"Daphne."
Daphne opened her eyes, not knowing when she had fallen asleep.
Perhaps it was from being too heartbroken, or maybe because too much had happened today.
She was in the Constellation Society Chamber, and it felt as if she had just heard John's voice.
She glanced around.
A dull thud against the table drew her gaze.
There, a bottle sat.
She walked over and picked it up. Inside, a crimson liquid swirled.
The starlight on the dome above brightened. Daphne reached out her hand.
In her palm, the starlight condensed, forming into a small crystal vial.
Looking at the two bottles now before her, she suddenly remembered what John had whispered in her ear that day.
"When two shades of red appear, you must mix them together."
She tightened her grip on the bottles, uncorked the crystal vial, and poured the faintly fragrant blood into the other bottle.
Red merged with red, swirling like a vortex, condensing and scattering within.
The searing heat burned a layer of skin from Daphne's slender fingers.
"Urg.."
She did not let go, gripping the bottle tightly.
Through the crystalline surface, the blood within seemed to blaze like fire.
Gradually, the burning shape shifted, condensing into a beautiful bird.
...
The ghosts of Hogwarts seemed to have been touched by sorrow.
Not a single one could be seen today.
On ordinary days, they were never this quiet.
The Slytherin candles had not gone out. The students wandered outside, each holding a candle.
Round and round they walked in circles, as if mourning the passing of their king.
After death, everyone would come to love you.
Even Gryffindor set aside old prejudices—for his bravery had once won over the lion.
Hufflepuff recalled how sometimes that boy could be found in the kitchens, where the house-elves sang his praises.
Ravenclaw lowered their lofty pride, sighing for his wisdom and talent.
Snape stood at the doorway, his expression shadowed and unreadable.
Professor McGonagall walked over, words catching in her throat.
Wreath after wreath was laid out in the entrance hall.
But Snape's thoughts were also pulled elsewhere.
"Dumbledore already knows. He's gone there," Snape said calmly.
McGonagall, of course, knew where. What she hadn't expected was that at such a moment, Harry would be the one in trouble.
So she asked, "Aren't his friends coming?"
John Wick's friends—this was the second blow for them.
McGonagall feared most of all that these children might not be able to bear it.
Snape's face was half-hidden by his hair, his tone even. "They're staying in that room."
The existence of the Constellation Society was no longer a secret. Everyone simply acknowledged that mysterious room.
Just like the Room of Requirement, it was another of those hidden pieces that made Hogwarts what it was.
Years later, perhaps some reckless young wizard would stumble upon that room, learning of the Constellation Society that had once been part of Hogwarts.
The centaur Divination professor, Firenze, came out, his heart heavy with confusion.
What he had read in the stars—this was not how it was meant to be.
But this only proved that even the most skilled centaur could have a day of miscalculation.
Professor McGonagall sighed. "Lift curfew for tonight. Let this be the last day."
They should have left the school not long ago, but no one had.
So curfew could be loosened for just one day.
"I imagine our caretaker will find it agreeable as well."
Professor McGonagall looked toward the entrance hall, where Filch was clutching Mrs. Norris, lost in thought.
Mrs. Norris was unusually quiet today, her fluffy tail brushing gently against Filch's arm.
He cradled her and walked back to his office.
Without the Weasley twins around, there was no longer any fear of dungbombs being hurled inside.
The room was much tidier now. Chains and shackles, which he tended to daily, still hung neatly in place.
On his desk sat two boxes. He walked over and opened them.
"Wonderful.. he's even sent you a bundle of cat food, and me a new suit," Filch said to Mrs. Norris.
Inside the room lay a new tailcoat and packets of cat food.
The only one who would send gifts to Hogwarts' universally disliked caretaker, Argus Filch, was that boy.
That was also the only time in all these years he could open a box without worry and eat what was inside.
The only one who had ever treated a Squib as an equal was that boy.
Filch set Mrs. Norris down and poured her a bowl of the cat food.
He sat there, holding the box with the tailcoat inside.
For some reason, he suddenly felt as though he couldn't hold himself together any longer.
As a Squib shamelessly clinging to life in a school of magic, he had lived despised by all, hating the wizards who could wield magic, wishing he could torment them in return.
What kept him going was the faint hope that "maybe one day, in a magical school, I might suddenly learn magic."
He had long grown used to being hated by the students, living only with the companionship of his cat.
But then, a student appeared.
From his very first year he caused trouble, got himself into detention, and never once feared him.
He would groom Mrs. Norris, share dried fish he had brought with that cat everyone else despised.
At Christmas, the only gift Filch ever received came in a box signed with that student's name.
The boy had brought ice cream—his favorite flavor.
When he had seen Filch's letter confessing he was a Squib, he hadn't sneered or spread it around the school.
He never mocked him for overestimating himself by training his body—how could a Squib ever compare to a wizard?
Instead, he gave him, for the first time, the feeling of using magic.
It was a pair of shoes, enchanted with strange magic, that let a Squib run faster than a wizard.
He would lend him a hand, rather than deliberately tossing filth in the corridor just because the loathsome caretaker was there.
That student still broke the rules, but by then, Filch no longer minded.
On the contrary, running into each other at night and pretending not to see one another became its own sort of amusement.
And then, suddenly, it was... all gone.
From now on, there would be no gift boxes delivered at Christmas, no Mrs. Norris returning from a visit with her fur soft and smooth.
Was he really supposed to go on, spending his days locked in a battle of wits with those "rotten students"?
He was tired.
All at once, unbearably tired.
Filch looked at the chains and shackles he had once dreamed of using to punish students.
But now, they felt meaningless.
With a furious yank, he tore them down, sending them clattering to the floor in a crashing heap.
After smashing everything down, he simply lay there on the floor, letting things be, whatever they might.
...
The Great Hall.
At this moment, it was completely empty.
Except for John, lying amidst the flowers, not a soul was there.
No one dared disturb the eternal rest of Slytherin's king.
In Daphne's hand, she gripped the blood-red potion tightly, its scorching heat making it feel as if her palm might melt away.
She walked up to John, tears brimming in her eyes, and gently stroked his cheek.
"Remember our promise, John," she whispered, lifting the vial to his lips.
A black owl and a white owl flew into the hall, perching by his peaceful face.
They were like Huginn and Muninn from the old myths, ever by his side.
Daphne poured the entire vial into John's mouth, then stepped back, pressing her hands together with a devotion she had never felt before. "Please, John… remember our promise. Come back."
The liquid slid down John's ravaged throat, seeping into a stomach left almost unrecognizable.
Within the black blood, a trace of red appeared, igniting a spark.
In barely three seconds, it flared into a wildfire, engulfing his entire body.
The flames spread outward.
First his body, then the coffin, then the staff table, and finally, the entire Great Hall...
...
The Death Chamber.
Harry stared at the archway, certain now that the voice was coming from within.
But why?
Why did his scar hurt so badly?
Could Voldemort be inside?
He edged closer to the archway. The tattered veil swayed soundlessly, looking soft, almost beckoning.
Just as Harry was about to touch it, a furious shout rang out.
"Harry, get back!"
His arm was yanked sharply, someone dragging him back with force.
He looked up—Sirius.
Sirius had rushed forward, braving the risk of Bellatrix's curse to reach him.
The mist began to clear, and Harry's mind snapped back into focus.
Blood streamed down Sirius's nose as he dragged Harry toward the exit.
Suddenly, a jet of red light shot toward them. Sirius shoved Harry aside, tumbling onto the dais himself, ducking the spell with a laugh.
"That's not your best, cousin!" he jeered.
Harry saw Bellatrix's manic grin—then another streak of light struck Sirius square in the chest, cutting his laughter short.
"NOOO!!!"
Sirius reeled backward, the smile still ghosting his lips, but his eyes blown wide with shock.
Harry lunged, desperate to grab him, but it was too late.
Sirius's body arched into a graceful curve as he fell, in Harry's eyes unbearably slow, slipping back into the tattered veil that hung from the archway.
That once-handsome face, now gaunt and worn, was etched with a mixture of fear and surprise—yet when his gaze met Harry's, it softened into release, into relief.
"James..."
"The hell you James-ing for?"
Behind the veil, firelight flared.
Thwack!
A boot slammed hard into Sirius's ribs, hurling him back out through the arch, his body flying more than ten meters across the chamber.
________
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