On the night of Boxing Day, the moon hung full and bright in the sky.
A bonfire blazed in front of the vegetable patch at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. As the Muggle Studies professor told an old wizarding tale, the guests around the fire listened with very different thoughts in mind. Aside from Hagrid, the half-giant, hardly anyone was paying attention to the food anymore.
The story of the Deathly Hallows itself wasn't complicated.
"One midsummer evening," Melvin began calmly, "the three Peverell brothers were traveling along a quiet riverside path when they came upon a fast, deep river—far too dangerous to cross. Skilled wizards that they were, they used magic to conjure a bridge spanning the water."
He continued, his voice steady and unhurried. "Just as the sun disappeared below the horizon and they reached the middle of the bridge, a hooded figure rose from the river and blocked their path."
"My mum says it was at midnight," Ron interrupted.
Melvin smiled gently. "Your mother isn't wrong. There are many versions of the tale of Death and the three brothers. The Tales of Beedle the Bard records just one of them. Whether it was dusk or midnight is still—believe it or not—up for debate among scholars."
"I still think Death should show up at midnight."
"…"
Melvin didn't mind the interruption and continued anyway.
"The figure claimed to be Death himself, and he was furious. Travelers usually drowned in that river, and the brothers' magic had robbed him of three perfectly good victims. If other wizards followed their example, he feared he'd lose even more."
"Unwilling to accept this," Melvin went on, "Death wanted their lives and souls—but he didn't want to openly fight three powerful wizards. Clever and deceitful, he pretended to praise their magic and congratulated them on escaping him. As a reward, he offered each of them a gift."
"Fools," Ron muttered under his breath. "Everyone knows the devil's gifts always come with a price…"
He wanted to say more, but at the looks from his two friends, he shut his mouth.
Hagrid lounged comfortably, waiting for room in his stomach. Firelight danced across Snape's pale face, flickering in his dark eyes.
Melvin tossed another log onto the fire.
"The eldest brother, Antioch, was a bold and combative wizard. He wished for the most powerful wand in existence—one that would make its owner unbeatable."
"Death went to an elder tree on the riverbank, snapped off a hanging branch, and fashioned it into a wand, which he handed to Antioch."
"Delighted, Antioch accepted it. After the brothers parted ways, he traveled to a distant mountain village. There, in a tavern, he argued with a drunken wizard. The argument quickly escalated into a duel."
"With ease, Antioch killed the man using the elder wand."
Melvin's voice remained even.
"Drunk on victory and pride, Antioch bragged loudly in the tavern, boasting that he had stolen this wand from Death himself and that it made him invincible."
"He drank until he passed out and had to rent a room upstairs. While he slept, another wizard crept in, stole the elder wand, and slit his throat."
"And so," Melvin concluded, "Death claimed the life of the eldest brother."
Harry and Hermione didn't react much to the story. Ron, on the other hand, looked openly fascinated. He imagined himself wielding the elder wand—I'd never get drunk, he thought. And I'd set up security charms before going to sleep.
Melvin, too, felt curiosity stir—but nothing more than that.
"The second brother, Cadmus, was a deeply emotional man. He wished for the power to bring the dead back to life—to see his deceased wife again. Death picked up a stone from the riverbank and told him it was a Resurrection Stone, capable of returning the dead to the living world."
At the words Resurrection Stone and bring the dead back, Harry and Snape both stiffened.
Harry's thoughts were written all over his face. His hands clenched the sleeves of his robe, and his bright green eyes locked onto Melvin, unwilling to miss a single word.
Something flickered in Snape's eyes—a spark of light that quickly sank back into darkness.
As a former Death Eater who had seen all kinds of twisted magic, Snape knew how impossible true resurrection was. Even Voldemort couldn't do it.
His reason said it was impossible. His heart, traitorous as ever, dared to hope.
Crackling firewood filled the silence as Melvin continued.
"When Cadmus returned home, he followed Death's instructions. Holding the stone in his palm, he turned it three times. The woman he loved appeared before him—but not as he had hoped."
Melvin paused.
"She had no body, only a spirit. She couldn't truly return to life, nor could she pass on like a normal soul. She wandered the world like a ghost—yet suffered even more than one, because she could still feel."
"She didn't belong among the living, but she had no choice. No matter what magic Cadmus tried, no matter how he used the stone, life and death were always separated by an invisible veil."
"The witch grew distant and sorrowful. Cadmus, tortured by longing, could see his wife yet never truly reach her. In the end, driven mad by grief, he took his own life to be with her."
"And so Death claimed the second brother as well."
The light vanished from Snape's eyes. Harry's expression darkened as well.
Only Ron still seemed eager. "So next is the invisibility cloak, right? Like Harry's!"
"Judging by your faces," Melvin said with a faint smile, "I didn't think you cared much about that part."
He slipped a hand into his pocket.
Hermione stared eagerly, half-afraid he'd pull out sweets. Instead, he produced a black gemstone, and her eyes were instantly drawn to it.
It looked like polished obsidian, etched faintly with ancient markings: a vertical line for the elder wand, a circle for the Resurrection Stone, and a triangle for the invisibility cloak.
A legend from centuries ago—now sitting right in front of them.
Harry and Snape stared at it as well, disbelief and hope tangled together.
"Harry," Melvin said gently, "when you stood before the Mirror of Erised, Dumbledore warned you not to lose yourself in false visions. I don't know whether what the Resurrection Stone shows is an illusion or not—but you must remember that life and death cannot truly be crossed."
He handed the stone to Harry, his tone solemn. "Stay rational. For your sake—and for your family's."
Harry took the stone with trembling hands. His heart felt like a Golden Snitch had just streaked through it.
He'd heard about his parents countless times: his mother, a brilliant Muggle-born witch; his father, a pure-blood prankster and talented Quidditch player.
Everyone told him they were brave and kind—that they'd escaped Death Eaters again and again, and finally died protecting him in Godric's Hollow.
Sometimes those shining reputations felt unreal to Harry. Only when Dementors made him collapse did the truth break through—his mother's screams, his father's desperation, raw and horrifying.
Professor Levent's voice seemed to come from far away. The crackling fire filled Harry's entire world.
He didn't answer.
There was only one thought in his mind.
Close your eyes. Hold the stone. Turn it three times.
The sounds of the fire faded.
Footsteps stirred the snow—light, familiar, impossibly gentle.
Harry opened his eyes.
Two figures stood before him, just like in the photographs, smiling warmly.
Tears streamed down his face.
James wore the clothes from the night he died, hair messy, glasses slightly crooked.
Lily looked just as she had in her youth, long red hair swept back, green eyes—his eyes—fixed on him, smiling as if she could never look away.
They weren't ghosts. They weren't truly alive either.
They were more like memories given form—almost solid, yet not quite real.
"Dad… Mom…" Harry whispered hoarsely, afraid that speaking louder might draw Death's attention.
…
They sat around the bonfire in the snow. The stew bubbled in the stone pot, logs popped and cracked, and a protective charm kept the wind and snow at bay.
No one spoke.
A chill crept through them all.
Harry's behavior was strange—not hysterical or wild, but silent. He stood clutching the stone, tears pouring down his face without a sound.
"They're here, aren't they?" Ron asked quietly.
"From the look of Harry…" Hermione said uneasily, "I think so."
She felt watched, as though someone invisible stood nearby, observing them—perhaps even speaking, though only Harry could hear it.
Everyone lowered their voices instinctively.
Everyone except Hagrid.
He thumped his chest and called out cheerfully, "James? Lily? Is that you?"
Melvin blinked. Moonlight flashed silver in his eyes as the boundary between life and death seemed to blur. He could see them now—two figures reflected in his pupils.
A handsome man and a beautiful woman, holding their sobbing child.
It was a perfect picture—and yet something was off.
Their forms carried traces of Harry's magic.
A memory given shape?
Just then, James and Lily turned toward him and nodded, gratitude in their smiles.
A soft breeze stirred. The fire flickered, shadows dancing across the snow, and the air felt thick with something indescribable.
"Ha! I knew you'd remember me!" Hagrid laughed.
Melvin hesitated. They seemed… aware. Independent. Not just illusions pulled from Harry's mind.
Everyone watched in silence.
Everyone except Snape.
He stood rigid in the snow, unmoving, as if a blade had pierced his heart and plunged it into the Black Lake. Cold pain spread through his veins.
Guilt. Regret. Self-loathing.
All the emotions that had haunted him for over a decade surged back at once. He nearly fled—but couldn't.
He didn't dare face Lily.
Yet something else—something nameless—held him there.
His eyes darkened as the two emotions tore at him, nearly ripping his soul in half.
Time passed.
The stew bubbled.
Hermione finally looked away from Harry. His eyes were closed, face streaked with tears and snot—thoroughly undignified.
She turned to Melvin. "Professor Levent… could you finish the story of the invisibility cloak? I'd like to hear it."
Melvin nodded.
"The youngest brother, Ignotus, was the humblest—and the wisest. He never trusted Death's words. He asked for something that would allow him to hide from Death forever."
"Reluctantly, Death gave him his own cloak."
"For many years, Death searched but could never find him. Ignotus lived to a ripe old age. When his time finally came, he took off the cloak and greeted Death like an old friend—leaving with him as an equal."
Hermione sighed softly. "So only Ignotus survived. Only he beat Death."
"No," Melvin said gently. "No one ever truly wins against Death. Antioch and Cadmus died because of their desires. Ignotus didn't escape death—he simply delayed it."
"Exactly!" Hagrid said, ladling himself another bowl of stew. "Spending half your life hiding under a cloak—how's that a victory? Sounds miserable!"
He muttered, "Hiding and running… you can't do that forever."
At those words, Snape's lips trembled. The fire in his eyes vanished, and he stood straighter in the snow.
He remembered standing outside the Gryffindor Tower all those years ago—Lily refusing to see him. He'd sworn he'd sleep in the corridor if he had to. When she finally came out, it ended in disaster after just a few sentences.
Because of that word he could never take back.
Because of the apology he never said.
After that, they drifted apart. He refused to admit fault, ran headlong down the wrong path, leaked the prophecy, and drew Voldemort's attention to Lily—leading to the tragedy at Godric's Hollow.
For years, he'd wondered: If I hadn't turned away that day… would things have been different?
Snape looked at the sobbing boy.
He closed his eyes.
He would not run away again.
Some things had to be said out loud—no matter the outcome.
Condemnation. Hatred. Disgust.
He would accept them all.