HP: god of potions

Chapter 155

The entrance to the underground safety room was destroyed, its reinforced wards shattered. He stumbled forward, his boots crunching over debris as his voice rose in desperation. "Hermione! Hunter!" His voice cracked, growing more frantic with every step. "Answer me! Please!" Silence. He ran. The corridors were littered with more bodies — assassins of different sizes and colors, each one a formidable enemy. But even in death, they were just obstacles. Grey didn't even see them — he only saw the end of the hallway. The safety room. He burst into the chamber — and the world stopped.

The bodies were piled high — the assassins had died in droves, the floor slick with blood. At the center of the massacre lay Hermione, her wand still clutched tightly in one hand. Hunter was cradled against her chest, her arms wrapped around their son's small form.They were still.

Grey staggered forward, his knees hitting the ground with a painful thud as he scrambled toward them."No—no, this isn't—" His hands shook violently as he reached for them, his fingers brushing Hermione's face — but her skin was cold. Hunter's face was buried against her chest, his tiny frame limp and motionless.

"Please," Grey whispered, his voice breaking. "Please, wake up—" He shook them, his desperation mounting as his breath came in short, ragged gasps. "Don't do this—please, don't do this to me—" But they didn't move. They didn't wake.

And the world shattered. "No—NO!" Grey's scream tore from his throat, his voice raw and broken. Tears streamed down his face as he cradled them, rocking back and forth like a man trying to hold on to what little sanity he had left. "This isn't real—this can't be real—" But the cold weight of their bodies said otherwise. His mind spiraled — denial turning to bargaining as his vision blurred. "Take me instead—please, take me instead—" He choked on his sobs. "Bring them back—I'll do anything—anything—" Silence. And then acceptance — cold, crushing acceptance — settled like a stone in his chest. Grey's head fell forward, his forehead resting against Hermione's. His body shook with silent sobs as his heart broke in a way that could never be mended. When he finally raised his head, the tears had stopped — but the grief remained. It burned through him, an inferno of pain and rage.

His voice was a whisper — cold and deadly. "I will destroy them." The air around him trembled. "I will burn their world to ash." Magic surged — more than he had ever unleashed before. It poured from him in a violent wave, cracking the stone walls and shattering what remained of the safety room. The bodies of the assassins disintegrated under the force, the very dimension quaking with his fury. "I swear—" Grey's voice rose, his eyes glowing with raw power. "I will erase them from existence. Until nothing—nothing—remains." And the storm of his rage consumed everything.

-scene change-

The rain fell in a steady, relentless rhythm, drumming softly against the stone and earth. The air was cold — heavy with the scent of damp grass and freshly turned soil. The sky was an endless sheet of gray, as if even the heavens mourned. Yet none of it touched the man who stood at the graves. Grey Snape stood alone.

He was drenched, rain soaking his robes, his hair plastered to his face, water running down his features like tears — but his face was dry. Blank. Hollow. The wind tugged at his clothes, but he did not move. He did not flinch. He was still as stone, his eyes fixed on the tombstones before him. Two stones, side by side. Hermione Snape: Beloved wife, brilliant mind, fierce heart. Gone too soon. Hunter Snape: Cherished son, bright star, boundless spirit. Forever loved.

The words carved into the marble were simple — yet they might as well have been knives. Behind him, the crowd stood in somber silence. Figures both familiar and distant, their faces drawn and pale. Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley stood at the front, their hands intertwined, their eyes red and swollen from tears. Ron Weasley stood beside them, his face tight with grief. The entire Weasley family was there — Arthur and Molly clutching each other for support, George's shoulders trembling, Bill and Charlie standing with their wives, the younger ones silent and still.

Hermione's parents stood nearby — pale and lost, their faces hollow with the devastation of losing their only child. Beside them, Lily Potter and James Potter stood in quiet support, their eyes never leaving Grey. And farther back stood professors from Hogwarts, Hermione's coworkers from the Ministry, and her friends — all gathered to pay their respects. But no one approached Grey. They knew better.

Some whispered words of condolence, their voices drowned by the rain. A few braver souls placed gentle hands on his shoulder as they passed, offering quiet support. But Grey didn't move. Didn't respond. He had no heart left to break. Minutes stretched into hours. One by one, the crowd began to leave. The Weasleys were among the last to go, their faces lined with sorrow as they cast final looks at the grieving man who would not — could not — grieve in front of them.

Harry didn't speak. Ginny placed a hand on his arm, but he only shook his head, knowing words would never reach the man standing before those graves. Ron opened his mouth — then closed it again, his shoulders sagging. Even Molly Weasley, so used to comforting everyone around her, could find no words. Lily Potter stood silently beside her husband, her green eyes filled with tears. She wanted to speak — but she knew. She knew. And so she turned away with James, her hand clutching his tightly.

And then there was Severus Snape. He stood at the edge of the crowd, his face unreadable — but his eyes betrayed him. He watched his son with a rare kind of understanding, the kind born only from a lifetime of loss and regret. And when it was time to leave, he did so without a word. Finally, there was silence. The rain continued to fall, and Grey Snape stood alone. Until he didn't. His knees hit the earth with a dull thud.

The sound that escaped him wasn't human. It was a broken, ragged thing — a sound of pain too deep to name. His fingers clawed at the grass, his body shaking as the dam finally broke. And then he cried.

Loud, heart-wrenching sobs tore from his throat, his body curling forward as grief crushed him into the ground. He wept like a man who had lost his soul — because he had. The sound echoed through the empty cemetery, raw and terrible, the kind of pain that left scars on the world itself. "I'm sorry—" His voice cracked, his words broken and barely coherent. "I'm so—so sorry—" He reached out, his fingers brushing the cold stone of the tombstone, as if somehow, touching it would bring them back. "Please—come back—" he whispered. "Please—" But the dead did not answer. The rain kept falling. The world kept turning. And Grey Snape kept breaking. Then — the sobbing changed. It began as a low, bitter sound — a choked-off breath that twisted into something else. And then, slowly, the sound rose into laughter. Mad, broken laughter.