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PART I
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/ CHAPTER 4 /
17.
Things come to a head when Harry wakes up at an ungodly hour one Saturday morning with a distinct sense of purpose that definitely doesn't belong to her.
She shakes Hermione awake.
Hermione bats her away.
"Mione!" She hisses, tossing a wary glance at Lavender and Parvati; they are completely dead to the world. It's five in the morning—she wants to join them.
Hermione makes an unintelligible noise.
"You have an exam in ten minutes!" She shouts, and Hermione bolts upright.
"What?" She gasps, but then her attention turns to Harry. "You liar." She scowls.
"Sorry, I had to wake you up." Harry replies, totally unapologetic.
"You succeeded." Hermione harrumphs. "What did you want?"
"It's today." Harry says, flatly.
"What's today?"
"His plan—it's today." She elaborates. "He's going to the Ministry today."
Hermione's eyes widen. She leaps out of her bed, dragging Harry with her. "Why didn't you say something earlier?"
"I only found out a minute ago!" She protests, as Hermione wrenches open her drawer and garments begin to fly out of it with the force of her digging.
Harry has no time to dress; she puts on the first thing she finds. It's a yellow sundress. She would find it more ironic if her life already wasn't some giant cosmic joke.
Hermione is already in the common room, working herself into a frenzy.
"Hermione," Ron groans, stumbling out of the boy's dormitory. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"Oh, nevermind that, Ronald!" Hermione snaps. "We need to move—now!"
"Move where?"
"The Ministry!" Hermione practically shouts.
Ron's eyes bulge. "Today?" He looks furiously between Harry and Hermione's grim faces, before coming to the obvious conclusion. "Oh, Merlin."
"Exactly." Hermione agrees, succinctly. She turns to Harry. "We need a plan."
Harry blinks at her. "We?"
Her best friend turns to her incredulously. "You don't plan on going alone, do you?"
"Harry!" Ron protests, stumbling down the stairs. "That's madness!"
"No—all of us going is madness." Harry retorts.
"You're going to face him, alone?" Ron balks. They both turn to him with matching nonplussed expressions. He grins sheepishly. "Right. Bit of a moot point now, huh?"
Harry sighs, slumping against one of the red and gold armchairs littered about the common room. "Honestly, it's probably best if I go by myself."
She pierces them with an austere, steady look. "He won't kill me. I can't guarantee the same for you two."
They both turn pensive, knowing that Harry is right.
"Then tell someone," Hermione blurts. "Tell the Order—tell Dumbledore!"
"No way," Harry shakes her head, not even bothering to contemplate that. "If Voldemort goes to the Ministry, personally—Hermione, that would be a disaster. I'm not going to lie to myself he's—
She swallows. "Dangerous. He's going to kill anyone who stops him and it's going to be a blood bath. I'd be sending them to die."
Her best friend eyes her warily. "But you shouldn't be going alone, either."
"It's the only way," Harry huffs, looking out into the world outside of Hogwarts' manicured lawn. The early morning darkness is silent and still, far removed from whatever horrors the Dark Lord is undoubtedly planning. "I'm the only one who can touch my prophecy… it has to be me."
"Yes," Hermione snaps impatiently. "But: alone? Harry, this is ridiculous. You're breaking into the Ministry! How are you supposed to do that by yourself?"
Harry blinks at her, before she laughs. "Breaking in?"
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In the end, Hermione and Ron refuse to let her leave without them. Harry acquiesces, if only to stop Ron's whining.
The whole event is decidedly uneventful. It is an early Saturday morning of no remarkable weather, cold or hot. They use her map and Fred and George's secret passageways to enter into Honeydukes. Ron causes a commotion with the twin's ridiculous Portable Swamp. Ambrosius Flume throws a fit when he sees an enormous, rancid smelling bog pop up in the middle of his shop, and in the interim the trio rush to the back room and use his floo network to travel to the Ministry's office.
Once there, Harry manages to convince Ron and Hermione to stay in the lobby. Well actually, the Minsitry official does; Harry is not only the only person allowed to touch her own prophecy, but she is also the only one allowed inside. Only those mentioned in the prophecies can both pick them up and get to them in the fist place. This of course makes Hermione cross with jealousy, until Harry promises to relay to her every small detail.
The official then hands her over to an 'Unspeakable'—the people who work in the Department of Mysteries.
The wizard doesn't say much to her, simply dropping her off into a towering, cathedral hall full of unending rows of shelves. After relaying to her the prophecy's location—"Shelf 423, Row 25, Slot 25E"—he disappears into thin air. Harry looks around the hollow, ominous cavern. Perhaps she simply calls him back? Or maybe there are stairs back to the top?
The hall sees both vastless and endless, glowing in a prescient, phosphorescent gloom. She feels rather small in comparison to the looming structures; wandering around the base of timeless giants. She wonders how old some of these little blue orbs are. Some appear to have been here for centuries, so caked in dust it is impossible to discern their soft light.
Harry wanders for some time, until she finally stumbles upon shelf number 423. It looks just like every other shelf here. Her neck hurts from craning up to look at it; row twenty-five? She can barely even reach row ten! She looks around, hoping to perhaps find her tour guide, a ladder, or maybe even a large stool, but there is nothing in this hall but dust, glass and shelves.
Harry curses, annoyed. Who the hell decided to put a bunch of delicate glass balls on a shelf so high without a ladder? What poor logistical planning.
Very carefully she climbs up the many rows of glass baubles, reaching for her own. Hell, even still she can't quite reach it. What does Voldemort want with this insipid little thing, anyway?
It's not until she's finally face to face with it that she realizes why he has been so obsessively fixated upon it for such a long amount of time.
It's not just her name on the plaque.
Harriett Rose Potter, it reads, and just beneath:
Tom Marvolo Riddle
And then her wholly uneventful day gets decidedly more deadly.
"Why, if it isn't little Harry Potter," A high, jeering voice echoes from her left.
Harry sucks in a breath, almost drops the stupid thing before she catches it just seconds before it breaks upon the floor. Irritated, she turns to see who disrupted such a delicate process—
And sees the unhinged face of Bellatrix Lestrange.
She pockets the prophecy, leaping down from her perch, wand aimed upon the dark-haired woman. This only seems to please her; she stalks forward, eyes widening as if she has found a mouse to play with. Harry backs away slowly.
"Now Bellatrix," comes a smooth, warning baritone, emerging from the shadows.
The aristocratic features of Lucious Malfoy part from the darkness. To her horror, there are many more figures wandering out of obscurity.
"I believe the Dark Lord was very clear with his orders, no?" His voice turns cold. "Harry Potter is not to be touched by anyone other than him."
She looks around wildly. Where the hell is her guide? How is it possible for the Ministry to be so absolutely ineffectual, all the time?
"Well this is a little stupid of you, don't you think?" She scowls. Of course it had to be Malfoy here. "Walking into the Ministry in the middle of the day and all."
He smiles slowly. "But we're not in the Ministry, are we?"
She blinks, confused.
He continues; "We're in the Department of Mysteries, and as you may have noticed—it is quite… empty, no?"
Well, he's right about that. There doesn't appear to be a single soul down here aside from them. Great. Don't they have wards for this sort of thing? But this is Voldemort's plan, of course he would have accounted for that. Lord Voldemort doesn't make mistakes.
"Look," she starts, cross. "I'm not here to fight you—or get in the way of whatever you're doing. Are you here for the prophecy? Did Voldemort send you?"
Bellatrix turns her wand to her in rage. "You dare to speak his name you insolent little—
"Bellatrix," The warning in his tone has turned deadly. "Must I remind you again?"
"But surely he wouldn't mind if we had a few minutes of fun, no? Nothing permanent."
"No." He barks, caustically. Harry never thought she'd see the day that Lucius Malfoy stood up for her. Again. Judging from his face, he thought the same. She hopes it doesn't have to happen a third time; the universe might just not be able to handle that.
"You still haven't answered my question," she points out.
He sneers. "Nor do I need to. The prophecy, little girl." He holds out a hand.
Hell if she'd let him anywhere near it.
Harry backs away, slow and cautious. "No," she says, to his distinct irritation. "Not until you answer my question. Did he send you?"
She's stalling, it's true. But only until she can see a clear way out of this. On the one hand, she could give it to them—they'd surely take great care in keeping it safe until it reaches Tom. If she does this, though, she may never get the opportunity to hear what it says. If he had kept the whole thing a secret from her the whole time, it would be logical to assume he wouldn't tell her the contents, either.
Malfoy looks annoyed—and impatient. "Yes, you stupid child, that should be obvious. Now, the prophecy, if you will."
She shakes her head, persistent. "But why? Do you know what he wants it for?"
His irritation has turned into fury, but when he opens his mouth Bellatrix beats him to it. "Oh, does little Harry Potter not know?"
Harry spares the woman a narrow, wary glance.
She steps closer, and Harry steps back. "Does she not know what it was that put her life into motion, the very reason her poor, unfortunate parents met their poor, unfortunate end?"
"What are you talking about?" She hisses, incensed that the portentous woman even speaks of her parents at all.
She grins malevolently. "That prophecy is the reason why your parents are—
"Bellatrix!" Lucius cuts her off, grabbing her by the back of her dress—to her vocal and piercing rage—and attempting to haul her back.
Then many things happen at once.
Spells light into the air like bright fireworks, and then the great limbs of the hall shake, little crystalline orbs crashing to the ground in a cacophonous anarchy. Harry dodges out of the way, shielding her eyes as glass splinters everywhere, taking to the air like pieces of scintillating light. Caught in between all this are the death eaters and new figures emerging from the opposite side of the hall—casting spells everywhere, lighting the hall in thousands of colors.
Harry has just enough time to realize the Order has come before she's dodging out of the way again.
It takes her a moment to reconcile the fact that they're here. How did they know—? But of course; she's been down here for ages, Hermione and Ron must have grown worried, realized something was wrong, and probably had just as much luck trying to find that Unspeakable as she did. They must have floo-called one of the teachers—Mcgonagall, probably—who then alerted the Order, who then came to her 'rescue'.
What rescue? Harry snorts. She was perfectly safe!
Although she can see how the Order would believe otherwise. It's not as if they know she's secretly shagging the Dark Lord. Well, not shagging, exactly. But certainly getting there, even though they haven't gone very far, and he doesn't appear to be all that urgent to go farther. Which is rather annoying; she could use a little urgency. But—what did Lavender call it? First base? She thinks it had something to do with baseball, but she can't remember it now. But what constitutes as first base, anyway? Just snogging? But what about touching? Or if clothes come off?
Harry cuts herself off.
Oh Merlin, why is she thinking of this now? There are about a thousand more pressing matters to attend to aside from how far or not her and Tom have gone.
"Potter!"
She is jolted back into reality by the scathing voice of Lucius Malfoy.
"What are you doing?" He turns around, incensed, blocking a bright purple spell. And then, when she still stands unmoving, "Run you stupid girl!"
That suddenly sounds like a fantastic idea.
She bolts down the hall, the spray of glass and the misty voices of thousands of prophecies trail in her wake. She hears another voice call out to her, but refuses to stop.
She sprints through room after room through the labyrinth of the department, getting herself more and more lost as she attempts to unravel her way out.
Harry ends up in a deathly silent chamber with a high vaulted ceiling—it is as cold and still as death in here, and completely devoid of anything but a flowing curtain, resting on a large podium as the centerpiece of the room. She heaves a breath, bending over onto her knees. To her unending relief her dress is completely unharmed. There's cuts all over her skin, but that's irrelevant. The dress is safe.
"Harry!"
She whirls around. It's—
"Sirius," she breathes in relief. She had no idea what she'd do if it was Lucius Malfoy—or god forbid, Bellatrix.
Her godfather gives her a look of both alarm and reprimand. "What on earth has gotten into you?" He questions sharply, as he makes his way towards her. "Why did you run away like that?"
"I—
"Harry, it was incredibly irresponsible of you to come here all by yourself! If you're friends hadn't called us…" he shakes his head in disbelief. "What are you even doing here?"
"So you knew about it too, I'm assuming?" She retorts accusingly, ignoring his words.
He blinks, taken aback by her tone. "Knew what?"
"About the prophecy!" She shouts. "About my prophecy—that everyone seems to have conveniently forgotten to tell me about!"
He sputters. "How do you know about the prophecy?"
"Does it matter?" She snaps, stepping away from him, keeping a distance that he notices with a wounded look.
"Harry," he sighs. "I never meant to hurt you. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to know—I didn't want to cause you any more pain."
"Cause me—?" She reels back, just as angry as she is confused. "Why? Why does everyone seem to know about this stupid thing but me? What are you hiding?"
He catches up to her finally, grasping her shoulders lightly. A pained look crosses his eyes—fifteen years worth of pain. "Harry, this prophecy… it's affected you more than you know." He whispers, unsteady.
Her eyes flicker to his, growing wide. "What do you mean by that? It's already come true?" But if so, why does everybody care about it still?
He brushes a hand over her head, smoothing out her hair, just above her scar. "Oh, Harry," he says, and his voice is full of regret.
And then he's choking, and pulling her into a crushing embrace. "I'm so sorry…" He breathes into her hair.
Trepidation grows furiously in her throat. "Why?" She whispers, frantically. "Why? What happened? What does it mean?"
He lays a lamenting kiss on her forehead. "It's the reason for everything," he says, quiet. "All the pain in your life, all the horrible events… it's the reason for everything."
Her eyes widen. "How? How could it possibly—
"Unhand her, you foul, mangy dog."
A high, dangerous voice emerges from the shadows, and the Dark Lord rises out of the darkness, a tall, indomitable presence that seems to pull everything into its inescapable gravity: matter, time, space. Even her own thoughts are seized by a mere glance upon him, as if she sits just at the event horizon of a black hole; the most deadliest of nature's creations. In his wake a ripple of inky black spills out from the corners of the room—figures cloaked in gloom.
Sirius growls, backing away, pulling her with him.
"Never!" He spits. "I'll never let you lay a finger on her!"
Too late for that, Harry thinks, hysterical. He's definitely laid a finger on her, many of them actually, many times, all over her—
"Sirius—" she gets out, wondering how in the hell she's going to be able to convince him to let her go. "Stop. You're going to get hurt."
If anything, he holds her tighter. "I don't care," he replies, low and unfaltering. "I'd rather die than let him touch you."
Voldemort looks like he's gotten himself into a proper rage at this point, even though Harry is staring at him with a pleading look. Oh hell, he's definitely going to make good on Sirius' promise. He's going to kill him, if he doesn't hand her over.
She's under no delusions that the Dark Lord will spare him just because he's her godfather.
Harry makes her decision in a split second, and violently pulls away from him.
He looks down at her in shock as she attempts to wiggle her way out of his grip. "Harry—!" He manages to get an arm around her waist, but she's squirming her way out of that too.
She accidentally catches Voldemort's gaze, and is unsurprised to see the level of complete, unmitigated fury lit within them. Finally she pulls out of Sirius' arms with a well timed jab of her elbow—a move she's perfected over the year with Dudley and his 'Harry hunting'—and is tearing away from him when more figures dart into the room, spraying bright lights in their wake.
And then Bellatrix stalks her way through the crowd of death eaters, aiming a crazed look at her cousin, "Avada Kadevra!"
Harry's eyes widen. She takes one look at it and then pivots back and throws Sirius out of the way. He tumbles to the left, hitting his head as he crashes into the ground and rolls towards the wall, unconscious but still alive. Meanwhile she stumbles backwards, narrowly misses the sickly flash of light. It shoots past her and grounds itself into the marble floor. She stares down at it in total horror; good god, it missed her by inches…
By the time she looks up Bellatrix is on the floor, and her horrifying, strangled cries are filling the room, louder than the spells and the fighting, piercing Harry's ears at an almost inhuman decibel. Harry is no fan of the woman, and yet her own flesh crawls in response to the sound.
The Dark Lord strides forward, viperous. "What have I told you, Bellatrix, about Harry Potter?" He hisses, quiet and deadly, as he releases her from whatever curse he'd placed upon her.
She sobs. "That no one can touch her but you!"
"That is correct," Voldemort agrees, dangerous. "So why, then, did I see a killing curse thrown at her? Of all things?"
"I didn't mean to!" Bellatrix cries. "I'm sorry, Master, please forgive me—I only wanted to attack the useless scourge upon the Black name—
"I don't want to hear your excuses," he interrupts her, cold. "Get up. We're not done here."
Harry watches all of this with wide, horrified eyes, feeling far more frightened than she ever has before when his vesuvian eyes turn to her.
The Order and the Death Eaters have begun their duels in earnest, flooding into the hall; Voldemort ignores all of them, advancing on her with the determination of a single-minded purpose. She takes a hesitant step back; the anger hasn't faded from his eyes. If anything, it seems to have doubled. He pays them no mind, erecting a powerful barrier around them, protecting them both from spells and prying eyes in a little bubble of magic.
"You impudent, foolish child!" He rounds on her when he's near enough, with embroiled, flaming eyes, burning brighter than any star or sun. She flinches. "Do I even want to know how you managed to find yourself in this predicament?"
"I—I didn't mean to—" She stammers, but he cuts her off.
"Didn't mean to what?" He interrupts with great ire. "Traipse through the Department of Mysteries, completely and utterly ruining everything I've planned? It's astounding, actually, how you always manage to so easily upend all of my work in a matter of seconds!"
This incenses her anger.
"Everything you've planned?" She echoes, furious,, crossing her arms, "Funny, what exactly have you been planning? I haven't heard anything about it, and considering it's my prophecy: rather curious, no?"
"It doesn't have anything to do with you—
"It doesn't have anything to do with me?" She repeats, incredulous, talking over him. "Really? Aside from the fact that it has my name on it and it just happens to be entirely about me?"
His eyes narrow. "Why are you here, Harry?" He goes from furious heat to burning cold in a matter of seconds, giving her whiplash.
"What do you mean?"
"On the subject of curious events," he begins, ominously, "How exactly did you manage to find yourself in this particular room of the Department of Mysteries on this particular day? This hour, even? It's all rather… coincidental, isn't it?"
The unrepentant, rebellious features falter slightly. "Well, I…"
"Do not lie to me, Harry," he warns.
She purses her lips, searching his gaze. He is really, really mad. This is probably not the time to attempt to fiddle her way out of this.
"I saw you thinking about it," she admits, finally. "About a prophecy—a prophecy about me. And when I saw that you were going to go to the Ministry to retrieve it I—
"You what?" The rage returns with a vengeance. "Decided to foil my plans? Did Dumbledore put you up to this? Have you turned against me, Harry?"
Harry blinks wide eyes, uncomprehending.
"Have you?" Voldemort roars, closing the gap between them and grasping her chin.
"No! I didn't turn against you!" She cries, outraged, once she's come over her shock, "I was trying to help you!"
He sneers. "How could you have possibly been trying to help me?"
"Because I thought it was my prophecy!" She hisses, low and furious, "I thought I was the only one who could touch it! And you've fixated on the stupid thing for months—I thought it would be easier and a lot less violent if I simply picked it up myself!"
And then, irascible, "And it worked, by the way." She crosses her arms. "All I had to do was go up to the Ministry and ask them for it. I could have easily picked it up and brought it back to you and we could have solved all of this in five seconds!"
This seems to deflate his anger, and in turn she finds her own fury slipping away like water in her hands.
Voldemort regards her with a searching, taciturn gaze. She meets it, warily. He releases her.
And then, high and soft, "Did it not occur to you that, perhaps, there might be a reason I did not want you to know of its existence?"
Harry blinks, taken aback. Then her gaze sharpens. "Oh, you mean other than the fact that you knew it all along and conveniently forgot to mention that there was a prophecy about me? How could you think that wasn't important for me to know? It's about me!"
"And me," he adds, darkly.
"Yeah," she notes, flatly. "Another thing you forgot to mention."
He looks as if he might yell at her for that too. But then he sighs. And then, with considerably less heat and—to her surprise—a look of concern and unease; "Harry, the contents of this prophecy were said long before you were born. And they… will cause you nothing but pain."
"Why?" She asks, quiet. "What could it have possibly said?"
He doesn't answer, because he is hauling her out of the center of the room and off to the sides, where it is far safer. A coruscate of lights cross through the air behind him, explosions and shouts ricocheting down the walls. The magical barrier moves with them, deflecting or absorbing any stray spells that cross its way. Behind its shimmering wall she can see the battle waging on. She has eyes for absolutely none of it; all of her attention is fixated solely on him.
Her eyes search his face, dread growing in the absence of rage. "Tom," she whispers, wavering. "What did it say?"
He finds he cannot look away from the naked fear in her virescent eyes. They are so incredibly green—a most haunting color, a lethal, dangerous color; the color of death. How very, ironically, prophetic—the deadly color that almost killed her, now so intimately a part of her. The consequences of his actions define her entire life; the doomed childhood, the death of her parents, the splintered soul inside of her, the very color of her eyes—how is he to tell her this?
"Tom," she says again, drawing closer. He almost manages to regain his composure—
And then her attention snaps away from him towards something over his shoulder.
She bolts past him, and he manages to grasp her by the arm before she darts head first into the chaos.
It's that obnoxious dog. Bellatrix blasts the mangy cretin away, and it all appears to happen in such excruciating, wonderfully slow detail.
His body flies through the air, and he sees the woman's eyes widen with glee and realizes that Sirius Black is about to meet his untimely death as he soars into the path of the veil. This of course does not mean much to him, but Harry jerks in his grip as her godfather flies towards the altar, jarring him into shock. His eyes widen as he tightens his grip; is she truly so foolish, or simply so loyal? Does she not know what will greet her on the other side of that veil?
She finally manages to struggle out of his grip. "Sirius—!" And sprints full speed to her death, clearly intent on following him into the abyss.
When it becomes clear that she will unquestionably attempt to dive in after him, Voldemort waves him out of the way with a scowl. The insufferable man dodges the veil, rolling into the wall. In the interim he manages to catch up to her and get a better grip on her wrist, as all the fight leaves her.
"Sirius…" she breathes, her eyes still trained towards the man with desperation.
This annoys him greatly, a foreign emotion he is unprepared to find growing in his throat: jealousy. Harry should not look at anyone like that—anyone else but him, that is. Fortunately it is at this moment that they turn to him, blinking and beguiling and full of a tenderness he is equally as unprepared to see.
"You saved him," she says, dazed.
He sneers. "I saved you," Voldemort corrects, livid anger returning. She flinches at the coldness in his voice, at least somewhat chastised. Even this does not satisfy him; how can it, when he knows the root of this vivid fury stems from an unending and unbreakable concern for her wellbeing? That she so stupidly disregards at the most inopportune of times? "What possessed you to try to do something so stupid?"
He rounds on her, and she shrinks back. The fright in her eyes only makes him angrier; why must he care so deeply about the mercurial whims of a silly little teenage girl?
"I—I didn't—
He draws closer. "There is nothing on the other side of that veil but death. Is that what you want?"
"What? No!" She shakes her head wildly, and he feels himself grow angrier still. Her fear should satisfy him, the wariness grasping her face and the shaking of her shoulders are all things that should elicit triumph within him. Finally Harry Potter has learned to fear him as all others do—finally, when he no longer wants her to.
It takes an unbelievable effort to reign in his anger. "Harry," he says, "I am not trying to scare you, but you are making it very difficult to remain calm."
She frowns up at him. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I don't mean to make you angry."
But the hesitant, humbled look is even worse. He brings a hand to his temples. "Then think before you so stupidly act upon whatever impulse has taken your fancy— for the sake of my blood pressure, at the very least."
She smiles very slightly at that, nodding. "I'll try," she promises.
Well, with that out of the way, he still hasn't found a suitable way to get her out of here—without the prophecy going with her. But he cannot think of a way to take it from her that doesn't involve some modicum of violence; he doubts she'd hand it over of her own volition. Especially not when she's clearly insistent upon knowing its contents. And he is just as insistent on never letting that happen. He only knows the first few lines himself, and those few lines condemned her parents and her to death. He cannot even imagine what the rest of it is going to say.
No viable solution presents itself. Not one that wouldn't end with her betrayed, hurt face staring up at him., at any rate.
He eyes her critically. Perhaps there is a way…
"Harry," he begins, with infinitely more equanimity than he feels, "I am only looking out for your wellbeing. I assure you I did not hide this from you out of spite, or whatever other ridiculous motivations you've concocted—and I daresay that everyone else who knew hasn't, either."
At the very least, she appears to be listening to him seriously.
"Do you think that I, or even your precious Dumbledore, would have kept it from you without a good reason?" He hates to have to associate himself with Albus Dumbledore in any manner at all, but in this they appear to at least share a common goal. He reminds himself once more that he shouldn't care at all for the fickle emotions of a teenager: it, once more, does very little to stop him from doing it anyway.
"No," she admits, in a small voice.
"Or even your aggravating, insipid godfather?"
"No," she says again.
He holds out a hand. "Give it to me, Harry."
Trust me, is what he is saying. Even though he has never given her a reason to do so—if anything, he has only ever give her reasons to forever think the worst of him. And yet, her composure wavers, something yielding and soft taking its place.
She pulls a small, cesious orb out of the pocket of her dress—his dress, he notices with surprise; it glimmers brightly in the light of the room—luminous, sparkling, and ominous.
Harry walks towards him, opening her palm for him to take it.
Except at the very last moment she jerks it away.
He looks up, furious, to see a mutinous expression of complete resolve looking back at him. "Just tell me this, Tom," she holds it aloft, just out of reach. "Is this prophecy…" and here her determination wavers, belying her fear.
She falters slightly. "Is this prophecy the reason why you murdered my parents?"
The question catches him in comprehensive surprise, even though it really shouldn't have.
And what is he to say to this? Once again, how is he supposed to tell her that the blue sphere in her hand is accountable for the tragedy that is her life?
"Yes," he answers, quietly, for there is nothing else he can say. A horrible sadness blooms in her eyes. "Harry—"
But he is interrupted.
The room and the fighting has fallen still as a blinding presence announces itself across the death chamber: Albus Dumbledore himself strolls out of a brilliant white light, the Order of the Phoenix spreading out in his wake.
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.
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"Professor Dumbledore…" Harry feels her heart seize for the second time this day.
What is she even doing here? What possessed her to do something to foolish? Tom is right—it's as if whatever self-preservations she's learned from living with him has completely deserted her, leaving only her headstrong, impulsive Gryffindor bravery in its place. She should have never tried to get the prophecy herself—she'd thought she was the only one who could, because only the person mentioned in the prophecy can touch it—but she should have known that Voldemort would not have kept her uninformed if that was truly the case. He knew all along that his name was on it too.
His eyes turn towards her, and she feels caught in the gaze, heart shuddering to a halt, all the blood in her veins freezing all at once.
"Dumbledore," Voldemort drawls, high and cold.
She whirls around at the sound of his voice, but finds he has moved away from her, prowling into the center of the room.
"Have you come to rescue your precious Savior?"
Harry's eyes flicker towards Dumbledore, who looks upon her with a quiet observance, and Voldemort, who spares her a cold look of disregard, before turning his attention back to Dumbledore. She feels a sting of hurt at the look of it; so unfeeling and dismissive, as if she was nothing but a tedious fly. It makes her grow angry, actually; why is he doing this? But she is thinking as a Gryffindor, and Lord Voldemort is anything but. He is a Slytherin; they are cunning, sly—always manipulating the situation towards their own benefit.
He is disassociating himself from her, treating her as he would treat Harry Potter, the girl who lived, a girl he wants to see eradicated from the earth. He looks upon her as if she's the enemy.
Her breath stills in her throat.
He's giving her a way out. A way to stay neutral through this conflict. Even though she is still quite mad at him—not to mention completely distrustful, considering he's been hiding a prophecy with both their names on it—a warmth grows in her chest at the thought.
"Harry, my dear girl," Dumbledore turns to her, ignoring the Dark Lord's taunting hiss, a pleasant smile upon his lips. "Are you alright?"
Harry regards him warily. "Yes," she nods, barely above a whisper.
His smile grows. "I am glad to hear it."
"Enough of this," Voldemort drawls, re-claiming Dumbledore' attention with a powerful display of magic; a grandiloquent fiery dragon erupts from his wand, seizing the air in a white hot heat as it dives for the Order members.
"I feel it's time I rid the world of your irritating presence, Dumbledore."
Harry covers her eyes, unable to watch—unable to make up her mind, her feelings, or even move her feet.
"It was foolish of you to come here tonight. The Aurors are on their way—"
"By which time I shall be gone," he interrupts. "And you, dead!"
If she had thought it chaotic before—it is utterly cataclysmic now. The barrage of spells from both the Death Eaters and the Order continue to streak through the air, but now they are accompanied by the most astounding clash of magic she's ever seen; the Dark Lord and Albus Dumbledore light the air with a power so strong it licks against her skin like waves of electricity. She doesn't know where to look; who to worry about, who to help. She is split in two, unable (and unwilling) to make the choice.
The thrumming power she has always felt with every touch, coiled beneath his skin like a restless beast—it burns through both matter and energy; a starless strength in a physical force. It is unlike anything she has ever seen, taking her breath away. For the very first time, she can see why so many people flocked to this man, following him unerringly, enchanted by this magnificent strength. But how could they not? So violent and captivating, much like the man who wields it.
It's clear to see they're evenly matched. For every catastrophic display of magic, Dumbledore has a response, gliding across the floor, shooting spell after spell; quiescent, but just as tremendous. They circle each other so leisurely, as if the magic they make is not utterly unbelievable.
It's over all too soon.
Two clashing streams of light exploding into each other, draping the ground in dripping sparkles of red and green. It twists violently like vicious lightning, before it snaps uncontrollably and grounds itself—almost directly next to her. She yelps, jumping out of the way before she can die from a simultaneous killing curse and expelliarmus.
The two look at her in matching looks of total horror, their identical expressions almost funny, if she was in the mood to think anything at all was funny. Dumbledore and Voldemort identical in anything was ridiculous.
They are not the only two who witnessed her near-death.
Sirius rips out of the chaos, fear and terror so prevalent on his face. He barrels straight to her, wrapping her in his arms with a force that chokes the breath out of her. He looks worse for wear; though he escaped death unscathed twice now, he still looks terrible.
"Oh sweet Merlin, Harry," He breathes, holding her even tighter, cradling her head as if it would break. "You almost—…Harry," He sobs.
"Sirius," she pats his back, a bit awkwardly with this angle. "It's okay. I'm okay."
"You could have died!" He shakes her. "Hell, you could have died at least a dozen times already!" He looks around wildly. "I need to get you out of here—there has to be a way—
"Get me out of—" She blinks, rapidly. "Sirius, I don't need to—
He ignores her. "The Order can cover for us," he mutters, more to himself than anything else. "We can probably reach the floo network from here."
He hauls her across the room, even as she drags her feet, struggling as much as humanly possible without resorting to hitting him in the face and running off. "Harry, stop being stubborn! This isn't the place for you… you're going to get hurt. There's already been too many close calls—but we'll get you safe, don't you worry!"
"Sirius!" She snaps, "Stop trying to dictate my life for a second, please."
Predictably, he completely disregards everything she says.
She loves him, she really does—he's her godfather, practically the only family she's got left. But by Merlin does he love to tell her what to do. Just like everyone else in the Order (and the world at large), he assumes he knows what's best for her. More absurd; even Voldemort doesn't do that. Well, he lets her make her own decisions, but then tells her exactly why they're stupid so she doesn't do them anyway.
"Sirius!"
Again, he ignores her and continues his trek to the other side of the chamber, even as she flails impotently in his grip.
"No," she whispers, as Sirius tugs her insistently, dragging her towards Dumbledore, towards the Order.
Away from Tom.
"No!"
She wrenches out of his grip, for the second time that day.
He looks at her, bewildered, uncomprehending. "What are you doing?" He shouts, impatiently. "Harry—hurry!" He holds a hand out to her.
She doesn't take it.
Sirius stares at her, unmoving, shock and confusion written across his face. "Harry…" But she only shakes her head, clearly unwilling to return to him.
His reaching hands slowly, almost mechanically, return to his sides. Harry backs away slowly, never once taking her eyes off his despondent form. The disbelief, the pain—the inevitable realization of what this means—she sees it all. It hurts just as much as she thought it would; she doesn't even want to see the expressions of all the other Order members, of everyone she's betraying. The commotion has incurred the attention of almost everyone in the room.
It is a crushing, sorrowful pain that paralyzes each and every nerve in her body, as if even her blood has slowed to a halt.
But it would be nothing in comparison to what she would feel if she had done the opposite. If she had betrayed Voldemort instead.
She couldn't—she couldn't go against her own soul. That doesn't mean she wants to see the glinting satisfaction and triumph in his eyes, either. But when she turns away from them, turns towards him, there is nothing of the sort. He looks… regretful, almost. Which is ridiculous. Lord Voldemort doesn't regret anything, just as he never apologizes, or admits wrong. And yet, there is certainly at least an acknowledgement of her grief in his eyes.
It flickers away just as quickly as it appeared, replaced, unsurprisingly, by a reveling look of vindication.
"Come here, Harry," he commands, ever so softly, and yet his voice rings loud and demanding in the unending silence.
She obeys.
Her feet take her to him, so close that he can trail a languid hand and place it atop her head, petting her indulgently like a particularly well-behaved pet. She doesn't even care. Let him play whatever cruel games he likes, she doesn't want to be a part of the convoluted, antagonistic relationship that exists between Voldemort and Dumbledore. His hand slides into her hair, drawing her closer. Harry goes willingly, until her face is buried in the fabric of his robes.
"Surprised, Dumbledore?" He drawls, supreme and vindictive.
"Very much so," replies Dumbledore, with considerably less heat than she imagined. If anything, he sounds rather cheerful.
"What will you do now, I wonder?" Voldemort's words are high and soft, but carry like a heavy weight in the still, silent air. "How will you defeat the Dark Lord without your beloved Savior?"
She doesn't have to see him to know he's smiling. "Oh, I'm sure there are other ways."
She can feel Voldemort's pensiveness, his annoyance when Dumbledore refuses to rise to the bait. Even this does absolutely nothing to douse the utter triumph in his veins, the satisfaction he gains from seeing the Order of the Phoenix look so pained and conflicted, from watching his sweet little Harry make her choice—choosing him above all else, walking into his arms willingly.
He runs long, elegant fingers through her hair. "Yet you put so much stock in a useless prophecy; put all your hopes on a little girl to vanquish the Dark Lord. It's all so very… touching. A hero to rise above and save the world for you—why bother to fight yourself, when there is someone to do it for you?"
"You have put just as much stock in it as I," Dumbledore points out.
Voldemort ignores him. "I think it rather meaningless now though, don't you?"
"Well," replies Dumbledore cheerfully. "I suppose there's only one way to find out, no?"
Voldemort tenses, grabbing her almost painfully, raising his wand to defend from whatever Dumbledore has in store—
But it's not directed towards him.
Something burns in her pocket, and then begins to fight it's way out of the fabric of her dress. It tears away from her before she can stop it, soaring into the air; an insignificant, diminutive light tossed high above.
Voldemort casts his own spell, and the sphere stops, caught in an invisible battle of magic.
Harry is not paying any of this attention, irrationally more concerned over the state of her dress than the war for the prophecy. She breaths a sigh of relief when she sees that it hadn't ripped through the flimsy lemon-colored linen.
Something hurtles to the ground and shatters with a loud crash. All at once the room grows still and cold; as if all the air had been replaced with ice.
Harry turns around; slow, fearful, and hoping against all reason that what happened isn't what she thinks happened.
It is.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies," Intones a weirdly familiar voice. She doesn't know why, but the sound of it makes her want to kick something.
"And the Dark Lord will mark them as his equal, but they will have the power the Dark Lord knows not,"
Voldemort holds her tightly, expression cold and unreadable, but he holds her impossibly close, belying his trepidation.
"Tom," she whispers, almost inaudible, gripping his just as tightly as his alarm makes hers grown tenfold. "Tom—
"And either must die at the hand of the other…"
She chokes.
" For neither can live while the other survives…"
Almost absently does she finally realize where she's heard this voice before; in a smoky, almost unbearably hot room at the top of castle.
"… the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies."
But of course it's Trelawney, is the only coherent thought she can pull together. It would be that stupid old bint of a woman who completely ruins the entirety of her life. It's so funny it's tragic.
Her ghostly voice disappears in wavering smoke, and with it the unmoving silence. Volemort roars furiously, tearing away from her, and the world erupts once more into chaotic violence, his anger channeling into the most magnificent, horrifying magic she's ever seen.
She might even think it beautiful, had she the capacity to think at all.
How many times is her life going to go wrong? Is it just that the universe hates her? Is she not allowed to be happy—not even once? Trelawney continues on in her head, an infinite loop of destruction, and around it are graceful fingers brushing against her hair, warm skin, the almost intangible touch of lips brushing against her forehead.
Wetness rolls down her cheeks, silent, as if entirely of their own volition.
She wills herself to stop crying, but is completely incapable of it.
She is so still and quiet; the calm calamity at the center of the destruction around her. Soundless bones, drowning at the hollow remains of her chest, collapsing inwards from skin to soul. Streaks of green light, the same color of her eyes, dart across the room, leaving sparkling reflections upon the marble that hold her indifferent gaze; a fair form of mouldering vacancy.
The whole chamber seems to shake apart with the force of Voldemort's fury. Not even Dumbledore can negate its effects completely, the very walls themselves beginning to collapse, splintered by a great, terrible power. The Death Eaters rally behind him, and the Order matches every spell blasted their way, even as they retreat upon themselves. They might actually even be losing, but she can't bring herself to care.
She doesn't know why it is in this moment that the Dark Lord looks up, and catches sight of her—why now, when he has his greatest enemy on the retreat, the Order members withdrawing with him, with Dumbledore's death a very feasible outcome.
He catches her wide, frightened gaze. As always, his infinite rage cools at the very sight of her—trembling, broken, tears streaming down her face. She backs away from him, from all of them, from all of it; removing herself from everything. Her shaking hands trail up to her throat, where she clasps then tightly around—
A necklace.
"Home," she sobs, in a shaking whisper. "I want to go home."
.
.
.
18.
The curtains are clasped shut, and the lights are off. The room is submerged in an unending, profound darkness.
Harry likes it likes this.
She wants to lie in here forever; maybe even die here.
But I can't even do that, can I? She thinks, bitterly. Either must die at the hands of the other.
Tears have spotted her pillow, but she is numb to them as they stream down her face. Her heart has been torn out of her chest, collected off the Ministry floor but lost somewhere that she cannot follow, like when her pens roll off the table into what seems like a pocket universe. This brings forth hysterical, sorrowful laughter. It would be so much simpler if she could throw her heart into another space in time. If she couldn't feel anything at all.
If she couldn't feel anything for him.
She stiffens involuntarily; something effervescent blossoms in the bottom of her chest, though she refuses to acknowledge it. A stinging pain that is not hers blisters against her ribs. She refuses to acknowledge that too.
"Harry," he says, soft, from the other side of the door.
His voice carries towards her, so quiet and gentle—but how can something so gentle come from something so terrible?
"Harry," that's more like it. There is a bite of command in his sharp tone.
It's not locked. Not because she couldn't, but because she knew it would be useless anyway. As if an alohomora could possibly stop him.
"No," her voice is just as soft, but stricken with sorrow and thick with tears. "please… just leave me alone."
She wants to be alone. She wants to be alone in here forever, if only to escape the reality outside.
To her great surprise he does. His presence dwindles, until she cannot feel him any longer. He's still in the mansion somewhere, but he has—for all intent purposes—left her alone. Good. Her eyes slip closed, but the tears don't stop. They absolutely refuse to, no matter what she tries, only stopping when she finally succumbs to exhaustion and falls asleep.
.
.
.
He is there when she wakes up.
Harry is not all that surprised to see him there, perched upon the side of her bed, an imitation from what seems like a lifetime ago. She doesn't want to look at him; the brief vulnerability in his eyes that seizes at her foolish heart.
She wants to hate him, but that is utterly impossible, so instead she closes her eyes again, and tries to pretend he isn't there.
This works about as well as she imagined it to.
After a moment she opens them again, blinking up at him with an unreadable expression. Why can she no longer see him as a horrid monster from her deepest nightmares? Why is it not the lethal crimson of his eyes that she sees, but the conflicted, unguarded silver, that flickers in his gaze? There is no monster in front of her: there is an adolescent boy with tears streaming down his face, staring sightlessly at the lifeless form of his father; that same boy, ignored so conclusively by his peers; a form beside her, sweet lips upon her temple when he thinks she's asleep; an intimate, absent hand on the small of her back.
And then she is flinging herself at him faster than he can move to stop her.
The dark lord catches her weight, startled, staring down into the haphazard mess of cinerous hair, the arms that wrap around him, as if he is the only thing to anchor upon in this world.
"I can't," she sobs, completely incomprehensible and also insensible, "I don't want to—… I don't... " Her sobs grow uncontrollable, as do her tears. "I can't," she mumbles, over and over again.
If possible, she clings tighter.
This is quite possibly the most horrifying situation he has ever been in. How does one comfort a young girl? How does one comfort, at all? He has never had the misfortune of needing to learn, and is at a loss as to what he's supposed to do. Does he scold her? No, that doesn't sound right. Soothe her, then? But what could he possibly say? Is he supposed to hug her back? But he doesn't even know how to do that, either. She quiets eventually, to his unending relief, though she does not loosen her grip.
Harry refuses to look up—or remove herself from the dark lord, for that matter. He is as still as stone beneath her, but this does not deter her from burying into his robes, hiding in the curve of his shoulder. And when she feels him move to pull away she holds tighter, dragging him down with her until they're lying on the bed. He stiffens in shock, but she does not look up.
"Please don't leave me," she whispers, against all reason. As if he isn't utterly incapable of it, anyway.
There is a moment, then he relaxes again.
"I won't," he replies, but it is so quiet that perhaps she imagined it.
She finally releases him from her unrelenting grip, though she still trembles in his arms. The silence between them is unending, a gossamer veil that breaks them apart. It's after long moments of this that she finds her voice.
"It's not true… right?" She murmurs into his chest, still hiding there. He debates pulling her away.
He sighs, deciding it's probably better for both of them to just let her be. "I think you already know the answer to that."
Her hands tighten in the folds of his cloak; pale pink lost in the sea of blackness.
"I don't want it to be true," she denies.
Almost unwillingly does his hand find its way into her phosphorescent hair. He doesn't want it to be true, either. His endless anger has left him, though, leaving him somber and hollow.
He has no comfort to give her: no words to reassure her.
"Then don't," he finds himself saying, after long, sunlit silence has passed between them.
Her fingers hold fast against him.
"A prophecy is only as true as you let it be."
They clench tighter. "Oh? You mean as true as you let it be?"
"Harry…"
Her voice shakes. "Why did you have to do it, Tom?"
This is, undeniably, the last conversation he wants to have with her. Her words incense him; a stinging pain bites into his chest and a reflexive anger overtakes it. "Would you have done any different in my place?" He bites out, acidulous.
"I wouldn't kill anyone!" She refutes, vehement.
"Even at the cost of yourself?" He presses, voice rising without his consent.
Harry pushes away from him, burning, livid eyes fixed angrily upon him. "No! I would find another way—there's always another way!"
"There were no other ways!" He hisses, furious. "It was prophesized. What was I to do? Allow the possibility of my death to come to pass?"
"Why would you believe it in the first place?" She yells back at him.
"I was not thinking of its validity!" He shouts back. "Only of its premonition! I could not allow such a potential enemy to exist!"
She flinches back. A nebulous ache emerges in his chest when he catches sight of her expression; profound sadness.
"Is that what I am?" She whispers, desolate, "An enemy?"
Of course not. This is absurdly and remarkably untrue. She is so far from that it's laughable. Not that you would be able to tell from her expression, the utter desolation sifting upon her face.
"No," he sighs, deflating. "Of course not. How could you possibly think that?"
"What am I supposed to think?" She retorts, luminous eyes looking lost.
He stares upon her, an indeterminable feeling swelling inside him. There is a cataclysmic shine to her eyes that denotes the horrifying prospect of more tears; an unmoving portrait of sadness, endless upon her face.
"You are the keeper of my soul," he whispers, stoic and fearful. "There is nothing more dear to me than you."
The lacinated expression breaks, giving way to lament and regret. The afflicted warmth in her eyes is not an answer.
But it is enough.
The unfathomable child returns to him, folding in against him, tiny hands skimming down his arms. She grabs his in an intimate, familiar gesture; lining their palms up until all their fingers touch. A stark contrast: lissome fingers stretched against him, so delicate and fragile. His own, much larger—it would take absolutely nothing to crush them. It would take absolutely nothing to crush her.
He doesn't. He indulges her, as she looks upon them with such deep fixation, threading her fingers into his own.
After long moments, her great eyes turn away from their hands, buried back into his cloak.
"Why did you use the killing curse?" She mumbles, finally. "You could have just thrown me out a window, you know."
He pauses. This is true.
Had he done that, he would have been saved from the great headache that is Harry Potter. The prophecy would have been useless anyway. A simple future would spread before him; the perfect path to world domination. But then it occurs to him that, if the prophecy had never existed, if he had never heard those first lines, if he had never came to the Potter's house that Hollow's Eve—had he killed her through physical means… she would not be here right now. And it is with great surprise that he realizes he wouldn't give this up. Had he the choice to change this fate, he would not. He would not lose her.
The thought is utterly terrifying.
Against all reason, he finds an unwilling smile quirk into existence, "Fortunately," he replies, "I was not half as clever as you are."
Her eyes reveal themselves from their hiding spot in his robes, blinking up at him, wide and bright in an otherwise unsubstantial world. He can feel the smile against his chest.
"That's not true," she murmurs, soft and facile, "you are far more clever than I am."
"You can solve every crossword in the Prophet in under ten minutes," she adds, and a laugh of surprise is drawn out of him.
"That is not at all indicative of intelligence," he remarks, amused. Her face emerges from the vermillion mane of hair, smiling with a brilliance that brings him great relief, welcome and unexpected.
"Well, I'm sure there are other things you do that are," she amends, and a warm hand trails up towards his face.
This is not one of them, he thinks, when she touches his lips with great hesitation, as if scared he might somehow, against all reason, still have the strength to push her away. If he was truly that clever, he would have frozen her in a block of magical ice or kept her immobile in a tower under the draught of living death. She is his infinite weakness, in every single capacity, yet he cannot find it in him to hate her for this.
And when he pins her down, and she reaches for him, eager and insistent, he knows that, even if he truly was that clever, he would never give this up.
.
.
.
He still cannot come to terms with how easily she falls asleep in his presence—how unguarded she is, whenever he is around. He has no delusions about himself; since he was a mere child people knew to be apprehensive of him, wary, cautious. Even then they knew he was dangerous, that he was something not to be trusted. That there was something treacherous that clung to his very being.
Yet this enchanting creature dozes against him as if this is the most logical thing to do in the world.
He thinks again that it would be all too easy to crush her, to destroy this lilting little piece of life, as it breathes in opalescence, carried into dreams. So vulnerable, so bare to him.
Instead, a wayward hand reaches up to brush away a drift of hair, a glowing chrome line skimming down the side of her face. His starless, atramentous soul does not deserve such a lovely tenant, just as he does not deserve every breathtaking, effervescent smile that wanders his way.
