February 21, 2001

Dumbledore's Army would remember this day, much like the Death Eaters would as well. Likewise, Hogwarts and the whole of the Wizarding World, both in the word of mouth and history books, would commemorate this event. Almost like they did twenty years ago when You-Know-Who disappeared.

All because the Saviour's corpse was found.

"After enjoying the glory of being the Saviour for twenty years, Harry Potter died a death unworthy of him. Was the so-called Saviour's Prophecy the truth or a big lie to deceive the public and appease our society? Rita Skeeter reporting for you." The Daily Prophet had become a stage for this woman. Rita Skeeter was like a clown who had long decided to sell her morality and bottom line to the Devil, making headlines before everyone's detest.

Some people earned profits through one's death; some people turned away with indifference; some people even hid their faces and wept, angry and resentful.

One side laughed wildly with wanton, whilst the other was reduced to sadness and pain.

February 21, 2001, was a day destined to be accepted by history for future generations to sigh and lament.

However, Dumbledore's Army and hundreds of professors, Aurors, and students who volunteered to fight at Hogwarts weren't in the mood to deal with the overwhelming remarks of the Wizarding World.

They stood still by the entrance of Hogwarts, heels planted on Hogwarts land, like the armored men in the castle corridors who had guarded the students for thousands of years, watching the black-hooded Death Eaters walk step-by-step into Hogwarts territory.

The leader stopped several metres away from them and pulled down his hood, revealing platinum blond hair.

Draco Malfoy.

The young Death Eater was pale but calm. With a wave of his wand, the body held up with the support of magic was sent to the land that once made him happy.

"Our Lord is someone who keeps his promise. Since your Saviour was willing to protect you with his life, the Lord won't make things difficult for you. Please leave Hogwarts and the UK within two months. This is the greatest tolerance our Lord can bear."

Young Malfoy hadn't even opened his mouth before Blaise, who was standing beside him, spoke. His handsome face was particularly distorted and his wheat-coloured skin was similar to that of sludge; he seemed to think of something, and smiled brightly. "You have our Lord to thank. If he hadn't sent for us down to the bottom of the valley to find the Saviour's body, I'm afraid his body would have to rot there. Isn't that right, Malfoy?"

"We're done here. Let's go." But the other party completely ignored him. Malfoy's expression was cold as he turned around and led his subordinates away, leaving Blaise standing there with twisted features.

"Bloody Malfoy!" Blaise cursed, unable to do anything but follow along.

For the first time, Malfoy, who'd always been cautiously holding back his weaknesses, revealed a sense of weariness in front of the other Death Eaters.

Harry Potter, who'd always been against him, was dead, but he couldn't feel even a sliver of satisfaction.

In such gloomy, depressing times, his memories of fighting and arguing with the Saviour as a child turned out to be one of the few warm memories he'd had.

That's right; before they acted much like charged poles, repellant and conflicting in their ideals and methods, arguing with each other. But now, the Saviour was lying on the ground, unaware and unresponsive.

"Harry Potter's body… Really is disgusting with how cold and stiff it is; truly different from the past!" Blaise complained endlessly by his side.

"Shut up!" He shouted coldly, causing Blaise to swallow his next words abruptly.

Malfoy took a deep breath and strode forward.

Potter, consider this… My first and final act of respect for all your efforts.


Harry laid quietly on the ground, his teachers and comrades kneeling around him.

Harry didn't look too good. There were terrifying bloodstains that spread from his cheeks to his ears, probably from the scratches caused from his fall down the rift. But his eyes were closed, his expression calm as if he was asleep.

Ron pursed his lips tightly as his hand pressed against Harry's weak chest. Even if there was only one in ten-thousand chance, he wanted to try; just in case… What if this was another joke played by Harry?

In the harsh February winter, the body that had lost its life was as cold as iron; without life, the blood in his chest cavity was unable to flow, and his heart was unable to beat. A one in ten-thousand chance, shattered by the reality of the remaining nine-thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine.

There would never be a second Harry Potter in the world.

Ron withdrew his hand silently.

A girl stepped back fearfully.

Perhaps she couldn't be blamed.

Humans were afraid of death, just as children were afraid of darkness.

No matter if it was a Muggle used to the prospects of life and death or a wizard who could leave a portrait and condense to a ghost, none of them could completely eliminate their fear of death; because it exists in their blood and bones, as an instinct no organism could get rid of.

Perhaps the word 'death' was too elegant; a human's fear of 'corpses' and 'funerals' far surpassed their fear of 'death'.

"We don't even have time to prepare a coffin…" Hermione looked at her partner, seemingly joking with him, but her expression was ugly; on the brink of tears.

"Let's sing a requiem in remembrance-" A seventh-year girl with red eyes was interrupted before she even finished speaking.

"Shut up! What requiem?!" A man gritted his teeth and pushed away the crowd surrounding the Saviour, his hoarse voice and bloodshot eyes revealing how utterly exhausted he was. "Granger, take Potter to my potions room… Maybe there is hope."

That's right, hope.

Even when dead, the message of life could be seen in one's eyes. Only in the lives of the most hopeless was there a place for bravery and durability.


"Resurrection…" Hermione looked at Harry, who was lying in a special freezer, in disbelief, then ecstatic joy. "Resurrection, resurrection!"

Snape rummaged through the potions rack, his complexion gloomier than usual. "Don't be too happy. The things we need are too difficult to obtain."

"What?"

"Apart from a dragon's heart and the tears of a phoenix, I also need the Dark Lord's blood," Snape said, his hands never stopping; strange gas gradually emerged from his cauldron.

Hermione frowned. "Why?"

"Because half of Potter's blood is mixed with the Dark Lord's. I need that half of his blood to resurrect Potter." Snape no longer hissed or mocked around; no longer cursed as he spoke.

Time was running out; he must save Potter.

Was he awe-inspiring?

No; he personally pushed Potter in death's way, he was just searching for atonement.

He looked at Hermione with a cold and serious expression. "Within a month, I'll need the Dark Lord's fresh blood, a dragon's heart, phoenix tears and a centaur's bone marrow… Only then can I resurrect Potter."

He paused, before adding another sentence. "And Harry Potter, complete without a single change on him."

Hermione swallowed hard, tearing pain in her dry throat.

So many things; so many hard-to-find materials…

"Alright!" The woman nodded. As long as it could bring Harry back!


The Wizarding World had become agitated from Rita Skeeter's report, but by now the sun had already begun sinking down the west. A strange red glow illuminated the horizon where light and darkness met, its hue similar to that of a soldier's hot blood.

The Death Eaters achieved complete victory and the Slytherins were in extreme joy; they took off their black cloaks hurriedly, and began to busily prepare for their long-awaited dinner prom.

The Dark Lord should be the happiest, but he didn't show up. Even during the interview about the Saviour's death, it was Lucius Malfoy who made an appearance instead.

Tom Riddle wasn't happy.

He thought he'd eliminated his opponent, that his so-called weakness had become irrelevant. But the deliberate blanks in his memory had become more abrupt after his death.

He rubbed his temples to ease the chaos in his mind.

The handsome Dark Lord looked at the sunset-stained crimson moon and once again felt panicked and uneasy.