Lily Potter opened the door to Harry's childhood bedroom, the familiar creak of the hinges echoing in the quiet house. It was the same routine she had followed every morning for weeks now, a ritual that had become the only solace in her broken world. The room was exactly as it had been before Harry disappeared—posters of Quidditch teams lining the walls, his school robes neatly folded in the wardrobe, and a collection of books and notes scattered on his desk. But the boy who had once lived here, so full of life and mischief, was no longer the same.

Harry lay in his bed, his eyes half-lidded and vacant, his body as still as stone. His dark hair, now longer and slightly unkempt, contrasted sharply with the paleness of his skin. He looked like he was sleeping, but Lily knew better. The Dementor's Kiss had taken his soul, and with it, everything that had once made him her son.

But she clung to this—his body, his presence—because it was better than nothing. She had waited years for him to come home, and now, in this twisted way, he had. Even if he was no longer truly Harry, having him here gave her a fragile thread of hope.

"Good morning, my love," Lily whispered softly as she entered the room, her voice a blend of tenderness and sorrow. She crossed the room and sat beside him, her hand reaching out to smooth the blankets over his still form. Harry's eyes flickered slightly, but there was no recognition, no sign that he heard her words.

Lily smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I know you can't talk to me, but that's alright," she murmured, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. "I'll just talk for the both of us."

She picked up the hairbrush from the bedside table and began to gently comb through his dark locks, her movements slow and careful, as if she was tending to the boy he had once been. As she brushed his hair, she spoke quietly, telling him about the little things that had happened in the family.

"Jimmy's back at Hogwarts now," she said, her voice filled with a soft warmth, though it cracked around the edges. "He's doing so well—won his first Quidditch match of the year. He's gotten even better, you know, just like you always said he would."

Her voice grew softer, filled with nostalgia. "Rose… Rose is at Hogwarts too now. Can you believe it? She's already in her first year, and you wouldn't believe how much she's grown. She reminds me so much of you at her age—smart, stubborn, always curious."

Lily paused, her hands trembling slightly as she continued. "She misses you terribly, Harry. She talks about you all the time, asking if you'll come back, if you'll be yourself again. She's so brave, but I see the sadness in her eyes every time your name is mentioned."

Setting the brush down, Lily gently cupped Harry's cold cheek in her hand, her thumb brushing his skin as she leaned in closer. Her eyes searched his blank gaze for even the smallest flicker of recognition, some sign that her Harry was still in there, buried beneath the darkness. But there was nothing—only the empty shell that remained after the Dementor's Kiss.

The pain of it hit her like it did every morning, a wave of heartache so deep that it nearly overwhelmed her. But she swallowed it down, forcing herself to smile for him, for the son she could no longer reach.

"The weather's been turning colder," she continued, her voice now thick with emotion. "It'll be winter soon. You always loved the snow, didn't you? You and Jimmy would spend hours outside building forts and throwing snowballs… And Rose would try to keep up with you both, even when she was too little to really join in. Do you remember?"

Harry remained motionless, his blank eyes staring straight ahead. Lily's heart twisted painfully in her chest, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. This was the only way she knew how to hold on to him now.

"I just… I miss you so much, Harry," Lily whispered, her voice faltering as tears welled up in her eyes. "I've waited so long for you to come home, and now you're here, but… it's not you, is it?"

Her voice broke, the raw grief spilling through the cracks in her composure. She blinked the tears away, refusing to let herself fall apart. Not here. Not in front of him.

"I don't care," she said fiercely, as if speaking the words could make them true. "You're still my son. You're still my Harry."

But the room remained silent, save for her trembling breath and the distant ticking of the old clock on the wall. Harry lay unmoving, his chest rising and falling slowly, but with no sign of life behind his vacant eyes.

Lily leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, her tears finally spilling over. "I love you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'll always love you. No matter what."

She lingered there, holding his cold hand in hers, wishing—praying—that something, anything, would change. But deep down, she knew that this was all she would ever have of him now. His body was here, but Harry—her Harry—was gone.

Still, she would not give up on him. She couldn't. So every day, she returned to this room, brushing his hair, adjusting his blankets, talking to him as though he could hear. Because as long as she could keep doing this, she could convince herself that he wasn't truly lost.

After a long, quiet moment, Lily stood, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "I'll be back tomorrow," she whispered, her voice soft and tender. "Sleep well, my love."

As she left the room, closing the door behind her, the emptiness of the house seemed to press in on her. But Lily kept walking, her mind already drifting to tomorrow, when she would come back to sit beside him again. It was the only thing that kept her going—the daily ritual of caring for the shell of her son, the fragile hope that maybe, somehow, he would return to her.

But for now, all she had was this.

James Potter stood just outside the door, his back pressed against the cold stone wall of the hallway, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. He had been standing there for what felt like an eternity, listening to every word Lily said, every tender whisper she offered their soulless son. He hadn't intended to linger outside Harry's room, but once Lily had entered, he found himself unable to move, unable to tear himself away from the scene unfolding inside.

It had become a pattern—Lily going into Harry's room every morning, clinging to the boy they had lost, trying desperately to find something, anything, that remained of the son they once knew. James couldn't bring himself to follow her inside. Watching her hope against hope that Harry might respond, seeing the boy who was nothing more than a hollow shell, broke something inside him every time.

But this morning, he had stayed, watching through the crack in the door, hearing every tremor in Lily's voice. He had seen her brush Harry's hair, adjust his blankets, kiss his cold forehead as though everything was normal. It tore at his heart.

Lily had always been the strong one—stronger than he had been since Harry's capture. Where James had raged and shouted, throwing himself into mission after mission for the Order, Lily had held on to hope, refusing to believe that Harry was gone. But this—this was different. It wasn't hope anymore. It was denial.

James ran a hand through his hair, the strands sticking to his sweaty palm. His heart ached for her, for the woman he loved who had never stopped believing in their son. But Harry was gone. They had lost him long before the Dementor's Kiss, lost him the moment Voldemort had twisted his mind and claimed his soul.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose as he heard Lily's quiet words.

"I don't care. You're still my son. You're still my Harry."

James swallowed hard, his throat burning. He wanted to believe her words, wanted to believe that some part of their son was still in there, but all he could see when he looked at Harry was the cold, unresponsive body lying in that bed. No spark of life. No sign of the mischievous boy who had once filled this house with laughter.

Lily's voice cracked again, and James winced, the sound like a dagger in his chest. She didn't deserve this—none of them did. He knew how much it was tearing her apart, but she wouldn't let go. And he couldn't blame her for that. Harry had been her little boy, the one she'd doted on, the one she'd believed would return to them someday. But this wasn't the way it was supposed to happen.

When Lily finally stood and left the room, James quickly straightened, trying to act as though he hadn't just been eavesdropping on her most private moments. He watched as she wiped her tears away, her face pale but determined as she closed the door gently behind her.

She stopped when she saw him, startled for a moment. "James?" Her voice was soft, but the exhaustion in her eyes was unmistakable.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. What could he say? How could he tell her that she was only hurting herself more with each passing day, caring for a son who could never come back to them?

Lily smiled weakly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I… I didn't hear you there," she murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You should have come in."

James swallowed, forcing a tight smile in return. "I didn't want to interrupt."

Lily's expression softened, and she reached out, taking his hand in hers. "He's still our Harry," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I know it's hard to see, but he's still in there. I can feel it."

James's chest tightened painfully, but he nodded, unwilling to break her heart any further than it already was. "Yeah… yeah, love. I know."

But he didn't know. Not really. He didn't know if there was anything left of their Harry inside that body, if the boy they'd raised, the boy they loved so much, could ever be brought back. All he knew was that Lily needed to believe it—needed that hope to keep herself from falling apart completely.

They stood there in silence for a moment, Lily still clutching his hand, as if drawing strength from him. James wanted to pull her into his arms, to hold her and tell her that everything would be alright. But he couldn't lie to her like that. Not when everything had gone so wrong.

"He's still my son, James," Lily repeated, her voice firmer now, as if she was convincing herself as much as she was convincing him. "I won't give up on him."

James nodded again, the words choking in his throat. He couldn't bring himself to tell her what he truly felt—that maybe it was time to let go. Maybe it was time to accept that their Harry was gone and that keeping his body here, pretending he could somehow be saved, was only prolonging their pain.

But looking at her now, at the love and fierce determination still shining in her tear-filled eyes, James couldn't bring himself to say it. He couldn't take away the last shred of hope she had left.

"I know, Lily," he said quietly, squeezing her hand. "I know."

They stood there a moment longer before Lily pulled away, her gaze drifting back toward Harry's closed door. James watched her, his heart heavy, knowing that tomorrow, she would be back in that room, brushing Harry's hair, adjusting his blankets, talking to him as if he could hear her.

And James would stand outside, just like today.

Lily Potter moved quietly through the house, her footsteps almost soundless as she approached Harry's bedroom. Every day for weeks, she had followed the same routine—coming to sit with her son, to care for him as best as she could. Today felt no different, but something in the air made her pause as her hand hovered over the doorknob. She couldn't explain the feeling, just a vague unease that made her heart race a little faster.

Pushing the thought aside, she turned the handle and entered the room. It was exactly as it had always been—frozen in time. The same posters on the walls, the books and school supplies scattered on his desk. Harry lay motionless on his bed, his once-bright eyes half-lidded and blank. His chest rose and fell slowly, a mechanical rhythm that never changed.

Lily approached the bed, the same mixture of hope and dread settling in her chest. She took her usual seat beside him and reached for the brush on the nightstand. "Good morning, Harry," she whispered, her voice soft as she began to brush his dark hair. The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the quiet strokes of the brush and her faint, shaky breaths.

"You missed another letter from Jimmy today," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "He's doing so well at Hogwarts… just like you always said he would." Her fingers trembled as she smoothed a strand of hair away from Harry's forehead. "Rose too. She's growing up so fast. You'd hardly recognize her."

Her throat tightened, the weight of her grief becoming harder to bear with each passing day. She had clung to the hope that somehow, some part of her son would come back to her. But as the days passed and his body remained unresponsive, that hope was fading. Still, she couldn't stop. This was all she had left of him—this daily ritual of care and whispered conversations that went unanswered.

Lily set the brush down and reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. "I miss you, Harry," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I miss you so much."

And then, it happened.

Harry's hand twitched in hers.

Lily gasped, pulling back slightly as her heart skipped a beat. She stared down at his hand, her breath catching in her throat. Did she imagine it? Was it just a trick of her mind, desperate for any sign of life?

But no—there it was again. His fingers curled slightly, the smallest of movements, but it was real.

"Harry?" Her voice was barely a whisper, filled with a fragile hope she hadn't allowed herself to feel in so long. She leaned closer, her heart pounding in her chest. "Harry, can you hear me?"

His eyes, which had been dull and unfocused for weeks, fluttered open.

Lily froze, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she stared at him. His eyes were open. He was awake. For a brief, wild moment, she thought—hoped—that he had come back to her. "Harry!" she gasped, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch his face. "Oh, Harry, you're awake! You're here!"

But as she looked into his eyes, her joy quickly turned to confusion—and then to dread. There was no spark of recognition, no warmth in his gaze. His eyes were empty, devoid of any emotion.

"Harry?" Lily's voice wavered, her hand falling away from his cheek as she tried to understand what was happening. "It's me… it's Mum…"

He blinked slowly, his face blank, and then—without any warning—he sat up. The movement was stiff, mechanical, like a puppet being pulled on invisible strings. Lily's heart raced, her mind spinning with confusion.

"What… what's happening?" she stammered, her hands shaking as she watched him. "Harry, please… say something."

And then, in a voice that sent a chill down her spine, he spoke.

"Mistress."

Lily's blood ran cold. She stared at him, unable to comprehend what she had just heard. "What?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Harry… no, it's me. It's Mum."

He turned his head toward her, his face expressionless, his eyes empty. "Mistress," he repeated, his voice flat, monotone.

Lily's heart pounded in her chest as panic began to set in. "No… no, this isn't right," she muttered, backing away from him slightly. Her hands flew to her mouth, her mind reeling. "Harry… please… what's happening? Why are you calling me that?"

But there was no answer, no flicker of recognition in his eyes. He simply sat there, staring at her, waiting.

Lily felt the room spin around her, her legs shaking as she struggled to make sense of the nightmare unfolding before her. "No," she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. "This can't be happening… you're supposed to be—"

She couldn't finish the sentence. Her throat closed up, and all she could do was watch in horror as her son—her Harry—sat there like a puppet, waiting for her command.

The realization hit her all at once, like a crushing wave of despair. This wasn't Harry. Not really. The Dementor's Kiss had taken his soul, and whatever had woken up today was something else. Something empty. He wasn't responding to her as his mother—he was responding to her as a master. But why? What had gone wrong?

Lily stumbled back, her hand covering her mouth as a sob tore through her chest. She had waited so long, clung to hope for so many weeks, only to be confronted with this—this hollow, broken version of her son.

"Harry?" she said again, more desperate now. "It's me—Mum."

But there was no change in his expression. No recognition. No emotion. Just the same blank stare.

"Mistress," he repeated, the word slipping from his lips with chilling calmness.

Lily backed away, her hands shaking uncontrollably. Her heart hammered in her chest, her mind racing to understand what was happening. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to wake up and come back to her, to his family. She had prayed for this moment—had dreamed of it—but this... this was a nightmare.

"Harry, stop it," she begged, her voice cracking. "Please, stop. It's me. It's Mum."

But nothing changed. He simply sat there, staring at her with those empty eyes, waiting. As though he didn't even know who she was.

Lily's breath hitched as the horrifying reality began to sink in. This wasn't her Harry. The boy who had once filled their home with laughter and light was gone, and in his place was something... hollow. Something wrong. He was awake, but he wasn't truly alive. The Dementor's Kiss had taken his soul, and with it, everything that made him Harry.

Her knees buckled, and she gripped the edge of his bed to keep herself from falling. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over as she stared at the shell of her son, feeling her heart shatter all over again. The joy she had felt moments ago was gone, replaced by a suffocating horror.

"Harry..." she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her hands trembled as she reached for him again, but she stopped herself, afraid of what she might find. Afraid that touching him would only confirm what she already knew deep down—that the boy she loved was truly lost.

"Mistress," he said again, the word twisting the knife in her heart. His voice was so calm, so obedient, and yet so utterly devoid of life.

Lily felt her breath coming in shallow gasps, her chest tightening with panic. "No, no, this can't be happening," she muttered, her words tumbling out in a rush as she backed toward the door. Her mind couldn't process it, couldn't comprehend the sheer cruelty of it all.

"James!" she cried, her voice breaking as she called out for her husband, desperate for someone—anyone—to help her make sense of this. "James, please!"

Her heart raced as she fumbled with the door, wrenching it open with trembling hands. She couldn't stay in that room any longer. She couldn't look at Harry, at what had been done to him.

"James!" she screamed again, tears streaming down her face. She felt as though the walls were closing in on her, the weight of the situation pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe.

Inside the room, Harry sat motionless, staring blankly ahead, waiting for her next command. But the boy Lily loved—the boy she had held, kissed, and raised—was gone. And no matter how much she wished it, no matter how hard she prayed, there was nothing left of him to save.

James stormed down the hallway, his heart pounding in his chest. Lily's frantic screams still echoed in his ears as he sprinted toward Harry's room, his mind racing with fear and confusion. When he reached the door, he hesitated for only a moment before wrenching it open.

"Lily?" His voice was tight, panic lacing every word. "What happened? What—"

But the sight that met him inside the room stopped him cold. Lily stood near the far wall, trembling and pale, her eyes wide with horror. And Harry—his son—was sitting upright in bed, eyes open, but utterly devoid of the life that had once filled him.

James felt as though the floor had dropped out from beneath him. The boy sitting in front of him wasn't Harry. Not really. His gaze was flat, his body eerily still, and when he turned to face his father, it was with a disconcerting calmness that sent chills down James's spine.

"Mistress," Harry said softly, his voice empty and emotionless. His eyes shifted toward Lily, awaiting her next command.

The sound of that word—Mistress—hit James like a punch to the gut. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he couldn't speak. He couldn't even move. The sheer wrongness of it all left him frozen, grappling with the weight of the horror before him.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not Harry. Not like this.

"Lily," he croaked out, his voice strained, barely audible. "What... what is this?"

Lily turned to him, her tear-streaked face filled with helplessness. She shook her head, unable to explain. "I don't know," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I don't know what's happening, James. He just... he woke up, and... and it's not him. It's not our Harry."

James felt a surge of panic rising in his chest. He had been trying so hard to stay strong—for Lily, for Rose, for Jimmy, for the family that was falling apart before his eyes. But now, faced with this... this living nightmare, he felt that strength crumbling. His son was awake, but whatever made HarryHarrywas gone.

James took a few unsteady steps toward the bed, his heart hammering in his chest. "Harry?" he said, his voice trembling as he searched his son's face for some sign of recognition, some glimmer of life. But there was nothing. Harry's eyes were as blank as they had been moments before, his body rigid and still.

"Harry, it's me. It's Dad," James whispered, his voice breaking. But Harry didn't respond, didn't flinch or move or show any trace of emotion. He just sat there, waiting.

James's heart shattered. He had thought that losing Harry when he disappeared was the worst thing that could happen to them, but now, staring into the hollow shell of his son, he realized this was far worse.

His mind raced, desperate for answers, for some way to fix this—anything to bring Harry back. But they were out of their depth. Whatever dark magic had done this to him, it was beyond anything James could handle on his own.

He turned to Lily, who was still trembling in the corner, her face pale with shock. "I... I need to get Dumbledore," James said, his voice urgent, strained. "He'll know what to do. He has to."

Lily nodded numbly, her eyes never leaving Harry as James hurried toward the fireplace in the adjacent room. With shaking hands, he grabbed a handful of Floo powder and threw it into the fire, the green flames roaring to life.

"Albus Dumbledore!" James called, his voice tight with panic. "Albus, please... we need you."

Moments felt like hours as he waited, his mind racing with dread, but soon the flames flickered, and Dumbledore stepped through the fireplace, his expression calm yet tinged with concern.

"James?" Dumbledore's eyes flickered briefly over the urgency in James's face before he turned toward the door. "What's happened?"

"It's Harry," James choked out, his voice thick with despair. "He... he woke up, but he's not... he's not himself. I don't know what to do, Albus. Please, you have to help us."

Without another word, Dumbledore swept past James and moved swiftly toward Harry's bedroom, his expression grave as he prepared to face whatever horror awaited him.

James followed, his heart heavy with fear and uncertainty. He didn't know what Dumbledore could do, but he knew this nightmare had only just begun.