Harry lost control of his body again and committed an action so horrifying it beggared belief.
In his heart, he sighed silently. He wanted to stop it all, but he was powerless—he could only let this Dark Lord unleash his might.
Professor McGonagall stepped forward slowly. Her footsteps dug into the ground like little awls, her expression sterner than Harry had ever seen—sterner than any time he'd gotten into trouble before. As if, in this moment, he had become her enemy, no longer a student under her protection and care.
"Harry, what exactly is going on? Why is that wand in your hand?"
"Move," the Dark Lord said coldly. So cold that Professor McGonagall found it unfamiliar—so cold that his friends found it unfamiliar too.
An Auror fired a spell at Harry from behind.
Before it could hit, the Dark Lord cast a Shield Charm, a barrier snapping around him. The spell ricocheted off the shield and struck the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, who dropped unconscious on the spot.
"Avada Kedavra!" The Dark Lord retaliated without mercy.
The shack erupted as if it had exploded. What followed was a storm of spells in every direction—just like that day at the Dursleys' old house. Killing Curses threaded and leapt through the crowd; wherever they passed, people fell like wheat cut down by the wind.
At this point, Harry's power as a dark wizard had already surpassed Voldemort's at his peak—at least in his mastery of the Killing Curse, it was nothing short of monstrous.
When the shack finally went quiet again…
Corpses covered the floor—Ministry officials and Aurors, and Hogwarts professors as well.
Professor McGonagall had protected Ron and Hermione. They were still alive. Sirius held the rat Scabbers in his grip; he was still alive too.
There was no blood.
Only deathly silence.
The young Dark Lord stepped over the adults' bodies, walking straight to Sirius. He stared at the elder who had been tortured into something barely human in Azkaban, his gaze both indifferent and weary.
"Go on," he said. "What happened back then?"
Sirius stared at Professor Lupin's body and pointed at it. "That man… and me… and Peter Pettigrew… and your father. We used to be the closest friends."
His voice sounded strange, as if it had no weight. Perhaps Sirius thought he was dreaming—some final delirious fantasy at the edge of death in Azkaban.
"Voldemort wanted you dead, Harry, because you were the one in the prophecy who would defeat him. We didn't know Peter had gone over to Voldemort. He gave away the place where your parents were hiding. After that… they died trying to save you."
"So my parents died because of this coward?" Dark Lord Harry stared at the rat Scabbers. He could feel it—there was a mark on that rat. Every Death Eater had a mark like that, and Harry had inherited Voldemort's memories and magic. He was the rat's new master now.
"Show yourself."
At the order, trembling in terror, Pettigrew changed—shrinking and stretching from a rat into a short, middle-aged wizard with wrinkled skin. He crawled on the ground, sobbing as he tried to defend himself.
"Harry, don't listen to this madman—he's lying through his teeth… Sirius, he's the traitor!"
Harry crouched, pressing the Elder Wand against Pettigrew's head. He used Legilimency, drawing out a long silver thread from the man's mind and bringing it before his eyes. He sifted through Peter's memories and saw it with his own eyes—Peter betraying the secret to Voldemort.
"So it was all because of you… My mum and dad died because of you. I suffered abuse in the Dursleys' house…" Harry's fury came fast—and went just as fast. "But what's the point of killing you…"
He muttered to himself. "Unless I can change all of this."
In that bleak shack, the boy looked delirious. He shuddered and paced back and forth, stepping over corpse after corpse, grinding his soles across faces.
Hermione began to cry. Ron held her in his arms. Professor McGonagall couldn't say a word. Sirius looked up at the Dementors drifting in the sky and suddenly let out a strange, broken laugh, hugging himself as he shook.
"Change everything… there has to be a way…"
Harry took out his Time-Turner and was about to rotate the hourglass when Professor McGonagall suddenly spoke.
"Wait, Harry." Minerva McGonagall looked like a woman crushed by life after a world-ending upheaval. "A Time-Turner can't change the past. You'll need another method."
"What method?"
Professor McGonagall spoke with crushing certainty. "Skyl's Eternal Transfiguration."
Harry asked, "Why are you telling me this, Professor?"
She gave a bleak, sorrowful smile. "Look around you, Harry. You've destroyed everything. If you can change the past, then do it. This world can't possibly get worse."
"But I don't know that magic."
"That magic isn't difficult. Once you've mastered essence transfiguration, and then find an 'eternal object,' you can completely alter an object's history." Professor McGonagall drew in a deep breath. "That 'eternal object' is in your hand."
Harry looked down at the Time-Turner. The grains inside the hourglass were like tiny golden stars, radiating an ancient, timeless light.
"This sand?"
"That's right—Sand of Time, a relic of the ancient Persian Empire. In 1845, the Ministry found a chest in a sunken Muggle ship in the Indian Ocean. Inside was about an ounce of Sand of Time. A Time-Turner can't change history, but the Sand of Time is meant for far more than making Time-Turners."
"Thank you, Professor."
"Don't call me Professor, Harry. Walk your own road."
Hermione's sobbing came in broken bursts. Ron stared at Harry numbly.
Fudge, who had been unconscious, woke up at that moment. He looked at the bodies strewn everywhere and let out a scream.
Sirius had gone completely mad.
The despair in the shack was so thick that even the Dementors didn't want to come near.
There wasn't a single trace of happiness left in these people's hearts for the creatures to feed on.
Pettigrew tried to escape, but as he crawled over bodies with difficulty, fear made him whimper and sob.
The Elder Wand pressed against the back of his head.
Harry crushed the Time-Turner in his fist. Glass shards pierced his palm, and the Sand of Time scattered, spilling over Pettigrew.
[Transfiguration Charm]
Harry murmured softly, "You low, filthy thing. When you sold out friends you'd known for years, did you feel even a shred of guilt? How did you ever deserve my parents' trust? Even your Animagus form is a rat—coward. Why couldn't you have been a rat from the moment you were born?"
"No—don't, please, Harry!"
Harry's cold magic and willpower overwhelmed Pettigrew. The Transfiguration Charm took effect.
Peter's body and clothes began to warp, bit by bit—colour, outline—turning into a rat.
The Sand of Time seeped into Peter's body, and the effect of the transfiguration began to reach backward into the past.
That small amount of Sand of Time wasn't enough to erase Pettigrew's entire life.
"Not enough!" Harry turned to Hermione. "Give it to me!"
Hermione's eyes were swollen from crying. Clear snot clung to her lips. She coughed softly, pulled out her Time-Turner, and hurled it at Harry. It struck his forehead, opening a shallow cut.
"Thank you, Hermione." Harry hesitated before picking it up. Hermione answered only with a look of disgust.
More Sand of Time spilled out.
Peter Pettigrew's scream became squeaking.
It began to "rain" in this world.
The sky dimmed, as if smothered beneath an airtight lid.
Rain poured down. All pain, grief, fear, and rage washed away with it.
The survivors stood quietly beneath the downpour.
Harry closed his eyes peacefully, savoring the relief he'd finally reached.
His memories surged like a tide.
Every detail of his past life blurred, as if behind a thick veil.
No miserable childhood fostered by the Dursleys. No wonderful life at Hogwarts. No tragedy tonight.
No hateful faces. No warm friendship. No bleak corpses.
Nothing remained. If Peter Pettigrew had never existed—if no one had betrayed the secret—then today's wizarding world would be utterly different.
Harry would have grown up under his parents' care, with a happy childhood, instead of becoming the Boy-Who-Lived.
The lightning-bolt scar on Harry's forehead faded little by little.
And at the very end, Harry remembered the strange man by Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
In weather that bright, the man neither departed nor hurried toward the next journey. He only held an umbrella, as if standing in an invisible "rain."
Like a milestone, watching in silence as the ruthless river of history scoured onward.
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