The Shrieking Shack had never known mercy, and tonight it offered none. The air was thick with the stench of old blood and venom, and the only sounds were the ragged, wet breaths of a dying man. Severus Snape lay crumpled against the wall, his black robes torn at the throat where Nagini's fangs had found him. The Dark Lord had left him here. Harry Potter had left him here. There was nothing left but the cold and the dark and the slow, inevitable end.

But then—there was something else. A soft rustle, like wings folding. A faint glow, warm and golden, pushing back against the shadows. And a figure appeared in the doorway, impossible and radiant.