The Beginning of an End
The war has reached its inevitable crescendo.
Yet there are no victors here, no laurels to crown the conqueror, for this long and bitter conflict devoured both the hero and the villain in its maw. Two kings swept from the board, leaving no triumphant cry, only silence and the ashen ruins of what once was.
The light mourned, their wails echoing through the fractured dawn as they grieved for their beloved Boy-Who-Lived. The dark, meanwhile, wallowed in dissatisfaction, disquieted by the stalemate, for ambiguity is a poor substitute for dominance.
The battle, a morass of sacrifice and Sisyphean struggle, collapsed into an uneasy equilibrium. Neither side stood wholly triumphant, nor did either taste the full bitterness of defeat. Yet, Harry Potter—the boy, the man, the enigma—wants the world to believe in resolution, to wrap this war in the neat bow of finality.
But Harry Potter is not so easily resigned to the ending the world assumes.
No, he understands far better than most what endings truly mean. After all, mortality—his own in particular—has always been a precarious thing. Fragile, yes, but pliable in ways others cannot begin to comprehend. Harry Potter, the boy fated to die and yet to live, has become acquainted with death in a way that few would call sane.
He does not fear death. How could he? They have been his constant companion, lurking in the shadowed corners of his life, steadfast in their silent vigilance. But death is not his master, nor his servant. They are something else entirely—an anchor, a quiet tether to keep Harry moored in a world that threatens to devour him whole.
What the world does not yet understand is that Harry’s death is not the conclusion they so desperately crave. It is not the final page in his story, nor the closing chapter of this bloody saga. His death is nothing more than a prelude, a transition, a cunning sleight of hand in a game far larger than any mortal can conceive.
They may call it madness, the way he shapes his fate, but Harry knows better. He kneels over the ruins of himself—his body, his soul, his magic—and vows with unwavering certainty:
This is not the end.
It is the beginning.
Somewhere, in the throes of blistering summer heat and lands left to wild abandon, a child came into the world. Oddly silent, yet undeniably alive.
The boy did not wail, nor did he fuss. His presence was a quiet assertion, a whisper where there should have been a cry.
His mother, pale as sun-bleached linen, smiled through the sweat clinging to her brow. Even as life drained from her, her beauty remained undimmed—loved by the sun, adored by the world, radiant despite her fatigue. But she knew, with a clarity as sharp as the summer air, that she would not remain long in this life.
So she cradled her boy—her sweet, sweet summer child.
Born from love, fleeting though it may have been, he was hers. Hers and another’s, but hers still.
The colors of the world began to fade, blurring at the edges as her strength dissipated like mist under the morning sun. Yet even as her breath faltered, she held him close, ensuring that what was hers would carry a name before her clock struck its final note.
Her voice, soft but steady, filled the room with a quiet resolve.
“Your name, my little one, shall be...
Hesperos Madrigal, neé Black.”