Chapter 400: A Wrong Beginning, A Right Ending

What happened in the fourth-floor trophy room wasn't just a coincidence. In fact, it mirrored the castle itself—a quiet reflection of Hogwarts and the secrets it held.

Many students, previously dancing around unspoken feelings, had finally expressed them, spurred by the events of the previous night. Bonds had shifted, quietly but profoundly.

But far from the ripples of this emotional shift, Ino remained unaware. His plans were disrupted by a message he hadn't expected.

"Professor," he said slowly, "are you saying the protective magic on Harry has changed?"

Dumbledore inclined his head, eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "Roughly speaking, yes. In fact, the portrait in the Gryffindor common room informed me of it before your arrival. There's something about Harry now. Something different."

Ino frowned, thoughtful. "And you believe the change is magical in nature?"

"I can think of no other explanation," Dumbledore replied calmly. "No force besides that magic could have caused such a shift in him."

Ino sank into silence. He knew the magic Dumbledore referred to—the protection Lily Potter had woven with her own life. A magic so powerful it had once turned Voldemort's Killing Curse back upon him.

He remembered the sickly green flash of that curse too well, the merciless speed, the sheer finality behind it. No ordinary witch or wizard could stand against it.

And yet Harry had.

But such power always came at a cost.

According to what the original tale had revealed, the magic Lily cast required more than just a sacrifice. It required love. Family. Blood. Which is why Harry had to return to his Aunt Petunia's house every summer—to renew the protection born of their shared blood.

Yet strangely, despite its importance, the magic only seemed to matter twice in the entire story: once when Harry was a baby, and again when he touched Quirrell.

It was later unraveled—Voldemort, reborn with Harry's blood, had cleverly dismantled the protection. Still, for a magic built on such a grand foundation, its actual role in the events always felt oddly underwhelming.

Until now.

Ino drew a slow breath as a theory emerged in his mind. One that felt both ridiculous and utterly true.

"What if... Harry never truly had a family?" he asked quietly. "What if the magic never fully took root because he never knew real affection?"

It wasn't idle speculation. The signs were everywhere.

Petunia Dursley, a woman so neurotic she seemed afraid of her own shadow. Vernon Dursley, a man who roared before he listened. And Dudley, who seemed to have mistaken Harry's ribs for a boxing bag.

In such a place, how could any child grow up understanding what love even meant?

Dumbledore gave a slow, almost pained nod. "You're right. Magic born of love must also be nourished by love. Without both... it withers."

He turned toward the window. The Forbidden Forest lay quiet beneath the first hints of autumn. The trees still green, but heavier now, as though bracing for what was to come.

"Still," Dumbledore added softly, "there is good news too. If all goes well, there are preparations we can begin early."

Ino understood. He knew what the old headmaster was thinking.

Harry's sudden clarity of mind, the fading weakness—this wasn't physical recovery. It was a shift of soul. Snape's potions might have clouded his spirit, but now that fog was lifting.

The reason was obvious.

Ino's thoughts turned over rapidly. Today had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. It was as if he had spent years deciphering an impossibly complex riddle, only to find the answer had been resting beside him all along.

It was almost absurd.

In the original tale, so many lives had been lost, so many sacrifices made. What if... it had all begun with a single mistake?

What if someone—anyone—had truly looked after Harry when he was a child?

What if someone had shown Petunia how to forgive her sister? Helped her see beyond her jealousy? What if Vernon hadn't let fear become hatred? If even one adult had chosen empathy over indifference...

Lily's magic might have blossomed into something extraordinary.

Forgiveness. Healing. A happy childhood. Perhaps that was how the story was meant to begin.

And perhaps... if it had, the tragedy that followed might never have happened.

"A children's tale," Ino murmured, a strange gentleness in his voice. "Ruined by adults who thought they knew better."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled at him.

"Would you like to hear a story, Professor?" Ino added, voice lighter now. "A simple fairy tale, twisted by grown-ups who had forgotten what it meant to believe in one."

That evening, an unusual hush fell over the castle.

Dinner passed without incident, and one by one, the students and staff made their way to their respective rooms. There was no need for reminders, no curfews shouted across the corridors. Everyone was simply... ready for rest.

Even Argus Filch turned in early, and Mad-Eye Moody, ever the vigilant sentry, lowered his wand and retreated without a word.

In the Slytherin dormitory, Draco Malfoy sat on the edge of his bed, eyes wide and mournful, arms crossed like a scolded cat. He hadn't spoken since returning.

Ino sighed.

"Draco," he said patiently, "you need to understand something. Christmas presents are only special because they come on Christmas. If you got them every day, Christmas wouldn't be special anymore."

Draco pouted. "But I miss my daughter."

Ino blinked.

For a moment, he genuinely considered pulling out a Pensieve and recording the scene, just to show Lucius and Narcissa what their only son had become.

Romantic thoughts were one thing—but this?

"Draco, listen to me. You're supposed to be falling in love at this age, not getting sentimental about the imaginary children you haven't even made yet."

"But—"

"No buts. If you're that eager, graduate first, then get married. Now go to bed and stop acting like a melodramatic grandfather."

He gave a lazy flick of his wand, and the heavy emerald curtains around Draco's bed swept closed, sealing the boy into privacy.

Ino lay back against his own pillow, his body still but his thoughts wide awake.

So much had changed today.

He'd recovered the Sorcerer's Stone—something long believed to have been destroyed. He'd seen a subtle but powerful shift in Harry. And perhaps most importantly, he'd realized the nature of that shift.

The part that stirred him most was how right it felt.

The prophecy. The storm. The darkness. He had always thought those would shape Harry's story.

But maybe they didn't have to.

He remembered a passage from Hogwarts: Tales of the Past, where Professor Trelawney's voice had filled the pages with one of her more whimsical predictions—candy falling from the sky, the Dark Lord gone, the sky rainbow-bright.

At the time, Ino had laughed at it. Who wouldn't? It sounded like a fantasy written for toddlers.

But now?

Now, he found himself hoping for it. Genuinely wishing that Harry's story might end that way. Not with death and heartbreak, but with joy. With sweetness.

A fairy tale ending, for a boy who had never been given a fairy tale beginning.

Earlier that day, in Dumbledore's office, Ino had shared his thoughts.

He had spoken of a different path. One in which Harry had been raised with love, not locked in a cupboard. One in which he'd worn clothes that fit and hadn't flinched at raised voices.

Perhaps... that one change could have rewritten everything.

And when the tale was told, Ino had quietly left the room.

Looking back on it now, he realized something else.

Everyone in this story had been given a choice.

Everyone except Harry.

From the moment the owl dropped that letter through the door to the moment he faced death and returned again, Harry had been dragged along by forces beyond his control.

A pawn.

A hero.

A boy.

A boy who had never been allowed to choose.

And yet, even without a choice, he had chosen to love. To protect. To endure.

Perhaps that, more than anything, was the true magic all along.

And now, at long last, maybe he could have the ending he deserved.