Part I – The Boy Who Hid
Chapter One
"…And I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, far more powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding her a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul back into her…"
"No!"He woke, shouting, covered in cooling sweat, his scar aching. Nothing was worse than this waiting, this constant apprehension, this… This loneliness. The morning outside, filtering through his grimy window and stained curtains, was grey, with the tiniest rays of sunshine bravely piercing the monotony.
Harry had been forcibly locked into twelve, Grimmauld Place after he had destroyed the sixth Horcrux – of course he didn't want to be there. He was supposed to wait there until the oblivious Voldemort was weakened enough for him to deal the final blow, fulfill the prophecy, and kill the Dark Lord once and for all.
The old house with the mounted elf-heads was the safest place for him to hide. Kreacher was there to serve him (as house-elves live to do, though Kreacher was somewhat reluctant), and the secret-keeper was dead. Dumbledore was in no position to be telling anybody where Harry was, entombed in white marble on the Hogwarts grounds.
Though safe it may be, the house that he had inherited from his godfather was too big – much too big for only a screaming portrait, a senile house-elf and the "Chosen One". Assorted members of the Order tried to drop in from time to time, though it was rather hard, seeing as both Muggle and wizarding worlds were a war zone.
So, for the best part of the week, Harry was left alone with his thoughts. He was so lonely that sometimes he even considered knocking something over to wake Mrs. Black up, just to hear the sound of another voice… Even if it was screaming about he, the half-blood, had besmirched the noble house of Black and Toujours Pur and all the usual stuff.
Toujours Pur was such a stupid motto for a family, Harry thought. Always Pure. Not even the Blacks could stay pure. Not even he, Harry Potter, could still recall the innocence of his first year at Hogwarts: green eyes wide behind his glasses, always naïve, always trusting, chasing after Rememberalls on broomsticks and releasing dragons in the Astronomy Tower. Voldemort had made sure of that.
Apart from a few Death Eaters, there had been no problem with finding and destroying the fourth and fifth Horcruxes sequentially. Ron, Ginny and Hermione had been there with him. They had kept him strong and hopeful. But it all had to go wrong. It was all Harry's fault. Not even the Chosen One, the boy of the prophecy, could hold on to someone forever.
chainofhearts
Not even his closest friends came to visit him anymore. They, too, had gone into hiding, and Harry was their secret-keeper. They could hardly look at him anymore – why couldn't they understand that what had to be done, had to be done?
Why couldn't they just understand that it was even harder for him than it was for them, that they didn't even have to watch it at all, that he didn't even have the courage to go through with it?
Why didn't anybody understand?
Just as he thought this, there was a soft thump from below Harry's bedroom. Someone was in the kitchen. Snatching his wand and glasses from the bedside table, he went to greet the visitor – or kill the intruder.