In Grimmauld Place, Harry's frustration mounted with each passing moment. He had only just arrived tonight, but the sense of isolation was immediate and palpable. Despite being surrounded by members of the Order and his closest friends, he felt cut off, as if a wall had been erected between them. They were all here, within the same walls, yet no one was sharing any details about the war or acknowledging his need to understand what was happening. This deliberate omission of information left Harry feeling sidelined, an observer in a struggle he was deeply a part of.

Ron and Hermione, who were also staying at Headquarters, hadn't reached out to him all summer. Now, under the same roof, their interactions were brief and distracted, as if they were all carrying secrets they couldn't or wouldn't share. This lack of communication from those he trusted most added to Harry's sense of isolation. They moved around him, caught up in tasks and whispered conversations to which he wasn't privy, reinforcing his feeling of being an outsider in his own circle.

The absence of any real update about the war, about Voldemort, about anything of consequence, gnawed at him. Harry understood the need for caution, for secrets in dangerous times, but the complete exclusion from any meaningful discussion about the situation they were all facing made him feel underestimated and undervalued. It was as if his opinions and his readiness to fight alongside them counted for little. This not only frustrated him but also deepened his worry for what was being kept from him.

Harry walked into his room and attempted to slam the door, hoping for a loud declaration of his frustration. Instead, the door closed with a soft click, failing to match the turmoil inside him. He let himself fall onto the bed, burying his face into the pillow.

The quietness of the room contrasted sharply with the noise in his mind. Here he was, surrounded by those who were supposed to be his allies, his friends, yet the lack of communication made him feel more isolated than ever. Unlike the clear disdain at the Dursleys, here, the neglect was confusing, a mix of silence and secrets that left him feeling sidelined.

Harry rolled over with a grunt, his frustration finding a brief outlet as he punched his pillow. He let out a heavy sigh and laid on his back, arms spread wide, eyes squeezed shut against the world. Time slipped by, the room's silence only broken by his own uneven breaths. The day's light faded into evening, shadows stretching across the walls, mirroring the dark thoughts swirling in Harry's mind.

A soft knock at the door barely registered in Harry's preoccupied state. It was Arthur Weasley's voice that finally pierced the fog of his thoughts, gentle yet hesitant. "Harry, it's time for dinner."

Harry didn't move at first, the words taking a moment to sink in. "I'm not hungry," he responded, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with the day's accumulated weight.

Arthur paused at the door, his head tilting slightly as if he were about to say something more, perhaps offer some words of comfort or understanding. But after a moment, he simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment of Harry's need for space, and closed the door softly behind him.

As night fully enveloped the grim house, Harry lay on his back, eyes tracing the patterns of the ceiling above him. The house, with its perpetual shadows and whispers of the past, grew quiet, the day's murmurs and footfalls fading into a hushed stillness. When the silence assured him that the other inhabitants had retired or were engaged elsewhere, Harry's stomach reminded him of the dinner he had declined. With a decision made, he slipped out of bed, his movements cautious, seeking to preserve the quietude.

Padding softly down the stairs, Harry navigated hallways lit only by the occasional flicker of a candle, its flame casting elongated shadows against the walls. The kitchen welcomed him with its familiar, if not entirely comforting, embrace—a room that held both warm memories and reminders of the complexities of his current relationships. He moved to the fridge, the soft hum of its workings the only sound as he searched for something to satiate his hunger. Settling on some leftover food, he turned to make his way back upstairs, his mind already drifting to the solitude of his room.

However, as he approached the stairs, a figure emerged from the shadows, halting his return. The man was a new addition to the Order, someone Harry hadn't met before. He was tall, with a lean build that suggested agility rather than brute strength. His hair was a salt-and-pepper mix, cut short, and his eyes, a striking shade of blue, seemed to pierce the dim lighting of the house. He wore a simple, yet practical, attire that marked him as someone accustomed to the unpredictable life of an Order member.

"Evening," the man said, his voice carrying a calm, measured tone. "I'm Nathan," he introduced himself, offering a slight, acknowledging nod. "I noticed you weren't at dinner. Everything alright?"

Harry, taken aback by the sudden company and the directness of the question, hesitated. Nathan's presence, unexpected as it was, hinted at the many layers of the Order that Harry was yet to understand or be a part of. Here was yet another member who had stories, experiences, and perhaps secrets, all contributing to the tapestry of their collective fight against the darkness.

"Yeah, just wasn't hungry earlier," Harry replied, adjusting his hold on the plate in his hands, feeling the warmth of the food seeping through the ceramic. His voice was a touch quieter than usual. "I'm heading back up now," he added, his mind already on the multitude of questions that seemed to multiply with each passing hour.

Nathan nodded but lingered, his expression etching a picture of seriousness, eyes locking onto Harry's with a clarity that cut through the surrounding uncertainties. "Harry," he began, his voice imbued with a firm resolve, "I don't think it's right, hiding information from you. You're not just a part of this war; you're the focus. You need to be in the know."

Hearing Nathan articulate the thoughts that had been swirling in his own mind, Harry felt a profound sense of validation. Here was the acknowledgment he had silently yearned for, laid bare in the open. Yet, in response, Harry found himself offering only a simple nod, an acknowledgement of the significance of Nathan's words. It was indeed rare to encounter someone within the Order who recognized the necessity of keeping him informed. Harry's gaze, direct and unwavering, communicated his appreciation for Nathan's candor.

Ensuring they were indeed alone, Nathan leaned in closer, the urgency in his eyes magnifying the gravity of his words. The dim lighting of the hallway cast shadows that danced across his face, adding a layer of secrecy to the moment. "There's something happening tonight. Some of Voldemort's followers are meeting in London, not far from here, actually. Just on Delaney Street, about a half mile away. It could be an opportunity to gather valuable intel," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath yet carrying the weight of potential destiny in its cadence.

Harry's heart raced at the prospect, a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Information like this was exactly what he'd been craving—something concrete, something actionable. The very thought of obtaining intelligence that could tip the scales in their favor was exhilarating, igniting a flame of purpose within him.

Nathan then gave a wry smile and added, "Oh, I probably wasn't supposed to tell you that. Dumbledore didn't want to send anyone to spy on it, fearing it's too risky. Said it might be a trap or something that could expose us."

Nathan then gave a wry smile, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he added, "Oh, I probably wasn't supposed to tell you that. Dumbledore didn't want to send anyone to spy on it, fearing it's too risky. Said it might be a trap or something that could expose us." The casual way Nathan shared this, followed by a mock admonishment, struck a chord with Harry. It was as if Nathan understood not just the importance of the mission but also Harry's need to feel involved, to not be sheltered from the dangers they all faced. This acknowledgment, wrapped in a veneer of disobedience, felt like a breath of fresh air to Harry, a sign that someone recognized his capacity to contribute significantly.

"Anyway, I've said too much. Goodnight, Harry. Think on it, but remember, we need to be cautious," Nathan concluded, his tone shifting back to one of concern. His eyes lingered on Harry's for a moment longer, conveying a silent communication of trust and camaraderie. Then, with a nod that felt like a seal on their conversation, he turned to leave.

As Nathan walked away, his figure became a shadow merging with darkness of the house. His departure marked a stark contrast between his earlier words and the unsettling silence that now filled the space. Harry watched him go, the weight of their discussion pressing heavily on his shoulders. The possibility of gathering actionable intelligence felt both exhilarating and daunting, a vivid reminder of the fine line they tread between bravery and folly.

The moment Nathan believed he was beyond Harry's sight, his demeanor changed dramatically. A devious, perhaps even evil, grin crept across Nathan's face, a stark departure from the concerned expression he had presented moments before. This chilling display of duplicity was entirely missed by Harry, who remained in the dark about the potential betrayal lurking beneath Nathan's supportive exterior.

Unaware of the sinister undercurrent that had just passed, Harry carried his food upstairs with a mind swirling with thoughts of the secret meeting Nathan had mentioned. Settling onto his bed, he began to eat slowly, his mind not on the food but on this new opportunity of finally finding out what was going on. The idea that Dumbledore hadn't wanted anyone to spy on the meeting meant that no one from the order would catch him there and this could potentially offer crucial insights into Voldemort's plans. The more Harry pondered, the more the idea of sneaking out to gather information appealed to him. It was a chance to be proactive.

Finishing his meal, Harry sat in the quiet of his room, the remnants of his dinner beside him. The decision seemed to make itself in his heart. He needed to know what was happening, to understand the enemy's moves, to feel like he was in control of his own role in this war. Resolved, he cleaned up quickly, stashing the dishes on his desk, his mind already racing through the logistics of his clandestine outing.

He shoved his wand haphazardly into the back pocket of his jeans, feeling its familiar, reassuring weight against him. Shoes were quickly tugged onto feet, and cloak tight around his neck, anticipation coursing through his veins like wildfire. A jumper, grabbed from the pile of clothes that seemed to perpetually reside on his chair wherever he was staying, was pulled over his head in a swift motion, barely disturbing the mess of his hair. The backpack, hastily packed with what he deemed essential — a mishmash of spell books, a cloak, and, on a last-minute whim, a handful of Chocolate Frogs for sustenance — was slung onto his shoulders.

Harry hesitated for a moment at his doorway, casting a final look over his shoulder to ensure everything was precisely as he left it, ready for his return. With that silent promise to himself, he gently shut the door, careful to make no noise, and slipped into the embrace of the house's shadows.

The portrait of Sirius's mother, a known obstacle for any nocturnal escapade, or really just walking by in general, was his next challenge. Harry inched closer, his eyes fixed on the covered frame, half-expecting her to burst forth with accusations and curses. But tonight, the house remained still, as if holding its breath along with him. With a careful step, Harry bypassed the potential alarm, his relief palpable in the coolness of the air as he neared the exit.

Outside, the night wrapped around him like a cloak, the crisp air biting at his skin. The world was a different place under the cover of darkness, both more dangerous and more honest. It was in these quiet hours that Harry felt a kind of freedom, a distance from the weight of expectations and the gaze of those who thought they knew best.

But he was not alone.

A shadow detached itself from the darkness, trailing him with a silence that spoke of skill and intent. Harry, lost in his own thoughts, didn't notice the presence lurking just steps behind him. This shadow moved with a purpose, mirroring Harry's own.

Harry wound his way through the streets, his movements aiming for stealth but achieving the opposite. Each step he took seemed amplified, the gravel beneath his feet crunching loudly, betraying his presence. His cloak, meant to make him one with the night, fluttered and snapped, a flag to his location with every gust of wind. Despite his best efforts to move with the caution and precision taught by countless hours under the tutelage of those more skilled, his attempts at stealth were clumsy, the result of nerves and an innate restlessness that had always set him apart.

Constantly, he threw glances over his shoulder, searching the shadows for signs of pursuit. Paranoia, a constant companion since he had first set out on this path, prickled at the back of his neck. Yet, for all his vigilance, Harry was unaware of the eyes that tracked him, a silent observer whose presence was as intangible as the night air. This shadow moved with a purpose and patience Harry had yet to learn, a silent witness to his poorly masked attempts at discretion.

Upon reaching the rendezvous, an area long forgotten by anyone with anything to lose, Harry ducked behind the remains of a wall, its stones cold and jagged against his back. Here, amidst the ruins, he found a moment's respite. The night around him seemed to grow denser, anticipation hanging heavy as figures began to materialize from the gloom, their robes a swirl of darkness against the night. These were the followers of Voldemort, each one a ghost made flesh, come to haunt the living.

Harry's heart pounded in his chest, a frenetic rhythm that spoke of fear, yes, but also of the thrill that came with standing on the precipice of the unknown. As he watched from his scant cover, the gathering of shadows before him felt like the culmination of all his fears and all his hopes.

Suddenly, the air grew thick with tension, and then he was there—Voldemort, a name whispered in fear, now a presence that chilled the very air. Harry's instinct screamed for him to flee, yet he was rooted to the spot, caught in the overwhelming pull of the moment. It was then that his presence was betrayed, not by sound but by the palpable shift in the atmosphere, the gaze of Voldemort cutting through the shadows to pin him with a glare that felt as physical as a blow.

Harry's heart pounded in his chest, a frenetic rhythm that spoke of fear, yes, but also of the thrill that came with standing on the precipice of the unknown. As he watched from his scant cover, the gathering of shadows before him felt like the culmination of all his fears and all his hopes. The air around him seemed to thicken, a prelude to the terror that was about to unfold.

Without warning, Voldemort's penetrating gaze found Harry's hidden form amongst the shadows. "Bring him to me," he commanded, his voice cold and devoid of any human warmth. A Death Eater, cloaked in darkness, moved with purposeful strides towards Harry's location.

Panic surged within Harry as he fumbled for his wand, his fingers clumsy with dread. He tried to muster the courage to cast a spell, any spell, but his mind froze, the words of magic deserting him just when he needed them most. By the time he snapped back to reality, it was already too late. The Death Eater had reached him, easily plucking the wand from his grasp with a sneer.

"You truly thought you could outwit the Dark Lord? How idiotic," the Death Eater mocked, his voice dripping with contempt as he dragged Harry forward.

From the shadows, almost as if conjured by the night itself, Severus stepped forward with a grace and stealth that didn't betray his true intentions. His face remained impassive, revealing none of the concern or strategic calculations brewing beneath the surface. To an observer, it would seem just another day for the double agent. Yet internally, Severus was struggling with frustration and rapid planning. "Potter," he seethed silently, wrestling with both concern and irritation. "What chain of events has led you here, into the lion's den?"

The realization hit him with chilling clarity—he himself had not been summoned this meeting, a fact that screamed of underlying danger. This absence of an invitation wasn't merely an oversight; it was a deliberate exclusion, suggesting a shift in Voldemort's strategy or perhaps a specific reason Severus was kept in the dark. "Foolish boy," he thought, berating both Harry's recklessness and his own previous inaction. His curiosity over Harry's nocturnal activities, now clearly understood as a grave error, had delayed his intervention. He had to tread this carefully or this could be a death sentence for them both.

Severus's eyes, sharp and calculating, remained fixed on Harry. Surrounded by those who wished him harm, the urgency of the situation pressed upon Severus. Harry's accidental intrusion into such a perilous situation necessitated swift, decisive intervention.

"Ah, the young Mr. Potter decides to join us," Voldemort's voice slithered through the air, laced with malice and amusement. "Did you truly believe you could spy on us, undetected?"

Suddenly, Voldemort's gaze shifted, his attention turning to Severus with a broad smile that did not reach his cold, calculating eyes. With a casual flick of his hand, he beckoned Severus closer. "Severus, you were not called for tonight's gathering," he said, the silky menace in his voice barely masking the delight of a predator finding an unexpected prey. "What a pleasant surprise that you've decided to join us."

Maintaining his composure, Severus stepped forward, the practiced mask of detachment firmly in place. "My Lord, Dumbledore suspected something was amiss tonight. He ordered me to follow the boy," Severus replied, his voice even, betraying none of the tension that coiled within him.

Voldemort's response was immediate and cruel. With a swift movement, he pointed his wand at Snape and uttered, "Crucio!" The air crackled with the curse's power as Severus was thrown to the ground, writhing in agony. Voldemort watched with a twisted joy, his laughter echoing off the walls as Severus struggled against the pain, a spectacle of suffering under the unforgiving gaze of the Cruciatus Curse.

Harry's gaze darted between Voldemort and Severus, seeking some sign of the latter's intentions, but Severus's face remained a mask of impassivity even though he had to be in a great amount of pain.

"What are you planning?" Harry's voice faltered, his bravery wavering under the weight of Voldemort's gaze.

"Silence!" barked a Death Eater, Vincent, stepping forward with a cruel smirk. "You're in no position to speak."

The night air, already thick with malice, seemed to pulsate with a new level of dread as Voldemort's gaze intensified upon Harry. With a flick of his wand, he sneered, "Crucio!" and a bolt of unbridled agony shot through Harry, throwing him to the ground. His screams pierced the eerie silence, a stark reminder of the power Voldemort wielded with such casual cruelty.

Amidst the chaos, Severus's mind raced. "Dammit, Potter," he swore under his breath, frustration and fear knotted tightly within him. The gravity of their situation was suffocating, the realization that there was no turning back from this point—a line had been crossed, and the consequences would be dire. Severus knew all too well the cost of their discovery; his role as a spy, a precarious balance of deceit and cunning, was over. The only thing that mattered now was survival, a desperate bid to escape with their lives.

As Harry writhed in pain on the ground, Severus's eyes darted around, calculating their slim chances. He had to think, had to plan—fast. Every second they remained was a second closer to their end. "Foolish, reckless boy," he cursed silently, not just at Harry's impetuousness but at his own failure to prevent this catastrophe. The weight of responsibility, always a heavy cloak, now felt like chains dragging him down.

Yet, even as despair threatened to take hold, Severus's resolve hardened. There was no room for doubt, no time for regret. They had to get out, had to survive. His mind worked feverishly, discarding option after option, searching for any sliver of opportunity in the seemingly impenetrable web of danger that ensnared them.

As the chilling laughter of Voldemort echoed through the cold night, casting a shadow over the gathered assembly, the atmosphere thickened with tension and unsaid threats. Severus, momentarily released from the excruciating grip of the curse, struggled to his knees, his expression unreadable. The pain had been real, unshielded, yet his resolve remained unbroken, his mind racing for a way out of the predicament that now ensnared both him and Harry.

In a twisted display of power, Voldemort turned his attention away from Severus, his gaze settling once more on the young wizard still sprawled on the ground. "The courage of youth or the folly of the inexperienced?" he mused aloud, his voice dripping with derision. "To think you could infiltrate my ranks, Harry Potter." The air seemed to vibrate with the intensity of his disdain, the undercurrent of danger ever-present.

Harry, struggling to rise, felt the weight of every eye upon him, each glance a physical force pressing down. The air was thick, charged with an electric tension that spoke of imminent violence. Despite the pain coursing through his body, a direct result of the curse, he knew he must find the strength to withstand whatever came next.

Voldemort's voice cut through the silence once again, "It seems, however, we have a more pressing matter to attend to." His gaze shifted, a serpent honing in on its prey, as he addressed his followers with a calculated calmness that didn't reveal storm beneath. "A betrayer walks among us," he declared, the words hanging heavy in the air, a sentence waiting to be completed.

Severus, now on his feet, his face a mask of stoicism, met Voldemort's gaze. The accusation hung unspoken between them, a deadly promise of retribution. It was clear, the precarious thread upon which Severus's allegiance was perceived had frayed beyond repair. The realization that his identity as a spy had been uncovered sent a ripple of shock through the gathered crowd, yet Severus remained outwardly composed, his mind working furiously behind the scenes.

Voldemort, reveling in the moment of revelation, turned back to Harry, a twisted smile playing upon his lips. "And what a twist of fate, Potter, that you should be present at this moment of reckoning."

The followers, sensing the shift in their master's mood, moved closer, forming a tighter circle around the two figures at the center of this drama. The air was ripe with anticipation, every breath a whisper of the unfolding tragedy.

Severus, eyes narrowed, glanced at Harry, then back to Voldemort, aware that any move he made could be his last. Yet, within him, the determination to protect, to outwit the darkness before him, burned brighter than the fear of death. He knew this was the endgame; there would be no returning to the shadows after tonight. The only path left was forward, through the peril and into the uncertainty of what lay beyond.

In that heart-stopping moment, as Voldemort's malicious gaze alternated between him and Harry, Severus's mind was a tumult of fear and strategic desperation. The memory of Albus foresight flickered to life— the emergency Portkey, a small, nondescript object, now felt like the heaviest burden in his pocket. "If only I can reach him," Severus thought, his heart pounding, the fear almost paralyzing. Every step he took towards Harry under the guise of obedience was a calculated risk, his mind racing with potential outcomes.

Attempting to veil his intentions under a layer of feigned loyalty, Severus began, "My Lord, I assure you, my allegiance has never wavered. It's always been a ruse, a ploy to deceive Dumbledore." His voice, though steady, carried an undercurrent of tension, a tightrope walk between conviction and the stark fear of imminent death.

As he inched closer to Harry, hoping to bridge the gap with his words, the air around them felt charged with a palpable sense of danger. Severus was acutely aware of every shift in Voldemort's expression, every flicker of doubt or suspicion that might spell their end.

But then, as if fate itself conspired against them, a new figure emerged from the shadows, one that Severus recognized with a sinking heart— the new Order member Dumbledore had recently introduced. The man's appearance, marked by an evil grin, was a clear indication of betrayal, a blow that threatened to unravel Severus's precarious facade.

Despite the surge of despair, Severus pressed on, his voice gaining a desperate edge as he attempted to weave a narrative of loyalty that might yet save them. "All these years, my Lord, I've served you, undetected, a double agent against Dumbledore."

However, Voldemort's cunning was not to be underestimated. With a sharp, piercing laugh that chilled Severus to the bone, he commanded, "Seize him!" Instantly, two Death Eaters sprang forward, their grip iron on Severus's wrists, thwarting any chance of activating the Portkey.

Voldemort's attention returned to Harry, his sly grin a harbinger of the torment to come. Severus's heart sank as the reality of their situation dawned on him—trapped, with no visible means of escape, their fates now hung by the thinnest of threads. The tension and fear in Severus's mind were a roiling storm, each thought a clash of desperation and fleeting hope, as he searched for any last vestige of a plan that might save them both from the clutches of darkness.

Voldemort's chilling voice rose above the whispers of his assembled followers, cutting through the tension with the sharpness of a knife. "My faithful, the moment we have all awaited is upon us," he declared, his eyes gleaming with a dark anticipation. "The time for the war to truly begin is now, and with a single, simple action, we shall clinch our victory." His followers leaned in, their attention rapt, as the air seemed to thicken with their collective malice.

"The death of Harry Potter," Voldemort pronounced, his voice dripping with venom, "will be the final blow to those who oppose us. Without their figurehead, their beacon of hope, the light will crumble and fall into despair." Murmurs of agreement and eager anticipation rippled through the crowd, each member relishing the thought of their imminent triumph.

"But first," Voldemort continued, a cruel smile twisting his features, "we shall have our fun." With a casual flick of his wand, he directed a series of cutting curses at Harry, slicing the air with precision. The curses landed on Harry's arms and legs, not deep enough to maim but sufficient to cause excruciating pain. Harry's breath hitched as he fought to maintain some semblance of composure, but the pain was overwhelming.

Not content with the physical torment, Voldemort cast another Cruciatus Curse, reveling in the display of Harry's agony. As Harry convulsed under the curse's unbearable pain, Voldemort stepped closer, his grin wide and malicious. "Well, itty bitty Potter, are you ready to accept your fate?" he taunted, his voice a sickening purr of malice.

Gathering every ounce of bravery he possessed, Harry managed to spit in Voldemort's direction, a defiant act that only served to amuse the Dark Lord further. In response, Voldemort cast a burning curse at Harry's feet, the flames licking at his skin and eliciting a scream of pain from Harry that Voldemort found delightfully entertaining.

All the while, Severus struggled against his captors, his mind a whirlwind of panic and desperation. The iron grip of the Death Eaters on his wrists left no room for movement, each attempt to reach the emergency Portkey futile. Severus's thoughts raced, seeking any possible way to escape their grim fate, to save Harry and himself from the nightmare unfolding before them. The fear in his heart was matched only by his determination to find a way out, to thwart Voldemort's plans and turn the tide of the war that loomed over them all.

Voldemort, his gaze piercing and devoid of any humanity, locked eyes with Severus, allowing the silence to swell between them—a silent acknowledgment of the treachery he believed Severus had committed. Then, without breaking that intense eye contact, Voldemort turned back to Harry, his expression contorted into one of triumphant malice.

With a voice as cold as the grave, Voldemort spoke the words that would seal their fates, "Avada Kedavra." A jet of green light burst from his wand, speeding towards Harry with an inevitability that seemed to slow time itself.

Severus's heart plummeted. As the curse struck Harry, the boy's body went limp, life extinguished in the blink of an eye. The shock was palpable, a suffocating cloak of disbelief that this was how it ended. Voldemort had done it; Severus had failed. Failed Lily, failed Dumbledore, and most tragically, failed Harry. The cheers of Voldemort's followers were a cacophony of horror, celebrating the fall of the wizarding world's greatest hope.

In the wake of their macabre jubilation, Voldemort commanded Severus's release with a dismissive gesture, his voice laced with venom. "Go, take the boy back to Dumbledore. Beg for his forgiveness," he sneered, a cruel twist to his instructions.

But before Severus could even process his next action, Voldemort wasn't finished. "Crucio!" he barked, unleashing the torturous curse once more on Severus. The pain was all-consuming, a reminder of the price of his perceived betrayal. One by one, the Death Eaters disappeared with pops, leaving Severus alone with Voldemort and the lifeless body of Harry Potter.

As the curse finally lifted, Voldemort approached, his presence looming over Severus. With a rough and painful grip, he forced Severus to his feet by his chin, ensuring their eyes met. "This is the price you pay for betraying me," Voldemort hissed, the threat clear. "I won't kill you. No, let the light do that. They will lock you away in the deepest, darkest dungeon they can find."

With a final, disdainful look, Voldemort vanished into thin air, leaving Severus alone in the deafening silence that followed the storm of curses and laughter. Shakily, Severus dragged himself over to Harry's motionless form, his heart heavy with a grief so profound it threatened to consume him. Despite knowing the futility, he checked for a pulse, for any sign of breathing, clinging to a sliver of hope that perhaps, by some miracle, Harry had survived.

Finding none, Severus, driven by a desperate need to undo the irreversible, attempted CPR—a Muggle technique he had learned about in his efforts to understand all aspects of both the wizarding and non-wizarding worlds. He knew it was hopeless, knew that no such effort could counteract the finality of the Killing Curse, yet he had to try. He owed it to Lily, to Dumbledore, to Harry, to exhaust every possibility, no matter how remote.

Minutes passed in vain attempts to breathe life back into the boy who had so much yet to live for. Exhausted, heartbroken, and defeated, Severus collapsed beside Harry. He folded his arms on Harry's chest, buried his head in them, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he allowed himself to weep. There, in the solitude of his despair, Severus cried for the young life extinguished far too soon, for the pain and fear Harry must have endured in his final moments, and for the future that had been stolen from him—a boy of just fifteen, with so much promise, so much left to experience and give to the world.

In the silence of the night, with no one to witness, judge, or scorn, Severus Snape wept openly for Harry Potter. The weight of his failure, the depth of his sorrow, and the unbearable pain of loss consumed him. In those moments, he mourned not just for Harry, but for all the hopes and dreams that had died with him, for the innocence lost, and for a war that had claimed far too many, far too soon.

Severus's hands trembled as he finally mustered the will to reach into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the cold, small object that was their last hope. Whispering the word that Dumbledore had given him, a word that now felt like both a prayer and a curse, the world around them warped and twisted until they landed with a harsh thud in the front foyer of Grimmauld Place.

The sudden noise roused the portrait of Sirius's mother, who immediately began her usual tirade, screeching about Mudbloods and betrayals, her voice cutting through the tense silence like a knife. Yet, Severus barely heard her. His entire being was consumed by grief, his arms still encasing Harry in a protective embrace, refusing to let go as if his touch alone could shield the boy from the cruel reality of their world.

The echo of footsteps approaching in a hurried cadence did little to stir Severus from his desolation. Sirius, Remus, the Weasley family, Hermione—all who had loved Harry, all who had fought alongside him, all who had hoped against hope that he would be the one to lead them to light—now stood frozen, their expressions a mirror of the heartache that gripped Severus's soul.

"Betrayed," Severus's voice broke the haunting silence, his words heavy with the weight of their collective failure. "Change the passwords, change the codes. Nathan was a traitor." His voice was a mere whisper, strained with emotion, barely audible over the sound of the screaming portrait.

Arthur, stepping beyond the shock that had initially rooted him to the spot, gestured urgently for Molly to shepherd the children away. Their wide eyes reflected the fear and confusion that hung heavy in the air.

Despite protests from Harry's friends, who were desperate to stay and help, Molly was firm. Her voice was a mix of warmth and steel as she insisted they leave the room for their own safety. With a reluctant shuffle, they obeyed, casting backward glances filled with worry and defiance.

With the children now reluctantly moving away, Arthur turned his attention back to the immediate crisis. Kneeling beside Severus, he placed a comforting hand upon his back. His determination belied the trembling of his hands, a gentleness in his touch that stood in stark contrast to absolute grief he was feeling.

"Come on, Severus," Arthur urged, his voice a low, steady presence in the tumult. "You're injured. We need to get you healed up before anything else."

Severus, however, shook his head with a stubbornness that Arthur recognized all too well from the man. "Harry must be safe first," he insisted, his voice barely above a whisper, strained from pain and concern.

Sirius, unable to hide the tears that streaked his face, joined them, his voice breaking as he addressed Severus. "I have Harry. He's safe, I promise you," he said, the assurance in his voice trying to pierce the doubt that held Severus captive.

When Severus remained unmoving, lost in his own battle of wills, Sirius repeated, his tone firmer, laden with a promise that seemed to anchor them all in the moment. "Severus, I promise. He's safe now."

At Sirius's words, a visible change came over Severus. His resistance ebbed away, allowing Arthur to help him to his knees and then carefully to his feet. Remus quickly moved to Severus's other side when he stumbled, offering his shoulder for support. Together, the two men escorted Severus into the living room, easing him onto the couch careful not to injure him further.

Sirius, meanwhile, turned his attention to Harry, dropping to his knees beside the boy. Gently, he cupped Harry's cheek, wiping away traces of dirt and sweat with his thumb. "Oh pup."

Sirius, his head bent in sorrow, let his tears flow freely, creating trails through the dirt and grime on Harry's face. He tenderly pushed Harry's hair back, each motion a soft and tender. The room felt suffocated by the thick air of grief that surrounded them, yet all within it remained silent, almost reverential.

Remus, having ensured Severus's well-being through Arthur's quick actions to call for Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey, made his way back into the room. The sight of Sirius, overcome with grief, and Harry, so unnaturally still, visibly pained him. Approaching Sirius, he placed a hand on his shoulder, a silent gesture of comfort. Remus's eyes, filled with sorrow, fixed upon Harry.

The silence that enveloped the room was profound, broken only by Remus's soft-spoken suggestion. "We should take Harry up to his room," he whispered gently, his voice a reflection of the immense weight of their shared loss. "He shouldn't be on the floor."

Sirius, through his tears, nodded in agreement, drawing strength from Remus's presence. With Remus's assistance, he stood, and together, they lifted Harry. Remus cradled Harry in his arms, carrying him with all the care and tenderness he had always felt, yet rarely was able to express, for the boy who had come to mean so much to them.

The two remaining Marauders, ascended the stairs to Harry's room, each step heavy with the burden of their grief. The act of laying Harry down in his bed one last time haunted them both.

As Remus gently laid Harry on his bed, the unchanged state of the room struck him deeply. Harry's belongings were just as he'd left them, expecting to return. This realization hit Remus hard, considering the brief time Harry had spent there before tragedy struck. Questions of how and why this happened swirled in his mind, overshadowed by the sorrow of a young life lost too soon.

Remus, pulled out the desk chair and moved it to the place next to Harry's bed. Sirius, guided to the chair by Remus's steadying hand, seemed to collapse under the weight of his grief, his posture one of defeated sorrow as he sat beside the bed where Harry now lay, too still, too quiet.

Bending down so he could look Sirius directly in the eye, the concern in Remus's gaze was palpable. "I'm going to go downstairs to find out exactly what happened and make sure Severus is alright," he stated, his voice carrying a calm determination. He knew the question that followed might be redundant, but he asked anyway, "Do you want to come with me?"

He saw the conflict flicker briefly in Sirius's eyes, but it was quickly quelled by a familiar stubbornness. Sirius shook his head. Remus nodded in understanding, conjuring a glass of water and passing it to Sirius with a steadiness that belied his inner turmoil. After a reassuring squeeze to Sirius's shoulder, a silent promise of return, he turned and left, leaving Sirius to his solitude and the shadows that danced along the walls of the dimly lit room.

Once outside, Remus's composed façade crumbled. His back against the wall, he slid down until he was crouching, head buried in his hands. The world seemed to spin out of control around him; Harry was dead. How could the world just continue spinning as if nothing had happened?

The soft sound of Molly Weasley's soft footsteps went almost unnoticed. Spotting Remus, against the wall, she moved towards him and without a word, she lowered herself to the ground, positioning herself to be at eye level with Remus, before wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace.

There, in the stillness of the house heavy with sorrow, they sat together. Remus, for a brief span, allowed himself to lean into the comfort Molly offered. The simple act of sitting side by side, sharing in a grief that words could not touch, was a solace in itself.

As they sat there, the quiet was soothing, the warmth of another person a reminder that even in the deepest depths of despair, they were not alone. Molly's presence, solid and unwavering, was a silent promise of support and understanding.

Eventually, Remus looked up, his eyes meeting Molly's. There was a sad smile on his face, a silent appreciation for the gesture of kindness in a time when kindness seemed so distant. "Thank you," he managed to say, his voice rough with emotion. It was a simple expression, but it carried the weight of his gratitude.

Molly nodded in response, her expression soft but filled with the resolve of someone who has weathered many storms. "We're here for you," she whispered, her voice gentle yet carrying an unspoken strength. "Whenever you need us, we're here."

With a final squeeze, a silent exchange of strength, she stood, offering Remus a hand to help him up. He accepted, slowly rising from his crouched position, steadied by Molly's unwavering presence.

As Molly moved towards Harry's room to extend her quiet support to Sirius, Remus took a moment to compose himself. The comfort Molly had offered was a brief respite, a momentary pause in the overwhelming tide of grief. Drawing a deep breath, he prepared to face the others as he started to walk down the stairs.

Descending into the living room, Remus's steps were heavy, each one echoing the turmoil within. The room was steeped in a solemn atmosphere, a stark contrast to the chaos of emotions churning inside him. He found Poppy Pomfrey by the couch, her skilled hands moving deftly as she tended to Severus Snape. The man looked significantly worse than Remus remembered from earlier; his eyes were hollow, shadows of pain etched deep beneath them, and his body trembled uncontrollably, likely a cruel reminder of the Cruciatus Curse's torment.

Nearby, Albus and Arthur were engaged in a low, urgent conversation by the fireplace. Upon noticing Remus, Arthur beckoned him over, the concern evident in his gesture. As Remus joined them, Albus, looking significantly aged since their morning encounter, enveloped him in a brief, comforting hug.

Albus eyes, normally twinkling with an indefinable magic, were dimmed by a heavy sadness. "The Order," he began, his voice a somber echo in the quiet room, "is secure once again. But at what cost?" He paused, the weight of his next words pressing down on him. "I blame myself, Remus. I should have seen this coming."

Arthur, standing beside them, offered his perspective, a gentle counter to Albus's self-criticism. "Albus, you had no way of knowing. I was right there with you when Nathan was under the influence of Veritaserum. It was impossible to predict his actions from that point. We did what we thought best at the moment."

Turning the conversation towards more pressing matters, Albus relayed Severus's account of the night's tragic events. "Severus has informed me of his efforts to save Harry," Albus said, his voice steady despite the sorrow it carried. "He utilized every means at his disposal, even attempting CPR—a Muggle life-saving method. It's clear he went to great lengths in his attempt to revive Harry."

Remus glanced over at Severus, who was still under Madam Pomfrey's attentive care. He acknowledged, deep within, the effort Severus had put forth in trying to save Harry, an endeavor that ultimately ended in heartbreak. While logic dictated that Severus was not to blame—having gone to remarkable lengths in his attempt to save Harry—a part of Remus wrestled with misplaced blame. Perhaps it was easier to direct his feelings of guilt and responsibility towards Severus, rather than fully accepting his own perceived failings.

As he observed Severus, the man's usual stoic demeanor was pierced by visible signs of exhaustion and distress. Despite their complex history, Remus recognized the gravity of Severus's actions that night; actions driven by a desperate attempt to alter the tragic outcome.

Arthur peered over to Remus with a furrowed brow, the flickering firelight casting shadows across his concerned face. "Remus, how are you holding up?" he inquired, his voice tinged his own sadness.

Remus's eyes momentarily met Arthur's before he glanced away, his response colored by a heavy sigh. "Struggling, to be honest, Arthur. It's all just a bit too much," he confessed, a stark honesty in his tone that left little room for elaboration. "I don't think I'll ever trly be alright again."

Arthur nodded once, solemnly, acknowledging Remus's pain without pressing further, a silent agreement hanging in the air between them that words were sometimes just were not enough to express grief.

Seeking a moment of solitude or perhaps a semblance of understanding, Remus made his way to Severus's side, where the latter way laying, his features drawn and pale under Poppy's ministrations. Severus looked up, locking eyes with Remus in a rare moment of vulnerability.

Sensing the need for privacy, Poppy excused herself with a quiet, "I'll be just over there if you need me," her departure as tactful as it was discreet.

The air around Remus and Severus felt charged, heavy with unspoken thoughts and the raw edges of recent events. "I... I did everything I could, Remus," Severus said after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper, a stark reminder of the efforts made to thwart fate's cruel hand.

"I know you did, Severus. And I... we appreciate it," Remus responded gently. "Your wounds? Are you alright?"

Severus glanced down at his trembling hands, a visible shiver passing through him, then looked back up at Remus with an almost imperceptible nod. "I'll recover," he managed to say, his voice betraying the effort it took to speak. "Poppy has done what she can. Healing... will take time."

Remus offered a nod, acknowledging Severus's condition without pressing further. It was a moment of tacit understanding between two men who had found themselves on opposite sides more often than not, yet were bound by a common cause and now, a shared loss.

The conversation shifted as Severus's gaze hardened slightly, the immediate concern for his own well-being momentarily set aside. "And Harry?" he asked, his tone carrying a weight of concern. "What are we going to do?"

Remus's shoulders slumped slightly, the question bringing the reality of their situation back into sharp focus. "He's in his room," he said quietly. "Laid him on his bed... But as for what's next, I don't think anyone's made plans yet."

It was at this moment that Albus, who had been observing from a short distance, chose to interject. His voice, though gentle, carried an authority that drew their attention. "We will hold a funeral for Harry," he declared with a sad firmness. "I will take care of the arrangements."

Comforted by Albus commitment to manage Harry's final rites, Remus offered a nod of thanks. A trace of calm pierced the room's charged air, providing a faint respite in the midst of chaos.

"I should see how Sirius is faring," he voiced, the concern for his friend evident. As he tried to stand, a momentary imbalance caught him off guard, but Arthur was quick to steady him with a reassuring grasp.

"Allow me to accompany you," Arthur proposed, his tone filled with empathy.

Together, they ascended the stairs to Harry's room. Stepping inside, they were greeted by a tranquil silence: Harry appeared serene, lying on his bed as if in a deep slumber. It appeared Molly had convinced Sirius to rest, leaving Harry in a solitary repose.

Remus approached and took the seat beside the bed, previously occupied by Sirius, and inhaled a steadying breath. Arthur paused at the threshold, taking in the quiet scene with a reflective sigh.

"Should you need anything, Remus, I'll be right in the next room," Arthur said gently, understanding the significance of Remus's solitary vigil.

"Thank you, Arthur," Remus replied, turning his attention back to Harry as Arthur stepped out, the door closing softly behind him.

Now alone, Remus reached out, his hand gently enclosing Harry's, a silent gesture of connection and farewell in the quiet of the room.

In the solitude of Harry's room, with only the soft sound of his own breathing for company, Remus found himself speaking to Harry, despite knowing there would be no response. "What were you thinking, Harry?" His voice was soft, filled with a mix of anguish and disbelief. "Running off like that... You were always so brave, sometimes too brave for your own good."

He paused, considering the secrets they had kept, the information withheld in the name of protection. "Maybe...if we had told you what we knew about Voldemort, you wouldn't have felt so alone in this. Wouldn't have felt the need to take on everything by yourself." Remus's voice cracked with the weight of hindsight, the guilt of what-ifs and if-onlys heavy in his heart.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he whispered, his other hand now joining the first, cradling Harry's cold hand between his. The floodgates opened, and Remus wept, his head bowed in a moment of profound sorrow. The tears that fell showing the depth of his loss, the silence of the room amplifying the sound of his grief.

Through his tears, Remus's voice broke the silence once more, his words a heartfelt whisper. "I hope... I hope you find your parents, Harry. That they're there to take care of you in ways we couldn't." The thought, a blend of wishful thinking and deep-seated sorrow, hung in the air.

"And I hope you know, truly know, how much you were loved here," he continued, the grip on Harry's hand tightening slightly. "You meant the world to us, Harry. More than we ever had the chance to tell you."

The room, filled with the echoes of Remus's words, seemed to hold a sacred stillness, as if bearing witness to the depth of his grief and the strength of his love. "I'll stay with you, Harry, until I can't any longer. You won't be alone," he promised, a vow that transcended the boundaries between life and death.

As Remus lowered his head, his tears continued to fall, each one a silent tribute to the boy who had lived, fought, and loved with all his heart. In this moment of profound sorrow, Remus found a fragile peace in the act of saying goodbye, in the hope that Harry's journey beyond this world would be filled with the warmth and love he had known, however briefly, in life.