Smoke and embers still lingered in the shattered halls of Hogwarts. The final battle had come to an end, and Harry Potter stood in the aftermath of war, wand trembling in his grasp. The weight of victory pressed against his chest—not relief, not triumph, but something heavier. Something final.
Voldemort was gone. The Elder Wand now lay dormant in Harry's grip, its power subdued. Around him, friends and foes alike surveyed the broken remains of their world—the cost of freedom written in stone, in blood, in the silent gazes of those lost.
Yet as dawn broke over the horizon, a strange sensation overcame him. At first, it was subtle—a whisper of magic tickling his skin, something old, something foreign. His scar burned, but not with pain. It was different. Lighter, almost... welcoming.
Then, his vision blurred.
The Great Hall, the fallen bodies, the faces—everything around him began to dissolve, like ink bleeding from a page. He felt his pulse slowing, his breath hitching, his grip loosening on the wand. He staggered, collapsing to his knees, eyes fluttering between darkness and light.
A voice—soft, distant—called his name.
Not Hermione. Not Ron. Not anyone from this world.
A force tugged at his very soul, pulling him beyond the limits of his mortal form, beyond magic, beyond life as he had known it.
And in that moment, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, ceased to be.