I love you.”

No doubt. No fear. Just love—fierce and brilliant and utterly unshakeable.

Harry closed his eyes.

And for one suspended moment—he felt it.

That unbreakable thread that bound them together. More than friendship. More than loyalty. It was something deeper.

Family.

Then the voice came again—flat, emotionless.

“The decision lies in your hands,” the figure said. “Erase me from existence… or live the life you saw instead.”

The words turned the air colder. Sharper.

Erase me.

Erase himself?

Harry glanced at the basilisk fang in his hand. It felt heavier now, the way something does when you understand what it really means. The cost of it. The finality.

Can I really do this?

And then the memories surged—fierce, full. All of it: joy and pain and fear and victory. Every moment stitched into his skin like scars.

This wasn’t a lie.

This wasn’t a trick.

This was his life.

And it was real.

The fang trembled in his grip.

Harry stood at the edge of everything—every choice, every path, every version of himself he’d ever tried to be—and the silence roared in his ears.

Then, before he even realised it—

His arm lifted.

Quick. Sharp. Certain.

The fang rose high above his head.

Not me, he thought wildly, panicked. This isn’t me—

But it was.

It was him.

The boy who had walked into the forest. The boy who’d watched Dumbledore fall. The boy who’d faced Voldemort again and again and somehow kept going.

This choice—this terrible, final choice—was his.

His heart thundered. Loud. Violent. Every beat a name:

Ron. Hermione. Ginny.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice broke through the noise—desperate, urgent, cracking.

And time itself stopped.

Everything narrowed—his breath, the fang, the silence.

I have to choose.

All of it—the pain, the loss, the laughter, the friendship—collapsed into this single moment. There was no running. No delaying. No one to tell him what was right.

Just him.

And the people who had never stopped believing in him.

He reached for them—not the words, not the faces, but the feeling.

Ron’s laugh with chocolate on his chin. Hermione’s hand flying into the air. Ginny’s eyes catching his across the Gryffindor table.

The real things.

The true things.

He breathed them in like oxygen.

And then—he plunged the fang into his chest.

The pain came all at once.

Like fire and lightning crashing through him—raw, blinding, unforgiving. There was no gasp. No scream. Just a horrible, electric breaking of everything he was.

His body seized, folding inwards.

Light exploded behind his eyes. His lungs begged for air. His fingers clenched into nothing.

Reality fractured—colours split, sound distorted. And through it all—

“Ron—Hermione—Ginny—”

Where were they?

He called for them in the storm, voice ragged, fractured.

But the world was burning, collapsing into sound and shadow and light. His mind splintered. His bones shrieked. His thoughts shattered.

Still—he clung to them.

Ron, charging into danger without hesitation. Hermione’s stubborn, brilliant plans. Ginny’s voice in the dark, fierce as firelight.

He held them tight.

But they were slipping.

Sliding from his grip like water.

“No—please—don’t—”

Their faces blurred. Their voices faded. The thread that had bound him, heart and soul, to the ones he loved—it was unravelling.

His body convulsed with a final, helpless cry.

And then—nothing.

No warmth.

No breath.

No sound.

The thread snapped.

The world he’d bled for, fought for, loved—

Gone.

Darkness fell.

Total. Absolute. Merciless.

And Harry fell with it.

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 thought he did—but saw only black. A vast, smothering dark, thick as smoke and just as shapeless. He tried to move, to reach for something—anything—but there was nothing. No ground. No sky. No air.

Just void.

Panic surged in his chest.

He had no chest.

No hands. No feet. No breath.

He wasn’t standing. He wasn’t floating.

He wasn’t anywhere.

What is this? What have I done? The thought spiralled fast and frantic. Where are they—Hermione, Ron, and Ginny?

A chill swept through him, cold in a way that went beyond flesh. It pierced something deeper. Something beneath thought, beneath memory.

He was nothing.

No body, no shape, no sound.

Just a soul unanchored in a place that wasn’t real.

This isn’t real. It can’t be. Wake up. He squeezed his eyes shut—or tried to. Wake up, Harry. Just a dream. A hallucination. Please—

But the stillness held. Endless. Suffocating.

The silence pressed in like the inside of a tomb.

This is death, he thought suddenly, and the thought struck him like a blow.

And then—

The ground slammed into him.

He gasped. Air. Actual air filled his lungs.

His heart pounded in his chest, hard and erratic.

His hands were back—he could feel them, see them. Solid, shaking, real.

He blinked.

The darkness rippled. Then pulled back like a curtain. Shapes began to form—mist, stone, earth.

Gravestones.

Dozens. Hundreds. Rising through a low, swirling fog. Their edges caught the moonlight, sharp and grey against the cold white glow.

A rusted iron gate loomed ahead. Half open. Swinging slightly on its hinges like it had been waiting for him.

Harry stepped forward.

The gate groaned. The sound echoed.

His footsteps crunched softly over gravel as he moved deeper into the graveyard. Shadows stretched across the stones like reaching fingers.

And then—he knew.

A tremor ran through him.

He had been here before.

There was the yew tree—leaning crooked beside the chapel like it had grown from a nightmare. There was the slope of the hill. And above it, distant and looming, the silhouette of the Riddle House.

The graveyard.

That graveyard.

The place where Cedric had died. Where Voldemort had returned. Where everything had changed.

Harry stumbled, nausea climbing into his throat. He gripped his arms around himself as the cold bled through his clothes. His breath came quick and shallow.

Not here. Not again.

But the graveyard didn’t care. It welcomed him like an old friend.

He turned a corner.

And stopped.

There it was.

The statue stood where it always had—the Angel of Death, draped in stone robes, its skeletal face locked in an eternal scream. Its scythe gleamed beneath the moon as though sharpened with sorrow.

Harry’s knees went weak.

He wanted to turn back—but to what? There was nowhere else to go. Nothing else to do.

So he walked.

Graves passed him on either side. Some names familiar, others long forgotten. The air was thick with silence, heavy with memories.

Then—

He saw him.

Cedric.

Lying still in the grass.

Just as he had that night. Limbs sprawled. Eyes empty. The life had gone out of him before he’d had a chance to understand.

Harry dropped to his knees.

“Cedric…”

His voice cracked.

He didn’t reach out. Couldn’t. His hands hovered, shaking, useless.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have to see this again. But he was. And so was Cedric—forever caught in that moment.

“I should’ve done more,” Harry whispered. “I should’ve saved you.”

He saw it again—the Triwizard Cup flashing with blue light, the sudden weightlessness, the confusion. Cedric’s proud smile turned into a question. Then a green light. Silence.

It was my fault.

And then—they came.

More faces. More losses.

Remus. Tonks.

Their bodies flickered across his vision like ghosts. Stilled. Cold. Side by side in the Great Hall. Their son was left behind.

He remembered their laughter. Their courage. Their belief in something better.

Gone.

His breath caught, raw and ragged.

And then—Fred.

Harry choked.

Fred Weasley. Whose laughter had filled rooms. Who had made even fear seem like something you could laugh at. Who had stood tall in the worst of it and refused to let the world turn grey.

Gone.

Harry curled in on himself, unable to hold it back.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, voice cracked. “Why didn’t I stop it? Why wasn’t I enough?”

The wind didn’t answer.

The graveyard was silent.

It always had been.

Then they came—one by one—faces that had shaped him, saved him.

Dobby, eyes wide and still, lying in the sand.

Sirius, falling backward through the veil, vanishing without a sound.

Dumbledore, crumpled at the foot of the Astronomy Tower.

Mad-Eye, his magical eye extinguished, stared blankly.

Snape, pale and motionless on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, with blood pooling beneath him.

Hedwig—his first friend—struck from the sky without warning.

So many.

Too many.

Harry sank to the ground, curling in on himself as the guilt surged through him like poison.

“You all gave everything,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “And I’m still here. Still breathing. Why?”

No answer came.

Only silence.

Only cold.

He bowed his head, not in surrender—but in grief. Raw, aching grief that stretched from the very centre of his chest to the farthest corners of his soul. For every life lost. For every goodbye he’d never managed to say. For every mistake he carried like a second scar.

Maybe I’m meant to stay here, he thought numbly. Maybe this is where it ends. And maybe that’s fair.

The shadows crept closer, curling round his feet like smoke, and the graveyard darkened.

But just as the black began to close over him, a voice broke through—soft, familiar, achingly clear.

“Harry.”

He froze.

His heart jolted, breath caught in his throat. He knew that voice—knew it in a way that had nothing to do with sound and everything to do with memory. Slowly, trembling, he turned his head.

At the far edge of the graveyard, a doorway had appeared—wreathed in light, not blazing, but warm. Steady. Real.

And standing before it was a figure.

His heart stuttered.

“Snape?” he breathed.

The man turned.

It was him. Pale and unsmiling. His dark eyes were sharp as ever beneath a curtain of black hair. Unchanged. Unmoved. Utterly familiar.

Harry stared. His mind reeled. He’s dead. I saw him die. I saw the blood. I watched the light leave his eyes.

“You’re not real,” Harry said quietly. “This is just another illusion. A trick.”

Snape didn’t blink. “I am a memory,” he said.

The words landed with a strange weight. Not menacing like Tom Riddle’s diary, nor wistful like a Pensieve echo. This felt… different. Grounded. Solid, in a way nothing else in this place was.

“But—are you—?”

“No,” Snape cut across him, voice clipped. “I am not a ghost. I am not cursed by magic. I am not… him.” He gestured vaguely at the graveyard behind them, dismissive.

Harry swallowed. The air between them crackled with tension, and yet… it wasn’t the old kind. Not scorn. Not bitterness. Something else. A quiet sort of gravity.

Snape stepped closer, the light brushing his robes.

“Memories,” he said, “are not idle things. They are threads. They tether us. Give us shape. Meaning.”

Harry looked down at his hands. They were solid now. Grounded. He was breathing again—truly breathing, not just existing in some cold, dreamlike space.

Snape’s gaze pierced him.

“Have your friends given you their memories?”

Harry nodded slowly. “They have.”

Snape’s face didn’t soften, but something shifted in his voice.

“Then you are not lost.”

Harry said nothing. He remembered Hermione’s voice, fierce and trembling. Ron’s simple, aching truth. Ginny’s love. He’d held onto those moments like lifelines—but he hadn’t let them hold him.

“You still resist,” Snape said. “You act before you listen. You defend before you understand. It is—” he hesitated, his lip curling ever so slightly, “—habitual.”

Harry flinched. Not because it hurt—but because it was true.

“I’m not trying to resist,” he said, more quietly.

Snape gave him a look that suggested he didn’t believe it, not entirely.

“No,” he said. “You’re trying to survive. And surviving, for you, has always meant running headlong into fire. You are brave. Sometimes foolishly so.”

There was no malice in the words. Just a fact.

“But you are not hollow,” Snape continued, voice softening. “You are not here because of an accident. Or luck. You’re here because others believed in you—because they remembered you. And because, even at your worst, you remembered them.”

Harry’s throat tightened.

“You think I deserve to keep going?” he asked, voice almost inaudible. “Even after all this?”

Snape tilted his head. “Deserving is a poor measure of fate,” he said. “But you are not done.”

He turned toward the light again. The open door flickered gently, like it was breathing.

“This place is not death,” Snape said. “It is a threshold. Nothing more. You retrieved your friend’s memories. But did you truly listen?”

Harry didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could.

He’d seen them, yes—walked through them as if inside a dream—but had he understood them? Had he allowed them to shape him?

Snape took a step closer. “My presence now is no accident. It was my memories that drew you—pulled you towards something more. You brought me here. Your mind did.”

Something stirred in Harry’s chest. Not the usual stab of anger. Not guilt, exactly. Something quieter. He had spent years fearing Snape—hating him, even—only to discover, too late, the truth. That Snape had been watching over him from the very start.

Their lives had been twined by loss. By sacrifice. And, strange though it still felt, by love—unspoken, bruised, but real.

“This place,” said Snape, gesturing around at the moonlit graveyard, “is shaped by your need to understand. To reconcile. We are here because your mind has allowed it.”

Harry swallowed. His throat was dry.

Maybe I did bring him here, he thought. Not as a threat, not as a foe—but as a teacher. One last lesson.

He looked up, meeting Snape’s eyes. They were dark, impenetrable as ever—but there was no malice there now. No resentment. Only memory. Only truth.

Something like a laugh rose in Harry’s throat—hollow, incredulous. Snape, of all people, came back to guide him. The man who had made every Potions class a nightmare… and yet had given everything to keep him alive.

He couldn’t deny it any longer: Snape’s lessons had shaped him. Not gently. Not kindly. But with a precision that had left marks deeper than scars. Strength. Wariness. A kind of reluctant wisdom.

It made facing him now harder, not easier.

“Why do you haunt me, Snape?” Harry asked quietly, his voice low and uneven.

Snape’s expression didn’t change. “Perhaps,” he said, “because you’re not finished. And because you still look without truly seeing.”

Harry frowned. “What does that mean?”

The graveyard was heavy around them. The still bodies of those he had loved—Fred, Tonks, and Lupin—seemed to press against the edges of his vision, unmoving. Each face another weight.

Snape’s gaze swept over them too, unreadable. When he spoke again, it was quieter.

“It seems,” he said, “that once again you’ve lost control of the situation.”

The words struck deep. Harry flinched before he could stop himself.

He hated how true it felt. So much of his life had been spent tumbling from crisis to crisis, never quite in command of his own path. Always reacting. Always surviving.

Snape let the silence stretch.

Then: “You do know what this place is, don’t you?”

Harry hesitated. His thoughts twisted, restless. Shame prickled in his chest. The faces of the dead blurred and returned. So many lives… and each one felt like a judgement.

“I don’t understand,” he said hoarsely.

Snape gave a soft, derisive breath—somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “No. Of course not. That, Potter, is precisely why you’re here.”

He stepped towards his own body—the memory of it, lying still in the dirt, eyes empty. Harry felt a strange tightening in his chest. Pity. Perhaps even regret.

“This is not real,” Snape said. “It is a conjuring of memory and meaning. You are seeing what your mind most fears—what it cannot let go of.”

The words hit like a weight. Illusion. Reflection.

Harry’s heartbeat quickened. “So… none of this is real?”

Snape turned. “Not in the way you think. I am not a ghost. I am not bound by magic. I am memory—nothing more. Preserved in you. Just as Dumbledore was.”

At that, Harry stilled.

He remembered that other space—bright, white, impossibly peaceful. King’s Cross, or something like it. The strange quiet of it. The hope.

“You mean,” Harry said slowly, “did Dumbledore send you?”

Snape arched an eyebrow. “Why would he do that?”

Harry faltered. “Because… when I died—when Voldemort cast the Killing Curse—I saw him. He spoke to me. It felt real.”

Snape’s mouth curled slightly—whether in cynicism or something else, Harry couldn’t tell.

“Then perhaps,” Snape said, voice low and precise, “he was there because you needed him. As I am now.”

Harry’s throat tightened. It made a terrible sort of sense. Dumbledore had led him with riddles and half-truths. Snape with sharp-edged honesty. Both had been constants, whether Harry had wanted them or not.

“You think he left a mark on me,” Harry said quietly.

Snape’s eyes darkened, almost imperceptibly. “You carry more than his teachings,” he said. “You carry all of us. Even me.”

Harry blinked. The words shook something loose in him.

He thought of all the people who had touched his life—those he had loved and those he hadn’t. All of them were still there, woven through him like threads. Memory wasn’t just a way of looking back. It was the shape of how one went forward.

Maybe this wasn’t about the dead at all.

Maybe it was about what the living chose to do with their grief.

Harry stepped forward, the silver mist curling around his ankles. “Then why are you here?” he asked. “Why do you care what I learn?”

For a moment, Snape didn’t speak. The silence stretched like tension in a wand arm.

Then, quietly, he said, “Because what I gave—what I lost—must mean something. Or it was wasted.”

Their eyes met. Harry felt the weight of it settle like dust in his chest.

Snape had never asked for gratitude. Never courted kindness. And yet here he was, not as a man, not as a ghost, but something else—memory given shape, purpose.

To make Harry understand.

To make sure none of it—none of the pain, the choices, or the deaths—had been in vain.

Harry stared. The figure before him didn’t feel like the cruel professor who had once sneered at his every mistake. Something had changed. The sharpness remained, but behind it now was something heavier. Not cruelty.

Understanding. Perhaps even grief.

“This is a test, Potter,” said Snape. His voice wasn’t mocking. It was level. Inevitable. “You are trapped. And you are the one holding the lock.”

Harry frowned. “Trapped?”

Snape gestured, sweeping one arm toward the graves, the half-lit mist, and the familiar stillness of the place that had claimed so many. “These are your thoughts. Your guilt. You believe their deaths are your fault. That’s why you’re here.”

Harry swallowed. He didn’t look down. He couldn’t bear to.

“You must let go,” Snape said, voice flat. “Forgive yourself.”

Harry turned away. “I don’t know how.”

“Then learn,” Snape snapped. “Or this will be your end.”

The words struck a chord, raw and true. That ache—always there—tightened around his ribs. It was the weight of everything: the lives lost, the words unspoken, the endless, spiralling what ifs.

“I’ve tried,” Harry said, voice low. “It’s too much.”

“No,” said Snape, coldly. “You’ve chosen to carry it. You let it consume you.”

There was a beat.

“I taught you Occlumency to protect your mind,” Snape went on. “To control your thoughts, not be ruled by them. Do you still let them command you?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “No. I’m not that boy anymore.”

Snape didn’t blink. “Then prove it.”

Harry’s breath caught.

“Accept that they chose to fight,” Snape said. “They died for something greater than you. Not because of you.”

Harry’s hands clenched into fists. “But if Voldemort hadn’t heard the prophecy—”

“Then blame him,” Snape cut in. “He made those choices. Not you.”

“But if I hadn’t been born—”

Snape stepped closer, and—for the first time—his gaze held something unfamiliar. Not kindness. But not emptiness, either.

“You think too little of others,” he said. “They loved you. They chose you. Their lives were not diminished by it.”

Harry’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”

Snape’s stare did not soften. “Regret will not return them. But perhaps it can teach you something.”

For a moment, the graveyard held its breath.

Then Snape spoke again. “If you mean to move forward, you must master yourself. Control your emotions. Learn discipline. Stop letting grief define you.”

Harry nodded, slowly. “I understand, Professor.”

Snape arched a brow. “Do you? Then act like it. You’ve wallowed long enough.”

The scathing tone returned—curt, unforgiving. Familiar.

“Even you should be able to grasp this. Why do you think I’m here?”

Harry hesitated. The air had grown colder. He felt it prickling along his skin.

“To help me learn to master my thoughts,” he said.

Snape tilted his head. “And?”

Harry faltered. The tension coiled in his chest again.

“I’m trying,” he whispered.

Snape stepped in close. His voice was low, cutting like steel through fog.

“Try harder.”

Harry met Snape’s eyes. His heart pounded; his throat was dry. The pressure bore down on him—unrelenting, heavy—but he knew it. This was how Snape had always been. Not gentle. Never kind. But honest, in his own cruel way. Demanding. And, somehow, always pushing Harry forward.

Perhaps that had been the point all along.

Harry’s gaze shifted. He hadn’t meant to look, not directly. But his eyes found Sirius, and once they had, they wouldn’t look away.

He was there—still, silent, fallen. As though caught in the very moment he’d vanished beyond the Veil. That last breath of defiance still clinging to his features. But the Veil hadn’t taken him home—it had dropped him somewhere else. Somewhere colder.

Harry knelt, knees sinking into mist that wasn’t quite ground. His hand reached out on instinct.

“Sirius,” he whispered, barely more than a breath.

The touch of fabric beneath his fingers—cold. Empty. The silence rang louder than a scream.

There were no words in his godfather’s face. No grin. No bark of laughter. No reckless spark. But the ache in Harry’s chest said everything. Sirius had been wild and wounded and brave. Uncompromising. Fiercely his.

“You said once… that the ones we love never really leave us,” Harry murmured. “I’ve tried to believe it. I still do.”

He didn’t know what comfort meant anymore. Not really. But Sirius had brought it—once. In letters. In firelit whispers. In the rough, clumsy love of someone who hadn’t known how to be gentle, only loyal.

“I wouldn’t have made it without you,” Harry said. His voice broke. “I just wish I’d had more time.”

A tear slid down his cheek, warm against the cold air.

“I’m all right now,” he said softly. “You don’t need to worry.”

The words were heavy in his mouth. But they felt like a door closing.

He bowed his head.

Until we meet again, Padfoot.

When he looked up, his eyes found them—Lupin and Tonks. Side by side. As though sleep had simply taken them, not war.

It undid him all over again.

So many names. So many faces. Dumbledore. Fred. Dobby. Each one a scar beneath the skin.

He remembered how the castle felt after Lupin left—emptier, colder. As though something steady had gone with him. At the time, Harry hadn’t known what it meant. Now, he did.

“Thank you,” he said. “For being the kindest person I ever knew. For always doing the right thing, even when it hurt.”

He thought, oddly, of chocolate. The way Lupin would offer it—quietly, gently, like it mattered. It had. More than Harry had understood at the time.

“And you, Tonks…” His throat tightened. “I wish Teddy could’ve known you both.”

His heart folded inward, every loss a fresh bruise.

Then—movement.

In the corner of his eye: a shimmer. Shapes. Faint. Distant. But watching.

Real? Perhaps not. But Harry chose to believe they were.

He looked back at the graveyard.

Gone.

The bodies had vanished like breath on glass, like mist beneath the sun.

Panic flared. He turned sharply to Snape. “They’ve disappeared.”

Snape didn’t move. His expression was unreadable as ever.

But then—just briefly—his mouth twitched. Not a smirk. Not quite. Something smaller. Quieter. Almost… human.

And somehow, it was enough.

Something inside Harry shifted. Not the air—but him. As though a thread had unknotted. As though the burden had rearranged itself. Snape’s posture hadn’t changed—but his eyes…

His eyes were different.

And in them, Harry saw it.

Not approval. But something like pride.

Then Snape spoke.

“It is time for me to leave.”

The words fell with strange weight.

Harry’s stomach twisted. “Leave?” he echoed, barely able to say it.

“My purpose here is fulfilled,” Snape replied. His voice, so often cutting, was quiet now. Even. Final.

Harry wanted to argue, to ask something—anything—but nothing came. The moment was slipping again. He could feel it. The ground beneath this place—this space between things—was beginning to shift.

Snape didn’t offer comfort. He never had. But his gaze stayed steady. As though he saw something Harry couldn’t yet.

“There is someone else who wishes to see you,” Snape said.

Harry’s breath caught. “Who?”

There was no answer.

Snape held his gaze for a heartbeat longer. Then turned.

He didn’t vanish. He simply wasn’t there anymore.

And Harry stood alone.

The emptiness cut sharper now. Not pain, exactly. Not grief. Just the echo of something left unsaid.

“Thank you,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse. The words slipped into the mist and were gone.

Then—movement.

Two shapes.

Slow, forming. Blurred as smoke. But familiar.

He stared. His chest ached.

He knew them.

Didn’t need names. Didn’t need confirmation. Something inside him already understood.

The stillness around him deepened, expectant. Waiting.

His heart thudded—not with fear, but with a longing that was older than memory.

He took a step forward.