The Warrior Mage of Westeros

Jon let out a low sigh, dragging a hand through his hair as he leaned against the stone wall of the courtyard. The weight of the day hung heavily on him, each new revelation digging deeper into his sense of identity, each twist in his lineage pushing him further into the unknown. He had spent his life questioning where he truly belonged, and now the truth was more elusive than ever.

"I wish it could be possible to talk to them…" Jon's voice trailed off, distant and wistful, as though he were speaking to the wind itself, hoping for some divine answer to fall from the sky.

Harry stood beside him, the silence stretching between them like an unseen chasm, but there was something resolute in his eyes, something that suggested he had answers Jon hadn't even thought to ask for. He knew how heavy the burden of secrets could be, how it could tear a person apart from the inside. If anyone knew how to shoulder a truth like this, it was Harry.

With a slow exhale, Harry's voice cut through the quiet, steady and sure. "It is possible," he said, his words simple yet laden with meaning.

Jon turned to him, brows furrowed in confusion. "What? How?"

Harry looked out across the courtyard, gathering his thoughts as if he were choosing the right words to guide Jon through the maze of his own tangled emotions. "In my world," he began, "there are stories that aren't just stories. They carry magic. Stories that endure, like the ones Old Nan tells you. And one of the most famous ones comes from a man named Beedle the Bard."

Jon's curiosity was piqued. "Beedle the Bard? Never heard of him."

"Figured you wouldn't," Harry chuckled lightly. "He was a storyteller, but not the kind you think. His tales carried meaning, magic, and, well, power." Harry paused, eyes glinting with a quiet reverence as he prepared to weave the tale. "One of the most famous stories is about three brothers—Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus Peverell."

Jon listened intently, though the mention of Peverell made his heart skip a beat. He had heard that name before, buried in whispers and old legends. Something about it felt… familiar.

Harry's voice took on a deeper tone, the kind that belonged to someone who had lived through the events he was describing, even if they were stories of the distant past. "A long time ago, these three brothers crossed paths with Death itself. They were traveling together when they found themselves at a river too dangerous to cross. But the brothers were clever—too clever for their own good. They used their magic to outwit Death and reach the other side."

Jon's brow furrowed as he listened, drawn into the narrative. "Outwit Death? That's… brave. Stupid, but brave."

"Yeah," Harry agreed with a grin, "but Death wasn't too happy about it. So, he appeared to them and offered each of them a gift. The eldest, Antioch, asked for a powerful wand, one that could make him invincible in battle. And Death gave him the Elder Wand." Harry's voice grew a little darker. "But Antioch's thirst for power was his undoing. In the end, the very thing he sought killed him."

Jon nodded slowly, as if processing the story. "That's not surprising. Power has a way of… turning on you."

"Exactly," Harry agreed. "Then there was Cadmus. He was driven by love, or rather, by loss. He wanted to bring his dead lover back. So, Death gave him the Resurrection Stone. But when Cadmus used it, he found that his lover was not truly alive, only a shadow of what she had been. He became obsessed, and his life spiraled into despair."

Jon let out a low whistle. "Well, that sounds like a mistake."

"You don't know the half of it," Harry said, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "But the youngest brother, Ignotus, he asked for something different. Not power, not love. He asked for a way to avoid Death altogether. So, Death gave him an Invisibility Cloak, one that would make him invisible even to Death itself."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "An invisibility cloak? That's… that's what you've got, right?"

"Yeah," Harry said, a small grin creeping up on his face. "Funny story about that. It's actually been in my family for centuries. Passed down from Ignotus Peverell himself."

Jon blinked, clearly caught off guard. "You've got the Peverell cloak? The one that can make you invisible?"

Harry nodded, his gaze distant. "Yeah. It's a bit more complicated than that, though. You see, Ignotus didn't use it for anything selfish. He didn't want to hide from death forever, he just wanted to live his life without fear. When he grew old, he passed it down to his children, and eventually it came to me."

Jon's eyes widened with understanding. "So… you're telling me you're part of this whole Peverell family?"

Harry's grin faltered a bit, his expression growing somber. "Yeah. The Peverells, and the Potters… we're all connected. That cloak has been a symbol of my family for generations, a reminder that our choices shape the future."

Jon's thoughts were racing now, the implications of the story setting off a chain reaction in his mind. "But if you've got that cloak, then… doesn't that mean you're not just some random kid who stumbled into this world?" His voice was more than a little shaken now, as he processed the significance of it all.

Harry's expression softened as he placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "No, Jon. I'm not some random kid. But none of us are, are we? We're all shaped by the people who came before us. And sometimes, the hardest part of this life is realizing that we have to make our own choices. We can't let the past dictate who we are. But we can learn from it."

—

Jon's breath hitched as Harry pulled the shimmering fabric of the Invisibility Cloak from a pouch far too small to hold something so grand. The material seemed to ripple with a life of its own, catching the faint light of the training yard's torches. It was as though the cloak drank in the world around it, leaving only an echo of its existence.

"This," Harry began, his voice calm yet filled with quiet pride, "is the Invisibility Cloak, passed down through the generations of my family. It's a relic, one of the Deathly Hallows, and perhaps the only true artifact of its kind."

Jon's jaw tightened as he took a cautious step forward, his grey eyes fixed on the cloak. He was hesitant to reach out, almost as if the object would vanish like a snowflake on a summer day. "You're telling me that's the same cloak from the old tales?" he asked, his voice low and laden with disbelief. "The one Death himself gave to the youngest brother?"

Harry smirked, unfolding the cloak fully and holding it up between them. "That's the story, isn't it? But, to be honest, I'm not convinced Death ever handed out gifts. More likely, the brothers were just brilliant wizards who crafted things so powerful people spun legends around them."

Jon stared at the cloak for a long moment, his brow furrowing. "If that's true, it doesn't make it any less incredible," he said, the skepticism in his tone fading into awe. He reached out slowly, his fingers brushing the fabric. It was unlike anything he'd ever touched—smooth, cool, and somehow alive. "It feels like… like it's not really here."

"That's the magic," Harry said softly, watching Jon's reaction. "It doesn't just make you invisible; it hides you from everything. Even Death can't find you when you're under it."

Jon's lips pressed into a thin line as he considered that. "Hiding from Death…" he muttered, almost to himself. "I've never thought of that as something a man should do."

Harry tilted his head, intrigued by Jon's tone. "You think we should just face it head-on?"

Jon's gaze lifted to meet Harry's, his grey eyes sharp with the kind of quiet conviction that had been forged in the harsh snows of the North. "Aye," he said simply. "Death comes for us all. Running from it, hiding… It doesn't change that. Better to meet it standing."

Harry's expression softened, his respect for Jon deepening. "That's a fair point," he admitted. "But Ignotus—the brother who chose the cloak—he wasn't a coward. He didn't use it to avoid death forever. He used it to live his life on his own terms, without fear. When his time came, he took off the cloak and handed it to his son, then greeted Death like an old friend."

Jon's brows lifted slightly at that, a hint of approval flickering in his eyes. "That's different," he allowed. "Living without fear… I can respect that."

Harry smiled faintly, folding the cloak back into the pouch. "That's what this cloak represents to me. Not fear, but freedom."

Jon nodded, his gaze lingering on the pouch as if he could still see the cloak. "And the wand?" he asked, his voice low but steady. "Do you have that too?"

Harry hesitated for only a moment before reaching into the pouch again. When his hand emerged, it held the Elder Wand. Its dark wood gleamed faintly, the notches along its length casting shadows that seemed to writhe like living things. Jon's eyes widened, and he unconsciously shifted his weight, his hand twitching toward Longclaw's hilt.

"That's it, isn't it?" Jon asked, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. "The Elder Wand. The wand that wins every duel."

Harry nodded, holding the wand loosely, almost casually. "The same. Though I wouldn't say it 'wins every duel.' It's only as powerful as the one wielding it. Power like this doesn't come without a price."

Jon studied the wand, his jaw clenching as if he were considering the weight of that statement. "Power always comes with a price," he said grimly. "And more often than not, it's paid in blood."

Harry gave a small, wry smile. "You're not wrong. The wand's history is soaked in it. Everyone who's ever craved it thought it would make them unbeatable. But it's a tool, not a guarantee. The wand doesn't care who holds it—it's the person wielding it that decides its fate."

Jon's gaze flicked from the wand to Harry's face, his expression unreadable. "And you?" he asked quietly. "What do you decide with it?"

Harry's grip on the wand tightened slightly, and his gaze turned distant. "I decide to protect," he said finally, his voice firm. "I decide to use it for something bigger than myself. The wand's not a weapon—it's a responsibility."

Jon studied him for a long moment, then nodded once, sharply. "Good," he said simply. "Because men like you and me… we've seen what power does to those who aren't strong enough to bear it."

Harry smirked, the tension breaking slightly. "I'd say we've both learned that the hard way."

Jon's lips quirked in the faintest of smiles. "Aye," he said, his tone dry. "Hard lessons are the only kind the North knows." He glanced back at the wand, then at Harry. "Just make sure it stays in the right hands. Power like that… it's a temptation even the strongest men might fall to."

Harry nodded, sliding the Elder Wand back into the pouch. "Don't worry," he said. "I've got enough ghosts to remind me what happens when power falls into the wrong hands."

Jon snorted softly, his smile growing just a little. "Then you've got your work cut out for you."

—

Harry's lips curled into an impish grin, his emerald eyes alight with a flicker of mischief. He turned to Jon, his tone deliberately teasing. "But if I had to guess, it's not the cloak or even the wand that has you brooding harder than usual, Jon. It's the Resurrection Stone, isn't it?"

Jon stiffened, his jaw tightening as his dark eyes locked onto Harry's. "What would you know about what's got me brooding?" he shot back, the faintest hint of defensiveness in his voice.

Harry chuckled, completely unfazed. "Oh, I don't know, Jon. Maybe it's the way you glare at trees like they've personally offended you or the fact you wear the same expression whether you're saving a life or watching someone die. That, or you've got the emotional range of a teaspoon."

Jon narrowed his eyes, but there was a reluctant glint of humor there. "I have been told I'm broody," he muttered under his breath.

"See? Self-awareness! I knew you had it in you," Harry quipped, smirking. Then, with a sudden shift in tone, he added, "But seriously, the Resurrection Stone isn't what you think it is."

Jon crossed his arms over his chest, his cloak billowing slightly in the breeze as he frowned. "What is it, then?" he asked, his voice low, almost wary. "The thought of summoning those we've lost… It's a temptation no man would deny."

Harry's smile faded, replaced by something more somber. He reached into the pouch at his side, withdrawing a small, unassuming stone etched with an ancient symbol. He held it out, palm up, but didn't offer it just yet. "The Resurrection Stone doesn't bring them back, Jon. Not really."

Jon's brow furrowed, his tone sharpening with curiosity—and perhaps a hint of desperation. "What do you mean?"

Harry studied him for a moment, his green eyes piercing but kind. "It doesn't resurrect them. What it does is… conjure a shadow of who they were. An echo. A memory, maybe. But it's not them. Not truly."

Jon stared at the stone, his jaw tight as if weighing Harry's words against the quiet ache in his chest. "An echo," he repeated, his voice heavy with doubt. "And that's supposed to help someone grieving? To see a shadow of the person they've lost?"

"It depends," Harry said softly. "For some, it might bring comfort. For others, it only deepens the pain. The Stone reminds you of what you've lost, but it doesn't give it back."

Jon's lips pressed into a thin line, his hand flexing instinctively at his side. "So, it's a cruel trick," he said bitterly. "A mockery of what we want most."

Harry tilted his head, considering Jon carefully. "Not cruel," he said finally. "But it is a test. A test of whether you can accept loss and move forward—or if you let the past consume you."

Jon let out a harsh laugh, his usual restraint slipping for a moment. "Move forward? You make it sound so easy."

"Of course, it's not easy," Harry replied, his voice firm but not unkind.

—

Jon's dark eyes flicked to Harry, the quiet tension in the air thick as he broke the silence with a question that cut straight to the heart. "Have you ever used the Stone to call your parents?" he asked, his voice low, steady, but tinged with genuine curiosity.

Harry froze, caught off guard by the question, his hand instinctively tightening around the pouch where the Resurrection Stone rested. His green eyes met Jon's, and for a moment, the mask he so often wore slipped. "No," he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of truths too painful to put into words. "I haven't."

Jon tilted his head, his brow furrowing as he studied Harry. "Why not?" he pressed, though his tone was gentle. "You talk about them sometimes. Not often, but enough for me to know what they meant to you."

Harry hesitated, then exhaled a shaky breath, glancing away as if the forest around them might offer answers he couldn't. "You remember how I've talked about Dumbledore?" he asked, his lips twitching into a faint, bitter smile.

Jon's smirk surfaced, a dry humor dancing in his eyes. "How could I forget?" he replied, his tone laced with amusement. "Over these months, I've heard him called everything from a 'twinkly-eyed git' to a 'senile, lemon-drop-sucking puppeteer with a god complex.' And wasn't there something about him being 'more cryptic than a raven's riddle on a foggy night?'"

Harry couldn't help the short laugh that escaped him, though it sounded a little hollow. "That does sound like me," he muttered, shaking his head. "And, let's not forget, 'the world's most manipulative chess player who keeps losing pieces because he's too bloody self-righteous to admit when he's wrong.'"

Jon chuckled, a low, almost reluctant sound. "Or my personal favorite: 'a man who thinks 'For the Greater Good' is an excuse for being an unrepentant tosser.'"

Harry barked a genuine laugh at that, his shoulders shaking as some of the tension eased. "Oh, that's a good one. I should write that down for future reference."

The moment of levity faded, though, as Harry's expression turned more serious. He looked down at the ground, his hand brushing the pouch again. "But the truth is," he said softly, "as much as I've ranted about the old coot, some of the things he said to me… they've stuck. One in particular."

Jon's smirk faded, his brow knitting. "What did he say?"

Harry's voice dropped, quieter now. "He told me once that if my parents could see some of the things I've done, they'd be ashamed of me."

Jon blinked, taken aback, his face darkening with anger. "He said that to you?" he asked sharply, his tone low and dangerous. "What kind of man says something like that to someone who's lost so much?"

Harry shrugged, though his jaw clenched. "A man who thinks guilt is a tool, not a burden. And it worked, didn't it? It kept me questioning myself, doubting. Even now, I wonder—what if he was right? What if I call them with the Stone, and they don't approve of who I've become?"

Jon stared at Harry, his expression hard but thoughtful. "Harry," he said finally, his voice firm, "if your parents were anything like you've described—brave, kind, willing to die for you—they'd never be ashamed of you. They'd be proud."

Harry's throat tightened, and he gave Jon a small, grateful nod. "Thanks, Jon. That means more than you know."

Jon stepped closer, his hand resting on Harry's shoulder, grounding him. "You're not doing this alone," he said quietly. "If you use the Stone, I'll do it too. We'll face it together. I'll summon my parents if you summon yours."

Harry's eyes softened, and for a moment, he just stared at Jon, his lips quirking into a faint smile. "You're a stubborn bastard, you know that?"

Jon smirked. "I've been told."

"Fine," Harry said, shaking his head. "But if I have to relive my trauma, you're bloody well coming along for the ride."

Jon gave a solemn nod, though his lips twitched with a flicker of humor. "Fair enough. Where do we do this? Somewhere fitting. Sacred."

Harry thought for a moment, then said, "The Godswood?"

Jon's gaze sharpened, his respect for the suggestion evident. "The Godswood," he agreed. "Under the Heart Tree. A place of peace and reflection."

Harry nodded. "And if things go sideways, at least it's a short walk to the afterlife, right?"

Jon rolled his eyes but couldn't help the faint smile that crept onto his lips. "You've got a dark sense of humor, Harry."

"Occupational hazard," Harry quipped, his grin returning. "Now, come on, Snow Let's go face our ghosts."

As they turned toward the Godswood, a new sense of purpose settled over them, the weight of their shared burdens feeling just a little lighter.

—

The Godswood was alive with whispers of wind threading through ancient branches. Moonlight spilled over the clearing like a benediction, dappling the grass and reflecting off the smooth bark of the weirwood. The soft hum of crickets underscored the solemnity of the moment. Jon Snow and Harry Potter stood side by side, their breath clouding in the chill night air, the weight of the Resurrection Stone heavy in Jon's hand.

Jon turned the stone over, studying its surface as though trying to extract answers from the cold, unfeeling artifact. His lips twitched into a wry smile as he glanced at Harry. "You know," he began, his voice carrying that distinct Stark brood, "if this summons a pair of twinkly-eyed old gits who think they know better than us, I'll chuck it straight into the pond."

Harry snorted, his expression relaxing just a fraction. "Dumbledore would probably pop up and tell us we're holding it wrong," he said dryly. "Or that it's all part of some grand plan he didn't bother to explain. The man was a bloody walking riddle wrapped in a beard."

Jon smirked. "Sounds like Maester Luwin on a bad day. Though at least Luwin didn't pretend he didn't know what he was talking about." He rolled the stone between his fingers, suddenly serious. "Are you sure about this, Harry? You don't have to do this with me."

Harry met his gaze, green eyes steady beneath his unruly mop of hair. "We're in this together, Jon. Besides," his tone softened, "you deserve answers. They deserve a chance to speak to you."

Jon nodded, swallowing hard. With a steadying breath, he turned the stone three times, his hands trembling slightly. The air around them shifted, the quiet of the Godswood deepening into something ancient and expectant. A faint mist coiled through the clearing, and then, as if summoned by the very earth itself, two figures began to emerge.

Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark stepped into the moonlight, their forms shimmering with an ethereal glow. Rhaegar's tall, regal figure exuded a quiet strength, his silver-gold hair gleaming like starlight. Lyanna's dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, her fierce, striking beauty a mirror of the wolf blood that coursed through her veins. Their eyes, full of unspoken emotion, landed on Jon, and the weight of their gazes nearly brought him to his knees.

Jon took a shaky step forward, his voice breaking as he spoke. "Mother… Father… Is it really you?"

Lyanna was the first to move, her ethereal form rushing toward him. Her hands hovered near his face, as though afraid to touch him. "My sweet boy," she murmured, her voice trembling. "Look at you. You've grown so strong… so much like your father, yet so much your own man."

Rhaegar stepped forward as well, his expression one of quiet pride tempered by a deep sadness. "Aegon," he said, his voice as rich and commanding as a bard's ballad. "We've watched you from the shadows. You've carried more than your share of burdens. And you've done so with honor."

Jon blinked rapidly, his throat tightening. "I… I didn't know," he said, his voice breaking. "I didn't know the truth about you. About me. Not until recently."

Lyanna cupped his face, her touch as light as mist. "I wanted to tell you," she whispered, her voice thick with regret. "But I couldn't. I never wanted you to carry the weight of our choices."

Rhaegar's gaze softened as he looked at his son. "Our love was a rebellion of its own," he said quietly. "And it cost us dearly. But you, Jon, are the legacy of that love. You are proof that we fought for something worth dying for."

Jon's fists clenched at his sides, tears slipping down his cheeks. "You died for it," he said, his voice filled with a raw, aching anger. "And I… I've lived my whole life feeling like I didn't belong. Like I wasn't enough."

Lyanna's eyes blazed, her Stark fire as fierce in death as it had been in life. "Never think that, Jon," she said firmly. "You are enough. You've always been enough. You carry the blood of the dragon and the wolf, but more than that, you carry a heart that's stronger than either house could have hoped for."

Rhaegar spoke, the weight of his words surprisingly grounding. "Your mother is right," he said. "You've faced the trials of life with courage. And now, you must prepare for the trials to come. The world is not kind to those of our blood, but you… you will shape its future."

Jon's jaw tightened, his voice low and biting. "The future. Right. Like how my future was to be lied to my whole life? Or was that just your plan, Father?"

Harry cleared his throat, stepping forward with a wry smile. "Oh, he's got you there, Rhaegar. You're not winning any Father of the Year awards, are you?"

Rhaegar had the grace to look sheepish, though a ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "Perhaps not," he admitted. "But I would hope I might earn some understanding."

Lyanna rolled her eyes. "You always were too lofty for your own good, Rhaegar," she said, though her tone was laced with affection. "You spent more time brooding over your harp than thinking about consequences."

Jon blinked at her, a startled laugh escaping him. "So it is in my blood," he muttered. "The brooding, I mean."

Lyanna arched a brow. "Oh, don't pin that on me, Snowflake. That's all Targaryen. I was far too busy riding horses and punching assholes to brood."

Harry smirked. "I like her," he said to Jon. "You've got her spirit, you know. Minus the punching."

Jon shot him a look. "I punch plenty, thanks."

Rhaegar chuckled softly, his laugh like the gentle strumming of a harp. "I see you've found good company, Aegon. Or should I say, Jon?"

"Jon," he said firmly, meeting his father's gaze. "And I'm not about to carry your mistakes, Father. I'll carry your love. But the rest? That's on you."

Rhaegar inclined his head, a solemn respect in his expression. "As it should be," he said. "I am proud of you, my son. More than words can say."

As the apparitions began to fade, Lyanna's voice lingered, sharp and urgent. "Jon, the crypt of Cregan Stark. Behind his tomb—something for you. Don't ignore it."

And with that, they were gone, leaving Jon and Harry alone in the stillness of the Godswood.

"Well," Harry said, breaking the silence. "That was… intense."

Jon nodded, staring at the spot where his parents had stood. "Yeah," he said, his voice soft. "But it was worth it."

Harry clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Good. Now let's get out of here before the weirwood starts judging us."

—

The Resurrection Stone lay heavy in Jon Snow's outstretched hand, the firelight glinting off its surface. His dark eyes, somber and steady, met Harry's with the weight of unspoken truths. "It's your turn now," he said, his voice low, grave, and laced with an intensity that only Jon could summon. His presence carried the solemnity of an ancient rite, as though the very gods bore witness.

Harry hesitated, his gaze locked on the stone. His fingers curled around it, feeling the cool smoothness against his skin. "What happens if I—?"

"You know what happens," Jon interrupted, his voice a gruff murmur. He shifted, the fur-lined cloak on his shoulders brushing the ground. "You'll see them. But it's not without cost." His dark eyes softened, his tone taking on a rare gentleness. "Whatever you're looking for, they'll give you the answer. But you'll have to decide what to do with it."

Taking a deep breath, Harry nodded, his throat tight with a mixture of anticipation and fear. "Alright." His voice was barely above a whisper. He glanced at Jon, who gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, and then turned his attention to the stone. His hand trembled as he closed his fingers tightly around it. Slowly, deliberately, he turned it thrice.

The grove fell silent, as though the very world held its breath. Moonlight filtered through the canopy above, weaving silver patterns across the clearing. A faint hum filled the air, like the resonance of a distant bell. The veil between life and death began to quiver, its fabric thinning, and Harry could feel the shift—the indescribable sensation of standing at the precipice of two worlds.

Shapes began to emerge from the shadows, spectral and luminous. Harry's breath hitched as three figures materialized before him: Lily Potter, James Potter, and Sirius Black. Their forms shimmered, edged with light that seemed to dance like starlight.

Lily was the first to step forward, her emerald eyes locking onto Harry's with an intensity that stole his breath. Her red hair, vibrant even in its ethereal state, cascaded down her shoulders, catching the moonlight like fire. There was a grace to her movements, but also a fierceness that seemed to ignite the very air around her.

"Harry," she breathed, her voice trembling with love and longing. She raised a hand to her mouth, as though holding back the overwhelming tide of emotions threatening to break free. "Oh, my sweet boy."

"Mom," Harry choked, his voice breaking as tears blurred his vision. "I've missed you so much."

Lily closed the distance between them, her spectral hand brushing against his cheek with a warmth that defied logic. "And I have missed you, my darling. Every step you've taken, every choice you've made—I've been with you. Always." Her voice, though soft, carried the weight of a lioness—protective, unwavering. "You've endured so much, Harry. And through it all, you've been so brave."

James stepped forward then, his hand resting lightly on Lily's shoulder. His hazel eyes sparkled with warmth and mischief, the edges of his lips curving into a lopsided grin. "Brave is an understatement," he said, his voice rich and smooth, carrying the faint trace of a laugh. "You've done things I can't even begin to fathom, son." His grin widened, and there was a hint of that boyish arrogance that once charmed Lily to her core. "Though, between us, I'm pretty sure I would've looked cooler doing them."

"Dad," Harry whispered, a laugh breaking through his tears. "You're impossible."

"Only slightly," James quipped, stepping closer and gripping Harry's shoulder in a gesture of fatherly pride. "But seriously, Harry, you've become someone I'm immensely proud of. You've got more courage in you than I ever did. And that heart of yours—well, that's all your mum."

Lily rolled her eyes affectionately but smiled, her gaze never leaving Harry.

Sirius, meanwhile, had been hanging back, his arms crossed as he watched the reunion with a faint smirk tugging at his lips. His dark hair, perpetually tousled, fell into his eyes as he finally stepped forward. His long coat swirled around him, giving him the look of a dashing rogue.

"Alright, alright," Sirius drawled, his voice smooth and playful, though thick with emotion. "You're going to drown the poor kid in sentiment. Let the godfather have his moment."

Harry turned to him, his throat tightening. "Sirius."

Sirius grinned, his dark eyes sparkling with warmth. "Missed me, didn't you?"

Harry launched himself forward, as if to wrap Sirius in a tight embrace, but then he remembered he couldn't touch him. Sirius stiffened for a moment, as if taken aback, before his eyes softened as he looked at Harry with a fierce protectiveness. "Missed you doesn't even begin to cover it," Harry said.

Sirius pulled back, as he looked Harry over. "Well, you've done alright for yourself, haven't you?" His grin softened into something more tender. "You've carried a weight no one should have to bear, Harry. And you've done it with more grace and grit than I ever could. Your parents and I—hell, even Remus—couldn't be prouder of you."

Harry looked between them, his voice trembling as he asked, "Are you… are you ashamed of me? For anything I've done?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with the fear that had gnawed at Harry's soul for years. Lily was the first to speak, her voice firm. "Harry James Potter," she began, her tone both gentle and commanding, "never. Not for a single moment. You have faced trials that would break most, and yet you've remained true to your heart."

James nodded, his voice steady. "You've made mistakes—everyone does. But it's not our mistakes that define us; it's what we do after. And you, my son, have always risen above."

Sirius acted as if he clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder. "You're a bloody legend, Harry. Stop doubting yourself. Or do I need to come back and knock some sense into you?"

A small laugh escaped Harry, the weight on his chest lifting slightly. He looked at each of them, his heart swelling with a mixture of love and grief. "Thank you," he said softly. "For everything."

As dawn's first light began to creep into the grove, the spectral forms of his family began to fade. Lily, James and Sirius gave him one last grin.

Before disappearing completely, Sirius's voice lingered like a whisper on the wind. "There's one more soul waiting for you beyond the veil. You should seek her out."

Harry stood in the clearing, the stone cool in his hand, the warmth of their love still wrapped around him like a cloak. He took a deep breath, a renewed resolve filling his chest. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it—not alone, but with the strength of those who loved him.

---

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