The darkness of the Forbidden Forest pressed in on Echo, suffocating and vast. The gnarled and skeletal trees seemed to twist into menacing shapes around him, their branches like grasping claws in the moonless night. He ran, his breath ragged, the cold seeping into his lungs. Behind him, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of colossal wings beat against the heavy air, a sound that resonated in his very bones.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. The owl monster. It was no longer the limp, broken creature he had left behind; it was a towering, skeletal abomination, its feathers replaced by ragged shadows that writhed and pulsed with an unnatural, sickly green light. Its eyes, once dark and round, were now twin pinpricks of malevolent emerald, burning holes through the oppressive darkness. Its talons, long and razor-sharp, scraped against the gnarled tree trunks as it gained on him, each scrape sending a fresh jolt of terror through his already frayed nerves.
"Leave me alone!" Echo screamed, his voice raw with fear. He stumbled over a root, nearly falling, but forced himself onward, pushing through the tangled undergrowth. The forest floor was uneven, treacherous, and every rustle of leaves sounded like the creature was right behind him, preparing to strike.
The air grew impossibly colder, a chilling presence that stole his breath. He could hear its raspy breathing now, a sound like dry leaves skittering across gravestones. The metallic scent of ozone, a ghost of his own destructive magic, filled his nostrils, mixing with the cloying smell of damp earth and something else… something ancient and predatory.
He burst into a small clearing, desperate for a moment of respite, but the trees closed in around him like prison bars. He was trapped. The owl monster filled the opening, its shadowy form blotting out the faint moonlight, its glowing eyes fixed on him with an unwavering, predatory hunger. A silent, soul-shilling shriek vibrated in the air, a sound that bypassed his ears and clawed at his very sanity.
Echo scrambled backward until his back hit the rough bark of a massive oak. He pressed himself against it, shaking uncontrollably, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. His black wand felt heavy and inert in his pocket, useless against this nightmare.
The owl monster took a slow, deliberate step forward, its shadowy talons sinking into the soft earth. It cocked its head, those terrible green eyes boring into him. Then, with a sudden, horrifying burst of speed, it lunged.
Echo screamed, raising his arms instinctively to protect himself. The impact was agonizing. Razor-sharp talons ripped through his robes, tearing at his flesh. He felt a searing pain in his chest, a burning cold that spread rapidly through his limbs. The world spun, the shadows of the owl monster swirling around him as he fell, darkness encroaching on his vision. The last thing he heard before consciousness fled was the triumphant, guttural shriek of the beast, echoing in the suffocating silence of the Forbidden Forest.
Echo jolted awake, a guttural scream tearing from his throat. His body was slick with sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The terrifying image of the owl monster, its eyes glowing with malevolent green light, its claws tearing at him in the suffocating darkness of the Forbidden Forest, was still vivid in his mind. He thrashed, tangled in his bedsheets, before realizing he wasn't in his Slytherin dorm at all.
He was sprawled on the cold, damp earth of the Forbidden Forest, in the very clearing where he had killed the owl. The moonlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting eerie shadows. A faint, metallic scent, like old blood and ozone, lingered in the air. His black wand lay a few feet away, inert, beside a patch of disturbed earth.
A wave of nausea washed over him. He'd done it again. This was the third time this week he'd woken up here, sometimes with the distinct impression of having relived the horrifying act, other times just with a vague sense of dread and the scent of death. He scrambled to his feet, quickly grabbing his wand and stuffing it into his pocket. Sniffles, thankfully, was still nestled deep within his robe, occasionally stirring with a soft snuffle.
He had to get back to the castle before anyone noticed. He ran, blindly at first, then with desperate urgency, towards the distant, comforting lights of Hogwarts. He slipped back into the common room just as the first sliver of dawn painted the sky, his heart still thumping with a mix of fear and exhaustion. He collapsed onto his bed, pulling the covers over his head, trying to banish the lingering images of the nightmare and the chilling reality of his sleepwalking.
Later that morning, as Echo was surreptitiously attempting to finish his breakfast in the Great Hall, a stern voice cut through the cheerful din.
"Mr. Echo, a word, if you please."
Echo looked up to see Professor Minerva McGonagall standing over him, her usually austere expression even more severe than usual. Her spectacles glinted in the morning light, and her lips were pressed into a thin, disapproving line.
Echo's stomach clenched. He knew why she was here. "Yes, Professor?" he asked, trying to sound innocent.
"In my office, immediately," she stated, her voice leaving no room for argument. She turned and strode away, her emerald robes swishing behind her.
With a sigh, Echo pushed away his half-eaten toast and followed her, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. The rest of the Slytherin table snickered and whispered as he left. Sniffles, sensing his anxiety, stirred nervously in his pocket.
McGonagall's office was neat and orderly, filled with stacks of parchment and precise, ticking clocks. She sat behind her large wooden desk, her gaze fixed on Echo as he stood awkwardly before her.
"Echo," she began, her voice crisp, "it has come to my attention that you have been making… unscheduled excursions into the Forbidden Forest at night."
Echo flinched. So she knew. "Professor, I… I don't know why I do it," he stammered, feeling a fresh wave of humiliation wash over him. "I just… wake up there. I don't remember leaving my bed. It's like… like I'm sleepwalking or something."
McGonagall's expression remained unyielding. "Indeed. A rather dangerous habit, wouldn't you agree? Mr. Echo, the Forbidden Forest is not a place for midnight strolls. It is called 'Forbidden' for a reason. There are creatures and dangers within its borders that would be lethal to even the most seasoned wizard, let alone a first-year student who appears to be… magnetically drawn to trouble."
Echo looked down at his feet, mortified. "I really don't mean to, Professor. I have no control over it. It's just… a nightmare. I have this dream about an owl, and then I wake up there."
McGonagall leaned forward, her eyes piercing. "A nightmare that compels you to leave the castle physically, traverse the grounds, and enter a highly dangerous magical forest, all while apparently unconscious? That is highly concerning, Echo. This cannot continue. You must find a way to control this. Immediately."
Echo's mind raced. He had tried everything Dumbledore had suggested for control during the day, but his nights were a different story. He felt a sudden, desperate idea bubble to the surface. "Tie me to my bed, then!" he blurted out, looking up at her with earnest, pleading eyes. "Seriously! If I'm tied, I can't leave. It's the only way to stop me."
McGonagall stared at him, her expression shifting from sternness to an odd mixture of surprise and… something akin to bewilderment. Her eyebrow rose so high it almost disappeared into her hairline. "Tie you to your bed, Mr. Echo?" she repeated slowly, as if testing the words. "That was going to be my absolute last resort. A rather… unconventional solution, even for a student of your unique proclivities. However," she paused, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow, "given the severity of the situation, and your apparent lack of conscious control… perhaps it is worth a try."
Echo blinked, surprised by her agreement.
"Very well," McGonagall concluded, rising from her desk with a decisive nod. "Come with me. We shall arrange for some… temporary restraints. And in the morning, if this proves to be an effective deterrent, we shall revisit the matter of identifying the root cause of these nocturnal wanderings. But for tonight, Mr. Echo, you will remain safely within your dormitory."
Echo nodded, relieved. Perhaps this strange, humiliating solution would finally put an end to his terrifying nightly treks into the forest. He followed McGonagall out of her office, a faint glimmer of hope amidst the dread.
That night, Echo lay in his bed, a thick, magically reinforced rope tied securely around his ankle, then woven through the bedframe and around the stout wooden leg. It was tight enough to prevent him from getting out, but not so tight as to be uncomfortable. He felt ridiculous, a prisoner in his own bed, but also a strange sense of relief. At least he wouldn't wake up in the Forbidden Forest with the lingering scent of death in his nostrils.
Sleep, however, did not come easily. His mind replayed the nightmare, the terrifying, glowing eyes of the owl monster, the feeling of its talons ripping into him. He tossed and turned, Sniffles stirring occasionally in his pocket, a tiny, comforting weight. He drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, haunted by the feeling of being trapped, both physically and by his own dark magic.
Then, sometime in the dead of night, it began. Not a dream, but something else entirely. He felt a familiar, icy cold seep into the room, not from the window, but from within himself. The air grew heavy, and the shadows in the corners of the dormitory seemed to deepen, coalescing into indistinct, vaguely menacing forms. He heard a low, guttural growl, a sound that seemed to emanate from the very walls, far too deep for any creature, yet resonating with a terrifying familiarity.
Echo's eyes snapped open. He was awake. Fully, terrifyingly awake. He tried to move, to sit up, but the rope held him fast. Panic flared. The shadows writhed, and the low growl intensified, filling the room. He could see his own breath in the icy air.
A shape began to form in the deepest shadow near the foot of his bed. It was vague at first, a shifting, nebulous mass, but slowly, agonizingly, it coalesced. It was vaguely canine in shape, but its form was distorted and nightmarish. Its skeletal frame shimmered with a sickly green light, and two pinpricks of malevolent emerald fire ignited in its head, fixing on him.
The owl monster. But it wasn't a dream. It was here in the dormitory.
Echo let out a strangled gasp, pressing himself as far back into his headboard as the ropes would allow. He looked around wildly. His wand. It was still in his robe pocket, but he couldn't reach it. The rope held him.
The shadowy creature took a step forward, its form solidifying, its presence radiating an aura of chilling dread. It let out a silent, soul-chilling shriek that vibrated in Echo's very bones. It was the same shriek he had heard in his nightmare, the sound that had torn at his sanity.
"No!" Echo whimpered, tears streaming down his face. "Get away from me!"
The creature ignored him, taking another slow, deliberate step. Its glowing eyes never left him. It was a manifestation of his fear, his guilt, his uncontrolled dark magic. It was the beast within, brought to life.
Just as the creature lunged, its shadowy talons reaching for him, a flash of red light erupted from the doorway. "Protego Maxima!" a sharp and urgent voice boomed.
A shimmering, crimson shield materialized in front of Echo's bed, slamming into the shadowy creature. The beast shrieked again, a sound of frustrated rage, and recoiled, its form flickering violently.
Through the shimmering shield, Echo saw him. Severus Snape, standing in the doorway, his wand raised, his face etched with grim determination. He looked disheveled, as if he had just woken up and rushed here. Behind him, the other Slytherin boys in the dorm were stirring, murmuring in confusion, but the shield held them back, preventing them from seeing the horrifying spectacle.
"Get out, you abominable manifestation!" Snape snarled, pushing more power into his shield. "You do not belong here!"
The shadowy creature snarled back, a sound that seemed to rip at the fabric of reality. It lunged again, slamming against Snape's shield. The shield pulsed, threatening to break.
Echo, still tied to his bed, watched in horrified fascination. This was real. Snape was fighting his nightmare.
"Echo!" Snape yelled, his voice strained. "Your wand! Break the connection!"
Echo thrashed against the ropes, trying to reach his pocket, but it was no use. The knots held firm. "I can't! I'm tied!"
Snape's eyes darted to the rope, then back to the struggling creature. He gritted his teeth. "Blast it, Echo, focus! You manifested this! You can dispel it! Even without your wand, focus your will!"
The shadowy creature let out another shriek, its talons scraping against the shield, leaving phantom gouges in the crimson light. It was gaining ground.
Echo closed his eyes, panic threatening to consume him. Focus. Snape said Focus. He remembered Dumbledore's words about self-mastery. He remembered the feeling of control when he made the leaf levitate. Gather and Release. But how could he gather something so terrifying?
He thought of the dead owl. The guilt, the fear, the rage. And then, he thought of Sniffles, warm and safe in his pocket, a small anchor. He thought of Snape, standing between him and the monster, despite his earlier declarations of not caring. A sudden, fierce surge of desperate protectiveness, not just for Sniffles, but for Snape, for himself, for the fragile normalcy of his life, flared within him.
He focused on that feeling—not anger or fear, but a desperate, burning desire to protect, banish, and control. He imagined the shadowy creature as a manifestation of all his destructive emotions, gathering them, pulling them in like a black hole, and consuming them. He imagined his wand, even though it was out of reach, as the focal point, the conduit for this desperate act of re-absorption.
He focused on the monster, its sickly green eyes, and its chilling shriek, and he began to pull.
A new, strange feeling surged through him. It was cold, draining, yet strangely exhilarating. The shadowy creature faltered, its form flickering violently. The green light in its eyes dimmed.
Snape, seeing the shift, pushed harder with his shield, his face grim. "Good, Echo! Keep going! Reclaim it!"
Echo gritted his teeth, pulling harder, imagining himself absorbing the very essence of the nightmare. The monster shrieked again, a sound of pain now, not rage. It began to shrink, its shadowy form condensing, collapsing in on itself. The icy cold in the room intensified, then rapidly dissipated. With a final, desperate whimper, the shadowy creature imploded, vanishing into thin air like smoke, leaving behind only a faint, lingering scent of ozone and the oppressive silence of the dormitory. Snape lowered his wand, his shield fading. He stood there, breathing heavily, his eyes fixed on Echo, a mixture of exhaustion and profound awe on his face. Echo lay there, gasping for air. The pain in his chest was gone, replaced by an overwhelming sense of emotional and magical depletion. He had done it. He had faced the beast, and he had absorbed it.
Snape walked over to the bed, looking down at Echo, then at the thick rope around his ankle. A flicker of something that looked like… well, not quite amusement, but certainly a wry acknowledgment, crossed his features. He raised his wand. "Finite Incantatem," he murmured, and the ropes vanished.
Echo slowly sat up, rubbing his wrists. He looked at Snape, his throat tight. "You… you came."
Snape merely grunted, holstering his wand. "This is my room as well, fool."
"Oh, right," Echo said as he remembered that fact as well.
Snape sighed, replying before saying, "It appears your nocturnal habits are rather… inconvenient for the castle's structural integrity." He cast a quick, assessing glance at the other sleeping Slytherin students, who, remarkably, seemed to have been entirely shielded from the terrifying event.
"But… how did you know?" Echo asked, still trembling.
Snape sighed, running a hand through his perpetually greasy hair. "Once again, I sleep here, Echo. Second, even though I'm not a master-class wizard, I am more than accustomed to detecting unusual magical residues. And your… particular affinity for drawing from the darker currents of magic tends to leave a distinct trail. A trail that led me here, when your magic flared with such uncontrolled malevolence." He paused, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. "You faced it. You brought it back within yourself. That was… an act of immense power, Echo. And immense self-control."
Echo stared at him, unable to form words. Snape, the cold, disdainful Snape, was praising him.
Snape, however, quickly recovered his composure. "Do not misunderstand, Echo. This… incident… is deeply troubling. You are manifesting your nightmares into reality. This 'dark affinity' of yours, as Dumbledore calls it, is a magnet for such malevolent energies. And if you do not gain absolute control, it will not merely haunt your sleep; it will consume your waking life. It will turn you into precisely the monster Lucius Malfoy believes you to be."
He walked over to Echo's bed and, with a weary sigh, sat down on the edge of the mattress. The bed creaked under his weight. "This problem," Snape continued, his voice low and serious, "must be nipped in the bud before it gets out of hand. Before you inadvertently conjure something that even I, with all my experience, cannot dispel. Or worse, something that leaves a far more permanent mark than a mere shattered orb or a few scratches on the floor." He glanced pointedly at the spot where the shadowy creature had been. "You have a unique gift, Echo, but it is a double-edged sword. We must hone it, contain it, and direct it, or it will eventually destroy you. And everyone around you."
Echo swallowed, his voice a strained whisper. "But how? How do I control something that… that came from me? How do I stop it from happening again?"
Snape looked at him, his dark eyes unwavering. "You confront it, Echo. You do not run from it. You have been reliving this moment, this horrific act, in your sleep because your subconscious is grappling with the guilt, the fear, the power. It is your mind's desperate attempt to process what you have done. And until you face it, truly face it, it will continue to manifest."
Echo flinched. "Face it? But… how? What do I do?"
Snape leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, intense murmur. "You return to the place where it happened. You confront the memory. You acknowledge the darkness you witnessed and the darkness you wielded. You understand that it was a choice, albeit a manipulated one. And then, you make a different choice. Not to succumb to the beast, but to master it. To learn from it. To transform it."
He paused, his gaze piercing. "You must go back into the forest, Echo, to the clearing where the owl died. Not to repeat the act, but to undo its hold on you. To reclaim your control, your intent. It will be painful. It will be terrifying. But it is the only way to truly banish this nightmare, both from your sleep and from your soul."Echo swallowed, the idea filling him with a fresh wave of dread. To go back to that place, to relive that horrific moment… it felt impossible. But Snape's words held an undeniable truth. This wasn't just about a sleepwalking habit; it was about the darkness within him.
"When?" Echo finally managed to ask, his voice barely a whisper.
"Tonight," Snape replied, his voice firm. "The longer you allow this to fester, the stronger it will become. You will meet me at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, by the Whomping Willow, an hour after curfew. And this time, Echo, you will listen to me. Your life, and perhaps the lives of others, depend on it." Snape rose from the bed, his dark robes swirling around him. He cast one last look at Echo, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, before he turned and strode silently out of the dormitory, leaving Echo alone once more. The weight of the coming night settled heavily on his shoulders.
Echo spent the rest of the day in a state of nervous apprehension. He barely registered his classes, his mind replaying Snape's words, the image of the dead owl, and the terrifying manifestation of his nightmare. Sniffles, sensing his anxiety, remained unusually quiet in his pocket, a small, warm presence.
As night fell, a cold knot formed in Echo's stomach. He managed to slip out of the common room without attracting attention, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and grim determination. He clutched his black wand, which still felt inert and cold, yet now held a new, ominous significance.
He found Snape waiting for him by the Whomping Willow, a silent, imposing figure against the deepening twilight. Snape merely nodded, his expression unreadable, and gestured deeper into the forest.
"Do not speak," Snape murmured, his voice low and cautious. "Do not distract yourself. Focus on the task ahead. We are not here to explore, but to confront."
Echo followed, the silence of the forest pressing in on him. Every rustle of leaves, every distant hoot of an owl, sent a jolt of apprehension through him. The air grew colder as they ventured deeper, and the shadows seemed to writhe around them.
Finally, they reached the clearing. The moonlight, though faint, illuminated the spot where the owl had died. Echo felt a fresh wave of nausea, his stomach churning. The lingering scent of ozone and something foul, like decay, still hung heavy in the air.
Snape stopped in the center of the clearing, his back to Echo. "This is where it happened, is it not?" he asked, his voice flat.
Echo nodded, unable to speak. His eyes were fixed on the patch of disturbed earth where the owl's body had been.
"Good," Snape said, turning slowly to face Echo. His dark eyes were intense, unwavering. "Now, Echo, you must face it. Do not run from the memory. Do not shy away from the guilt. Acknowledge what you did. Acknowledge the darkness within you. But then, you must choose to transcend it."
He gestured to Echo's wand. "Your magic, as you have learned, is a mirror. It amplifies your emotions, good and ill. Tonight, you will not cast a spell of destruction. You will not conjure another nightmare. Tonight, you will create."
Echo stared at him, confused. "Create? What do you mean?"
"You felt the thrill of power when you cast those curses," Snape continued, ignoring Echo's question. "You felt the satisfaction of making Lucius suffer. But you also felt the agony of the owl. The emptiness. You will channel those emotions now. Not to destroy, but to rebuild. To mend. To atone."
Snape then surprised Echo by extending his own wand, not at Echo, but at the ground where the owl had fallen. With a quiet, almost reverent whisper, Snape incanted, "Reparo Corpus."
A faint, shimmering blue light emanated from Snape's wand, washing over the disturbed earth. Slowly, impossibly, the faint outline of an owl began to coalesce, shimmering and ethereal, where the dead bird had been. It was transparent, ghostly, but unmistakably an owl.
Echo gasped. "What… what is that?"
"A memory, Echo," Snape replied, his voice strained with effort. "A magical echo of what transpired here. It is not real, but it is a manifestation of the residual magic of that moment. And it is tied to your guilt. To your subconscious. You must face it."
The ghostly owl slowly rose, its spectral form hovering a few feet off the ground. Though ethereal, its eyes seemed to hold a faint, mournful glow.
"Now, Echo," Snape commanded, his voice firm. "You will take your wand. You will focus on that image. You will feel the guilt, the regret, the desire to undo what was done. But you will not try to attack it. You will not try to banish it. You will try to heal it, to transform the darkness that birthed it into something else."
Echo hesitated, his hand trembling as he raised his black wand. He focused on the ghostly owl, on the phantom pain in its eyes. He felt the cold, hollow ache of guilt, the burning shame of his actions. But then, he remembered Snape's words: To create, rather than destroy.
He closed his eyes, picturing the ethereal owl. He thought of Sniffles, warm and trusting in his pocket. He thought of Dumbledore's patient wisdom. He thought of Snape, here beside him, guiding him. And a new emotion, fragile but potent, began to stir within him: a desperate yearning for redemption.
He didn't think of "Gather and Release" as he had before. He thought of Gathering the guilt, the regret, the remorse, and then Releasing it… as something else—something pure, something that could heal.
He imagined his wand not as a weapon, but as a conduit for a restorative force, drawing in the lingering echoes of pain and converting them into light, into life. He focused with every fiber of his being, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. He felt the familiar cold hum of his magic, but this time, it was different. It felt… cleansing, transformative. He directed it at the spectral owl, not with force but with a gentle, yearning intent. As his magic flowed, the ghostly owl began to change. The mournful glow in its eyes softened, replaced by a faint, warm light. Its transparent form shimmered, and slowly, impossibly, it began to gain substance. The wisps of shadow around it receded, replaced by faint, iridescent feathers. The hollow echo of pain began to fade, replaced by a soft, comforting hum. Snape watched, his eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and profound wonder. The raw, untamed magic pouring from Echo was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. It was dark, yes, but it was being channeled, transformed, into something utterly unforeseen.
The spectral owl shimmered, its form solidifying further. It wasn't fully real, not yet, but it was no longer a haunting phantom. It was a beautiful, iridescent being of pure, shimmering light, its feathers glowing with all the colors of the rainbow, its eyes bright with a gentle, knowing intelligence. It let out a soft, melodious hoot, a sound of peace and tranquility that filled the clearing. Echo opened his eyes, gasping. The pain and the guilt were gone, replaced by a profound sense of peace and a fragile, burgeoning hope. He had done it. He had taken the darkness, the death, and he had transformed it into something beautiful, something alive.
The iridescent owl of light circled gently above them, its radiant form illuminating the clearing, banishing the shadows. It hovered for a moment, then, with a final, serene hoot, it soared upwards, disappearing into the night sky, leaving a trail of shimmering light that slowly faded. Echo stood there, his wand still raised, his hand no longer trembling. He felt utterly drained, but also completely, profoundly, at peace. Snape lowered his own wand, his expression a mixture of awe and exhaustion. He looked at Echo, his dark eyes filled with an intensity Echo had never seen before.
"Remarkable," Snape breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "Echo… you did not just dispel the memory. You transformed it. You transmuted darkness into light. That was… that was an act of pure, unadulterated alchemy, a feat of magic that goes beyond any spell, any incantation, any traditional discipline. You have truly… created."
Echo looked at his black wand, no longer seeing a cursed tool, but a source of incredible, transformative power. He had faced the beast within, and he had learned not to kill it, but to change its nature.
"I… I did it," Echo whispered, a genuine, unburdened smile spreading across his face.
Snape nodded slowly, a faint, almost imperceptible hint of a smile touching his own lips. "Indeed, you did. And in doing so, you have taken the first true step towards mastering your own destiny. This 'dark affinity' of yours… it is not a curse, Echo. It is a canvas. And you, it seems, are a far more formidable artist than any of us could have imagined."
Echo, overcome with emotion, dropped his wand and instinctively lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Snape in a tight embrace. The contact was awkward and unexpected, but Echo didn't care. "Thank you," he mumbled into Snape's robes, his voice thick with gratitude. Thank you, Severus. For everything. You saved me."
Snape stiffened at the sudden contact, his body rigid for a moment before he slowly, tentatively, patted Echo awkwardly on the back. "Yes, yes, quite," he muttered, his voice a little gruff, though a faint flush crept up his neck. He quickly disentangled himself from the embrace, clearing his throat. "Don't get sentimental, Echo. It's unbecoming."
Echo pulled back, a genuine, if slightly wobbly, smile on his face. "No, seriously. I… I actually feel… lighter. Like a huge weight has been lifted." He looked around the clearing, no longer seeing the shadows of death, but the quiet beauty of the moonlit forest.
Then, as the initial rush of relief began to subside, a familiar, albeit fainter, hollowness began to stir in his chest. His smile faltered. He rubbed his sternum, a frown creasing his brow. "But… It's still there. A little bit. That empty feeling. Even after… after all that. I faced it, I changed it, but… I still feel hollow inside."
Snape, who had been meticulously brushing a stray leaf from his robes, paused. His dark eyes, which had softened almost imperceptibly, grew serious once more. He looked at Echo, his gaze piercing. "Indeed," he said slowly, his voice losing its brusqueness. "You faced the manifestation of your guilt, Echo. You acknowledged the darkness you wielded. But perhaps… that is not enough to truly cleanse the soul."
He walked over to a fallen log and sat down, gesturing for Echo to do the same. "You took a life, Echo. Albeit under manipulation and extreme duress, the act itself remains. A magical transformation of a memory, however profound, does not erase the fundamental consequence of that action on your conscience. Your magical core, which is inextricably linked to your emotional state, still remembers. It still seeks… balance."
Echo stared at him, confused. "Balance? What does that mean?"
Snape picked up a small twig, idly turning it in his fingers. "It means that sometimes, to heal a wound truly, you must not only stop the bleeding but also begin to rebuild. You committed an act of destruction, of taking. To truly find peace, to truly fill that lingering hollowness, you must perform an act of creation, of giving. A significant one."
"Like… what?" Echo asked, a flicker of something akin to hope, mixed with trepidation, stirring within him. "What kind of act?"
Snape looked at him, his expression unreadable. "That, Echo, is something you must discover for yourself. It cannot be forced. It cannot be dictated. It must come from within you, from a genuine desire to set things right, to contribute something profoundly good to the world, to make amends. It will be something that requires effort, perhaps even sacrifice. Something that truly reflects the transformative power you wield, now that you have begun to master it." He paused, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. "It will be your penance, Echo. Your redemption. And when you find it, when you complete it… Then, and only then, will that hollowness truly be filled."
He rose from the log, his form once again a silent, imposing shadow against the faint moonlight. "Return to the castle, Echo. The night is waning, and you have much to ponder. Seek out that good deed. Let your unique magic guide you, not to destroy, but to create. I will be watching."
With a final, almost imperceptible nod, Snape turned and vanished into the deeper shadows of the Forbidden Forest, leaving Echo alone once more. Echo stood there, the weight of Snape's words settling on him. A good deed. A penance. A path to redemption. The task felt immense, daunting, but for the first time, Echo felt a flicker of genuine purpose, a direction to channel his strange, powerful magic. He looked at his black wand, no longer inert, but humming faintly with a new, quiet energy. The beast within was still there, but now, it could be tamed, guided, and even used for good. He clutched Sniffles, who let out a soft, contented snuffle from his pocket, a small, furry reminder that he wasn't entirely alone on this new, uncertain journey.