[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 501 - 505

Chapter 501

"Kill!"

"Avenge your fallen comrades!"

"Rise for the goblins—kill them all!"

"..."

"Avada Kedavra!"

"..."

"M-Mom... where’s Mom?"

"It’s so dark... so cold... I’m scared..."

Darkness and blood intertwined, creating a nightmarish landscape where rivers of crimson flowed endlessly over pale bones. Agonized wails and desperate struggles echoed through the void, forming an unrelenting cacophony of suffering. Harry ran. He ran as fast as he could, trying to escape the carnage, to flee from the horrors surrounding him. But no matter how fast he moved, the nightmare pursued him, wrapping around him like a vice.

Each time he teetered on the edge of collapse, a faint golden light emerged from deep within his soul, gentle and warm, like a whisper of comfort amidst the chaos. It was the only thing keeping him tethered to himself, stopping him from succumbing entirely to the abyss. Without it, he feared he would become nothing more than a puppet—an extension of the darkness consuming him.

Yet, even with the light’s presence, he could not escape the nightmare. The endless slaughter replayed before him, and though at first, he had recoiled in horror—empathizing with the goblins' pleas, hearing their final cries—something had begun to change.

His fear started to fade, replaced by something unfamiliar.

Indifference.

At first, he felt a dull numbness, but soon, something darker stirred within him. A twisted fascination. A creeping hunger. He was no longer repulsed by the violence. The sight of pain—of blood-streaked faces frozen in terror—filled him with something almost like satisfaction.

And then, he found himself longing for more.

The realization sent a shudder through him. Why was he merely watching? Why couldn’t he join in? This was no battlefield—it was a grand banquet, a feast of destruction and power. And he wanted to take part. He wanted to feel the blood warm on his hands, to watch as his wand unleashed death upon those who dared stand before him.

He wanted—

Buzz!

The golden light flared, and warmth flooded through his soul again, pushing back the insidious darkness that had begun to take root. The black and red mist that curled around him receded, expelled by the familiar energy. Harry gasped, his mind clearing, and a fresh wave of terror washed over him.

What had he just thought?

Not only was he horrified by the nightmare surrounding him, but he was terrified of himself. Of the way he had—just for a moment—wanted to embrace the madness.

"M-Mom..." His voice broke, and he felt something hot streak down his cheek. Tears. "I miss you..."

His mind scrambled for something—anything—to hold on to. He thought of Hermione’s voice chiding him with logic and reason. Ron’s laughter, loud and carefree. Professor McGonagall’s stern yet kind gaze. Dumbledore’s wisdom, his steady presence. Hogwarts—the only place that had ever felt like home.

And then, there was Lockhart.

The professor who had always encouraged him, who had, in his own peculiar way, given him guidance.

For a moment, the warmth in his soul strengthened, anchoring him. But it was fleeting.

The magic that protected him—that his mother had left behind—was being pulled back, retreating to reinforce the barrier around the Horcrux inside him. As if sensing the greater threat, it redirected its efforts toward containment, leaving Harry vulnerable once more.

The golden glow faded, and the shadows surged forward again. The nightmare returned, and with it, the hunger.

Another cycle began.

Harry’s hope withered. He could see it now—his future. The endless rotation of purification and corruption, over and over, until something within him inevitably shattered.

The darkness seeped deeper into his soul.

His once-bright green eyes dulled, tinged with black at the edges. And then—he laughed.

Low at first, then louder. A twisted, unnatural sound that echoed through the endless void.

"Hahahaha..."

"Kill... kill them all... give in to it... indulge..."

"Goblins, humans... they all deserve to die..."

"..."

Buzz!

A golden light burst forth once more, washing over his soul like cleansing rain. Droplets of light seeped into the cracks of his being, purging the festering black and red mist. The suffocating pressure lessened, and for the briefest moment, Harry felt like himself again.

"M-Mom... Dad..." His voice was raw, barely above a whisper.

He reached out, hoping—praying—for something, someone.

"Hermione... Ron..." But his calls went unanswered.

"Professor McGonagall... anyone... please... help me..."

No one responded.

Even Dumbledore—the man he had always believed to be unshakable—was nowhere to be found.

The only thing keeping him from sinking entirely into oblivion was the flickering golden magic. And within it, he saw them. A man and a woman, standing hand in hand, watching over him with warm, unwavering eyes.

His father. His mother.

He had never been more certain of anything in his life.

"Help me..." he whispered.

"Dad... Mom..."

"..."

The darkness roiled around him, pressing in from all sides. The golden light faltered once more, fading, retreating. Panic clawed at his throat. No, not again.

"Don’t leave me!" He reached out desperately. "Please, don’t go!"

"Mom! Dad! NO!"

His cries reverberated through the void, and something stirred.

The shadows surged forward, thick and unrelenting. The hunger returned with a vengeance, and the desire for relief—final, complete relief—overwhelmed him.

Was this all he had left?

He had lived through so much pain. The cycle never ended. Was it so wrong to want it all to stop?

Life? Death?

What did it matter?

The thoughts solidified, taking root in his soul. The temptation of silence—of oblivion—grew stronger.

His body moved on instinct, drawn toward something hidden within the void. The scenery around him shifted, darkening further, until he stood at the heart of it all.

A golden light encased a black crystal.

The crystal pulsed, radiating a malevolent mist—red and black tendrils slithering outward like creeping vines. It was the source. The Horcrux fragment buried deep within him.

Golden threads wrapped tightly around it, forming a net of protection. Yet, the mist it released was relentless, seeping past the barrier, infiltrating his soul with every passing moment. The threads trembled under the strain, their ability to contain the darkness weakening.

And Harry... he was drawn to it.

As if sensing his intent, the golden net trembled. A faint hum resonated, a plea—no, a warning.

But the corruption was too deep. The cycle had drained him too much. And he was just a child—too young, too broken—to endure it any longer.

He raised a hand, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the golden net.

The threads shuddered, emitting one final desperate buzz, as if calling out to him—to what remained of his sanity.

And then—

Buzz!

A radiant explosion of golden light erupted, spreading outward in all directions. Lily’s magic—her love—reacted in force. The magic surged, intertwining, forming something new.

Two figures began to emerge from the light, becoming clearer with every heartbeat.

A man and a woman.

They held hands, standing before him.

"Harry, Harry."

"Wake up, wake up. Don't let the darkness swallow your soul."

A gentle, familiar voice echoed through the void. The moment Harry heard it, his body trembled, and the black fog clouding his eyes seemed to waver, thinning ever so slightly.

"Mom..."

His voice, barely more than a whisper, quivered with longing and an aching sadness so deep it made the air itself feel heavy. The sound carried with it a sorrow that could shatter the hardest of hearts.

However, something dark and insidious resisted.

The Horcrux fragment within him trembled violently, struggling, attempting to sever the fragile connection between Harry and the voice that called out to him. It sought to tighten its hold, to drown him in its influence once more.

The two golden figures standing before him turned toward each other, their expressions laced with worry. Their luminous forms flickered, unstable yet resolute. Then, as if coming to a mutual understanding, they nodded, determination flashing in their eyes.

Buzz!

Golden light erupted once again, but this time, the delicate golden threads that held the dark power at bay began to collapse. Wisps of radiant mist wove themselves around the black crystal that pulsed at the heart of the Horcrux fragment. The surrounding darkness recoiled, forced back by the purifying light.

In mere moments, the black and red mist dissipated, replaced by a soft, golden glow that shimmered with soul-deep warmth.

But the cost was high.

The two figures—James and Lily Potter—began to fade. Their luminous forms grew thinner, their hands clutching each other tightly as they turned toward the black crystal. Every step they took toward the Horcrux fragment made them more transparent, more ephemeral. And yet, their gazes never left Harry.

They watched him with infinite love, as if trying to etch his image into their very souls one final time.

The Horcrux, sensing imminent destruction, writhed and thrashed violently, but it was too late.

"No—please, no!"

Harry’s voice broke as he ran forward, desperation gripping his chest like an iron vice.

His parents had saved him. Their sacrifice had restored his mind, pulling him back from the brink. But he understood what was happening now.

They were using the last remnants of their existence to buy him more time.

Terror and anguish filled his every step as he sprinted toward them, his hands reaching, his heart screaming. But no matter how hard he ran, the distance between them only stretched further. He watched helplessly as his parents grew more translucent, their figures flickering like dying candle flames.

"No! Mom! Dad! Please!"

Harry's voice cracked, his breath coming in ragged sobs.

He had been granted a miracle—to see his parents, to hear them, to feel their presence. And now, he was losing them all over again.

His legs burned as he pushed himself harder, but no matter how fast he ran, no matter how desperately he reached for them, they continued forward, toward the dark fragment that had tainted his soul.

Golden runes spiraled into existence around them, each glowing with a brilliance that filled the void. They pulsed with warm, radiant energy, coalescing into an intricate barrier of light. It was as if the magic itself were singing, offering one final farewell.

James and Lily stood before the Horcrux fragment.

For a moment, they were still.

Then, James turned to glance back at Harry. His expression was filled with pride, sorrow, and an overwhelming love that needed no words.

Lily’s emerald eyes shone with unshed tears as she gazed at her son. The pain in her expression was undeniable, but beneath it, there was something else—an unshakable determination.

They had always known this moment would come.

Buzz!

Lily squeezed James’s hand and, together, they reached out toward the Horcrux fragment.

Buzz!

A flood of golden light burst forth, colliding with the fragment’s black-red energy. The clash was violent—dark energy surged wildly, resisting with all its might. But the magic of love was relentless. It burned through the corruption, unraveling the foul power woven into the Horcrux.

Their forms began to disintegrate, dissolving into golden embers.

Harry ran, his heart hammering, knowing—knowing this was the last time he would ever see them.

The golden flames intensified, consuming everything—the Horcrux, the black mist, the lingering traces of Voldemort’s soul. It was an inferno of purity, eradicating every last remnant of darkness.

James and Lily stood at its center, their eyes locked onto their son.

Then, just as the last of their forms began to fade—

A voice rang out.

"Hey, Lily. It doesn’t matter if James’s dead, but you can’t just disappear like that."

The sound was low, amused, but carried a weight of authority.

James and Lily’s fading figures halted, their eyes widening in surprise.

A figure stepped out from the other side of the Horcrux fragment, his presence nonchalant, almost lazy, yet undeniably powerful. His sharp eyes gleamed with interest as he surveyed the scene before him.

"Lockhart," Lily breathed, stunned. "How did you—"

Her words faltered, and then her gaze sharpened. "Can you fix this? Can you save Harry?"

James, too, turned toward Lockhart, urgency flickering across his features. "What’s happening outside? Where’s Dumbledore?"

Lockhart let out a small sigh, his gaze shifting to the now-weakened Horcrux fragment. He studied it with keen interest, as if examining an artifact rather than a cursed shard of Voldemort’s soul.

Then, almost absently, he waved a hand.

Lavender light shimmered in the air before sinking into the fragment. It pulsed once, then settled, as if recognizing the foreign magic's presence.

Lockhart smiled faintly, pleased.

"Dumbledore’s gone abroad. Hogwarts’ professors are useless in handling this mess. So, naturally, they called me."

His tone was casual, but his words carried weight.

James and Lily exchanged glances, understanding settling between them.

Lockhart turned his gaze fully onto them. "Long time no see, Lily."

He studied her carefully, as if assessing her condition, then added, "Your current state isn’t ideal."

Lily let out a soft, bitter laugh. "We’re already dead, Lockhart. There’s no ‘state’ to discuss."

Lockhart’s lips twitched. "Is that so? Because from where I’m standing, you’re not quite as gone as you think."

James and Lily stiffened, their gazes snapping to him. There was something in his voice—something that hinted at a deeper meaning.

Lockhart exhaled slowly, then met Lily’s eyes.

"Lily, I have a message from Snape."

Lily’s breath hitched at the mention of the name.

Lockhart’s next words were spoken softly, but they carried the weight of an impossible promise.

"He asked me to bring you back."

Chapter 502

"Snape."

When Lily heard that familiar name, her already translucent figure wavered, as if betraying the complex emotions in her heart.

"Lockhart, can you really bring Lily back?" James Potter immediately latched onto the key point, his voice filled with urgency. His face lit up with hope at the possibility of Lily’s resurrection.

For all his disdain for Snape, for all the years he had seen him as a rival, James couldn’t deny that Snape’s feelings for Lily were pure. And if Snape had requested this, it was because he had gone to extraordinary lengths to make it possible.

"Yes," Lockhart said with a small nod. "Snape has sacrificed a great deal for Lily’s sake."

He turned slightly, his voice calm, almost detached. "Of course, his contributions are worthy of my help in bringing her back."

Lily remained silent for a moment, then hesitantly asked, "How has he been? I heard he’s the Head of Slytherin House now and a professor at Hogwarts."

"Snape is doing well," Lockhart confirmed. "In fact, he also serves as the Potions Master at Kamar-Taj. He’s helped me in many ways."

Lily nodded, her expression unreadable. "That’s good to hear." Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she added, "But as for resurrection… it’s unnecessary."

Lockhart blinked, genuinely surprised at her refusal. Before he could ask why, Lily provided an explanation.

"I’ve been dead for years. In the minds of everyone who knew me, I already belong to the past." Her voice was gentle yet firm. "Even if I were to return, what purpose would it serve?"

The words were rational, even logical.

But James saw through them instantly.

"Lockhart, ignore Lily’s excuses and bring her back," James said decisively. "If you need anything, just say the word—I’ll cooperate fully."

He turned to his wife, his expression softening as he reached out, taking her ghostly hand in his. "Lily, I know what you’re thinking."

She looked away, but he continued, undeterred. "You don’t want to come back alone. You think that if we can’t both live, then neither of us should. But Lily, that’s not how this should be."

She remained silent, but James tightened his grip, his voice low and pleading. "This is a chance we never thought we’d get. You need to take it."

She looked into his eyes, filled with love and understanding. And then, he played his last card.

"Lily, Harry needs you."

Her lips parted slightly, but before she could protest, James pressed on.

"You’ve seen what he’s going through. You know the toll this is taking on him." His voice was firm but gentle. "If anyone can help him, it’s you. You’re the only one who can ease the damage done to his soul."

Lily trembled. She wanted to deny it, to push away the truth, but she couldn’t. James was right.

Still, sorrow flickered in her eyes. "What about you?"

James smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. "One of us surviving is better than neither. Harry needs at least one of us."

She swallowed hard, but before she could respond, she turned to Lockhart. "What would it take to bring James back too?"

Lockhart had been quietly observing them, and at her question, he let out a small sigh.

"Resurrection is not a simple thing, Lily," he said. "Snape’s request was to bring you back. That alone has required sacrifices beyond what you can imagine."

Lily fell silent, absorbing his words. James, too, frowned but didn’t argue.

Resurrection was not some ordinary spell—it was among the most forbidden forms of magic. Many had attempted it, few had succeeded, and even fewer had done so without great cost.

"Lily, listen to me," James said softly, stepping closer. He cupped her face in his ghostly hands, his touch barely tangible. "I love you. Even in death, that hasn’t changed."

His voice grew more intense. "I want you to live. I want you to look after our son."

Lockhart stood unmoved, as if accustomed to witnessing such raw emotions. "Snape, what do you think?" he suddenly asked, his lips moving slightly as if relaying a silent message.

Unseen by most, a figure in the shadows tensed.

Snape’s hidden presence had gone unnoticed, but now, Lockhart had called him out.

Snape’s dark eyes flickered, watching the exchange between the Potters. His face remained unreadable, yet something deep within him stirred—an emotion he had spent years trying to suppress.

Lockhart turned back to him. "Well?"

Silence hung between them. For a long moment, Snape said nothing.

Then, his lips pressed together, his voice rough when he finally spoke. "Resurrect Lily first."

Lockhart smirked faintly, nodding as if he had expected that very response. "Understood."

James closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. He had known this would be the outcome, but hearing it aloud made it all the more final.

Lily looked at Snape, though she could not see him. She could feel his presence. A part of her wanted to say something, but words failed her.

"Lily, James, we’ll talk about everything else later," Lockhart said calmly. "For now, let’s focus on bringing you back."

Lily hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Alright."

A flicker of movement in the shadows. Snape remained silent, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away.

Lockhart rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers. "Well then, let’s get started."

This was what he had promised Snape. And Lockhart always kept his promises.

As soon as the words fell, Lily opened her mouth as if she were about to say something, but Lockhart moved slightly, and his wand appeared in his hand.

With a precise wave, familiar magical vibrations rippled through the air. As if reacting to the spell, the surrounding soul space began to tremble with violent fluctuations.

Not far away, James Potter’s figure started to collapse, his essence disintegrating into wisps of black-red mist before fading completely. The darkness that had once clung to the space struggled to persist but was inevitably consumed by the rising tide of purple light that bathed the entire area.

The Horcrux fragment reacted immediately.

For the first time, it trembled with sheer panic, its resistance growing frenzied as its connection to Harry’s soul began to weaken. The dark mist pulsed in defiance, fighting desperately to maintain its grip.

Harry, still within the soul space, clutched his head and let out a cry of pain. His spectral form wavered, growing momentarily transparent.

In the physical world, his reaction mirrored the battle raging within. Lying on the hospital bed in Hogwarts’ infirmary, his body twisted and convulsed violently. McGonagall and Sirius stood nearby, watching with mounting concern.

"Lockhart, is Harry alright?" Sirius asked, his voice thick with panic.

But Lockhart gave no reply. His focus was wholly fixed on the Horcrux fragment.

"Sirius, stay calm," McGonagall said reassuringly. "Have faith in Lockhart."

She had witnessed enough in recent months to understand the depth of his abilities. In her mind, he had long since reached a level equal to, if not surpassing, Dumbledore. If he said Harry would be fine, then the only thing they could do now was wait.

Buzz!

The Horcrux fragment pulsed, its connection to Harry’s pure soul visibly shifting. The two were entangled in a complex rhythm of corruption and purification, a never-ending cycle that had only deepened their bond. Each iteration had not only damaged Harry but had also strengthened him in ways no one had foreseen.

Harry's magical talent had grown immensely, particularly in the domain of dark magic. But this strength came with a price—the taint of the Horcrux had slowly altered his very essence, pushing him further and further from who he once was.

Lockhart narrowed his eyes.

It wasn’t just a bond.

Somewhere within that cycle, Harry had absorbed a portion of the Horcrux itself.

A slow smirk formed on Lockhart’s lips. Fascinating.

Harry Potter, inheriting a piece of Voldemort’s soul and memories?

Was this the birth of Voldemort’s version of Harry Potter?

Or, perhaps, Harry Potter’s version of Voldemort?

The very thought thrilled Lockhart.

With another precise motion, his wand danced through the air. A gust of pale-blue, ethereal wind swept through the soul space, infused with the dream world’s power. It wove around the Horcrux fragment, breaking it down layer by layer, corroding it, purifying it, altering it.

Black dust rose from the fragment, dissipating into the air.

Outside the soul space, McGonagall and Sirius watched in astonishment as Harry’s trembling body grew still. His once-writhing form relaxed, his expression softening as if the torment had finally begun to fade.

McGonagall whispered, "His magical aura... it's growing."

Harry’s soul pulsed with newfound strength, feeding on the remains of the Horcrux. The golden runes that had long encased the fragment gleamed even brighter, seizing their long-awaited victory over the darkness.

"So this is the Dark Lord’s greatest safeguard?" Snape’s voice cut through the stillness.

His tone was calm, but there was a distant edge of something else—perhaps loneliness, perhaps something darker.

Lockhart nodded, admiration lacing his words. "For all its flaws, the Horcrux is an ingenious piece of magic. A backup of one’s soul—stubborn and resilient beyond belief. If it weren’t for the power of the dream world, breaking it would be nearly impossible."

Snape remained quiet, his thoughts unreadable.

Then, after a long pause, he spoke. "In the face of the threats from other dimensions, could a Horcrux serve as protection?"

Lockhart hesitated, the first sign of uncertainty crossing his face.

"Perhaps," he admitted. "But that’s a conversation for another time. Right now, our focus is on completing this task."

The last remnants of the Horcrux dissolved into nothingness.

The soul space was now bathed in golden light, pure and undisturbed.

Harry stood at the center, wrapped in the warmth of his mother’s embrace. Tears glistened in his emerald eyes, but his face remained unreadable.

"Professor Lockhart," he murmured, his voice calm, detached. "Thank you for your help with my mother."

Lockhart observed him closely. There was something different about Harry now. He no longer carried the same innocence as before—there was something else beneath the surface. Something controlled. Something composed.

He had changed.

Lockhart smiled. "Of course, Harry. A promise is a promise."

With that, his spirit retreated from the soul space.

In the physical world, Harry’s eyes fluttered open. A golden glow flickered briefly in his gaze before vanishing, unnoticed by all except one.

Snape’s sharp eyes caught the trace of magic and widened slightly. He knew exactly what it meant.

Lily’s soul mark had been successfully preserved.

"Harry!" Sirius rushed forward, relief flooding his voice. "Are you alright? Are you thirsty? Hungry? You’ve been asleep for an entire day!"

"Yes, Harry," McGonagall added, concern evident in her expression. "Tell us how you feel. If there’s anything wrong, we’ll fix it together."

Harry sat up slowly, his movements precise, controlled. "I’m fine," he said smoothly. "Actually, I feel better than ever."

McGonagall blinked at his composed demeanor, then turned to Lockhart, who merely gave an unreadable smile.

"Headmaster Lockhart," Harry continued, rising to his feet. He bowed slightly, his voice unwavering. "Thank you for your assistance."

Sirius and McGonagall exchanged surprised glances.

There was something different about him.

Then Harry turned, his gaze sharp, focused.

"And about my mother’s resurrection... What do you need me to do?"

Chapter 503

"Resurrection?"

McGonagall felt momentarily dazed upon hearing the word. The only resurrection she had encountered recently was that of the Dark Lord Voldemort. And now, hearing it from Harry's mouth again, she couldn’t help but feel incredulous.

"Lockhart, are you certain?" Sirius exclaimed in shock. "Lily can really be resurrected?"

"When does it begin?"

"How do we do it?"

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Can James be resurrected too?"

Sirius fired off a rapid series of questions, his excitement palpable.

Beside him, Harry frowned slightly, his expression unreadable.

Sirius was his godfather, and though Harry respected him, at this moment, he found his enthusiasm somewhat overwhelming. He wanted to focus on one thing—bringing his mother back.

Lockhart, however, paid no attention to Sirius' outburst. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on Harry, his colorful eyes filled with something that resembled admiration.

Harry Potter was no longer just a boy—he was a masterpiece.

In Lockhart’s eyes, the young wizard before him was nothing short of a work of art. His once pure soul had been reforged through countless cycles of corruption and purification. Through the unpredictable power of dreams, he had not only absorbed Voldemort’s soul fragment but had done so in near perfection.

Coupled with Lily’s magic of love and the presence of his parents’ soul marks, Harry’s soul had reached new heights. His magic potential had skyrocketed, particularly in the realm of dark magic, and his affinity with the dream world had grown abnormally strong.

A mere boy? No.

Harry Potter was something far more.

Lockhart’s mind briefly wandered. Second only to his most talented students at Kamar-Taj, Harry had developed a unique connection to the dream world, even though he had never been granted true access to its depths.

And yet, the effects of the Horcrux were undeniable.

His emotions had become dangerously sharpened, his mind filled with experiences that were not his own. The remnants of Voldemort’s knowledge, memories, and even perspectives lingered within him. The influence was evident—Harry was walking a fine line between what he had once been and what he could become.

A perfect warrior.

A perfect weapon.

Lockhart smiled faintly.

"Harry, come to Kamar-Taj."

Instead of answering Harry’s initial question, Lockhart extended an invitation.

He had never actively recruited from Hogwarts before, out of respect for Dumbledore’s presence. And truthfully, the students there had never piqued his interest—none had been worthy.

But the Harry before him was different.

Here was a wizard with boundless soul potential, an innate talent for magic, and a mindset already shaped beyond his years.

A perfect disciple.

Harry was silent for a moment before responding, his voice steady, almost indifferent. "Professor Lockhart, do you mean I need to join Kamar-Taj to resurrect my mother?"

"Of course not," Lockhart said, shaking his head. "The two are separate matters. No matter what, I will bring Lily back."

"Then I apologize, Professor Lockhart. But I will stay at Hogwarts," Harry replied calmly. "Hogwarts suits me better."

There was no hesitation, no second-guessing in his words.

It was a firm rejection.

If Lockhart had expected the young wizard to leap at the opportunity, he was mistaken.

McGonagall's heart swelled with pride. Yes, Harry was truly a Gryffindor! The concern that had gnawed at her vanished instantly. For a moment, she had feared that Harry, with his recent admiration for Lockhart, might choose to leave Hogwarts.

But he had not.

Harry had chosen Hogwarts and Gryffindor.

Lockhart, for the first time in a long while, looked surprised. He had not expected such a decisive refusal.

But after a brief pause, he smiled and nodded. "Alright, Harry."

His voice carried no disappointment, only amusement. "Kamar-Taj’s doors will always remain open to you. I give you my word as its headmaster—this invitation stands, even after you graduate from Hogwarts."

Harry felt something cold slither down his spine.

He couldn’t explain why, but something in Lockhart’s words made him uneasy. The warmth in his voice didn’t reassure him—it unsettled him.

It was the same unease he felt when he looked at Tom Riddle's Horcrux.

A chill that whispered of hidden intentions.

For reasons beyond his understanding, his instincts screamed to keep his distance.

"Thank you, Professor Lockhart," Harry said slowly. "I will consider it seriously."

Lockhart’s smirk widened, but he said nothing more.

McGonagall, sensing a shift in the conversation, stepped forward. "Lockhart, about Lily’s resurrection—are there any potential negative effects?"

As Hogwarts’ deputy headmistress, she had access to the most restricted texts in the library. She knew that resurrection magic was an ancient and dangerous field.

Many spells that claimed to restore life had consequences—some drained magic, some corrupted the soul, others left the resurrected with an insatiable bloodlust.

And some… some were even worse.

Lockhart turned his gaze toward her, his expression unreadable.

"A fair question, Professor McGonagall," he admitted. "I can assure you, I wouldn’t perform this if I wasn’t confident in its success."

But McGonagall wasn’t so easily satisfied. "Success does not mean there are no risks. What exactly are we dealing with?"

Lockhart was silent for a long moment before speaking.

"Resurrection, true resurrection, is not simply about restoring a body. It’s about the soul," he explained. "Lily’s soul has been preserved within the protective barrier of her love magic. This is why the process will work. But..."

He let the word hang in the air, the weight of it pressing against those listening.

"This has never been done before—not like this. The price of such a miracle has yet to be determined."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Harry clenched his fists, his determination unwavering. "I don’t care about the cost. As long as my mother comes back, I will do whatever is necessary."

McGonagall sighed deeply. "Lockhart, if anything goes wrong..."

"I will take full responsibility," Lockhart assured her smoothly. "But rest easy, Minerva. This is no dark ritual, no forbidden spell. It is merely... an overdue correction."

McGonagall pursed her lips, unconvinced but out of arguments.

Sirius, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke again. "Then when do we begin?"

Lockhart smiled, his eyes gleaming.

"Soon," he promised. "Very soon."

Chapter 504

A gentle breeze swept across the emerald green lawn, carrying the golden warmth of the afternoon sun. Tiny magical creatures lounged lazily in the grass, basking in the tranquil atmosphere. It was a picture of serenity—until something extraordinary shattered the calm.

A vibrant halo of light materialized on the lawn, swirling with an ethereal glow.

The Door of Dreams.

Within moments, the glowing ring of light stretched and expanded into an open doorway, revealing what appeared to be a bedroom on the other side.

"I've found a quieter place, more fitting for a resurrection ceremony," Lockhart announced softly, stepping through without hesitation.

Snape followed immediately, his pace eager and determined.

One by one, Sirius, McGonagall, Remy, and the others crossed into the shimmering portal. Harry hesitated, staring at the dream door with a strange sense of familiarity. Something about it called to him, whispering through his very magic.

He reached out, his fingers brushing the threshold. Instantly, the magic within him stirred—power surged through his veins, and a flood of images overwhelmed his mind.

Towering castles.
Shadowed forests.
Vast, endless oceans.
Desolate valleys etched deep into the earth.

It felt as though an entire world had opened itself to him. But before he could grasp its meaning, the connection was abruptly severed, and the visions disappeared.

Harry exhaled sharply, blinking away the lingering confusion. A subtle sense of loss gnawed at him, but he shook it off and stepped forward, passing through the dream door.

On the other side, an elaborate marble platform stood atop the lawn, pristine and gleaming under the golden sunlight.

At some point, a ceremonial structure had risen—its white marble shimmering in the light.

Lockhart ascended the platform first, his expression unreadable. Snape and the others followed closely, forming a loose circle around its edges.

The wind shifted, and the golden rays of the sun bathed them all in a warm glow.

Lockhart’s eyes swept over the gathering, pausing briefly on Harry and Snape before he continued. Raising his wand, he traced a delicate rune in the air.

Boom!

The sky above them transformed.

The soft blue expanse darkened, melting into a deep, shifting twilight. The air pulsed with magic, thick and brimming with the power of dreams.

In an instant, the scene around them changed. The platform vanished, replaced by the facade of an old, familiar house.

Everyone stood before it, their faces reflecting a mixture of emotions—shock, recognition, disbelief, and sorrow.

Sirius let out a strangled sound, his hands covering his face as his shoulders trembled.

This house—

It was the house of secrecy.
James and Lily Potter’s home.
The place where everything began.

The night everything changed.

McGonagall stared at the building, her sharp eyes searching for inconsistencies, for any sign that this was merely an illusion. True time travel was impossible. She knew that. She was certain.

So this had to be a construct—some kind of hyper-realistic fantasy, a dream given form.

Snape stood frozen, unable to take even a single step forward. The sight of this house, this moment in time, pierced something deep within him. This was where his worst nightmare had taken root. The wound that never healed.

Buzz!

Darkness rippled through the dreamscape. A faint golden glow flickered, standing defiantly against the encroaching gloom.

But the other wizards nearby seemed oblivious to the ominous shift in energy.

Then—

A black mist swirled, and a figure appeared.

Peter Pettigrew.

He stood at the forefront, his rat-like face twisted into an unsettling mix of triumph and nervous anticipation. Behind him, cloaked in shadow, loomed a dozen Death Eaters.

Pettigrew bowed his head low, his voice reverent as he spoke to the figure at the front.

"Master, the child of prophecy is inside," he whispered.
"The Order of the Phoenix is absent. There's no one here to protect them."

At that moment, Voldemort stepped into the light.

His skin was pale, but he still retained his human form. He regarded Pettigrew with mild amusement, accepting the slip of parchment handed to him. As his eyes scanned the contents, a satisfied smirk curled across his lips.

The secret had been revealed.

Dumbledore’s meticulous planning, the Order’s hidden sanctuary, the prophecy itself—
All laid bare.

And he was going to destroy it all.

Tread. Tread. Tread.

Voldemort’s footsteps echoed as he approached the door.

With a flick of his hand, the wooden door creaked open.

The Death Eaters followed in silence, slipping inside one by one.

McGonagall, Snape, Sirius, and the others instinctively moved as well, drawn deeper into the illusion—or perhaps into something far more real than any of them dared admit.

Then—

Crack!
Boom! Boom! Boom!

The sounds of shattering spells, desperate shouts of defiance, and splintering furniture erupted within the house. Chaos unfolded.

Snape clenched his eyes shut, his breath ragged. He knew what came next.

Sirius gritted his teeth, his hands trembling as he pushed forward, unable to resist the pull of the inevitable.

The scene shifted once more.

Voldemort stood in the bedroom.

James Potter lay lifeless on the floor, his wand just out of reach from his outstretched hand.

Lily was cornered, her back pressed against the wall, tears streaming down her face.

In the cradle, baby Harry wailed, his tiny hands reaching out helplessly.

Voldemort raised his wand, his voice cold and final.

"Avada Kedavra."

A flash of green light.

And then—a stillness.

"James! James!"
Lily’s scream pierced the silence, raw and filled with unbearable grief.

Voldemort barely spared her a glance, irritated by the noise. But he had made a promise—to his loyal servant—that she would be spared.

Still, the child had to die.

He turned his attention to the crying infant.

Harry, now standing in the shadows of the dream, watched himself as a baby. His hand instinctively brushed the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

He knew what was about to happen.

Voldemort’s wand leveled at the cradle, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

Green light flickered at the tip—

Lily stepped forward, her face set with fierce determination. She turned to look at her child one last time, her expression soft, brimming with love.

And then—

Click!

The scene froze.

James’ lifeless body.
Lily’s unwavering stance.
Baby Harry’s outstretched hands.
Voldemort’s poised wand.

Time itself seemed to hesitate, caught between the past and the dream.

Then—

Colors bled into the darkness.

The power of dreams surged forward, painting over reality itself.

Chapter 505

Reality or fantasy?

That was the question.

McGonagall felt a deep, unsettling confusion. Everything before her eyes mirrored her memories—not just similar, but exact. The biting chill of the air, the howling wind rattling the windows, the warmth of the fireplace battling the cold, the desperate cries echoing through the halls, and the metallic scent of blood clinging to the air. Every detail aligned so perfectly with her recollection that she felt as if she had been transported back in time.

As the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, McGonagall knew that high-level illusion magic could replicate reality with astonishing precision. But this—this was something else entirely.

How could Lockhart possibly know exactly what transpired the night Voldemort murdered Lily and James?

Every soul present that night had perished. The only survivors were herself, Dumbledore, and baby Harry. The events of that night had only been reconstructed later, pieced together through Dumbledore’s formidable magic. And even then, much had been lost, distorted, or buried by time.

Yet here it was, laid out before her as if history itself had been cracked open.

More than that, there were details—small, intimate moments she hadn’t remembered until now. Things she had forgotten with the passing years. But standing here, everything was sharper, more vivid than her own memories. It felt like this wasn’t just an illusion, but something more.

A memory? No.
An illusion? Not quite.

Gripping her wand tightly, she whispered a detection spell under her breath, designed to expose even the most intricate illusions.

Nothing.

No feedback. No trace of deception.

Reality?

A chill ran down her spine. If this was real—if they had somehow stepped into the past—she needed to inform Dumbledore immediately. She needed to understand what was happening.

Click!

A sharp, cracking sound echoed through the space, like glass shattering.

Everything froze.

Lily Potter clutched baby Harry to her chest, her expression a mix of fear and fierce determination. A faint golden glow shimmered in her emerald eyes, as if she were preparing one last desperate spell.

Opposite her, Voldemort stood tall, his yew wand raised, the tip glowing with sickly green light. The Killing Curse hovered in the air, moments from sealing their fate.

The infant Harry lay in the cradle, his tiny hands reaching outward, confused and helpless.

The air felt heavy, charged with dread. The broken home whispered of the tragedy poised to unfold.

McGonagall, Sirius, Snape, and Harry himself held their breath, watching the moment suspended in time—the moment that had irrevocably changed their lives.

Harry’s fingers instinctively brushed the scar on his forehead, his body trembling ever so slightly. The memories of this night had always been fragmented, blurred by trauma. But now, for the first time, he saw everything with piercing clarity.

And then—

A ripple of energy, vibrant and prismatic, washed over the scene like a wave of paint sweeping across a canvas.

McGonagall gasped. She could feel it.

The breath of reality.

This wasn’t just a vision, nor was it a mere memory. It was something deeper. Something real in a way she couldn't quite comprehend.

She had never felt anything like it before, but she knew—

This was the truth.

It was tangible, within reach, and yet utterly impossible.

Then—

Buzz!

A visible current of dream energy surged, converging on Lily Potter’s spectral form. It wrapped around her, saturating her translucent figure in a warm golden light.

The surrounding illusion began to peel away.

The broken house, the shattered furniture, the looming figure of the Dark Lord—all began to fade, as if wiped clean by an unseen hand.

Voldemort’s form flickered, his image dissolving into a transparent shadow. The corpses on the floor blurred, their outlines softening before vanishing into nothingness.

The walls of the house became pure white, like a blank canvas waiting to be painted anew.

And when all else had disappeared, only Lily remained.

No longer just a memory. No longer just an illusion.

She was becoming real.

Harry took a shaky breath, his eyes locked on his mother’s form as it solidified before him. His lips parted, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"From illusion to reality…"

Something stirred deep within him. The memories, the knowledge buried inside, all surged forward, answering an unspoken call.

For the first time, Harry felt it.

A connection.

Not just to Lily. Not just to this moment in the past.

But to something much greater.

Raising his hands, he stared at his palms, feeling an unfamiliar yet comforting energy pulse beneath his skin. A warmth, a familiarity—

Call!

A soft glow flickered to life, swirling in his hands.

Prismatic energy—the power of dreams.

Remy and Vera stiffened, their eyes widening in shock.

Harry Potter wasn’t supposed to be able to summon the dream energy of Kamar-Taj.

That power belonged to the disciples of Lockhart, those who had been granted access to the dream world. Even they, despite years of rigorous training, could only manipulate a fraction of it.

But Harry—

Harry was drawing it forth naturally, instinctively, as if he had belonged to this realm all along.

Remy swallowed hard. "No way…"

Vera exhaled slowly, her voice barely audible. "Harry Potter truly is the Chosen One."

Envy flickered in both of them. As Lockhart’s most trusted students, they had spent years mastering the ways of the dream world. Yet here stood Harry, wielding its power as though it had always been his birthright.

Lockhart himself watched in silence, his golden eyes reflecting the light swirling in Harry’s palms. He sighed, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"A child of the dream," he murmured. "It takes others years to reach this point. But for him—one moment was enough."

Then, turning his focus back to Lily, his expression grew serious.

There was no room for distraction. Not now.

Bringing someone from illusion into reality required complete concentration. He had made a promise, and he intended to keep it.

McGonagall had been right to be stunned.

This was no ordinary illusion. No simple spell.

It was the Dream of the World.

A collective ocean of all knowledge, memories, and subconscious thoughts that had ever existed within the magical realm. A place that recorded everything—from the dawn of magic to the present day.

Wizards rarely accessed it, and even then, only the most powerful ever caught glimpses of its secrets.

The greatest mysteries of divination, fate, and spirit magic were all interwoven within this realm.

Lockhart had spent years unraveling its depths.

Now, with the power of dreams, he would do what no wizard had ever done before.

He had used Lily's soul mark to locate the scene from that fateful night.

The Dream of the World held details beyond comprehension—the placement of every stone, the flicker of every shadow, the echo of every heartbeat—all captured with perfect clarity. It was an unfiltered, eternal archive of reality itself.

But such power came at a cost.

The Dream of the World was vast, overwhelming, and brimming with more knowledge than any single mind could bear. Without the strength to withstand its pressure, even the most skilled wizards would be crushed beneath the weight of its infinite memories.

Lockhart was no exception.

Even he, with all his mastery, felt the suffocating force pressing down on him as he guided the ritual forward. Endless streams of information filtered through his mind—whispers from a thousand timelines, fragments of lives long past, and echoes of magic both ancient and forbidden.

Still, despite the unbearable burden, the rewards were undeniable.

And the greatest reward of all—the resurrection before them—was nearing completion.

Call! Call!

The prismatic energy of the dream world surged into Lily's forming body, solidifying her flesh and bones at a pace visible to the naked eye. Her features sharpened, her form becoming more tangible with each pulse of shimmering light.

Yet, something stirred in response.

A silent ripple spread across the pristine white dreamscape, darkening its edges with wisps of gray.

The Dream of the World had no consciousness, yet its instincts remained intact.

When information was hidden, it obscured.
When power was lost, it replenished.
And when something was stolen, it resisted.

Now, as Lockhart drew from its depths to rebuild Lily Potter, it fought back.

An onslaught of foreign information crashed into the dream world, carrying the sheer weight of a universe’s knowledge. Ethereal waves of soul energy surged forward, attempting to assimilate, devour, or even erase the dreamscape entirely.

But Lockhart’s domain was not so easily overwhelmed.

His dream world was not merely an illusion—it was a construct, forged from the very essence of a dimensional plane. He had shaped it with his will, anchored it with his magic.

It absorbed the assault, consuming the invading force bit by bit, until the Dream of the World faltered, recognizing the futility of its struggle.

As if conceding defeat, the once fierce resistance began to recede.

And then—

Buzz!

A final pulse of golden energy radiated outward as Lily’s resurrection reached its zenith.

Her body was whole. Her skin glowed with the warmth of life, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The air around her shimmered with the lingering essence of the dream world.

McGonagall’s breath caught in her throat.

It was unmistakable.

The woman standing before them wasn’t just a copy. She wasn’t a spirit tethered to a body. This was Lily Potter.

Lockhart nodded in satisfaction, his golden eyes reflecting the light of the completed ritual. The foundation was laid. Now came the final, most delicate step—the soul.

Unlike a typical resurrection, there was no intact soul to return. Lily had left behind only a soul mark—a mere fragment of her essence. It carried emotions, fleeting memories from the moment of her death, but it was incomplete.

To restore what was lost, Lockhart once again delved into the Dream of the World.

This new body contained every detail of Lily’s life—from her first breath to her last. Now, it needed a soul to match.

With a flick of his wand, a golden symbol emerged from the air, swirling like molten light before drifting toward Lily’s forehead.

As it settled into place, a sudden breath of life surged from within her.

Memories cascaded into her consciousness—waves of moments, sensations, and experiences, all rushing to reconnect, to make her whole.

Buzz!

Her emerald-green eyes fluttered open, dazed at first. Confusion swirled in their depths, but as the pieces began to align, clarity returned.

Her gaze sharpened, locking onto three familiar figures standing before her—McGonagall, Sirius, and Snape.

They were older now, their faces lined with years of grief and battle. But beneath the changes, she recognized them.

Time had passed.

And she—

She had just survived death.

Her gaze drifted, scanning the others in the room—Lockhart, his students Remy and Vera—but none of them registered. Then, finally, her eyes settled on a young man standing slightly apart from the rest.

His face was unfamiliar, yet something deep within her stirred.

An ache bloomed in her chest.

Tears welled in Lily’s eyes as recognition dawned.

"James? James—"

Her voice trembled, thick with raw emotion and disbelief.

Harry stood frozen.

He had imagined this moment countless times. Wondered how it would feel to see his mother, to hear her voice. But now, standing face to face with her, words failed him.

Snape, too, found himself rooted in place.

For years, he had envisioned Lily’s return. He had rehearsed what he would say, how he would explain everything he had done in her absence. But now that she was here, his mind was a blank slate, wiped clean by the sheer weight of her presence.

For the first time in decades, he was utterly lost.

"Lily—" Snape finally managed, his voice low and unsteady. His hands twitched at his sides, aching to reach out to her, but he held himself back, unsure of his place in this impossible reunion.

He had no words, no prepared speech, no way to convey the depth of his feelings.

So, he stood still, helpless in front of the woman he had loved his entire life.

Lockhart was the one to break the silence, his tone smooth and composed. "Lily, congratulations on your successful resurrection."

She turned toward him, blinking away the tears clouding her vision.

"You’ve just returned," he continued, his voice calm, almost clinical. "Your memories may take time to fully restore. And given the damage your soul endured, you’ll need a period of recovery."

Lily inhaled shakily, nodding as she tried to process his words.

"Don’t worry," Lockhart reassured, his golden eyes gleaming. "These are minor concerns. Kamar-Taj has the means to aid in your healing."

Snape stiffened at that.

If it weren’t for the binding contract he had made, he would never have involved Lockhart in Lily’s fate. The idea of her being under Lockhart’s influence made his skin crawl.

"Lily," he said, his voice gaining strength.

Reaching into his robes, he withdrew a sleek black box. His fingers trembled slightly as he opened it, revealing a ten-and-a-quarter-inch green willow wand.

"This is yours," Snape whispered.

Lily hesitated, her gaze flickering between Snape and the wand. Recognition dawned in her eyes as memories continued to flood back—memories of Hogwarts, of shared laughter, of long-forgotten promises.

And with those memories came understanding.

She knew what Snape had done.
She knew the price he had paid.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words.

Then, with a steady hand, Lily reached out and took the wand.

"Thank you, Snape."

Her voice wavered slightly, but the gratitude was genuine.

She wanted to say more—to acknowledge the sacrifices he had made, the life he had lived in her absence—but the words eluded her.

Instead, she turned to her son.

Her breath hitched as their eyes met.

The young man before her looked so much like James. But something was off—something in the way he stood, in the quiet, guarded intensity of his gaze.

A strange chill ran through Lily’s heart.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but undeniable.

Her soul, still raw and sensitive from the resurrection, recoiled at something she couldn’t quite name. A darkness clung to Harry, faint but familiar. A presence she had felt once before.

Lily swallowed, her fingers tightening around her wand.

"Harry," she whispered, her voice a blend of love and uncertainty. "My son… come here and let me see you."