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LIMBO, HARRY POTTER'S POV

As long as we remain within the boundaries of the physical universe we occupy, our perspective of time cannot change. Limbo is the space between universes, between life and death, where time is put to a halt, where minutes are a social construct that you must not believe. You are in the past and in the future. You are everywhere, and nowhere at the same time.

The first thing Harry registered was the cold.

Not the kind of cold that pricked at his skin on a winter morning, nor the bone-deep chill of a Dementor's presence. This was something different—something worse. It wasn't just cold, it was absence. A hollow sort of nothingness that curled around him, seeped into his veins, settled in his very marrow. It was the kind of emptiness that shouldn't exist.

He was lying on something solid—stone. Cold, unyielding, and wrong beneath his palms. His head ached, his body felt impossibly heavy, like he had been dropped here from a great height. And yet, despite the weight pressing down on him, there was something oddly light about him too. Like he wasn't fully there.

And it was too quiet.

A suffocating silence stretched endlessly, thick and oppressive. No distant murmurs, no shuffling footsteps, no echo of life. Just... nothing.

His heart pounded erratically as he forced himself upright, breath coming fast and shallow. Blinking rapidly, he tried to adjust to the dim, gray light, his eyes darting across the vast space around him.

High, vaulted ceilings. Endless corridors.

A house built of shadows and nightmares.

His chest clenched.

Malfoy Manor.

The realization sent a bolt of dread through him. He recognized the walls, the dark grandeur, the eerie stillness that clung to every surface. But something was wrong. This place was not supposed to be quiet—there had to be some whispers, movement, the unsettling weight of being watched.

But now?

There was nothing.

No voices. No footsteps. No flickering shadows lurking just beyond the edges of his vision.

His breath hitched, and his hands curled into fists, a horrible feeling overcoming his very being.

He had felt this stillness before.

And then—

A jolt of panic surged through him, like ice water in his veins.

"Lyra?" His voice rang out in the suffocating stillness, sharp, desperate.

Nothing.

His heartbeat hammered against his ribs as he twisted around, his frantic gaze scanning every corner, every doorway.

"Lyra?" he called again, louder this time, his voice breaking at the edges. But the silence swallowed it whole.

She wasn't here.

The fear took hold, sharp and merciless. His breathing grew shallow, thoughts colliding in a frantic mess as he tried to grasp onto the last thing he remembered—

Lucius.

The flash of a wand. The pain—searing and unbearable—spreading through his body like fire. The explosion in his leg.

Lyra.

Her hands, desperate, reaching for something—

The gun.

The sharp, deafening crack that had torn through the air.

The way time had slowed, blurred at the edges, had fractured—

And then—

Nothing.

Now she was gone.

His chest constricted, his mind spiraling. Where was she? Was she hurt? Was she—

Footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. Measured.

Harry whipped around so fast his vision blurred, his arm instinctively raising—except—

His wand was gone.

His hands were empty.

The panic surged higher, clawing its way up his throat, but then—

He saw him.

A figure, stepping forward with a casual ease, his movements as familiar as the air in Harry's lungs.

Tall. Broad-shouldered.

Long, dark hair fell in loose waves past his shoulders, framing a face that was impossibly familiar—sharp cheekbones, a mouth curled into something just shy of a smirk.

Harry's breath caught.

But something was... off.

This Sirius was thinner, his features sharper, more weathered. As if time had carved deep lines into his very being, had taken its toll in ways that could never be undone. His gray eyes—darker than the Sirius Harry had known in this world—held something unspoken, something haunted.

And yet...

Despite the years that seemed etched into his face, despite the shadows lingering in his expression—

He looked alive.

More alive than Harry had ever seen him.

The realization slammed into him like a tidal wave, knocking the breath from his lungs. His mind stuttered, trying—failing—to make sense of what he was seeing.

His lips parted, but no sound came out.

The man in front of him tilted his head slightly, watching him with that familiar glint of mischief, something teasing but cautious beneath the surface.

"That's not much of a greeting, kid."

The voice.

Harry's heart stopped.

That voice.

That fucking voice. That raspy, beaten down voice, that had soothing tone only if you took a moment to hear it.

It was burned into his memory, woven into every part of him. It was the voice that had once meant home.

And it couldn't be.

It couldn't be.

His breath came in short, shallow bursts, his lungs struggling to function.

"Sirius?" His voice barely rose above a whisper, almost afraid to say it aloud, afraid that speaking it into existence would shatter the fragile reality before him.

Sirius raised an eyebrow, arms folding across his chest.

"What, no hug?" His voice was light, teasing, but there was something beneath it—something careful, something uncertain. "I thought you'd be happier to see me, my boy."

Harry's breath stuttered. His entire body trembled.

And suddenly, he just knew.

The small differences. The sharper edges. The weight of something unsaid in his expression.

This wasn't this world's Sirius.

This was his Sirius.

The Sirius who was like a father to him.

The Sirius who had laughed at Grimmauld Place, who had fought beside him, who had been there in ways no one else could be.

The Sirius who had fallen through the Veil.

The Sirius who had died.

Harry's vision blurred, his throat tightening so painfully he thought he might choke on it.

His fingers twitched at his sides, hands clenching and unclenching, as if reaching for something just out of his grasp.

A single, broken word fell from his lips—barely a breath, barely a prayer.

"...Sirius?"

Sirius exhaled softly, something unreadable flickering across his face.

"Yeah, kid. It's me."

And then—

The dam broke.

Harry moved, unable to stop himself, his body colliding into Sirius's with enough force to nearly knock them both over.

His arms wrapped around him, his fingers twisting into the fabric of Sirius's coat, gripping tight, as though letting go would send him spiraling back into nothingness.

For a moment, Sirius went still.

Then—slowly, gently—his arms came up, wrapping around Harry just as tightly.

And suddenly, Harry couldn't breathe.

The scent of leather and something faintly smoky filled his senses. The weight of Sirius's arms around him was real.

He wasn't a memory.

He wasn't a ghost.

He was here.

Harry's breath hitched, shoulders shaking as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Sirius chuckled softly, resting his chin atop Harry's head.

"You've grown," he murmured.

Harry let out a breathless laugh—something between a laugh and a sob.

"You look healthier than I remember."

Sirius hummed.

"Yeah. Feels nice, actually."

They stayed like that for what felt like forever. Eventually, Sirius pulled back just enough to meet Harry's gaze, hands firm on his shoulders. He studied him, eyes tracing over every detail, something soft in his expression.

"You've had a rough go of it, haven't you?" he murmured.

Harry swallowed, his chest aching. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah, I have."

Sirius sighed, shaking his head with a fond sort of exasperation.

"Still a stubborn little idiot, though, aren't you?"

Harry huffed a wet laugh, wiping at his eyes. "Takes one to know one."

Sirius grinned. "Damn right."

Then, his expression darkened—just a little. He glanced over Harry once more, eyes scanning him like he was looking for something deeper. 

"...You okay?"

Harry hesitated. Was he? No. Not really.

But he swallowed it down, forced a weak smile.

"Where's Lyra?" The panic clawed its way back up his throat. "I—she was with me, we were—"

Sirius's face shifted.

Softer. But he didn't answer right away.

And that silence—

That silence was enough to send Harry's heart plummeting.

He stepped back, panic tightening around his ribs. "Where is she?"

Sirius sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's... complicated."

Harry's stomach twisted. "Complicated how?"

Sirius met his gaze, steady and unyielding. "Let's talk first, yeah?"

Harry's hands shook. His mind was screaming at him, begging for answers, for something real. But he knew Sirius. Knew that look. And for the first time in a long, long time—he trusted what some else told him. He exhaled sharply, nodding, even as his chest ached.

And then—

The realization hit him.

All at once.

Like ice water pouring down his spine. His hands were still shaking. His legs felt weightless. He hadn't felt his heartbeat since he woke up.

The realization clawed its way up his throat, cold and merciless. He looked up at Sirius, at the sharp angles of his face, the way his dark eyes seemed to pierce straight through him.

A lump formed in Harry's throat, and when he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

"...I'm dead, aren't I?"

Sirius's expression didn't change. For a long moment, he just watched him, unreadable, and Harry thought he wasn't going to answer at all. But then, finally, he exhaled, tilting his head slightly.

"Not quite."

Harry's breath stuttered. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

Not quite?

He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself.

"What do you mean?"

Sirius studied him for a moment longer before shrugging, as if the answer was obvious.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" he said simply.

Harry froze. The words hit him like a physical force, sending a sharp jolt through his already fragile sense of reality.

Because Sirius was right.

He had been here before—well, not here exactly, but somewhere like it. Somewhere just as quiet, just as heavy with the weight of what lay between life and death.

That train station. The endless white void. Dumbledore.

His stomach twisted.

But this time... this time it felt different.

He let out a shaky breath. "I doubt death will let me go this time if I'm already dead."

Sirius shook his head. "That's the tricky part."

He took a slow step closer, his voice quieter now, softer. "You're not dead, Harry."

Harry blinked at him, barely breathing. "Then what—?"

"You're dying."

A chill ran down his spine.

"You're at the brink of death."

Sirius's words settled over him like a suffocating blanket, and for a long, terrible moment, Harry felt as though the ground beneath him was giving way, like he was slipping between the cracks of something vast and unknowable.

Dying.

Not dead. Not alive.

Dangling in between.

A flickering candle, moments from being snuffed out.

His mouth was dry when he forced himself to speak again. "But Lyra and the others... they're fine, right?"

Sirius didn't answer right away.

And that silence—that silence was enough to send Harry's stomach plummeting. His breath caught in his throat. "Sirius?"

Sirius sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "That's the thing, kid. I don't know."

A sharp spike of panic shot through Harry's chest. "What do you mean you don't know?"

Sirius didn't reply. Instead, he turned slightly and gestured toward something just beyond them.

Harry followed his gaze—and his breath hitched.

There, standing in the middle of the vast, cold expanse of Malfoy Manor, was a door.

A single, red door.

It was strikingly out of place, as if someone had taken it from another world entirely and dropped it into the bleak, endless gray of this one. The deep crimson paint stood in stark contrast against the eerie stillness of their surroundings, pulsing with something almost alive.

Harry didn't know how he hadn't seen it before.

His stomach twisted.

It shouldn't be here. It didn't belong here.

And yet, it was there, waiting.

Sirius nodded toward it. "Let's find out."

THE FIRST DOOR

Harry didn't know what he expected when he stepped through the door.

Maybe he thought he'd find chaos. Maybe he thought he'd find something nightmarish—a battlefield, blood and destruction, something as terrible as the fear clawing at his chest.

But he didn't expect this.

The dimly lit drawing room of a manor. A roaring fireplace casting flickering light against the dark walls. The sound of hurried footsteps. The smell of something faintly floral, maybe potions.

And then— Lyra's voice.

Loud. Furious. Almost shaking with rage.

"This is all YOUR fault!"

Harry startled at the raw anger in her voice, his stomach twisting as he turned toward her.

Lyra stood in the middle of the room, her entire body trembling with emotion. Her fists were clenched so tight at her sides that her knuckles had gone white. Her dark eyes blazed with fury, fixed on someone Harry couldn't yet see.

It was the kind of anger that came from fear. From grief. From something deep and splintering inside her. His heart clenched.

She was hurting.

Harry took a step forward without thinking. "Lyra—"

She didn't react.

Didn't even look in his direction.

A cold chill ran down his spine.

She couldn't hear him.

His stomach dropped as he turned his gaze, following hers. And then he saw him.

Dumbledore.

The old man stood in the shadows, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his expression unreadable. Harry knew that look. The same quiet patience. The same infuriatingly calm acceptance of the situation, like he had already calculated the outcome and was merely waiting for the rest of them to catch up.

But Lyra didn't seem to be having it.

"You brought us into this mess," she continued, her voice hoarse, raw with emotion. "And now Harry might die because of it! Did you ever stop—just once—to think about what we wanted? This isn't what we signed up for! YOU did this!"

Harry's breath caught.

He had never heard her like this before.

Not like this.

Sirius stepped up beside him, his arms crossed loosely over his chest as he watched the scene unfold. "She's right, you know."

Harry tore his gaze away from Lyra, looking up at Sirius.

There was something different in his voice. Not just the usual resentment he carried toward Dumbledore. No, this was something else. Something deeper.

Harry swallowed hard. "She's really mad."

Sirius huffed a humorless laugh. "Yeah. But not just at him."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

Sirius didn't answer right away. Instead, he nodded toward Lyra, as if urging Harry to keep watching.

And so he did.

"If Harry dies," she was saying now, her voice louder, shaking, "it's on you."

Dumbledore didn't flinch. He simply watched her, his blue eyes unreadable.

And that only seemed to make her angrier.

Harry saw it—saw the way her chest heaved, the way her shoulders tensed, the way she clenched her jaw so tight he thought she might break it.

"How many people have to die before you start taking responsibility?" she spat through gritted teeth.

Sirius sighed, shaking his head. "I liked you with her," he said quietly. "You were good for each other."

Harry's throat tightened.

He barely heard Sirius, barely processed his words, because all he could do was watch as Lyra stepped forward, the fire in her eyes burning even hotter.

"How many kids," she hissed, "have to sacrifice themselves for you to admit you're wrong?"

Harry swallowed hard.

"Lyra." His voice was desperate now. Pleading. He tried to step closer, to reach for her, but it was like walking through water, slow and heavy. "I'm here. I'm right here."

She didn't hear him.

She was still looking at Dumbledore, still burning with all the grief and anger she couldn't contain. Dumbledore held her gaze. And for the first time, something flickered in his expression. Guilt, maybe. Shame. Or maybe just a quiet understanding that she was right.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was softer than Harry had ever heard it.

"I did what I thought was right, Lyra."

She laughed—a sharp, humorless sound. "What you thought was right."

Her voice wavered now, just slightly. But the rage was still there, coiled tight around her like armor.

Sirius exhaled slowly. "She's not just angry at Dumbledore."

Harry turned to him.

Sirius's gaze was distant. His voice quiet. "She's angry at herself."

Harry's stomach twisted. "For what?"

Sirius met his gaze. "For a lot of this."

Harry's breath stuttered.

His hands shook at his sides as he turned back to Lyra, watching as her shoulders finally sagged, as some of the fight began to slip away.

And then—

A flash of movement from the other side of the room.

Harry's heart stopped. He hadn't noticed it before. Hadn't seen it.

But now—

Now, lying on the couch near the fireplace, surrounded by scattered potions and frantic movements—

Was him.

His own body.

Harry took a shaky step forward, his breath catching in his throat.

Narcissa was kneeling beside him, her usually composed face tight with concentration as she pressed a cloth to his forehead, her other hand hovering over his chest, muttering incantations under her breath.

Lily was there too, her red hair a wild mess, her hands shaking as she sorted through a collection of vials with desperate urgency.

Harry's knees nearly buckled.

He could hear them now, their voices cutting through the fog in his head.

"His pulse is weak—too weak—" Lily's voice was frantic. "I need—where's the—"

"Here," Narcissa said sharply, handing her a vial with steady fingers.

Lily fumbled with the stopper, tipping the potion to Harry's lips. "Please," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please, sweetheart, just hold on."

Harry's chest ached.

The sight of his mother—desperate, frantic, tears brimming in her eyes—was enough to steal the air from his lungs.

Sirius was watching him carefully. "Still think you're dead?"

Harry's mouth was dry.

He tore his gaze away, looking back at Lyra.

She had moved.

She was sitting beside him now—his body—her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.

"Harry..."

His stomach twisted. She reached out, her fingers curling around his hand, squeezing it tight.

"Come back to me, please. I need you."

Something inside Harry shattered.

A lump formed in his throat, raw and aching. He swallowed hard, his vision blurring at the edges. Sirius placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You have to go back, kid."

Harry's hands clenched into fists. He wasn't sure he could.

But he knew one thing– he wanted to.

They stood there in silence. The room was still, save for the soft crackling of the fire and the hurried movements of Narcissa as she continued working, her sharp, precise motions the only thing keeping panic at bay.

Lily had left, her footsteps fading down the corridor, but Harry barely noticed. He couldn't take his eyes off her.

Lyra sat by his unconscious body, her hands clenched into fists in her lap, her entire frame trembling with the force of emotions she wasn't saying out loud.

Tears streamed down her face, but she wasn't sobbing anymore. She just... stared.

At him.

And Harry—standing there, unseen, his heart hammering painfully in his chest—had never felt more helpless in his entire life.

Her eyes—dark, stormy, unreadable—were fixed on his face. There was something in them, something deep and breaking and aching, but he couldn't tell what it was.

Guilt? Regret? Or something much worse?

His throat felt tight as he turned to Sirius. "You said she's mad at herself."

Sirius nodded, his expression unreadable.

Harry clenched his jaw. "But it wasn't her fault." His voice was firm, almost desperate, as if saying it aloud would make all of this much more real. "Malfoy had us trapped. There was nothing she could have done."

Sirius didn't argue and he didn't correct him. He just looked at him, quiet. Thoughtful.

Then, with a small, tired smile, he said, "You know that's not all she's mad about."

Harry stiffened.

Something cold curled around his chest, something deeply uncomfortable. Because Sirius was right. He did know. He knew exactly what Lyra was so angry about.

It wasn't just Dumbledore.

It wasn't just this new war, or the near-death experience, or the fact that they had all been thrown into something they never agreed to.

It was him. It was them.

Harry swallowed hard, his hands curling into fists. "I don't know if..." His voice caught. He exhaled sharply and shook his head. "I don't know how to forgive her."

Sirius watched him for a long moment, his gaze steady.

Then, slowly, a smirk crept onto his face.

Harry frowned. "What?"

Sirius said nothing—just lifted his hand and pointed behind him.

Harry turned and his stomach dropped.

Another door.

The same deep, unnatural red as before.

Harry's pulse spiked.

"What the hell—" He took a step toward it, unease twisting in his gut. "Where could it be taking us now?"

Sirius's smirk faded, replaced with something softer. "To a place where Lyra never saved your life." His voice was calm, but there was something almost somber about it. "To a world where you died during the war."

Harry's breath hitched.

The air in the room suddenly felt too thin, too heavy, pressing down on his chest like a weight.

He stared at Sirius, searching his face, waiting for the punchline.

But there wasn't one.

Sirius wasn't joking.

Harry turned back to Lyra, still seated by his unconscious body, her hands gripping his with a quiet desperation she probably didn't even realize.

A world where he died.

Where she never saved him.

Harry exhaled sharply, forcing himself to look back at the door.

A different world.

A different outcome.

And suddenly, despite everything—despite the fear curling in his stomach, despite the uncertainty—Harry knew, without a doubt, that he had to see it.

"Doesn't seem like I have any option other than to go through, right?"

THE SECOND DOOR

The door swung open.

And Harry stepped into the end of his own story.

The air was thick, almost suffocating, filled with the quiet murmurs of a crowd too weary to cry but too broken to be silent. The Great Hall stretched out before him, its grand ceilings and floating candles unchanged—but everything else was wrong. The long House tables had been pushed aside, replaced with rows upon rows of chairs, all occupied by figures dressed in black.

At the front of the room, where the teacher's table should have been, was a raised platform. A podium stood at its center.

And behind it—

Harry's breath caught.

A massive portrait hung above the stage, white lilies framing it. He recognized the image immediately—him, mid-laugh, Hermione and Ron at his sides, all three of them caught in a moment of unguarded happiness. The picture moved, his past self laughing at something unseen, Hermione's eyes crinkling with amusement, Ron grinning as if the world wasn't on their shoulders.

It was meant to be comforting, he supposed.

It wasn't.

"Welcome to your funeral, Harry," Sirius said quietly beside him.

Harry barely heard him.

He turned, scanning the mourners. Familiar faces, some drawn with grief, others hollow and empty. The Weasleys sat together, hands clasped. Hermione was in the front row, unmoving, her head bowed. Lyra sat next to the muggle-born witch, shaking, her eyes staring ahead to nothing,

And then—

In a small, almost hidden corner of the stage, Harry saw another framed photograph, folded at the edges, tucked carefully away like a secret too painful to be left in the open.

His heart clenched.

He knew that picture.

Fifth year. Blaise had taken it.

Harry, whispering something into Lyra's ear, a teasing grin on his lips. Lyra, throwing her head back, laughing, her eyes alight with something warm, something real.

The photo had creases now, worn from being handled too much, but it had still found its place among the tributes—a silent testament to something unfinished.

Harry swallowed hard.

"Bit gloomy, isn't it?" Sirius murmured.

Harry let out a breath. "I suppose that's how all funerals are supposed to be, Sirius."

Sirius nodded, but his eyes lingered on the folded photograph. He didn't say anything more.

Harry turned back toward the stage, his chest tight. "How... how did the war end?"

Sirius exhaled, watching the crowd. "It was Lyra, actually, who sent the first spell. But I believe Ron was the one who actually finished the job. He killed Voldemort. The war ended."

Harry's head snapped toward him. "Ron—?"

But before he could ask more, the quiet in the room deepened.

Ron had stepped up to the podium.

For the first time since entering the room, Harry truly looked at him.

Ron Weasley had always been alive. He was the warmth of a fire on a cold day, the steady presence that reminded you that even in the worst moments, laughter was still possible. Ron Weasley was Harry's closest friend, his brother, the one person who could still make Harry smile when the world went to shit.

But the man standing before the crowd now—he was a ghost of himself.

Harry had never seen him like this before.

He'd seen Ron exhausted, frustrated, furious—he'd seen him beaten down and rising back up. But this... this wasn't any of those things.

This was grief. True, unfiltered, crushing grief.

Ron's shoulders were hunched, his fingers gripping the wooden podium so tightly his knuckles had turned white. His hair was longer now, unkempt, as if he hadn't bothered with it in weeks. His suit, though formal, looked like it had been thrown on at the last moment. And his face—Merlin, his face—was empty.

Not just sad. Not just mourning.

It was like someone had taken all the light out of him and left behind a hollow shell of the person Harry once knew.

Harry took a shaky breath, but there was no air here. No weight to his body.

Because he wasn't real. Not to them. Not anymore.

Ron cleared his throat, glancing down at the paper in front of him, but he didn't read from it. He simply stared at the crowd, at the people who were waiting for him to speak, and let out a low, humorless laugh.

"I don't particularly know what I supposed to say."

Harry flinched.

"Heh. It's funny, isn't it?" Ron muttered, his voice hoarse. "Harry would've found it funny. He'd be laughing at me, standing here, sweating through my robes, trying to come up with something poetic to say about him."

A weak, bitter chuckle escaped him before he shook his head.

"But that's the thing, isn't it?" Ron's voice cracked, just a little. "Harry was never one for grand speeches. He hated them. Every time people called him a hero, he'd roll his eyes, make a face, and mutter something about how he didn't even do anything."

Harry swallowed hard. He had done that. Every single time.

"Even when he did—every bloody time—he still thought he hadn't done enough."

Ron let out a shaky breath, looking down for a moment before lifting his gaze again.

"But I think.. that's what made him Harry."

Harry's chest tightened.

"He never saw himself the way we did. Never saw how much he carried. Never saw how much he meant."

Harry turned to Sirius, to say something, anything, but his godfather was simply watching. Silent. Eyes heavy with understanding.

Harry looked back at Ron.

"Harry Potter was my best mate."

The words hung in the air like a weight, pressing down on everything.

"He was reckless and stubborn and half the time, he made the worst decisions imaginable."

Despite himself, Harry let out a choked breath of laughter. Yeah. That sounds about right.

"But he was also the bravest person I've ever known."

Ron's grip on the podium tightened. His jaw clenched.

"He was the kind of person who, when everything went to hell, would look you in the eye and tell you he had a plan—even when he didn't. He would fight for you, even when he had nothing left to give."

Harry's breath hitched.

"And that's what he did." Ron's voice dropped, so quiet now. "He fought until the very end. Until there was nothing left of him."

Harry could feel it now—the pull in his chest, the phantom ache of something lost. He wasn't here. He wasn't anywhere. He was gone.

Ron exhaled sharply, blinking rapidly.

"I should be telling you all the good things. All the things that make a person feel better about loss. I should be saying that Harry's in a better place now, that he's finally at peace. That he died a hero."

Ron paused. Shook his head.

"But I don't want to say that."

Harry felt something cold curl in his gut.

"Because he shouldn't be gone."

The silence in the room deepened.

"He should be here. Sitting in the back of this room, rolling his eyes at me for making this speech. He should be with us. Living. Laughing. Watching Quidditch. Making sarcastic jokes. Drinking butterbeer and getting into stupid fights and telling me I'm being an idiot when I obviously am."

Ron's voice cracked, just for a moment.

In the front row, Hermione flinched, her hands clenched so tightly in her lap her knuckles had gone pale. 

"But he's not."

Harry felt like he was drowning.

"He's gone."

Ron closed his eyes for a brief second before looking up again, his gaze hard. 

"I killed Voldemort."

Harry's breath caught.

"The war ended. We won."

But Ron wasn't smiling. Wasn't proud.

"But if this is what winning feels like, then I don't want it."

The words were spoken so softly Harry barely heard them.

Ron let out a shaky breath.

And then, almost broken—

"I miss you, mate. More than I can ever say."

Harry had stopped breathing.

He didn't realize it until he felt Sirius's hand on his shoulder, grounding him.

He turned, blinking rapidly, his chest tight with something that felt dangerously close to grief—for a life he still had, but that they had lost.

He looked back at Ron, standing there, barely holding himself together.

"What's the point of this?" he asked Sirius, his voice strained.

"Just watch, Harry."

Harry swallowed, turning his head back to the podium.

And then he saw her.

Lyra walked forward slowly, her steps hesitant, like she might collapse under the weight of her own grief at any second. She was pale, so pale, her long blonde hair—so different from how she wore it now—pulled back into a bun, exposing the sharp lines of her face. She looked smaller, thinner, her black dress hanging off her like it didn't quite fit, like nothing fit anymore.

Her hands trembled as she placed them on the podium, gripping the edges tightly, as if that was the only thing keeping her upright.

For a moment, she just stood there, staring down at the wooden surface in front of her, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

Then, she spoke.

"I don't—" Her voice faltered, barely above a whisper. She stopped, swallowed, shook her head. Then tried again.

"I don't know how to do this."

Harry's throat tightened.

"I don't know what to say. I don't think there are words big enough for this kind of grief. Or this kind of love."

Her voice was raw, strained, but steady. Barely.

"I wish it was me who was gone instead of you," she whispered, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "And I don't know—I feel like you would know that."

Harry sucked in a breath.

She lifted her head then, looking out into the crowd, her gaze heavy with something too big to name.

"Harry was my..." she hesitated, blinking quickly before setting her jaw, forcing herself to go on.

"Harry Potter was the love of my life."

Harry felt something inside him shatter.

"Is the love of my life," Lyra corrected, her voice shaking but firm. "Because I don't care how many years pass, I will love him till the day I die."

The silence in the room was deafening.

"Harry was my enemy," she continued, voice thick with emotion. "The first time we met, we were children who only knew how to fight. We bickered, we argued, we found ways to hurt each other in words sharper than spells. And then, somehow... somehow, he became my friend and then, something more."

She exhaled shakily.

"We never had enough time. That's the cruel thing about loving someone like him—you think you have all the time in the world, but Harry Potter never belonged to just one person. He belonged to the fight, to the world, to the hope he gave people. And I was selfish enough to want him anyway."

Her fingers curled around the podium, her knuckles turning white.

"He was my own little secret, my idiot-who-lived," she said softly. "Because I loved him in a world that never let us be together the way we wanted. We met in quiet places, whispered words in the dark that no one would ever hear but us. I have never felt safer than I did when he held my hand. I have never felt more at home than I did when he looked at me like I was something worth holding onto."

Her shoulders shook, but she kept going.

"Harry had this—this way of making you believe in things. In yourself, in the world, in impossible futures that seemed just a little more possible when he was there. He made me believe in love, in hope, in something more than the blood in my veins and the war outside our door."

She let out a broken, humorless laugh.

"And now, I don't know how to live in a world where he doesn't exist anymore."

Harry felt his chest tighten, his breath coming short and ragged.

"I don't know how to wake up and know he's not around. I don't know how to laugh without hearing his voice in the back of my head. I don't know how to exist when the best parts of me existed with him."

She wiped at her tears with a shaking hand.

"And yet... I will."

She straightened, her voice quieter, steadier.

"Because Harry would have wanted that."

The room was so silent it felt suffocating.

"He was so much more than a name in a history book, more than a soldier, more than a hero." Her voice wavered, but she didn't stop. "He was stubborn and arrogant and impossible and kind and brave and so, so good. And I... I was lucky to have him, for however long we got."

Her breath hitched.

"I just..." She exhaled, her voice breaking completely. "I think I will just miss you forever, Harry."

Her tears slipped free then, falling silently down her cheeks.

She turned away from the podium before she could say anything else, before she could break apart completely in front of everyone.

Hermione was already moving, her expression blank, yet somehow filled with a quiet understanding. She reached Lyra before she could fall, gripping her arm, steadying her as the Malfoy girl trembled violently in her grasp.

Without a word, Hermione guided her back to her seat, where Lyra sank down, head bowed, hands shaking as she wiped at her tears.

Harry felt like he might fall apart himself.

He turned to Sirius, his voice hollow. "I know you think this is helping, but it's not."

Sirius just watched.

"Even if I had died, it still meant—" Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. "It still meant that Lyra would be alive. That she wouldn't be—" He clenched his fists.

"That she wouldn't be dying."

Sirius let out a slow, measured breath, his expression unreadable.

Harry turned back to Lyra, watching as she curled in on herself, her fingers gripping at the fabric of her dress like she was trying to hold herself together.

"I can't do this, Sirius." His voice cracked.

A beat of silence. Then—

"Then I guess my job here isn't done, huh?"

THE THIRD DOOR

The door creaked as it opened, and a damp chill seeped into Harry’s skin.

He stepped through, his boots pressing into soft, wet earth, the scent of rain lingering thick in the air. The world was still, eerily so, as if even the wind knew not to disturb this place. Rows upon rows of headstones stretched across the field, some old and crumbling, others newer, their engravings sharp and fresh.

Harry knew where they were before he even saw the names.

Godric’s Hollow.

His stomach twisted as his gaze landed on the familiar graves.

James Potter. Lily Potter.

Even after all these years, the sight still knocked the breath from his lungs.

Sirius walked beside him, hands deep in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

For a while, they didn’t speak.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easy either.

"Why here?" Harry finally asked. His voice was quieter than he meant it to be.

"Why not?" Sirius countered, glancing at him.

Harry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I don’t understand what you’re trying to show me."

"You will."

Harry shot him an annoyed look but didn’t push. He let his gaze drift over the graveyard instead, over the endless markers of lives lost, names of people who had families, stories, dreams—people who were just gone.

"How do you feel, Harry?" Sirius asked suddenly.

"About what?"

"About everything." Sirius gave him a knowing look. "Lyra. Your friends. Your life. Do you ever stop and think about it?"

Harry hesitated. His fingers twitched at his sides.

"I don’t know," he admitted. "It’s like—I don’t even have time to think about how I feel. There’s always something. Another fight. Another job to do. Another mess to clean up. And Lyra… she’s—"

"Complicated?" Sirius offered, smirking slightly.

Harry let out a breathless laugh. "Yeah. That’s one way to put it."

Sirius tilted his head. "But you love her."

Harry turned his head sharply, eyes narrowing. "That’s not—" He stopped, sighed, and looked away. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Then why are you holding onto all this anger?"

Harry’s jaw clenched. "Because she should’ve told me. Because she made decisions that weren’t just hers to make. Because I don’t know how to forgive her, Sirius."

Sirius studied him, then chuckled softly.

"Harry, love isn’t about never making mistakes. It’s about choosing someone even when they do."

Harry exhaled sharply. "It’s not that easy."

"No, it’s not," Sirius agreed. "But that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth it."

Before Harry could respond, movement caught his eye.

At first, she was just a shadow between the graves, a figure moving slowly through the mist. She walked with careful steps, as if each one carried a weight too heavy to bear.

Then, as she stepped closer, he saw her.

An older woman, wrapped in a deep red coat, her long dress billowing slightly as she walked. Her hair, once golden and wild, was now streaked with gray, pinned back in an elegant knot. Lines creased her face—not just from age, but from grief, from loss.

"Who’s that?" Harry asked, his voice tight.

Sirius didn’t answer.

Then—

"Hey, Harry."

Harry felt the world tilt.

It was her.

Lyra.

Older.

His heart hammered against his ribs. He barely heard Sirius when he finally spoke.

"How many years have passed?"

"Decades."

Harry’s breath came shallow, unsteady.

She was older, thinner, but it was her. Her face still held the same sharp beauty, but there was something else in it now—a hollowed-out sort of sorrow, something time had never healed.

She knelt before the grave, pulling out a bundle of white lilies from beneath her coat. Gently, carefully, she picked up the older flowers—wilted and browned by time—and replaced them with fresh ones.

"She never forgot you," Sirius said softly. "Never moved on from you."

Harry’s hands curled into fists.

"You were the love of her life, Harry. And when you died, she lost everything. Her best friend, the love of her life—both gone."

"Her parents—?"

"Azkaban." Sirius nodded grimly. "Even she faced trouble for being a Death Eater."

Harry stiffened. "But she was only a spy—she helped us!"

"People didn’t care. They needed someone to blame."

His stomach twisted.

He looked back at her, watching as she traced the letters of his name on the headstone with delicate fingers. The way her touch lingered—like she was trying to hold onto something that was already long gone.

"She led a lonely life, Harry," Sirius murmured. "Without you. She never really got over your death."

Harry’s breath shook.

He watched as her fingers tightly held over the old, wilted flowers as she gathered them, carefully setting them aside as if even in death, she couldn’t bear to be careless with something that belonged to him.

She exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cold air.

"Hey, Harr," she murmured.

Harry’s chest constricted.

"Sorry I couldn’t come last week," she continued, adjusting the lilies so they sat just right. "Hermione needed me at the Ministry. She’s been trying to pass that stupid bill about magical orphan rights again. You’d have liked it—it’s very her, you know? Fixing the world one law at a time."

She chuckled, but it was hollow.

"Ron and Neville came by the other day, too," she went on, fingers tracing the engraved letters of his name. "Ron brought his little grandkids now. They’re getting so big... It’s funny, though. His son—Hugo—he reminds me of you, sometimes. The way he talks back to people. I think you would’ve liked him. You always did have a soft spot for stubborn idiots."

Harry clenched his jaw, his throat burning.

"And Teddy, Merlin, he’s all grown up now, getting married next week. He’s got his mom's old job at the Auror office. Dora would be proud. Remus, too."

She swallowed hard, her hands still resting on his grave.

"It’s been years, Harry." Her voice wavered. "So many years. And I still..."

She inhaled sharply, her hands tightening into fists.

"I still miss you so bloody much."

Harry felt his knees threaten to buckle.

"I know you’d tell me to move on. To be happy. You’d hate this—me, sitting here, talking to a bloody rock. But it’s not fair, Harry." Her voice cracked, and she pressed her palm against the letters of his name as if trying to hold onto something that wasn’t there.

"It was supposed to be you and me." She let out a shaky breath. "We were supposed to have a life together. We were supposed to grow old together, fight about stupid things, tease Ron about how he still can’t cast a decent Shield Charm."

A small, broken laugh escaped her lips before she shook her head, blinking hard.

Harry felt something crack inside him.

He took a step forward, but Sirius grabbed his arm.

"She can’t hear you."

"But she—" Harry’s voice broke.

"This is what happens if you had died, Harry," Sirius said firmly. "This is the life she will have. This is what she will become."

"What's to say I wouldn't be the same if we had never been thrown into another universe. If I still thought she was gone?"

"Because you got a second chance now, lad. You get time with her, and if I–" Sirius took a deep breath, his eyes almost glossing over, "When I was alive, if I'd been given an opportunity to see your dad for even one more second... I wouldn't have hesitated to take it, Harry. Why are you hesitating?"

Harry let out a shuddering breath.

Lyra sniffled beside them, wiping at her eyes, and straightening her back slightly before she turned her gaze back to the headstone.

"But I suppose if I’ve learned anything from you," she whispered, "it’s that we don’t always get what we want."

She was silent for a long moment. Then she got up silently, and walked away from them,

Harry wanted to move. Wanted to call out to her, to tell her he was here. That she wasn’t alone.

But Sirius's hand was still firm on his arm.

"Do you see now?" Sirius murmured.

Harry’s vision blurred. It was a haunting thought– that if he had died, the woman he loved would never get over it, would never have fallen in love again. All because the boy she loved during her teenage years died saving the world.

"I still don't get why, Sirius."

"You seriously don't realize how much she loves you, do you?" Sirius's voice broke the silence, his words blunt and final, but tinged with a frustration Harry wasn’t sure how to take.

"Why?" He didn't get it– how could she love his so much that she gave up herself for it?

Sirius shrugged, a small, almost pitying smile tugging at his lips. "Maybe because, in her eyes, you're worth fighting for."

Before Harry could respond, another door appeared behind them—ominous and dark, much like the others. Sirius gestured towards it with a subtle wave.

THE FOURTH DOOR

The scene that met them felt painfully familiar.

Harry’s gaze immediately landed on Lyra. She was standing in front of him, but it wasn’t the Lyra he knew—not in this moment, anyway. This Lyra looked so young—like a small, fragile version of the person he’d seen in the previous doors or in reality, her shoulders hunched, her face pale, streaked with tears. She was only fifteen, but her eyes had already seen too much. The same eyes Harry remembered from their first meeting—bright, daring, calculating—but now they were filled with sadness.

"Harry, please..." Lyra’s voice was weak, barely a whisper that trembled with a raw vulnerability. She reached for him, her trembling hands almost pleading.

Harry could feel the suffocating weight of her desperation, even as he stood on the other side of the memory, watching it unfold. She had been in love with him, hadn’t she?

But his heart wasn’t swayed. Not now.

“You could have chosen,” Harry’s voice rang out, his words sharp, filled with an anger and finality he had never allowed himself to feel before. He saw his younger self step back, eyes hard with betrayal. “You could have chosen me.”

He wanted to scream at his younger self to stop, to take it all back, but he couldn’t. He was powerless in this moment, watching helplessly as Lyra’s heart shattered in real-time.

Her face twisted with pain, her expression crumbling, and Harry felt a sharp pang in his chest. He was watching her—fifteen, so young, so heartbreakingly vulnerable—and her world was falling apart right in front of him.

It was as if she was waiting for him to say something more, something to undo the damage. She opened her mouth, and the sound that came out was strangled. "Harry, please," she begged, but the agony in her voice twisted Harry’s gut.

He saw his younger self shake his head, his face set in stone. He could see the grief on both of their faces, the way her world had completely crumbled. His younger self’s words stung like a whip, more cutting than anything Harry had ever thought possible.

"I hate you," he said, his voice hollow, his own words slicing through the air like a dagger. "I hate you, and I never want anything to do with you again. We’re done."

The impact of those words hit Lyra like a physical blow. She collapsed to the floor, sobbing, and Harry’s heart twisted as he saw her fall apart. Her body shook with sobs as she stayed there, broken, shattered, and raw, unable to do anything but cry. He wanted to run to her, to tell her it wasn’t real, but his younger self was already walking away. His feet moved forward, each step pulling him further away from the girl who loved him.

He was completely powerless in this moment, standing on the outside, witnessing the destruction his own words had caused. The sound of her sobs echoed in his mind, her heartbreak reverberating in the very air around him.

But then, just as Harry thought he couldn’t take it anymore, the scene shifted. It was as if something had pulled Lyra to her feet, and she was moving. She was moving toward something—or someone.

“Where is she going?” Harry murmured, watching her pull herself to Dumbledore’s office. She was so young, but she was already carrying so much pain. Her face was pale, streaked with tears, and her movements were sluggish, weighed down by everything that had happened.

Sirius was standing beside him, his eyes fixed on Lyra as they followed her silently. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched her with an unreadable expression on his face. Then, after a beat, he spoke, his voice low.

"To the moment where she changed history," Sirius muttered, his voice low, "To the moment where she chose you."

Harry clenched his jaw, his eyes returning to Lyra. He wanted to deny it, to push the thought away, but there was a part of him that felt it deep in his gut. He watched her approach the gargoyle, her steps slow and deliberate. It moved aside for her, as if expecting her, and Harry could only watch as she entered Dumbledore's office, her eyes filled with grief, but a spark of determination hidden beneath it all.

“This is an important one, Harry,” Sirius said quietly, a note of finality in his voice. "Watch."

Before Harry could respond, another door had appeared behind them. It was just as ominous as the others, darker and more foreboding than any of the ones they had passed through.

Harry hesitated, his eyes still on the door. “What is this?” he murmured. “What is going to happen?”

Sirius didn't answer. 

With a deep breath, Harry stepped toward the door, a growing sense of dread settling in his chest.

Lyra stood before Dumbledore, her body trembling, her hands shaking as she struggled to form words. Harry’s chest tightened as he watched her, all the weight of what had just happened pressing down on her. His younger self had just broken her heart in the cruelest way possible, and here she was, desperate, yet determined.

"Miss Malfoy," Dumbledore said softly, his voice calm but the words sharp enough to make Harry’s chest tighten. "What brings you here at this hour?"

He knew what was about to happen, the choice she was about to make. Don't do it, he wanted to scream.

Lyra’s voice cracked as she spoke, every word filled with pain. "I need to help," she said, her breath catching as she continued, "I need to do something."

Harry’s heart ached as he watched her, feeling helpless. He couldn’t do anything to change what had already been said, what had already been done. He could only watch as Snape’s harsh skepticism pierced the air.

"You?" Snape said, his voice dripping with mockery. "And what exactly do you think you can do, Miss Malfoy?"

Harry could feel the weight of his own guilt as he observed her shaking form. He wanted to apologize, but all he could do was watch. He heard her voice crack again, and something inside him twisted.

"I don’t know yet," she admitted, her words fragile, almost lost. But then she lifted her chin, looking straight at Dumbledore, her eyes filled with desperation. "I... I want to make things right."

A soft gasp escaped Harry’s lips as he saw her strength rising, as if in defiance of the hopelessness that had settled in her eyes. She was so young, yet the weight of her words and the pain in her gaze made her seem so much older. So much more broken.

Snape scoffed from the corner of the room, crossing his arms and muttering under his breath. "This is ridiculous. She's a Malfoy. She couldn’t possibly—"

"Severus," Dumbledore interrupted, his voice firm but calm. He turned to Lyra, his blue eyes steady, searching. "What is it you hope to accomplish, Miss Malfoy?"

Harry watched in silence as Lyra hesitated, her chest rising and falling with the weight of her emotions. Her hands clenched at her sides, but her voice remained steady as she spoke, each word laced with purpose, despite the tremor beneath it.

"You want Voldemort gone," Lyra said quietly, and Harry could feel the gravity of those words even now, standing outside it all. She continued, her voice thick but full of conviction, "And... and I want Harry to live."

Harry felt his breath hitch in his throat, the weight of her confession pressing down on him. She had done this for him. He had always known she had, that she had given herself up to save his life, to become a spy to save him, but now, hearing the words, the truth sank in. She had risked everything for him.

Dumbledore didn’t say anything at first, his gaze steady, calculating, as if weighing her every word. Snape, however, was clearly unimpressed, his lip curling in disdain.

"I know my family," Lyra said, her voice stronger now, a spark of defiance in her eyes. "I know things... things that could help. I can’t stand by and do nothing. Not anymore. I can spy on them for you, help you win this."

Harry watched her, his chest tight as he realized just how much she was putting on the line. He hadn’t known the weight of it all, how much she was willing to sacrifice.

Dumbledore studied her for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then he spoke, his voice quiet but still firm. "This is a dangerous path you are considering, Miss Malfoy. Are you certain you understand what you are asking?"

Lyra took a deep, shaky breath, but her resolve never wavered. "I have to do something," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, her gaze never leaving Dumbledore's. "I can’t lose him. Not like this."

Snape snorted at that, crossing his arms again, clearly disgusted. "You think your petty teenage romance is a reason to throw yourself into a war you barely understand?"

Lyra shot him a look of pure steel, her voice cutting through the air. "It’s not just about Harry," she snapped. "It’s about doing what’s right. It’s about stopping Voldemort."

Dumbledore’s expression softened ever so slightly, his gaze never leaving her. "Very well," he said softly. "I will consider your request. But know this, Miss Malfoy—once you make this choice, there is no turning back."

Lyra nodded, her body trembling with fear and anticipation, but her determination never wavered. "I understand."

As Dumbledore sighed softly, Snape muttered something under his breath, clearly unimpressed. Dumbledore, however, spoke with a quiet authority. "Go and rest now, Miss Malfoy. We will speak more in the morning."

Lyra nodded, the weight of it all still hanging heavily on her shoulders. She turned and left the office, her steps slow but purposeful.

Harry stared after her, unable to tear his eyes away.

Sirius’s voice broke the silence beside him. "You’re not the only one with regrets, Harry. Sometimes, you don’t realize what you’ve got until it’s gone."

Harry didn’t respond, his thoughts consumed with what he had just witnessed. 

"How–" he took a deep breath, "She was a child. How could... How could Dumbledore even consider letting her help?"

"You were already fighting the war for him, weren't you? She wanted to fight, he wanted a soldier. In his eyes, the plan–"

Sirius was talking, but Harry couldn't hear him, because another door had appeared but it looked different from the three they had seen. It looked more new, the red in it slightly brighter, more inviting.

"Sirius," he interrupted the old man. "Where does that door go?"

THE FIFTH DOOR

His pulse roared in his ears as he reached for the handle and pushed the door open.

And suddenly, they were somewhere else.

A home.

Not just a house, but a home—warm and lived in, filled with the scent of something cooking in the air. There was music playing from an old record player in the corner, something soft and cheerful, and golden light filtered in through the wide windows.

It was cozy. Safe. The kind of place someone built when they knew they had something worth holding onto.

Laughter echoed from another room.

Harry turned his head toward the sound, his chest tightening.

The walls were lined with pictures—moments frozen in time. There was a wedding photo sitting on the mantel, and when he stepped closer, he saw the bride’s face and felt his breath hitch.

Lyra.

Then, his eyes found another picture—a small one on the side table. Two children, both with dark hair, grinning at the camera, arms wrapped around a little girl with curls. A family. His family.

And then he saw her.

Lyra.

She was standing in the kitchen, swaying as she stirred something in a pot, humming along to the song playing in the background. She wore an oversized, patchwork-knit cardigan, far too big for her, hanging loose over a simple t-shirt and leggings.

She looked… different.

Older, but radiant. Her hair was still long, pulled up into a loose ponytail, strands falling around her face. And she was happy.

There was no tension in her shoulders. No exhaustion or grief weighing her down.

Just peace.

"You're back," she said suddenly, looking up with a smile.

For a second, Harry's heart jumped in his throat.

Could she see them?

But then—he heard the door close behind him. Footsteps.

He turned just in time to see himself.

Older.

A decade seemed to have had passed, but he was still him. His hair was just as messy, but the face had changed—there were faint laugh lines at the corners of his mouth, a lightness in his eyes that Harry barely recognized.

He had a briefcase in one hand, a wedding ring on his finger.

And when he set the case down, he smiled at Lyra like she was the best thing in the world.

"Sorry, I'm late, darling. Got held up at work," Older Harry said as he stepped forward.

Lyra rolled her eyes, setting the spoon down before crossing the room to meet him.

"It’s okay, Mr. Potter," she teased, sliding her arms around his neck.

Harry’s breath caught as he watched Older Harry wrap his arms around her waist and pull her close, resting his forehead against hers.

"I never knew I was marrying the most understanding woman in Britain," Older Harry murmured, his voice warm with affection.

Lyra let out a soft laugh, brushing her fingers through his hair.

"You’re lucky I love you," she teased.

"I am," Older Harry said, his voice sincere. "Every single day."

And then he kissed her, slow and familiar, like he had done it a thousand times before.

Harry couldn’t look away.

This was the life they were supposed to have.

The life they deserved.

For the first time since they had stepped through the door, Sirius finally spoke.

"A world where magic didn’t exist," he said softly.

Harry clenched his jaw, eyes locked on the scene before him.

"You met her in college," Sirius continued. "You fell in love. Got married. Had kids. Those kids had loving grandparents. You still had your friends. No war. No prophecy. No pain."

Harry’s throat tightened.

"In hindsight," Sirius murmured, "this might have been the perfect world."

Harry swallowed hard.

"Why isn’t it?"

Sirius exhaled.

"Because it doesn’t exist."

And then—

"Are the kids asleep?" Older Harry asked, leaning against the kitchen counter.

Lyra tilted her head in thought, then smirked mischievously before turning toward the hallway.

"I don't know... Jamie, Andy, Ella—are you asleep?"

There was a scuffling sound, and then—three little heads popped out from behind the doorway.

The oldest, a boy with wild dark hair, pouted. "But, Mommy! It's Christmas in four days!"

Lyra crossed her arms. "And what does that have to do with bedtime?"

"We can't sleep when it’s almost Christmas!" the middle child—a boy with bright green eyes—protested.

The youngest, a little girl with golden curls, tugged on Older Harry’s sleeve.

"Daddy, can we stay up, please?" she asked, her voice small and sweet.

Older Harry groaned dramatically. "This again? Every year, I tell you little gremlins that Christmas doesn’t come faster just because you stay awake."

Jamie, the oldest, narrowed his eyes. "But what if Santa comes early?"

Lyra bit back a laugh, running a hand through his messy hair. "I think Santa would be quite disappointed if he came by and found out you weren’t asleep."

Ella, the youngest, tugged at Harry’s sleeve. "Daddy, are Nana Lily and Grandpa James coming tomorrow?"

Harry smiled. "They are. They are all packed and ready for the trip, to see you three gremlins."

Andy bounced on his heels, turning to his mother. "Is Uncle Blaise coming?"

Lyra snorted, exchanging a glance with Harry before turning to their children. "Of course. Uncle Blaise wouldn’t miss Christmas, especially not if he gets to spoil you lot with gifts. Aunt Mione, Aunt Pancy, Uncle Ron, everyone is coming."

Jamie frowned slightly. "What about our grandpa Luci and grandma Cissy?"

The room was silent for a moment. Lyra’s hand found Harry’s, squeezing gently.

Harry exhaled before kneeling in front of his son. "They won’t be able to make it this year, love, they are still on their cruise. But don’t worry, they’ve already sent your presents!"

The kids cheered, the moment passing as quickly as it came.

Lyra grinned, pressing a kiss to Harry’s cheek. "Speaking of which, it’s bedtime."

"Awwww!" the kids groaned in unison.

Harry smirked. "No, you little monkeys, it’s time to sleep. And if you don’t go up to bed now, I might just have to..." He paused dramatically. "Cancel Christmas."

Three gasps of horror.

"No!" they all shrieked.

"Oh no," Lyra whispered, covering her mouth in mock fear. "I think he’s serious."

The children screamed and bolted up the stairs, giggling as they rushed to their rooms.

Harry couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at his lips.

"That was cruel," Lyra scolded, swatting Older Harry’s arm.

"Cruel, but effective," Older Harry said, stretching his arms above his head. "Now then—bring out the wine, Mrs. Potter. I’m feeling festive."

Lyra rolled her eyes but grabbed a bottle from the counter. "You’re ridiculous."

"You married me."

"I did."

"And you love me."

"Somehow," she teased, handing him a glass.

Older Harry grinned. "I’m still not sure how I convinced you."

Lyra snorted, leaning against the counter beside him. "You had that messy hair and that stupid grin. I didn’t stand a chance."

He chuckled, leaning in and kissing the top of her head.

And as Harry watched—the real Harry, the one standing frozen in the doorway of this impossible world—his chest ached.

This was everything.

And it wasn’t his.

He felt like he was drowning.

The warmth of the home, the love in every glance, every touch—he wanted to stay. He wanted to step forward, past the invisible barrier separating him from the life he should have had. He wanted to be that version of himself.

But he wasn’t.

He was standing in the middle of a dream that wasn’t his to live.

Sirius sighed beside him. "It’s time to go back, Harry."

Harry clenched his fists. "No."

Sirius turned toward him, his expression knowing. "Harry—"

"No!" Harry snapped, turning on him. "Do you not see this? Do you not see how perfect this is? No war, no death, no pain. Just... peace. Just us. We deserved this, Sirius! We deserved a life like this! I fucking deserve it."

Sirius’s face softened. "I know."

"Then why are you asking me to leave?" Harry’s voice cracked.

Sirius looked at him, something heavy in his gaze. Then he spoke, voice low and steady.

"Because you know this isn’t real."

Harry closed his eyes.

"Because if you don’t go back, if you don’t try to live the life you do have, you’ll spend forever chasing a dream that doesn’t exist."

Harry exhaled shakily.

"It will take time to forgive her," Sirius admitted. "But if you don’t, you will spend your whole life just trying to forget her for a moment. Your lives have been tied together since the moment you met. There's no you without her, as there is no her without you."

Harry swallowed hard.

"It won’t be easy," Sirius continued. "But you will always regret not even trying."

The words sank into his bones.

Sirius reached out, placing a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder. "It’s time to go back."

Harry turned to look at the scene in front of him one last time.

Lyra’s laughter, the way she leaned into Older Harry. The soft glow of the Christmas lights, the warmth in the air. His children, safe and happy upstairs, waiting for the morning.

He turned around, following Sirius as they went back towards the red door– shiny, like it was a new gleaming jewel, inviting him in. He would have given his entire life to stay in this reality, where life was perfect. Where his parents were alive, where Lyra wasn't dying, where possibility was just a moment of breath away.

Dreams. They can haunt you more than the skeletons in your closet sometimes.

Harry’s fingers curled around the handle of the red door, but he couldn’t turn it. His chest was too tight, his throat burning with everything he wanted to say but didn’t know how.

Instead, he turned back to Sirius, staring at him like he had all the answers. Like maybe, just this once, he could give him the reassurance he so desperately needed.

"Are you happy now?" Harry’s voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. His hands were shaking. He forced them into fists. "Are they happy now? My parents, Remus, Fred—everyone who died for me. Do they get to be happy?"

Sirius exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw before looking at him properly. "They didn’t die for you, Harry." His voice was steady, unwavering. "They died for a cause. For a future they believed in. For a world where you—and everyone else—could live."

Harry shook his head, eyes burning. "That doesn't make it better."

"No, it doesn’t," Sirius agreed. "But it’s the truth. None of them regret it, Harry. Not James. Not Lily. Not Remus. Not Fred or Tonks or Moody or any of them. Not even me."

Harry scoffed, voice thick with emotion. "How can you say that? How can you stand there and tell me that my parents didn’t regret dying when they didn’t even get to see me grow up? That Remus was fine leaving Teddy behind? That you—"His voice cracked. "That you don’t regret dying when you left me alone again?"

Sirius’s face twisted in something between pain and fondness.

"Oh, Harry," he murmured, shaking his head. "Do you think we don’t know? That we didn’t watch over you? That we didn’t see every time you picked yourself back up after life knocked you down?" His grip on Harry’s shoulder firmed. "I regret that I couldn’t be there longer. That I couldn’t have been a better godfather. But do I regret dying if it meant you got to live? Not for a second."

Harry’s breath stilled.

Sirius went on, his voice softening. "We don’t get to choose how much time we have, kid. But we do get to choose how we spend it. And you?" He huffed a small, disbelieving laugh. "You spend all your time punishing yourself for living. As if that’s what we would have wanted for you."

Harry clenched his fists tighter. "Then what am I supposed to do?" he asked hoarsely. "Just move on? Pretend like it doesn’t hurt?"

Sirius shook his head. "No. But you take our deaths as a lesson. Life is short, Harry. You can’t spend it being angry. You can’t spend it wallowing in guilt."

Harry swallowed thickly.

"You have people waiting for you," Sirius reminded him, his voice quieter now. "You have a life waiting for you. Don’t waste it mourning the past when you still have a future."

Harry looked away, blinking up at the ceiling as if it would stop the burning behind his eyes.

"And Lyra?" he whispered.

Sirius hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "Ah. That’s the real question, isn’t it?"

Harry turned back toward him. He looked tired. Older.

"You already know what you have to do," Sirius said simply. "You love her. Do something about it."

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat, glancing back toward the red door.

Behind him, he could still hear the echoes of Lyra’s laughter. Of his own voice, warm and full of love, untouched by tragedy. He could still see the glow of Christmas lights, the peacefulness of a home where nothing had ever gone wrong.

His perfect life.

But perfection was an illusion, and beyond this door, reality waited—fractured, raw, and messy. A world that wasn’t his, yet one he knew he had to return to. Because waiting for him there wasn’t a flawless, untouchable dream but a real, imperfect girl—a girl with sharp edges and soft hands, built from contradictions, woven from mistakes and beauty alike. A girl who had made an impossible choice between herself and him and, selflessly, chose him.

He couldn’t say he fully understood it yet, not in the way he wanted to. But there was one thing he did understand—one thing he had never been more certain of.

He loved her. Irrevocably. Utterly. In every way a person could love another.

And if there was any way—any possibility—to stop what the second and third doors had shown, to change what was coming, he had to take it. If there was even the smallest chance that the world behind the fifth door could be real, he had to fight for it.

They could figure it out.

They were Harry and Lyra. They always found a way.

"I'll miss you, Sirius," Harry said, his voice thick with emotion. He hesitated for just a second before adding, softer, "I have missed you. So much."

Sirius’s smile was tinged with sadness, his eyes glistening with something unspoken. Then, without warning, he pulled Harry into a tight embrace, holding him close like he was trying to memorize the feeling. "And I miss you too," he murmured. "But I don’t plan on seeing you again until you’re old and grey and complaining about back pain, alright?"

A choked laugh escaped Harry as he nodded against Sirius’s shoulder. "I’ll do my best."

Reluctantly, he pulled away, taking a shaky step toward the door. He wrapped his fingers around the knob, and it resisted. Just for a moment, like it could sense his hesitation—like it knew that a part of him wanted to stay in this world, where his godfather was still here, where laughter still echoed, where life was unbroken.

But he couldn’t.

With a steadying breath, Harry pushed forward, forcing the door open. A bright light spilled through, nearly blinding him.

He turned back one last time. "Goodbye, Sirius."

Sirius’s smile was soft, proud, unchanging. "Goodbye, Prongs Jr." Then, just as Harry was about to step through, his godfather smirked. "And remember—Sirius is a much better name than James!"

Harry barely had time to roll his eyes before the light engulfed him, pulling him away.

present time

Pain radiated through Harry’s body like a dull, persistent throb, but it was nothing compared to the sheer weight of waking up—to reality, to the world he had fought for, bled for, died for.

He groaned, blinking against the blinding light, the sounds of voices distorting in his ears. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at the same time. His body was sluggish, his mind still stuck in the limbo between dreaming and waking, but there was one thing—one thing—cutting through the haze.

Grey eyes.

Tearful. Wide. Fixed on him like he was the most fragile thing in existence.

A flash of red entered his vision. "Harry, it's Lily. Can you hear me?" His mother.

Another voice, raw with desperation. "Please—please be okay, Harry—"

Lyra.

Her voice pulled him back, dragged him out of the abyss. He didn’t want to wake up, not yet. But his body had already made the choice for him.

A hand slid over his, warm and real, squeezing just enough to remind him where he was.

"Lyra?" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. He heard someone calling for James, but all he could focus on was the warmth of her touch.

"I'm here," she breathed, her voice shaking. "You're awake."

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling. Nothing mattered except the fact that Lyra was here, that she was touching him, that he was still—somehow, impossibly—alive.

When he opened them again, the fog had cleared, and suddenly everything was sharper. Too sharp. The cuts on Lyra’s face, the tear tracks down her cheeks, the dried blood she hadn’t even bothered to wipe away. She looked exhausted. She looked wrecked. She looked—Merlin—she looked so beautiful.

He had never wanted anything in his life more than he wanted to reach for her, to pull her down, to press his lips against hers and feel the proof of his survival in the way she kissed him back.

But he couldn’t move. His body felt too heavy, his limbs weighed down by exhaustion and injury.

"Lyra..." he murmured.

Her breath hitched. A tear slipped past her lashes, but she smiled—smiled—like he had just given her the answer to a question she had been too afraid to ask.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Hey," he rasped, forcing the corners of his lips to lift.

Her hand moved from his to his face, trembling as she traced her fingers over his cheekbone, his jaw. "You're okay."

"You say that like you’re trying to convince yourself."

She let out a breathless laugh, shaky and broken, pressing her forehead against his. "I am."

"I was worried you got hurt," he admitted, barely above a whisper.

Lyra let out a choked sound, half a sob, half a laugh. "You got hurt," she whispered. "Badly. You almost—" She shook her head, cutting herself off before she could finish. "I'm sorry, I was reckless and—"

"I’d do it," Harry interrupted.

She blinked, taken aback.

"I’d do it a thousand times," he continued, shifting as if to sit up. Pain shot through his body, but he barely noticed it. "For you."

Lyra’s breath shuddered, her fingers tightening against his face.

Someone cleared their throat.

And it was only then—only then—that Harry realized the room was full.

James was standing near the door, his expression unreadable. Regulus was beside him, his posture tense, arms crossed. Narcissa was off to the side, a hand over her heart, her eyes impossibly soft.

And Sirius—Sirius—was there too, watching with something indescribable in his gaze.

For a moment, Harry’s chest ached.

He wasn’t his Sirius. But it didn’t matter.

It still broke him a little.

"I—" Lyra started, then stopped, shaking her head like she couldn’t find the words.

And Harry—Harry was donewaiting.

Fuck the universe.

Fuck the audience.

There was her, and there was him, and that was all that had ever mattered.

With all the strength he could muster, he lifted a hand, curling his fingers around the back of her neck, and pulled her down—closing the distance, pressing his lips against hers with everything he had left.

Lyra gasped against his mouth, her body trembling, but then she was kissing him back—deep and desperate and real, her hands framing his face, her fingers threading into his hair.

She tasted like salt and warmth and home.

For the first time since the war was over, since grief had overtaken his body and left his mind numb, he was home. She was his home.

A muffled sound came from somewhere in the room—possibly James or Sirius, muttering something about 'bloody dramatic kids'—but Harry didn’t care.

This moment wasn’t for them.

It was for him and her.

And as Lyra clung to him like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth, Harry knew—without a shadow of a doubt—that he had made the right choice.

In that moment, he knew. He knew that no perfect universe, no alternate world where things were easy and safe, could ever compare to this. To them. Because there was no way that that Harry and that Lyra could have loved each other the way this Harry and this Lyra did—so selflessly, so absolutely, that dying for each other was the least they could do.

He had come back.

And he would never let her go again.