Chapter Text
The final war was over. Lord Voldemort had fallen, and Harry Potter stood as the Savior, an immortal hero of the wizarding world.
Yet, the victory was steeped in tragedy: Draco Malfoy had not survived. He was struck by the Killing Curse, Avada Kedavra, from a surviving Death Eater, moments after bravely tossing his wand to Harry to finish off Voldemort.
Overwhelmed by the loss of their only son, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were consumed by a desire for vengeance. In a frenzy of grief and absolute hatred, they created an entirely new spell: The Permanent Petrifaction Curse. This curse froze both body and soul, preventing eternal return or rebirth in any form. Astonishingly, it proved resistant even to Avada Kedavra—the curse previously considered the most final of all.
All Death Eaters present on the battlefield were turned to stone. The new curse's power and terror struck fear and caution into everyone, including Harry Potter.
But Harry had no time for fear. His anguish reached Draco too late. He lunged forward, desperate to embrace the boy, only to be blocked by his parents. Watching the pale blond hair lie lifeless in Lucius and Narcissa’s arms, a profound, gut-wrenching roar escaped Harry. His magic surged uncontrollably, and then, everything stopped. Slowly, yet instantly.
As if stumbling in a dream, Harry woke up in a shock. The piercing screams of his Dursley aunt and uncle hammered against his skull, making the crushing reality too true.
He was back. Back in the past.
Harry quietly celebrated his unbelievable fortune, unaware that Lucius and Narcissa had already partaken in that very same "luck." At this very moment, they were lovingly watching their ten-year-old Draco chase the white peacocks through the manor gardens.
A morning covered in low-hanging clouds—or as Mr. Dursley preferred to call it, overcast—was absolutely perfect weather. The climate was just lovely, fitting perfectly with Mr. Dursley's promise to take his darling Dudley—the most exceptionally well-behaved boy in the entire world—to the zoo.
Truth be told, Mr. Dursley couldn't recall how many times his family had visited the establishment. He and his wife were creatures of extreme habit; they brought their son there so often they knew the route and the layout maps by heart, so it was hardly surprising that the zoo was always the first option that popped into the couple's heads.
Dudley was a boy who only recognized two categories in the world: things that are edible and things that are not. He had visited so many times that his feet were probably acquainted with every paving stone, yet he never once remembered which animals were kept there. On every visit, Dudley would either: gawk in surprise at the sight of newly transferred animals; sulk with boredom because the older animals were taking a scheduled nap (a timing issue entirely on his part); or grow furious because the animals were busy enjoying their daily meal rather than performing for the guests. (If the animals could talk, and if there existed a magical capability beyond Parseltongue, they would have already "snapped back" at this audacious little brat.)
Which of Dudley's 'mood slot machine' squares would land today? Spectators, remain calm. — Despite still being a lad yet to reach the threshold of the 'rebellious age' (meaning puberty), and setting aside the undeniable fact that this brat was spoiled absolutely rotten by his parents, the Dursleys — Dudley, in all fairness, expressed emotions strictly according to the scientific logic a child ought to have.
Mrs. Dursley, the distinguished Petunia, confidently boasted that she and her husband had forewarned the boy about which animals would thrill him, while also meticulously clock-watching the animals’ active hours. Dudley was going to be surprised... just as Mrs. Dursley had vehemently promised.
"Rooooooar!!!"
"Oh, Mommy!"
Dudley’s bulky, near-neckless body, exactly like Mr. Dursley’s, collapsed flat onto the cleanly tiled floor (rest assured, it was immaculate). The very moment he mimicked his father – Mr. Dursley – by slamming his massive hand against the glass to urge the lion to perform, the animal abruptly ceased its typical feline tucked-in position. It purposefully strode towards the glass, and without warning, let out an enormous roar.
The roar sounded like a pair of scissors going snip, snip, threatening to sever the artery leading to Dudley’s heart. Harry Potter rolled his eyes, thinking the sound was mildly frightening for the first second, but now his cousin was still howling relentlessly. Dudley threw a tantrum as if the lion had just clawed him across the chest. Very quickly, the Dursleys scurried over. For the tenth time—Harry wryly noted—they had been hearing their darling boy’s tantrums almost since they became parents, yet they still looked frantic, as if their trousers were on fire.
"Harry!" Mr. Dursley straightened up, his formidable physique — particularly his enormous belly — accidentally shoving Harry back a few steps. Though it sounded disrespectful, Harry tried his best not to burst out laughing in front of everyone.
"Yes, Uncle Vernon." Harry heard his own voice respond, and instinctively lowered his gaze, just as he remembered doing.
"Be honest if you know what's good for you, boy. Did you—"
"Rooooooar!!!"
The lion unexpectedly lunged forward and slammed hard against the glass. Mr. Dursley was startled nearly senseless, nervously glancing at the pane which thankfully showed no signs of shattering. The animal's second unannounced roar caused him to completely forget what he was about to say, and he wouldn't get a chance to recall it, as his darling Dudley arched his round, fleshy neck and began screaming even louder than the king of the jungle.
Children from other families couldn't help but look back, nudging their friends and whispering that Dudley might be having a roaring contest with the lord of the jungle. Harry laughed heartily inside his own mind. How very rude of me, sorry for that, cousin.
The Dursleys had no choice but to take their precious boy home. Mr. Dursley drove the entire stretch from the zoo to the family’s haven, never forgetting to eye Harry through the rearview mirror. Given Harry's picture of innocent confusion, Mr. Dursley couldn't find fault with him, other than the fact that the boy hadn't consoled Dudley when his son was roared at by a lion. Harry stated he had tried to intervene when Dudley was pounding on the glass, but the lion's action had been entirely unpredictable. Mr. Dursley cleared his throat and said nothing further.
When Mrs. Dursley led her son upstairs, Mr. Dursley raised an eyebrow at the cupboard under the stairs—Harry’s 'room' (Harry swore to God, he never admitted it was his room). Harry silently twisted the cuff of his sleeve, and just as he had done before, he crawled into the cupboard—waiting for the sound of the padlock. Yet, Mr. Dursley only snorted fiercely, as if he had just inhaled a cloud of dust. Harry heard his uncle’s footsteps recede toward the living room.
Five seconds. Ten seconds. A minute. A while passed. Harry could hear nothing but the loud noise of the football match on TV. Mr. Dursley was watching TV without his usual running commentary. The cupboard still held Harry captive. Ah, no. Harry gently nudged the cupboard door with his toe and pretended the opening was accidental. That’s strange. Harry tilted his head. He poked half his head out to glance at his uncle. Mr. Dursley knew perfectly well Harry wouldn't stay put in the cupboard unless it was locked.
"Shut the cupboard."
Harry instantly obeyed. Best keep it that way, Harry thought. He didn't want any outside variables, especially since he hadn't yet reached his eleventh birthday and fully accepted the truth that he was a wizard.
Harry curled up in the cupboard, unwittingly drawn into the current of thoughts about the future he was about to live. Used to. Yes, he had once lived a life like that. Yet here he was, in the body of a child—his younger self.
Harry reminisced about the final moments of his previous life. Gloomy. Cold. The clamour of the survivors. The silence of the fallen. He had put an end to the wizarding world's enduring nightmare—the Dark Lord, Voldemort, who was set on rewriting the world order. The moment he cast the killing curse, his enemy collapsed and disintegrated into ashes. His surviving followers could hardly believe their master had failed. Hogwarts students and Aurors stood on one side, sobbing in celebration of Harry Potter’s great victory. Darkness groaned in defeat. Justice shone brightly in the light of glory.
But Harry Potter—the hero born of glory, this survival, and this defeat—had ceased to care quickly. He remembered, and sometimes wished he didn't: amidst the overwhelming mixed emotions, the solitary grief of the Malfoy family—Lucius and Narcissa crying heartbreakingly over Draco's lifeless body. Harry tightly squeezed the wand in his hand, as if trying to grasp the warmth that might still linger from Draco when he threw the wand to him.
His eyes blurred with hot tears.
The moment Harry caught that wand was the moment Draco fell forever, struck by the killing curse from a Death Eater. It happened too quickly. Harry was too far away to intervene in time. His eyes turned bloodshot. All he knew was that he had thrown his hand out toward the enemy—and when it was over, he couldn't do anything for Draco anymore.
Harry staggered toward the Malfoys, his eyes growing redder as he saw Draco truly, permanently still in their arms. The platinum hair was motionless. The grey eyes had ceased looking at Harry, whether with defiance, annoyance, arrogance, or any other attitude. Harry had felt that fear the day he accidentally cast Sectumsempra on Draco. He didn't want this; this was certainly not the ending he had hoped for.
Harry looked at Draco’s still face, stained with his parents' tears and blood, his throat feeling sticky. What was the point? He wanted to vomit. Draco. Draco. He wished to hear "Pottah!" from his adversary. Draco. Draco. "Who told you you could call my name, Scarhead?!" Harry thought Draco would say exactly that. If he were still here. Still here.
The Malfoys had cried their eyes dry, yet they would likely continue even if the hot tears turned to trickles of blood. Narcissa continuously called out all of Draco's childhood nicknames; no matter how big or grown-up her son became, she had always affectionately called him that. Lucius was a man of very strict standards, and Narcissa understood her husband better than anyone, but at this moment, seeing him discard all standards and the concept of 'A Malfoy must be this way' to mourn and express absolute remorse for the son he so dearly loved, Narcissa had to realize she didn't know her husband that well after all. The Malfoy family prized family above all, and Lucius and Narcissa proved their affection for Draco surpassed even that.
Narcissa wept until she almost coughed up blood, while half of Lucius’s hair turned grey. Narcissa clung to her husband, saying something only the two of them could hear. The wind whistled in Harry’s ears. The sky grew ceaselessly dark and twisted through the cloud layers. The Death Eaters, separated on one side of the battlefield, began shouting warnings to flee. The Aurors immediately drew their wands to intercept. Harry had just looked up when a simultaneous chant roared in his ear: "LAPIDIS AETERNA!!!"
Countless streams of green light flew into the air, intertwining like mating serpents before tracing irregular trajectories. One Death Eater was hit by the strange magic, and then—to the utter astonishment and horror of countless onlookers—the Death Eater instantly turned into an immobile statue, with his face frozen in an expression of incomplete shock. Lucius flung his hand, and the man shattered into pieces, accompanied by a shriek of agony that dissolved into the air.
Another was hit. One had cast the Avada Kedavra curse, but the curse could not touch the Malfoys. The two pure-blood wizards stood unbelievably firm, and Narcissa pointed her wand straight at the one who had cast the killing curse at her and her husband, grinding him to dust. Two down. Then three. Four. It wasn't until all the Death Eaters present on the battlefield had been obliterated that the Malfoys lowered their wands. The magic seemed to have utterly drained their core, to the point where they could only kneel in a rigid posture, remaining silent from then on.
It must be said, the Aurors were utterly terrified. Some had even survived two wars, but never, and perhaps never again, had they heard of a curse more 'final' than Avada Kedavra. The Hogwarts students stared aghast at the unfolding events, erupting in shock that they were witnessing a spell that could counteract the killing curse.
Pansy, Blaise, and Theodore regained a sliver of composure as the Malfoys performed that wondrous magic to strike down the remaining Death Eaters. At least they got their revenge, Theodore said. This time Pansy didn't hit his shoulder. She was crying just as Draco's parents had cried for their son. Blaise looked towards Harry Potter, still standing there dumbfounded, silently urging the Saviour to be alright and to keep Draco's wand intact, for Draco's sake. Standing behind Blaise was Goyle—who was used to the constant presence of Crabbe, now standing alone behind the Zabini wizard. Goyle had seen everything, and he was reminded of Crabbe's death. He didn't want to think anymore. He didn't want to remain in this place of sorrow for another second. If Blaise, Pansy, and Theodore could read his mind, they would wholeheartedly agree—and let alone them, the Malfoys wouldn't want to stay either, when their most prized possession was no longer in this world.
As for Harry Potter, with all due respect to Blaise Zabini and his wish, Harry had no intention of allowing himself to 'feel alright' after everything that had happened.
Harry took a few more steps toward the Malfoys, summoning all his Gryffindor courage to express his desire to hold Draco, but the words failed him. Harry reached out, looking somewhat crazed. His gaze was desperately glued to Draco, lying still in his parents' arms. Lucius blocked Harry with his wand, but Harry no longer cared about the snake's head that had once given him nightmares. He looked at Lucius with bloodshot eyes, enough for both him and his wife, Narcissa, to realize how desperately he had been silently weeping. Harry wanted to hold Draco, even if everything was now too late. One last time for him. Nevertheless, the Malfoys refused to allow Harry to embrace their son.
Harry heard them, and dropped his wand as he couldn't grasp it anymore.
The events that followed unfolded like a slow-motion film: He heard Blaise Zabini’s shouts from the crowd behind him. Hermione and Ron screamed his name. The Malfoys held Draco and departed the tragic battlefield. The Aurors recovered from their disbelief and shouted the slogan, “Hero of the Age! Harry Potter!” Many people echoed the sentiment. Pansy, Theodore, Blaise, and Goyle were gone. He wanted to find that platinum hair again.
Gone.
Nothing remained.
Heart-wrenching pain.
Soul-searing agony.
"Merlin! Harry!"
Hermione cried out, her hands covering her mouth to prevent any more words from escaping. Ron, beside her, stared aghast at his best friend—who was standing upright with two streams of nosebleed staining half his face.
"Oh bloody hell... Harry, your nose—"
Suddenly, Ron squinted against a blinding flash of light. Hermione instinctively covered her eyes. They were enveloped in a dazzling glow. In that fateful moment, they heard Harry's voice—this time carrying a strong, resolute tone. The more they listened, the more unsettled Ron and Hermione became—was it what they heard, or was it something else, why did Harry sound like he was leaving his last testament?
"Don't, Harry—"
And then, everything ceased.