The last summer before I die. - Amoureuxlove12 - Harry Potter (2025)

Harry Potter had faced horrors most wizards could never fathom. He’d seen Cedric Diggory die, watched the pale, snake-like face of Voldemort smirk in triumph, and barely survived his fourth year at Hogwarts. But as he stepped through the front door of Number Four, Privet Drive that summer, Harry realized something unsettling: sometimes, the evil closest to home could rival even the Dark Lord himself.

Vernon Dursley’s face was a blotchy shade of purple, his massive hands twitching as if eager to lash out. “So, you think you’re untouchable now, boy?” he hissed, his breath heavy with the stench of whiskey. “Back here, no Dumbledore, no freak school to save you. You’re mine now.”

Harry stiffened, gripping the handle of his trunk tightly. "I won't be here long," he said evenly, though his voice trembled with suppressed anger. "Just until September."

Vernon chuckled, a sound that made Harry’s stomach twist. “Oh, you’ll wish it was September, boy. You’ll wish you never came back.”

---

The first night was the worst. Harry had been stripped of his old cupboard beneath the stairs — a place that now felt almost like a sanctuary compared to his new prison: the basement.

The Dursleys had never mentioned a basement, and it was no wonder why. The air down there was damp and stagnant, thick with the smell of mold and something metallic. A single, tiny window near the ceiling let in just enough moonlight to cast long, eerie shadows across the cold, stone walls.

The floor was bare concrete, scattered with splinters from an old wooden crate and the remnants of what Harry could only assume were cobwebs. There was no bed, no blanket — only a thin, grimy mattress thrown into one corner.

Harry dropped his trunk beside it and slumped down, resting his back against the wall. He closed his eyes, trying not to think about Cedric’s lifeless body or the searing pain of the Cruciatus Curse. But then he heard the lock click from above, and Vernon's voice boomed, muffled but menacing.

“Don’t think about sneaking out, boy. That door only opens when I say so.”

---

The days blurred together, each one more suffocating than the last. Vernon’s temper was worse than ever. Every mistake Harry made — from letting Hedwig hoot too loudly to not finishing a chore fast enough — was met with snarls and blows. His wand was locked upstairs in the cupboard, far beyond his reach.

But the nights… the nights were unbearable. The basement wasn’t just cold; it was alive. Scratching noises came from the corners, where rats scurried through the darkness. The walls seemed to hum with the weight of Harry’s memories, dredging up thoughts he wanted buried.

He lay awake one night, staring at the sliver of moonlight from the window, and tried to block out the creeping fear that this summer would break him completely. He tried not to think about how alone he felt, or how even his friends couldn’t help him now.

---
Harry had spent the last fifteen days curled up on the hard concrete floor, his body aching and his spirit wavering.

Hedwig, his loyal owl, perched on the ledge of the window, her sharp amber eyes fixed on him with concern. She had been his only solace in this darkness, a reminder of the world outside—a world he was beginning to feel he might never see again.

---

Harry had tried to write letters.

“Hedwig, this one’s for Hermione,” he whispered one night, his voice hoarse from disuse. “She’ll understand, won’t she? She’ll help.”

The owl hooted softly, and Harry tied the rolled parchment to her leg. She squeezed through the small hole by the window and took off into the night. He’d waited anxiously for her return, but when she came back, the reply felt like a punch to the gut.

> “Harry, Dumbledore insists you stay at the Dursleys. It’s for your protection. I know it’s hard, but try to make the best of it. I’ll write soon! Love, Hermione.”

The letters from Ron, Sirius, and Remus were no better. All of them parroted Dumbledore’s reasoning: “You’re safest with your family.” None of them truly understood.

Harry’s fists clenched as he reread the letters in the flickering light of the single bulb Vernon had begrudgingly left for him. He hadn’t told them everything, not really. He hadn’t mentioned the basement, the bruises, or the suffocating hopelessness because he didn’t think they’d believe him. And he wasn’t sure why, but a part of him felt ashamed—ashamed to admit just how bad things had gotten.

---

Fifteen days. Harry counted them obsessively, marking lines on the damp wall with a shard of broken tile. His magic, which had always been his refuge, felt distant and weak. He’d tried using his wand to escape on the first day, but Vernon had found it and locked it away. Now, with no wand and his strength waning, Harry felt his resolve slipping.

Until the idea came to him.

Desperation breeds creativity, he thought bitterly as he stared at the blank parchment before him. His quill hovered over the page, his hand shaking. Slowly, he began to write:

> “Please, help me. I’m trapped in the basement. Vernon has locked me away. He’s hurting me. I can’t stay here anymore. Please.”

He stopped and stared at the words. Were they enough? Would they believe him this time? He looked at his trembling hands and, after a moment’s hesitation, pricked his finger with the sharp edge of the quill. A drop of blood welled up, dark and crimson, and he smeared it across the parchment.

“This will show them I’m serious,” he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

He tied the letter to Hedwig’s leg, whispering, “Take this to Sirius. Don’t stop until he reads it.”

---

Just as Hedwig flapped her wings, the door to the basement burst open. Harry’s heart leapt into his throat as Vernon’s massive frame filled the doorway.

“What are you up to, boy?” Vernon snarled, his piggish eyes narrowing as he caught sight of Hedwig and the letter.

Harry froze, his blood running cold. “Nothing,” he said quickly, trying to shield Hedwig from view.

But Vernon was faster. He lunged forward, grabbing the owl and ripping the letter from her leg. Hedwig screeched and struggled, her wings flapping wildly, but Vernon held her tight.

“What’s this?” he barked, unrolling the parchment. His eyes scanned the message, and then he laughed—a low, menacing sound that made Harry’s stomach churn. “You think anyone’s coming to save you? You think anyone cares about a freak like you?”

“Give it back!” Harry shouted, his voice cracking with desperation.

Vernon’s face twisted with rage. He crumpled the letter in his fist and threw it to the ground. “You ungrateful little wretch,” he growled, his face turning red. “After everything we’ve done for you—housing you, feeding you—and this is how you repay us? By spreading lies about this family?”

Before Harry could react, Vernon’s fist connected with his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over, gasping for air, but Vernon wasn’t finished.

“You’ll stay down here until you learn your place,” Vernon spat, grabbing Harry by the collar and shoving him against the wall. “No more letters. No more tricks. No one is coming for you, boy.”

Hedwig screeched again, launching herself at Vernon’s face in a flurry of feathers and talons. But Vernon swatted her away with a brutal backhand, sending her crashing to the ground.

“HEDWIG!” Harry screamed, crawling toward her. She lay on the floor, her wing bent at an unnatural angle, her eyes half-closed but still alive.

Vernon sneered down at them, his face a mask of cruel satisfaction. “Clean up your mess,” he said coldly before slamming the door shut, plunging the basement back into darkness.

---

Harry cradled Hedwig in his arms, his tears falling freely as he stroked her feathers. “I’m so sorry, girl,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “This is all my fault.”

Hedwig hooted weakly, her eyes meeting his. Even in pain, she seemed to radiate an unyielding loyalty.

Harry’s jaw tightened, and he wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. He couldn’t stay here. Not anymore. He would find a way out—if not for himself, then for Hedwig.

He glanced at the crumpled letter on the floor and made a silent vow.

They would listen this time.

And if they didn’t? He would find a way to save himself.
---

The dim light from the cracked basement window barely illuminated Harry’s figure as he slumped against the damp stone wall. His wrists, red and raw from the heavy iron chains Vernon had fastened, throbbed painfully. Each movement sent a sharp jolt of agony through his arms, and the once-minor bruises on his hands had deepened into dark, angry purple.

Food had become a distant memory. Once a loaf of bread and water each day, his portions had dwindled to a single slice every other day, and half a glass of water that barely quenched his thirst. His ribs jutted out sharply beneath his oversized shirt, the same one Dudley had discarded years ago.

Vernon had taken pleasure in this cruelty. The beatings, which had once been reserved for excuses—like a bad day at work or Dudley’s failing grades—no longer needed justification. Harry was Vernon’s scapegoat for everything. And now, chained, starved, and battered, Harry wondered how long he could hold on.

---

The latest beating had left him gasping for air on the floor. Blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow, and his entire body ached with a dull, unrelenting pain. He closed his eyes, trying to find a shred of solace in his mind, but the memories of his friends’ dismissive letters replayed like a cruel mockery.

> “Dumbledore says you’re safest there.”
“Try to stay strong, Harry. It’s just for the summer.”

The words echoed in his head, each one feeling like a betrayal. They didn’t understand. None of them did.

---

A soft hoot broke through his thoughts. Harry opened his eyes and saw Hedwig, perched on the ledge, her wing still bent from Vernon’s earlier assault. She looked at him with sorrowful eyes, her feathers slightly ruffled but still glowing white in the dim light.

“I’m sorry, girl,” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible. His throat was dry and hoarse from days without proper water. “I should’ve protected you better.”

Hedwig hopped down to him, nuzzling her head against his arm as if to reassure him. Her loyalty, even in her injured state, was unwavering.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” Harry admitted, his voice breaking. He leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the small sliver of sky visible through the window. “They’ll never believe me. They think I’m just complaining. That I’m safe here.”

He closed his eyes, imagining Ron and Hermione laughing together at the Burrow, surrounded by warmth and love. He pictured Sirius, free and roaming, and Remus, probably reading by a fire somewhere. They were all safe. They were all far away.

---

That night, Vernon returned home earlier than usual, his footsteps heavy on the stairs leading to the basement. Harry’s heart sank. He braced himself for what he knew was coming.

The door burst open, and Vernon’s massive figure filled the frame, his face flushed with anger. He carried a belt in one hand, the leather gleaming ominously in the faint light.

“Still sulking, are you, boy?” Vernon sneered, his voice dripping with venom. “Think you’re too good for us, do you?”

Harry didn’t respond. He had learned by now that arguing only made things worse.

“You’re a freak,” Vernon spat, stepping closer. “A burden. Always have been. Always will be.”

Without warning, Vernon lashed out with the belt, the sharp crack echoing through the basement as it struck Harry’s arm. Harry bit down on his lip, refusing to cry out, but tears stung his eyes.

“Think your little owl friends are coming to save you?” Vernon continued, his voice rising. “No one cares about you, boy. Not your friends. Not that Dumbledore. No one.”

Another lash. Then another. Harry’s world blurred as pain consumed him, each strike feeling like fire against his skin.

---

When Vernon finally left, slamming the door behind him, Harry collapsed onto the floor, his body trembling. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he could taste blood on his lips.

“I can’t,” he whispered to himself, the words barely audible. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Hedwig hooted softly, her eyes filled with worry as she nudged his cheek with her beak.
---

Vernon’s latest taunt still rang in his ears, louder than his thoughts could drown it out.

“Your birthday’s soon, isn’t it?” Vernon had sneered the day before, his mouth twisting into a cruel smile. “The day those filthy parents of yours decided to curse the world with a freak like you.”

Harry clenched his fists at the memory, his nails biting into his palms. The words weren’t new, but this time, they hit differently. Maybe it was the days—weeks—without any word from Ron, Hermione, Sirius, or even Dumbledore. Maybe it was the gnawing hunger that had reduced him to skin and bones. Or maybe it was the sinking realization that Vernon might be right.

> They’ve forgotten me.

The thought looped in his mind, each repetition dragging him deeper into despair. He had sent letter after letter through Hedwig, his beloved owl, but none had received a reply. At first, he had convinced himself that it was some magical interference, or perhaps the Ministry blocking his communication. But the longer the silence stretched, the more the doubt crept in.

What if no one cared?

---

The basement was eerily quiet except for the occasional shuffle of Hedwig in her cage. Her wing was still healing from Vernon’s wrath, and she gave Harry a sad look as if she could sense his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, girl,” Harry whispered, his voice raw from disuse. “I’m not much of a master, am I?”

Hedwig hooted softly in response, her golden eyes filled with unwavering loyalty.

Harry sighed, pulling his knees to his chest. His body ached with the effort. His stomach growled, but the sound only reminded him of the crust of bread and half-glass of water that Vernon had tossed at him the day before. His throat burned with thirst, and his lips were cracked and dry.

“I should’ve died with them,” Harry muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible.

The words startled him. He hadn’t meant to say them out loud, but they had been circling in his mind for days. The weight of his solitude, the hopelessness of his situation—it all pressed down on him like a crushing wave.

---

Harry’s thoughts drifted back to when he was seven. The memory was hazy, like looking through frosted glass, but the feelings were vivid. It had been his birthday then, too, though the Dursleys had never acknowledged it. Vernon had been furious about something—Harry couldn’t remember what—but he remembered being dragged to the cupboard under the stairs, the door slamming shut behind him.

There was something else, though. Something darker.

Harry’s chest tightened as he tried to recall. A fragment of memory surfaced—Aunt Petunia’s sharp voice, Vernon’s booming laughter, a sense of shame so overwhelming that it made his small body tremble. And then... nothing. His mind recoiled from the memory like a hand from a flame.

---

A sharp noise from above snapped Harry out of his thoughts. Footsteps. Heavy ones.

Vernon.

The door to the basement creaked open, and Vernon’s massive frame filled the doorway. He was holding a bottle of something brown—whiskey, Harry guessed, though he had never seen Vernon drink much before.

“Still sulking, are we?” Vernon slurred, descending the stairs with deliberate slowness. His smile was twisted, his face flushed with alcohol and anger.

Harry didn’t answer. He had learned long ago that silence was his best defense.

“You think you’re so special,” Vernon spat, his words dripping with malice. “But you’re nothing. Just a freak. Always have been, always will be.”

Harry stared at the ground, refusing to meet Vernon’s gaze.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Vernon bellowed, his voice echoing off the basement walls.

Harry flinched but didn’t look up.

---

The next few moments were a blur of pain and noise. Vernon’s fist connected with Harry’s shoulder, then his stomach. The air rushed out of Harry’s lungs, and he doubled over, gasping for breath.

“You’re lucky we don’t throw you out onto the street,” Vernon snarled. “No one would want you. Not your little friends. Not that mangy godfather of yours. No one.”

Harry’s vision swam as he lay on the cold stone floor, clutching his ribs. He felt something wet on his cheek—blood, probably—but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Vernon laughed, a cruel, booming sound that made Harry’s stomach churn. “Happy birthday, freak,” he said before turning and stomping back upstairs.

The door slammed shut, plunging the basement into darkness once more.

---

Harry lay there for what felt like hours, his body throbbing with pain. Hedwig hooted softly from her cage, her wings fluttering anxiously.

“It’s okay,” Harry whispered, though he didn’t believe it. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t.

And for the first time in his life, Harry began to truly wonder if he could survive another year at Privet Drive.

He hadn't heard from his friends or anyone else. It was as though the world above had forgotten him.

But today was different. Today was his birthday.

He hadn’t realized it until Aunt Petunia came stomping down the narrow, creaky stairs, Dudley trailing behind her like a shadow. She carried a cake, one of Dudley’s oversized favorites, covered in layers of sugary frosting.

“Today’s a special day, isn’t it?” Petunia said with mock sweetness, her voice dripping with venom. “It’s the day the world cursed us with you.”

Dudley chuckled, shoving a piece of cake into his mouth. Crumbs tumbled to the ground, mixing with the damp dirt beneath Harry’s feet.

Petunia set the cake on a small table that Harry hadn’t noticed until now. It was covered in gleaming presents wrapped in shiny, colorful paper. She leaned in close to Harry, her pale face twisted into something almost unrecognizable, her thin lips curling upward.

“We wouldn’t want to forget Dudley’s big day,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, though the malice in it hit Harry like a slap. “Your little freak day means nothing here.”

Dudley erupted into laughter, pointing at Harry as though he were some kind of sideshow attraction. Harry’s gaze drifted to the presents, then to the cake, the scene blurring in his fractured vision.

For a moment, he thought he saw horns atop Petunia’s head, curling like those of a devil. The dim light from the single bulb in the ceiling flickered, making her shadow dance on the wall like a demon.

“Maybe I’m in hell,” Harry thought numbly. The idea didn’t seem far-fetched anymore. Every part of him felt hollow, as if the Harry Potter who had fought trolls, defeated basilisks, and faced Voldemort had never existed. Maybe none of it had ever been real.

“Eat up, Dudley,” Petunia said, standing upright and smoothing her skirt. “We’ll let the thing sit here and think about what a burden it is. That’s his birthday gift, after all.”

Harry didn’t react. He didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. He stared at the floor, where Dudley’s crumbs mingled with the dust and grime. He couldn’t even muster the energy to hate them anymore. It felt like too much work, and he was already exhausted.

Petunia sniffed, as if disappointed by his lack of response, and marched back up the stairs, her heels clicking sharply. Dudley followed, shoving the rest of the cake into his mouth.

When the door slammed shut, Harry exhaled a shaky breath. He leaned back against the cold, damp wall of the basement and closed his eyes.

“Maybe they’re right,” he muttered to himself. His voice sounded foreign, even to him, weak and cracked from days without water. “Maybe I am the monster. Maybe this is my punishment—for Cedric, for my parents, for everything.”

A single tear slid down his cheek, leaving a cold trail against his clammy skin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, though his movements were sluggish. His chains clinked softly.

The loneliness was unbearable, more suffocating than the damp air of the basement. The silence pressed down on him, a weight he could no longer bear. He thought of Hermione, of Ron, of Sirius. Of Remus. Why hadn’t they come? Didn’t they care?

His mind twisted and turned, the edges of reality blurring. What if none of them were real? What if he had imagined Hogwarts, imagined his friends, imagined the magic?

“I’m losing it,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

He stared at the small, dirty window near the ceiling. The faint light of the outside world filtered through, weak and gray. For a fleeting moment, he thought of using magic to escape. But the idea vanished as quickly as it came. His wand was gone, confiscated by Vernon. And even if he had it, his body was too weak to cast anything.

His gaze fell to his hand, pale and trembling. He traced his scar absentmindedly, the familiar lightning bolt that marked him as different. A survivor. Or was it a curse?

The flicker of light from the window dimmed, and Harry shivered as the room grew colder. His thoughts spiraled deeper into the abyss, a pit of despair he couldn’t climb out of.

Somewhere above, Dudley’s laughter echoed faintly, followed by the sharp clinking of Petunia’s dishes. Harry closed his eyes, imagining for just a moment that he wasn’t here. That he was back in the Gryffindor common room, surrounded by warmth, by friends, by safety.

But when he opened his eyes, he was still there. Still in the basement. Still alone.

And the world above went on, forgetting him entirely.

Harry awoke with a start, a cold sweat clinging to his skin. A heavy weight settled in his chest as a familiar dread washed over him. He tried to move, to sit up, but something was wrong. His mouth was stuffed with a thick, gagging cloth. Panic surged through him as he realized what was happening.
It had happened before, when he was five, and again when he was seven. The same horror, the same violation, the same sickening sense of powerlessness. Vernon Dursley, his monstrous uncle, stood over him, his eyes gleaming with a twisted satisfaction.

"Happy birthday, boy," Vernon sneered, his voice thick with malice. Harry tried to scream, to fight, but the cloth muffled his cries. Every muscle in his body tensed, but he was trapped. He was a small, helpless child against a towering, monstrous man.
As Vernon leaned over him, Harry could smell the stale beer on his breath and the rank odor of sweat that always accompanied his fits of rage. The room seemed to spin, and Harry felt a wave of nausea. He wanted to disappear, to vanish into thin air.
He closed his eyes, trying to block out the horror. But the images were too vivid. He remembered the fear, the pain, the cold. He remembered the feeling of being completely alone, with no one to help him.
Tears streamed down his face, but they were quickly absorbed by the damp cloth. He tried to focus on something else, anything else, but his mind kept returning to the present moment. He was trapped, helpless, and alone.
As Vernon's hand reached for him, Harry felt a surge of anger. He wanted to lash out, to hurt Vernon as much as he had been hurt. But he was too weak, too afraid.
With a heavy heart, Harry resigned himself to his fate. He knew that there was nothing he could do to stop what was about to happen.

Vernon Dursley lumbered out of the damp, cobweb-filled cellar, leaving Harry sprawled on the cold, earthen floor. The boy lay still, his eyes vacant, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling. His body trembled uncontrollably, not from cold, but from the sheer terror that had seized him.
The air in the cellar was thick with the stench of damp earth and the lingering metallic tang of blood. Harry could taste it in his mouth, a foul reminder of the violation he had just endured. His mind, however, was a million miles away. Dissociation, a cruel defense mechanism, had kicked in, shielding him from the full horror of what had just transpired.
He saw flashes of images: Vernon's leering face, the cold, clammy touch, the suffocating weight of the man on top of him. But they were distant, like scenes from a nightmare, lacking the immediacy of pain and fear. He felt nothing, truly nothing. Just an overwhelming sense of emptiness, a void where his emotions should have been.
Hours passed. The cellar grew colder as the night deepened. Harry remained motionless, his body a lifeless husk. He didn't hear the distant rumble of thunder, nor the mournful wail of the wind outside. He didn't hear the creak of the floorboards as Vernon, hours later, returned to the cellar.
Vernon, his face flushed with a mixture of exhaustion and a perverse sense of satisfaction, tossed a moldy loaf of bread and a jug of water into the corner. He didn't look at Harry, didn't acknowledge his presence. He simply turned and left, the heavy door groaning shut behind him.
The silence that followed was deafening. Harry remained frozen, his mind a blank canvas. He didn't know how long he lay there, lost in the abyss of his own despair. Time ceased to exist.
Finally, as the first rays of dawn filtered through the grimy cellar window, a flicker of life returned to his eyes. He shivered, not just from the cold, but from the creeping realization of what had happened. The dissociation began to fade, and with it came the flood of emotions: shame, anger, despair.
He wanted to scream, to rage against the injustice of it all. But the sound was trapped in his throat, a strangled sob that refused to escape. He curled into a fetal position, burying his face in his knees, and wept. Tears streamed down his face, washing away the grime and the dust, but they couldn't wash away the stain of the abuse.
He knew this was not the first time, nor would it be the last. Vernon, like a venomous spider, would return, again and again, to feed on his fear and his innocence. And Harry, trapped in the suffocating grip of the Dursleys, would be powerless to stop him.

Days continued like this. Vernon's torture, madness, and intrusive thoughts. He couldn't take it anymore. Hedwig was the only thing keeping him sane; otherwise, he would have lost it long ago. The cellar was becoming increasingly suffocating. It must be mid-August. Harry tried to give himself hope, even though his friends, Sirius, Remus, and even Dumbledore didn't seem to care about him. He had to get out of here by the start of the school year, didn't he? Doubts flooded Harry's mind. What if he didn't exist? No, no, if Hedwig existed, then the magical world existed. And if the magical world existed, then so did Dumbledore, didn't it? Madness and confusion filled Harry's brain."

"Hedwig," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible, "I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this. It feels like everything's falling apart."

The owl gave a soft hoot, her head tilting as if she understood. Harry smiled weakly, reaching out to scratch her head, a gesture that had once been automatic but now felt like the last thread holding him together.

Dumbledore’s face flashed in his mind—kind, wise, distant, always reassuring. "We will not let you face this alone, Harry," he had promised. But now, Harry couldn't help but wonder: Was it all just empty words? Was there really anyone out there who cared? Or had he imagined it all?

A wave of doubt crashed over him, and he sank further into the despair that had been building in him for weeks. What if everything he had believed in, everything that had kept him fighting, was just a lie?

No. I can’t think like that, he told himself fiercely, shaking his head. Hedwig’s here. She’s real. The magic is real. If Hedwig existed, then the magical world existed. And if that was true, then Dumbledore, Sirius, and Remus had to be out there somewhere, planning. They wouldn’t leave him behind. They couldn't. He had to believe that.

The cave-like atmosphere of the room seemed to close in even tighter. The walls, once so familiar, now felt suffocating, and the dim light from the small window barely penetrated the gloom. The heat of August was beginning to wrap itself around Harry, pressing on him with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.

He closed his eyes for a moment, resting his forehead against his knees, trying to clear his mind. But the thoughts came flooding back—confusion, doubt, loneliness. The world felt both too big and too small, too distant and too close, as if he were caught in a swirling vortex with no way out.

A knock on the door made him jump. Harry quickly wiped his face, embarrassed by how vulnerable he had become. He stood up, brushing the dust from his clothes, and walked slowly to the door. He hesitated before opening it, uncertain of what he would find on the other side.

But when the door swung open, there was nothing but the familiar, oppressive silence. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, but as he turned to close the door again, something caught his eye.

A small, pale envelope lay on the floor just outside his door, the faintest trace of handwriting on the front. Harry’s heart skipped a beat as he knelt to pick it up, recognizing the writing immediately.

It was from Sirius.

With trembling hands, he opened the envelope, unfolding the letter inside. The words were hastily scrawled, but they filled him with a strange sense of warmth, of hope—something he hadn’t felt in weeks.

Harry,

I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get to you. Things are... complicated right now, but I need you to know, we haven’t forgotten you. Remus and I are working on a plan. Just hold on a little longer. We’ll get you out of there. I promise.

Sirius

Harry’s breath caught in his throat as he reread the words. A promise. They hadn’t forgotten him. There was hope.

The faint warmth of the letter was still on Harry’s fingers when he snapped back to reality. He blinked hard, his mind racing to make sense of what had just happened. The promise of escape, the hope that had fluttered inside him like a fragile bird, felt like it had been ripped away in an instant.

The letter—Sirius’s letter—was gone. Just like that.

His hands shook violently as he searched the floor around him, the crumpled envelope nowhere in sight. He swiped the dusty floor with trembling fingers, his breath quickening, desperate. The faintest trace of handwriting had been burned into his memory, the words that had filled him with warmth and the tiniest spark of hope. Now, nothing remained but the cold, oppressive silence of the room.

"No, no, no..." Harry whispered, his voice a soft, cracked tremor. He stood up, his head spinning, the familiar darkness creeping in once more.

His eyes flicked to his hands, the metal chains that bound his wrists to the cold, unforgiving walls. How could he have held that letter? How could he have read it, felt the warmth of it, if he was chained to the floor? He hadn’t been able to move. Not like that.

He swallowed hard, looking at the chains that shackled him to the stone floor. Impossible. He had never been able to get close enough to the door. The window was too small for any letter to have slipped through, and even if it had, how would it have reached him? The chains had been there all along, heavy and unyielding. How could he have possibly moved past them? How could he have even heard the knock on the door?

It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t possible.

His heart began to pound in his chest, each beat like a hammering drum that threatened to split his head open. He pressed his palms to his face, trying to ground himself, trying to make sense of the confusion. The weight of the chains on his wrists seemed to increase, pulling him down further into madness, each second stretching into an eternity.

"What’s happening?" Harry thought, his mind spinning. "Is this real? Was it real?"

But the more he tried to grasp onto the logic, the more it slipped from his fingers like sand. Was the letter just a figment of his imagination? Had he created it in his mind, a desperate plea for something, anything, to give him a reason to keep fighting?

His thoughts scattered like a wild storm, and the pounding in his head only intensified. The walls of the room seemed to close in, the oppressive air filling his lungs like thick, stifling smoke. He could feel the madness creeping in, the pressure of isolation, the numbness of weeks—months—spent without a single word of comfort or care from anyone.

He felt it all unraveling, the edges of his mind blurring and folding in on themselves, the chains around his wrists tightening as though they had a mind of their own. The despair clawed at him, twisting and pulling him down, deeper, further, until there was nothing left but the crushing weight of uncertainty.

"It’s all in your head," a voice whispered in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded strangely like his own. "There’s no escape. There’s no hope. You’re alone."

His breathing quickened, each breath becoming more shallow, more erratic. “No. No, I’m not alone.” Harry closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head. “Sirius—Remus—they promised.”

But the words felt hollow now, echoing in his mind like a distant memory that he could no longer reach. The room around him seemed to distort, the shadows growing longer, darker, wrapping themselves around him like an endless maze of confusion.

Then, a sound—faint at first—began to cut through the silence. A faint scratching, a soft tapping, like something—someone—was trying to reach him.

Harry’s eyes snapped open. Was it real? Was it another illusion? He strained to listen, his heart pounding in his chest, the madness threatening to take over. The tapping continued, growing louder now, almost rhythmic, like a heartbeat. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as his body tensed, instinctively pushing against the chains that held him in place.

"It’s them," Harry thought, his mind latching onto the possibility, the thread of hope that had begun to flicker once more. "It’s them. They’re here."

With his heart racing, Harry twisted his body in the chains, trying desperately to break free, to reach the door. He yanked at the cold metal, his hands raw and aching, but the chains held firm. His chest tightened as the tapping grew louder, but it wasn’t coming from the door. It was coming from... the window.

He twisted his head toward the small, barred window above him. The tapping continued, louder now, clearer. Someone—or something—was outside.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, the sheer impossibility of it all overwhelming him. How could anyone be out there? He was locked in a cellar, a damp, airless room with no way to escape. And yet, there it was, the sound, the undeniable sign that he wasn’t truly alone.

The chains rattled against the floor as Harry twisted and strained against them, trying desperately to get closer. He could feel the pressure in his chest, the suffocating weight of isolation pulling him under.

And then, as if summoned by his frantic thoughts, a small piece of parchment appeared at the edge of the window—a faint silhouette against the dim light of the room. The paper fluttered slightly, caught by the breeze, and Harry’s heart leapt in his chest.

He had to get to it. He had to—

With all the strength he had left, Harry lunged forward, his chains dragging behind him like a weight, his fingers stretching, straining, until—

The paper fell to the floor just out of reach.

The world around him seemed to spin. Harry collapsed forward, gasping for breath, the weight of the chains bearing down on him like an anchor pulling him under. The paper lay just beyond his grasp, but Harry could not reach it. He could not—

"It’s real," he thought, "It has to be real."

But the shadows were closing in now, the sound of tapping, of scratching, growing louder in his mind. Everything was falling apart, twisting and distorting, and Harry felt himself slipping away into the madness. The chains tightened, the air grew heavier, and the dim light flickered—until everything around him dissolved into silence.
speak, not to himself, not to Hedwig. His words, if they came at all, felt like they were trapped in his throat, choked by the despair and the hunger. There were days when he could barely lift his head, let alone attempt to make sense of the world outside the damp, stifling walls. The hunger had become a familiar companion, gnawing at his insides constantly, as if it were an old friend who had overstayed their welcome. The thirst, too, was endless. The only sustenance he had were the scraps Vernon threw at him—crusts of stale bread and half a glass of water. He had learned to make the most of it, stretching the food and water for as long as possible, even sharing what little he had with Hedwig.

Hedwig—his constant companion. The once-proud owl was now a shadow of her former self. The feathers that had once gleamed white were now dull and ragged, the eyes that had held such intelligence and strength now dull with fatigue. After Vernon had thrown her out of the cage when she tried to protect Harry, she hadn’t been the same. Her wing had been broken in the struggle, and now, her frail body could barely move. She was starving, just like Harry, and her once-energetic flights were now only a distant memory.

Harry did what he could for her. He shared the scraps of bread with her, even the water, though it was never enough. Most of the time, Hedwig could only lay in her cage, her head tucked into her wings, too weak to even look up. The first few days, Vernon had occasionally opened the cage, but now it stayed shut, just like the rest of Harry’s prison. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he had heard her wings flap or seen her soar in the air. All he had left was the soft, defeated flutter of her attempts to move, which only made him feel more helpless.

This morning—though Harry wasn’t sure it was morning—Vernon had come, as he always did, with his half-hearted offering of bread and water. The usual routine. But this time, there was something different in his eyes. Something sharp, cold, and menacing. Harry could feel it even before Vernon spoke, could sense the weight of what was about to come.

Vernon’s massive hand grabbed Harry’s chin, forcing his head up to meet his gaze. The grip was painful, too strong, like it was meant to break Harry’s spirit as much as it held him in place. Harry winced, his heart hammering in his chest, and he stared into Vernon’s eyes. There was nothing but malice there. Nothing but the promise of more suffering.

“Today, Potter,” Vernon sneered, his voice low and guttural, “I’m having some visitors.” He leaned in closer, his breath foul against Harry’s face. “If one of them hears any funny noises coming from this cellar, I will make sure you never breathe again.”

Harry’s stomach twisted in on itself at the threat. The words were nothing new. He had heard it before, in different forms. But today, there was something in Vernon’s tone—something dark, something final—that made Harry’s blood run cold.

“I won’t make a sound,” Harry promised, his voice barely more than a whisper. It wasn’t a promise he could be sure of keeping, but he had to say it. He had to try. His life depended on it.

Vernon smirked at him, the expression twisted, almost as if he enjoyed seeing Harry like this—broken, defeated, helpless. “You better not, boy. Or it’ll be the last mistake you make.”

The words lingered in the air long after Vernon had left, and Harry was left alone with the haunting silence. His heart pounded in his chest, a tight knot of fear and anxiety. He didn’t know what to expect. Vernon had said there would be visitors, but who were they? What would they do? The dread in his stomach only grew as the minutes dragged on.

Sitting in the corner of the room, Harry glanced at Hedwig’s cage. She was barely conscious now, her breathing shallow, her body trembling. Harry’s heart clenched at the sight. He had failed her. He hadn’t been able to save her from Vernon’s cruelty, just as he had failed to save himself from this nightmare.

The hours passed slowly, each minute feeling like an eternity. Harry stared at the door, waiting, listening for any sound—any hint that the visitors were coming. His hands were shaking, but he couldn’t make them stop. Every noise made him flinch, every creak of the floorboards above him sending his heart into a frenzy. What if they found him? What if they heard him? What if Vernon’s threat was more than just empty words?

He couldn’t stay in this place any longer. He had to get out. But with the chains, with the constant threat of Vernon and his visitors, escape felt like a distant dream—a dream he couldn’t reach, no matter how hard he tried. The weight of it all—the fear, the isolation, the hopelessness—was crushing, and Harry felt himself slipping again, sinking into the darkness of his thoughts.

But then, just as he was about to give in to the despair, he remembered the promise.

Sirius.

Remus.

They hadn’t forgotten him. They had to be coming for him. They had to.

His fingers curled into fists, his resolve hardening. He wouldn’t give up. Not yet. He couldn’t. For Hedwig, for himself, for everything he still believed in—he had to hold on.

Suddenly, he heard a sound from above—a door creaking open, the heavy footsteps of someone entering the house. The visitors were here.

His pulse quickened, but he didn’t dare make a sound. He pressed his back to the cold stone wall, his heart pounding in his chest as he listened intently. Each second felt like an eternity.
The hours dragged by in oppressive silence, the only sound the distant creak of floorboards above and the occasional muttered conversations between Vernon and his wife, Petunia. Harry’s heart hammered in his chest, each passing moment a torturous reminder of how trapped he was. He could hear the muffled voices of Vernon’s visitors, but they didn’t come near. Still, the threat hung in the air, suffocating him.

And then, the sound of footsteps outside the cellar door caught his attention. They were heavier now, closer. Someone was approaching.

A sliver of hope flickered within him—maybe this was it. Maybe the visitors had heard him after all. Maybe someone was coming to help.

Desperate, Harry mustered all the strength he could and called out, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Help... please... help...”

His words barely left his lips before he heard the unmistakable voice of Petunia.

“It’s just a bloody dog. Nothing more than that,” she said, dismissively, as though Harry's cries were nothing more than the whimpering of some unwanted animal.

The footsteps outside the door stopped. There was no response, no sign of help, only the emptiness that had consumed him for so long. The cold reality settled back in, and Harry’s shoulders slumped in defeat. Once again, no one had come. Once again, no one had heard him.

As the night deepened, so did Harry's despair. The dim light in the cellar cast long, grotesque shadows across the stone walls. Hedwig lay still in her cage, the fluttering of her wings a mere memory. Harry had been trying to keep her alive, sharing the meager scraps of bread and water that Vernon tossed into the cellar, but it wasn’t enough. He could see her weakened form, her once-proud feathers now dulled, her body growing frail under the cruel weight of starvation. He didn’t know how much longer she would last, but deep down, he feared it wouldn’t be much longer.

And then Vernon arrived.

The door to the cellar swung open with a violent screech, and Harry’s heart lurched in his chest. He knew the look on Vernon’s face before the man even spoke—the twisted, cruel expression that had become all too familiar over the past weeks and months.

“Thought you’d be a little quieter, didn’t you, Potter?” Vernon sneered, his voice thick with anger. “I told you there’d be consequences.”

Without waiting for a response, Vernon’s hand shot out, grabbing Harry by the collar and yanking him upright. Harry gasped in pain, his vision spinning as the weight of his chains tugged on his wrists. Vernon’s face loomed over him, his breath foul and hot.

“I don’t take kindly to disobedience, boy,” Vernon growled, tightening his grip. “You thought you could call for help, huh? Did you think anyone would come?”

Before Harry could even try to respond, Vernon slammed his fist into Harry’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The world tilted, and Harry crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath.

But Vernon wasn’t done.

He let go of Harry and, with a terrifying grin, reached for the bat leaning against the wall. Harry’s heart raced as he watched the heavy object swing through the air, and for a brief, horrifying second, Harry thought it was meant for him. But then, with a sickening crack, the bat slammed into the cage where Hedwig lay. Harry’s stomach churned as the sound of snapping bones echoed through the cellar. He could hear Hedwig’s pained screech, and his blood ran cold.

“No!” Harry cried out, his voice raw, frantic. He tried to scramble to his feet, but his chains kept him tethered, dragging him back down as he reached for her, his hands shaking with desperation.

“Please, Vernon, don’t! Please, leave her alone!” Harry begged, his heart breaking as he watched Hedwig’s fragile body tremble in the cage. Her wings were broken, her body crushed beneath the force of the blow. She tried to move, but she was too weak, too injured to lift herself off the ground.

Vernon sneered down at him, his face contorting with pleasure at Harry’s pain. “You should’ve thought about that before you decided to make noise,” he spat, raising the bat once more.

Harry couldn’t watch. He couldn’t bear to see Hedwig suffer any longer. His breath caught in his throat as Vernon brought the bat down again, and then there was a horrible, final thud—the unmistakable sound of life slipping away.

Hedwig was gone.

A sob tore from Harry’s chest, his body shaking uncontrollably as he collapsed to the cold stone floor. He had failed her. He had promised to protect her, to keep her safe, and now she was gone, taken by the very monster who had tortured them both for so long.

“Harry…” Vernon’s voice was a low, mocking drawl. “You’re nothing. You’re not even worth the effort to break. I could’ve killed you ages ago, but where’s the fun in that? Watching you suffer is so much more enjoyable.”

Harry didn’t hear the rest of Vernon’s cruel words. The world around him had gone numb. His mind was spinning, and all he could feel was the raw, gut-wrenching pain of loss. Hedwig, his only true friend in this hellhole, was dead. And it was his fault. He couldn’t save her.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. The echoes of his sobs, the weight of the loss, the overwhelming sorrow that crushed him from all sides. It was as if the air itself had turned thick, suffocating him with grief.

The agony that Harry felt was unlike anything he had ever known. It wasn’t just physical pain; it was the raw, crushing weight of all the suffering he had endured, all the loss he had witnessed, everything he had ever loved being torn away from him. When Hedwig’s cage shattered under the force of Vernon’s attack, it wasn’t just the bird that broke. It was Harry’s very soul, splintering into pieces. She had been his only constant, his only source of comfort, and now she was gone, her life snuffed out like a candle in the wind.

Harry’s heart stopped. Not in the literal sense, but in the way someone who has experienced too much pain simply stops feeling it. His mind felt detached, a spectator to the violent emotions ripping through him. There was no space left for tears. His chest tightened until it felt like it would crack under the pressure, and yet, all he could feel was the cold, unyielding emptiness of it all. A hollow rage built inside him, so strong it was almost physical—something deep, primal, born from the darkness of his very being.

Vernon’s cruel laugh echoed through the room, harsh and mocking. But Harry didn’t hear it. Not really. The words were drowned out by the cacophony in his mind—the scream of injustice, the gnawing ache of loss. All he could see was Vernon’s form, looming in front of him, the man who had been his jailer, his tormentor. All Harry could feel was an overwhelming, bone-deep hatred, as cold as the grave.

And then it happened. The pain twisted into something darker, something more dangerous. Harry stood, breaking free from the chains that had held him down. His body, starved and weak from months of abuse, suddenly surged with a power that defied all reason. His fingers twitched, the barest hint of magic humming to life within him, uncontrolled, like a wild beast. It wasn’t a spell. It wasn’t deliberate. It was pure emotion, pure chaos, and it was unstoppable.

He lifted his hand toward Vernon, a trembling, silent promise of what was to come. “Die,” he whispered, barely moving his lips, but the words were like fire, crackling with the sheer intensity of his fury. Vernon froze, eyes widening in terror, and then, he dropped to his knees, his body contorting with the unbearable pain that ripped through him. His scream was agonizing, a sound that could have come from any tortured soul, and Harry felt a sick satisfaction in it. For the first time in his life, the terror was not his own.

Petunia’s shrill cries broke through the air, but they meant nothing. Nothing at all. Her voice was lost in the storm of Harry’s mind, drowned by the immense power that surged through him. With a flick of his wrist, Harry’s magic surged once more, this time toward Dudley. The terror in Dudley’s eyes mirrored what Harry had once felt, but now, it was Harry’s turn to be the one in control. “Die,” he muttered again, his voice hollow and cold. And with that, Dudley’s body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, the same as his father. Petunia’s screams grew louder, but they were hollow, meaningless.

Harry watched, detached, as his cousin’s body lay before him. No one in this house, no one in this life, would ever hurt him again. The family he had once known, the people who had made his life a nightmare, were gone, their suffering ending in a single, terrifying instant. But it wasn’t enough. No, Harry knew that even this wouldn’t be enough to fill the void, to make it right.

Petunia stood there, the last one left, and Harry’s gaze fixed on her with the same cold, empty stare that had haunted him all this time. She was just another shadow of his torment.

“We’re both family-less now,” he said, his voice as empty as the void that had consumed him. It wasn’t an accusation. It was a statement of fact, as simple and unfeeling as the void that had swallowed his soul.

The words hung in the air, as final as the death of everything he had ever known. The boy who lived was gone. The boy who had fought, who had survived against all odds, had died long ago, crushed under the weight of his own suffering. Now, there was only a shell of a person left—a force of destruction, a manifestation of grief and rage, turned against those who had tormented him. The family he had clung to for so long was gone, wiped away in an instant.

The silence that followed was deafening, suffocating. And Harry, no longer Harry Potter, but something else entirely, turned away from the wreckage of his past. There was nothing left. Only the bitter, endless ache of what he had lost.
---

At the same time, far away, in the Black family house, a sudden, unexpected pulse of dark magic surged through the air, pulling the attention of Albus Dumbledore and the members of the Order of the Phoenix gathered around the table.

Dumbledore's calm demeanor cracked for just a moment, his eyes flashing with alarm as he stood abruptly. “Something has happened,” he said, his voice sharp, his usual serenity replaced by a tension that set the room on edge. “Harry is in danger. I need Severus, Alastor, and Sirius. Now.”

The others exchanged tense looks, but there was no time for a full briefing. Dumbledore’s words left no room for argument. Without hesitation, he turned to Snape. “We move quickly.”

Sirius stood, his face pale but determined. “If there’s trouble, I’m coming with you.”

“Absolutely not,” Dumbledore said, his tone firm. “It’s too dangerous.”

“No,” Snape added with a sneer, his voice laced with sarcasm, but there was no humor in his words. “You should stay, Sirius. It’s his godson we’re talking about. You can’t be involved.”

Remus spoke up, his voice steady but with the unmistakable edge of worry. “I’m going as well. If something has happened to Harry—”

“No,” Dumbledore interrupted gently but firmly, “Tonks, stay here. In case this is a trap.”

Tonks opened her mouth to protest, but Dumbledore silenced her with a look. “We can’t afford any more risks right now.”

With that, Dumbledore, Snape, Sirius, and Alastor quickly Disapparated to the outskirts of the Dursley house. The air crackled with the magic, thick and oppressive, and the faint sense of dark power seemed to coil in the air. They made their way to the house carefully, each step cautious, their senses alert.

As they entered the house, the scent of blood and decay assaulted them. Snape, moving with the practiced ease of someone who had been in far worse situations, was the first to find something. His sharp eyes locked onto the sight before him: a woman, standing over a body. Her eyes were wide with a look of shock and disbelief. As he moved closer, he realized with horror that it was Petunia Dursley, her gaze fixed on a horrifying scene—one that seemed almost impossible.

A man’s body, decapitated. Hedwig, the owl, lying lifeless. And Harry, on his knees, his eyes empty and lost, surrounded by dark magic, the very essence of it pulsating from him like a dark aura. The source of the magic—the reason they had all felt the surge—was clear now.

The last remnants of Harry Potter had been consumed by his grief, his rage, his power.

Snape’s throat tightened, his mind racing with a mix of disbelief and a strange, cold dread. Petunia, that wretched woman—he had known her to be cruel, but this? It was something beyond even his expectations.

Dumbledore stepped forward, his face grim as he surveyed the scene. “It’s too late,” he whispered softly, his voice thick with sorrow. The boy who had once been Harry Potter was gone.

But they could still save what was left of him. The fight wasn’t over—not yet.

Sirius and Remus rushed towards Harry, their footsteps heavy with urgency, even though Alastor and Dumbledore tried to stop them. The sense of darkness in the air was palpable, and every inch of the house seemed to hold its breath, the very walls soaked in the aftermath of whatever had transpired. But Harry... Harry was still there, kneeling on the cold floor, his body unmoving, his eyes wide but empty.

"Harry!" Sirius shouted, his voice a blend of concern and desperation. He reached for the boy, but Remus grabbed his arm, shaking his head.

"Be careful, Sirius," Remus warned, his voice low but full of dread. "We don’t know what’s happened to him. He's—he's not himself."

Harry's gaze never shifted from the lifeless bodies of Vernon and Dudley, his hands trembling on the ground. The air around him seemed to vibrate with raw, uncontrolled power, dark magic swirling and clinging to him like a second skin. Sirius’s heart clenched at the sight. The boy he had known—the boy who had fought so hard for love and freedom—was gone. Replaced by something... something else.

"Harry!" Sirius repeated, taking a cautious step forward. "What happened? Who did this?" His voice cracked, the words strangling him. He needed to know. He had to know what had driven Harry to this point.

But Harry didn’t respond. He just kept staring, his eyes unblinking, lost in the horror of the two bodies before him. The silence stretched between them, thick and oppressive, like a smothering weight.

"Harry, please!" Remus urged, his voice softer, pleading now. He crouched beside Harry, his face etched with pain. "You have to talk to us. We need to understand. Who did this to them?"

Harry’s lips parted, and for a moment, it seemed like he was going to speak. But instead of words, a laugh—low, guttural, and filled with madness—escaped him. It started as a single, quiet chuckle, but quickly escalated into something louder, more erratic. His body jerked with each laugh, as though he couldn’t control it, as though something inside him had snapped.

Sirius and Remus froze, their hearts pounding in their chests. The sound of Harry’s laughter was chilling, more haunting than anything they had ever heard before. It wasn’t the laugh of a boy they knew. It was something else—something darker.

"Harry, stop!" Sirius shouted again, his voice trembling now. "This isn't you! This isn’t who you are!" He tried to reach for Harry’s arm, but the moment he did, Harry’s head snapped toward him, his eyes wild, his face contorted in a twisted grin.

"You don’t get it, do you?" Harry's voice was hoarse, the words slithering out like poison. His gaze flicked back to the bodies, his smile widening. "You never understood, any of you. They were nothing. They were just... in the way."

Remus recoiled at the venom in Harry’s words. "Harry, no—this isn’t you. This is the magic, the pain—it’s clouding your mind. You need to fight it, Harry. You’re stronger than this."

Harry’s laugh rang out again, this time loud and uncontrollable, like a madman who had lost all grip on reality. "Stronger? You think I’m strong? You think this was about strength?" He spat on the floor, his hands still shaking with the remnants of that raw magic that clung to him like a living thing. "It was never about strength. It was about being broken. About losing everything. About them. They were the ones who broke me. They deserved this. All of them."

Sirius and Remus stood motionless, their hearts breaking as they tried to comprehend what had happened. The Harry they knew—the boy who had once dreamed of a better world, of love and peace—was slipping away, consumed by something dark, something unrecognizable.

"I could have stopped this," Harry muttered, almost to himself, his voice growing quieter. "If I hadn’t listened to them, if I hadn’t been forced into this... it’s all their fault. All of it. I never wanted this."

The words hung in the air, like a confession, like an accusation. But it wasn’t just directed at Vernon or Dudley. It wasn’t just about the Dursleys. It was Harry, blaming himself for everything—the anger, the rage, the destruction.

Petunia, who had been silently watching from the background, finally spoke. Her voice trembled with a mix of disbelief and fury. "You... you killed them. You killed my family. You... monster. This was never supposed to happen."

Harry’s eyes flickered toward her for the first time, and in that moment, his face twisted with a cold, cruel expression. "You—" His voice was tight, full of venom. "You’re the one who raised me. You’re the one who made me believe I wasn’t worth anything. You’re the one who made me into this. You were just as much a part of this as anyone."

Sirius and Remus exchanged a look, the weight of what Harry was saying settling heavily on their shoulders. Remus swallowed, his heart aching for the boy who had suffered so much.

"Harry," Remus said gently, his voice breaking. "This isn’t your fault. None of this is. We can help you. We can help you through this. You’re not alone."

Harry’s laughter faded, but his eyes remained distant, glazed over with that same, hollow emptiness. "I’m alone. I’ve always been alone. They took everything from me. And now... now they’re gone."

Sirius’s voice cracked as he spoke again, quieter this time, pleading. "Harry... Please. We can fix this. You don’t have to be this way. We can bring you back. You don’t have to be consumed by this darkness."

But Harry didn’t respond. Instead, his laughter started again, softer this time, almost like a whisper, and the darkness around him seemed to thicken, pulling at them all. It was as if the boy they had known, the boy who had fought so hard for a better world, had slipped away into the shadows, leaving behind something unrecognizable.

As they stood there, the remnants of Harry’s magic swirling around them, there was no telling if they would be able to pull him back from the edge. The boy who had lived—who had endured so much—was now a victim of his own power, and the only thing left was the overwhelming sense of despair.
As Snape cautiously approached Harry, the air around them thickened with tension. Every movement seemed deliberate, as if they were walking on the edge of a knife. The remnants of Harry’s uncontrolled magic were still swirling in the air, feeding off his pain and rage, making it nearly impossible to think clearly.

Snape lifted his wand slowly, preparing to cast a diagnostic spell, one that might help them understand the full extent of what had happened to Harry. But before he could utter the incantation, Harry’s hollow gaze flickered to him, and his lips parted in a twisted sneer.

"Go ahead, Snape," Harry said, his voice low and dripping with venom. "You think you can fix me? You think you're going to heal all of this?" His eyes narrowed, and there was something darker in his expression now—a depth of pain and resentment that seemed to run so deep it was almost palpable.

Snape froze, his heart tightening at the sound of Harry’s voice. It was different, colder, more distant. "Potter , this isn't you," Snape murmured, though his words were barely a whisper, swallowed up by the heavy atmosphere of the room.

But Harry wasn’t listening. His eyes flashed with fury, and he snarled, "No, you're wrong. I’m exactly who I’ve always been. You couldn’t save lilly. You couldn’t save her. Now you’ll try to save me, but it’s too late. It’s already over." His gaze grew darker still, and with a twisted laugh, he added, "Maybe you should do it. Maybe you should kill me. I’m already dead inside."

The words struck like a blow, and Snape felt a pang of guilt tear through him. He had known that Harry had been through unimaginable suffering, but this… this was beyond anything he had imagined. The boy he had tried to protect, the boy he had secretly cared for, had been consumed by his grief and rage. And now, there was no telling where the boy ended and the magic began.
The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the distant echoes of Harry’s twisted words, the rage still burning in his eyes. His body, once full of life and magic, now lay motionless on the floor. Snape, his own heart pounding in his chest, slowly approached the still form of Harry, every step heavy with the weight of the situation.

He knelt beside Harry, his breath shallow as he hesitated for a moment. A cold dread settled in his stomach. He raised his wand and muttered a spell under his breath, hoping, praying that it was all just a terrible mistake—that Harry’s heart would beat again, that his magic would stir. But as he scanned Harry’s limp body, the result was chilling.

There was no pulse. No breath. Harry was gone.

Snape’s hand trembled as he tried another spell, then another, but nothing happened. There was no magic coursing through Harry’s body—nothing. The boy who had once carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, the boy who had fought against so much darkness, was gone.

A horrible realization swept over Snape, and for the first time in many years, a tear slid down his cheek—silent, unnoticed in the dim light. He had failed. They had all failed.

"No..." Snape whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking under the strain of disbelief. His eyes were fixed on Harry, his lifeless body lying there, a stark reminder of their failure. "This… this can’t be."

Sirius, who had been watching in stunned silence, suddenly let out a strangled cry. "No! No, no, no!" He fell to his knees beside Harry, reaching out as if hoping that by touching him, he could somehow bring Harry back to life. "Harry… Harry!" His voice cracked with anguish, and his hands shook as he gripped his godson’s cold, lifeless form.

Remus stood frozen, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, as though he were praying for some miracle, his face contorted with grief. His voice was barely audible, a soft murmur. "We… we failed him. We let him slip away. We—"

But Sirius, his mind unraveling, was beyond reason. His hands grabbed at Harry's body, shaking him in desperation. "Please! Don’t do this to me, Harry! Don’t you dare leave me!" His voice was raw, like a wounded animal. The years of love and care, of watching Harry grow from a boy into a man, crashed down on him all at once. He had promised Harry's parents, he had promised that he would protect him, and now…

"I couldn’t protect you, Harry. I couldn’t keep you safe," Sirius sobbed, his voice trembling.

Remus knelt beside him, pulling him back, his voice filled with quiet sorrow. "Sirius, it’s not your fault. There was nothing you could have done. Nothing any of us could do."

But in the depths of his grief, Sirius couldn’t hear. He refused to believe. His godson—his Harry—was gone. And no amount of reason could ever make him accept it.

Dumbledore, who had been standing at the periphery of the scene, took a step forward, his usual calm demeanor shattered. His eyes, usually so filled with wisdom, were now clouded with an anguish that mirrored his broken heart. "I… I never imagined this," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I thought Harry would be the one to end it. To end the war. To bring us all to a better world."

But now that hope had died with him.

"Not like this. Not like this," Dumbledore whispered, as if speaking to himself more than anyone else. The heavy burden of his own choices weighed on him. He had known, or at least had believed, that Harry would have to sacrifice himself for the greater good, but this—this was not how he had envisioned it. His thoughts raced back to the moments they had shared, the guidance he had tried to give Harry. Was it all in vain? Had he pushed too hard?

Snape stood back, his face a mask of cold indifference, but even he could not suppress the crushing weight of failure that hung over him. Despite the anger, despite the harsh words Harry had thrown at him, Snape had always hoped, deep down, that Harry could somehow be saved. He had believed, however faintly, that the boy could come back from the brink.

But now, there was nothing. Nothing left of Harry but a cold shell.

Alastor Moody, ever the observer, stood at the back of the room, his magical eye spinning slowly as he surveyed the scene. He said nothing, his grizzled face grim. He had seen much in his time, but this? This was a different kind of devastation. A life lost, a future extinguished.

Sirius, in his frenzy, suddenly stopped. He stared down at Harry’s still form, his hands trembling as they hovered over him, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. The room grew cold with the weight of the loss.

"He's… gone," Sirius finally whispered, his voice shaking. "He’s really gone."

Tears streamed down his face, unashamed, as he collapsed beside Harry, cradling the boy he had once thought of as a son. A son he had failed.

Remus slowly placed a hand on Sirius’s shoulder, trying to offer comfort, but words failed him. The air was thick with grief, with guilt, with the overwhelming sense of something lost that could never be recovered.

Dumbledore looked around the room, at the faces of those who had loved Harry, who had believed in him. But all that remained now was the cruel, bitter reality.

Harry was dead.

And there was nothing anyone could do to bring him back.

The world had crumbled into a shadow of its former self. A decade had passed since Harry Potter had died, and with his death, the last flicker of hope had extinguished. Voldemort, his power only increasing in the wake of Harry’s sacrifice, had conquered not just the wizarding world, but had spread his reign of terror across the Muggle world as well. The fires of hatred burned in every corner, and nothing seemed to quell the storm of destruction.

Snape stood alone in the desolation of what had once been Hogwarts, now reduced to a twisted shell of its grandeur. The ruins of the castle were as hollow as his heart, a reflection of the emptiness that had settled in his soul. The winds howled through the broken towers, carrying with them the remnants of a lost world—memories of lives that had been stolen by the war, of friendships, of love, of loss.

He had failed. He had failed Lily, the one person he had ever truly loved. He had failed her son, Harry, the boy he had sworn to protect. Now, as he wandered through the wreckage, the weight of that failure crushed him. The pain of it was unbearable, sharper than any curse.

Snape had not shed a tear in years. He had always prided himself on his stoicism, on his ability to bury his emotions beneath layers of cold detachment. But now, in the quiet of the ruins, he could no longer hold it back. His chest heaved as he sank to his knees on the cold stone floor, his head bowed in grief. The tears came, unbidden, as his hands clenched into fists, his body trembling with the force of the sorrow that had consumed him.

"I should have been better," he whispered to the empty air, his voice breaking. "I should have protected him. I should have saved him."

The memories of Harry’s death were fresh in his mind, as though they had happened only yesterday.
The guilt was suffocating. It twisted inside him, a constant reminder of his inadequacy.

“You were always too late,” Snape muttered bitterly to himself. “Too late to save anyone. Too late to save her… too late to save him…”

He thought of Lily, her bright eyes and her gentle smile, the love they had once shared before everything had fallen apart. He had never been able to forgive himself for the way things had ended between them, for the choices he had made, for the side he had chosen. And then Harry... he had failed him, too. He had promised to protect him, and yet, all he had done was watch as the world consumed the boy Lily had left behind.

Sirius and Remus, both gone in the aftermath of harry deaths. Like many person.
Snape stood shakily, wiping the tears from his face. The battlefield outside was still and silent, save for the distant sound of crackling fires. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and decay. There was no peace left, no hope.

He walked aimlessly through the desolation, his footsteps echoing in the quiet. He had no direction anymore, no purpose. The war was over, and Voldemort had won. But what was the point of continuing? What was the point of fighting when everything was lost?

Snape reached the edge of the ruined castle, looking out across the landscape. The earth seemed scarred, burned by the magic and the violence that had ravaged it. There was no beauty left in the world, no peace to be found.

And yet, in the distance, he saw a figure. It was a faint silhouette at first, but as it moved closer, he recognized the form.

It was Harry.

His breath caught in his throat. No. It couldn’t be. Harry was dead. He had seen the boy fall, had watched him breathe his last breath. But this figure—this ghost of the past—was real, or so it seemed.

Snape’s heart pounded as he stepped forward, his feet carrying him on their own.

““Harry?” he called, his voice trembling, uncertain.

The figure turned, and for a moment, Snape’s world stopped. It was Harry, but it was not the Harry he had known. The boy’s face was pale, his eyes empty, void of the light that had once been there. He was different—broken, as though he, too, had been shattered by the war.

“I tried to protect you,” Snape whispered, stepping closer, his voice thick with emotion. “I promised her...”

Harry’s eyes flickered with something, something that might have been recognition, but it was fleeting. His lips parted, but no words came. Instead, he simply stood there, looking at Snape, his expression unreadable.

And then, just as quickly as he had appeared, Harry’s figure began to fade, dissipating into the air like smoke.

Snape reached out desperately, his fingers grazing the air where the boy had been. “No,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “Don’t leave me… not like this.”

But it was no use. The image of Harry was gone, swallowed by the darkness, leaving Snape standing alone in the ruins. He collapsed to his knees once more, the weight of his loss overwhelming him. His mind swirled with confusion and despair. Had it been a vision? A hallucination born of his grief? Or was it a final attempt by the boy to say goodbye?

“I failed you,” Snape whispered, his voice breaking as the tears began to fall again. “I’m so sorry, Harry. I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t save any of you.”

The world around him was silent, save for the soft sobs that escaped from his chest. There was no hope left, no peace to be found. Only grief. Only regret. And in that moment, Snape knew that he would carry the weight of his failures to the end of his days.

The last summer before I die. - Amoureuxlove12 - Harry Potter (2025)

References

Top Articles
Latest Posts
Recommended Articles
Article information

Author: Rob Wisoky

Last Updated:

Views: 6041

Rating: 4.8 / 5 (48 voted)

Reviews: 87% of readers found this page helpful

Author information

Name: Rob Wisoky

Birthday: 1994-09-30

Address: 5789 Michel Vista, West Domenic, OR 80464-9452

Phone: +97313824072371

Job: Education Orchestrator

Hobby: Lockpicking, Crocheting, Baton twirling, Video gaming, Jogging, Whittling, Model building

Introduction: My name is Rob Wisoky, I am a smiling, helpful, encouraging, zealous, energetic, faithful, fantastic person who loves writing and wants to share my knowledge and understanding with you.