Harry Potter had grown up in the long shadow of being unwanted—unloved by his relatives, bullied by his peers, and constantly reminded that he did not belong. He knew what it meant to be overlooked, to be despised.
That was why, as he delved into Snape's memories, he felt a pang of deep, unexpected empathy.
He saw Snape's loneliness, endured his humiliation, and felt his despair—especially the pain of being bullied by a group led by none other than James Potter, Harry's own father. Through Roger's enhanced Pensieve, the memories were not distant echoes but raw and immersive, like walking through another person's soul. And each time he emerged from that ocean of emotion, silent tears would stream down his face—residue of pain that wasn't entirely Snape's.
Because it was also his.
He had spent weeks watching the golden warmth of his parents' memories: James laughing, Lily smiling, moments that had become dreams he clung to. But that dream had cracked. The truth was more complicated, more human—and more painful.
Harry had once hated Snape. He saw him as petty, cold, cruel—always biased toward Slytherin and constantly singling him out in class. Even after Roger had shown him glimpses of Snape's future, Harry had stubbornly held onto that loathing.
But now… that hatred had eroded into something else.
Guilt.
After everything Snape had endured—after having the only ray of light in his life extinguished—it was a miracle the man hadn't done worse than hurl sarcastic remarks. Compared to what he'd suffered, Snape's jabs were almost merciful.
And so, Potions class had become the hardest part of Harry's day. Not because he feared Snape as he once had, but because he no longer knew how to look him in the eye. The fear wasn't of punishment—it was of shame, of remorse, of standing before someone whose pain he now understood too well.
Even outside the classroom, Snape's presence haunted him. His conscience was unrelenting.
Inside the enchanted lead coffin, Roger watched Harry through a magical lens. He studied the boy's expression—layers of conflict and hesitation—and finally spoke.
"Harry."
His voice cut through the stillness like a calm current.
"I could offer comforting words, or philosophical principles," Roger said. "But I don't think that's what you really need right now."
He paused. "What you need are clear, simple suggestions. Are you open to hearing them?"
Harry looked up, surprised—but nodded without hesitation. "Of course."
The very act of speaking his feelings aloud meant Harry was seeking help. He didn't want platitudes. He wanted clarity. Roger had resolved countless emotional knots at Hogwarts. Perhaps he could untangle this one too.
Roger nodded and continued. "You've probably heard rumors about my past—before I came to Hogwarts."
The specifics of the so-called "Middle East incident" were classified, but tales had already spread through the wizarding world like wildfire.
"On that battlefield, chaos was constant. Life-or-death decisions had to be made every minute. Hesitation could mean losing someone."
Harry said nothing, listening intently.
"In those moments, I had only one rule I followed," Roger said, voice firm. "Just one."
"Ask myself: Is this the right thing to do? If the answer was yes… I did it. No matter who was against me. No matter how hard it looked."
"I asked my heart. I listened to my conscience. I acted—and I had no regrets."
Then Roger met Harry's eyes and said, in a voice both calm and commanding:
"Do what you believe is right."
Harry blinked, stunned. "What I believe… is right?"
Roger nodded. "Think about it. How do you believe this situation should be handled? If you find an answer that feels right—then act on it. That's it."
No lectures. No imposition. Just truth.
Roger's voice softened. "Maybe the reason you're suffering isn't because you don't know what to do—but because you're afraid to face the answer that's already in your heart."
Harry lowered his head, silent.
And then—after a long pause—he lifted it.
His eyes, once clouded with doubt, were clear again.
"Thank you, Roger."
Yes.
The truth had been with him all along. He had just been afraid to confront it.
Afraid to face Snape.Afraid to face the truth about his father.Afraid to face his friends, for fear their image of him would shatter.Afraid of becoming like Snape—misunderstood, isolated, ridiculed.
After all, Harry had lived eleven years in isolation before Hogwarts. He feared that one wrong step could unravel everything—turn warmth into cold, friendship into silence, love into distance.
But even as fear surged through him, something stronger emerged.
Resolve.
Harry stepped out of the common room with slow, steady footsteps. Each step felt heavier than the last—his chest tight, hands trembling—but his pace never faltered.
Fear gnawed at his heart.
But he walked forward anyway.
Facing fear was a terrible thing.
But retreating from it—that would be worse.
If Harry turned back now, he wouldn't just be walking away from Snape. He'd be walking away from his own beliefs. From the future he wanted. From the strength he needed.
He would become someone who made peace with the 'wrong' choice.Someone who took the easy road and called it wisdom.Someone who gave up on greatness for the comfort of mediocrity.
And Harry couldn't accept that.
Roger had once told him: Magic is the miracle of the mind.A powerful mind could shape miracles.A weak one… couldn't even hope to shape fate.
If he gave in to fear now—if he became someone who bowed his head just to get by—then he might never have the strength to defy time.To save his parents.To rewrite destiny.
Even if they had been flawed—even if they had caused pain—they were his. And he would never stop wanting to save them.
Now, standing before the door of the Slytherin Head of House's office, all the noise in his mind fell silent.
No Roger at his side. No seer's guidance.Just him and the man beyond that door.
This was the path he had chosen to walk alone.
Harry whispered, almost to himself:"I have to do the right thing."
And then, he raised his hand.
Knock knock knock.
A pause. Then a voice, low and cutting:
"The door's unlocked."
Inside, Severus Snape looked up from a stack of parchment, quill in hand. But when he saw who had entered, his expression darkened with surprise—and then with contempt.
"Well, well," Snape drawled. "If it isn't our savior. And without your irritating little oracle to hide behind. What's the matter—no prophecy left to cling to?"
The sarcasm was as familiar as the stone walls of Hogwarts.
But Harry didn't flinch.
His voice was calm. Steady.
"Professor Snape, I've seen the memories."
"All of them."
He took a breath.
"As the son of Lily Evans and James Potter… I'm here to say something to you."
At that moment, Snape's sneer faltered.
The mocking edge vanished from his eyes.
Whatever he had expected Harry to say, it wasn't this.
The room fell still.
And for the first time in years, Severus Snape looked at Harry Potter not as a shadow of James… but as something else entirely.