Harry Potter: The Bard of Hogwarts

Tragedy, they say, is the highest form of storytelling.

Even Aristotle once noted that tragedy evokes pity and fear, leading to a kind of emotional cleansing—a moral renewal through sorrow.

Perhaps that's why some are remembered as the bravest cowards, spending their lives in repentance without ever truly changing.

But for a Dreamweaver, such sorrow is beside the point. His concern is not with endings, but with illusions spun in silk and sunlight.

High above, nestled comfortably atop the moon like a cat curling into sleep, Ino closed his eyes. The magical umbrella he had cast stretched wide across the land below, silently seeding dreams into the minds beneath it.

A familiar park unfolded.

Verdant grass spread like velvet beneath the sun, dotted with soft blooms of lilies swaying gently in the breeze. The very air held a tranquil sweetness, as if peace had taken root in every petal, every breath.

In the middle of the field stood a camphor tree, tall and time-worn, its broad trunk requiring two people to encircle it. Its bark whispered of the past, and its branches danced lazily with the wind, like an old friend waving hello.

It should have been a comforting sight.

But for Severus Snape, it was terrifying.

He knew this place. Every leaf. Every curve of bark. Every flicker of light through the canopy. It lived in his memory like an old wound—tender, but unhealed.

His instinct was to run. But something deeper, some thread of longing tightly knotted around his soul, held him there. He moved forward instead, his steps so gentle he might have feared hurting the grass beneath him.

To love someone for twenty-nine years. To wait nine more. To spend a lifetime atoning.

Snape stopped at the foot of the tree. He neither sat nor turned back. He simply stood, silent, as if expecting the wind itself to judge him.

He didn't know how to begin.

When Harry had first arrived at Hogwarts, Snape had been, perhaps secretly—the most thrilled of them all. But when the boy had fumbled through potion ingredients like any other first-year, disappointment cut deeper than he had expected. The talent hadn't been passed on. Or so he thought.

Then, one spring afternoon in the second half of that year, a meeting in a fourth-floor corridor had changed something.

Three Gryffindors.

One with flaming red hair.

One with sharp, emerald eyes.

And one girl with a mind like fire and steel.

It was almost as if someone had taken three lives and stirred them gently into one.

A vision formed.

A girl beneath sunlight. A smile. A memory.

A lily in full bloom.

And Snape, for once, didn't turn and run. He didn't speak, either. But his eyes were no longer hollow. They brimmed with regret, sorrow—and something close to hope.

She appeared then.

Lily Evans.

Young. Smiling. Arms crossed and brow arched with that same playful scolding he hadn't seen in decades.

"You're not going to say anything, are you, Severus?"

Her voice rang out like bells. Light and sharp.

"Lily…" His voice cracked as if he'd used all his strength to speak just that one word.

"Well, go on then." She tilted her head, lips curved in gentle challenge. "I'm listening."

It was like stepping through a curtain of time. That summer. That train ride. That moment on the hill.

And suddenly, he couldn't keep it in anymore.

"I'm sorry," Snape said. "Truly. I know nothing I say can undo what I did. But I've spent every moment since trying to protect your son. I swear it. All of it, my life—it's all been for him."

He dropped to the grass, his voice faltering, overwhelmed by the surreal weight of it all. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. But it felt more real than anything had in years.

Lily sat beside him, quiet, thoughtful.

In her memory, the last thing she remembered was green light, and then—nothing. Like the world had vanished beneath a heavy curtain.

She had questions. But for now, she simply watched.

For Snape, the silence stretched endlessly. Each second carved out of stone. And just when he thought it would break him—

"Well," she sighed, "enough brooding. Tell me about Harry. How's he doing?"

At that very moment, miles away, Albus Dumbledore walked through the gates of Wotewort Hollow.

Most believed his birthplace was in Godric's Hollow. But that was merely where the family had fled after tragedy. This was his true beginning.

The gentle house, the orchard trees, and the garden still held echoes of laughter. His mother's stern warmth. Ariana's quiet smile. And of course, his brother Aberforth, still cantankerous as ever, now with a beard more goat than man.

Blue eyes glistening, Dumbledore blinked against the sudden sting of tears.

"Brilliant," muttered Aberforth, leaning against the fence. "Can't even have a decent dream without you showing up and weeping all over it."

Still, he didn't shoo him away. He stayed.

When Dumbledore stepped forward, eager to see them again, Aberforth raised a warning hand.

"Stop right there. That's your spot. Don't come any closer."

A voice answered from behind.

"Aberforth, he's your brother."

Kendra Dumbledore. Strong, wise, and long gone from the world of the living. Yet here she stood again, not as memory, but as presence.

Even with silver in his hair, Aberforth obeyed her like the little boy he once was, grumbling as he stepped aside. Ariana covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

Kendra waved her son forward.

Dumbledore didn't hesitate. He had too many questions, too many things to say. And whatever this was—memory, magic, dream—it didn't matter.

It was real enough to matter.

Night blanketed the castle, tucking it in with soft shadows and whispered calm.

But time never stands still.

At first light, golden rays sliced through the mist, waking the Forbidden Forest, the still waters of the Black Lake, and the towering spires of Hogwarts.

Something had changed.

The castle was the same. But the people within it were not.

Across every hallway, every common room, every table in the Great Hall, a strange brightness had returned to the eyes of those who had slept under the dreamveil. As if something heavy had been lifted. As if part of them had been seen and heard and healed.

Each person wore it differently.

Some smiled with gentle relief. Some looked wistful, as if waking from a paradise they couldn't return to. Others, like Pansy Parkinson, walked with an unfamiliar stillness.

In her dream, she had seen someone she had longed to see. But she had not received the answer she hoped for.

Strangely, it didn't hurt as much as she thought it would.

Perhaps, as he had said, schoolyard affection belonged in the schoolyard. And some chapters are best left closed, tenderly bookmarked by time.

Morning light reached the tower rooms. Students filed into the Great Hall, yawning and brushing sleep from their eyes.

Dreams were dreams. But breakfast was breakfast.

Ino, however, didn't rise with them.

He lay tangled in blankets, too exhausted to move, staring at the ceiling.

He had politely turned down Pansy the night before. Then spent hours walking through Dumbledore's dream, meeting the old headmaster's family, watching memories unfold like ancient scrolls.

But what stayed with him most was the realization.

Some dreams reached farther than others.

Some brushed fingertips with the dead.

"One more thing to do," he muttered to himself, sinking deeper into the pillow. "After this is over, I'm going to the Hall of Death."