Reality or fantasy?
That was the question.
McGonagall felt a deep, unsettling confusion. Everything before her eyes mirrored her memories—not just similar, but exact. The biting chill of the air, the howling wind rattling the windows, the warmth of the fireplace battling the cold, the desperate cries echoing through the halls, and the metallic scent of blood clinging to the air. Every detail aligned so perfectly with her recollection that she felt as if she had been transported back in time.
As the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, McGonagall knew that high-level illusion magic could replicate reality with astonishing precision. But this—this was something else entirely.
How could Lockhart possibly know exactly what transpired the night Voldemort murdered Lily and James?
Every soul present that night had perished. The only survivors were herself, Dumbledore, and baby Harry. The events of that night had only been reconstructed later, pieced together through Dumbledore's formidable magic. And even then, much had been lost, distorted, or buried by time.
Yet here it was, laid out before her as if history itself had been cracked open.
More than that, there were details—small, intimate moments she hadn't remembered until now. Things she had forgotten with the passing years. But standing here, everything was sharper, more vivid than her own memories. It felt like this wasn't just an illusion, but something more.
A memory? No.
An illusion? Not quite.
Gripping her wand tightly, she whispered a detection spell under her breath, designed to expose even the most intricate illusions.
Nothing.
No feedback. No trace of deception.
Reality?
A chill ran down her spine. If this was real—if they had somehow stepped into the past—she needed to inform Dumbledore immediately. She needed to understand what was happening.
Click!
A sharp, cracking sound echoed through the space, like glass shattering.
Everything froze.
Lily Potter clutched baby Harry to her chest, her expression a mix of fear and fierce determination. A faint golden glow shimmered in her emerald eyes, as if she were preparing one last desperate spell.
Opposite her, Voldemort stood tall, his yew wand raised, the tip glowing with sickly green light. The Killing Curse hovered in the air, moments from sealing their fate.
The infant Harry lay in the cradle, his tiny hands reaching outward, confused and helpless.
The air felt heavy, charged with dread. The broken home whispered of the tragedy poised to unfold.
McGonagall, Sirius, Snape, and Harry himself held their breath, watching the moment suspended in time—the moment that had irrevocably changed their lives.
Harry's fingers instinctively brushed the scar on his forehead, his body trembling ever so slightly. The memories of this night had always been fragmented, blurred by trauma. But now, for the first time, he saw everything with piercing clarity.
And then—
A ripple of energy, vibrant and prismatic, washed over the scene like a wave of paint sweeping across a canvas.
McGonagall gasped. She could feel it.
The breath of reality.
This wasn't just a vision, nor was it a mere memory. It was something deeper. Something real in a way she couldn't quite comprehend.
She had never felt anything like it before, but she knew—
This was the truth.
It was tangible, within reach, and yet utterly impossible.
Then—
Buzz!
A visible current of dream energy surged, converging on Lily Potter's spectral form. It wrapped around her, saturating her translucent figure in a warm golden light.
The surrounding illusion began to peel away.
The broken house, the shattered furniture, the looming figure of the Dark Lord—all began to fade, as if wiped clean by an unseen hand.
Voldemort's form flickered, his image dissolving into a transparent shadow. The corpses on the floor blurred, their outlines softening before vanishing into nothingness.
The walls of the house became pure white, like a blank canvas waiting to be painted anew.
And when all else had disappeared, only Lily remained.
No longer just a memory. No longer just an illusion.
She was becoming real.
Harry took a shaky breath, his eyes locked on his mother's form as it solidified before him. His lips parted, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"From illusion to reality…"
Something stirred deep within him. The memories, the knowledge buried inside, all surged forward, answering an unspoken call.
For the first time, Harry felt it.
A connection.
Not just to Lily. Not just to this moment in the past.
But to something much greater.
Raising his hands, he stared at his palms, feeling an unfamiliar yet comforting energy pulse beneath his skin. A warmth, a familiarity—
Call!
A soft glow flickered to life, swirling in his hands.
Prismatic energy—the power of dreams.
Remy and Vera stiffened, their eyes widening in shock.
Harry Potter wasn't supposed to be able to summon the dream energy of Kamar-Taj.
That power belonged to the disciples of Lockhart, those who had been granted access to the dream world. Even they, despite years of rigorous training, could only manipulate a fraction of it.
But Harry—
Harry was drawing it forth naturally, instinctively, as if he had belonged to this realm all along.
Remy swallowed hard. "No way…"
Vera exhaled slowly, her voice barely audible. "Harry Potter truly is the Chosen One."
Envy flickered in both of them. As Lockhart's most trusted students, they had spent years mastering the ways of the dream world. Yet here stood Harry, wielding its power as though it had always been his birthright.
Lockhart himself watched in silence, his golden eyes reflecting the light swirling in Harry's palms. He sighed, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"A child of the dream," he murmured. "It takes others years to reach this point. But for him—one moment was enough."
Then, turning his focus back to Lily, his expression grew serious.
There was no room for distraction. Not now.
Bringing someone from illusion into reality required complete concentration. He had made a promise, and he intended to keep it.
McGonagall had been right to be stunned.
This was no ordinary illusion. No simple spell.
It was the Dream of the World.
A collective ocean of all knowledge, memories, and subconscious thoughts that had ever existed within the magical realm. A place that recorded everything—from the dawn of magic to the present day.
Wizards rarely accessed it, and even then, only the most powerful ever caught glimpses of its secrets.
The greatest mysteries of divination, fate, and spirit magic were all interwoven within this realm.
Lockhart had spent years unraveling its depths.
Now, with the power of dreams, he would do what no wizard had ever done before.
He had used Lily's soul mark to locate the scene from that fateful night.
The Dream of the World held details beyond comprehension—the placement of every stone, the flicker of every shadow, the echo of every heartbeat—all captured with perfect clarity. It was an unfiltered, eternal archive of reality itself.
But such power came at a cost.
The Dream of the World was vast, overwhelming, and brimming with more knowledge than any single mind could bear. Without the strength to withstand its pressure, even the most skilled wizards would be crushed beneath the weight of its infinite memories.
Lockhart was no exception.
Even he, with all his mastery, felt the suffocating force pressing down on him as he guided the ritual forward. Endless streams of information filtered through his mind—whispers from a thousand timelines, fragments of lives long past, and echoes of magic both ancient and forbidden.
Still, despite the unbearable burden, the rewards were undeniable.
And the greatest reward of all—the resurrection before them—was nearing completion.
Call! Call!
The prismatic energy of the dream world surged into Lily's forming body, solidifying her flesh and bones at a pace visible to the naked eye. Her features sharpened, her form becoming more tangible with each pulse of shimmering light.
Yet, something stirred in response.
A silent ripple spread across the pristine white dreamscape, darkening its edges with wisps of gray.
The Dream of the World had no consciousness, yet its instincts remained intact.
When information was hidden, it obscured.
When power was lost, it replenished.
And when something was stolen, it resisted.
Now, as Lockhart drew from its depths to rebuild Lily Potter, it fought back.
An onslaught of foreign information crashed into the dream world, carrying the sheer weight of a universe's knowledge. Ethereal waves of soul energy surged forward, attempting to assimilate, devour, or even erase the dreamscape entirely.
But Lockhart's domain was not so easily overwhelmed.
His dream world was not merely an illusion—it was a construct, forged from the very essence of a dimensional plane. He had shaped it with his will, anchored it with his magic.
It absorbed the assault, consuming the invading force bit by bit, until the Dream of the World faltered, recognizing the futility of its struggle.
As if conceding defeat, the once fierce resistance began to recede.
And then—
Buzz!
A final pulse of golden energy radiated outward as Lily's resurrection reached its zenith.
Her body was whole. Her skin glowed with the warmth of life, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The air around her shimmered with the lingering essence of the dream world.
McGonagall's breath caught in her throat.
It was unmistakable.
The woman standing before them wasn't just a copy. She wasn't a spirit tethered to a body. This was Lily Potter.
Lockhart nodded in satisfaction, his golden eyes reflecting the light of the completed ritual. The foundation was laid. Now came the final, most delicate step—the soul.
Unlike a typical resurrection, there was no intact soul to return. Lily had left behind only a soul mark—a mere fragment of her essence. It carried emotions, fleeting memories from the moment of her death, but it was incomplete.
To restore what was lost, Lockhart once again delved into the Dream of the World.
This new body contained every detail of Lily's life—from her first breath to her last. Now, it needed a soul to match.
With a flick of his wand, a golden symbol emerged from the air, swirling like molten light before drifting toward Lily's forehead.
As it settled into place, a sudden breath of life surged from within her.
Memories cascaded into her consciousness—waves of moments, sensations, and experiences, all rushing to reconnect, to make her whole.
Buzz!
Her emerald-green eyes fluttered open, dazed at first. Confusion swirled in their depths, but as the pieces began to align, clarity returned.
Her gaze sharpened, locking onto three familiar figures standing before her—McGonagall, Sirius, and Snape.
They were older now, their faces lined with years of grief and battle. But beneath the changes, she recognized them.
Time had passed.
And she—
She had just survived death.
Her gaze drifted, scanning the others in the room—Lockhart, his students Remy and Vera—but none of them registered. Then, finally, her eyes settled on a young man standing slightly apart from the rest.
His face was unfamiliar, yet something deep within her stirred.
An ache bloomed in her chest.
Tears welled in Lily's eyes as recognition dawned.
"James? James—"
Her voice trembled, thick with raw emotion and disbelief.
Harry stood frozen.
He had imagined this moment countless times. Wondered how it would feel to see his mother, to hear her voice. But now, standing face to face with her, words failed him.
Snape, too, found himself rooted in place.
For years, he had envisioned Lily's return. He had rehearsed what he would say, how he would explain everything he had done in her absence. But now that she was here, his mind was a blank slate, wiped clean by the sheer weight of her presence.
For the first time in decades, he was utterly lost.
"Lily—" Snape finally managed, his voice low and unsteady. His hands twitched at his sides, aching to reach out to her, but he held himself back, unsure of his place in this impossible reunion.
He had no words, no prepared speech, no way to convey the depth of his feelings.
So, he stood still, helpless in front of the woman he had loved his entire life.
Lockhart was the one to break the silence, his tone smooth and composed. "Lily, congratulations on your successful resurrection."
She turned toward him, blinking away the tears clouding her vision.
"You've just returned," he continued, his voice calm, almost clinical. "Your memories may take time to fully restore. And given the damage your soul endured, you'll need a period of recovery."
Lily inhaled shakily, nodding as she tried to process his words.
"Don't worry," Lockhart reassured, his golden eyes gleaming. "These are minor concerns. Kamar-Taj has the means to aid in your healing."
Snape stiffened at that.
If it weren't for the binding contract he had made, he would never have involved Lockhart in Lily's fate. The idea of her being under Lockhart's influence made his skin crawl.
"Lily," he said, his voice gaining strength.
Reaching into his robes, he withdrew a sleek black box. His fingers trembled slightly as he opened it, revealing a ten-and-a-quarter-inch green willow wand.
"This is yours," Snape whispered.
Lily hesitated, her gaze flickering between Snape and the wand. Recognition dawned in her eyes as memories continued to flood back—memories of Hogwarts, of shared laughter, of long-forgotten promises.
And with those memories came understanding.
She knew what Snape had done.
She knew the price he had paid.
For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words.
Then, with a steady hand, Lily reached out and took the wand.
"Thank you, Snape."
Her voice wavered slightly, but the gratitude was genuine.
She wanted to say more—to acknowledge the sacrifices he had made, the life he had lived in her absence—but the words eluded her.
Instead, she turned to her son.
Her breath hitched as their eyes met.
The young man before her looked so much like James. But something was off—something in the way he stood, in the quiet, guarded intensity of his gaze.
A strange chill ran through Lily's heart.
It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but undeniable.
Her soul, still raw and sensitive from the resurrection, recoiled at something she couldn't quite name. A darkness clung to Harry, faint but familiar. A presence she had felt once before.
Lily swallowed, her fingers tightening around her wand.
"Harry," she whispered, her voice a blend of love and uncertainty. "My son… come here and let me see you."
==============================================
Support me at [email protected]/goldengaruda and check out more chapter of this or more early access chapter of my other fanfic translation.
=============================================