They were crying.

The parents had been at their son’s side as he drew his last breath. Their son had died, so why wouldn’t they cry? They had every right. Nothing could stop those tears from streaming down the mother’s face. Nothing could stop the glistening pain in the father’s eyes. A child shouldn’t die before their parents. Parents shouldn’t die before their time.

Death was merciless and cruel.

Harry didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to console these poor parents. He hadn’t known how to console the Diggorys after Cedric’s death. He hadn’t experienced death in such a way as with Cedric. “Kill the spare!” A single flash of light removed the life from his eyes. He was alive one minute and in the next second he was gone.

Death took whom it wanted.

When Cho had approached him, Harry had felt uncomfortable, out of his element, and unsure of himself. His mind had been clouded with infatuation. In the end, he’d felt that she was selfish. She only wanted to talk about Cedric. She didn’t like Harry; she was using him.

At least, that was what it felt like.

But Harry understood now. He understood how she felt. He finally understood how to explain his own feelings when he watched her cry. Death left a void, a chasm of wanting, wishing, waiting. It left one without closure, no matter how a loved one died – whether suddenly, like with Cedric, or slowly like a grandparent fading with their time.

Maybe I’ll apologize next time I see her. I wasn’t fair to her.

He had wanted to take away her pain, but he didn’t know how – he didn’t have the power to do so. He hadn’t wanted to talk about something he couldn’t fix or take away. He’d always been the one to leap head first into – what Snape would call trouble – danger, trying to save the day and trying to protect others.

Maybe in some ways, he had wanted to be the hero.

He wanted to save people, yet not because he wanted the fame of it. Harry didn’t want others to suffer, like he had suffered. He didn’t want others to hurt, like he had hurt. He didn’t want someone else to experience death. He didn’t want children to become orphans. He didn’t want parents to become childless.

Harry wanted nothing more than to take away this pain from these parents. He wanted the power to save this boy. He wanted the power to heal this pain. But he was just a fifteen year old boy. He didn’t have that power. He didn’t even know if it existed.

Heroes were supposed to save the day.

He’d even promised he would be the wizarding world’s hero – their savior from the Dark Lord who terrorized them for decades.

A fifteen year old boy expected to become the savior of a world trapped in a decades long war.

What a joke. What arrogance.

Weren’t heroes supposed to be invincible? Weren’t they supposed to be all powerful, all knowing, and all encompassing? His promise felt hollow and weak, empty without anything of note to back it up. What fifteen year old boy was the hero of their story, of their world? Harry didn’t know, but he knew he didn’t make the cut.

If he could become their hero, Harry would make a lot of mistakes.

It didn’t seem right.

Mistakes would cost lives – precious irreplaceable lives.

So, all he could do was stand at Snape’s side. He listened to the soft words of the St. Mungo’s healer, offering her condolences – her excuses more like. He could only watch as Madam Pomfrey, tears in her eyes, explained all of the whys – why it’d been impossible to save their boy. The quill had poisoned Euan, in magic and in blood. His body, weakened by extended use of the quill, couldn’t fight the onslaught. No magic, no potion, nothing in the wizarding world could stop it. It had only slowed the inevitable.

For all of their magical objects, and spells, and charms, and potions, and creatures, and everything, they couldn’t save a child.

It wasn’t right.

It wasn’t okay.

What was the point of magic if it couldn’t be used for what mattered most in life?

Harry remained stoic. He acted the part of a strong, grieving Headmaster. He had to be more for them. He couldn’t succumb. He couldn’t be weak in front of them. The radiant light in his eyes spoke volumes of the justice that would fall upon Umbridge.

“Your son’s death will not go unpunished,” said Harry, taking the mother’s hand into his own. She gazed at him with her bright, tear filled eyes. “She’s not going to get away with this. The school will demand judgment for her crimes and we won’t let her go until the Ministry agrees. I’m so sorry we couldn’t save him. He didn’t deserve this.”

The mother gave him a watery smile.

His words didn’t bring him back.

Harry clenched his fists at his side. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. He glanced away, unable to take it any more. He could feel the castle’s pain through every stone. She ached for the child’s death. Rage rumbled through her foundation at the injustice.

Had the castle felt this same pain for Myrtle? Had she mourned the girl as she mourned the boy?

‘Indeed.’

Voices filled his mind. The rumble of the castle blended with his thoughts. The voice seemed feminine, yet this sense slipped from his mind. It seemed more than that, more than a mere gender; it was ancient, echoing with numerous voices into one of a singular consciousness.

‘I do not have the power to save and to protect my children. Yet, with you as my Headmaster, my power has increased; thus, I am able to imprison Dolores Umbridge. During the time of dear Myrtle, I had to put all of my protections into my walls. I would not allow them to fall to the bombings of the non-magical war. It was all that I could do.’

World War II?

‘Yes.’

Another war torn time. Why were their so many wars in a single century? He had learned about World War II in school before Hogwarts. After coming to the magical world, anything from his ‘muggle’ past had slipped away. But the magical world and the muggle world weren’t separate worlds. They coexisted, affecting the other with their wars.

It was frightening that both sides could very well destroy the other.

Something moved out of the corner of his eye. He glanced towards it automatically. A soft shiver flushed down his back; blood drained from his face. Harry’s chest heaved in a deep breath. It was pale, light, barely seen. The longer Harry looked at it, the more he realized what he was seeing.

A boy stood at the end of the hospital bed, looking at the man and woman who sat beside there. The edges of his form were blurry, yet he shimmered with an internal light. The color of his form was monotone. But Harry recognized him.

The eleven year old shade smiled at him.

“Don’t say anything to my parents,” whispered Euan, a finger to his lips. He smiled, weak and sad. “They wouldn’t understand. I don’t want them to think I’m coming back.”

What…

He’s a ghost?

‘What are you seeing?’

Euan…

‘Ah. His soul, his spirit, will linger for a time before passing on. Most spirits do after death. Though… there is one soul who cannot do so.’

How… Is this your doing? Is this because I became the Headmaster? Could Dumbledore see spirits like this?

‘No. What you see is of your own magical ability. I can feel the presence of a lingering spirit within my own walls and within my own grounds, but nothing more.’

His own magic was doing this? What, he could see dead people now? Had the quill changed his magic so much now? What in Merlin’s name was going on around here? Why did everything have to happen to him? Was this going to become a thing?

Life was getting ridiculous for Harry.

“Harry?” said Snape, his voice smooth with light softness. He looked down at him. “You’ve gone pale.”

“I’m fine,” whispered Harry. “I’m just…”

He trailed off, making a weak gesture towards the bed. He continued to look at the form of Euan. The boy had moved towards his parents, looking at them with soft longing. He patted his father’s back, but the man never noticed his presence.

What do I say? I can see the spirit of Euan? I can’t say that out loud! They’ll think I’m going mad. I can’t tell them… It would hurt his parents.

Snape nodded. “Perhaps it’d be best to leave now.”

“But…”

Harry watched the parents. His heart clenched.

“We must give them some time alone,” said Snape, putting a hand to Harry’s midback and pushing him towards the exit of the hospital wing. “You’ve offered your condolences and reassurances as the Headmaster. But you are also a child yourself. Let’s go.”

Harry let himself be directed by the man’s hand on his back. Its warmth was comforting. He glanced to the side, seeing the other occupant in one of the beds.

“What about the other student?” asked Harry, stopping. His voice dropped to a soft tone. “Selena? Is she going to make it?”

“Miss Moore is recovering,” whispered Snape. Relief poured through Harry’s veins. He gave Harry a light pat, pushing him forward once more. “The worst is over for her. We don’t know how the quill has affected her magic, however. Time will tell once she awakens. Now enough stalling.”

They walked out of the hospital wing and into the corridor. Harry became lost in his thoughts, mulling over what he’d seen. Did all souls really linger after death? Did that mean his parents had lingered, watching over their son, before they moved onward?

Such thoughts opened new curiosities. What about the ghosts in the castle? Had they lingered and then decided to stay? Why?

It was something to look further into.

Are there any books about souls in the library?

‘They are no longer in my library. Albus Dumbledore removed many unsavory books from my restricted section. They reside in the Headmaster’s office.’

Oh, the temptation was strong. He really shouldn’t look at them without an adult – probably, right? But Harry reasoned he was technically the Headmaster, so it wasn’t like he was doing something wrong, per se. Right? He was pretty sure Snape wouldn’t see it like that, but… it wasn’t like Harry had to tell him.

He needed his answers first. Then, he would tell Snape.

“Sir,” whispered Harry, coming to a stop. “I’d like to… I’d like to be alone for a bit. Do you mind if I go for a walk?”

Snape hesitated, his eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Are you sure you’re not ill? You are still a bit pale.”

“It was just the situation,” said Harry, his gaze dropping. “With classes canceled today… I’d just like some time to think for awhile. Please?”

Snape sighed. “I suppose it wouldn’t be any harm,” he said. He gave Harry a firm look. “You’re not to go gallivanting across the entire castle. Don’t you dare overdo it. You and I both don’t want you in bed recovering from foolishness that could’ve been prevented with common sense.”

Harry smiled. “I’ll take it easy, sir.”

He watched Snape continue down the corridor. Harry waited for a few minutes, before turning towards the direction of the Headmaster’s office. He strode with confidence and determination.

Harry was more than aware that he should talk about what he had seen. Snape might know what was going on. That was what having a parent – a father – meant, right? He could and should talk to him about these kinds of things.

But something felt… sacred about this. 

He wasn’t sure how anyone would react if he told them he could see a spirit, not a ghost. Harry didn’t want Snape to advise him to tell Euan’s parents about it. Euan had requested silence. Who was Harry to deny a lingering spirit his wish?

But he wanted to know more. 

Information. He needed everything he could get his hands on. Hermione would be proud. Maybe there would be information about people seeing spirits. Or maybe it was a fluke. Maybe this wasn’t a common occurrence. Maybe he was the only person this had ever happened to – of course, that was the most likely.

Harry wouldn’t be surprised. He was always outside of the norm.

As Harry approached the gargoyle, the stone statue didn’t hesitate. The gargoyle shuddered and turned upward. Harry smiled lightly, patting the stone.

“Thank you,” whispered Harry.

He ascended the stairs, hoping to find his answers here.