The star, his moon and their comets

CHAPTER 166 The Final Battle

May 2nd, 1998

Harry

Harry lay facedown, his senses slowly returning as he listened to the eerie silence enveloping him. As he gradually rose, his eyes met a surreal sight—a bright mist surrounded him, unlike any mist he had encountered before. This mist didn't conceal his surroundings; rather, it seemed in the process of forming them.

He stood up, scanning the misty expanse around him. Was this some manifestation of the Room of Requirement, a place where needs materialized into reality?

The longer he looked, the more details emerged. Above him soared a grand, domed glass roof, catching the sunlight in a dazzling display.

The ambiance hinted at a majestic palace, yet everything remained tranquil and motionless, except for strange sounds echoing nearby—thumps and whimpers muffled by the mist.

Turning slowly, Harry watched in wonder as the mist transformed into a vast, pristine hall, far more expansive than Hogwarts' Great Hall.

The clarity of the glass ceiling added to the ethereal atmosphere. Despite its size, the hall appeared empty, save for one unsettling presence.

His breath caught as he spotted a small, naked child-like figure, huddled and shivering on the floor. Its skin seemed raw and rough, as if flayed, casting an aura of distress and vulnerability.

The figure trembled beneath a nearby seat, emitting plaintive sounds that tugged at Harry's heartstrings.

"You cannot help," a voice spoke, causing Harry to whirl around. There, approaching him with an air of vitality and wisdom, was Albus Dumbledore, clad in sweeping robes of midnight blue.

"Harry," Dumbledore greeted warmly, his arms outstretched in a gesture of welcome. His hands, once marred by battle, were now whole, unblemished, and pale. "You wonderful boy. You brave, brave man. Let us walk."

Harry, taken aback yet strangely comforted by Dumbledore's presence, followed as the old wizard led him away from the whimpering figure.

They reached two seats that seemed to materialize in the vast hall, positioned under the magnificent, sparkling ceiling.

Dumbledore settled into one seat, and Harry sank into the other, his gaze fixed on the familiar features of his former headmaster.

Dumbledore's silver hair cascaded around his shoulders, his piercing blue eyes peering kindly from behind his spectacles, and his crooked nose adding to the timeless familiarity.

"But you're dead," Harry blurted out, disbelief coloring his voice.

"Oh yes," Dumbledore replied matter-of-factly, a serene smile gracing his lips.

"Then... I'm dead too?" Harry's voice trembled with uncertainty.

"Ah," Dumbledore chuckled softly, his smile widening. "That is the question, isn't it? On the whole, dear boy, I think not."

Their eyes met, a silent understanding passing between them as Dumbledore's gaze remained gentle and reassuring.

"Not?" Harry echoed, seeking clarity in Dumbledore's words.

"Not," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling with profound understanding.

"But..." Harry's hand instinctively reached for where the lightning scar should have been. It felt oddly absent. "But I should have died — I didn't defend myself! I meant to let him kill me!"

"And that," Dumbledore interjected, his voice calm yet resonant, "will, I think, have made all the difference."

A radiant happiness seemed to emanate from Dumbledore, enveloping the space like a warm glow. Harry couldn't recall seeing the old wizard so content, so utterly at peace.