firecracker ???

The air was different now—no longer still, no longer waiting. It hummed with something ancient. Final. As though the castle itself had felt the heartbeat return to Harry Potter's chest and decided: it ends here.

Not with war.

Not with fire.

But with silence.

Harry stood slowly.

Every muscle burned. His head pounded. His scar—quiet. His skin felt too thin for the light. Too human for the weight in his chest.

But his hand was steady.

Lyra stepped back, just far enough for him to move. Her fingers lingered on his wrist. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. Their eyes met—hers glassy, his clear.

"You feeling alright?" she whispered.

Harry smiled. Crooked. James Potter.

"Better than ever."

It was true.

He felt everything.

And nothing.

And peace.

Then he stepped forward.

And the world moved around him.

The castle shadows parted.

Sirius. Regulus. Snape. Lucius. Narcissa. Draco. Bellatrix. McGonagall. The students. The professors. The ghosts of seven years.

They didn't speak. They didn't stop him.

Because they understood what this was.

It had always been Harry.

But Harry?

He walked alone.

To meet the man who had tried to end him.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Voldemort turned slowly, disbelief etched into every inhuman line. His expression fractured between rage, fear, and something like awe.

"You—"

"You missed," Harry said.

Voldemort's mouth twisted.

"Twice, now," Harry added cheerfully. "You'd think you'd be better at this by now."

His voice was light, but behind it—steel. Magic trembled in the air between them.

"You're supposed to be dead."

Harry shrugged. "Bit of a theme, isn't it?"

There was a pause. A long, waiting silence. The kind of silence that comes before the sky cracks.

Voldemort sneered. "You think this changes anything?"

Harry didn't flinch. "Everything's changed."

He raised his wand.

Not in challenge.

But in farewell.

"No more Horcruxes," he said softly. "No more tricks. Just you and me."

The truth landed like a stone in the courtyard. Everyone felt it. The finality. The quiet weight of it.

Voldemort scoffed. "Still playing the hero."

"No," Harry said. "Just tired of you."

And then—

A hiss. A shriek.