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Harry still roamed the halls of Hogwarts beneath the shroud of night, a restless specter in a castle of ghosts. It was a ritual born of sleeplessness, a habit he couldn't shake.
His eyes were vacant, as if he could abandon his burdens by surrendering direction. Up. Down. Left. Right. Onward, backward. Yet no matter where his feet carried him, he could not wander far enough to escape himself. His mind, sharp and relentless, mocked the stillness of his surroundings. His magic stirred with equal unrest, unbidden and uneasy. Catatonia, Hermione had called it, though Harry had not cared to learn the meaning. He only knew the weight of it, the way it pressed on his chest like a phantom he couldn’t shake.
"Voldemort is my past, my present, and my future."
The memory clawed at him, jagged and raw, forcing a grimace to his lips. He blinked hard, as though the white spots in his vision could eclipse the pain of those words. His voice—his promise—came back to him next, fractured and empty. "We're almost there, Hermione. Once he's gone, the future is ours. I promise you."
What a lie. A future wasn’t his to claim. Voldemort had stolen it long ago, carving himself into every corner of Harry’s life. His shadow lingered—always. A tether to the past, a specter in the present, a haunting in every imagined tomorrow. The Dark Lord’s legacy was written in Harry's blood, a truth he could neither deny nor outrun.
Descending toward the dungeons, Harry’s hand slid along the banister, the stone cool and smooth beneath his fingers. He let its chill anchor him, even as his mind unraveled again.
"Come out, Harry. Come out and play. Then it will be quick. It might even be painless… though I wouldn’t know. I have never died."
The words, Voldemort’s voice, slithered through his thoughts like smoke. Harry staggered to a halt on the stairs, his chest heaving against the suffocating weight of memory. No, Tom, he thought bitterly. You wouldn’t know. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if darkness could seal the cracks in his resolve.
He supposed Voldemort hadn’t truly died—not in the way that mattered. Most fragments of his soul had already been destroyed, piece by wretched piece. The last sliver, bound to Voldemort's own body, had likely withered into something so bitter, so empty, that Harry doubted Voldemort even felt its passing.
Not like Harry did.
Harry hoped, in some dark corner of his heart, that Voldemort had felt pain in his final moments. Maybe even fear. But deep down, he knew better. Voldemort had been too far gone, too consumed by his own hatred and hunger for power, to feel anything so human.
The bastard had probably only felt indignation in his final moments—outrage at the idea of losing, of being bested. Or… Harry squeezed his eyes shut.
It doesn’t matter anymore. Stop thinking about it.
He’d never know what Voldemort felt, if he felt anything at all. If he felt the same. And yet, the thought lingered, clinging to the edges of Harry’s mind like a shadow he couldn’t shake.
For a fleeting moment, he felt the quiet discipline that Snape had taught him, the cool detachment that kept him whole. He had come to despise the man less over time—begrudgingly grateful for the way Snape had shown him how to cage the storm. Lock it away. Bury it deep. Just for a little while.
But even now, even with those walls built tall and strong, the silence was a fragile thing. Harry longed to let out a sigh of relief. To yell. To scream into the void, "It’s quiet now!" But it wasn’t. Not really.
A sound interrupted him, faint and haunting. A melody drifted through the still air, curling from some distant corner of the dungeons. Its faintness made it all the more cruel, tantalizing him with its softness, its mournful beauty.
Curiosity sank its claws into him, tightening with every note. His footsteps quickened without thought, his breathing ragged as he chased the sound. It grew louder, echoing through the stone corridors, pulling him forward.
This. This. This was what he had been searching for, though he hadn’t known it. His mind reeled, his pulse quickened, and for a fleeting moment, the song was louder than the memories.
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Harry’s lungs burned as he dragged in air, the journey through the dungeons forgotten the moment he found the source of the melody. Before him, seated at an old piano, was Snape. But not the Snape Harry had always known—the brooding man cloaked in shadows and black. This was different. His usual robes were gone, replaced with a soft gray sweater, its woolen threads looking almost comforting, and simple black slacks.
It was disarming, this version of him—human, fragile even.
Snape didn’t acknowledge Harry as the heavy door creaked open. He simply kept playing, his long, deft fingers gliding effortlessly over the worn keys, drawing out a haunting melody that seemed to bleed into the air.
Did he know someone was here?
The music reached a note so sharp, so raw, it struck Harry like a blow. He gasped, the sound barely audible. I want. I want. I want. The words tore through him. What do you want, Harry? he asked himself, though no answer came.
His hand trembled as he stepped forward, letting the door fall closed behind him. The melody twisted through the room, unraveling something inside him. It mirrored the ache in his chest—the hollow, unspoken grief—and it made him want to lash out, to scream, to do something. But all he could do was stand there, frozen in its wake.
The air he exhaled felt like a revelation, an admission of defeat. The notes seemed to hang, shimmering in the cold dungeon air, and Harry wished he could grab them, pull them close, curl himself around their fragile beauty and breathe them in. But such things weren’t possible. So he did the next best thing: he moved closer, drawn to the music and to the man playing it.
Snape’s hands moved across the keys with such grace that Harry couldn’t help but stare. Had they always been so elegant? He supposed they must have been, honed by years of cutting ingredients with precision, flipping through countless pages of old books. Harry imagined, absurdly, what it would feel like if those hands held his own. The thought sent an unfamiliar flutter through his stomach.
No. No. No. Don’t stop. The plea rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down. He wanted to beg, to whisper, to shout. But he remained silent, watching as the melody wound to its inevitable end.
“Lost your way, Potter?” Snape’s voice broke the spell, sharp and familiar in its drawl. Harry almost smiled—almost. How strange to be spoken to as if he were still whole. As if he hadn’t unraveled.
“No, Professor,” he replied, the words a fragile tether to reality. But then those delicate fingers reached up, and with a soft click, the fallboard was drawn over the keys, silencing them. “No! Please, no!” The words escaped before Harry could stop them, heavy with desperation.
Snape turned slowly, and when their eyes met, Harry felt as though he’d been stripped bare. Those dark, unyielding eyes pierced through him, searching, questioning. It took every ounce of courage Harry had not to crumble beneath their scrutiny. When had I become this fragile? he wondered bitterly. Since you died, came the answer, unbidden and merciless. Yes. Perhaps so. Nothing had made sense since then, had it?
"Please, no what, Potter?" Snape’s voice cut through the air, smooth yet edged, his dark eyes locked on Harry with unnerving precision. Whatever mask Harry had tried to wear, it was pointless under that gaze. "I hope you’re capable of more than four words, although I wouldn’t be surprised if you weren’t." The familiar sneer tugged at Snape’s lips, but it lacked its usual venom. There was something else there—something softer, though Harry couldn’t name it.
“Please,” Harry began, his voice low and uneven, “don’t stop playing, Professor.” He shuffled forward a step, his movements hesitant, unsure. “I’d… I’d appreciate it if you played another song.”
Snape tilted his head, regarding Harry as if he were a puzzle missing too many pieces. He sniffed once, dismissively, and turned back to the piano without a word.
The silence that followed was heavy, pressing. Harry’s stomach sank, a leaden weight dragging him down. His throat tightened as he squeezed his eyes shut, bracing against the disappointment.
Then, softly, a single note broke the stillness. It echoed through the cold, empty room, resonating like a lifeline. More notes followed, weaving a new melody that seemed to wrap around Harry, filling the hollow spaces inside him. He shivered, the sound brushing against his raw edges like a balm, and his legs gave way. He let himself sink to the floor, drawing his knees to his chest as he let the music carry him. Abruptly, the playing stopped.
“Don’t be daft, Potter,” Snape muttered, his voice gruff. “You’ll catch a cold sitting on the floor. Sit here.” Harry blinked up at him, startled. Snape shifted slightly on the bench, leaving just enough space for him. Without hesitation, Harry scrambled to his feet, his movements almost clumsy in their eagerness. He slid onto the bench beside Snape, the proximity unfamiliar yet strangely comforting.
Closing his eyes, he let himself fall into the music once more as it swelled to life again. But when he opened them, he found Snape watching him. Those dark eyes, always so inscrutable, held something different now—something softer, deeper. A promise of protection, of understanding. Harry smiled, small but genuine. “Can I come back tomorrow?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Snape hesitated for only a moment before replying, his tone quiet, almost kind. “Yes, Harry. You can.”