The same snowy clearing at the edge of the Forbidden Forest—when Harry sat around the bonfire with his roommates, all he could think about was stew and roasted meat. But now, nestled close to his parents, all he wanted was for time to stop right here and never move forward again.
Harry leaned into their embrace. He couldn't actually touch them—there was no warmth, no physical presence—but the emotion itself made him cling to them all the more.
He had seen a similar scene in the Mirror of Erised once before. Only now did he realize that he had become the one inside the mirror. Dumbledore's words, and Professor Levent's warnings—don't lose yourself in false visions; reality may be imperfect, but it's worth facing—all drifted out of his mind.
None of that mattered as much as listening to his parents speak.
Why hadn't Ignotus wished for something more real? Why not make the Resurrection Stone truly bring people back to life?
"Is Petunia still as… picky as she used to be?" Lily asked softly, her eyes full of warmth.
They had just been reminiscing about the past—Harry's embarrassing moments as a baby, wetting the bed during the day, tumbling out of his crib. He'd apparently been a handful from the start. The stories made Harry cringe, but they also filled him with a deep, comforting warmth.
Harry told them about life at Hogwarts. His grades were decent, nothing special. He loved Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms, did okay in Transfiguration, and wasn't very good at Potions—possibly because the professor and his father had once been romantic rivals.
He talked about silly mishaps, thrilling adventures, two friends he would trust with his life, and many others who were brave and kind.
He loved the castle—but every holiday, he still had to return to London, to live with his aunt and uncle.
When Lily heard that Dumbledore had entrusted Harry to the Dursleys, she shared stories about Petunia as a girl. For the first time, Harry learned that his perpetually stern aunt had once longed for magic herself—and had even written to Dumbledore.
"Really?" Harry said quietly. "Aunt Petunia is always busy. She never talks about you."
He lowered his eyes. He didn't mention the neglect or cruelty he'd suffered. There was no special reason—he simply didn't want to worry them.
"Were you afraid when you faced Voldemort?" James asked, ruffling Harry's messy hair.
Harry glanced up at their expressions. They were smiling softly, not grim or furious, not drowning in hatred or grief. They spoke of the Dark Lord almost dismissively, as if his name no longer deserved weight.
"The first time, yeah. A bit," Harry said honestly. "He didn't have a nose. After that… not really."
James and Lily exchanged a look and smiled, murmuring approval, proud of his courage.
The three of them leaned together in silence. Harry felt only a cool, misty presence—not cold like a ghost's touch, but gentle. Sharing the same blood made that pale fog feel strangely familiar.
"Dad… Mom…"
Harry hadn't lost himself completely. He cherished this moment, but he still remembered the real world—and the things that mattered.
"Professor Dumbledore said you left ancient magic in my blood to protect me. That power defeated Voldemort once, but he didn't really die. Is there anything you can teach me?"
"That ancient magic was part of our plan," Lily said softly. "But things didn't go the way we expected."
She brushed Harry's forehead lovingly. "The protection flowing through you now is a new spell—one Dumbledore created using what I left behind. He and the other professors have taken good care of you."
James nodded. "Some things you'll understand later. Not yet."
Their half-transparent arms wrapped around Harry, and they fell silent.
White mist curled around them. The bonfire burned brightly ahead. On a snowy night like this, with spirits returning briefly to the world, there was nothing frightening—just a family holding each other beneath moonlight and falling snow.
James and Lily looked toward the young professor nearby and nodded, gratitude shining in their pale green eyes.
Melvin met their gaze without surprise and returned the smile.
He stayed by the fire, deliberately keeping his distance, giving the family space. From there, he could still watch the Resurrection Stone closely, observing the strange magic said to come from Death itself.
The hazy white mist wrapped around Harry, subtly distorting the perceptions of the stone's bearer.
To Harry, the reunion—the tears, the words, the embrace—felt completely real. To everyone else, he was simply standing near the bonfire, eyes closed, crying silently in the mist.
The two spirits resembled memory-images, yet they weren't illusions shaped by the stone alone. That peculiar magic used moonlight and fog as a medium, creating a strange, enclosed space.
It hadn't truly returned the dead to the living world. Instead, it had drawn Harry's consciousness partway out of his body—allowing the living and the dead to meet from opposite sides, gathering in a dreamlike in-between.
An astonishing design.
Snape stood on the other side of Harry, outside the mist. He didn't dare breathe too deeply or look too closely, lost in memories of the girl he had once admired.
The lily flower—the only vivid color in his otherwise dim recollections.
His mother, Eileen Prince, had been an erratic, sharp-tongued witch. His father, Tobias Snape, a rigid, irritable Muggle. Before marriage, they'd managed well enough. Afterward, clashing values and lifestyles turned everything into a disaster.
With no stable income and forbidden to use magic, they lived in the poorest part of Cokeworth. Young Snape wore his mother's old clothes, was shunned by other children, and grew up painfully alone.
By a riverbank on the outskirts of London, near the worn-down park by Spinner's End, he'd met a green-eyed girl making a wildflower bloom—her smile brighter than the sun.
Now he stood outside the mist, just like he had once hidden in the bushes back then—uneasy, convinced he was still that lonely, awkward boy.
Snape searched his memories, thinking of Lily.
Suddenly, the mist surged.
That cool magic wrapped around him.
"Severus… long time no see?" Lily's voice drifted from within.
"Long… time…" Snape answered hoarsely. She was there.
Lily stood a few steps away, her form half-transparent, glowing faintly silver. She wore the Muggle dress from the day she died. She wasn't the radiant girl of his youth, nor the pale figure from her memorial photograph—but her green eyes were exactly the same.
Snape looked only at her eyes.
He couldn't see anyone else. Time seemed frozen, the world reduced to the blink of those green eyes.
"Are you just going to stare at me without saying anything, Severus?" Lily asked calmly.
Time lurched back into motion, like an avalanche crashing down a mountainside and shattering the ice of the Black Lake.
Snape opened his mouth. The apology was right there—
Footsteps crunched in the snow. He turned slightly and saw James step forward, smug as ever, wrapping an arm around Lily's shoulders.
The words died in Snape's throat.
Even after all these years, he still found James Potter unbearable.
"Do you regret it?" Lily asked softly.
Snape pressed his lips together. After a long silence, he forced the words out. "Yes. I regret it. Every day. I—"
"That's enough," Lily interrupted gently. Her expression softened, though it wasn't forgiveness. "You saved Harry. More than once. Thank you."
Snape's eyes dimmed, nearly shattered.
You caused our deaths. You saved our son.
That makes us even.
But she didn't forgive him. She wouldn't.
Lily sighed, looking at him with something like pity. "Severus… I don't hate you. We're still friends."
The words cut sharper than any spell—light, familiar, like the girl who once stood on the grass and smiled.
"Stop punishing Harry," she added. "And stop punishing yourself."
A breeze passed. The bonfire flickered.
The white mist vanished.
The two spirits faded.
Harry slowly opened his eyes. The snow-covered Forest glowed under the moon. The stew still steamed. The fire crackled. The Resurrection Stone lay dull and black in his hand. There were no footprints in the snow.
He was alone.
He touched his face—dry tear tracks remained.
Like waking from a beautiful, fleeting dream.
Snape watched the mist disappear, standing perfectly still, hands at his sides.
"Goodbye, Lily," he said at last—not a plea for forgiveness, not a confession—just a farewell.
"Goodbye, Sev…"
A faint voice dissolved into the wind.
…
Late at night, Malfoy Manor.
The ballroom was brightly lit. Lively music had been playing for hours. Glasses clinked cheerfully, smiles everywhere.
Half of Britain's magical elite attended the party. Lucius Malfoy moved smoothly through the crowd, champagne in hand—polite, composed, never fawning.
A massive custom-made enchanted screen hung on the wall. Instead of images, it displayed the Malfoy family crest—a silver-and-green serpent.
Beneath it stood several partners from the Mirror Club: The Daily Prophet editor Barnabas Cuffe, the mirror producer Wright Monkstanley, and two recent additions—Lucius himself and old Nott.
"After eight months of preparation, the first chapter of Magical Epic is complete," Lucius announced, raising his glass. "Tonight is both our Boxing Day banquet and our celebration. For the wizarding world, this is unprecedented—we're shaping the future."
Cuffe and Wright exchanged weary glances and raised their glasses politely.
Old Nott, however, was visibly thrilled. Since the young professor founded the Mirror Club, pure-blood families had been shut out. Now, under Lucius's leadership, they were finally part of the business.
And not just any project—a serialized magical epic.
Malfoy and Nott had poured an enormous amount of gold into the venture—nearly emptying a Gringotts vault—but neither regretted it. Profit was secondary. What mattered was reshaping public opinion of their families.
Following Professor Levent's advice, they had carefully adapted the script. While respecting historical facts, they slipped in subtle additions. In the short episodes, Malfoy and Nott ancestors appeared only briefly—quiet supporters who funded the Wizarding Council, St. Mungo's Hospital, and the Leaky Cauldron.
Small background scenes hinted at the Malfoy family's early businesses—before secrecy laws, when they traded openly with Muggles, portrayed as generous, diligent, and brave.
The dance floor filled and emptied as witches twirled gracefully, laughing with friends afterward. Narcissa, however, remained poised and composed, hosting a rare guest.
Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Earlier that day, Aurors had escorted Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew from Hogwarts to London, placing them in holding cells beneath the Ministry. Word had already spread among staff, but the initial questioning only cleared Black of murdering twelve Muggles and Pettigrew—revealing almost nothing.
Though both suspects were in custody, the trial was being delayed by Fudge and Umbridge, stalling the investigation.
Dumbledore had personally intervened, rallying senior witches like Madam Marchbanks. Sometimes Bones genuinely wondered if Fudge was incompetent. With Black's pure-blood lineage and the Potter case watched by the entire wizarding world, the political implications alone were a headache.
This fell squarely under her department's responsibilities. As a pillar of the Ministry, she couldn't allow the situation to damage its credibility.
So she turned to Narcissa—Black's cousin.
"Dumbledore wouldn't vouch for Sirius without knowing the truth," Bones said quietly. "But overturning the old case can't rely on Hogwarts alone. As his cousin, you'll need to rally other pure-blood families and pressure Fudge. It may be the only way to move the trial forward."
"That's… complicated," Narcissa said, staring into her dark red wine. Her pale skin looked almost translucent. "I'm Lady Malfoy now. We were Death Eaters. And Sirius has long sided with Dumbledore—he rejected pure-blood ideals years ago."
"The Dark Lord has fallen," Bones replied evenly. "Sirius is the sole heir of the Black family. He is pure-blood."
"I'll need to discuss it with Lucius," Narcissa said helplessly.
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