'Happy is the man who keeps his heart pure from guilt and crime.'

Ibycus

Chapter One

The Unexpected Return

The fact that Harry had to attend Fred's funeral had been devastating enough, but attending Tonk's and Remus's nearly sent him into a mental meltdown. With the guilt already swarming inside of him, Harry didn't think he had enough strength to go. The two funerals were set apart by more than a week, but Harry quickly realized that emotional exhaustion is much different from physical exhaustion; no amount of sleep could cure the empty feeling in his stomach and the clenching, burning feeling in his chest.

Because of him, Fred Weasley left behind a life that had not yet been fully lived, a family who would never fully recover from his death, and a twin who would never be the same. He had been completely unable to even look at Ginny or Ron before the funeral and declined to sit with the family during the service, instead deciding to sit in the back corner with Hermione on one side of him and Neville on the other, both of whom were crying quietly into the sleeves of their somber-colored dress cloaks.

Yet Harry found himself unable to cry – it was almost as if his pain was beyond tears. He watched stone-faced and wary as each of the Weasleys stood up and spoke their piece about Fred. Most shared an anecdote or two about his mischievousness, causing the occasional smile and chuckle to erupt amongst the attendees. But it was only when George reached the small, stone podium to speak that everyone seemed to hold their breath in apprehension.

"Fred is my identical twin. But he is also my business partner, my worst influence, and my best friend." George paused, clearing his throat, and Harry felt his chest clench and his heart ache.

"It seems like just yesterday we sent Dolores Umbridge running for cover, giving Peeves a run for his money as the most troublesome inhabitant of Hogwarts, and beating Bludgers at Slytherins whom we were secretly trying to kill."

A few smiles speckled the crowd, but ultimately everyone remained silent.

"The problem is, all of those were yesterday." Again, another pause. "For Fred, there will only be yesterday. There will never be tomorrow."

Harry heard Ginny give a small moan of despair, and had Hermione not been gripping his hand so tightly, he probably would have sprinted to her side, scooped her in his arms and never let her go. Instead, he shifted his gaze to focus upon the dew-dampened grass beneath his feet, and found himself suddenly incredibly angry.

"But Fred did not die for nothing," Harry heard George continue, and Harry found himself wishing that he would stop speaking altogether. "For him there might be no tomorrows, but for the rest of us, there will be. And we all owe that unpayable debt to Harry Potter."

Harry's face burned as he felt hundreds of eyes fall on him. Determined not to directly meet any gazes, he kept his sight firmly on the grass at his feet.

He hated that George had mentioned his name at Fred's funeral; for once, could people forget about him, and focus on the tasks at hand? Why should he be the focus of attention at Fred's funeral, for Merlin's sake?

But luckily no mention of him was made during Tonk's and Remus's, which was a good thing considering Harry could barely restrain himself from breaking into sobs of despair. This time, the tears ran freely, unstoppable and continuously forthcoming. The realization that Teddy Lupin was now an orphan, as he was, hurt him enough; but the fact that Teddy Lupin was an orphan because of him…well, that fact was something that Harry wasn't sure he could live with.

Teddy would grow up without parents, just as Harry had; he would never have Tonks kiss him embarrassingly on the cheek as she sent him off for his first day at Hogwarts; he would never have Lupin teach him how to produce a proper Patronus when the time came; he would never be able to enjoy a close, nuclear family that every child deserved. And upon these thoughts, Harry suddenly felt like a thief - a thief who had stolen Teddy's childhood.

When the service had finally ended, Harry practically sprinted from the procession. Hermione had caught up to him, and he quickly muttered something about seeing her back at the Burrow, and Disapparated before she could protest. He Apparated in the kitchen, and, deciding to avoid being heckled altogether, marched up to his room and closed the door, locking it behind him.

And suddenly, the fury that had consumed him at Fred's funeral began to spark in his stomach, changing rapidly into a raging fire. Before he was fully consciously aware of it, Harry whirled around and punched through the nearest window, sending shards of glass flying across the small, quiet room. He saw specks of blood drip from his hand and saw he was bleeding quite freely, but oddly enough, he felt no pain.

And pain was what he wanted to feel.

He had felt too much emotional pain; he figured if he could feel physical pain, perhaps it would offset the shame that was drowning his soul.

He punched the wall repeatedly with the same hand, screaming, tears rolling down his face and blood spraying in various directions with each punch he threw.

He still felt no pain.

He could feel nothing.

And it terrified him.

Cannot feel pain, Potter? Lucky you.

The cold voice he heard inside his head was unmistakable. He stopped punching the wall immediately as his heart began to pound so hard he was sure all of Britain could hear it.

It could not be…he was dead, he was gone…

I might be eradicated from this earth, Harry Potter, but that doesn't mean I have been removed from your brain.

Shaking his head violently as if that were the answer to quieting the voice, Harry suddenly found himself disoriented, his vision blurring and his body sweating profusely. He struggled to find the bed, but the room was spinning and he abruptly felt incredibly vulnerable.

You think its over, Potter, but it's never over. You will never be rid of me, never…

Don't listen to it, he kept telling himself, struggling to stay conscious as nausea began rising like a violent monster in his gut. You're just overtired and upset, it's all in my head…

It is all in your head, Harry Potter, and there within is where your problem lies.

Unable to control himself any longer, nausea overtook him and he felt to his knees, vomiting. His lungs felt as if they were being stomped on, and he began to hyperventilate, struggling to take each breath. He began to panic, and tried to claw his way towards the door, but his body was suddenly rendered too weak to even hold himself up, and he fell flat on his stomach.

He began to see colored dots in his eyes, and he felt a tingling sensation in his face that he had come to associate with the beginnings of suffocation.

He could not move. He could not think. He was laying helpless in a puddle of his own vomit, his own blood, his own sweat, his own tears, his own absolute anguish. He was falling, falling through the darkness, desparate to grab on to anything, but there was nothing. He saw the face of Tonks, of Lupin, of his mum and dad, of Colin Creevy and Fred Weasley and Severus Snape. They were all looking at him accusatorily, as if it were all his fault…

It was all his fault…

Yes…all your fault, Harry Potter. For The Boy Who Lived, you have caused so many to die…

And before he knew it, his scar was burning, searing, and he was screaming, tortured, in complete misery, wishing for death, begging for it…

The last thing he heard before passing out was the cold, barely-human, snakelike voice:

Death will come in due time, Harry Potter. But why kill you now, when there are things in life that are so much worse?