As the last traces of Voldemort’s existence faded into nothingness, the Dark Mark etched into the skin of his followers began to disappear. It was as if the ink that had bound them to their master had been wiped away by an invisible hand. For the Death Eaters, the mark had once been a badge of pride, a symbol of power and loyalty. Now, it vanished, leaving behind only smooth skin and a strange emptiness—a hollow freedom for some, and for others, a chilling void where their purpose had once been.

  Far away, in the cold, grim fortress of Azkaban, the silence was shattered by a chorus of desperate screams. The prisoners, once devoted to the Dark Lord, writhed in their cells as if struck by an unseen force. Their cries weren’t of pain but of loss—a deep, aching emptiness that reverberated through the stone halls. Even the dementors, those emotionless guardians of despair, seemed to recoil from the raw anguish, as if it were too much even for them to feed on. The Death Eaters, now unmarked and adrift, howled into the darkness, their voices blending into a haunting symphony of despair.

  Back at Hogwarts, in the Great Hall, the air was thick with the mingling scents of smoke, sweat, and the faint sweetness of pumpkin juice. A subtle shift rippled through the room. Professor Severus Snape, his face as unreadable as ever, stood abruptly from the long wooden table. His dark eyes flickered with something unspoken—relief, perhaps, or a quiet triumph. He leaned toward Albus Dumbledore, his voice a low, urgent whisper meant only for the headmaster’s ears. Dumbledore’s twinkling blue eyes widened briefly before he nodded, his expression unreadable.

  Without a word, the two men rose from their seats, their movements deliberate and unhurried. The chatter of students and staff faded as they watched the pair stride toward the towering oak doors of the Great Hall. Candlelight cast long, flickering shadows behind them, and whispers began almost immediately. What had Snape said? Where were they going? But no one dared to follow. The doors closed with a soft, final thud, leaving the hall in an uneasy silence, as if the castle itself was holding its breath, waiting for what would come next.

  Outside, the night was cool and still, the stars shimmering faintly through the remnants of battle smoke. Snape and Dumbledore walked side by side, their footsteps echoing on the cobblestone path. Neither spoke, but the weight of their shared knowledge hung heavy in the air. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, and the wind carried the faint scent of pine and damp earth.

  In the quiet sanctuary of the Headmaster’s office, the air was thick with tension. The portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses, usually dozing or murmuring among themselves, were eerily silent, their painted eyes fixed on the two men standing in the center of the room. Albus Dumbledore, his silver beard catching the flickering light of the enchanted candles, faced Severus Snape with an uncharacteristically grave expression. Snape, his face as pale and impassive as ever, met Dumbledore’s gaze with equal intensity.

  “When did you notice?” Dumbledore asked, his voice calm but laced with urgency. His piercing blue eyes searched Snape’s for answers.

  “This morning, Headmaster,” Snape replied, his tone clipped and precise. “During breakfast, I clearly felt the mark disappear. It was as if a weight I had carried for years had been lifted—or severed.”

  Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully, his gaze drifting to the swirling silver instruments on his desk. “Did Voldemort truly die after leaving Quirrell’s body?” he mused aloud, more to himself than to Snape. The question hung in the air, heavy with implications. The Dark Lord’s return had always loomed over the wizarding world, but now, with the Dark Mark gone, the possibility of his final demise seemed tantalizingly real.

  After a moment, Dumbledore straightened, his expression resolute. “Severus, you need to contact them. Find out if this is an isolated incident or if the Dark Mark is truly gone for all.”

  Snape gave a curt nod. “Understood, Headmaster.”

  Dumbledore turned toward the fireplace, his robes sweeping behind him. “I shall check the prophecy,” he said, his voice firm. “If Voldemort is indeed gone, the implications for the wizarding world are immense. We must be certain.”

  “As you wish,” Snape replied, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. Without another word, he turned on his heel and swept out of the office, his black robes billowing like a shadow.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Dumbledore watched him go, then stepped into the fireplace, grabbing a handful of glittering Floo powder from the ornate bowl on the mantel. “Ministry of Magic,” he declared clearly, and with a burst of green flames, he was gone.

  Meanwhile, Snape strode through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, his mind racing. The loss of the Dark Mark had shaken him more than he cared to admit. It wasn’t just a symbol of his past—it was a reminder of the choices he had made and the burdens he carried. Reaching his office, he closed the door behind him and moved to the fireplace. With a flick of his wand, he ignited the flames and tossed in a pinch of Floo powder.

  “Malfoy Manor,” he said, his voice low and deliberate.

  The flames roared to life, and within moments, the haughty face of Lucius Malfoy appeared in the fire. His usual air of aristocratic calm was absent, replaced by a look of barely concealed panic.

  “Severus,” Lucius said, his voice tight. “I assume you’ve felt it too.”

  “Indeed,” Snape replied, his tone icy. “We need to talk. The Dark Mark is gone. The question is—why?”

  As the two men began their conversation, the wheels of fate turned once more. In the Ministry of Magic, Dumbledore emerged from the Floo network, his mind focused on the Hall of Prophecies. The answers they sought were scattered like shards of glass, and it would take all their cunning and courage to piece them together. The war might be over, but the battle for truth had only just begun.

  Meanwhile, back at Hogwarts, life carried on in stark contrast to the weighty matters unfolding elsewhere. The end-of-term exams for the first years had concluded, and the castle buzzed with a mix of relief and anticipation. In a few days, the students would board the Hogwarts Express and return home, leaving the halls quiet and empty until the next term. The grounds, however, were still alive with activity as students enjoyed their newfound freedom, basking in the warm summer sun. The air was filled with laughter and chatter, a welcome reprieve from the tension that had gripped the school for so long.

  Harry and Hermione wandered along the edge of the Black Lake, the water shimmering in the afternoon light. The giant squid lazily waved a tentacle in their direction, and the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore created a soothing rhythm. For a moment, it felt as though the weight of the world had lifted from their shoulders.

  Harry, his hands stuffed into his pockets, broke the comfortable silence. “Hermione,” he began, his voice hesitant, “if I wasn’t the Boy-Who-Lived anymore… would you still see me as a friend?”

  Hermione stopped walking and turned to face him, her brow furrowed in confusion. “What are you talking about, Harry? Of course, I would. Why wouldn’t I? I know the real you. The real you is so much better than the dragon-riding, Dark Lord-slaying hero everyone makes you out to be.” She shook her head, a small, self-deprecating smile playing on her lips. “I was so silly to believe all that nonsense in the beginning.”

  Harry’s shoulders relaxed, and a genuine smile spread across his face. “Thanks, Hermione,” he said softly. Her words had given him the courage to make a decision he had been contemplating for a long time.

  Closing his eyes, Harry focused inward, activating the ability: *I am what I think I am.* He concentrated on the image of himself as the Boy-Who-Lived, the symbol of hope and fear that had defined him for so long. With deliberate precision, he began to unravel the threads of that identity. He erased any information linking the Boy-Who-Lived to his parents, James and Lily Potter, severing the connection between their legacy and the myth. Next, he separated the image of the Boy-Who-Lived from Harry Potter, turning the former into a distant legend—a story whispered in the wizarding world but no longer tied to any one person. Finally, he severed the connection between himself and the prophecy, ensuring that no trace of it would ever point to him again. When he opened his eyes, the world felt different, as though a heavy cloak had been lifted from his shoulders.

  A moment later, Harry turned to Hermione, a curious glint in his eye. “Hey, Hermione,” he began casually, “what do you know about the Boy-Who-Lived?”

  Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the question. “You mean the rumor about the boy who survived the Killing Curse and defeated the Dark Lord?” she replied, her brow furrowing slightly. “I think it’s just a myth. Honestly, I believe it was Dumbledore who really defeated Voldemort. All that ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ stuff sounds like a children’s fairy tale to me.”

  Harry smiled faintly but said nothing. The weight of expectation, the burden of being a symbol, was gone. To everyone around him, Harry Potter was no longer the Boy-Who-Lived. He was simply Harry, free to define himself on his own terms. The relief was palpable, like a breath of fresh air after years of suffocation.

  Hermione, oblivious to the transformation that had just taken place, tilted her head and studied him. “So,” she asked, her tone softening, “where will you go for the summer? I know your relationship with your aunt and uncle isn’t… great.”

  Harry’s smile widened, a lightness in his chest that he hadn’t felt in years. “Sirius has invited me to live with him at his home,” he replied, his voice warm with gratitude. “I think it’ll be good for both of us.”

  Hermione’s face lit up. “That’s wonderful, Harry! I’m so happy for you. You deserve to be somewhere you’re wanted and appreciated.”

  As they continued their walk, the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden glow over the castle and the lake. For the first time in his life, Harry felt truly free. The Boy-Who-Lived was a myth, a story for others to tell. He was Harry Potter, the boy with no limits.

  Blueprint of Immortality