Author's Notes:
1. Sincere apologies for delay with Serpents in Solitude. University and job-hunt happened. Things have slowed down temporarily and I intend to continue writing again. That story will be picked up when I feel moderately happy with the way I'm writing.
2. This story is inspired by a book I read a while ago, although the connection is very minor. 'Dumbledore's gift' is a magic that is derived from The Quickening series by Fiona McIntosh. But other than this particular magic itself, there is no other link to the story.
3. I enjoy reading reviews, even if I don't reply as swiftly or as much as I should.
4. Enjoy.
Prologue - Dumbledore's Gift
Harry Potter finished the bottle of brandy, willing for the welcome easing of consciousness that only alcohol can induce. He sighed blissfully when his mind lightened and closed his eyes. Unfortunately, the moment was not to last.
"You -- murderer!"
His eyes flashed open, bloodshot and full of pain, and he grabbed a new bottle, opened it quickly and swallowed a mouthful, trying to beat the onslaught of painful memories. But try as hard as he might, hateful images swirled into life in his mind.
"For the murder of Albus Dumbledore, you are hereby being condemned to…"
The condemning words of Rufus Scrimgeour, the gloating smirk of Severus Snape, the disbelief in the eyes of the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore's Army… it was all too much for him to take at the same time. It had been so, many years ago, and so it was now. What made it worse for him was to see several of his closest friends standing among those who cursed him. He turned to the alcohol to make it easier to bear.
"Ron - Hermione - Remus - why?"
His tears fell on deaf ears. After all, he had confessed under Veritaserum, hadn't he? What more did they need to cast aside years of friendship? What more had they ever needed to keep themselves from questioning the infallibility of magic.
Voldemort had possessed him during that critical moment. Harry had tried very hard to resist, to fight back, to regain control of himself. But the grief from Dumbledore's death, the anger at Snape, was too much for him to handle. He couldn't clear his mind and fell prey to the lurking hunter. His insides had squirmed with horror as he heard his own voice say:
"I killed Dumbledore with my own hands, as I will kill Voldemort. After all, this world isn't big enough for three powerful lords. These fools will always follow me because to them I can do no wrong."
Morale had been destroyed absolutely when two bastions of light were lost to death and darkness. Harry took another large mouthful of the strong liquid, letting it pour down his throat and savoring the warmth and lightheadedness it brought, however temporary.
He had been standing underneath his Invisibility Cloak, petrified into immobility by the Headmaster of Hogwarts, as he died at the hands of one he had always trusted. Harry clutched his head, trying to forget the final look of realization, as it crept into Dumbledore's face that Snape was not his man, perhaps never had been, and with disappointment, he turned to the invisible Harry Potter.
Harry would undo the next moments if he could but he had been powerless. Dumbledore's eyes bored down on him, unleashing a magic upon him that he was forced to accept and his head burnt, and drawing attention to Snape of his presence, but the Headmaster had but a single mission. Saving Harry Potter was not it.
"Remember my last, Harry Potter. This curse will not release you until Hogwarts is secured from all its foes."
Harry hadn't understood what those words meant, but he didn't have much time to wonder either. He was free and Snape knew he was there. The duel was very brief for Harry Potter was weakened and Snape was the better trained of the two.
"You -- murderer!"
Harry woke up to the agonizing screams. He didn't know who all were yelling. All he could recall was Voldemort taking possession of his body during his trial. He tried to convince his former friends, he tried to convince any who would listen, but all he got was curses in return.
He had been taken to Azkaban.
Shivering, Harry swallowed several mouthfuls of the brandy in one flow, and yet couldn't fight the dreadful chill that attacked his body every time he recalled that foul place. On his first night in Azkaban, Harry Potter cried. On his second night, he banged his head repeatedly against the iron bars. On his third night, he leaned back, surrendering himself to his fate.
He didn't move much after that.
Every week, a guard would come to cast a mild healing charm on the prisoners to prolong their agony for yet another week, and another, and so on. Harry Potter was no exception. He rarely received any visitors, only Dementors, to slowly poison his soul, and prison guards, to keep that poison at its most painful yet non lethal level.
But he did receive visitors too.
"Did you do it?"
He looked at the face, the beautiful face, filled with anguish and horror, at his suffering. He hated himself for being the cause for her journey to such a foul place. Why didn't anyone stop her? Why would anyone allow such a gentle person to be subjected to such an ordeal?
"Stop! Please stop! Just one word!"
He honestly didn't know if he had been thinking or speaking out loud. Honestly, things didn't make much difference after spending any length of time in Azkaban. He had spent three years. The guards kept celebrating his birthdays with ample presents of Crucios and Diffindos. That is another reason he didn't want her to be there, to see him for what he had become and not remember him for who he was, her knight in shining armor. The boy who had loved her.
"Please, Harry… don't do this to me…"
She had changed, he noticed. The years hadn't been kind to her. Her face no longer held the innocence and softness it once did. It was filled with a toughness that only battle could bring. It held a hardness he had seen only once before - in Albus Dumbledore. His heart screamed. Dumbledore should not have died! He could have saved Dumbledore. If only he hadn't been petrified, Harry would have saved Dumbledore, even if it meant jumping in front of the old man and take Snape's curse.
But Dumbledore was gone and nothing would bring him back, nothing. Suddenly, Harry realized it. Without Dumbledore, there was no Harry Potter. Everything he had achieved, everything he had ever wanted to achieve, was solely because of his Headmaster. Without him, there was no Harry Potter, only a freak that deserved to be caged.
"I don't know how to ask for your forgiveness, I know I will never forgive myself. I… I wish I had been more courageous and fought for you earlier… I wish I wasn't so late… Goodbye, Harry, I never stopped loving you either…"
Goodbye? Harry didn't understand. He reached for her. For one final touch, to bask in her beauty, and for a fleeting moment their fingers touched, before she withdrew and ran away in grief.
By then Harry's bottle was finished again. He got up. The memories of Azkaban were never pretty. They affected him very badly. In retrospect, they also allowed him to review those days with more clarity, to understand the significance of those words. She believed he was dying and had come to make her peace with him, only to realize the gravity of the world's errors.
He threw the bottle aside, and glanced at the floor. There were several empty bottles there - the signs of his having lived in that tiny apartment for the past week. He would have to leave soon, find a new hideout, be on the run. There was never a moment of peace for him. If he didn't take care, there was no saying what fearsome effect Dumbledore's Curse would have on him next.
Somehow, Harry had to end the curse before it took more lives.
"Remember my last, Harry Potter. This curse will not release you until Hogwarts is secured from all its foes."
Harry cursed Dumbledore for throwing such a burden on him. The old man wouldn't stop meddling with his life even from beyond the grave. Harry faltered suddenly. His hands froze and he sat down in sudden surprise. The last of the memories replayed in his mind again.
"Without Dumbledore, there is no Harry Potter," he repeated his own words from Azkaban. But Dumbledore wasn't truly gone. His last gift to Harry Potter still remained. "You meddling old bastard!" he yelled, throwing the remaining bottles of alcohol to the wall, shattering the glass into smithereens.
It had been barely a week after her visit. Death Eaters had appeared. They had come to specifically escort Harry Potter to his next great adventure in death. Harry couldn't recall who all were there but knew for certain that Rodolphus Lestrange, Avery and Marcus Flint were present. Rodolphus tortured Harry to his heart's content with the Cruciatus Curse. Avery gave him a more physical treatment. And Marcus Flint.
Flint was the one to raise his wand at the very end, a gleeful smirk on his face, as he said those dreadful words.
"Avada Kedavra."
Harry shut his eyes suddenly. The flash of green light was still extremely disconcerting. He knew death was upon him, he even welcomed it whole heartedly. The next adventure could hardly be as torturous as his present one. With a smile on his face, Harry awaited the green light's onslaught and the subsequent oblivion.
But he hadn't expected the pain. He screamed as if a searing hot blade was slicing his body in half, while keeping him alive. The pain was unbearable. Even the Cruciatus seemed like a mere feather's touch against it. He had no idea what was causing it or when it would stop.
But as suddenly as it had come, the pain left and Harry opened his eyes.
He gave a dry chuckle on recalling the surprise and confusion he had first felt on finding himself alive and within the familiar yet dreadful prison. Funnier was still the fact that there was a corpse in front of him - someone had died, despite the curse hitting him straight on. But he should have been dead too. In fact, by the very evidence of his eyes, he knew he should have been dead. Harry Potter lay on the ground, dead.
But somehow, it wasn't so. Dumbledore's last gift had come into play at last, unleashing its terrible power, claiming Harry's soul for itself.
Harry pushed aside several broken shards of glass and faced the mirror. Brown eyes stared back where once there were green, and the face of Marcus Flint stared back relentlessly.
