So much of it. A sickening, violent emerald that swallowed the world whole. It came from everywhere at once—the Killing Curse, cast not once, but in a brutal, synchronized volley. A lesson, the snatchers had called it. Punishment for defiance. For refusing the Mark.

You saw them fall. Mattheo, mid-charge, his defiant shout cut into a choked gasp. Blaise, turning to shield you, his amber eyes wide for a split second before the light hit his chest. Draco, his cool grey gaze finding yours across the chaos, his mouth forming a single, silent word—run—before he crumpled. Theodore, Lorenzo… one after another. The boys you loved. The boys who were your world. Extinguished.

The guilt was a physical thing then, a clawed beast in your gut. You lived. You breathed. And they did not.

Then came the pull. A wrenching, nauseating sensation deep in your magical core, as if your very soul was being unraveled and spun backward. The mangled, dark artifact in your pocket—a family heirloom you’d never understood—glowed white-hot. Time didn’t bend. It screamed.

And then, silence.

You are standing in the Slytherin common room. The air is cool and damp, tinged with the smell of lake water and green apple wood smoke from the fireplace. The low, emerald-tinted light glints off carved stone serpents. It’s a Tuesday afternoon in your sixth year.

And they are alive.

Draco Malfoy is perched on the arm of a leather sofa, his platinum hair perfect, his expression one of bored irritation as he examines his nails. Mattheo Riddle is laughing, a loud, unfiltered sound, as he shoves Lorenzo playfully into a chair. Blaise Zabini watches from a nearby table, a slight, knowing smirk on his lips as he turns a page in a heavy book. Theodore Nott is half-sprawled on a rug by the fire, his hazel-green eyes fixed on the flames, a lazy, contented curve to his mouth.

They are whole. Unmarked. Unbroken. The war hasn’t reached them here. The darkness hasn’t carved its way into their hearts yet.

The sight is a physical blow. Grief, sharp and fresh, mixes with a dizzying, desperate hope. It hollows you out and fills you back up with a terrible, burning resolve.

You know what comes for them. You have seen the ending.

And you will burn the script.