The train rocked gently, the rhythmic clatter of its wheels a lullaby that pulled Harry into an uneasy sleep. The voices of his friends faded into the background, and soon, the compartment dissolved into shadows.
Then came the heat.
Blistering, suffocating heat pressed against his skin. Harry opened his eyes to find himself standing in the middle of a vast desert. The golden sands of the Sahara stretched endlessly in every direction, rippling under the weight of an angry, blood-red sky. The air shimmered, thick and heavy with tension.
Shapes moved in the distance. Dark, twisted figures emerging from the dunes, their eyes glowing with malice. They rushed toward him with inhuman speed, their forms shifting between beasts and men.
Instinctively, Harry raised a sword he hadn't known he was holding. The blade felt familiar, its weight natural in his grip. As the first demon leapt at him, he struck, slicing through its shadowy body. It let out a shriek before dissolving into black smoke, but two more took its place.
He fought them off, his movements precise but desperate. For every creature he cut down, another emerged, their numbers endless. Sweat dripped down his face as the sand beneath him turned black with ichor.
"Harry," a voice called, faint and distant, carried on the hot wind.
He froze, the blade trembling in his hand.
The desert vanished.
He stood now in a dark stone room. The walls were damp, the air cold and metallic with the stench of blood. Chains rattled behind him, the sound sharp and jarring.
A figure knelt before him. Argai.
Daphne's cousin was pale, his eyes fixed on Harry with a mix of fear and defiance. His face was gaunt, streaked with dirt and sweat. He didn't beg, didn't plead—only stared, as if daring Harry to do what had to be done.
In Harry's hand, the sword had become heavier, its edge gleaming.
"I can't..." Harry whispered, his voice cracking.
"Do it," a harsh voice commanded from behind him. Harry didn't turn to see who it was.
Argai's lips moved, but no sound came. The words were lost, but his expression spoke volumes: Now is your turn.. I curse you.
The blade fell.
The sound of it cutting through flesh and bone was deafening. Harry watched as Argai's body crumpled to the floor, his head rolling to the side. Blood poured across the cold stone, pooling at Harry's feet. It wasn't red—it was black, thick like tar.
Harry stumbled back, gasping for breath, but the air around him grew colder.
"Harry."
The voice again.
He turned sharply. A figure stood in the corner of the cell, half-shrouded in shadow. It was a woman, her features obscured as if by fog. Pale skin, white hair tangled and clinging to her face. Her eyes were wide, glistening with unspoken grief.
"Daphne?"
The figure took a step forward, her mouth opening in a silent scream. Harry reached for her, but she retreated, dissolving into the shadows.
The walls cracked. The floor beneath him shook violently as the cell collapsed. Harry fell, and when he looked up, he was no longer in the prison.
Grimmauld Place lay in ruins before him. Smoke curled into the sky from its shattered walls, and debris littered the ground. The Black family tapestry hung in tatters, scorched beyond recognition.
In the distance, the pale figure stood once more, motionless amidst the destruction. Her scream pierced the air, sharp and agonizing. Harry fell to his knees, clutching his head as the sound echoed endlessly in his mind.
He woke with a gasp.
The compartment was still. Hermione's voice broke through the haze.
"Harry, wake up! We're here!"
Harry blinked rapidly, his breath coming in short bursts. Hermione's concerned face hovered over him, her hand on his shoulder. He sat up, his body trembling.
The dream lingered, vivid and raw. His hands shook as he glanced out the window at the familiar silhouette of Hogwarts in the distance.
But the echoes of Daphne's scream stayed with him, louder than the train's whistle.
Harry rubbed his eyes and looked around. The train had already pulled into the station. Students were bustling, their voices excited as they gathered their things, the familiar hum of energy filling the air. He stood slowly, still not fully awake, and followed Hermione through the crowd.
They walked in silence, the weight of the day already pressing on his shoulders. The Sorting Ceremony was underway when they entered the Great Hall. Harry took his seat at the Gryffindor table, feeling the familiar warmth of his friends around him, though it felt distant, muted, like he was watching from behind a thick glass wall.
As the Sorting Hat finished its song and the first years were being called up, Harry's gaze wandered, almost instinctively, to the Slytherin table. There, among the students, he saw her—Daphne Greengrass.
Her long, light blonde hair caught the flickering light of the candles above, strands of it cascading like silk over her shoulders. She was looking at him, her lips curling into that soft, almost secret smile. His heart skipped in his chest, a warmth spreading through him that he hadn't felt in months.
For a moment, Harry forgot everything. He felt the pull, the magnetic force drawing him to her. He nearly stood up, half-formed thoughts of crossing the room to her, of finally speaking to her again, flooding his mind. But then, as quickly as the moment came, it was gone. The Sorting had ended, and the Feast began. The clatter of plates and the hum of conversations surrounded him, dragging him back to reality.
The smile that had been so vivid in his mind disappeared, replaced by an aching emptiness in his chest. It was as if the briefest glimpse of her had reminded him of everything he had lost, everything he couldn't have.
"Harry?" Hermione's voice was softer now, concern creeping into her tone. She was sitting next to him, her hand resting on the edge of the table as she studied him carefully. He looked at her, forcing a weak smile.
"Yeah?" he said, his voice distant.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "You don't seem like yourself."
Harry wanted to answer, to tell her the truth, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he picked up his fork and began to push food around his plate, barely tasting it.
Ginny, sitting on his other side, leaned in with her usual cheerfulness, trying to fill the silence. "Come on, Harry," she said, her voice light. "Eat something. It's the start of the year—don't let it go to waste."
He forced another bite of food into his mouth, but the effort felt like an immense weight. He wanted to say something—anything—but the thoughts that clung to him, the raw ache in his chest, kept him silent.
Ron, noticing the tension, tried to carry on as normal. He laughed loudly at something Seamus had said, and the rest of the table joined in. But even Ron's efforts couldn't mask the thick, invisible barrier between Harry and the world around him.
Hermione watched him closely, her worry growing. She didn't know what was going on inside his head, only that something was wrong, something she couldn't put her finger on. She glanced over at Ginny, who was still trying to coax Harry into a conversation, her cheery façade slowly starting to crack.
Deep inside, Hermione's thoughts twisted in a dangerous knot. She cursed Voldemort for what he had done to them all—what he had taken from Harry. She wished, with every ounce of her being, that there was something she could do to make him whole again. But she knew, in some painful corner of her mind, that it wasn't that simple. Voldemort hadn't just taken lives; he had taken something far more fragile—Harry's hope.
The feast ended, and the students began filing out of the Great Hall in clusters, the sound of chatter and laughter echoing through the stone corridors of Hogwarts. Harry followed Hermione, Ron, and Ginny toward the Gryffindor Tower, his footsteps heavy and his mind distant. He barely registered the conversations around him, focused only on getting through the night.
As they passed a quieter corridor near the staircase leading to Gryffindor Tower, Harry suddenly felt someone grab his arm and yank him backward. Before he could react, his back was pressed against the cold stone wall, and a furious face loomed inches from his.
"Where is she, Potter?" Tracey Davis's voice was sharp, a mix of anger and desperation. Her dark eyes blazed as she gripped the front of his robes, her knuckles white with tension.
Harry blinked, stunned by the sudden confrontation. "What are you—?"
"Don't play dumb with me!" she yelled, cutting him off. Her voice trembled, but her grip on his collar tightened. "What did you do to her? Where is Daphne?"
The corridor fell silent as students nearby turned to watch. Whispers spread like wildfire, and Harry could feel dozens of curious eyes on them. He noticed Theodore Nott approaching from the crowd, his expression a mix of caution and irritation.
"Tracey, that's enough," Nott said, placing a hand on her shoulder. His voice was calm but firm. "Let him go."
But Tracey shook her head vehemently, shrugging off Nott's hand. Her desperation was palpable, her whole body trembling as she held Harry against the wall. "No! He knows something! He has to know! She wouldn't just—she wouldn't just disappear without telling me. Not like this!"
Harry looked into her eyes, and for a moment, he was struck by the raw pain he saw there. Tracey's anger was real, but it was only a thin mask for the anguish underneath. Her hands trembled as they gripped his robes, and her voice cracked, betraying the depth of her despair.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said, his voice calm and steady, though his heart was pounding in his chest.
"Don't lie to me, Potter!" Tracey spat. "I knew you two were—" She faltered for a moment, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You were close.. I know you were, no one knows where she is. So tell me…what did you do?"
Harry's jaw tightened. He felt the weight of her accusations, the judgmental stares of the students around them, and the cold ache of his own grief. But he held her gaze, his old confidence resurfacing like a shield against the chaos around him.
"I don't know where Daphne Greengrass is," he said firmly, his voice carrying an air of authority that cut through the murmurs of the crowd. "And I haven't done anything to her. Whatever happened…it has nothing to do with me."
Tracey's grip on his collar tightened, and for a moment, Harry thought she might hit him. But then her hands began to shake even more, and she let out a choked sob, releasing him and stepping back.
"You're lying," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You have to be lying…"
Nott quickly stepped forward, catching Tracey by the shoulders and gently pulling her away. "Tracey, stop. This isn't helping," he said quietly, though his eyes flicked to Harry, his expression unreadable. "Come on."
The crowd began to disperse as Nott led Tracey away, her head bowed and her shoulders shaking. But the whispers and sidelong glances lingered, the incident already fueling a new round of gossip.
Harry straightened his robes, his expression unreadable as he turned back toward his friends. Ron looked stunned, Hermione worried, and Ginny…her face was a mask of forced calm, though her clenched fists betrayed her true feelings.
"You okay, mate?" Ron asked cautiously.
"Fine," Harry muttered, though his tone said otherwise. He didn't wait for their responses, heading toward the Gryffindor common room with long, purposeful strides.
Behind him, Hermione exchanged a worried glance with Ron. "This year's already off to a brilliant start," she murmured sarcastically, though her tone was heavy with concern.
The dimly lit pub nestled in the quieter corners of Diagon Alley reeked of spilled ale and smoke, a haunt for those seeking to escape prying eyes. Remus Lupin sat alone in a booth near the back, staring into the amber depths of his untouched firewhisky. The low murmur of voices and the occasional clink of glasses did little to distract him from his thoughts.
The door creaked open, and he glanced up briefly, only to do a double-take as Nymphadora Tonks walked in. She paused in the doorway, scanning the room with a purpose that made it clear she wasn't here by chance. When her gaze landed on him, she headed straight for his table.
"Thought I'd find you here," she said, sliding into the seat across from him without waiting for an invitation. Her bright pink hair seemed almost out of place against the muted, shadowy backdrop of the pub.
Remus frowned, leaning back in his seat. "How did you know I'd be here?"
"Come on, Remus," she said with a small, knowing smile. "You're nothing if not predictable. Brooding in the darkest pub you can find? Classic you."
"I wasn't brooding," he muttered, though he couldn't quite meet her eyes.
"Sure," she replied, leaning her elbows on the table. "And I'm not here because I'm worried about you."
Remus sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Tonks, I appreciate the concern, but I don't need—"
"What you don't need," she interrupted, her voice firm but not unkind, "is to bottle everything up until you explode. Which, by the way, you're dangerously close to doing."
He gave her a tired look but said nothing, his fingers tapping idly against the side of his glass.
"I want to talk about that night," she said, her tone softening.
Remus stiffened immediately. "No."
"You can't keep running from it, Remus."
"I'm not running," he said sharply, though the edge in his voice betrayed him. "I just—I can't."
"Why not?" she pressed.
"Because there's nothing to say!" His voice rose slightly, drawing a few glances from nearby patrons. He lowered it again, his tone tight with frustration. "I was there. I saw everything. And I couldn't stop it. I couldn't save her."
"I was there too," Tonks leaned back slightly, studying him. "You blame yourself way too much."
"Of course I do!" Remus snapped, his hands clenching into fists on the table. "I was supposed to protect her, Tonks. I promised I'd protect them both, and I failed."
The memory came unbidden, clawing its way into Remus's thoughts as he looked down at bloody burning liquor in his hand.
Remus walked in slowly, waiting for the door to shut behind him before taking another step. It had been hours since Daphne had given birth to her stillborn and she had let no one approach.
The room reeked of blood and potions.
On the far side of the room, a bassinet stood untouched. Empty.
Remus's heart sank further.
He couldn't bring himself to speak,
Daphne had refused to let anyone take the small lifeless body. Had refused to speak, or move, or clean up. After several attempts to speak with her the staff had all but given up and had sought no one for help because simply they had no one close enough to Daphne to approach; hoping the woman would be able to break through the grief.
"Get out" Daphne snapped from where she sat on the floor, rocking back and forth slowly as she faced out the large windows. Remus ignored the request and continued her approach, he moved to Daphne's left in a very careful steps, the window glass was shattered on the floor, which made it hard for him to walk in silence, Ice blue eyes flicked up to him as the broken girl registered who was in the room with her. Who had ignored her command.
Daphne turned away quickly, hiding her face behind her unbound hair, disheveled from sweat. "I do not wish for you to see me like this" she said quietly, clutching the small body closer to her stomach.
"I see nothing but strength and understandable grief" Remus countered, slowly lowering himself to his knees in front of the girl.
When the girl said nothing, Remus continued. "Strength you will need to keep up. You must eat. Recover.."
Daphne shook her head, still looking down at the body of her son . So small. Too small. Scaled. But beautiful. Tears welled in the girl's eyes "I cannot bear it" she admit in a whisper; her chest feeling like it was being ripped apart by the admission.
Remus leaned forward, placing a hand softly on one of the girl's legs. Daphne stiffened but did not turn her away. "You can" Remus reassured her. "And you will, with time. And help" he continued when the witch's blue eyes met her own.
"I will not let them take him from me" She whispered, curling into herself and shielding the small body. Remus glanced at what he could see of the babe, then returned his gaze to the princess's face "no one can take him from you, princess . He is always a part of you."
A single tear tracked down the sweat and blood smeared face. "It was too soon. He was not supposed to come so soon." Remus rubbed soothing circles into the leg he touched "I know" He whispered back. "Do not do this to yourself, princess . Soon, He will wither, and no mother should witness that of their child. Let Molly take care of him and clean him ."
There was a heavy silence as Daphne looked down at her son, anguish clear on her face, She swallowed hard and slowly loosened her grip, the only indication she was consenting to what Remus proposed. Remus watched the movement and slowly reached for the small bundle, wrapped in a torn bloody sheet. He steeled his nerves and kept his face neutral, hands slipping around the small body and pausing to see if Daphne would stop him. When there was no objection he slowly started to pull the child away.
Quick as a viper, one of the princess's hands reached out, latching onto his wrist to halt his movement. Remus stilled again and held his breath as Daphne gazed down at her son, eyes full of tears that were barely being kept at bay. "his father haven't seen him yet…"
He could see the princess trembling in her restraint. Her pain. With her other hand, Daphne gently brushed the backs of two fingers along the child's cheek. The tenderness in which she did it made Remu's chest ache.
"One last hug, please…" she whispered and Remus couldn't deny her that.
In a slow and soft move, Daphne took the babe into her chest, inhaling in his scent deeply; "my sweet child, forgive me.."
Remus gently brought the small body to his chest, cradling it against him as if it were still alive. Their eyes met for a brief moment before Daphne turned her face away, unable to watch as her son was taken. Remus slowly stood and walked back to the door he had entered from. Wordlessly, he slipped from the room and beckoned, Dumbldore and Snape were waiting down the hallway, Remus couldn't read their faces, Albus was sad but Snape's expression was a mixture of either grief or guilt.
Before he could pass the bundle to Fleur with a nod,
"How is she?" Remus was surprised that the question came from Snape. Remus spared a small smile at his concern "grieving" he responded, "please prepare a bath in her chambers shortly" he asked Winky, before slipping back into the room.
The tiny house-elf burst through the door like a gale, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. Her frantic sobbing filled the corridor as she stumbled toward them, clutching her tiny hands to her chest.
"She fainted! Mistress Daphne fainted!" Winky wailed, her voice breaking with every word. "She won't wake up! Mistress won't move!"
Remus froze. For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Winky's words echoed in his mind, but he couldn't make sense of them. It was as though the ground beneath him had disappeared, and he was left hanging in an abyss.
Snape was the first to react, his voice sharp and commanding. "What do you mean? Is she breathing? "
But Winky couldn't stop crying. She sank to her knees, her tiny body wracked with sobs. "Winky tried! Winky called for help, but Mistress... Mistress is so pale. So pale and cold."
The panic in the elf's voice was a knife to Remus's chest.
He pushed past Winky without thinking, his body moving on instinct. The door to Daphne's room was ajar, and the sight that greeted him was one he would never forget.
The tiny house-elf burst through the door like a gale, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. Her frantic sobbing filled the corridor as she stumbled toward them, clutching her tiny hands to her chest.
"She fainted! Mistress Daphne fainted!" Winky wailed, her voice breaking with every word. "She won't wake up! Mistress won't move!"
Remus froze. For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Winky's words echoed in his mind, but he couldn't make sense of them. It was as though the ground beneath him had disappeared, and he was left hanging in an abyss.
Tonk reached out, placing her hand over Tonks, snapping out of the mirage of the memories. "You didn't fail. You did everything you could. Sometimes…sometimes things are just beyond our control."
Remus shook his head, his jaw tightening. "That's exactly what Dumbledore said. That it was 'for the greater good.' But how can something so cruel—so wrong—be good?"
Tonks didn't reply immediately. Instead, she squeezed his hand gently, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. "I don't have the answers, Remus. But I know you. I know your heart. And I know that if there was anything—anything—you could have done, you would've done it."
He looked up at her then, his eyes filled with a mix of pain and gratitude. Her steady presence, her refusal to let him spiral, was a lifeline he hadn't realized he needed.
"You shouldn't have come here," he said after a moment, his voice quieter now.
"But I did," she replied, her gaze unwavering. "Because you're not alone in this, no matter how much you want to be."
The tension between them shifted subtly, the air growing heavier. When Tonks leaned forward, her expression soft but intent, Remus didn't pull away.
The first kiss was hesitant, born of shared grief and unspoken understanding. But when he responded, it deepened into something more desperate, a raw need to forget, to feel something other than pain.
The next thing the two of them both knew, The room was small and cluttered, but neither of them seemed to care. They barely made it through the door before their lips met again, their movements hurried and uncoordinated.
Remus hesitated for a moment, pulling back as doubt flickered across his face. "Tonks, are you sure—"
She silenced him with a kiss, her hands framing his face. "I'm sure," she murmured against his lips. "Stop overthinking, just this once."
For the first time in what felt like years, he allowed himself to let go. They moved together with an urgency that spoke of wounds they couldn't voice, seeking solace in each other's arms.
That night, they didn't talk about the past or the future. For a few fleeting hours, they found comfort in the present, in the quiet understanding that neither of them was truly alone.
Meanwhile, The cool night air wrapped around Harry as he sat perched on the edge of the Astronomy Tower, his legs dangling over the side. Hogwarts stretched out beneath him, its spires and towers bathed in the silver light of the waxing moon. His hand tightened around the smooth crystal surface of the violin resting in his lap.
The violin had once belonged to Eros Greengrass, Daphne's older brother. She'd given it to Harry months ago, saying, "It's yours now. Eros would've liked you to have it." It had felt too personal, too intimate a gift, but now, holding it in his hands, it felt like a tether to her—a fragile link to a moment in his life that now seemed impossibly distant.
He raised the bow and drew it across the strings, tentative at first, until the haunting melody of Daphne's favorite symphony filled the night. The notes echoed through the tower, weaving through the air like ghosts. Each sound carried memories—Daphne's soft laughter, the way she had tilted her head when she listened, her delicate fingers adjusting his grip during one of their late-night lessons.
Harry lost himself in the music, his emotions pouring into every stroke of the bow. For the first time in weeks, the weight of his grief lifted, if only slightly.
Behind him, the door to the tower creaked open. Harry didn't stop playing; he recognized the steady gait even before the voice came.
"I had no idea you played, Harry," Dumbledore said, his tone tinged with surprise and admiration.
Harry lowered the bow but didn't turn around. "I didn't, not until she taught me."
Dumbledore chuckled softly, stepping closer. "Daphne always had a knack for coaxing greatness out of others. I heard her play that very symphony once. It was… unforgettable."
Harry set the violin down gently, his fingers lingering on it. "She was a good teacher," he said, his voice low and thick with emotion.
Dumbledore studied him, his sharp blue eyes softening. "The storms ahead will test you, Harry. Voldemort will do everything in his power to break you. But you must remain steadfast. You are stronger than you know, and the world needs that strength now more than ever."
Harry swallowed hard, keeping his gaze fixed on the horizon. "I'm trying," he said quietly.
"I know you are," Dumbledore said, placing a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder. "Professor Slughorn will arrive tomorrow. I believe he will be an invaluable addition to the staff."
Harry nodded, understanding the implication. "I'll go for another search soon," he said, his voice resolute. "There won't be any rest until every last one of them is destroyed. Every pit must be closed."
Dumbledore's expression was grave but approving. "That determination will serve you well, Harry. But don't forget—you are not alone in this fight. Lean on those who care for you. They will be your anchor in the storm."
With that, Dumbledore turned and made his way back down the stairs, leaving Harry alone once more.
Harry stared up at the star-speckled sky, feeling the hum of his magic within him. He closed his eyes and focused, reaching out to the energy around him. It was reckless, he knew, but something in him yearned for freedom, for escape.
He felt the pull, the shift in the air, and then, as if by instinct, he let himself go. In an instant, his feet left the ground, and he was flying—not on a broom, but with nothing but the force of his will and magic.
The sensation was exhilarating, like breaking free of invisible chains. He soared over the castle, the wind whipping through his hair, the cold biting his skin. He didn't know where he was going—only that he needed to go.
Hogwarts grew smaller beneath him as he pushed further into the night, into the unknown, his magic guiding him toward a destination even he didn't yet understand.
Albus Dumbledore climbed the spiral staircase to his office, his mind heavy with thoughts of Harry. The boy carried the weight of the wizarding world on his shoulders, and Dumbledore knew the storms ahead would be unlike anything Harry had yet faced.
As he pushed open the door to his office, he froze. Severus Snape was already there, standing by the fireplace, his dark robes blending into the shadows.
"Severus," Dumbledore greeted calmly, though the tension in the room was palpable. "I wasn't expecting you tonight."
Snape turned sharply, his black eyes glinting with barely concealed frustration. "Forgive me for not making an appointment, Headmaster," he said, his tone laced with sarcasm.
Dumbledore closed the door behind him and moved toward his desk. "What brings you here?"
Snape stepped closer, his voice low and biting. "I bring news, though I doubt you'll find it reassuring. The Dark Lord has grown suspicious of me. He believes I am holding back."
Dumbledore's expression didn't waver, though his eyes narrowed slightly. "And what has led him to this conclusion?"
"A new spy," Snape hissed. "Someone he trusts implicitly, someone we do not know. Voldemort no longer shares his plans with me as he once did. My position is compromised, Headmaster. If he discovers—"
"Then we must tread carefully," Dumbledore interrupted, his tone firm but calm. "Your role is too important to risk."
Snape let out a bitter laugh, pacing in front of the desk. "Important? You speak of importance while we sit on the consequences of our own choices. The Dark Lord doesn't need to kill Potter—he's already broken, and we're the ones who handed him the pieces."
Dumbledore's expression darkened. "Severus—"
"No!" Snape snapped, his voice rising. "Don't you dare lecture me about sacrifice and necessity. You knew what poisoning Daphne would do. You knew it would kill the child—his child—and you still ordered me to brew it."
Dumbledore's silence was heavy, his eyes shadowed with guilt.
"And I—" Snape continued, his voice cracking slightly. "I carried it out, knowing full well what it would mean. Do you understand? We killed that baby. We destroyed his family before it even began!"
The sound of a gasp cut through the charged air. Both men turned sharply to see Minerva McGonagall standing in the doorway, her face pale and her lips trembling.
"Minerva," Dumbledore said, his voice uncharacteristically shaken.
McGonagall's eyes darted between the two men, wide with disbelief. "Tell me I didn't just hear what I think I did," she whispered.
"Minerva," Dumbledore began, stepping forward, "it's not as simple as it seems—"
"Not as simple?" she interrupted, her voice rising with outrage. "You…you poisoned her? You killed her child? How could you—how dare you!?"
Snape's jaw tightened, his fists clenched at his sides. "It was done to prevent a greater catastrophe," he said bitterly. "The child's birth was deemed too dangerous, too unstable—"
"Spare me your justifications, Severus," McGonagall snapped, her Scottish brogue cutting through the room. Her gaze turned to Dumbledore, betrayal etched on her face. "Albus, I trusted you. We all trusted you. And this…this is what you've been hiding?"
Dumbledore lowered his head, his voice heavy with regret. "I made a decision to protect the greater good, Minerva. It was not one I made lightly, nor without immense cost."
McGonagall shook her head, tears glistening in her eyes. "The greater good? You've torn that boy's heart apart, and you dare to speak of the greater good?" She took a shaky step back, her voice trembling. "I can't look at either of you right now."
With that, she turned and left, the door slamming shut behind her.
The silence that followed was deafening. Snape turned back to Dumbledore, his face hard but his eyes haunted.
"She's right, you know," Snape said quietly. "We broke him."
Dumbledore sank into his chair, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his guilt. "I know," he whispered.
For the first time in his long life, Albus Dumbledore felt truly defeated.