A Horcrux's Fate

Chapter 25

Harry's heart thundered in his chest, each beat like the crash of distant waves against rock. Loud. Relentless. He couldn't tell if it was fear or hope—or both—coursing through him like lightning. The feeling wrapped tight around his ribs, a grip he couldn't shake.

He was close.

After everything—after the pain, the guilt, the ritual that had nearly torn him apart—he had survived. No, more than that. He had made it through. He had won.

He was still trying to understand what that meant.

His feet moved on instinct, the ground beneath him unfamiliar and shifting like a dream just before waking. Somewhere ahead, he felt the tug of something real. The world—the real world—was near. He could feel it, like a hand pressed lightly against his back. Urging him on.

A shiver ran through him. Not from cold, but from that strange, trembling anticipation that filled the air just before something changed. The way the world felt before the Sorting Hat called your name or before a wand found your hand and decided it fit. He felt like he was standing at the edge of something huge. Something final.

He slowed, then glanced back. The place where Snape had disappeared was already fading into mist, like it had never been there at all. A strange ache unfurled inside his chest.

Snape.

It was still hard to believe. Of all the people who might've pulled him through that darkness, he never would have expected Snape. The man who had haunted his school days like a shadow under a door, who had seemed to hate everything about him. But in the end, it had been Snape's cold presence, sharp voice, and steady fury that cut through the fog. That yanked Harry out of the place where he'd been drowning in shame and guilt.

Without him... Harry wasn't sure he would have made it.

Maybe he'd still be stuck in that endless loop of self-loathing.

Maybe he'd be lost.

But he wasn't. He was here. Whole. Free.

He turned forward again—

And stopped cold.

The fog had crept in without warning. Thick. Heavy. Pale grey poured in from every side like smoke from a broken wand, wrapping the world in silence. The path ahead was gone. Everything ahead was shadows.

His heart picked up again—harder this time. Not with hope.

Is this part of the ritual? Or... did something go wrong?

He took a step forward, cautious. Then another.

"Ron?" he called. His voice sounded small. "Hermione?"

The silence that answered him was wrong. Not empty—just... hollow. As if the world had been turned inside out and sound didn't belong here.

He strained to hear something. Anything.

No answer.

The fog clung to his skin like wet cloth, cold and suffocating. His hands clenched. His breathing came faster, shallow now.

Did I miss the way out? Did I lose them? What if—what if this isn't the way back at all?

Then—

A flicker.

A flash of movement, just at the edge of vision. Two shadows, faint through the mist.

His breath caught in his throat.

He didn't think. He moved—slow but urgent, drawn forward by something deeper than logic. The fog began to lift, thin as paper, and he could see more clearly now. Shapes. Light.