At the bank of a rapidly running stream, the two bloodied bodies of his most beloved companions lie at his feet.
His heart stops in his chest, and his face, true to his own Gryffindor house, relies on honesty and straightforwardness—simultaneously betraying his horror to his enemy.
A cackle erupts from her mouth, reddened and plump, and the face that the mouth is on is pale. Her eyes have a distinctly inhuman, soulless look that makes his heart shudder.
"Aww, little Potty, all alone again?" Bellatrix coos. "You poor thing, every time you manage to get your hands on something, it always falls away, huh?"
Laughter follows from the indistinct crowd. Still in stupor, he registers that the cloaked men that compose the block don't even resemble humans anymore. Animals more like, he thinks.
She grins at him, "Oh, but this time, you don't have to wait for eleven years to finally get a proper explanation. And better yet, you don't have to wallow around with disgusting filth either. That problem," she continues, nodding her head towards the pair of stilled bodies, "is solved."
His heart wrenches and he grits his teeth. I won't let them win. I won't let them win. But it's hard; it's hard as hell. Memories flash of a glimpse at a once-perfect family, loving parents, an innocent child. They flash of trolls and luck and glory, of a mass of brown curls, of shared Bernie's Botts, of shared smiles, of trust, of home. His breath quickens.
"For this dear, darling couple of filth," she continues viciously, "we ensured that they were both kept together until the very end." She giggles like a madwoman at the memory. "Then they were tortured, and oh, what a sight. He was screaming in pain and she was sobbing and shrieking. Quite a pair they made, eh?"
Harry is once-again consumed by that all too familiar feeling: guilt. Guilty that he broke the one single promise he made the pair.
And then, something unfamiliar, but he knows what it is.
Rage. It takes over.
Inhuman. Animals. Madwoman. Alone. Guilt. Always.
But not anymore; he won't let it. He's no longer Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, son of Lily and James Potter, Dumbledore's eager student, the leader of the Golden Trio, and proponent of justice.
The guilty, moody one, the one who retreats back into his shell at opposition. The one who is constantly pushed for morality.
He doesn't feel warm-blooded anymore, all he feels is anger, regret, hatred flowing through his veins. The feelings reflect in his eyes and in his hand, the one that's gripping his wand to shoot out spells he'd never even consider before. Cries follow, blood splatters, but he's numb to it all.
At the bank of a rapidly running stream, a single bloodied body stands upright, wondering where it all went wrong.