Chapter 2: Flames of Farewell

Population Update:

Wizards: Adults: 3,250 - Children: 750 - Total Wizards: 4,000

Goblins: Adults: 729 - Children: 171 - Total Goblins: 900

Veela: Adults: 617 - Children: 183 - Total Veela: 800

Squibs: Adults: 1,424 - Children: 376 - Total Squibs: 1,800

Total Population: 7,500

Chapter 2: Flames of Farewell

The next morning, the courtyard buzzed with frenetic energy, a hive of desperate but determined activity. People moved like shadows in the dim, pre-dawn light, their faces gaunt and pale, illuminated by the soft glow of the magical lamps that hung overhead. The Salvation—a massive, rune-covered vessel—hovered just above the ground, its gleaming surface shimmering as the ancient wards around it pulsed with life. The magical engine hummed with a low, steady rhythm, like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant. It was their lifeline, their only chance to escape the ruin of this world, and the faint vibrations beneath Harry's boots were a constant reminder of the fragility of their hope.

Harry stood at the edge of the courtyard, his boots planted firmly on the cold stone, silent and watchful. His gaze was fixed on The Salvation as the last of the supplies were hastily loaded on board. Goblins moved with efficient, tireless precision, overseeing the transportation of treasures and relics salvaged from the crumbling vaults of Gringotts. Gleaming piles of gold, enchanted artifacts, and rare gemstones were packed into crates with meticulous care, each gleam and sparkle catching the eye briefly before being sealed away. Harry noted how their bright colors, once symbols of wealth and status, now carried a different weight. They were remnants of a world that had nearly vanished.

Potions ingredients, some so rare they were thought to be lost forever, had been gathered from every corner of the world. Stored in temperature-controlled cabinets and surrounded by protective charms, they were treated as if they were relics themselves. As goblins carried crates filled with vials of phoenix tears, powdered bicorn horn, and dragon blood—each one necessary for survival—Harry couldn't help but feel the solemnity of the moment. Every crate, physically small but symbolically immense, reminded him of the fine line between survival and extinction.

The Salvation was a marvel to behold, and named aptly. It stood as an awe-inspiring vessel, a testament to both ancient craftsmanship and modern magical innovation. Modeled after the legendary HMS Victory, it embodied the proud, regal design of the great naval ships of old, with towering masts, grand wooden decks, and golden accents gleaming faintly under the grey, pre-dawn sky. Yet this was no ordinary ship. Magic had transformed it into something far more than just a vessel—it was their sanctuary, their final hope, carrying the last survivors of the wizarding world toward an uncertain horizon.

The hull of The Salvation was built from the finest enchanted wood, each plank strengthened with spells for durability, flexibility, and resilience. Its exterior was polished to a deep, almost glass-like sheen, reflecting the soft glow of the enchanted runes etched into its surface. These runes pulsed faintly, casting a bluish light that shimmered with protective enchantments. It was a fortress in the sky, its quiet glow both a beacon of hope and a warning of the dangers they would face beyond the safe walls of Hogwarts.

Harry could hear the soft thrum of the magical core that powered the ship, a low hum reverberating through the air like the heartbeat of a great, slumbering beast. Where the HMS Victory had relied on wind to fill its sails, The Salvation was propelled by a powerful magical engine embedded deep within its belly. Its towering masts and billowing sails, though largely decorative, stretched into the sky, their runes collecting energy from the heart of the ship—a massive, glowing crystal that pulsed with raw, untapped power. Harry's gaze lingered on the crystal as it flickered rhythmically, almost as if it echoed his own pulse, grounding him as he felt the gravity of their mission.

As Harry stood in the courtyard, watching the organized chaos of the evacuation, he couldn't help but feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him. This ship was more than just a mode of escape; it was the last bastion of everything they had left. A swell of responsibility and loss washed over him as he took in the sight, his mind flashing to the battles they had fought to reach this moment. He felt the courtyard shrink beneath the towering ship, vast with memories and echoing with the sacrifices each item represented.

The cargo hold had been expanded far beyond its physical limits by powerful expansion runes, transforming what should have been a confined space into an endless labyrinth of storage. Crates upon crates of magical artifacts, books, and relics from their ruined world were carefully packed inside. Ancient tomes from the Hogwarts Library, secured with stasis charms, lay bundled together in the deepest holds—books that contained knowledge of spells, magical creatures, healing arts, and ancient lore. Hermione had ensured that nothing of value was left behind. Each volume represented an irreplaceable part of their world, a connection to everything they'd already lost and everything they hoped to build anew.

Further along the lower decks, goblins meticulously packed enchanted relics and treasures salvaged from the broken vaults of Gringotts. Harry's eyes lingered on a stack of crates in particular, marked with the sigils of ancient families long since fallen into obscurity. He felt a pang at the sight of these relics—goblets that could grant eternal life, mirrors capable of communication across realms, and wands crafted from long-forgotten woods. These weren't just relics of a bygone era; they were the last fragments of the magical world they were leaving behind. To Harry, they were silent witnesses of a history that could soon be forgotten.

In addition to the magical artifacts and books, food supplies were being carefully loaded. Barrels of enchanted provisions—crates of Butterbeer and Firewhiskey, preserved meats, and dried vegetables—were stacked alongside enchanted tents that could expand into fully furnished living spaces. There were crates of endless bandages, charmed to accelerate healing even for grievous wounds, and magical herbs that could turn the simplest ingredients into nourishing meals. Though their world had turned to ash, they would not go hungry—not for now, at least. The provisions would sustain them physically, but Harry wondered what they would need to sustain their spirits.

The ship's menagerie of magical creatures was also being readied. In a magically expanded enclosure, twelve unicorns stood, their silver manes shimmering softly like liquid moonlight. Their large, gentle eyes watched the proceedings with a serene calm, their very presence a symbol of purity and magic. Nearby, a herd of fifty Thestrals paced restlessly, their skeletal forms blending into the shadows, their membranous wings rustling faintly as they sensed the tension in the air. High above, perched on a makeshift platform, were two phoenixes. Fawkes, with his brilliant scarlet and gold plumage, sat quietly, his sharp eyes reflecting the wisdom of centuries. Beside him was a smaller phoenix, its feathers glowing like molten gold. Harry's chest tightened at the sight of the phoenix, its feathers glowing like molten gold. Harry's chest tightened at the sight of Fawkes. He was not only a reminder of Dumbledore but also a symbol of rebirth, of hope—something they desperately needed now.

And pacing in a nearby pen were the eighty Hippogriffs last of their kind, their eagle-like heads snapping to attention at the sound of crates being loaded. Their wings, wide and powerful, stretched occasionally, as though yearning to take flight. They had been invaluable in past battles, and their presence here felt like a necessary connection to the fierce loyalty and honor that the survivors still clung to.

These creatures, like everything else on board, were more than passengers—they were the lifeblood of the magical ecosystem the survivors hoped to rebuild. Without them, without the knowledge, artifacts, and creatures aboard The Salvation, the essence of magic itself would be diminished. The weight of ensuring their survival pressed heavily on Harry, like a physical burden. Everything they were, everything they had left, was packed inside that ship.

Harry's gaze drifted back to The Salvation's core—the glowing crystal buried deep within the hull, surrounded by ancient runes and powerful enchantments. It was the heart of the ship, the very force that allowed it to sail through the skies as effortlessly as any great vessel glides across the seas. This blend of goblin ingenuity and wizarding magic had created something extraordinary. The Salvation wasn't just a ship; it was a vessel that could cross worlds, carrying with it the last hope of a dying civilization.

As the final crate was loaded and the goblins finished their checks, Harry's gaze remained steady on The Salvation. Even from where he stood in the courtyard, he could feel the steady hum of the ship's magic reverberating through the air, a quiet but powerful thrum that matched the pulse of the wards as they strengthened in preparation for departure.

Without thinking, Harry's hand rested on the hilt of the Sword of Gryffindor at his side, the ruby-encrusted pommel catching the first rays of the rising sun. It brought him a strange comfort, a reminder of battles he had fought and ones yet to come. In his other hand, the Elder Wand hummed softly, its magic a constant, silent reminder of the weight of his responsibility—a power as ancient as the world he was leaving behind.

They were almost ready.

The ship, filled to the brim with the last remnants of their shattered world, hovered in the courtyard like a living thing, pulsing with the magic of centuries. It was more than a vessel; it was a beacon, a promise of survival. Everything they had—their knowledge, their history, their creatures, their lives—was on board, waiting to sail into the unknown.

As Harry stood there, feeling the immense weight of what lay ahead, he knew one thing with absolute certainty: they had to survive.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the murmur of activity.

"'Arry."

It was soft, yet edged with an urgency that reverberated deep within him. He turned, his heart tightening, and there she was—Fleur. Her silver-blonde hair shimmered faintly in the dim morning light, though the carefree beauty it had once held was long gone. War had stolen the brightness from her, leaving a woman hardened by grief and loss, her face etched with exhaustion and battle-worn determination. Yet in that moment, with shadows brushing across her face, she looked fragile in a way Harry had never seen before, a vulnerability that felt like an unspoken plea.

Despite the years she'd spent in England since the Triwizard Tournament, her French accent had mostly faded—except, curiously, when she said his name. She insisted it wasn't intentional, that it simply slipped out that way, but considering how impeccable her English had become, Harry wasn't so sure. He suspected she knew it charmed him and used it as a teasing reminder of the days when they were almost strangers. He liked it, though he'd never told her so; that familiar lilt, slipping through the calm seriousness of her voice, was like a faint light from another time, a softer memory she carried with her into the present.

"Are you sure you must do this alone?" she asked, stepping closer, her voice trembling, barely concealing the fear threatening to break through. "You mean so much to them, 'Arry. To all of us. You're a symbol of hope, even when there's so little of it left. You're hope for them." Her voice wavered for a moment, then softened, breaking just slightly. "For me."

Harry's chest tightened at her words, and an unspoken bond hung between them, fragile yet powerful. He couldn't deny it any longer. It had formed over months of shared survival, of battling side by side in a world that had crumbled beneath their feet. Bill had died on the night of their wedding, struck down in a sudden ambush that heralded Voldemort's dark return. Harry had been there, had fought beside Bill, and had failed to save him. But he had saved Fleur—pulled her from the wreckage, held her as she screamed and wept until she had no tears left. The light in her eyes had dimmed that night, and for a long time, Harry thought it might never return. But slowly, over the months of endless war, in the stolen glances and shared moments of quiet, something had begun to heal. And somewhere in the wreckage of their broken world, they had found each other.

Now, that connection hung between them like a tether, as real as the ground beneath their feet. It felt unbreakable, stretching between them in the silence, carrying with it the weight of all they had been through.

"Fleur…" Harry began, his voice heavy with the weight of everything he needed to say but couldn't find the words for. He faltered, his gaze shifting to the courtyard stones beneath their feet, the words feeling trapped within him. How could he explain that he couldn't stay, couldn't risk it all, even for her? How could he tell her that his duty to the world was suffocating him, that the survival of everyone on The Salvation rested on his shoulders? There was no room for selfishness, no space for hope beyond that grim responsibility.

Instead, he reached for her hand, his fingers wrapping around hers, grounding him in the warmth of her touch amid the weight of his choices. "I have to," he said finally, his voice rough with unspoken emotion. "If I don't do this, we won't make it. You won't make it."

Her grip tightened, her fingers curling as if she could physically anchor him to the earth, to her. Her hand was firm, but there was a faint tremble to her touch. "But who will save you, 'Arry?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "You've saved all of us so many times... Surely someone else can do it."

A flicker of sorrow crossed his face as he met her eyes, his own full of unspoken regrets. "We both know there's no one else," Harry responded grimly, his tone leaving no room for argument. His gaze held hers, and the finality of his words settled between them like a blade poised to fall, carving out the truth neither of them wanted to accept.

Fleur's eyes, always fierce, now shimmered with unshed tears. She stepped closer, her other hand reaching out to touch his, her fingers trembling as they found his. The contact sent a jolt of warmth through Harry, a reminder of everything they had fought for, everything they had lost, and everything they still had to fight for. Her grip was strong, yet beneath it, he could feel her desperation—the quiet, simmering fear that had plagued them all since the war's onset.

"Please…" she whispered, her voice breaking, thick with emotion. "Come back to us. Come back to me."

The words were raw, filled with everything left unsaid between them—every stolen glance, every brush of hands, every lingering touch in the midst of battle. She was asking him for a promise, one they both knew he couldn't keep.

Harry gently squeezed her hand, feeling the life, the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, each heartbeat between them a reminder of what he was fighting to protect. "I'll try," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with emotion. But even as the words left his lips, they felt hollow, a promise he wanted to keep but couldn't be sure he could honor. It wasn't a vow—it was a fragile, desperate hope that somehow, he might return to her, to them, after this final stand.

Fleur's tears glistened in her eyes, but she nodded, biting her lip as she tried to keep the flood of emotions from spilling over. There was nothing more to say between them—nothing that could change the reality of what was to come. She squeezed his hand once more, tightly, as if it would be the last time, before letting go. She turned sharply, her silver hair shimmering in the faint light as she walked away, each step widening the distance between them.

Harry watched her go, and the space between them felt larger than it had ever been. He had faced death countless times before, stared into the abyss more than once. But nothing had ever felt this heavy. Nothing had ever felt so final.

The sound of The Salvation's engines roaring to life broke the stillness, and Harry exhaled a long, slow breath, trying to center himself. The ship would be leaving soon, its magical engines thrumming louder, the low, steady rhythm pulsing through the courtyard like the heartbeat of something far greater, filling the air with a vibrating hum that seemed to resonate through Harry's bones. Soon, it would carry the last remnants of their world—their hope—into the unknown.

And Harry would be left behind, to face the darkness alone.

Without another glance at the ship or the chaos behind him, Harry turned and began to walk, his boots striking the stone of the courtyard with purposeful, steady steps. The magical wards surrounding Hogwarts still flickered weakly, the ancient protections strained to their limits. For now, they held, but Harry knew they wouldn't for much longer. His role was clear—hold the line until The Salvation was safely away.

He crossed the threshold of the courtyard, stepping beyond the boundaries of the castle's wards. A shiver ran through him as he felt the wards' protection fade from around him, leaving him exposed.

The moment Harry stepped beyond the crumbling protective wards of Hogwarts, he felt it—a shift in the very fabric of the world around him, a ripple of dark magic coursing through the air, heavy and unnatural. The ground beneath his feet trembled, as though the earth itself was bracing against the presence of something profane. In the distance, the horizon began to darken, as if tainted by the malevolent force gathering just out of sight. He had expected it, of course, but even now, the sheer malevolence of the approaching horde sent a chill down his spine, an involuntary reminder of the power that lay beyond his vision.

They were coming.

On the distant horizon, the first of the demons began to emerge, hulking silhouettes outlined in flickering, unnatural flames. Their forms were twisted, grotesque, with claws that scraped the earth and jaws that gnashed in anticipation. Their eyes glowed like molten fire, burning with an insatiable hunger that radiated across the ruined landscape. The sulfuric stench of their approach filled the air, thick and choking, like the very breath of Hell, sharp and suffocating as it seeped toward him.

The demons surged forward as one, a tidal wave of destruction that consumed everything in its path. Trees disintegrated under their touch, stone cracked and crumbled beneath their claws, and the very air around them shimmered with the heat of their unnatural presence. They moved with terrifying speed, their guttural roars echoing off the ancient stone walls of Hogwarts, growing louder, swelling into a deafening cacophony as they advanced.

Harry's pulse quickened, but his resolve held. He knew what had to be done. The Salvation was already rising, its massive silhouette soaring through the air, powered by the thrumming energy of its magical core. The ship's sails billowed out, filled with wind conjured by the runes etched into its hull. It was well away from Hogwarts now—flying, it could reach top speeds of 400 miles per hour—but it wasn't enough. The demons would tear it from the sky if he didn't buy them more time.

He couldn't let that happen.

With a deep breath, Harry drew the Sword of Gryffindor from its sheath. The blade flared to life, igniting in a blaze of crimson light that cut through the gloom like a beacon of defiance. The Elder Wand, already humming with raw power, thrummed in his other hand, its energy coiling around him like a living force, ready to be unleashed, as if the wand itself understood the magnitude of the battle that awaited.

The ground shook as the first wave of demons charged toward him, their roars deafening, their massive claws slicing through the air. Harry didn't hesitate. With a fierce shout, he raised the Elder Wand and sent a torrent of magic surging toward the oncoming horde. A shockwave of raw energy erupted from the tip of his wand, slamming into the demons with the force of a hurricane. The earth beneath them exploded outward, jagged chunks of stone and dirt hurled into the air like shrapnel. Dozens of demons were incinerated in an instant, their twisted bodies disintegrating into ash as the wave of magic tore through them.

But it wasn't enough. More were coming—endless waves of them, an unrelenting, surging tide of darkness.

Harry Apparated in a flash of light, reappearing a hundred meters closer to the charging horde. He raised the Sword of Gryffindor, the blade gleaming like molten metal, and slashed through the air. The ground beneath the demons erupted in a cascade of flames, a roaring inferno that spread across the battlefield, consuming everything in its path. The fire was not ordinary—it was conjured from the deepest wells of elemental magic, hotter than dragon fire, impossible to extinguish by natural means. The heat washed over him, blistering and fierce, filling the air with the acrid scent of burning flesh and charred earth.

The demons shrieked as they were engulfed in the flames, their flesh melting away, their bones reduced to ash. But still, they kept coming, their numbers too vast, their hunger too great. For every demon Harry destroyed, ten more took its place, their blackened forms writhing in the smoke and fire, each one seemingly more monstrous than the last.

With a flick of his wrist, Harry conjured jagged spires of stone from the earth, the towering formations stabbing upward through the ground, impaling the nearest demons with sickening force. Their monstrous bodies were skewered, hanging lifeless on the spikes, but more swarmed around them, undeterred, their eyes glowing with an insatiable bloodlust that refused to waver.

Harry Apparated again, reappearing just behind the next wave of demons. He moved like a shadow, his body a blur of motion as he weaved through the horde, cutting them down with lethal precision. The Sword of Gryffindor was a whirlwind in his hand, each swing igniting the air with fiery arcs of magic that severed limbs and split skulls. The Elder Wand crackled with power as it unleashed bolts of lightning that struck the demons with pinpoint accuracy, reducing them to smoldering heaps of flesh and bone.

As time flew past and he fought on, he could feel the strain taking its toll. His muscles screamed in agony, and his magic, though immense, was being drained by the relentless scale of the battle. Sweat dripped down his brow, mingling with the ash and grime that now covered his face. His breath came in ragged gasps, each exhale heavy in the smoky air. But still, he fought on. He had to. He had to hold them off long enough for The Salvation to reach safety.

Another wave of demons surged toward him, their eyes blazing with fury, the fire in them both eerie and relentless. Harry clenched his teeth, raising both the Elder Wand and the Sword of Gryffindor. With a furious shout, he slammed them into the ground. A seismic shockwave rippled outward, tearing through the earth with explosive force. The ground split apart, sending jagged fissures racing toward the oncoming horde. The demons were swallowed by the chasm, their bodies crushed beneath tons of falling rock. For a brief moment, the battlefield was still, the ground trembling as the destruction settled.

But even that wasn't enough.

Harry's legs felt heavy, the weight of the battle pressing down on him like a physical force. His arms ached, the Elder Wand felt like it was burning in his grip, and the Sword of Gryffindor seemed heavier with each swing. He could no longer hear the distant sound of The Salvation's engine roaring through the sky. The ship was halfway to London now, far enough that he knew the demons wouldn't be able to reach it in time.

But he wasn't done yet.

The ground rumbled again as the final wave of demons charged toward him, their monstrous forms even larger, more grotesque than the ones before. Their eyes glowed with an almost sentient malice, their jaws snapping with rage. These were the strongest of every horde, the last and most powerful of the dark force that had been unleashed upon the world.

Harry's heart thundered in his chest, his entire being humming with power as raw magic surged through his veins. He hadn't felt this level of intensity since his final duel with Voldemort, but now, something deeper was unleashed—an unrestrained force from the depths of his soul. The Elder Wand pulsed in his hand, a resonance so strong it felt almost alive, responding to his fury and resolve. Summoning every ounce of his remaining strength, he raised the wand skyward, his voice cutting through the chaos as he shouted, "Ignis et Fulgur Ultimatus!"

The ancient spell, a summoning of fire and lightning lost to the ages, tore through the air. The sky above darkened as if the sun itself had surrendered, swirling into a churning mass of clouds charged with arcane energy. Static snapped through the atmosphere, thickening the air, and the battlefield fell eerily silent, as though every demon, every particle in the air, waited for the oncoming storm.

Then, with a crack that split the heavens, lightning descended—not in a single bolt, but in a cascade of searing white fury. Thunderous strikes erupted in quick succession, each bolt slamming into the ground like celestial hammers. Each strike sent tremors racing across the battlefield, shattering stones, and leaving charred craters in its wake. In the flashing light, the shadows of the demons twisted, illuminated for one harrowing instant before the ground itself responded to Harry's spell.

With a growl of pure determination, Harry thrust his wand downward, and the earth trembled. "Terra Aperio Infernum!" he bellowed, commanding the ground to open. The earth cracked with a sound like roaring dragons, splitting wide beneath the demons' feet. From the chasm, a geyser of molten rock surged upward, spiraling like a living flame, reaching toward the heavens. The fire roared, mingling with the smell of burning sulfur, and waves of searing heat radiated out, distorting the air around him.

The inferno expanded, engulfing the final wave of demons in a relentless blaze. The flames didn't merely consume; they devoured, fueled by Harry's indomitable will. Demonic forms twisted in agony, silhouetted against the infernal glow before disintegrating, their final screams swallowed by the tempest of fire.

Harry stood at the center of the chaos, his face illuminated by the crimson and gold light of the raging fires. His magic coursed through him, fierce and unyielding, energy crackling in visible arcs around his body, his eyes glowing with a near-otherworldly brilliance. For a moment, he was more than a wizard—he was a force of nature, the elements bending to his command.

But the power exacted a toll. As the firestorm finally began to subside, the dark clouds dissipating, Harry felt the strength drain from his limbs. The wand grew heavy in his hand, its brilliant energy fading. His vision blurred, dark spots creeping in, and his legs began to buckle under the weight of the exertion.

As Harry's hands began to shake, a final realization gripped him—a way to truly give The Salvation the time it needed. With grim resolve, he raised the Elder Wand once more, feeling the fading pulse of his magic thrum weakly in his veins. He turned his focus to the protective wards surrounding Hogwarts, his first true home, and whispered an ancient incantation under his breath, one that would turn the castle's last vestiges of magic into a sacrificial beacon.

"Magna Aeternum Atrae," he muttered, his voice barely audible, yet the words resonated like a tolling bell through the fractured wards. All darkness, I summon thee. The wards, strained to their breaking point, flared brighter than they had in centuries, becoming a radiant net cast across the land—a spell designed to attract every dark force within reach. He felt a massive pulse surge outward, a magical shockwave calling to every demon, luring them inescapably toward the direction of Hogwarts.

A torrent of energy tore through him, and he felt the immense weight of it leaving him, binding to the wards themselves. He knew what would come next. Every demon nearby, drawn by the beacon, would arrive at Hogwarts, storming toward the wards in a relentless wave. They'd be met with a destructive implosion of magic—the last act of the ancient protections—that would not only decimate Hogwarts but also vaporize much of the Scottish isles. He'd saved The Salvation from pursuit, but it would be at the cost of all he'd known, of everything that had once given him strength.

A pang of sorrow shot through him, raw and sudden, as he looked at the darkened silhouette of Hogwarts, visible even through his blurred vision. This was the place where he had found himself, where he had felt true friendship, family, belonging. The castle had been more than walls and stones; it had been the heart of his past, his sanctuary, and now, he was sacrificing it in a last, desperate bid for survival.

His mind filled with memories—vivid, bittersweet moments woven into the very walls of the castle. He saw himself walking the torch-lit halls alongside Ron and Hermione, their laughter echoing through the corridors as they hurried to class, parchment and quills spilling from their bags. He could feel the warmth of the Gryffindor common room, with its cozy, worn armchairs huddled around a crackling fire. How many nights had they spent there? Huddled together by the fire, swapping stories, sharing plans for the future, piecing together mysteries that always seemed bigger than themselves. The scent of butterbeer from Hogsmeade weekends and the soft flicker of enchanted flames painted the memory, grounding it in the purest feeling of home.

Then came the Great Hall, resplendent with its enchanted ceiling—a living tapestry of weather and stars. He remembered his first sight of it, how the bewitched sky had mirrored a real night outside, a starry, endless expanse that made him feel at once small and part of something impossibly vast. He remembered the enchanted candles hovering above the house tables, their gentle light casting a glow over the feast below. And the Sorting Hat's voice rang faintly in his memory, declaring "Gryffindor!" as the hall erupted in cheers. He could almost hear Dumbledore's voice calling for "a few words," and in that moment, Harry longed for just one more meal at those long tables, surrounded by his friends, safe and whole.

The Quidditch pitch rose before his mind's eye, every blade of grass vivid and alive. He saw himself soaring high above the stands on his Firebolt, the wind biting at his cheeks, his eyes fixed intently on the glimmering golden Snitch darting across the pitch. The roar of the crowd echoed in his memory, their cheers mingling with the rush of adrenaline that only Quidditch could bring. He thought of Gryffindor's victories, the feeling of weightlessness and freedom as he streaked across the field, catching sight of his teammates celebrating below. The thrill of those moments was matched only by the pride that had filled him each time he'd hoisted the Quidditch Cup with his house, Gryffindor scarves waving jubilantly in the stands.

Even the hidden corners of the castle tugged at him—the Room of Requirement that had offered sanctuary in their darkest hours, the Marauder's Map that had once been his guide, and the shimmering, silvery reflection of the Mirror of Erised, where he had first seen his parents' faces. He could see flashes of familiar faces—Neville, Luna, Ginny, and countless others who had grown alongside him, woven into the tapestry of Hogwarts.

Each memory was a thread unraveling, slipping away from him, disappearing into the storm of magic he had set in motion.

Goodbye, he thought, his heart tightening, the word a quiet, final benediction. It was as though he could feel the castle itself bracing, gathering its last ounce of magic willingly, an unspoken farewell shared between them—a promise that it, too, would stand one last time for him.

Finally, with the last ounce of strength he had, he twisted on the spot and Apparated.