Chapter Text
[Saturday, May 16, 1998, Two weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts]
Theo
The crack of his apparition reverberated through the Forbidden Forest like a shot, making him wince. He really should have trained himself better. But his thoughts were too scattered for him to care.
He hadn’t wanted to just walk through the front gate. Wasn’t sure if he was allowed to…well, for a multitude of reasons: his name was reason enough.
And the whispers. Merlin, the whispers. About how he’d vanished in the last days of the war. About where he’d stood when the final curse was cast. No one knew. No one had to. The mark on his arm told its own story.
He exhaled slowly, the breath fogging in the cold morning air, and stepped out of the tree line. The forest floor gave way to muddy earth and long grass. Just ahead was Hagrid’s hut, squat and forlorn, the roof in disrepair, but it was the castle that drew his eye.
Hogwarts.
The sweeping turrets still clawed at the sky, and the giant stone walls still stood—mostly. If he squinted, he could barely make out Gryffindor Tower.
The dungeons, of course, remained unseen.
Just as well.
The trek up the hill was slow, each step dragging like his feet weighed twice as much as they should.
He stuck to the grass beside the cobblestone path, not quite willing to follow the same route students always had. His boots—scuffed black leather, soaked at the edges—sank into the damp earth. His shoulders hunched against the chill. It wasn’t raining, not exactly, but the air clung to him like wet cloth, heavy and unshaking. His breathing came uneven, and there was a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with the climb.
Part of him—the oldest, most cowardly part—wanted to run back to the trees and disappear. To vanish into the trees, let the fog swallow him whole, and pretend he’d never set foot here again.
But he’d promised.
And promises are all I have left.
The closer he got, the more Hogwarts revealed the full scope of its ruin.
Parts of the stone wall had collapsed entirely, jagged gaps like missing teeth in a once-smiling face. The courtyard was littered with debris—broken stone, half-melted suits of armor, a scorched House banner tangled around a fallen column. Deep gouges clawed across the earth, and blackened scorch marks marred the grass like fresh bruises.
Even the fog, curling low across the ground, couldn’t soften the damage. It only made it look like the castle was bleeding smoke.
The whole place reeked of after.
After the terror. After the dying. After the war.
And today, under a sullen sky the color of old bruises, it felt fitting.
A dismal castle for a dismal day.
He could practically hear the wards before he reached them—a living hum, high and shuddering. Someone had rebuilt them. Someone good.
Sure, they had always been there, but what used to feel like a veil now seemed like a thick wall of layered wards and spells.
It was probably McGonagall who erected them. Who else would have the good sense to protect what remained?
Especially today.
The day they were all supposed to mourn. The day they named the dead and buried the war.
Except they hadn’t. Not really. The war wasn’t over—not while Voldemort still lived.
He paused at the boundary. So close now. Close enough to smell the smoke still embedded in the stones.
He could turn around right now. Leave. Never come back.
But I promised.
The thought had enough pull that he stepped forward, through the wards. In hindsight, he should have tested it, making sure it wouldn’t rebound him on first touch. But it let him through. No resistance. Just a brief flare of heat, a tingling of needles on the covered Dark Mark.
It only lasted for a moment, but the pain lingered.
It always lingered.
The inside of the school was not much different from the outside—scorch marks and rubble littered the halls.
Silence pressed down from all sides. No portraits whispered. No ghosts drifted by.
Some frames hung askew, if they were even on the walls at all. They gaped empty as he slipped his hands into his pockets and kept walking.
The castle had always been alive—maddeningly so.
You couldn’t take a piss without some ancient Headmaster or Professor judging your posture.
Now it was a tomb. And Theo, somehow, was still one of the living.
There was a shift in the air. A faint pressure, like a presence settling just beyond the corner of his vision. Theo latched tighter onto what he held in his palm.
“You know,” a voice sounded to his left, “we could have gone through the main entrance and just walked right into the Great Hall.”
Theo turned his head.
Green eyes behind crooked glasses stared back at him.
Unmistakable. Unchanged. Yet ruined all the same.
He didn’t answer at first. Just turned back to the corridor, setting his sights on the Grand Staircase—what was left of it at least.
A smaller staircase creaked and groaned into place ahead, leading the way up.
“Like I’m in any rush,” he muttered. His hand stayed buried in his pocket, curling tighter into a fist and squeezing before letting go.
“Besides,” he continued, his voice low, “no one’s expecting me.”
A beat of silence. Then Harry spoke.
“Someone could be.”
Theo slowed, feeling the weight of those words stab and hook into his ribs, twisting painfully.
But he said nothing.
He just climbed.
The first thing he noticed about the Great Hall was the absence of floating candles. No swirl of clouds or fog.
The ceiling was gone.
In its place hung long black cloths, suspended from the scaffolding that reached toward the open sky. They didn’t move—there was no breeze. Only the weight of still air and muted sound.
A mix of chairs and benches was set in rows. Most were full.
But the people seated weren’t crying. Their grief had already bled past weeping.
This was numbness. Shock carved into stone.
Theo moved silently to stand at the back wall.
Harry stood beside him, eyes flickering from Theo to the others.
No one looked at them. No one spoke to them.
At the front of the hall, an old dais had been transfigured into a platform draped in black velvet.
A scattering of wreaths already lay upon it—delicate arrangements of lilies, forget-me-nots, and white roses.
Symbols of peace. Symbols of memory.
Symbols of failure.
Theo shifted his hand back into his pocket, wrapping tightly once more around the small object hidden there.
McGonagall stood at the podium, her voice carrying clear but brittle through the hall. She was reading names. One after another. Soft and unrelenting.
Theo didn’t listen to the names.
He couldn’t.
Each one was a knife he didn't have the strength to dodge.
I have no right to be here. No right to listen to these names. Not when I bear the mark. Not when I did nothing. Nothing that truly made any difference.
It took everything in him not to leave. Instead, he watched.
People rose, one by one, carrying wreaths to the platform.
Luna Lovegood—her hands trembling, but her gaze unwavering.
Neville Longbottom—stooped, older somehow.
Professor Flitwick, his tiny frame weighed down by sorrow larger than him.
Kingsley Shacklebolt, solid and silent, carrying his grief like a mantle.
And then—
Ginny Weasley.
She moved differently from the others. Not slower. Not faster. Just—deliberate.
As if every step cost her.
In her arms, she held a wreath of red poppies and golden broomflowers. Simple. Stark. Painfully brave.
Theo watched her cross the hall, feeling every beat of her heart like it was tethered to his own.
Ginny set the wreath gently among the others, brushing her fingers once across the black velvet ribbon tied to it.
McGonagall’s voice cracked with the next name.
"And Har–Harry James Potter," the elder witch said, "whose bravery outshone even the darkest of nights."
A ripple went through the hall—not a sound, not a word—but a ripple all the same.
Theo turned his head slowly.
He didn’t want to look.
But he had to.
Harry stood beside him still.
But not as he had before.
The light cutting through the fog and into the Great Hall shone straight through him now, turning his form into mist. His edges blurred. His colours faded. His green eyes still burned.
But they weren’t alive.
Theo stared at him, feeling the final thread snap inside his chest.
Because Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was dead.