FicWad

Harry felt a sinister shift within himself—a disquieting unease that seemed to choke the light inside him. Darkness enveloped him, closing in from every angle and leaving him adrift in a vast expanse of blackness. His chest constricted as he strained to see through the dense shadows, overwhelmed by a growing fear.

Lost in this dark void, Harry had no recollection of how he had ended up in this eerie silence, where the only sound was the chattering of his teeth against the sudden chill. Disoriented in the emptiness, he frantically waved his hand, desperate to find any source of light, but encountered only a profound sense of isolation with no hope in sight.

With a heavy heart, Harry closed his eyes, trying to escape the oppressive darkness. His mind raced with questions, the fog of confusion clouding his thoughts and blurring his memories. He yearned for something, someone, just beyond his reach, tormented by the urge to remember his forgotten past. Struggling to hold onto fleeting glimpses of recollection, he sought a familiar face to guide him back.

Trying to calm his frantic heartbeat, Harry took deep breaths, piecing together what had brought him to this terrifying moment. Faint images of himself holding a basilisk fang flickered in his mind, yet the memory remained elusive. Had he sacrificed himself, or was this the beginning of a chilling nightmare?

A wave of dread washed over him as he recalled the chilling warning from his spectral counterpart—a choice between erasing his own existence or accepting an alternate reality. Suddenly, a surge of clarity hit him as memories of his friends Hermione, Ron, and Ginny flashed before his eyes.

“NOOO!” Ginny’s scream shattered the tense silence. Ron froze like a statue, confusion etched on his face. Hermione was melted into despair, her cries muffled by her trembling hands.

But as the rest of the world faded into a blur, Harry’s focus honed in on the sinister figure, pulling the basilisk fang tighter in his grip. Strengthening his resolve, he was moments away from striking when suddenly, a delicate net of shimmering silvery strands ensnared him. They swept through the air like gossamer, wrapping around him with an eerily tender touch.

As the silvery magic brushed against his skin, a rush of memories cascaded through his mind—a tidal wave of moments that defined his existence. They clouded his vision and tore at his concentration, uprooting him from the present and thrusting him into his past.

Harry remembered the first time he met Ron and Hermione on the Hogwarts Express, their faces lit with innocent curiosity. But as he lingered on that warm remembrance, it twisted into a chaotic memory of battling a troll in a deserted bathroom, raw panic blooming anew as he grappled with his past self.

“Merlin, what is happening?” he thought desperately.

Before he could wrestle with the whirlwind of images, he found himself sitting in the Gryffindor common room, glancing quizzically at Ron. “What is a wizard’s duel? And what do you mean, you’re my second?”

Ron shrugged nonchalantly, “Well, a second’s there to take over if you die.” Laughter had erupted in the memory, so carefree and naive, filling Harry with a pang of longing.

Just as quickly, the memory shifted. A younger Hermione charged toward him with open arms, her eyes shimmering with earnest admiration. “Harry—you’re a great wizard, you know,” she had said, each word landing with the gravity of a heartfelt affirmation.

The boy in those memories looked bewildered, fumbling for the right response while battling his own self-doubt. He remembered how he had mumbled back, “I’m not as good as you.” He could almost hear Hermione’s retort echoing in his mind: “There are more important things—friendship and bravery—”

As Harry blinked, the memory faded, giving way to another—a flying car soaring through the clouds, Ron beside him laughing uproariously. Freedom thrummed in their youthful hearts, a friend’s laughter immortalised in the crisp air. Then an abrupt shift sent Harry back to the chaos of his adolescence; he was gulping down a potion that transformed him into Goyle. A wave of nausea crested through him.

In rapid succession, the memories unfolded, each more intense than the last. Harry gasped as scenes morphed into the immense basilisk slithering ominously on the floor. His younger self, battered and bloodied, was helping a terrified Ginny. Just as the climax neared, the vision dissolved, pulling him into another.

Harry held his breath, caught in the joyous celebration of a Quidditch victory, his younger self aglow alongside Ron and Hermione, laughter spilling endlessly that night in the Gryffindor common room. He could feel the warmth of friendship and triumph, those fleeting moments of pure happiness etched deep in his heart.

Yet, amidst the mingling memories, an overwhelming realisation dawned on him—these strands of nostalgia were not just glimpses of his past but conduits connecting him to his friends, elevating their shared journey. Each moment was cocooned in laughter and peril, yet threaded together by connection and love.

As the rush of emotions threatened to consume him, Harry’s thoughts crystallised. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had never been mere bystanders in his story; they were the heartbeat beneath his most cherished experiences. They had shared his struggles, his laughter, and most importantly, the weight of triumph over despair.

In a fleeting moment, Harry shifted his focus, and in the corner of his eye, he spotted them—Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—confined behind shimmering, ethereal bars that pulsed with a strange, luminescent light. Their faces were a mixture of desperation and determination, gesturing wildly as though trying to extract some ethereal thread of memory to send back to him.

A wave of guilt surged within Harry, a tide that threatened to drown him. He felt unprepared to receive their pleas, their unspoken words clanging against the metal of his heart. He wanted to respond—to assure them, to hasten towards them—but their frantic expressions locked him in place. Were their sacrifices truly necessary?

As Harry watched the unfolding images, his mind was flooded with memories of the steadfast support Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had provided throughout his trials and tribulations. They had stood by him through every challenge, reliving the battles they faced together—from fighting dragons to weathering his impulsive decisions before they spiralled out of control.

Harry deeply valued loyalty and solidarity, as evidenced by the unwavering support he received from his friends Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Whether they were practicing spells for the Triwizard Tournament or tackling the mysteries of underwater survival and Horcrux destruction, his friends steadfastly stood by his side.

Despite the grave dangers they faced, their shared sense of humour and camaraderie forged a strong bond that carried them through difficult times. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny went to great lengths to protect Harry, even breaking school rules and risking punishment. Their loyalty to Dumbledore’s Army was unshakeable, demonstrated through their unwavering dedication and personal sacrifices.

Their wise counsel on matters of the heart and education played a crucial role in shaping Harry’s decisions and keeping him on the right path. The fact that a parallel version of Harry cherished this friendship speaks volumes about its profound significance in his life.

During moments of distress, Hermione and Ginny offered Harry silent comfort and support, their presence and unwavering backing providing the reassurance he needed to face his fears and uncertainties with courage. Their unspoken understanding reinforced the strength of their bond.

But what haunted him were the moments he had struggled to grasp—times when laughter had turned to silence when confusion became a familiar foe. He remembered glancing into the mirror during the second task. His reflection still looked like him, but the spark in his emerald eyes was dim, encumbered by doubt and disconnection. It was as if he was slipping between realities, caught in a web that blurred the lines of who he was and who he had been.

Despite his longing to recall specific memories, Harry encountered obstacles, as if his past experiences had been altered or blocked. The confusion surrounding his former life raised questions about his true identity and the authenticity of his relationships with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Doubts and uncertainties clouded his mind, prompting him to ponder the nature of his existence in this altered reality. Was it a mere illusion or a cruel trick of fate, teasing him with a semblance of happiness he could never truly attain? The sudden appearance of everything he desired left him wondering if it was all a facade, designed to remind him of what he could never truly grasp.

Harry stood on the precipice of his fate, the air thick with uncertainty as his friends gazed at him, eyes filled with desperation and hope. Hermione’s tears glistened in the dim light, reflecting the weight on their shoulders. “Please...” she had pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper. “The memories you saw were all real. You’ve had an incredible impact on our lives—we couldn’t have done it without you. Many see you as a symbol of hope, especially for us. Please, never forget that.”

Harry felt the warmth of their support wrap around him, but doubt clawed at the edges of his mind. The future he had glimpsed loomed like a ghostly shadow, and the enigmatic figure before him cast a pall of uncertainty over everything. The figure’s lack of emotion only intensified Harry’s fears, the weight of choice pressing heavily on his heart.

Ron’s quiet voice had broken through his thoughts, grounding him for a moment. “We don’t want to go on if you’re not around, mate.” Harry felt a warmth fill his chest, a flicker of belief igniting against the darkness, threatening to snuff it out.

“I will never lose faith in you, Harry.” Ginny’s words were a balm to his fraying soul. Her gaze locked with his, holding a promise that transcended the chaos of their present reality. He was not alone; he never had been.

But then, the figure’s voice broke the spell, a chilling reminder of the choice he faced. “The decision lies in your hands—erase me from existence, or live the life you saw instead.”

Harry’s resolve wavered as confusion descended. The memories of laughter, battle, and a triumphant future flashed before his eyes. Yet standing before him was a tangible threat, a reminder that every choice bore consequences. The basilisk fang felt heavy in his hand, and an eerie force tingled at his fingertips.

As if conjured by a reflex, his arm jerked upwards, raising the fang above his head against his will. Panic erupted within him. His heart raced, pounding in tune with the names of his friends whispered in his mind—Ron, Hermione, Ginny. He had to act quickly; the decision lay just within the grasp of his choices.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice cut through the haze, her eyes wide and pleading. A moment stretched before him, where the weight of existence bore down like a leaden shroud.

Tightening his grip, Harry shut his eyes, seeking comfort in the memories of his friends, the adventures they had shared, and the bonds that had forged their destinies together. With his heart pounding, he plunged the fang deep into his chest.

An explosion of blinding fever swept through him, tearing through his senses. The world warped and twisted, colours melding into grotesque shapes while screams clawed at the silence. His own voice echoed in the void, a haunting contrast to the love suspended in the warmth of his memories.

As the pain consumed him, Harry was lost in a whirlwind of sensations—blinding light, crimson darkness, agonising emptiness. Each gasp felt like the last, reduced to a fragmented memory as he tumbled into the abyss. Despite the excruciating agony coursing through his veins, Harry clung to the images of Ron’s unwavering loyalty, Hermione’s fierce intellect, and Ginny’s comforting strength.

But even as he fought against the dark tide, they began to fade, slipping like grains of sand through his fingers. The faces he cherished blurred, melded into the shadows that enveloped him. There was no turning back, no escape from the pain that roared within him with an animalistic fury.

As he released one final strangled scream, Harry felt the weight of the world he had fought to protect slip from his grasp. The last tenuous strand connecting him to his friends broke, and he was drawn into the icy void, the darkness swallowing him whole.

Confused and bewildered, Harry found himself questioning the strange ritual he and his friends had performed at the Burrow. The outcome was nothing like he had anticipated. As he slowly opened his eyes—or so he thought—all he encountered was pitch-black darkness. Panic surged as he reached out, his fingers grasping only the void. A horrifying realisation dawned upon him: his physical form had vanished. He was merely a soul adrift, trapped in a perplexing limbo.

Harry shut his eyes tightly, desperately whispering to himself that this had to be a delusion. Yet, the sensations of emptiness and weightlessness were too palpable, too real to dismiss. It was as if the very fabric of his being had unravelled, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. The stillness pressed against him like a heavy fog, and he felt an alien chill seep through him. He wasn’t just alone; he was forgotten.

In a sudden shift, solid ground rushed beneath him, jolting his senses. His heart pounded in a chaotic rhythm of anticipation and dread. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, bracing for the unknown. At first, his surroundings seemed malleable and indistinct, but with each blink, they sharpened into focus. To his astonishment, he felt his body return—his hands tangible and visible, solid once again.

Before him, tombstones began to emerge from the foggy horizon, standing sentinel in solemn rows against an eerie landscape. Harry stumbled forward, drawn by an invisible thread towards a kissing gate that loomed at the cemetery’s entrance. Pushing it open, the rusty hinges creaked in the quiet night, and he stepped inside. Moonlight drenched the ancient graves, casting long shadows as he ventured deeper into the graveyard.

An unsettling mix of apprehension and excitement welled inside him as he walked, navigating between clusters of headstones. Memories flickered like ghosts in his mind. Each step resonated like a heartbeat, echoing his invisible struggles. Just as he began to embrace the eerie semblance of safety, he turned a corner and froze.

A heavy shroud of dread enveloped him as a small church loomed before him, shadowed by a massive yew tree, an old house perched ominously on the hillside to his left. Recognition hit him like a wave, crashing onto the shores of his consciousness. This was ground he had traversed in nightmares— the place where Voldemort had reclaimed his power. The memories surged: the graveyard, the ritual, the cryptic resurrection that had changed everything. He never wanted to return here.

Not far away stood the statue of the Angel of Death, its skull-like visage hauntingly familiar, a skeletal hand raised high, clutching a scythe that seemed to drink in the moonlight. A chill trickled down his spine, igniting old fears he thought were long buried. He felt the weight of history and pain pressing against his chest, squeezing the breath from him.

Struggling to steady his trembling limbs, Harry fought back the tide of second thoughts that threatened to drag him down. He was here for a reason, he reminded himself, a flicker of determination igniting amidst the chaos of his thoughts. Pushing aside the memories of loss, he sought clarity amid the encroaching shadows. This place, heavy with sorrow and tales left unfinished, offered answers—but at what cost?

The sight of Cedric Diggory’s lifeless body on the ground sent Harry’s heart racing until his legs betrayed him, collapsing beneath the unbearable weight of grief. He staggered forward, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the cool, still form of his friend. Cedric’s grey eyes were blank; they had once held so much promise, so much life, and now they looked out into nothingness.

The third task maze was supposed to be the culmination of triumph, not despair. Hot tears spilt down Harry’s cheeks. How could it come to this? How could he have been so powerless?

But fate had not finished with him yet. It thrust forth more horrors—the fallen bodies of Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks surfaced in his mind, their light extinguished too soon. Gasping for breath, Harry felt a tight band of anguish wrap around his chest, squeezing so tight that he thought he might burst. He yearned for them—to wrap them in his arms and tell them how deeply sorry he was for the sacrifices they had made on his behalf.

Then, another one materialised before him, sending shockwaves through his very soul: Fred Weasley. No longer laughing, no longer teasing his brothers. Slumped lifelessly amid the ruins, and every single line of Harry’s conscience screamed out against the injustice of it all. “Why didn’t I do something?” he sobbed, the weight of responsibility crashing down, maddeningly relentless.

The abyss seemed to grow around him, and as he looked about, more familiar figures lay still—the stoic gaze of Dobby, the commanding presence of Sirius, the wise sparkle of Dumbledore, the fierce loyalty of Mad-Eye Moody, the prickly intensity of Severus Snape, and even the sweet innocence of Hedwig, his beloved owl. Each one of them had sacrificed so much for him, and now their empty bodies spoke volumes of the price paid. “I would trade anything… anything for one more chance… one more word… one last goodbye,” he whispered into the deafening silence.

Harry’s heart raced, and with every shallow breath, guilt washed over him in tumultuous waves. Why was he still alive when so many others had been taken? The world felt twisted, cruel. Collapsing to his knees, it felt only right that he should meet his end, just as they had.

Then, just as shadows threatened to swallow him whole, a voice pierced through the darkness—a whisper so soft and familiar that it made his heart leap: “Harry.”

His breath caught in his throat. Scanning the terrain, he sought the voice’s origin. Following an ethereal glow from an open door, he approached cautiously, compelled by an unseen suggestion. As he inched closer, a figure materialised from the gloom, clad in flowing robes that danced gently as if caught in an unseen breeze.

“Snape?” he gasped, incredulity coursing through him.

Snape turned, that same disdainful twist forming on his lips, mirroring the expression Harry remembered all too well. Time felt suspended—the agony of memories crashing against the present moment. The thought struck him like ice: Could this mean he was dead if he was seeing Snape again? He struggled to push away the disturbing thoughts that were plaguing him. After all, he had witnessed Snape’s lifeless body lying among the casualties of the battle. Surely, this had to be a trick of his mind.

“You’re not real,” he muttered, the words catching in his throat. “This must be a dream.”

Yet Snape’s dark gaze pierced through the fog of despair, anchoring Harry in that space. “I am merely a memory,” Snape replied, the weight of his words pulling at the seams of Harry’s unravelling mind.

Harry felt a wave of confusion wash over him, struck by the stark contrast between Snape’s presence and the memory of Tom Riddle from the enchanted diary. Could it be possible that Snape, too, harboured a fragment of Voldemort’s soul, akin to a Horcrux? With a mix of anxiety and apprehension, Harry cautiously regarded his former teacher, silently pondering the implications of Snape’s cryptic revelation.

“Are you saying you’re a—?” Harry’s voice trailed off, swallowed by the uncertainty that hung between them.

Snape’s interruption was decisive and sharp. “Absolutely not.” His words sliced through Harry’s confusion like a wand casting a spell, direct and layered with an unexpected finality. The heat of their past resentments loomed silently, but here, amidst memories that defied time, they bore no relevance.

“Memories hold great significance, Potter,” Snape continued, his tone solemn yet overarching like a spell woven with purpose. “They give life meaning and purpose. Have your friends shared their memories with you?”

At this, an unsettling realisation began to gnaw at Harry. His stomach churned as he remembered Ron and Hermione’s trusting exchange of memories, vibrant recollections of laughter and heartache. He had absorbed them like a sponge soaking water but hadn’t reciprocated. The weight of their trust pressed down on him.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice barely a whisper. Regret folded over his heart like a heavy cloak. It was a truth that felt painfully one-sided.

Snape’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no anger there, only an understanding born from a life enveloped in secrecy. “Those memories are vital, Potter; they are links to your history. You stand here now because of them.” His voice was unyielding, slicing through the haze Harry often cloaked himself in.

In the silence that stretched between them, the air hummed with tension and a strange camaraderie neither could name. Harry sensed Snape’s words weighed more than mere instruction; they were a life vest thrown into turbulent waters. Yet, the impact still left Harry grappling with himself.

“However, you possess a unique ability,” Snape went on, almost contemplatively, “to react impulsively to protect yourself. This instinct shapes your interactions, often creating walls that obscure understanding.”

Harry furrowed his brow, a mix of irritation and introspection swirling within. The same biting criticisms that had echoed through his school days still held merit, reminding him of the lessons Snape had reluctantly imparted, hidden within layers of scorn. Scratching his head in thought, Harry tried to dismiss the nostalgia creeping in. Yet he couldn’t ignore the familiarity—the fiery conversations mingled with tense moments of unspoken respect.

“Potter, you managed to retrieve their memories, didn’t you?” Snape’s question hung heavy, pulling Harry’s attention back.

Nodding, Harry felt the remnants of Ron’s laughter and Hermione’s courage brush against him in ephemeral warmth. But uncertainty lingered; his mind still buzzed with questions seeking clarity.

“Memories hold immense power,” Snape continued, unfurling more of the riddle that had brought them together once more. “Your viewing of my memories acted as a catalyst for my presence now. Do you grasp the significance?”

As Harry mulled over that declaration, a deeper revelation flooded his thoughts. Snape, the man he had once feared and loathed, had displayed an undeniable courage, an unyielding sacrifice. A strand of respect pulled tighter around his heart.

“This realm, these memories—they have intertwined our fates,” Snape explained, his voice layered with uncharacteristic warmth. “Your curiosity led you here, unwittingly drawing me into your thoughts.”

Amusement flickered in Harry’s chest. The harshest of instructors had set him on a path toward understanding, a truth he had fought to deny. Despite the years spent in resentment, one undeniable fact remained: Snape’s lessons transcended mere scorn.

Harry pondered the connection between them. Was it merely a legacy, a neutral tie stamped with regret, or something deeper—a mutual acknowledgment? Snape had pushed him beyond his limits, inadvertently teaching him valour dressed as cruelty.

“Why do you haunt me, Snape?” he finally asked, heart pounding in his chest.

“Perhaps because there are lessons still to be learnt,” Snape suggested, his expression inscrutable yet faintly contemplative. “And perhaps you must learn to see beyond the surface.”

Harry gazed at Snape, his expression neutral. “What do you mean?” he asked. The shadows around them seemed to deepen, clinging to the lifeless bodies scattered like discarded dreams. Each face, once brimming with life, now held a finality that made the air feel heavy.

Snape, standing with an ethereal poise typical of his stoic demeanour, glanced at the grim tableau before returning his piercing gaze to Harry.

“It seems you’ve found yourself in another uncontrollable situation,” Snape remarked dryly.

Harry’s heart clenched. With a dread as familiar as it was unwanted, he acknowledged that luck had saved him before. Still, from the depths of his chest, an unsettling truth twisted around him—he felt utterly trapped.

Snape paused, allowing the weight of the moment to settle as he surveyed the bodies of Harry’s loved ones. “You understand what this means, don’t you?” he asked, his voice resonating with an echo of something deeper, more significant.

Blame surged through Harry’s thoughts like a dark tide. He’d carried that weight for far too long; he had already replayed every decision, every moment where he could have acted differently—and yet, here they were. With furrowed brows, he turned back to Snape, his frustration mounting. “I still don’t understand.”

A glimmer of annoyance crossed Snape’s face, as if Harry’s confusion was an inconvenience he had grown weary of. “Unsurprising. I shouldn’t have expected you to grasp any of this. But that’s what sets you apart, Potter.” With a disdainful flick of his wrist, Snape strolled towards his own lifeless body, his movements fluid yet ghostly.

Ignoring the insult, Harry focused on Snape’s contemplation of their surroundings, his mind racing in search of clarity.

“This is an illusion, Potter,” Snape said, his tone taking on a sombre gravity. “You must resist it and focus on what truly matters.”

Harry blinked, the word ‘illusion’ stirring something profound within him. “Are you saying you’re not real?” Confusion wove through his words like a tangled vine, part of him hoping this was all a dream he could wake from.

“No, that is not the case,” Snape clarified, looking almost insulted. “As I mentioned, I am a memory, not a figment of your imagination.”

Harry closed his eyes, feeling the memories swirl. It struck him—a white room, Dumbledore! But doubt nudged at him, leaving his curiosity only partially satisfied. “Sir, was it Dumbledore who sent you here?” he asked, hope flickering in his heart.

Snape’s eyebrows arched, a flicker of something resembling interest sparked in his eyes. “And what leads you to believe that?”

Harry hesitated, trying to sift through the chaos of his thoughts. “After Voldemort’s Killing Curse, I had a surreal encounter with Dumbledore, which I thought would be the end for me. That conversation felt as strange and ethereal as this one with you, considering you’ve both passed away.”

“Indeed,” Snape replied, acknowledging Harry’s reasoning. “It’s plausible that Dumbledore exists as a memory within your subconscious. His impact on your life and his genuine care for you may have left an enduring mark. You have delved into his memories before, haven’t you?”

Harry reflected deeply, recalling the haunting recollections of Tom Riddle that Dumbledore had shared during their clandestine meetings. A connection through shared memories—was that the key? With hesitance, yet determination, he knew he had to approach Snape, compelled by an urgent need to understand the man whose life had been intertwined with his own in unremarkable ways.

“Does your presence mean you care about this too?” Harry questioned cautiously, his voice barely a whisper against the weight of the moment.

Snape’s sombre, dark eyes held his gaze, contemplative yet guarded, as if weighing his very soul on Harry’s words.

Harry hoped against hope that Snape might finally declare what he had long felt trapped beneath layers of shields and barbs. But as silence coiled around them, a fear loomed—would he ever receive compassion from the man who had spent so long in dungeon walls of icy indifference?

After what felt like aeons within an ethereal limbo, Snape exhaled slowly, the resolve in his voice an unexpected release. “Yes.”

Harry could hardly reconcile the man before him with the figure who had always been shrouded in controversy, yet today, Snape did not wear the mask of disdain that had marked their past encounters. Instead, there was a sombre correction in his expression, one that led Harry to recognise the profound weight of what they were confronting together.

“This is a test, Potter,” Snape said, his voice heavy with the gravity of knowledge. It was not an invitation to endure pain unchallenged but a command to embark on a journey toward release. “You face the heavy burden of guilt weighing on your conscience, preventing you from moving forward.”

“The apparitions you see are manifestations of your sense of responsibility for their deaths,” Snape continued. “This guilt traps you here, unable to break free. You must learn to forgive yourself and release this burden to progress.”

“Why?” Harry questioned softly, his voice tinged with uncertainty. “I don’t see how I can let go of the fact that their deaths were my fault. It’s too hard to accept.”

“Holding on to this guilt will only harm you further,” Snape advised sternly. “You need to control your mind, as I taught you in occlumency, to prevent past traumas from dictating your present emotions. Are you saying you are still vulnerable, unable to master your own feelings?”

“No,” Harry replied firmly. “I am stronger now than I used to be.”

“Then prove it!” Snape demanded, fierce and icy. “Accept that their deaths were not your doing. Acknowledge that they sacrificed themselves for a greater cause, not solely for you. Why are you allowing yourself to be consumed by these negative emotions?”

“But can’t you agree that none of this would have happened if Voldemort had not acted on the prophecy?” Harry argued.

“In that case, you are not to blame for their deaths, Potter,” Snape assured him. “Voldemort set these events in motion; the responsibility lies solely with him. You must understand that you are not at fault for this tragedy.”

“If I wasn’t born, they would still be alive,” Harry muttered under his breath, a sense of dread enveloping him.

Snape stepped closer, the unspoken weight of both scrutiny and empathy clouded in his eyes. “You fail to appreciate the sacrifices made for you. Consider the feelings of others, not just your own. Life is not always about you.” Sighing, Snape added, “Unlike you, they do not allow themselves to be consumed by self-pity.”

The statement struck Harry harder than any spell could, drawing blood from the tender places within him. Regret twisted in his stomach like an uncoiling serpent. “I’m sorry,” he managed finally, but the words felt futile and inadequate in the face of Snape’s coldness.

“Regret is of little use to me now,” Snape retorted, watching Harry squirm beneath the intensity of his gaze. Yet there was a newfound softness buried within the depths of his eyes, tempered with the awareness of shared pain. “If you truly wish to prove yourself, learn to control your emotions.”

Harry nodded, the sting of Snape’s words piercing through him. “I understand, Professor.”

“Understanding is merely the first step, Potter,” Snape said, an edge still lingering in his tone. “But true progress will come through actions, not words. All you do is complain. Even someone with your limited intelligence should comprehend the reason for my presence here. Remind me, why did I choose to reveal myself to you at this particular moment?”

“I believe it was so that I could learn to master my thoughts,” Harry replied nervously, feeling the weight of Snape’s piercing stare upon him.

“And have you made any progress in that regard?” Snape demanded, his sharp eyes boring into Harry’s very soul, causing the young wizard to feel increasingly anxious and uncomfortable.

The tension crackled in the air, making it increasingly difficult for Harry to focus on anything but that repulsive intensity. Yet, with a deep breath, he reminded himself that Snape’s unpleasant demeanour was nothing new.

Shifting his attention, Harry’s heart clenched as his gaze fell upon Sirius Black’s lifeless body. Frozen in time, the shock and fear etched on Sirius’ face reflected the last moments of a swirling chaos within the Veil—a haunting doorway to the unknown. Harry’s heartache was intense; a heavy stone lodged in his chest as he gazed into his godfather’s void-like eyes, now devoid of life and warmth. Though Sirius had faced the darkness and emerged scarred, he had once taught Harry that resilience could reclaim light from shadows as long as one held on to hope.

“You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us?” Sirius had once asked, his voice carrying a weight of wisdom. Harry clung to those words, illuminated by a flicker of hope that shimmered even as the darkness threatened to consume him. Overcoming the shadows of grief wasn’t easy, but it was a journey he was willing to embrace.

With resolve, Harry placed a gentle hand on Sirius’ cold arm. “Sirius,” he murmured, “I hope you know I couldn’t have made it through those darkest days without you. The time we spent together was short, but you brought me comfort and support. I am truly grateful for everything you did for me. Rest assured, I am in a better place now, and you no longer need to worry about me.” A tear rolled down Harry’s cheek, a mix of sadness and relief in his heart. Though he would miss Sirius immensely, Harry took solace in the belief that his godfather had finally found the happiness he deserved, reunited with James and Lupin in a place of eternal peace and joy.

Until we meet again, Padfoot.

His gaze drifted to Lupin and Tonks, lying still and silent, and a wave of guilt crashed over him. The memory of their lifeless forms intertwined with the loss of Dumbledore, Dobby, Fred, and so many others, constricting his throat as sorrow consumed him. It was a weight that made it difficult to breathe.

Suddenly, Harry was reminded of the day Lupin had left his post at Hogwarts—a gentle loss that had instilled a sense of desolation in Harry’s heart. Without Lupin’s comforting presence, he had felt adrift; the thought of losing him forever was unbearable.

“Thank you for being the greatest teacher and friend I’ve ever had,” Harry whispered, wiping away the tears that threatened to spill. In his mind’s eye, he imagined Lupin offering him chocolate, a familiar remedy for sorrow, just as he had done during cloudy school days. “I will forever remember our time together, your kindness, and understanding that you both showed me until the end. Your sacrifices, especially as new parents, will always be more honoured than you can imagine.”

As he blinked away the tears, Harry thought he saw ghostly figures of Lupin and Tonks in the distance, watching over him with affection. But was it real, or merely the manifestation of his grief-stricken imagination?

His eyes scanned the lifeless forms laid before him one last time, each whisper directed at the void. Though he knew they couldn’t hear him, a quiet wish hovered in his chest, optimistic that his words might somehow reach them. “I’ll see you all again in time,” he breathed, his voice quivering, on the verge of breaking.

In that moment of profound sorrow, Harry imagined how his lost friends would react, conjuring their spirits amidst the oppressive silence. He could almost picture Dobby, approaching him with a warm cup of tea, tenderly wiping away his tears with a concerned expression, and the boisterous Mad-Eye Moody echoing his infamous phrase, “Constant vigilance!” as if even in grief, none could escape his fervent awareness. Fred’s spirit would surely concoct a whimsical gesture—a humorous toilet seat that would bring back laughter, laughter that seemed lost to the shadows.

Silently, Harry watched as the bodies before him slowly faded away into nothingness. Frantically looking around, his eyes landed on memory-Snape, who remained present even though the others had vanished.

“They’ve disappeared,” Harry said, his voice tinged with anxiety, the tremor revealing his vulnerability. To his surprise, Snape’s lips curled into a small, almost imperceptible smile in response, simultaneously mystifying and comforting.

In that fleeting moment, Harry felt something shift within him—a flicker of understanding that perhaps Snape was more than just a shadow from his past. The professor’s eyes glimmered with an unusual light, one that betrayed pride as he gazed intently at Harry. “It is time for me to leave as well,” Snape stated, the gravity of his words sinking deep into Harry’s heart.

Panic surged through him at Snape’s declaration, his worried expression deepening. “Leave? But—” confusion was evident in his voice.

“My task here is complete,” Snape asserted, his voice steady and resolute. “But there is someone else who wishes to meet you.”

“Who is it?” Harry asked, anxiety lacing his words, a knot tightening in his stomach. The emptiness around them felt oppressive, and he yearned for clarity, for understanding.

Snape’s silence hung heavily in the air, his gaze fixed on a distant point with a look of contentment and longing, as if he were gazing across a horizon only he could see. Turning to follow Snape’s line of sight, Harry squinted into the distance and spotted two blurred figures slowly materialising in the dark void. They were familiar silhouettes, yet in this ephemeral space, their faces remained shrouded in shadow. A spark of recognition washed over him, though he couldn’t quite place them.

“Are they—” Harry’s words trailed off as realisation flickered at the edge of his consciousness. He turned back, desperate to share this moment with Snape, but found that the professor had vanished, leaving only the quiet emptiness behind.

Regret gnawed at him, fierce and unrelenting, as he realised he had missed the chance to express the gratitude that surged within him. “Thank you,” he murmured softly, the words echoing in the dark expanse, swallowed by silence.

Heart racing, Harry faced the two figures, a mix of hope and apprehension swirling within him as he prepared for what awaited.