The Cracks in the Illusion
Harry awoke with a sharp inhale, his chest rising as though he had been underwater, drowning in an unseen sea. His vision swam, shifting between light and shadow. For a moment, he thought he was in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, maybe recovering from a Quidditch injury. But as the haze lifted, the truth was stranger than he could have imagined.
He wasn’t at Hogwarts.
He wasn’t anywhere he recognized.
The ceiling above him was white, sterile, and humming with an eerie fluorescence. The walls, bare except for a single window, pulsed with a quiet, rhythmic beeping. The scent of antiseptic filled his lungs, sharp and clinical, and then he heard voices.
Soft. Muted. Familiar.
Harry turned his head, feeling an unbearable weight pressing down on him. His limbs, sluggish and unresponsive, felt detached from his body. Panic flickered at the edges of his mind.
"Harry, sweetheart, please..."
That voice.
His heart clenched as he tried to focus. A woman sat beside him, her hands wrapped around his. Auburn hair framed her weary, tear-streaked face, her emerald eyes shining with a mixture of hope and devastation.
His mother.
Lily Potter.
She looked older than he had ever imagined her—lines of grief traced her once-youthful features, exhaustion darkened the skin beneath her eyes, but there was no mistaking it. It was her.
Beside her, gripping his other hand, was a man whose glasses sat slightly askew, his dark hair unruly, peppered with silver at the edges. James Potter.
"He's waking up," Lily whispered, her voice trembling.
Harry wanted to speak. He wanted to tell them he was here, that he could hear them, that he wasn’t gone. But his lips barely parted, and the only sound that escaped was a breath—fragile, empty.
James let out something between a laugh and a sob, pressing his forehead against Harry’s hand. "You’re still fighting," he murmured. "We’re still here, son. We’re not giving up."
But something about his words made Harry’s stomach twist.
Something was wrong.
His parents were dead. He knew that. He had spent his entire life knowing that. And yet, here they were, as real as the weight of their hands holding his.
His mind reeled. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be. Unless…
Had Hogwarts—the magic, the friendships, the battles—been nothing more than a dream? Had he been here this entire time, unconscious, trapped between life and death?
The thought sent a chill down his spine.
"It’s been months," Lily said, brushing a trembling hand through his hair. "The doctors said there wasn’t much hope, but I knew—I knew you’d find your way back to us."
Harry’s eyes darted toward the corner of the room, where another figure stood, cloaked in shadow.
The man.
Voldemort—no, not Voldemort. The thing beneath the name. The one that had spoken to him in the void.
The Grim Reaper.
His presence sent a shudder through Harry’s very soul. He wasn’t meant to be here, wasn’t meant to wake up. This was wrong.
"Do you see now?" the figure whispered, though his lips never moved. "The illusion crumbles. The lie you’ve been living is at its end."
Harry squeezed his mother’s hand as tightly as he could, anchoring himself. No. This was real. This had to be real. He could feel her warmth, hear her voice, see the way her fingers trembled as she clutched onto him.
And yet…
He had memories—vivid, detailed memories—of a life that had never happened. The Sorting Hat, Dumbledore, Ron and Hermione, the battles, the prophecy.
"You have lingered too long between worlds," the Reaper continued, his voice slipping through Harry’s mind like mist curling through cracks in a door. "You must choose. Stay, and accept the truth of your existence. Or return, and remain lost in the dream."
Harry’s heart pounded.
"What dream?" he whispered, voice hoarse.
His parents stiffened.
"Harry?" Lily leaned forward, her fingers tightening around his. "What dream, sweetheart?"
But Harry’s attention was fixed on the Reaper.
"You know of what I speak," the figure murmured. "A world you created. A school, a war, a destiny woven from your mind’s deepest desires. A place where you were more than an orphan, more than a boy in a hospital bed. A world where you were loved, powerful, needed. But it was never real."
No. That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.
"Then tell me," the figure said, stepping closer, "If it was real… where are they now?"
And Harry’s breath caught in his throat.
Where was Ron? Hermione? Hagrid? Dumbledore?
He searched his mind, grasping for them, for anything, but all he found was fog. The castle, the Quidditch pitch, the moving staircases—fading, crumbling like paper burning at the edges.
A wave of nausea rolled over him.
"Stop," he whispered, pressing his palms against his forehead as if he could hold his mind together through sheer willpower.
"Harry?" James asked, concern flickering across his face.
"You are slipping," the Reaper said. "It is time."
The room pulsed. The walls flickered, shifting between the hospital and something else—something darker, older. Shadows slithered at the edges of his vision, and suddenly, Harry wasn’t in the hospital anymore.
He was standing before the Veil.
The archway loomed before him, tattered fabric shifting in an unseen wind. Wisps of voices curled through the air, whispering, beckoning. It was the same Veil he had seen at the Department of Mysteries, the one Sirius had disappeared through.
A realization struck him like a physical blow.
The Veil wasn’t just a portal. It was the passage between life and death.
"Come," the Reaper whispered, extending a skeletal hand. "It is time to go."
Harry turned, expecting to see his parents—but they were gone.
The hospital room was gone.
He was alone.
Alone, standing on the precipice between two worlds, one foot in each, and the choice before him more terrifying than any he had ever faced.
Wake up. Or stay lost in the dream.
And for the first time, Harry didn’t know what he wanted.