Echo, Ragnok, and Pip settled themselves on the freshly swept wooden floor, forming a small, cramped circle in the center of the shed. Shimmer, light and silent, scampered up the wall beams and perched on the highest, dust-free shelf, his silvery fur camouflaging him against the shadows.
Ragnok cracked his neck, the sound loud in the small space, and looked around with a professional assessment. "Okay." His voice was low and gravelly. "We have a place to stay and a roof over our heads. A bit of protection, and we're far out of reach from the Ministry right now. We should see what we have right now."
The three of them began to rummage through their limited possessions, placing the few critical items they had managed to salvage into the center of the circle.
Ragnok reached into the inner pocket of his Gringotts suit and pulled out a small, worn magic satchel, tapping it with his new wand. It enlarged slightly as he placed it on the floor.
"I wasn't able to grab much," the goblin grumbled, rummaging inside. "Just about three days' worth of clean clothes, including this suit, a couple of hundred Galleons—most of what I had on me—my dagger, and the wand." He laid a shining, wickedly sharp Goblin-forged dagger next to a stack of folded gray fabric.
Pip, in his little green outfit, looked down at the paltry few items he had managed to produce. "Pip only has a handful of Galleons from Master Echo as payment, a cloth for polishing, a silver spoon, and one chocolate frog." He placed the items neatly next to the goblin's stash, his large eyes apologetic.
Echo surveyed the piles. "Huh. I'm not used to being the one with more stuff. But then again, I did have more time to pack." He began pulling items from his backpack and tossing them onto the floor. "Let's see. Every change of clothing I've ever bought… Hogwarts robes, which I should probably get rid of, a few changes of Muggle clothes, which are still useful, and some winter clothing, which will be very useful soon. My new green dragon-scale robe. My wand, of course. My Nab-sack, which is empty. Whatever's inside of this satchel, which is always overstuffed with so much random nonsense, we'll sort through it later." He finished with a flourish, pulling out a heavy, clinking bag. "And, uh… a couple thousand Galleons."
Ragnok's head snapped up, his golden eyes narrowed to slits. "A couple thousand Galleons?! How in the blazes do you have that much money, kid?!"
Echo winced, his hollow expression momentarily returning. "It originally came from Sniffles' old horde under my bed," he said quietly. "It was usually whatever Sniffles found around the castle or the small weekly allowance given by Dumbledore, though I usually just gave that to Sniffles to hoard away." The thought of his dead pet Niffler brought a tear to Echo's eye, which he quickly wiped away with the heel of his hand.
Shimmer, wanting to be a part of the critical inventory, came down from the rafters with light, silent steps. The silvery Demiguise began to root through his own long, silver hair, adding his personal items to the pile.
Echo chuckled, wiping the last of the tear from his face. "Looks like we also have Shimmer's beating stick and…" Echo trailed off, his eyes widening as he watched the Demiguise add a miniature knife and an impossibly small crossbow to the pile. "Shimmer, where did you get this stuff?"
Shimmer just stared at him, his large black eyes unblinking.
"You know what? Never mind," Echo sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Ragnok looked at the growing collection of supplies. "Is that all?"
Echo rummaged through his backpack one last time. "Give me a minute."
As Echo dug deeper, Pip, in his little green outfit, cleared his throat. "Pip also has a lollipop, Mister Echo!" The house-elf produced a brightly colored swirl from his sleeve.
Before Echo could even look up, a silver blur shot down from the rafters. Shimmer snatched the lollipop from Pip's hand and scampered back up to his perch, settling down with the treat. Pip stared for a moment, then shrugged, used to the Demiguise's antics. Echo continued to search, his movements becoming increasingly frantic. His fingers brushed against a dozen non-essential items, but not the one thing he desperately needed. His breathing started to quicken.
"Where is it? Where is it!? WHERE IS IT!?" he asked, his voice a low, raw whisper that held a tremor of rising panic.
Ragnok, who had been organizing the small pile of Galleons, looked up, his brow furrowing. "Where's what, kid?"
"My Pact Stone," Echo choked out, now tearing the remaining contents from his bag. "The one I made with Skate when we became a couple."
The small shed seemed to spin as Echo's mind raced through the panicked flight away from Hogwarts. He remembered the jolting ride on Wick, the near-misses with Ministry Aurors. His backpack had been struck a few times, he recalled, and ripped open in a few parts. The horrific realization hit him with the force of a stunning spell: the Pact Stone must have slipped out by accident and undoubtedly fallen into the black lake when flying over it.
He instantly brought his knees to his chest and hugged them, burying his face. "No, it can't be," he said, the words muffled and thick with sadness. "I couldn't have lost it. That was the only thing I had to remember her by."
Ragnok slowly placed a hand on Echo's shaking back and patted him a few times. "I'm so sorry about what happened to your woman," the goblin muttered, his gravelly voice surprisingly soft.
As Echo silently mourned the loss of his girlfriend, his now-empty backpack tipped over. The last remaining contents—a couple of letters—spilled out onto the floor. Each had a different name written on the front. Four were addressed to each of the Marauders: James, Sirius, Peter, and Remus. The last was written out to Professor Cleen.
Echo brought his head up and saw the names. He was immediately flooded with emotions: regret, sadness, disgust, and a fierce, burning anger. Seeing their names was a sharp, brutal reminder of what they had done to him. The Marauders had bullied him throughout the beginning of the year. Not one of them, not even Remus—who Echo had sacrificed himself for again and again—had lifted a finger to help him in his most desperate hour. And Professor Cleen, who, despite not being liked by him, Echo had tried to be a good student for, had only offered silence and disgust.
Without thinking, driven only by his emotions, Echo stood up. He grabbed the letters in his fist, flung open the shed door, and marched outside. Wick, who had been drawn to the noise, lifted her massive head and watched. Echo took the letters and threw them against the trunk of the nearby young oak tree.
"INCENDIO!" he roared, shouting his dragon spell command to her.
Without hesitation, Wick blasted the young tree with a concentrated torrent of fire, setting it and the letters ablaze while Echo screamed out in a mixture of agony, rage, and sadness. As the tree and the letters burned, Echo fell to his knees and began to sob.
Ragnok and Pip looked outside to see Echo in this state. Before either of them could go over and comfort him, the boy felt his long hair falling in front of his face. He looked at it, watching it change color—the angry, distressed maroon of his earlier moments fighting with the despondent, empty gray-blue. Echo was overtaken by his emotions once more.
He scrambled back into the shed. He looked around, and his eyes landed on a pair of old sheep shears hanging on a peg and a tarnished mirror on the wall. He grabbed the shears and began to cut chunks of his long, color-changing hair off furiously. Ragnok and Pip looked at this, wondering what on Earth had gotten into Echo.
"Master Echo, what's wrong?!" Pip cried, his voice trembling. He got no reply.
"Stop it, kid, before you hurt yourself!" Ragnok commanded, stepping forward, but Echo didn't listen and kept going until he had cut all of his long, vibrant hair almost down to his scalp.
With the last lock of hair cut off, Echo dropped the shears and looked at himself in the mirror. His hair, which once changed color with his shifting mood, now no longer does so. Instead, it retained its natural Raven black shade.
Seeing this new hair, this new face, Echo finally knew one thing for certain: the boy he was, the boy he used to be, was no more. There was no going back to that.
Echo finally dropped to his knees, crying into his hands. Seeing this, Pip, Ragnok, and Shimmer surrounded the boy, trying their best to comfort and offer words of encouragement, allowing him to express his untapped emotions.
Meanwhile, a few hundred miles away, the stone corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry stood eerily silent, the air thick with unspoken chaos. In her second-floor office, Professor Minerva McGonagall was attempting to maintain a facade of normalcy. She was mindlessly grading third-year Transfiguration essays, her quill scratching a rhythmic pattern against the parchment, a small protest against the cataclysm that had transpired less than twenty-four hours ago. The chaos—the murder, the fugitive, the dragon—was a dull ache beneath her professional composure.
The heavy oak door creaked open, and she looked up to see the towering figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Auror from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, standing in the doorway.
"Minerva," Kingsley began, his deep voice cautious. "Do you have a moment?"
Minerva gave a small, weary sigh and set down her quill. "Since you've already breached the door, Kingsley, I suppose I may as well."
Kingsley stepped into the office, his Auror robes stained with dirt and a slight tear in the sleeve. He reached into his coat and produced a single, ordinary-looking envelope, extending it to her. "I wanted to give you this."
Minerva took the letter, her brow furrowing. It was a simple envelope, but her name was scrawled across the front. "What is this?"
"It was the only thing we could recover from Echo after he had fled," Kingsley explained. "Apparently, it fell out of his backpack amongst several others just like it."
"But isn't this Ministry evidence?" Minerva asked, her eyes narrowing.
"Yes, but I looked over this and every other letter, Minerva, and found nothing. No hidden code, no dark agenda, no illegal magic, nothing. It's just a normal, albeit highly emotional, letter."
"Then why are you giving this to me? Won't Alastor be mad?"
Kingsley gave a tired half-shrug. "Mad-Eye is… not in the best position right now to be making commands after having his leg bitten off by that dragon. Besides, after reading every last one, everything I thought I knew about that boy has been flipped on its head. I personally believe that you and everyone else who wrote those letters were written to deserve to see them. It might change your perspective on everything that happened, as it did mine."
Before Minerva could formulate a proper question, Kingsley turned to leave. "I've delivered the rest. You are the last." Then he was gone, leaving her alone with the envelope.
Minerva looked down at the paper in her hands. It was addressed simply to 'Professor McGonagall' in Echo's sloppy, hurried handwriting. She ran a thumb over the seal's crease, then opened the envelope, pulled out the letter, and unfolded it before reading.
The first thing that struck her was the penmanship. It was a scrawl, the letters unevenly spaced and the lines occasionally dipping or rising. This wasn't the neat, if a little rushed, handwriting of the boy she'd taught for the last few years; this was the clumsy, earnest effort of a First or Second Year student. Minerva's brow furrowed in confusion, and she flipped to the end, seeing the simple, "Sincerely yours, Echo," before going back to the top. The first line only deepened her surprise:
Dear Professor McGonagall,
When you get this, it will be my 7th year, and I will be graduating from Hogwarts. I'm writing this letter to tell you two things: Thank you, and I'm sorry.
She read on, her sharp gaze softening and her professional composure slowly crumbling with every poorly formed word.
Thank you for all the hard work you put into helping me understand the ins and outs of Transfiguration. Thank you for always taking the time to help me and answering all my questions, even if I repeated them or was really annoying. Thank you for always believing in me when no one else would and helping me advance and understand my Beast Magic. When I eventually write it all down, and the Ministry accepts it as a new form of magical teaching, I will definitely put you down as one of the sources. I even thank you for always being so strict with me, which makes sense since Transfiguration is not a class of magic to sneeze at.
A single, unbidden tear tracked a path through her cheek. She blinked it away, continuing to read the apology.
I also wanted to say sorry for always being so difficult, always finding, causing, or getting into trouble, and for always understanding, even if you did give me detention. You're one of, if not my most favorite, teachers, and I'm sorry if this sounds like I'm reaching; I really do feel a close connection to you. You really are the closest thing that I have ever felt to having a real mother. I'm sorry if that sounds inappropriate to you. That's truly how I feel, and I hope that in the future we can still stay in contact no matter where I go. And maybe one day we really could be child and mother, although I only jest.
Once again, I thank you for everything.
Sincerely yours, Echo.
The letter dropped from Minerva's numb fingers and fluttered to the desk. The meticulous deputy headmistress was instantly overwhelmed with a tidal wave of emotions: the crushing weight of sadness, the sharp pain of grief for the boy she'd lost, and a searing, visceral regret. She held her hands to her mouth, her knuckles white, her breath catching in a ragged, silent gasp. With a choked sob, she snatched the letter back up, crumpling the parchment in her fist as her eyes welled up with tears that finally spilled over, tracing hot trails down her cheeks.
Putting the crumpled letter down, Minerva rested her head on her desk and finally allowed herself to break the facade. She began to sob into her hands, the sound raw and desperate in the quiet office. "I failed him," she whispered, her voice thick with anguish, the sound barely audible over the scratching of the quill she'd abandoned. "Oh, my boy, I failed you."
Professor Filius Flitwick's office, a cozy, book-lined space on the third floor, was a world away from Minerva's imposing office, yet the same sense of quiet desolation had seeped in. Flitwick, small in stature but immense in spirit, sat at his desk, a simple, folded piece of parchment in his trembling hands. The other letters had been delivered, and this was his.
He ran a small, elegant finger over the seal, his brow furrowed with apprehension. He, too, had been aware of the whispers, the reports from Kingsley. The Auror had been brief, his deep voice heavy with an emotion Flitwick recognized instantly: regret.
He broke the seal and unfolded the letter. Like Minerva's, the penmanship was clumsy, the letters of a younger boy striving for neatness but failing. He recognized the effort instantly—the same way Echo had striven to perfect a tricky Wingardium Leviosa in his first year, all heart and no finesse. He began to read.
Dear Professor Flitwick,
When you get this, it will be my 7th year, and I will be graduating from Hogwarts. I'm writing this letter to tell you two things: Thank you, and I'm sorry.
Thank you for all your hard work and dedication. Always teaching me and always helping me when I needed it, even for giving me advice on other matters that weren't in your job description, for allowing me to experiment and have fun with magic, even if I did regularly mess up. I always enjoyed learning from you. Hearing your stories of past duels and torments and taking your pearls of wisdom.
Flitwick's eyes, already wide behind his glasses, were starting to sting. The acknowledgment, the simple thank you from a boy who had been so consistently overlooked, struck him with the force of a Stunner. He remembered the countless extra minutes spent after class, correcting wand movements, and the quiet pride when Echo had managed to make a feather truly hover. He blinked once, hard, clearing the sudden moisture.
I also wanted to say sorry for always being so difficult, always finding, causing, or getting into trouble, and for always understanding, even for the rare times you did give me detention. You're one of, if not my, most favorite teachers, and I'm sorry if this sounds like I'm reaching; I really do feel a close connection to you.
You really are the closest thing I have ever had to a father in his life, and I hope that, whatever happens in the future and wherever I go, I will be able to stay in contact with you and grow our relationship into a true father-son bond. I'm sorry if that sounds inappropriate to you, but that's truly how I feel.
Once again, I thank you for everything.
Sincerely yours, Echo.
The small, elderly Professor gasped, a choked, rattling sound from deep in his chest. His hands began to shake violently, and he saw the final lines—the plea for a relationship he hadn't even realized he'd been fostering—blur into indecipherable ink. He had to stop. With a ragged, desperate sound, he tossed the letter onto the desk, snatched his glasses from his nose, and put his face in his hands. The tears, once contained, now rushed forth, hot and blinding.
He had tried. He truly had tried to see the boy beneath the baggage, to nourish the startling, raw talent for magic that few others possessed. Yet, when the moment had come, when the world had descended into chaos around the boy, he had offered only silence and a stiff, professional demeanor. He had seen a murderer, a dark wizard, when all along, there had been a lost, lonely child.
Filius Flitwick, Master Charmer, Champion Duelist, and Head of Ravenclaw, sat in his quiet, book-lined office, the letter a crumpled testament on the wood, and wept openly for the boy he had lost and failed, for the son he had almost, but never truly, had.
Meanwhile, across the castle grounds and beyond, the small, sturdy wooden home of Rubeus Hagrid, sitting at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, was strangely quiet. Fang whined softly from his rug, sensing the deep tension in his master. Hagrid sat at his scrubbed wooden table, mechanically polishing an old crossbow, his enormous frame slumped in profound, hopeless guilt. He had heard the news—the Dragon, the Aurors, Echo's flight—and it had been a crushing weight. He felt sick, knowing he hadn't raised a finger to help his favorite student.
A heavy rap sounded on his door, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, having completed his grim duty, entered. The Auror looked at the half-giant with sympathy.
"Hagrid, I've got one more delivery," Kingsley said, his voice quiet. He reached into his robes and pulled out a single, folded piece of parchment. "It fell out of his pack during the escape. It's for you."
Hagrid's enormous hands, usually so capable, fumbled as he took the letter. It was addressed to him, simply "Hagrid," in a handwriting that was not Echo's usual scrawl but a neat, determined script he hadn't seen before. He recognized the careful effort. He broke the seal and unfolded it, reading the contents with painful deliberation:
Dear Hagrid,
When you get this, it will be my 7th year, and we I be graduating from Hogwarts. I hope this letter finds you well. I'm writing to thank you for everything you've done for me over the years. You've been the best professor a guy could ask for. Thank you for being the one who truly invigorated my love of magical creatures. I know I was a handful, but thanks for putting up with my antics and even going along with some of my crazier ideas and things.
Especially, thank you for helping out with Wick when she was a hatchling and for keeping that a secret for the most part. I'll never forget that. It also meant a lot that you helped me meet Newt Scamander and that you allowed me to share all I had done, in my small ways, for magical creatures. And, of course, thank you for our weekly tea times—they were always the best part of my week.
Wherever I go in the future, I promise I'll be sure to share all about it with you, including any magical creatures or dragons I find. I thank you again for everything.
Once again, I thank you for everything.
Sincerely yours, Echo
Upon reading this, a deep, raw sound tore from Hagrid's throat. It was a miserable, sorrowful bellow, like a baying hound wailing at a cold moon. He clutched the crumpled letter to his massive chest, his huge body shaking with hopeless regret. "Ah, Echo, lad," he whispered, his voice thick with tears. "I wish I could've been there to help you more."
Meanwhile, across the castle grounds and a good bit away, the bustling Gryffindor Common Room was a hollow shell of its usual boisterous self. Frank Longbottom and Alice, sitting on a worn sofa near the unlit fireplace, held identical-looking envelopes. The letters had been delivered by Kingsley Shacklebolt only moments ago, a grim bookend to the chaos of the last day.
Frank's hand, usually steady, trembled as he broke the seal on his letter, while Alice held hers with a look of growing dread. Frank unfolded his first, recognizing Echo's hurried, almost clumsy script, and began to read.
Dear Frank,
When you get this, it will be our 7th year, and we will be graduating from Hogwarts. I'm writing this letter to tell you thank you for being the best mate a guy could ask for, through thick and thin. You've always been there for me, even when I didn't deserve it.
I still remember the day we met—you showing off on your broom, trying to impress a first-year. It was awkward as hell, but it was a sweet sentiment, and you've been sticking by me ever since, you idiot. I hope that no matter where life takes us, we continue to be friends. I hope that you and Alice continue to be together in a long, happy relationship. And listen, if you two ever get married, you'd better make me one of your groomsmen because I will definitely make you my best man during my wedding with Skate. She deserves to have her maid of honor, and I need my best man.
Once again, I thank you for everything.
Sincerely yours, Echo.
Frank's vision blurred. The cheerful, almost joking tone of the last paragraph was a brutal counterpoint to the quiet devastation in the Common Room. He put the letter down, his chest heaving, and reached over to comfort Alice, who had just finished reading her own letter.
Her letter, also starting with the same somber premise, was more reserved:
Dear Alice,
When you get this, it will be our 7th year, and we will be graduating from Hogwarts. I'm writing this letter to tell you thank you. I know we haven't interacted much, and most of our friendship comes from my relationship with Frank, but I'm happy to have gotten to know you through him. Thank you for sticking by me, even when all the horrible rumors were spread about me. You were one of the very few who didn't look at me with disgust, and I'll never forget that. You and Frank are the best couple, and I hope you stay happy together.
You know, I still laugh remembering how I was the one to bring you two together, via a dragon back riding date. And the fact that Frank never brought up the fact that the date was a date for you two is still the most hilarious thing I've ever seen. I wished you both well and hoped that, if you do get married, you'll have Skate as one of your bridesmaids.
Once again, I thank you for everything.
Sincerely yours, Echo.
The parchment slipped from Alice's numb fingers as a guttural sob escaped her. The last few lines—the casual mention of her wedding with Frank and the hope of Skate being her bridesmaid—shattered her composure. She crumbled into a tear-filled mess, leaning heavily into Frank's shoulder.
Frank's arm tightened around her, his own body shaking with suppressed emotion. He buried his face in her hair, letting the quiet, desperate tears finally fall. He sobbed, but only barely managed to hold himself together for both of them, his mind reeling with the realization that he, too, had failed his best friend.
The quiet solace of the Hufflepuff common room, a perpetually sunny, subterranean haven, was no match for the bleak despair that had settled over Hogwarts. In a comfortable armchair near a round, badger-shaped rug, sat Amos Diggory. Now finished with classes for the day, he was exhausted from everything that had happened over the last 24 hours, which didn't help with the regular classes that no one in the school was paying particular attention to. Kingsley Shacklebolt, having completed his circuit, had found him here, leaving him with an ordinary-looking envelope.
Amos held the parchment, addressed simply to 'Amos' in that familiar, messy scrawl, and felt a confusing mix of apprehension and dread. He was well aware of the rumors, the official narrative, and the grim reality of what his friend, Echo, was now accused of. With a shaky sigh, he broke the seal.
The handwriting, a clumsy attempt at neatness that spoke of a much younger boy than the one he'd last seen, was the first thing that struck him. The letter began, not with a formal greeting, but with a statement of fact that only Echo could have penned:
Dear Amos,
When you get this, it will be my 7th year, and I will be graduating from Hogwarts, or rather, I will have already graduated. Since you're two years ahead of me, I figured by the time I actually got around to giving you this, you would have already graduated. Or I will have forgotten about this letter and finally remember to give it to you during my own graduation two years later.
I'm writing this letter to tell you thank you. Thank you for being one of my best mates and for sticking by my side even when things got rough. Everyone started looking at me weirdly when I started hanging out with the Merfolk, but you never did. You were always so open-minded about them and their vastly different culture from the Wizarding World. Not many people, let alone wizards, would actually be this open-minded and willing to learn, but I guess that's just the natural nature of a Hufflepuff. People really do have to stop downplaying Hufflepuffs. You guys are awesome, and I hope you win the House Cup one day. Lord knows that Slytherin and Gryffindor don't need to win it for the umpteenth time.
You know, I always liked how much you relied on me for knowledge. It always made me feel smarter than I was, but I always felt you were far smarter than I was and shouldn't demean yourself. You may call me the smartest guy in Hogwarts, but you are the nicest guy in Hogwarts, and I hope that we can continue to stay friends no matter what. I know you've been dating that pretty girl recently, and I hope that you two live happily together.
Once again, I thank you for everything.
Sincerely yours, Echo.
Amos didn't realize he was holding his breath until the last sentence. A profound, gut-wrenching ache seized his chest. He looked at the words, the casual hope for the future, the genuine thanks, the heartfelt compliment—and felt a terrible, sharp agony. He hadn't seen the killer the Ministry was hunting; he had only ever seen the lost, incredibly powerful, but deeply loyal boy who saw the best in a world that had so often shown him the worst.
He rose from the armchair, the need for solitude a physical pain. Ignoring the few other Hufflepuffs scattered around the room, he walked with a heavy, deliberate pace to his old dorm, the letter held tightly in his hand.
Once inside the empty room, he leaned his back against the closed door, the meticulously made beds of his younger housemates mocking the chaos of his emotions. He slid down to the floor, the rough stone a cold anchor, and finally allowed his composure to shatter. The paper was crushed against his chest, right over his heart, as a wave of overwhelming emotion—regret, sorrow, and fierce, burning disbelief—took him.
His chest heaved with the force of his sobs, the sound muffled by the thick stone walls. He held the crumpled letter to him like a desperate embrace, whispering the words he hadn't had the chance to say to the boy whom he had failed, his best friend: "I believe you, Echo. I always did." But the admission was too late, lost to the silence of the empty dorm.
Meanwhile, a few floors up and across the castle, the Hogwarts Library was a study in quiet isolation. Students, reeling from the recent events, had mostly retreated to the manufactured safety of their common rooms. Pandora Lovegood, however, remained. She sat at a table near the back, a book on the theoretical properties of Nargles open before her. The library, normally a place of comforting routine, now felt vast and empty.
Kingsley Shacklebolt, having completed his grim delivery route, had stopped by her table moments ago, his departure as quiet and heavy as the news he delivered. The letter, addressed simply to 'Pandora' in the rushed, unfamiliar hand, lay next to her stack of parchment. With a sigh that barely stirred the air, she broke the seal, her large, pale eyes fixed on the contents.
Like the others, the letter began with a sense of distance and time:
Dear Pandora,
When you get this, it will be our 7th year, and we will be graduating from Hogwarts. I'm writing this letter to tell you thank you. Our friendship was short, but it was the one light that helped me through a very, very dark time in my life. Thank you for helping me keep on the right path and preventing my demons from winning out when I tried to off myself. And for helping me when I made a zombie version of my beloved pet Niffler. I know, a crazy time.
I also wanted to say sorry for never talking to you earlier during my previous years at Hogwarts. It's a huge regret. I never took the time to notice how wonderful a person you are. But despite the circumstances that brought us together, I'm glad that I met you. I hope we continue to be friends all the way through our final years, and that I'll be able to help you find Nargles, or whatever you call them.
Once again, thank you for everything.
Sincerely yours, Echo.
Pandora finished reading, the silence of the library seeming to amplify the words. Her face, usually a mask of gentle curiosity, tightened. There were no immediate tears, no choked sobs like the others. Instead, she brought the parchment to her lap and, with slow, deliberate care, began to fold it. She smoothed the crease with the edge of her thumb, her movements meticulous, as if she were preserving the letter not for its sentiment, but for its physical integrity.
She tucked the folded paper deep into the inner pocket of her robes, a secure, private place. Then, she picked up her book, her eyes scanning the familiar text about invisible creatures. But even as she turned the page, her hands, resting lightly on the aged cover, began to shake—a violent, uncontrollable tremor that betrayed her inner turmoil. Her lip quivered, a minuscule ripple in her composed demeanor, as she tried to prevent her emotions from getting the better of her in the public space. Missing the boy who had only just become her friend, Pandora Lovegood sat, still and silent, a portrait of profound, restrained grief.
The heavy stone of the dungeons, typically a comforting, isolating embrace for Severus Snape, felt colder than usual. He had sought refuge in an unused, dusty classroom near the Potions lab, a place so obscure even the most determined students rarely stumbled upon it. The air was still thick with the lingering scent of disinfectant from the Medical Wing, where he had just left Lily. Her presence, a faint, sweet anchor in the castle's surrounding chaos, now seemed distant, overshadowed by the grim encounter with Kingsley Shacklebolt in the corridor just moments ago.
The envelope lay on the chipped wooden desk before him, a simple, ordinary piece of parchment that felt impossibly heavy. He hadn't bothered to sit. He stood, his lean body tense, his gaze fixed on the messy, unfamiliar scrawl on the front. It was addressed to one name, and one name only: Sev.
The familiar, almost brutal wave of self-loathing hit him. Sev. It was the nickname Lily had given him years ago, a painful, cherished reminder of a friendship he was rapidly destroying. He hadn't heard anyone else use it since he and Lily had drifted apart—not until Echo, the infuriating, intensely loyal, and now tragically lost boy, had started using it with a casual, almost proprietorial affection that had always, to Severus's quiet shame, warmed him.
He ran a pale, slender finger over the crease of the seal, the sudden urge to burn the thing a fierce, momentary temptation simply. But Kingsley's voice, quiet and regretful, echoed in his mind: "It might change your perspective on everything that happened, as it did mine." With a sharp, decisive flick of his wrist, he broke the seal and unfolded the letter. Like the others, the handwriting was clumsy, the effort of a younger boy attempting precision his mind wasn't capable of.
Dear Sev,
When you get this, it will be my 7th year, and I will be graduating from Hogwarts, or rather, I will have already graduated. Since you're two years ahead of me, I figured by the time I actually got around to giving you this, you would have already graduated. Or I will have forgotten about this letter and finally remember to give it to you during my own graduation two years later.
Regardless of when you get this, I want to say thank you. Thank you for everything, despite you never always being all too keen on it.
Severus's lips thinned, a faint, bitter acknowledgment of the truth. He read on, the words conjuring ghosts he had tried desperately to silence.
I still remember the first time that we met, during my first year at Hogwarts, at the sorting ceremony. I'm only 70% sure you weren't paying attention when I was still unaware that the sorting hat was sentient and alive, and thought it was an alien trying to take over my brain, so I tried to smash it into the ground. Looking back, that was a funny memory, but then, of course, I met you at the Slytherin table, and that's when we met.
A minuscule, involuntary twitch played at the corner of Severus's mouth. He did remember that. The sheer, terrifying stupidity of the small, terrified boy had been almost too much to process, but he had felt a strange, grudging kinship with the outcast at the Slytherin table.
I also reminisce about when you had to teach me basic hygiene—how to dress myself and use the latrine properly. That was a very awkward, but also funny, time, and although I want to explain why I didn't know those things, I'm not entirely sure you'd believe me. But I hope that one day I can share the full truth of my entire backstory with you.
Severus swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. That day. It had been humiliating for both of them, and he'd been furious at Dumbledore for forcing him into the role. But the boy had been so earnestly, tragically ignorant.
But apart from that, I also want to thank you for always helping me, whether you wanted to or not, or were being forced by Dumbledore. I always appreciated your help, whether it be in magic, dueling, or potions. I know you've had a hard life, and that's why you act the way you do, and of course, James and his posse don't exactly make it any better for you. And maybe I never made your life any better with how obscenely annoying I can be.
But I hope that one day you can come out of your shell a little bit and learn how to express and use your emotions and not be so emotionally constipated. You may not know it, but you do have a very nice smile.
Severus scoffed, a dry, rasping sound—the thought of him smiling was a cruel joke.
And a word of advice. Invest in a new kind of shampoo. Whatever you're using is clearly not doing it. Your hair always looks greasy, and nobody likes that, not even Lily.
The jolt of the last sentence was electric, and Severus had to grip the edge of the desk. The blatant, brutal honesty.
And speaking of Lily, I hope that you don't say anything else stupid to her, and try to keep your friendship with her, and always gawk over her because of your long-standing crush. And regardless of whatever bet me and Frank have to see who Lily will end up with, the two of you are meant for each other, and you should treat her right. And that begins with you letting go of all that edgy brooding.
Regardless of whether or not you feel it, I really do consider you a true friend.
Sincerely yours, Echo.
The letter is finished. Severus stood utterly still, the parchment trembling faintly in his grip. The accusations, the raw, unfiltered kindness, the intimate, maddening advice—it all slammed into him at once. He was a creature of calculated control, and the surge of emotion was a violent rupture of his carefully constructed world.
He suddenly felt a cold, wet spot form on the parchment, darkening the ink around Echo's signature. Severus looked up, instinctively checking the ceiling, only to remember he was indoors. He blinked, confused, and then raised a shaking hand to his face.
His fingers brushed against a scalding hot trail running down his cheek. He was crying. He hadn't wept since his mother's funeral, and he hadn't even consciously realized the dam had broken. The tears came faster now, hot and blinding, spilling onto the letter, blurring the young boy's clumsy script.
He tried to stop them, an involuntary, almost panicked response to reclaim his control, but they just kept coming. With a muffled, guttural sound, the sound of a stone cracking under impossible pressure, Severus Snape finally dropped the pretense. He crumpled the letter and pressed it to his chest, sinking slowly to the floor of the abandoned classroom. The cold, sterile stone was the only witness to his collapse. He wept for the boy he had failed, for the friendship he had taken for granted, and for the ugly, self-made barrier he had erected between himself and the one person who, in a world of venomous shadows, had genuinely considered him a friend. For the first time in a long, long time, Severus did not deny himself the feeling.
Meanwhile, in the sterile, high-ceilinged expanse of the Hogwarts Medical Wing, the silence was its own kind of screaming. It was the morning of October 31st, and the festive, boisterous spirit of Halloween had been violently exorcised from the castle. Where cheerful, carved pumpkins should have floated, a cold, unnatural stillness reigned. The true meaning of the day seemed to have reverted to its darker roots; outside, muffled by the thick stone walls, a low, nervous hum of chanting could be heard—students, fueled by fear and the official narrative, attempting rituals to ward off malign spirits, whispers naming Echo as the chief among them.
Lily Evans, pale but stable, lay in a bed near the wide window, the weak, grey sunlight doing nothing to warm the room. Her body was recovering, but her mind was a battlefield. She had been left in the Great Hall, a pawn in a deadly game, and the memory of Echo's terrified, desperate face as he turned to face the Death Eaters for her—the last image she had of him—was a recurring, cold nightmare.
The swinging doors of the ward opened, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, looking even more weary than he had when he delivered the other letters, stepped inside. His Auror robes were freshly mended, but the exhaustion beneath his deep-set eyes was not. He approached her bed, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, a courtesy to the pervasive silence.
"Miss Evans, I presume?" he said, nodding to her. He pulled a chair over and sat, a slight squeak of the wood echoing unnervingly in the quiet. He reached into his coat and produced three items.
He placed them on her bedside table: a simple, folded piece of parchment; a second, slightly thicker one; and a small, ornate wooden box, no bigger than a flute case, attached to the second letter by a loop of thin, silver string.
"I have two more," Kingsley explained, gesturing to the items. "One for you, recovered from Echo's things. And this other one, with… something attached. It's addressed to your sister, Petunia."
Lily's breath hitched at the sight of her name, scrawled in the familiar, hasty, and clumsy hand of a much younger Echo across the front of the first envelope. But the second name, Petunia, hit her with the force of a physical blow. A letter for Petunia? And a box? She looked up at Kingsley, her green eyes wide with confusion and a growing sense of dread.
"Is… is this ministry evidence?" she whispered, her voice cracking from disuse.
Kingsley shook his head slowly. "We've read them all. Nothing. Just… the words of a boy. Highly emotional. I thought you should have yours. And I believe you are the best person to deliver this one to your sister." He tapped the wooden box with a cautious finger. "I haven't opened this, but I have a feeling it is a wand, though we're not sure until it's opened. It's spelled shut. Only the intended recipient could open it. I couldn't in good conscience keep this from her."
He stood up, his massive shadow falling over her. "I'm sorry, Lily. For everything." With that, the Auror turned and left, the soft click of the doors leaving Lily alone with the devastating trinity of objects.
She reached for the first letter, her own, the parchment already damp from the slight tremor in her hand. She broke the seal, unfolded the familiar, young-boy's scrawl, and began to read:
Dear Petunia,
How are you doing? I hope that you're doing well, and also wondering if you're still dating that fat, dimwitted, oaf Dursley. If so, you need to increase your standards for men, no offense significantly. But regardless of my opinion of your love life, by the time you get this, it'll either be before or after I have graduated from Hogwarts. If this letter arrives after I have graduated, I'm sorry for keeping you waiting for so long. I never forgot my promise to you.
Lily paused, her eyes widening slightly as she read the words. Promise? What promise was Echo talking about? Petunia had always been so guarded, so bitter about the magical world and Lily's place in it. The thought of a secret pact between Echo and her sister was unsettling. The letter continued, as if answering her unvoiced question.
I also wanted to say sorry for not coming to your aid sooner. If you had forgotten our promise, then not to worry, because I certainly haven't. As you know, I always saw how jealous you were of Lily because she was a witch and you weren't. I made a promise to you that I would bring a bit of Hogwarts to you, and I intend to keep it. I know it sounds like I'm talking crazy, but within the box that I have procured is a wand. I promised the one enchanted with enough spells, and made it so that a Muggle could technically use it and sling some very low-level spells. Yes, you heard me right, Petunia. I'm giving you a wand.
A gasp escaped Lily's lips, silent in the sterile air of the Medical Wing. A wand for a Muggle? That was impossible. It went against every fundamental law of the Wizarding World. Technically, use it? But then again, she remembered that Echo had technically created a wand a squib could use. Mr. Filch has been using that wand ever since. Echo gave it to him around two years ago.
Hopefully, I will actually be able to make something like that. But progress is difficult considering the fact that you don't have a magical core, and now I have somehow put a magical core inside of something that wasn't alive. I'll work something out at some point, and if not, I can always give you this wand, and you could still technically be a witch, even if only in pretending.
I hope that whatever happens in your life, you and Lily continue to be close as sisters and to never drift apart despite your differing lives. And FYI, as someone who is living in the magical world, it's not all that it's cracked up to be. Sure, it might seem all whimsical and whatnot, but it has a lot more dangers and stresses than the regular Muggle world.
Sincerely yours, Echo.
The letter slipped from Lily's numb hand. She looked down at the box, her mind reeling from the impossible kindness and the bizarre, desperate attempt to bridge the unbridgeable gulf between her sister and her world. The key wasn't an incantation or a complex wand movement, as Echo had alluded to. As Lily's trembling fingers brushed against the wooden surface, the box opened on its own, a small, barely audible click breaking the silence.
Inside, nestled in dark velvet, lay an ornate, hand-carved wand. It was elegant, similar to her own, but as she lifted it out, she felt no core, no familiar thrum of magical power, only the smooth, cool wood. At this point, it was just a beautiful, inert stick. It was apparent that Echo was trying to make something her sister could use to live vicariously. Lily didn't know how to react to this kind gesture or that Echo was even doing this behind the scenes. She had thought it strange that Petunia had been more cordial with her ever since her last visit home for Thanksgiving with Echo and Sev, and now she knew why.
Her eyes drifted back to the two remaining items: the crumpled letter to Petunia and the pristine, unopened envelope with her own name on it. She looked at the letter written to her, and she flinched for a moment before opening it. The letter to Lily began, the familiar, clumsy script of a younger, striving boy covering the parchment.
Dear Lily Flower,
When you get this, it will be my 7th year, and I will be graduating from Hogwarts, or rather, I will have already graduated. Since you're two years ahead of me, I figured by the time I actually got around to giving you this, you would have already graduated. Or I will have forgotten about this letter and finally remember to give it to you during my own graduation two years later.
Regardless of when you get this, thank you. Thank you for being such a good friend to me, even after all these years. I know I'm not exactly the most pleasant person to be around, with me being so chaotic and drawing in or creating trouble on a daily basis, and you always getting stuck in the middle. But you always took it on the chin and even tried to steer me along the right path, no matter what. You really have been my rock through my racing rivers.
I still remember how we actually became friends. I wanted to one-up James and become friends with you to spite him. But through that unusual situation, we did actually become friends, and I've never regretted it a day since. I hope that no matter what, we always continue to be friends wherever we may go, and even if we do grow apart, Lily will always be like the light of a Patronus I cannot produce.
And for whatever it's worth to you, you should give Sev a chance. Sure, he has issues—lots of them—but let's be honest, who doesn't? I have plenty of them, and yet we're still friends somehow. And before you ask, yes, this is partly because Frank and I made a bet to see who you would end up with. Right now, the bet is at 50 Galleons, but by the time you get this, it'll probably be more.
Regardless, I really hope that you find happiness. And this may sound like I'm reaching, but I really can't help but feel like Lily is the older sibling I never had, and hopefully, we can continue our relationship until we are something like brother and sister.
Sincerely yours, now and forever, Echo.
The letter slipped from Lily's fingers and landed gently on the blanket. For a suspended moment, she felt nothing but the sterile chill of the Medical Wing. Then, the full, crushing weight of his words—the honest gratitude, the casual self-deprecation, the desperate hope for their future, and the last, heart-wrenching sibling plea—broke her.
A choked sob escaped her. She doubled over onto herself, burying her face in the thin hospital sheet, and began to weep. The sound that tore from her was a raw, gut-wrenching, full-body sound that could only come from the depth of one's soul. It was a cry filled with nothing but sadness, anger, and a searing regret. She wished, with a desperate, crushing intensity, that she could have done more, that she could have done better for the boy she cared so deeply about.