Chapter Text
The Great Hall was alive with the usual dinner chatter—laughter from the Gryffindor table, quiet conversation from Ravenclaw, Slytherin's more subdued discussions, and Hufflepuff's warm camaraderie. Sixth and seventh years were deep in debate about the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend.
Then, between one breath and the next, everything stopped.
"Silence."
The word didn't echo through the Hall. It didn't need to. It simply was—absolute and undeniable—and every voice ceased as though cut by an invisible blade.
The candles flickered once, twice, then extinguished completely. Darkness swallowed the Hall whole.
Screams caught in throats. Wands were drawn but produced no light. Even Dumbledore's attempt at Lumos died before it could spark.
Then light returned—but wrong. Cold. It gathered at the front of the Hall like water pooling in reverse, flowing upward, coalescing into something vast and terrible and beautiful.
The figure that formed made several students stumble backward. Made Dumbledore's hand tighten on his wand. Made Lord Arcturus Black, visiting to speak with his grandson, go very still in a way that spoke of ancient recognition.
Death regarded them all with eyes like dying stars—vast, dark, and filled with the light of things ending.
"Good evening," Death said, and their voice was neither male nor female, neither old nor young. It resonated in bones and blood and the very soul. "Forgive the dramatic entrance. I've found subtlety is wasted on mortals—you never seem to notice when I'm being polite."
For a long moment, no one breathed.
Then Dumbledore stepped forward, and even he seemed somehow less in Death's presence, his usual grandfatherly twinkle dimmed. "Who are you? By what right do you—"
"By what right?" Death's lips curved—not quite a smile. "By the right of being the end of all stories, Albus Dumbledore. I am what waits beyond the Veil. The shepherd of souls. The final truth." A pause, heavy with amusement. "Most call me Death, though I've had other names. The Romans were particularly creative."
Frost crept across the tables. Several students' breaths misted in the suddenly frigid air.
"Death?" James Potter said faintly from the Gryffindor table, where he sat with Sirius, Remus, and Peter. "As in... Death death?"
"Is there another kind?" Death asked pleasantly. "Though I suppose you mortals do love your euphemisms. 'Passed on.' 'Gone to a better place.' 'Kicked the bucket'—I rather like that one, actually."
"What do you want?" Lily Evans demanded, standing with her wand drawn, chin raised despite the fear in her eyes. "Why are you here?"
Death's gaze settled on her with something almost like fondness. "Direct. I appreciate that." They gestured, and the darkness behind them shifted, transformed. A massive screen materialized across the entire wall, thrumming with potential energy. "You are here to watch. To witness. To learn what your choices create."
"Watch what exactly?" Sirius called out, trying for his usual bravado and almost succeeding.
Death's galaxy-deep eyes fixed on him, and Sirius felt stripped bare, every secret exposed. "The future, Sirius Black. Or rather, a future. One that will come to pass if things continue as they are."
The Hall erupted. Questions, protests, demands—
"Silence," Death said again, and once more, instant obedience. "Here are the rules, and I suggest you listen carefully. First: You will watch what I show you. Second: You will not leave this Hall until I permit it. Third: Time outside this space is frozen—when you leave, no time will have passed in your world. Fourth: You may speak amongst yourselves during the viewing. In fact, I encourage it. Discussion, debate, even argument—all permitted." Death's smile sharpened. "Fifth: Any attempt to cause physical harm to another will result in consequences I promise you do not wish to experience. Sixth and finally: What you see here may disturb you. It may anger you. It will certainly change you. But you will watch. Understood?"
"You can't just—" a seventh year Ravenclaw started.
"I can," Death interrupted gently. "I am Death. I can do quite a lot, actually. The question is not what I can do, but what I choose to do. And I choose this."
"Why?" Regulus Black spoke for the first time from the Slytherin table, his voice quiet but clear. Several heads turned—the youngest Black rarely spoke in public. "What purpose does this serve?"
Death studied him with interest. "Perceptive question, Regulus Arcturus Black. The answer?" They sighed, and it sounded like wind through a graveyard. "I am tired. So very tired of the same cycles, the same mistakes, the same unnecessary deaths. Of souls cut down before their time by choices made in ignorance or pride or fear." Their gaze swept the Hall. "You stand at a crossroads. All of you. The choices made in the coming months will ripple across decades, will determine who lives and who dies, who loves and who loses, who becomes a hero and who becomes a monster."
"And you're showing us the future to... what? Let us change it?" Remus asked carefully.
"I'm showing you a future," Death corrected. "What you do with that knowledge is your choice. But yes, Remus Lupin. I am giving you the chance to change it."
"Whose future?" Lily asked, though something in her expression suggested she already knew the answer would hurt.
Death's gaze softened. "A boy named Harry. Harry James Potter."
James went white. "But I don't—I don't have—"
"Not yet," Death agreed. "But you will. And he..." For the first time, Death's composure cracked, revealing something ancient and grieving beneath, "...he has died in my arms more times than I care to count. In timeline after timeline, I have guided his soul beyond the Veil. He always goes bravely. Always without complaint. Always far, far too young."
The Hall had gone deathly still.
"I am tired," Death said again, fiercer now, "of holding that particular soul. Tired of his green eyes—so like his mother's—dimming under my touch. Tired of the same tragedy playing out again and again because people could not see beyond their own fears and prejudices to the truth."
James's voice cracked. "My son dies?"
"In every timeline I have witnessed thus far?" Death met his eyes. "Yes. Though how and when and why varies. Sometimes in infancy. Sometimes as a teenager. Sometimes—rarely—he makes it to adulthood before sacrificing himself for others. Always, always a hero. Always, always dead before his time."
"No," James whispered.
"Which is why we're here," Death said firmly. "You will watch Harry Potter's life unfold. You will see the consequences of choices made and not made. You will see triumphs and tragedies, love and loss, betrayal and redemption. And when it is done..." Death's smile was sharp as a blade, "...you will have the chance to make different choices."
"These visions," Dumbledore said carefully, "are they inevitable? Set in stone?"
"Nothing is inevitable, Albus Dumbledore," Death replied, and their tone carried warning. "Except me. I am inevitable. Everything else—war, peace, love, hate, life, death—all of it is negotiable. Malleable. Subject to change." A wave of their hand, and the screen flickered to life, showing a dark street beneath a starless sky. "So let us see what your current path creates, shall we?"
A title appeared on the screen in silver letters:
HARRY POTTER AND THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE
"Oh gods," Lily breathed.
Death settled into a throne that materialized from shadows, looking for all the world like they were preparing to watch a particularly interesting Quidditch match. "I suggest you all get comfortable. We'll be here a while. And do pay attention—there will be surprises. Some of you..." Death's gaze drifted briefly to Antonin Dolohov, a seventh-year Slytherin who sat rigid with tension, "...may find your entire understanding of your future changed."
At the Slytherin table, Barty Crouch Jr. leaned toward Regulus and whispered, "Is this real? Are we actually sitting in the Great Hall with Death?"
"Either that," Regulus murmured back, eyes fixed on the screen where the image was beginning to move, "or we're all having the same very elaborate hallucination."
"Ten Galleons says we're about to see some seriously dark shit," Evan Rosier muttered from Barty's other side.
"No bet," Pandora Lovegood said dreamily from the Ravenclaw table behind them. "Death doesn't intervene for happy stories."
The Viewing Begins
The screen flickered to life, showing a quiet suburban street bathed in late autumn darkness. A street sign read: Privet Drive.
"November first, 1981," Death narrated softly. "The night after Lily and James Potter were murdered by Lord Voldemort."
Lily gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. James went rigid, his face draining of color. Across the Hall at the Slytherin table, Regulus Black's knuckles turned white where they gripped the edge of the table.
On screen, a tall figure in flowing purple robes appeared at the end of the street. The figure was unmistakably Albus Dumbledore, though he looked younger, his beard more auburn than silver.
"That's you, Headmaster," Marlene McKinnon said, confusion evident in her voice.
Dumbledore said nothing, but his expression had gone carefully blank.
The screen-Dumbledore pulled out what looked like a silver lighter and began clicking it. One by one, the streetlights went out, plunging Privet Drive into darkness.
"Why would you put out all the lights?" Remus asked, frowning.
On screen, Dumbledore approached a tabby cat sitting stiffly on a brick wall. "Good evening, Professor McGonagall."
"You can tell it's me?" McGonagall's voice came from the screen as the cat transformed into the stern witch they all knew, though again, younger.
Several students gasped at the transformation. Even those who'd known McGonagall was an Animagus seemed startled to see it.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall," screen-Dumbledore said with a small smile.
The conversation that followed made the temperature in the Great Hall drop several degrees.
"Are the rumors true, Albus?" McGonagall asked urgently.
"I'm afraid so, Professor. The good, and the bad."
"And the boy?"
"Hagrid is bringing him."
"Do you think it wise to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"
"I would trust Hagrid with my life."
"That's not saying you should trust him with Harry Potter's," Sirius muttered darkly.
On screen, McGonagall looked troubled. "Professor Dumbledore, sir, is it true that Voldemort has been defeated? And that James and Lily Potter are... are dead?"
James flinched as though struck. His hazel eyes immediately sought out Regulus across the Hall—a split-second glance full of such raw pain and longing that several people turned to follow his gaze. But Regulus was staring at the screen, his aristocratic features carefully blank, though his jaw was clenched tight enough to shatter teeth.
"We're dead," James whispered, and the words cracked in the middle. "Both of us."
Lily reached for his hand, squeezing tight, her own eyes bright with unshed tears. She didn't notice—or pretended not to notice—the way James's gaze kept drifting back to the Slytherin table.
Screen-Dumbledore confirmed McGonagall's fears with a solemn nod. The two discussed the strange celebrations happening across the wizarding world—owls flying in daylight, shooting stars, people in cloaks openly celebrating in the streets.
"They're celebrating our deaths," Lily said quietly. "While our son is—where is he?"
As if in answer, a rumbling sound filled the screen. A massive flying motorcycle descended from the sky, and astride it was an enormous figure cradling a bundle of blankets.
"Hagrid!" several people exclaimed.
"Is that my bike?" Sirius demanded, half-rising from his seat. "Why does Hagrid have my bloody motorcycle?"
Death's eyes glinted with something dark. "Keep watching, Sirius Black. You'll understand soon enough."
On screen, Hagrid landed the motorcycle and dismounted carefully, clearly trying not to jostle the bundle in his arms.
"Hagrid," screen-McGonagall said sharply, "where did you get that motorcycle?"
"Young Sirius Black lent it to me," Hagrid said gruffly. "I got little Harry from the ruined house. Poor little tyke fell asleep over Bristol."
"He's been flying for hours?" Euphemia Potter's voice was sharp with alarm, her sea-green eyes—the color of ocean water touched by sunlight—flashing dangerously. "In November? On an open motorcycle?"
Several mothers in the Hall made similar sounds of distress.
Screen-Dumbledore moved forward to take the bundle from Hagrid, and for the first time, the camera focused on the baby's face.
The Hall went silent.
The baby was small, impossibly small, with a tuft of messy black hair that stuck up at odd angles. And on his forehead, visible even in the dim light, was a lightning-bolt shaped cut, bright red and angry-looking. But it was the baby's face that made several people lean forward—the delicate bone structure, the aristocratic cast to his features even in infancy, the way his small nose was straight and refined rather than the broader shape of James's.
And his eyes—visible for just a moment as they fluttered open and closed again—were green. A striking, vivid green.
"Oh," James breathed, his voice breaking. "Oh god, he's—he's beautiful."
"He has your hair," Sirius said weakly, trying for humor. "Poor kid."
"Those eyes," Lily whispered, staring at the screen. "They're... they're green. Like mine."
But Euphemia Potter was looking between the screen and her own reflection in a conjured mirror, her brow furrowed. "They're green, yes," she said slowly. "But that shade... James, love, look at my eyes."
James turned to his mother, confused.
"Sea-green, with blue undertones," Euphemia continued, her voice thoughtful. "The Potter family trait. Your grandfather had them. My mother had them." She looked back at the screen where the baby had settled back into sleep. "That baby has green eyes, certainly, but that particular shade..."
"Could come from either side," Fleamont finished quietly, something sharp and knowing in his gaze as he glanced toward the Slytherin table.
At the Slytherin table, Regulus had stopped breathing. His grey eyes—the same grey as all the Blacks—were fixed on the baby's face with an expression of such naked longing and grief that Barty Crouch Jr. reached over and gripped his friend's arm hard.
"Reg," Barty whispered urgently. "Regulus, breathe."
Lord Arcturus Black was watching his grandson with the intensity of a hawk. Then his gaze moved to the screen, studying the baby's features with the practiced eye of someone who'd spent decades analyzing bloodlines and family traits. The delicate bone structure. The aristocratic features. The way even as an infant, the child had that certain something that marked him as Black.
But that was impossible. Wasn't it?
Arcturus's eyes narrowed as he watched James Potter steal another glance at Regulus, watched the way Regulus's hands trembled slightly where they clutched the table, watched the way neither of them could look away from the screen for long.
Oh, Arcturus thought, and something clicked into place. Oh, you foolish, reckless boys.
But he said nothing. Not yet.
On screen, Hagrid was crying openly. "I—I've got ter be goin', Professor Dumbledore, sir. Young Harry's asleep now, an' I don't want ter wake him."
"Harry," Regulus breathed, so quietly only those nearest him could hear. His voice was wrecked. "His name is Harry."
"Yes, yes, off you go, Hagrid," screen-Dumbledore said gently. "I'll see you at Hogwarts."
Hagrid took one last look at the baby, then climbed back onto the motorcycle and roared off into the night.
Screen-McGonagall turned to Dumbledore with alarm. "Albus, do you really mean to leave him with these people? I've been watching them all day. They're the worst sort of Muggles imaginable. And their son—I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets!"
"No," Regulus whispered. Then louder, his voice cracking: "No, you can't—"
"Yes," screen-Dumbledore said calmly. "You couldn't find two people who are less like us. But—"
"But WHAT?" Lily was on her feet, her wand drawn though she had no target. "My sister? You're leaving my son with Petunia?"
James was also standing, but his eyes were locked on Regulus, who looked like he might shatter into pieces. "This isn't—there has to be another way. Anyone else. Anyone."
"Lily, James, sit down," Marlene urged gently, tugging on Lily's sleeve.
"He can't—she hates magic! She hates me!" Lily's voice cracked. "She called me a freak! She'll never love him, never—"
"This is the boy who will be famous," screen-McGonagall was saying. "Every child in our world will know his name!"
"Exactly," screen-Dumbledore replied. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Far better for him to grow up away from all that until he is ready."
"Away from it?" Pandora Lovegood's dreamy voice cut through the Hall. "Or isolated and alone? There's a difference."
"That's a load of dragon dung," Barty Crouch Jr. said flatly, his hand still gripping Regulus's arm to keep him from doing something reckless. "You're telling me the best place for the Boy Who Lived—" he gestured at the screen where the title had appeared earlier, "—is with Muggles who hate magic?"
"It doesn't make sense," Regulus managed, his voice hollow. His eyes were still fixed on the baby on screen. "Blood wards, perhaps? An ancient protection? But even then—there must be other options. Other family—"
"Very perceptive, young Black," Death said, and their tone was almost gentle. "But is it enough to justify what comes next?"
On screen, Dumbledore was approaching the house at Number Four, Privet Drive. He bent down and placed the baby on the doorstep—directly on the cold stone.
"NO!" The shout came from multiple people at once, but loudest from Regulus, who was on his feet, his wand drawn and pointed at the screen as though he could somehow reach through it.
"He's leaving him on the DOORSTEP?" Euphemia Potter shrieked, also on her feet. "In NOVEMBER?"
"It's after midnight," Fleamont Potter added, his voice deadly quiet. "How long will that baby be out there in the cold?"
"Please," Regulus whispered, and there were tears streaming down his face now, his aristocratic mask completely shattered. "Please, don't leave him there. He's just a baby. He's just—"
Screen-Dumbledore tucked a letter into the blankets, then straightened. "Good luck, Harry," he murmured.
Then he turned and walked away. McGonagall followed with one last troubled glance at the bundle. They vanished into the night, leaving the baby alone on the cold doorstep.
The screen showed little Harry shifting in his sleep, one small fist closing around the letter. The lightning-bolt scar stood out starkly on his forehead. His tiny face scrunched up as if sensing, even in sleep, that something was wrong.
"No," James was saying, over and over. "No, no, no—"
Regulus made a sound like a wounded animal and collapsed back into his seat, his head in his hands. Evan Rosier wrapped an arm around him while Barty gripped his shoulder, both of them looking shaken.
"Why is he reacting like that?" Sirius asked quietly, staring at his brother with confusion and concern. "I mean, yeah, it's awful, but—"
"Some people," Pandora said softly, "feel pain more deeply than others. Especially when children are involved."
But Lord Arcturus was watching his grandson with knowing eyes, watching the way Regulus stared at the screen as though his whole world was ending, watching the way James Potter kept looking back at the Slytherin table with the same desperate expression.
Then the scene faded to black, and new text appeared:
Nearly Ten Years Later
"TEN YEARS?" Multiple voices shouted at once.
"We don't see what happens to him for ten years?" Lily demanded, her voice shrill with panic.
Regulus was shaking his head, his grey eyes wide with horror. "Ten years on that doorstep? Ten years with those people? Ten years of—"
"Oh, you'll see," Death said, their voice gentle but inexorable. "But first, let's watch what those ten years created, shall we?"
The screen brightened again, showing the same house, now in daylight. It looked exactly the same—well-maintained and aggressively normal.
"I have a very bad feeling about this," Remus muttered.
"As do I," Severus Snape said quietly from the Slytherin table, speaking for the first time. His dark eyes were troubled.
At the seventh-year end of the Slytherin table, Antonin Dolohov found he couldn't look away from the screen. Something about this child—this Harry Potter—called to him in a way he couldn't explain. The baby's face was burned into his mind, and he felt an unfamiliar ache in his chest.
Death noticed, and their smile was sad and knowing.
"Some bonds," Death murmured, so quietly only those nearest could hear, "transcend time itself."
The Dursley Family
The screen showed a woman with a long neck peering through her window, spying on the neighbors. The caption read: Mrs. Petunia Dursley.
"That's my sister," Lily said, her voice flat.
Next came a large, beefy man with practically no neck and a large mustache. Mr. Vernon Dursley.
"He looks like a walrus," Sirius muttered.
"That's unkind to walruses," Remus replied.
Then the screen showed a young boy—blond, fat, and currently screaming and kicking his mother while demanding sweets. Dudley Dursley.
"That's the child McGonagall saw," Marlene said, disgusted. "And they're going to raise Harry?"
The scene shifted. Petunia Dursley opened her front door to put out milk bottles and nearly tripped over the bundle on her doorstep. She screamed.
"Finally," Euphemia said. "How long was he out there?"
"Hours," Death said quietly. "It was nearly dawn."
On screen, Petunia picked up the letter with trembling fingers, her face going through several expressions—shock, horror, fear, and finally, something that looked like bitter resentment.
"What does the letter say?" someone asked.
"That her sister is dead," Death replied. "That she must take Harry in. That there are protections on the house as long as she calls him family and allows him to call it home. But Dumbledore's letter didn't explain why. Didn't tell them about Voldemort's followers who might seek revenge. Didn't prepare them at all."
"He just dropped a magical baby on their doorstep with a note," Barty said incredulously. "Like he was a bloody milk delivery."
The screen shifted again, showing a series of quick scenes:
A small child, perhaps three, with messy black hair and bright green eyes, sitting in a dark cupboard. The door had a lock on the outside.
"What—" Lily started.
Harry's Room the caption read, with an arrow pointing to the cupboard under the stairs.
The Hall erupted.
"THE CUPBOARD?" Lily's voice was a shriek. "THEY PUT HIM IN A CUPBOARD?"
James looked ready to murder someone. Regulus had gone deathly pale, his hands shaking.
"A cupboard," Severus Snape said, his voice dangerously soft. "They put a child in a cupboard. Under the stairs."
"There's no room," Pandora said, her dreamy voice gone hard. "No light. No space to play, to grow—"
"It's a cell," Lord Arcturus said coldly. "They imprisoned him in a cell."
The next scene showed young Harry, perhaps five years old, cooking breakfast at the stove. He stood on a stool to reach, and his clothes were far too large—clearly hand-me-downs from Dudley, who was easily twice his size.
"He's cooking?" Euphemia's voice cracked. "At five? That's—that's dangerous! He could burn himself!"
Another scene: Dudley hitting Harry with a stick while Petunia watched and did nothing. Harry had a bruise blooming on his arm.
"She's letting him hit Harry," Marlene said, horrified.
Another: Vernon grabbing young Harry by the arm hard enough to leave marks, shouting at him about "freakishness."
"That's abuse," Remus said flatly. "That's child abuse."
"Yes," Death agreed. "It is."
More scenes flashed by, each worse than the last:
Harry doing all the housework while Dudley played.
Harry's cupboard, barely big enough for the small bed inside, covered in spiders.
Harry being given a single piece of bread for dinner while the Dursleys ate a feast.
Harry with broken glasses held together with tape, wearing clothes that were literally falling apart.
Petunia cutting Harry's hair in the kitchen, her face twisted with disgust, while Harry tried not to cry.
"Stop," Lily whispered. "Please, stop."
But the screen didn't stop.
The scene shifted to show Harry at primary school. He was sitting alone at lunch, his packed lunch consisting of a single apple and some stale bread. The other children avoided him—Dudley had clearly told them to.
"He has no friends," James said, his voice breaking. "He's completely alone."
"They isolated him," Barty said, his face pale. "Classic abuse tactic. Make sure the victim has no support system, no one to tell."
Regulus was crying silently now, tears streaming down his face as he watched Harry—small, thin, clearly malnourished—try to make himself invisible in the corner of the playground.
The screen showed Harry's report cards over the years. All excellent marks—but the Dursleys never praised him. In fact, one scene showed Vernon tearing up a perfect report card and screaming at Harry not to be "better than Dudley."
"They punish him for succeeding," Severus observed, his jaw clenched. "They want him to fail, to be nothing."
Another scene: Harry, nearly ten years old, speaking with a snake and finally enjoying himself -- only then Dudley pushed him, his accidental magic reacting and making the glass disappear and Dudley falling in.
Vernon's face went purple with rage. When they got home, he threw Harry into the cupboard and locked it.
"No food for a week!" Vernon roared through the door.
"A WEEK?" Euphemia shrieked. "HE'S EIGHT YEARS OLD!"
"Starvation," Lord Arcturus said, his voice colder than ice. "They're starving a child as punishment for something he cannot control."
The scene shifted to show Harry receiving his Hogwarts letter—and Vernon burning it. Then more letters came, hundreds of them, and Vernon boarded up the mail slot.
"He's trying to keep Harry from his world," Lily said, shaking. "He's trying to keep him from magic, from—from us."
Finally, the Dursleys fled to a hut on a rock in the middle of the sea. The scene showed Harry, now clearly ten years old, thin and small for his age, with his messy black hair and bright green eyes, drawing a birthday cake in the dust on the floor of the hut.
He drew eleven candles. It was midnight—his birthday.
"He's alone," James whispered. "On his birthday, he's alone, drawing a cake in the dirt because no one's ever given him one."
Regulus made a sound like he'd been stabbed. "He doesn't even know," he choked out. "He doesn't even know he deserves better. Look at his face—he thinks this is normal."
On screen, Harry closed his eyes and made a wish.
"What do you think he's wishing for?" Evan Rosier asked quietly.
"Family," Pandora said softly. "Love. Someone to want him."
The Hall was silent except for the sound of crying. Multiple people were wiping their eyes—Lily, James, Euphemia, even some of the Slytherins.
Then the screen showed Hagrid breaking down the door at one minute past midnight
Hagrid: Sorry about that. (He puts the door back up)
Vernon (aiming his gun at him): I demand that you leave at once, sir! You are breaking and entering!
[As Petunia quietly gasps in fear, Hagrid grabs the gun and bends it upwards.]
Hagrid: Dry up, Dursley, you great prune. (The gun fires upwards, blasting a hole in the ceiling, causing the two to shriek in fear. Hagrid notices Dudley.) Man, I haven't seen you since you was a baby, Harry. But yer a bit more along than I would have expected. Particularly 'round the middle.
Dudley: I-I-I'm not Harry.
Harry (revealing himself): I-I am.
Hagrid: Well, of course you are! Got somethin' for yeh. 'Fraid I might have sat on it at some point, but I imagine it'll taste fine just the same. Ahh. (He hands Harry the cake) Baked it myself, words and all. Heh.
[Harry opens cake, which reads "Happee Birthdae Harry" in green frosting.]
Harry: Thank you!
Harry stared at the cake like he'd never seen anything so wonderful in his life.
"It's the first cake he's ever had," Remus realized, his voice horrified. "He's eleven years old, and that's the first birthday cake he's ever received."
"Ten years," James said, his voice hollow. He wasn't looking at Lily anymore—his eyes were fixed on Regulus, who was shaking. "Ten years of this. Ten years of abuse and neglect and—"
"And Dumbledore knew," Severus said coldly. "He put Harry there. He left him there. And I would wager he knew exactly what was happening."
All eyes turned to the Head Table, where Dumbledore sat looking grave but unsurprised.
"Did you know?" Lily demanded. "Did you know they were treating him like this?"
Dumbledore opened his mouth to respond, but Death held up a hand.
"Save your explanations, Albus Dumbledore," Death said, their voice carrying an edge like a blade. "You'll have plenty of opportunity to justify your choices. For now..." Death gestured to the screen, where Hagrid was telling Harry about his parents, about his fame, about the wizarding world.
Harry's eyes were wide with wonder and disbelief. When Hagrid told him he was a wizard, Harry looked like someone had just told him he mattered—like he was worth something after all.
"Look at him," Barty whispered. "He's so starved for validation that just being told he's special is enough to make him look like that."
"They broke him," Regulus said, his voice wrecked. "Ten years, and they broke him down until he thought he was nothing. And now..."
"Now he'll do anything for anyone who shows him even a scrap of kindness," Lord Arcturus finished, his eyes sharp. "He'll be loyal to a fault. He'll sacrifice himself without hesitation. Because he's been taught his entire life that his own needs, his own life, doesn't matter."
The screen paused on Harry's face—hopeful, desperate, so achingly young.
"This," Death said quietly, "is what your choices created. A child who was abused, starved, and broken. A child who grew up thinking he was worthless. A child who would later sacrifice himself again and again because he never learned that his life had value."
Death's eyes swept the Hall. "So tell me—was it worth it? These 'blood wards'? This 'protection'? Was it worth destroying a child's soul to keep his body safe?"
No one had an answer.
On screen, Hagrid handed Harry his Hogwarts letter, and Harry held it like it was made of gold.
And in the Great Hall, Regulus Black wept for the child he'd never known—the son he'd never gotten to hold, to love, to protect from this fate.
James reached across the aisle between tables when no one was looking, and their fingers brushed—just for a moment.
It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
But it was all they had.