Forbidden Forest
2 May 1998 — Just past midnight
The air was cold in the Forbidden Forest that night, damp with mist and filled with the low rustle of unseen creatures. Ancient oaks creaked overhead, their branches forming a canopy so thick that even the pale moonlight struggled to penetrate it.
Harry James Potter walked alone.
Each step sank into the loamy earth, the sound muffled by centuries of fallen leaves and the hush of trees that had witnessed more death than any living thing should. The castle and the battle behind him felt impossibly far away already — though he could still hear the echoes bouncing off the stone walls: the crack of spells splitting the air, the screams of the wounded, the desperate shouts of orders being called across the courtyard.
But here, surrounded by the forest's embrace, the loudest sound was silence.
His hand trembled slightly as he pulled the Golden Snitch from his pocket. The metal was warm against his palm, as if it had been waiting for this moment, storing up heat and purpose for seventeen years. His emerald eyes, bright even in the darkness, stared down at the tiny wings that had once danced just out of his reach.
I open at the close.
He stopped at the edge of a small clearing where wildflowers had somehow managed to bloom despite the encroaching darkness of the war. His shoulders, broader now than they'd been at eleven but still carrying too much weight for someone barely eighteen, squared as he swallowed against the hard lump in his throat.
"I'm ready," he whispered into the darkness, and his voice cracked on the second word.
The Snitch's wings fluttered once, then stilled. It opened.
Inside, nestled like a secret, lay a tiny black stone. No bigger than his thumbnail, dull and unremarkable to anyone who didn't know better — except for the way it seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat, thrumming against his palm as if it recognized him.
His fingers, scarred from years of Quidditch and close calls, closed over it carefully. He turned it once. Twice. Three times.
The forest... changed.
The mist seemed to thicken, taking on weight and substance, and then they were there.
His mother appeared first, stepping out of the shadows between two silver birches as if she'd been waiting there all along. Her red hair caught what little light filtered through the canopy, burnished copper against the darkness, and her green eyes — so like his own — were bright with unshed tears but fierce with pride. She looked exactly as she had in every dream, every memory, every desperate wish: twenty-one and beautiful and so alive it took his breath away.
"Hello, sweetheart," Lily said softly, her voice carrying that warm note that had somehow lived in Harry's bones even when he couldn't remember her face.
"Mum." The word fell from his lips like a prayer.
His father materialized next, tall and lanky with that same untidy black hair that had defied every attempt at taming. His glasses sat crooked on his nose, and there was ink staining his fingers as if he'd been interrupted in the middle of writing something important. James Potter grinned at his son — that lopsided, trouble-making grin that Harry had inherited along with his father's capacity for noble stupidity.
"There's my boy," James said, his voice rough with emotion. "Look at you. All grown up and still getting into impossible situations."
"It's a gift," Harry managed, and was surprised to find himself almost smiling.
Sirius stepped out of the darkness next, and Harry's breath caught. His godfather looked younger here, the lines of Azkaban erased from his face, his dark hair falling into gray eyes that sparkled with mischief even now. He wore that leather jacket he'd favored, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and when he looked at Harry there was so much love and regret and fierce protectiveness that Harry had to look away.
"Well, well," Sirius drawled, though his voice was softer than usual. "Little Harry Potter, walking into the snake's den. Can't say I'm surprised."
"You taught me everything I know about bad decisions," Harry replied, and Sirius barked out a laugh.
"Guilty as charged, pup."
Remus emerged last among the Marauders, pale and tired-looking but standing straighter than Harry had ever seen him in life. There was something peaceful about him here, as if the wolf had finally quieted, as if the long war with himself was over. His amber eyes were warm and proud, and when he smiled it was with that gentle understanding that had always made Harry feel less alone.
"Hello, Harry," Remus said quietly. "You've grown into quite the young man."
"Professor," Harry said, then shook his head. "Remus. I—I'm sorry. About Tonks. About Teddy. I should have—"
"No." Remus's voice was firm but kind. "You should have done exactly what you did. You gave Teddy a world where he can grow up free. That's all any parent can ask for."
And then, stepping through the mist like she was walking through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room, came Hermione.
She looked exactly as she had that morning when she'd kissed him goodbye before the battle — wild brown curls framing her face, her eyes bright with intelligence and determination and something deeper that had taken Harry far too long to recognize. She wore her Hogwarts robes, and there was still dirt on her hands from where she'd helped reinforce the castle's defenses. The cut on her lip from where Fenrir had struck her down was barely visible now, just a thin line that somehow made Harry's chest tight with rage and grief.
"Harry," she said, and her voice held everything he'd never had the chance to hear her say.
She moved toward him without hesitation — always did, always had, from the moment she'd fixed his glasses on the Hogwarts Express — and wrapped her arms around his neck. Harry buried his face in her shoulder, breathing in the scent of parchment and mint toothpaste and that indefinable something that was purely her.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I'm so bloody sorry, Hermione. You should be alive now, arguing with professors and reorganizing the library. You should be—"
"Hey." She pulled back just enough to cup his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing away tears he didn't realize he was crying. "None of that. We both knew what we signed up for."
"Did we?" Harry asked desperately. "Because I don't think I knew. I don't think I understood what I was asking you to give up."
Hermione smiled then, that brilliant smile that had always made him feel like maybe he wasn't such a lost cause after all.
"You didn't ask me to give up anything," she said firmly. "I chose. We all chose. We chose you, and we chose each other, and we chose to fight for something better. I regret a lot of things, Harry Potter, but loving you isn't one of them."
"Merlin, she's still lecturing you even now," Sirius said with fond exasperation. "Some things never change."
"Some things shouldn't," Lily said softly, watching her son with eyes full of understanding.
Harry looked around at all of them then — this impossible, beautiful, broken family that had taught him everything worth knowing about love and loss and the courage to keep going when everything seemed hopeless.
"You know what I have to do," he said quietly.
"We know," James replied, his voice steady. "And we know why. You're protecting everyone you love. Just like your mother did. Just like all of us would do."
"The prophecy—"
"Bugger the prophecy," Sirius interrupted with characteristic bluntness. "This isn't about some dusty prediction, Harry. This is about you choosing to save everyone else, even if it costs you everything. That's who you are."
"That's who we know you to be," Remus added gently.
"All of us," Hermione said, taking his hand. "Every lesson, every adventure, every time I stood by you — it was all leading here. To this choice. And you're making the right one."
Harry squeezed her fingers, memorizing the feel of her hand in his.
"I used to imagine," he said quietly, "what it would be like. After the war. I thought maybe we'd get a flat in London, something small and terrible that you'd immediately start reorganizing. You'd go back to school, finish your N.E.W.T.s properly, probably get twelve Outstanding marks just to prove a point."
"Only twelve?" Hermione asked with mock indignation, and Harry laughed despite himself.
"You'd become a barrister," he continued. "Or maybe work for the Ministry, fixing all the laws that are complete rubbish. And I'd... I don't know. Maybe become an Auror. Or a teacher. Something normal."
"You were never going to be normal, love," Lily said with gentle amusement. "Normal is overrated anyway."
"We'd have had Sunday dinners," Harry went on, his voice getting softer. "All of us. Ron would complain about Hermione's cooking experiments, and she'd throw things at him, and Ginny would referee while trying not to laugh. And maybe... maybe someday..."
He trailed off, unable to finish.
"Children," Hermione said softly, understanding. "You were thinking about children."
"A little girl with your hair," Harry whispered. "And a boy who'd be just as trouble-prone as his grandfather."
James grinned. "Now that would be something to see."
"They'd have been extraordinary," Lily said firmly. "Just like their parents."
"Would have been," Harry repeated, tasting the bitter weight of those words.
"Hey." Sirius stepped forward, his expression serious now. "Don't you dare diminish what you're doing here, Harry. You're giving up everything — your future, your happiness, your chance at that normal life — to save everyone else's. That's not a tragedy, pup. That's heroism."
"It's what love looks like," Remus added. "Real love. The kind that sacrifices everything without counting the cost."
"Your mother would know," James said quietly, reaching out to touch Lily's hand.
Harry looked at them all again — really looked, trying to memorize every detail. His father's crooked glasses and ink-stained fingers. His mother's fierce green eyes and the way she held herself like she was ready to take on the world. Sirius's cocky grin that couldn't quite hide the depth of his affection. Remus's gentle strength and quiet wisdom. And Hermione, brilliant, beautiful Hermione, who looked at him like he was worth dying for.
"Will you stay with me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Until the very end," Lily promised.
"And beyond that," Hermione added firmly. "Always, Harry. You'll never be alone again."
Harry nodded, straightened his shoulders, and took a deep breath that tasted of earth and growing things and the promise of dawn still hours away.
"Right then," he said, and his voice was steadier now. "Let's get this over with."
They fell into step around him as he started walking deeper into the forest. James on his right, tall and steady and so proud it radiated from him like heat. Lily on his left, her hand hovering near his arm as if she wanted to touch him but knew she couldn't, not really. Sirius ranging ahead like a scout, even now looking for threats to neutralize. Remus keeping pace beside him, a quiet, comforting presence. And Hermione, walking so close that Harry could almost feel the warmth of her, her fingers still intertwined with his.
"You know," Sirius said after they'd walked in companionable silence for several minutes, "when I imagined my godson's greatest moment, I pictured something with more style. Maybe a dramatic duel on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Definitely better lighting."
"Sorry to disappoint," Harry said dryly.
"Oh, you're not disappointing anyone," James said firmly. "Trust me on that."
"Although," Hermione said thoughtfully, "from a strategic standpoint, walking directly into Voldemort's camp does seem a bit... direct."
"That's our Harry," Remus said with fond amusement. "Subtlety was never his strong suit."
"Hey," Harry protested weakly. "I can be subtle."
"You once sent a Hungarian Horntail to deliver a message," Hermione pointed out.
"That was one time!"
"You broke into the Ministry of Magic," Sirius added helpfully.
"You destroyed a Horcrux with a basilisk fang in front of half the school," James contributed.
"You punched Draco Malfoy in third year," Remus said mildly.
"Multiple times," Hermione corrected.
"All right, all right," Harry said, and despite everything, he was almost smiling. "I get it. I'm not subtle."
"We love you anyway," Lily said warmly, and Harry felt something loosen in his chest.
They walked on, through groves of ancient trees and over streams that whispered secrets to the night. The forest was alive around them, but it felt less threatening now, as if even the darkest creatures recognized that something sacred was happening here.
"Do you remember," Hermione said suddenly, "first year, when we were looking for the Philosopher's Stone?"
"You mean when we nearly got eaten by Fluffy?" Harry asked.
"Before that. When we were trying to figure out what was hidden in the third-floor corridor. You said something that night, in the common room."
Harry frowned, trying to remember. "What did I say?"
"You said that some things were worth dying for." Hermione's voice was soft but certain. "You were talking about stopping Voldemort from getting the Stone, but... I think you understood even then. That someday, it might come to this."
"Clever as always," Harry murmured.
"It's one of the things I love about you," she replied simply.
They crested a small hill, and through the trees ahead, Harry could see the faint glow of a fire. His steps slowed involuntarily.
"Scared?" Sirius asked, and there was no judgment in his voice, only understanding.
"Terrified," Harry admitted.
"Good," James said firmly. "Courage isn't about not being scared. It's about being scared and doing the right thing anyway."
"Your father's right," Lily said. "Being afraid just proves you understand what you're risking. What you're protecting."
Harry nodded, then looked at Hermione. "I wish we'd had more time."
"We had enough," she said, though her voice was thick with tears. "We had seven years of friendship, and a war fought together, and a love that changed everything. Some people don't get even that much."
"I wish I'd told you sooner," Harry said desperately. "I wish I'd been braver about that, at least."
Hermione smiled through her tears. "You told me when it mattered. Right before the battle, when you thought you might not come back. That was brave enough."
"I love you," he said again, because it felt important to keep saying it, to fill whatever time they had left with the words he'd wasted so many years not speaking.
"And I love you," she replied. "Forever, Harry. That doesn't change just because... just because everything else does."
The glow ahead was getting brighter. Harry could make out shapes now — figures moving around the fire, the bulk of what might have been a makeshift camp. His heart hammered against his ribs, but his steps didn't falter.
"Remember," Remus said quietly, "you're not just Harry Potter walking to his death. You're James and Lily's son. You're Sirius's godson. You're the boy who saved the Philosopher's Stone and freed a house-elf and faced dragons and dove to the bottom of a lake to save people he cared about. You're the man Hermione Granger fell in love with, and that alone should tell you everything you need to know about who you are."
"You're our boy," Lily added, her voice fierce with pride. "And we couldn't be more proud."
Harry straightened his spine, lifted his chin, and walked forward to meet his fate.
Behind him, five shadows followed — the family he'd found, the family he'd lost, the family that would always be with him, no matter what came next.
The Boy Who Lived walked toward death surrounded by everyone who had taught him what it meant to truly live.
And he was not afraid.
—
The clearing pulsed with malevolent energy, torchlight casting dancing shadows that made the assembled Death Eaters look like demons summoned from the depths of hell itself. Ancient trees loomed at the edges of the circle, their branches twisted into gnarled fingers that seemed to reach toward the cruelty unfolding beneath them.
Hagrid was bound to the largest oak, thick ropes cutting into his massive frame. His wild hair was matted with blood, his coat torn, but his beetle-black eyes still blazed with defiant fury. Even captured, even beaten, he looked like a force of nature barely contained.
"Yeh think this makes yeh strong?" he bellowed, his voice carrying across the clearing like thunder. "Tyin' up an unarmed man? Hidin' behind yer masks like the cowards yeh are?"
The Death Eaters surrounding him laughed, but there was an edge to it, a brittleness that suggested Hagrid's words hit closer to home than they'd like to admit.
"Shut him up," one of them snarled, raising his wand.
"Let him speak," came a voice like silk over steel. "Let him waste his breath on empty words."
Lord Voldemort glided into the center of the clearing, and the very air seemed to grow colder. He was tall and serpentine, his pale skin stretched taut over sharp bones, red eyes burning like embers in a skull-like face. When he moved, it was with predatory grace, each step calculated and precise.
His followers parted before him like a dark sea, their masks gleaming in the torchlight. Some lowered their heads in deference, others watched with barely concealed hunger, all of them thrumming with malevolent anticipation.
"My dear Hagrid," Voldemort said, his voice a whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the clearing. "Still so... loyal. Still so foolishly optimistic."
Hagrid spat, missing Voldemort's robes by inches. "He'll come," he growled. "Harry Potter's worth ten of yeh, yeh snake-faced bastard!"
Voldemort's lipless mouth curved into something that might have been a smile if it weren't so cold. "Oh, but that's where you're wrong, my large friend. Harry Potter is worth... exactly nothing."
The Death Eaters erupted into laughter, harsh and cruel.
"Nothing but a frightened boy!" one called out.
"Hiding like a rat in the walls!" another jeered.
"Probably halfway to France by now!"
Voldemort raised one skeletal hand, and the laughter died instantly. The silence that followed was somehow worse than the noise, thick with menace and barely restrained violence.
"No," he said softly, his red eyes gleaming with terrible certainty. "He will come. You see, Harry Potter suffers from a most inconvenient affliction."
He began to pace, his robes billowing behind him like wings.
"Courage," he continued, spitting the word like a curse. "That ridiculous, self-destructive notion that one must sacrifice oneself for others. It is his greatest weakness... and it will be his doom."
Hagrid strained against his bonds, the ropes creaking ominously. "Yeh don' understand him at all, do yeh? That's why yeh'll lose. That's why yeh've already lost."
Voldemort stopped pacing, his head tilting like a snake considering whether to strike. "Lost? My dear Hagrid, look around you. Your precious Order is scattered, your school is conquered, your students flee before my followers like leaves before a hurricane. How, exactly, have I lost?"
"Because yeh still don' get it," Hagrid said, his voice dropping to something almost like pity. "Yeh never will. That's what makes yeh weak."
The temperature in the clearing seemed to drop another ten degrees. Several Death Eaters stepped back unconsciously as Voldemort's magic pressed against them like a physical weight.
"Weak?" Voldemort's voice was barely audible, but it carried the promise of unspeakable pain. "Perhaps you'd like to elaborate on that fascinating theory while I slowly peel the skin from—"
"Actually," came a new voice, clear and steady in the darkness, "I think he's got a point."
Every head turned as one.
And there, walking calmly into the circle of torchlight as if he were strolling through Diagon Alley, was Harry Potter.
He looked older than his eighteen years, battle-worn and weary, but there was something unbreakable in the set of his shoulders, something fierce and bright in his emerald eyes. His dark hair was wild as always, falling across his forehead to partially hide the famous scar. His clothes were torn and dirty, his hands scratched and bleeding, but he walked with the easy confidence of someone who had faced death too many times to be impressed by it anymore.
The Death Eaters recoiled instinctively, several raising their wands before remembering their orders. Whispers rippled through their ranks like wind through dead leaves.
"It's him..."
"Potter..."
"He actually came..."
Hagrid let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a roar. "Harry! No! Yeh shouldn' have come! Yeh need ter run!"
But Harry wasn't looking at Hagrid. His eyes were fixed on Voldemort, and though no one else could see them, he wasn't alone.
To his right walked a man with wild dark hair and grey eyes that sparkled with mischief even in death. Sirius Black moved with predatory grace, his mouth quirked in that reckless grin that had gotten him into trouble his entire life.
"Well, well," Sirius murmured, his voice carrying that aristocratic drawl mixed with genuine affection. "Look at you, walking into certain death with style. I'm so proud I could cry. If I weren't, you know, dead."
To Harry's left strode James Potter, tall and lean with unruly black hair that defied all attempts at order. His hazel eyes were warm with love and fierce with pride as he watched his son face down the monster that had destroyed their family.
"That's my boy," James said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "Look at you. All grown up and ready to save the world. Your mother and I... we're so proud of you, Harry."
Behind them walked Lily Potter, her red hair flowing like fire, her green eyes – so like Harry's – blazing with maternal love and protective fury. She moved with quiet determination, one hand hovering just over Harry's shoulder as if she could shield him from what was coming.
"My brave boy," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "My beautiful, brave boy. You don't have to be afraid. We're here. We're all here."
Beside her, Remus Lupin walked with that familiar slight limp, his face bearing the scars of a lifetime of transformations but his amber eyes gentle and steady. Even in death, he radiated that quiet strength that had made him the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher Harry had ever had.
"You're ready," Remus said simply, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "You've always been ready, Harry. You just needed to believe it."
And closest of all, her bushy brown hair catching the spectral light, walked Hermione Granger. Her brown eyes were bright with unshed tears, but her face was set with determination. She moved as if she were still alive, her presence so vivid that Harry could almost feel the warmth of her hand in his.
"I love you," she whispered, her voice steady despite the tears. "Whatever happens, remember that. You are so loved, Harry Potter. So very loved."
Harry stopped just inside the ring of Death Eaters, close enough to see the shock and hunger in their eyes, close enough to smell the fear-sweat beneath their dark robes.
Voldemort stared at him for a long moment, his red eyes drinking in every detail as if Harry were a puzzle he was finally solving.
"Ah," he breathed, his voice like silk over razor blades. "The Boy Who Lived. At last."
Harry said nothing, but his green eyes never wavered from Voldemort's face.
"Tell me, Harry," Voldemort continued, beginning to circle him like a shark scenting blood, "was it difficult? Leaving your friends to face their deaths alone? Abandoning those who trusted you to save them?"
"They're not alone," Harry said quietly, his voice carrying clearly in the sudden stillness. "They never were."
Voldemort's circling stopped. "How wonderfully... optimistic. But tell me, where are these friends now? Where is your precious Hermione Granger? Your loyal Ronald Weasley? Are they here to witness your final moments?"
Harry's jaw tightened, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he looked directly at Voldemort, and for just a moment, something like pity flashed in his emerald eyes.
"You really don't understand, do you?" he said. "Even now, even after everything, you still don't get it."
Voldemort's expression darkened. "Enlighten me."
Harry glanced around the circle of Death Eaters, taking in their masked faces and raised wands, before returning his gaze to Voldemort.
"Love," he said simply. "That's what you don't understand. That's what you've never understood."
Several Death Eaters snickered, but Voldemort held up a hand for silence. When he spoke, his voice was deadly quiet.
"Love," he repeated, tasting the word like poison. "That useless sentiment that led your parents to their deaths? That drove your godfather to throw his life away in my Department of Mysteries? That weakness that has brought you here to die?"
"That strength," Harry corrected, stepping forward despite the wands now trained on him from every direction, "that saved me as a baby. That's protected me every day since. That's standing with me right now."
Voldemort laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Standing with you? Look around, Harry Potter. You are alone. Abandoned. Forsaken by those you sought to protect."
"No," Harry said, and his voice rang with absolute certainty. "I'm not."
He could feel them all around him: Sirius's reckless courage, his father's unwavering love, his mother's fierce protection, Remus's quiet strength, Hermione's brilliant warmth. They were more real to him than the Death Eaters, more present than the torches, more alive than the man who had murdered them.
"I'm not alone," he repeated, louder now. "I'm never alone. That's what you can't understand. That's what makes you weak."
Voldemort's red eyes blazed with fury. "Weak? I, who have conquered death itself? I, who command armies and bring nations to their knees? You dare call me weak?"
"Yes," Harry said without hesitation. "Because for all your power, all your magic, all your followers... you're still just a man so afraid of dying that he tore his soul apart to avoid it. And you're still alone."
The clearing erupted.
Death Eaters surged forward, wands raised, curses on their lips, but Voldemort's voice cut through the chaos like a whip crack.
"STOP!"
They froze, trembling with barely contained violence.
Voldemort raised the Elder Wand slowly, savoring the moment. The wood gleamed in the torchlight, and Harry could see the anticipation in every line of the Dark Lord's body.
"You want to speak of love, Harry Potter?" Voldemort whispered. "Then let me show you what love has earned you. Let me demonstrate the true value of that weakness you treasure so highly."
Harry closed his eyes, feeling Hermione's phantom hand slip into his, hearing Sirius's whispered encouragement, feeling his mother's love wrap around him like a shield.
When he opened his eyes, they were calm, accepting, unafraid.
"Do it," he said quietly.
Voldemort's smile was terrible to behold. "With pleasure."
He raised his wand higher, and the words fell from his lips like a judgment from on high.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The world exploded into brilliant green light, and Harry Potter fell to the forest floor, surrounded by love, wrapped in courage, and utterly, completely unafraid.
In the sudden silence that followed, Hagrid's anguished cry echoed through the trees:
"HARRY! NO!"
But Harry heard none of it. He was walking toward a different light now, toward five figures waiting for him with open arms, their faces shining with pride and love and welcome.
He was going home.
—
Harry awoke on his back, on something smooth and hard that felt like polished stone.
For a long moment he simply lay there, breathing in air that was oddly crisp and clean — cleaner than he'd ever known. There was no pain in his body anymore, none of the bone-deep exhaustion of battle, no ache in his ribs from where spells had struck him. His clothes… were fresh, too. He sat up and glanced down to see himself dressed in a simple, perfectly pressed Hogwarts uniform — though the colors were somehow muted, as though he were looking at the world through a veil.
His glasses were gone. He brought a hand to his face instinctively, but his vision was clear, sharper than it had ever been.
The place around him was quiet.
Too quiet.
King's Cross station — or something that looked very much like it — stretched out in all directions, gleaming white marble underfoot and impossibly high glass arches above. There was no soot, no litter, no bustling crowd. It was all too clean, too perfect. A station stripped of life.
Harry got to his feet and looked around. His footsteps echoed faintly, swallowed almost instantly by the vast silence.
There was no one here.
No trains.
No announcements.
No voices.
Nothing but light and emptiness and the faint smell of polished stone.
And then — a sound.
A faint, wet sort of whimpering, coming from somewhere to his left.
He turned toward it, and his stomach turned over.
Beneath one of the long benches lay a creature.
It was small — no bigger than an infant — but its limbs were thin and twisted, its skin raw and red, flayed-looking. It shivered violently on the cold marble, its breath coming in shallow, rasping gasps.
And its face —
Harry froze.
The creature's face was unmistakable.
Voldemort.
Or rather, something that had been Voldemort. The features were sunken and distorted, but those snake-like slits for nostrils, those faintly glowing red eyes peeking out through barely formed lids — they were burned into Harry's memory.
The thing whimpered again, a pitiful sound, and its clawed little hands scrabbled weakly at the floor.
Harry felt his heart twist in his chest, a strange mixture of revulsion, pity, and sorrow rising inside him.
He took a slow step closer.
Then another.
But before he could reach the bench, a voice behind him spoke, calm and clipped, but undeniably feminine.
"Well. I suppose you've done better than most."
Harry spun around.
Standing there on the platform, watching him with faint amusement, was a woman.
She was old — that much was clear — but carried herself with such stately confidence that Harry immediately thought of Professor McGonagall, though sharper somehow, and colder. Her hair was swept up into an elaborate bun streaked with silver, and she wore a perfectly tailored robe that looked suspiciously like something a Ministry official might don for a hearing. Every inch of her radiated authority — the sort of person who could reduce Uncle Vernon to a stammering mess with a single raised brow.
Her lips curved in a faint, knowing smile as she caught him staring.
Harry found his voice.
"Who… are you?"
The woman clasped her hands behind her back, as though conducting an inspection.
"Who do you think I am, boy?" she asked coolly.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Are you… are you Death?"
That earned him a snort of amusement.
"No. Hardly. You'll meet him later if you stick around long enough. No, child — I am something quite different."
She stepped closer, her gaze sweeping over him in a way that made Harry feel like she was seeing through his skin, right down to the soul beneath.
"You've carried a piece of Him inside you for so long," she murmured, with an almost clinical sort of pity. "And yet… here you still stand. Remarkable."
Harry straightened, meeting her piercing eyes. "Then who are you?"
The woman's smile sharpened, just enough to show teeth.
"I," she said, inclining her head ever so slightly, "am Mother Magic."
Her voice carried in the vast empty station like a verdict pronounced by a judge.
Harry blinked at her, momentarily lost for words, his heart hammering.
"Mother… Magic?" he echoed.
"Indeed," she said smoothly, her eyes glinting like steel under the false sunlight. "And you, young Mr. Potter… you and I have quite a bit to discuss."
And before Harry could find a reply, the world seemed to shift around him — the station stretching and warping like glass under heat — and everything went white.
---
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