The air in the Gryffindor boys' dormitory usually smelled of toasted bread and wet wool. Tonight, it smelled like betrayal.
I stood in the doorway, my breath catching in a throat that felt like it was full of dry glass. The evening sun was bleeding a bruised purple through the high windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the floorboards. In the center of that light stood Ron.
He didn't look like my best friend. He looked like Dudley on a sugar crash—face flushed a mottled red, hair standing up in frayed tufts. My trunk, the only piece of furniture in the world that was truly mine, had been dragged into the center of the room. Its lid was wrenched back so far the hinges groaned.
"How did you do it, Harry?" Ron spat. He didn't even look up. He was tossing my socks, my spare robes, and my parchment onto the floor in a heap. "The cloak? Some dark artifact you got from Sirius?"
"Ron, stop," I said. My voice was low, practiced. It was the voice I used when Uncle Vernon was looking for someone to blame for a broken vase. "It wasn't me. You are making a mistake!"
"The only mistake was thinking you'd actually share the glory!" Ron roared. He reached deep into the trunk and pulled out the heavy, leather-bound book. My heart stopped. It was my photo album—the only connection I had to the parents he still had the luxury of taking for granted.
"Afraid for this?" Ron sneered. He didn't wait for an answer. With a violent jerk of his arm, he hurled it toward the open window.
"No!"
I lunged, but I was too slow. I watched the silhouette of my parents' smiling faces vanish into the cold evening air.
A coldness settled over me then. It wasn't the hot, shaky anger I'd felt during the Triwizard selection. It was the old coldness. The Little Whingling coldness. The realization that the people who are supposed to protect you are often the ones holding the matches.
"Get out," Ron growled, stepping toward me. He was taller, broader, and fueled by a righteous, misplaced jealousy. "You think you're so special. The Boy Who Lived. The Champion. You cheated your way in and didn't even give me a hint. You aren't a Gryffindor. You are no friend. You're just a liar."
"I didn't put my name in that cup, Ron. I don't care for glory. And you know it."
"Liar!"
His fist came out of nowhere. It caught me square in the jaw, a dull thud that echoed in my skull. I stumbled back, the copper taste of blood blooming on my tongue. It wasn't the first time I'd been hit, but it was the first time I felt the magic under my skin sizzle in response—not with a bang, but with a sharp, focused needle of intent.
"Get your trash and get out of this tower," Ron threatened, gesturing to the scattered remains of my life. "Before I throw the rest of it after the book."
I looked at him—really looked at him. I'd spent three years playing the easy-going friend, the boy who needed help with his Transfiguration homework, the kid who was just happy to be included. I'd played the idiot because idiots aren't perceived as threats.
But as I wiped the blood from my lip, the mask didn't just slip. It shattered.
"Fine," I said, my voice eerily calm. "You want the fame, Ron? You want the spotlight? You can have the whole damn theater."
I pulled my wand. Ron flinched, his eyes widening, but I didn't point it at him. I pointed it at my trunk.
"Reducio."
The heavy chest shrunk until it was the size of a matchbox. I tucked it into my pocket. I didn't look at the other beds, or the posters, or the room that I had once called home.
"I'm leaving," I said, stepping toward the door. "But remember this moment, Ron. Because from here on out, you're going to get exactly what you deserve."
I turned my back on him and walked into the shadows of the spiral staircase. I had a photo album to find, a house-elf to meet, and a world to stop being polite to.
---
The stone of the castle felt colder than usual as I descended the spiral stairs. My jaw throbbed where Ron's fist had connected, a rhythmic reminder that the "Golden Trio" was a lie I'd finally stopped telling myself.
I didn't head for the Common Room. I didn't want Hermione's logic or her pity. She meant well, but she saw the world through the ink of textbooks, not the bruises of reality. She didn't understand that sometimes, the only way to survive was to stop being the person everyone expected you to be.
"Dobby," I whispered into a dark alcove near the kitchens.
With a soft crack, the small elf appeared. His large, tennis-ball eyes were already brimming with tears as he looked at my face.
"Harry Potter is hurt! Bad Master Weasley has struck the great Harry Potter!"
"Quiet, Dobby. It's okay," I said, though my voice was tight. I reached out, and for the first time, I didn't treat him like a curiosity or a project for S.P.E.W. I treated him like a friend and ally. "I need a place. A place where no one can find me. Not the Headmaster, not the teachers, and definitely not the 'friends' who think they own me."
Dobby's ears quivered. He took my hand, his skin like warm parchment. "Dobby knows, Harry Potter. The Come and Go Room. It provides what is needed."
He led me to a blank stretch of wall on the seventh floor. I closed my eyes, pacing three times, my mind screaming for peace, privacy, and the truth.
When the heavy oak door materialized, I stepped inside and gasped.
The room was vast, yet strangely intimate. Above me, the ceiling was a mirror of the Great Hall's enchanted sky—a velvet expanse of midnight blue, pinpricked with the silver fire of a thousand stars. A massive stone fireplace crackled in the center, flanked by deep, leather armchairs that looked far more comfortable than anything in the Gryffindor tower.
"Dobby," I said, sinking into one of the chairs. The warmth of the fire began to leach the chill from my bones. "Ron threw my photo album out the window. Please... can you find it? Before the rain or the lake gets to it?"
"Dobby will find, Harry Potter! Dobby will not let the memories be lost!" With another crack, he vanished.
I sat alone in the silence. It was the first time in years I felt like I could breathe without someone observing me for a newspaper article.
I looked up at the stars. The wizarding world thought I was their savior, their mascot, or their favorite villain of the week. They thought because I grew up in a cupboard, I would be grateful for the scraps of affection they threw me. They thought I was easy to lead because I was quiet.
They forgot that the quietest person in the room is usually the one who sees the most.
The door opened again. Dobby was back, clutching the leather-bound album to his chest. It was damp, a few pages ruffled, but it was whole. He placed it on my lap with the reverence of a priest handling a holy relic.
"Thank you, Dobby," I whispered, tracing the gold lettering on the cover.
"Harry Potter is a great wizard," Dobby squeaked softly. "He should not be playing the fool for those who do not see his heart."
I looked at the fire, then at the empty parchment sitting on a nearby side table. Dobby was right. I'd spent too long playing the part of the "accidental hero" who just stumbled into things. If the world wanted a Champion, maybe it was time I gave them one—just not the one they were expecting.
The "Confundus" idea from Moody—or whoever was wearing his face—echoed in my mind. A simple Confundus could have fooled the Goblet. If magic could be fooled into a contract, surely it could be fooled into an oath.
The silence of the Room of Requirement was thick, broken only by the rhythmic crackle of the logs in the hearth. I stared up at the enchanted stars, my fingers tracing the damp leather of my parents' album.
It was funny, in a twisted sort of way. Ron wanted the spotlight, but only if it came with a script he liked. Hermione wanted to be the smartest person in the room, but only within rules. And the Ministry? They just wanted a circus, and I am the lion that conveniently occurs to boost their earnings.
I'd even suggested it—back in that stifling room with the Goblet. Just let us do three tiny tasks in a corner, like playing chess, I'd pleaded. Give the 'real' champions the glory. But no. The "Binding Magical Contract" was the ultimate conversational shut-stopper.
"A Binding Magical Contract," I muttered, my eyes narrowing. "Apparently a simple Confundus can fool it."
If a hunk of old gold could be tricked into believing I was a fourth school, what else could magic be tricked into believing?
I sat up, a slow, predatory grin spreading across my face. I reached for a fresh roll of parchment and a quill. I felt the weight of my wand in my hand—the holly and phoenix feather that had supposedly "chosen" me. It was time to see if we could do more than just disarm people.
I laid the parchment flat. I focused every ounce of my frustration, my irritation with the Dursleys, and my sheer exhaustion with Ron's jealousy into my wand.
"Confundo!" I whispered, the spell hitting the parchment with a faint, silvery shimmer. The paper seemed to ripple for a second, looking slightly dazed, if parchment can look dazed.
I began to write, my hand steady and elegant in a way I usually hid from the professors.
"I, Ronald Bilius Weasley, swear on my magic that I am a Muggle. Otherwise, my hair and skin color shall be the same as that of Draco Malfoy for eight hours."
I stared at the words. It was a paradox. Ron was a wizard, so the oath was technically a lie the moment it was "signed" by the magic I'd tricked. If the Confundus worked, the magic would try to reconcile the lie by triggering the penalty.
I held my breath and looked into a tall, silver-framed mirror the room provided. My messy black hair was still black. My eyes were still green. No blonde transformation for me.
"Dobby?" I called out, my voice shimmering with newfound mischief.
The elf appeared with a pop, his ears twitching. "Yes, Harry Potter, sir?"
"Could you... go check on the Gryffindor Tower? Specifically, see if Ron has had any sudden changes in... style?"
Dobby vanished. Few minutes passed. I was starting to think I'd just wasted a perfectly good piece of parchment when a loud crack echoed through the room.
Dobby was doubled over, clutching his stomach, his large eyes watering with sheer, unadulterated joy. He let out a high-pitched wheeze that sounded like a deflating bagpipe.
"Harry Potter! Oh, Harry Potter!" Dobby gasped, slapping his knee. "It worked! It worked!"
"What happened?" I asked, leaning forward, a laugh already bubbling in my chest.
"Master Weasley is... he is pale, sir! Very pale! And his hair is the color of a winter moon! He is screaming at the twins, accusing them of spiking his juice with a 'Malfoy Potion'!"
I imagined it: Ron, the boy who hated the Malfoys more than he hated spiders, looking into a mirror and seeing Draco's signature platinum blonde hair staring back at him.
"And the twins?" I prompted, a genuine smile finally breaking through the gloom.
"They is rolling on the floor, sir! They is denying everything, but they is laughing so hard they is turning purple! They is saying it is their 'greatest masterpiece' even though they didn't do it!"
I leaned back in the plush leather chair, a bark of laughter escaping me. For the first time since my name had come out of that goblet, I felt light. I felt powerful. Not the "Boy Who Lived" kind of power—the kind of power that comes from realizing the giants you're fighting are actually just standing on very tall, very wobbly stilts.
"Confession is good for the soul," I whispered, remembering the old teacher from my primary school. He'd been a git, but he'd been right about one thing: the truth sets you free. Usually after it makes everyone else really, really uncomfortable.
I pulled another long scroll of parchment toward me. My eyes caught the flickering firelight, reflecting a glint that hadn't been there before.
"This is going to be a very long night, Dobby," I said, dipping my quill into the ink with a flourish. "I think the Headmaster has a few things he needs to get off his chest. Don't you?"
Dobby's grin was wide enough to show all his teeth. "Dobby will get more ink, Harry Potter. A lot more ink."
The scratching of the quill was the only sound in the Room of Requirement, a rhythmic, driving pulse that felt like a heartbeat. Every time I dipped the nib into the ink, I felt a surge of cold, clean clarity. I wasn't just writing on parchment; I was rewriting the power balance of my life.
"I, Severus Snape..." I mutteredrenellation right in front of me. It looked exhausted, as if it had flown at top s, my voice echoing slightly under the star-strewn ceiling. "Swear on my magic that I shall treat every student with the same professional impartiality I would show a pureblood Slytherin. Failure shall result in my hair becoming permanently clean and fluffy for one month."
I paused, a smirk tugging at my lips. No, that was too petty. I needed the truth.
"Failure shall result in me being unable to speak anything but the absolute, unvarnished truth about my feelings for my colleagues for one month."
I tapped the quill against my chin. That would be a catastrophe for the dungeon bat.
Beside me, Dobby was a blur of motion, popping in and out with fresh scrolls and bottles of heavy, high-quality ink. He looked like he was having the time of his life, his tea-cosy hat bobbing frantically.
"The Headmaster's vow is finished, Dobby," I said, handing over the most complex parchment. The Confundus I'd placed on it was so thick the paper seemed to glow with a faint, hypnotic violet light. "This one... this one is important. It's not a prank. It's a reckoning."
"Dobby understands, Harry Potter," the elf said, his voice unusually solemn. "The Great Wizard Dumbledore has many secrets. Secrets are like heavy stones in a pocket. They makes you sink."
"Let's see if he can swim, then."
I spent the rest of the night in a fever of productivity. I wrote for Bagman, who had turned my life into a gambling chip. I wrote for Rita Skeeter, ensuring her quill would only write the most boring, factual accounts of gardening if she tried to lie about a minor. I even wrote one for Hermione—nothing cruel, just a nudge to ensure she couldn't dismiss someone's lived experience just because it wasn't in a book.
By the time the fake stars above me began to pale into a pre-dawn grey, I was exhausted, but my mind was a sharp, vibrating wire.
The next morning, I didn't go to the Great Hall. I couldn't stomach the sight of Ron's Malfoy-blonde hair or the hushed whispers about the 'cheating' champion. Instead, I climbed the winding stairs to the Astronomy Tower.
The air was crisp, biting at my lungs in a way that made me feel alive. Dobby appeared with a tray of bacon, eggs, and a carafe of orange juice.
"The Great Hall is... very loud, Harry Potter," Dobby reported, his eyes wide. "Professor Snape is telling Professor Flitwick that he secretly admires his choice of waistcoats, and Professor Dumbledore has locked himself in his office with a mountain of parchment and a dozen owls."
I took a bite of bacon, looking out over the misty grounds of Hogwarts. The Forbidden Forest looked like a sea of dark moss, and the lake was a sheet of hammered silver.
Then, I saw them.
At first, it was just a few dark specks against the horizon. Then ten. Then twenty. A literal cloud of owls was winging its way toward the castle—but they weren't heading for the Great Hall. They were diverging. Some were banking toward the Owlery, but a significant group was heading straight for the high point of the Astronomy Tower.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
The first owl, a sleek barn owl, landed on the stone crenellation right in front of me. It looked exhausted, as if it had flown at top speed from the Headmaster's office. It held out a leg with a thick, official-looking envelope attached.
I recognized the handwriting immediately. It was elegant, loopy, and unmistakably Albus Dumbledore's.
"Well, Dobby," I said, my hand trembling just a little as I reached for the letter. "It looks like the 'confessions' have begun."
I broke the seal. The first line read: To Harry James Potter, regarding the night of November 1st, 1981, and the choices I made that I hoped you would never have to know...
I took a long breath of the cold morning air. The world was about to change, and for the first time in my life, I was the one holding the quill.
---
The white sands of the cove were untouched, save for the rhythmic, lace-like retreat of the turquoise tide and the frantic footprints of two children chasing the foam. From the shade of the leaning palms, the world felt suspended in a permanent, golden afternoon.
The man sat on a weathered driftwood log, his silhouette sharp against the shimmering horizon. He looked older than the portraits in the history books—the lines around his eyes were etched by sun and laughter rather than the hollow strain of war. He wore a simple linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that no longer tensed for a wand draw. Beside him, a woman rested her head on his shoulder, her hair catching the light. They were merely watching the children—a boy and a girl—as they shrieked with delight when a gentle wave caught their ankles.
There was a profound, heavy silence between the couple, the kind that only exists when everything important has already been said.
The man reached out, his hand calloused but gentle, and took the woman's hand. He squeezed it, his gaze fixed on the boy, who was currently trying to explain the "tactical advantages" of a sandcastle to his younger sister. A faint, wry smirk—one that carried the ghost of a much younger, more defiant boy—touched his lips.
"Who would have thought," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that carried easily on the salt breeze, "that me acting out that night would bring me here?"
He turned his head slightly, pressing a brief, fervent kiss to the woman's temple.
"Thank you for being there for me."
She didn't answer with words, only a tightening of her grip on his fingers and a soft, knowing smile. As the sun began its slow, amber descent toward the sea, the observer from the trees could only see a man who had finally stopped running, standing on the shores of a peace he had once had to trick the very stars into giving him.