In the stillness of the night, a hooded figure treaded silently down the trail. Across the trail, he could see the illumination of the lights within the home. It seemed to beckon him. A sort of instinctual voice told him that he had arrived at his destination. His cloak parted as he drew his wand. He stood silently, his head tilted up as he observed the occupants of the house. It was clear that the woman's husband was up and about. But he had no desire to kill him.
After all, he only did as he was told.
He knocked on the oak-natured door. A startled cry came from within. But he didn't care. He was invisible to all but himself. As the door slammed ajar, a thin, brown-haired man greeted him, his face contorted with confusion. But Harry, seizing the chance, cast a silent Stunning Charm. He caught the man before he reached the ground. He glanced around quickly for any more occupants before he shut the door and entered. A voice in his head was telling him that the woman was upstairs.
Removing the Invincibility Cloak, he flicked his wand to extinguish the light. Tucking his Cloak in his pocket, he treaded upstairs. He felt as if he was gliding. He felt as if he was freed. Freed from restrictions. Free from boundaries. Free from the cages that the light had built for him. There was no stopping him.
The Dark Lord awaits.
Up and up, he travelled. Various clothes were tossed against the rails of the stairs. Obstacles, mainly clattered boxes and tools, met him on the way. But he didn't care. He was only here for one task. Reaching the landing, the voice beckoned him to the end of the hallway. His wand aloft at his side, he walked across and stopped. As his hand touched the knob, he noticed that the door was locked. But there was no stopping. He must complete his task.
The Dark Lord awaits.
Lifting his hand, he cast a blasting charm on the door. Pieces of wood shattered across the room as he entered. He heard a hysterical cry from within.
He knew that he had arrived.
"W-What a-are y-you doing?" exclaimed a female voice. He noticed that she had tugged her comforter over herself, as if shielding herself. "W-Who a-are you?"
He nearly snorted.
"A friend," he replied simply, stepping into the room.
He flicked his wand, and her own wand came zooming towards him. It was a necessary precaution to him. But she looked terrified. She shuffled near the headboard of the bed, screaming. Flailing like a child just out of their mother's womb. Funny how her life begun that way.
Funny how it would end that way.
"P-please don't h-hurt m-me," she begged as the young man approached her. They were almost at arm's length of each other. "P-please. I'll d-do a-anything."
"I won't hurt you," he said softly.
To his amusement, she looked almost relieved. But he reached up to point a wand at her forehead and tilted his head.
"Dying doesn't hurt," he said, a curl in his lip.
The last thing she saw were the vivid red eyes of the young man before she collapsed against the headboard. Sprawled like a ragdoll on the bed.
"Harry!" a voice shouted, shaking the young man's shoulders. "Harry!"
"No!" Harry gasped, jolting from his hunched position at his desk. His breathing was coming out as pants. He felt a nauseous feeling clawing at his insides. He almost felt like retching, but he swallowed it back painfully.
"You all right, son?" asked a concerned voice.
Dazedly, Harry snapped his head up to meet the beetle-like eyes of Barnabas. Suddenly, his wits returned to him. He was back at Grimmauld's place. He must have fallen asleep at his study. He looked around and found clusters of wrinkled parchments – mostly of the Daily Prophet – littered across his desk. He had been looking for homes overseas when he had apparently fallen asleep.
"Yeah," he said distractedly. He used the sleeve of his ropes to wipe the sweat off of his face. "Yeah, I'm fine."
Barnabas didn't look convinced.
"You look like you've seen Death, son," he said, laying a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Hadley's told me you haven't been sleeping well. Why not try a Dreamless Potion for a change?"
Harry blanched. He certainly didn't need anymore sleep.
"No, I'm fine. Just a bad dream."
He tried to ignore the piercing gaze of the man. He distracted himself by rummaging through the various parchments, quills, and Daily Prophet articles on his desk. His hazy mind trying to deduce if he had actually accomplished anything last night.
But Barnabas saw right through him.
"Blimey, Harry," he said sternly. "You haven't been stressing yourself about sending us off, have you? You know that we're willing to risk staying here longer if only for your own good health, right?"
Harry grew irritated. His lack of sleep was slowly affecting his temper.
"I dunno if I ever considered myself having good health," he said dryly. "But thanks for the thought."
He certainly didn't need anyone worrying over him. Quite frankly, after the events of his dream, he didn't deserve any sympathy at all. Frustrated, he stood up and walked past the elderly man without another glance. He had almost reached the door when Barnabas stopped him.
"How long has it been since you've eaten anything?" he asked, his eyes narrowed. As if he already knew the answer.
"Why does it matter?" Harry retorted.
"Merlin's beard, Harry," he exclaimed. "You've been harping down our throats for not caring for ourselves, but you've been shunning your own advice. What's gotten into you?"
"Nothing. I've always been like this, if you've cared to notice," Harry said darkly.
"So you admit you've been neglecting yourself?"
"Would you believe me if I lied?"
Barnabas pursed his lips.
"You're certainly acting your age," he said darkly.
Harry whipped around.
"Yeah. Well, quit pestering me if you want to keep your wits, then," Harry snapped. A part of him knew that the man only wanted to help him. But today . . .? Couldn't he have chosen a better time?
To his surprise, Barnabas sighed. He took the chair that Harry had been sitting on and looked down at his feet.
"I'm not questioning your wits, son," he said wearily. If Harry would have been in a normal state of mind, he would almost have felt guilty for his outburst. "I'm just saying that you should watch over yourself. You might not understand this, but do you know how guilty we feel knowing that you're risking so much for us to be here? We feel indebted to you, Harry –"
This time, Harry truly felt guilty.
"I never asked –"
"I know you didn't," he affirmed softly. "which makes us feel even worse. You think we don't know what you've been going through? You think we haven't noticed the scars that you took for each of us? We're forever in your debt, Harry. And the last thing we want is for you to starve yourself," he lowered his voice. "You might not notice it. But you're killing yourself, son."
Harry shot him a weary look.
It was true. He was killing himself. Not intentionally, of course. But for every victim that he had killed, he starved himself for weeks on end without an ounce of regret. He had also grown a habit of sleeping as little as possible. He often kept himself awake for three or four days in a row. Even with Dreamless Potion, he didn't trust himself to sleep. He feared reliving all those moments when he had robbed the lives of his victims. Just the thought of it all made him feel like retching.
He honestly didn't know how he was still alive.
Often, the others around him, mostly the prisoners, had to remind him to eat or sleep. It was almost a battle of will to keep him alive. Every-time he ate something, the thought of his victims made him feel like throwing it all up. When he slept, he felt like needles were piercing his forehead. They haunted his dreams. But if there were others that needed him . . .well . . .
Might as well stay for them, right?
"Sorry," he muttered, his eyes averted. "I just haven't been . . ." Haven't been well? Haven't been paying attention? His voice trailed off.
Barnabas understood. He stood up and approached Harry.
"Say no more," he said firmly, clapping the younger man on the shoulder.
Harry gave him a weak smile.
He watched as the man exited the study. He glanced around once more at the messy study. Someday it will get cleaned, he thought grimly. He sighed and exited the room. He reckoned that he ought to get himself cleaned up before he joined them for dinner. He treaded to the end of the corridor, up the stairs, and into what was originally his godfather's room.
With the help of Kreacher, Harry had tidied the room up and had even added his own flair to the room. The room was no longer dim and grey but soft periwinkle from the sheets of the bed to the walls around it. Opaque curtains fluttered across the open windows, which allowed the frosty winter air to sweep across the room. Dim candles and fluffy clouds floated along the ceilings. The room radiated an air of calmness and peace that Harry himself had always wished for.
Despite all of his work, however, Harry never actually used the room. In fact, he never even stayed the night in Grimmauld's Place. He didn't want to let Voldemort know that he was here.
With a weary sigh, he turned and rummaged through the drawers for a fresh set of clothes. He tossed them over his shoulders and turned to the left of the room where the suite was. He reckoned a long shower would wash away the dirty feeling that he had gotten from his dream earlier. Swallowing back painfully, he shut the door behind him.
He made a point of avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he got into the shower. Over the years, he had grown to hate himself. To hate everything he stood for. To hate that blasted scar on his forehead. To hate even his own vivid green eyes. It reminded him so much of that Curse. The Curse that had snuffed out the lives of his victims. The Curse that made him feel like tearing his hair apart – lock by lock.
How could he have done this? Though Harry hated the man with every fiber of his being, Voldemort was right. He had let himself get influenced. He had let Voldemort get to him. He had listened to the voice in his head. He had done exactly what Voldemort had told him. Without thought. Without regret. Without a single hint of hesitance. The worst part of it was that he was conscious of it all, which meant that he could have stopped Voldemort. He could have intervened.
But he didn't. He couldn't.
He didn't understand. What was stopping him from intervening? His possessions were almost like a nightmare. Like looking through his own eyes, but just letting it all happen. Letting someone else take control of his hands. Letting someone else take control of his feet. And just watching, unable to do anything . . . All he could do was accept that it was beyond his control. Beyond his own free will.
But if he was letting Voldemort in his mind, wasn't he basically condoning his own actions? Wasn't he basically an affiliate of the crime?
He had lost count of how many victims he had killed.
Clenching his teeth, he exited the shower and threw on his robes. Everyday was a burden – a trial for him to keep moving forward. He couldn't live like this. He couldn't bear to see another person killed because of him. If it hadn't been for the prisoners, he probably would have fled long ago. But even if he did flee, Voldemort could possess him at any time, any place until he returned. In a way, it was good that Voldemort locked him away in the dungeons. He couldn't hurt anyone there.
But there were people that needed him. There were millions of people to save.
As he exited the suite, he wondered if good deeds erased the bad ones. Was it fair that he would be judged for his crimes instead of his good actions? Was it fair that he would be forgiven for saving more people than he had hurt?
Stop, he thought firmly.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He then approached the tall, thin mirror next to the drawer and studied his reflection. He certainly didn't look like a prisoner. Though he had grown a habit of not eating well, he looked relatively healthy. He was still thin as a rail, but certainly not scrawny. There were deep bags under his eyes, a worried furrow across his brow. His eyes were dim and haunted. His scar on his cheek spanned across his face to his earlobe. His hair was even messier than usual, though a bit damp from the shower.
Slightly annoyed, he waved his hand and dried his hair. He then tried to flatten it. But the effort, as always, was futile. As he studied himself, he noticed a tiny, blurry figure at the right edge of the mirror.
He raised a brow.
"Should I pretend you're not here?"
He couldn't quite distinguish her expression. He didn't know where his glasses were. He was still blind. But he could've sworn her eyes widened. She stepped into the room with a guilty expression on her face.
"Sorry," Freya whispered.
Harry studied her through the mirror for a moment before he turned to scan the room for his glasses. He found them on the sink in the bathroom. They were rather foggy from the shower. He cleaned them with his robes before he entered the bedroom only to find her sitting on the bed, her eyes studying her feet.
As he approached, she looked up.
"You've got a letter," she stated, holding up the said parchment. Harry placed his glasses on his nose. "An owl came by while we were having dinner. It's for you."
Harry frowned.
"Really?" he asked. Who would bother contacting him? "What for?"
She shrugged.
"I dunno," she said, swinging her feet. Harry frowned and sat onto the bed beside her. "I didn't open it."
She looked fit to burst. Harry had never seen her so excited. It was clear that she wanted to say something to him. Harry took the letter from her with a suspicious stare.
Finally, unable to contain her excitement, she said.
"Harry?"
"Hmm?"
"Can I have an owl?"
Harry shot her an annoyed look.
"No."
"Oh, come on," she begged, leaning against his arm. Harry resisted the urge to tug it back. He feared that she might stop his blood flow. "Why not? I've never had an owl."
He ripped open the parchment.
"You'd kill the poor thing. Just like how you're killing my arm."
She looked outraged. Instead of removing her hands, she only tightened her grip.
"I would never!" she said indignantly. "I'll be really gentle, I promise."
He shot her a look.
"Really making a point of showing it, aren't you?"
She pouted.
"You're mean."
"No. I'm gentle."
Freya huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. Despite himself, Harry smirked. He turned to study the parchment. To his surprise, he discovered that it was from Dudley. There wasn't a lot of information. He was just asking how Harry was doing and inviting him for a visit today. But Harry frowned at the last statement.
"Dress smartly?" he said bemusedly. Curious, Freya peeked over his shoulder. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Freya looked up at him.
"Who's Dudley?" she asked curiously.
Harry grimaced. He tossed the parchment on the bed, stood up and sighed.
"My cousin," he said simply.
"You've got a cousin?" she gaped, her hazel eyes wide. She was staring at him with amazement. Harry, however, tried to ignore the heat on his face as he rummaged through his drawers for Muggle clothes.
"I know. Strange, isn't it?" he asked dryly.
Of course. Harry with a family? The abandoned orphan actually had a family? Even he sometimes found it hard to believe. It was bound to leave others gobsmacked.
Freya blinked. She stood up and walked towards Harry, who was making his way to the bathroom to change.
"No, it's just –" she bit her lip. Harry stopped at the door and looked down at her with a raised brow. "Can I meet him?"
Harry glared.
"No," he declared, slamming the door shut.
He heard an annoyed huff from the young girl and rolled his eyes. The lack of sleep was really getting to him. He was losing quite a lot of patience lately.
"Why are you being so mean today?" she snapped, her voice muffled behind the door. Finished, Harry emerged, now wearing a black jumper and dark brown trousers.
"I'm not," he retorted, walking past her towards the cabinet. "You're just being sensitive." There, he tugged a wool, black coat that reached around his hips out of its hanger. He shrugged it on and buttoned it up.
"See? You're doing it again."
Harry sighed. He decided that it was best to be frank.
"I didn't have enough sleep, okay?"
Freya crossed her arms.
"You never have enough sleep."
Harry scowled.
He whipped around to meet her eyes. "You're being real cheeky today, aren't you?"
"I didn't have enough sleep, okay?" she retorted, her lips pouting.
Despite himself, Harry gave her an impressed look. Sighing, he approached the young girl and knelt down to meet her eyes.
"You know why I can't take you," he said seriously.
He felt rather guilty for lashing out at her. Regardless, he was quite impressed that she had stood her ground against him.
Her eyes averted.
"It's for our own good," she mumbled, a furrow in her brow. It was clear that she was not happy with being locked up in the house. "I know," she huffed. "But it doesn't make it any easier."
"No, it doesn't," he replied, his tone solemn, "But you've got company, haven't you? And besides, as soon as I find you a new home, you won't be locked up in here anymore. You'll be outside. Maybe with a family of your own. Isn't that you've always wanted?"
Freya pursued her lips. Her downcast eyes glistened.
"Well, yes – but," her voice shook slightly. Harry strained his ears to hear her next statement. "Can't we stay here with you?"
Harry's heart sank. He almost felt like kicking himself for lashing out at her earlier. He had been so engrossed in his own misery that he had completely ignored her own.
"No," he shook his head. "It's dangerous here –"
"But why –?"
"Because I'm here," he said sternly.
She frowned.
"You'd never hurt us," she said softly.
His eyes averted.
"I could," he said quietly. "They're after me, Freya. They're going to be looking me, and I can't have you all getting in the way."
"But we haven't been caught –" she protested.
"I'm not risking it," he said firmly. "It's not safe here. You're better off elsewhere," he tried to smile at the sight of her tears. "And besides, you wouldn't want to live with a mean bloke like me, would you?'
She smiled weakly and shook her head.
"I'm too gentle for you," she said seriously.
For the first time in months, Harry chuckled.
"Right you are," he nodded and pulled her into an embrace. Would be lying to himself if he said that he wanted them to leave?
"Does that mean I get an owl?" she asked, her voice muffled by his coat. Harry drew her back and pinned her with an unimpressed stare.
He gave her a long stare before he sighed.
"I'll consider it," he said begrudgingly. A part of him felt like he had been blackmailed. Voldemort's manipulations was nothing compared to the smaller kids.
She grinned.
"Thanks, Harry," she smiled before running across the room. Harry sighed and stood up. He had been looking for a scarf through his hangers before she peeked her head back in, "Hadley wants to know if you'll be joining us for dinner."
Harry finally found his scarf. A knitted red scarf that he wrapped around his neck.
He shook his head.
"I don't think so," he said, exiting the room. He turned to shut the door. "Tell her for me I'll be having dinner elsewhere tonight."
He was quite certain that Dudley would invite him in for dinner. He always made sure to offer his guests as much food as possible during their visits.
Freya nodded.
"Right."
And she was off.
Harry followed her downstairs, albeit at a slower pace. He reached the corridor and opened a nearby closet for his boots. They were ankle-length brown boots that seemed appropriate for the winter weather. Finally, he shut the door and peeked his head into the kitchen. There, he saw that all four guests were sitting around the dinner table with the house elf hovering beside them. They seemed to be having a rather animated discussion, which pleased him nonetheless. At least they were moving on from their troubles, even though they had all lost their families.
Sighing, he turned to walk out of the home, trying to stifle the shivers that he had gotten from the cold air. Even though almost every inch of him was covered, except for his hands and his face, he had trouble adjusting to the cold air. He wondered if it was the consequences of not caring for himself for too long.
Descending the four steps of the porch, he passed the ends of the Fidelius Charm and treaded down the streets. When he had first learned of his inheritance, Harry had been startled to discover that his cousin actually lived very close to Grimmauld's Place. In fact, Harry had met Dudley while he had been walking along the streets with his soon-to-be wife. Ever since the death of his parents, Dudley had toned down on his aggressiveness and had even matured faster now that he was alone. Harry had actually been startled when Dudley invited him in for a visit. Despite their rusty childhood, Dudley seemed to have fixed himself. He had even invited Harry in for his wedding. But Harry had been unable to attend it since Voldemort had wanted him that day.
That was the day that another victim had fallen.
Shaking his head, Harry finally reached the end of the street where a small, grey house stood. The grass was trimmed and clean in the front. The garden beds looked stiff and cared for, not unlike the garden beds that Harry's Aunt Petunia had been so fond of. Grimacing at the memory, Harry approached the house. He nearly cried out loud when a dog, with a thick chain around its neck, barked loudly and snarled at him. It bared its teeth and growled as if he was a prey of some sort. Harry, however, was not surprised to see that Dudley had gotten such an aggressive animal.
"Mangy mutt," he muttered, shooting a glare at the dog. But the latter simply barked loudly in return.
He turned to knock on the door. From his place, Harry could hear the clinks of plates and silverware. He could even hear the faint sound of the television. There were also several voices talking in a muffled tone. But before he could dwell on the matter, he blinked dumbly as the door slammed open. Suddenly, something small collided against his legs.
"Uncle Harry!" exclaimed a young voice.
Yes. Harry was an uncle.
Harry looked down only to find Dudley's daughter clinging to his legs. She had all of her father's features, his blonde hair and blue eyes. But her physique was different. Even at four years old, she was quite small and petite for someone her age.
"'Lo, Daisy," said Harry, leaning down to extract her from his legs.
But before he could blink, she reached up to seize his glasses and tried to bolt when he caught her in his arms.
"Lemme go!" she giggled, wrestling against his grip. "Lemme go, Uncle Harry, or I'm telling Daddy."
He raised a brow.
"Tell him what?" he challenged, lifting her up in his arms. "Tell him you're being a bad daughter?"
"No, you're a bad Uncle!"
"Go on, then," he said, outstretching a palm. "Give me back my glasses."
Instead of giving it back, however, she simply placed it on her own nose and flashed him a mischievous smile. Despite himself, he couldn't bring himself to get angry at her. Instead, he sighed and shook his head.
Once again, he reminded himself to never to have children.
"Daisy!" barked a female voice from the inside. "Who is it, Daisy? How many times must we warn you never open the door to strangers?"
Harry felt the young girl stiffen. Frowning, he took his glasses, placed her down on the ground as she raced inside.
"It's no stranger, Aunt Marge. It's Uncle Harry."
Harry gaped.
Aunt Marge?
Aunt Marge was here? That was the last person he wanted to meet. No way was he going in there.
"Harry?" demanded an astonished voice from the inside. "Harry, who?"
He had just turned on his heels to make a furtive escape when the young girl came back, seized him with an alarming strength about her, and dragged her reluctant uncle inside where the living room was. Harry caught a glimpse of a large, greying woman sprawled on an armchair beside the fireplace with a comforter draped around her.
He struggled to suppress a grimace.
"Hello," he said weakly.
Her eyes widened.
"You!" she barked, a nasty snarl on her face. "Potter, is it? Quite a shame, honestly, that I remember your name," despite himself, Harry couldn't help but agree. "What with all the nasty business you've been about with your kind. You've got some nerve showing up here, boy!"
"He's here on my account," said a male voice.
Harry looked up and found his cousin, Dudley, standing against the doorway. If appearance was a sign of relatedness, then Harry and Dudley would never be related. Unlike Harry's thin figure, Dudley's figure was tall, large, and muscular. His hair was blonde and neat, in contrast to Harry's messy dark hair. His eyes, which were giving Aunt Marge a warning look, were bright and blue whereas Harry's eyes were green and dim. He certainly seemed to radiate an aura of authority and wisdom which he had gained from fatherhood.
"We're leaving now," said Dudley sternly. Harry suppressed a sigh of relief. "We'll be back before evening. Watch over Daisy for me, will you?"
Aunt Marge looked startled.
"W-why, of course," she stammered, beckoning the young girl towards her. "Anything for you, dear." Harry met Dudley's eyes, took the hint, and nearly scrambled out the door.
Closing the door, Dudley turned to Harry with an appraising look. His eyes lingered on his cousin's bags under his eyes, the scar on his cheek, and, if possible, his even more scruffy hair.
"You look like Hell, mate," he finally declared, a crinkle near his eyes.
Harry grimaced.
"Thanks, Dud," he said dryly. "Real subtle."
"Don't mention it."
Together, they descended down the three steps of the front porch and proceeded down the sidewalk. Harry turned to scan the houses, his eyes lingering on the children playing outside of their homes. It was strange to see people outside, especially in the midst of a war. Most people, particularly wizards, hid inside and rarely let their children out. But this neighborhood was considerably carefree, with little to no care about the darkness that lingered about. Not to mention, it was very different from the stiff and strict Privet Drive that Harry and Dudley had lived in for so long.
Harry shook his head and turned to Dudley.
"What exactly am I here for?"
Dudley shot him an exasperated look.
"Always straight to the point, aren't you?"
"I don't like to mess around."
"It's not like you've got anything going for you."
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Harry shot back. He almost felt insulted. If only Dudley knew what he was going through.
Dudley looked genuinely surprised. "Really? Finally found yourself a girl, then?"
Harry shook his head, his face flushed.
"I haven't got time for girls, Dudley."
"What's new?"
Harry glared.
"What was it that your friends used to call you again?" he taunted. He was satisfied by the red flush that crossed his cousin's features.
"Shut up, Harry!" Dudley shouted, whipping around to meet his cousin with a fist. Harry leaned away. "I didn't beef myself up for nothing, you know."
Harry straightened.
"Yeah, well," Harry muttered begrudgingly. "Where I'm from, size isn't everything."
He knew that Dudley didn't like to talk about magic. But he was a man. He couldn't just let Dudley step on his pride like that. Sure, he was thin. Sure, his fist was the size of a Knut. But it didn't mean that he couldn't send Dudley crashing through the streets with the flick of his wand.
"I could snap that stick of yours, and you'll be nothing," Dudley threatened, his muscles clenched under his shirt. As if daring his cousin to challenge him.
Harry blinked.
"Fair enough," Harry muttered. Then, he added softly. "Big D."
"Shut up!"
Harry snickered.
Though they didn't have the most friendly conversations, Harry still appreciated the distraction that accompanied Dudley. Though it annoyed him to no end that Dudley refused to discuss magic, it made Harry feel a little more normal. It made him forget about the stigma that he had come to associate with magic – the crimes that he had committed. Not to mention, almost no one ever recognized him in the Muggle world. Those that did would never believe that they had just met Harry Potter. They would simply gape at him, comment on how he looked so much like Harry Potter, and walk away.
Suddenly, a thought crossed Harry. He shot Dudley a furtive glance.
"Say, Dudley," he began, trying to sound casual. "You wouldn't happen to know about that family I used to live with, do you?"
Dudley frowned.
"You mean the ones you met at school? I thought you still lived with them."
Harry's heart skipped a beat.
Smooth, Potter!
"St. Grogory's, d'you mean?"
"No, the other one," Dudley said, frowning. His eyes darkened slightly. "What was it? Hoggy-what's it?"
Harry's lips suddenly felt dry.
"Hogwarts?" he asked weakly. He dearly hoped that it wasn't the case.
"Yeah, that's the one," Dudley nodded, his eyes narrowed his eyes. But Harry felt as if he had lost all of his blood. "You met them at school. Or one of their kids, I s'pose."
Harry cleared his throat.
"They wouldn't happen to have . . . red hair, do they?"
Say no, he thought desperately. Please say no.
"Yeah, the whole lot of them," said Dudley simply. Though his jaw clenched at the reminder of the last time that he had seen the family. "I remember they showed up in the fireplace. And once, they broke you out of your bedroom with some sort of a flying car. Mum and Dad were . . ."
But his voice trailed off at the mention of his parents.
"Nevermind," he said sternly, shaking his blonde head. He turned to his cousin. "Harry?"
But he startled when he looked around for his missing companion. His cousin had stopped dead in his tracks. Harry stood, frozen in place. His green eyes wide behind his glasses, his head bowed, his fists clenched at his sides.
So, it was true? Everything that Weasley had said. He truly had lived with a family. He had truly had friends. He had truly attended a school named Hogwarts. This was proof that Voldemort had erased his memories. But why? Why would he? What did he hope to gain from it? What exactly had Harry done in his teenage years that made Voldemort feel so threatened?
But did any of it matter? Even if he had spent enough time with the Weasleys, even if they had considered him to be their son . . . He was still a criminal. Sooner or later, they would find out that he was not innocent. They would find out about his crimes. Just like Ron Weasley, that night in the Ministry. He hadn't denied it. They would want him arrested. They would want him punished.
"Harry," said a wary voice. "You all right, Harry?" Harry snapped his head to meet Dudley's eyes, his face pale and solemn. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," he replied, his voice distant. He reached up to tug his glasses up his nose and gestured Dudley to keep walking.
"You sure you're all right?" Dudley asked in concern, meeting his cousin's pace. Harry gave him a warning glare not to push it. But Dudley shrugged. "You're hopeless."
Harry grimaced.
"You've no idea how true that is."
"Yeah. Well, you don't actually make a point in denying it."
"Fair enough," Harry muttered. It was rare for him to accept defeat. But, quite frankly, he didn't even know who he was at the moment. He decided to let it slide for now. "So how are you?"
"Trying to weasel your way out of it?"
"I'm trying to be nice," said Harry indignantly.
Dudley snickered.
Finally, they arrived at the row of shops at the edge of the neighborhood. Harry looked around and found some sellers giving out hot chocolate to customers. Several children whipped past them, their parents panting closely behind them. Several people, mostly men twice Harry's size, waved and punched affectionately at Dudley. Harry wondered if he would blow away if they so much as breathed on him.
"Well," Dudley interjected, a slight bite in his tone. "If you count divorce as anything memorable. Then, yeah. I've been good."
Harry blinked.
"She ditched you?" asked Harry.
He had met Dudley's wife. She had seemed decent enough to him, but he guessed that he shouldn't have judged her too soon.
"I ditched her," he corrected, his voice thoughtful. Not the least bit bitter, which prompted Harry's suspicions. "Caught her cheating with another bloke. You'd think with a kid on our hands, she'd actually try for a bit of decency." He shook his head.
Harry gave him a solemn look.
"Sorry to hear that," he said seriously.
And he meant it. Sure, he had been taking the mickey out of Dudley all day. But he still sympathized with him. Though he had never experienced it, divorce was not something to be taken lightly.
"Don't be," Dudley shook his head. "Happened a month ago. Left me the girl. Didn't care much for a goodbye. I'm over it, anyway."
Harry stayed silent. He didn't know what to say. He was inexperienced with relationships. He had never bothered himself with one. It wasn't that no one interested him (though it was hard for him to find interest in anyone), he still lived with Voldemort. He didn't think it was wise to drag anyone with his troubles. Not to mention, his dark side often kept him too preoccupied with his thoughts – his guilt, to even begin to consider anyone else.
Not to mention, he was still a prisoner. He hardly knew anyone.
"In here," said Dudley, startling Harry out of his thoughts.
He was holding the door of a restaurant open. Harry frowned, muttered a small 'thanks' and stepped in. As soon as he entered, he was greeted with the delicious smell of pasty and bacon that, quite strangely, seemed to boost his appetite. There were several seats and couches tucked along the walls. It seemed to have a yellow, warm glow that gave it sort of a peaceful air to it.
Harry raised an eyebrow and glanced at Dudley.
"Dinner, really?" Harry said dryly. Dudley looked sheepish. "Is there something you want to say to me?"
Harry puffed when Dudley elbowed him roughly. He felt as if his breath had been knocked out of him.
"I'll have more to say to you if you don't shut your trap," Dudley threatened. Harry simply shot him a glare and rubbed at his side. Irresistibly, he wondered if a simple poke in the side by Dudley would break Harry's ribs.
Deciding that he didn't want to know, he followed Dudley to a quiet corner of the room. To his relief, no one seemed to be gaping at him or even paying attention to him at all. He simply blended in with the people. But soon, they sat down and ordered their meal. And for the first time in days, Harry really did eat this time. He tried to avoid the impression that he was starving by biting into his meal slowly, but the effort actually proved difficult. He didn't have that nauseous feeling this time. He was too distracted by his surroundings and by what Dudley was saying that he actually forgot about his crimes–and or even all of Magic–for once.
Harry actually found himself feeling grateful to his cousin.
But soon, Dudley fell silent. And Harry shifted his attention to the people around him. But he certainly didn't miss the furtive looks that Dudley was throwing at him.
"Hey, Harry," Dudley began, a little too casually in Harry's opinion. Harry merely looked at him from above the rim of his coffee mug. "Anyone ever caught your interest?"
Harry resisted the urge to spit out his coffee. He dearly hoped that Dudley wasn't going to steer the conversation into that direction.
He swallowed difficulty.
"Er–what?"
"You know, like . . ." said Dudley, waving a hand distractedly. Something was off about him. He looked too nervous to Harry. "Ever had, you know, stirrings for someone . . .?"
Harry blinked.
"Stirrings?" he asked, befuddled. He placed his mug down on the table. "You mean–like . . . feelings?"
"Yeah. Sort of like that."
Harry was gobsmacked. What the Hell was Dudley on about? Since when did he care about Harry's love life, anyway?
"Er–no," Harry said slowly, feeling the heat rising to his cheeks. He tugged at his coat nervously, "Why d'you ask?"
"Well, you see that girl over there?" asked Dudley, pointing towards the corner of the room. Harry followed his finger and squinted into the distance.
"Which one?"
"The attractive one."
Harry squinted and tried to suppress an alarmed look. The only women that lingered in that corner were a bunch of elderly ladies with shawls around their head. The youngest one looked around fifty years, at least. Surely Dudley had better taste than that?
At least, Harry hoped so.
"Er–the one by the window?"
Dudley exhaled in frustration.
"No. The waitress, you dolt."
"What about her?"
"Well, don't you think she's attractive?"
Harry stared at the woman. She was slightly plump and round around the hip area. She had curled brown hair that fell to her shoulders and large blue eyes smeared heavily with make-up. Her dress seemed deliberately tight around her chest, and she was laughing and slapping the shoulders of the men around her. She seemed a little too flirty in Harry's opinion.
But what caught Harry's attention was not her features or even her hour-glass figure. It was the large, hairy mole that looked about the size of a Snitch just below her lips. It looked a giant fur-ball that, not what a cat would spit out, but rather choke on instead. If Harry could spot it from across the room, then it was definitely big.
"Er–I s'pose," Harry said weakly, trying to shake the image of the mole from his head. He turned to narrow his eyes at Dudley. "Why?"
"Oh, nothing," Dudley said offhandedly.
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"You don't fancy her, do you?"
"Well–Actually, I–I'm sort of–"
"Besotted?" Harry asked dully.
"Besotted?" Dudley sputtered. "No, of course not!" Harry gave him a bored look. Dudley sighed and said grudgingly. "Oh, all right. Damn you."
"Well, are you going to pounce or what?"
"Well, that's just it. You see–"
But as Dudley stuttered over his words, everything suddenly clicked. Harry finally realized why Dudley was acting so strangely. Why he suddenly had interest in Harry's love life. Why he was asking such awkward questions. Furious, Harry leaned forward on the table and resisted the urge to blast Dudley into the next century.
"You didn't invite me in here for a little bonding session, did you?" he hissed in a dangerously low tone.
Dudley looked sheepish. He leaned away from Harry.
"No, I didn't–"
"A little 'get-together, Harry'–"
"Hear me out–"
"I should've known better–"
"Are you finished?"
Harry shot him a death glare.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't just leave you here right now."
"Oh, come on. Pity a man, won't you?"
Harry glared.
"I find that quite hard at the moment."
"I'll make it up to you, I swear," Dudley pleaded.
"I'm not acting as your wingman!" Harry said hotly, earning strange looks from the people around him.
But he didn't care. He felt blackmailed. He felt cheated. He should've known that Dudley did not call him out here out of the goodness of his heart. He should've known that he was being stepped on.
"Oh, come on. You're smooth, aren't you? You can talk to women better than I can."
Harry looked outraged.
"I wasn't the one in a relationship!"
Dudley shot him an exasperated look.
"At least you were never in one," he emphasized, rolling his eyes. "I lost one. That's twice as worse," Harry shook his head. "Come on, Harry. Just this once. For old times sake."
Harry shot him a withering look.
"One time. That's it."
Dudley grinned.
"Thanks, Harry," he slammed the money on the table and stood up. He crossed the table and dragged his cousin by the elbow. "Let's go."
Harry blinked. He jerked his arm from beneath his grip.
"Why can't we just call her here?" he demanded, feeling rather annoyed.
"We're men, you idiot. We'll meet her there."
Harry looked bewildered. But Dudley grabbed the back of his coat and steered him through the crowds. Harry almost felt like if he was part of a dog-show, his glasses slipping from his nose. He tried to stall the meeting with his heels, but Dudley shoved him roughly into the spotlight. As they arrived, Dudley let him go. Irritated, Harry shoved his glasses up his nose, straightened his coat, and shot Dudley a fierce glare.
Dudley, too, shot him a warning glare.
Harry blinked at the sight of the whole table of men that had fallen silent. The ruckus that Harry and Dudley had caused had apparently attracted their attention. The woman, too, seemed confused.
"Excuse me, Madam Hilmey," Dudley began, a bold grin on his face. Harry almost resented him for it. "You don't mind a quick word, d'you?"
The woman blinked.
"All right, then," she shrugged, a small smirk at her lips.
She winked slyly at the men before she accompanied the two cousins away from the table. Once again, Dudley shoved Harry in line as they neared a relatively empty corner. Harry honestly didn't know why Dudley insisted on his company. He was doing fine without him.
But then, he wasn't quite sure about that thought anymore as the woman turned to them with a bored look.
"Well?" she asked haughtily. "What've you got for me, champs?"
Harry grimaced.
"Well," Dudley flushed under her piercing stare. He tried to shrug it off with a smile. "How about we start by introducing each other? I'm Dudley," she scanned him with a bored look on her face. "And this is my cousin, Harry." He gestured to his companion.
"Hello," said Harry weakly.
He didn't even bother to look at her. His gaze was fixed on the setting sun outside. He just wanted them to hook up so he could leave.
But the woman froze. Her eyes widened dramatically at Dudley's companion.
"Cousin, eh?" she breathed. Her eyes lingered pointedly on Harry's scruffy hair and his rather smart look. Harry, feeling tension in the air, gave her a wary look. But as soon as she met his eyes, she exclaimed. "Great Scott!"
She shoved Dudley aside rather roughly and took his spot. Harry was suddenly overwhelmed by a strong whiff of perfume that almost made him feel like choking, as she leaned towards him – a little too close, in his opinion.
"And what is a fetching young man such as yourself doing in these corners, hmm?" she said slyly, a hand at her hip.
He gaped.
Fetching?
Him?
"Excuse me?" he sputtered, leaning away from her.
He tried hard not to stare too long at her mole. But with a mole that large, it was almost impossible to avoid it. But what the Hell was going on, anyway? She wasn't supposed to be attracted to him! She was supposed to be attracted to Dudley.
She giggled – rather annoyingly in Harry's opinion.
"You don't get around much, d'you? You must be new around here."
From above her curled brown-hair, Harry watched helplessly as Dudley stormed out of the shop.
"No, I haven't–" he stammered, trying desperately to escape.
"I can show you around, if you know what I mean," she winked, pinning him to a corner.
Harry tried to lean away as the woman stepped too close to him. She almost leaning against his chest. But all he could see from her were the frizzy hairs poking out of that giant mole of hers. It was like a fly had died there and decomposed on her chin. He struggled to suppress a disgusted look.
"I'm sorry – what?" said Harry, feeling slightly harassed. Then, he stated firmly. "I'm not interest –"
"Friday night, then?"
Harry gaped at her.
Was this woman stupid?
"No!" he barked, shoving her away roughly. "Look, I've got to go. My cousin–" Without glancing back, he scrambled to the door.
"See you, then," she shouted after him.
Harry threw a dirty glare before he left.
"Dudley!" Harry shouted into the open, shoving aside the crowd. "Dudley! Oh, bloody Hell."
Several onlookers glanced at him before shaking their heads. Harry was suddenly left feeling very foolish. Frustrated, he shook his head and thrust his hands in his pockets, cursing profusely under his breath. Every-time he tried to do something good, it backfired miserably.
"Bloody women!" he muttered, quietly fuming as he walked. "They should have bloody tentacles in place of their arms. That would explain why they're so bloody clingy."
He earned quite a few strange looks. He even received distasteful stares from his opposite gender – well, those that caught what he was talking about, at least. But Harry didn't care. Give him a spell, and he'd understand it. Give him a dragon, he'd get along with it. But give him a bloody girl, and he was left boggled.
What was it about girls that made them so–difficult?
And as if he didn't have enough on his mind without that thick-headed woman making it worse. He had been on good terms with his cousin for almost seven years. But he wondered anxiously if he had just lost it all. Just because of a stupid misunderstanding.
Now, not only did he have Voldemort to worry about, and the prisoners, and the Weasleys, and his victims, and even his own bloody life, but he also had to worry about how to regain Dudley's trust again.
"Great," he muttered. "Just what I needed. More stress, as if I haven't already got enough to deal with. Well done, Harry."
But as Harry looked for an empty corner to Apparate, he noticed a burnt and isolated shop sandwiched between two other shop. He back-tracked and looked around to see if anyone had noticed the shop at all. To his surprise, no seemed to care about it. In fact, no even glanced at it. Not the people passing, nor the people standing next to it. Frowning, he glanced at the shop where his reflection showed on the glass before shrugging and walking away.
But as he walked away, he glanced back again. Something seemed odd about the shop. Not only about the reaction of the people, but Harry could feel something–a sort of energy–vibrating from it.
No, he thought firmly. He was not going near it.
He turned to walk away. Then, he glanced back again. Then, he shook his head and walked away again. But then, he turned back again. Then, he walked away again. Then, he growled in frustration and turned back. It was like a devil and an angel were sitting on his shoulders, arguing endlessly in his head.
I shouldn't.
But I should!
I've got enough on my plate already.
It won't hurt to try.
Curiosity is not a sin!
No, but the consequences of it can be.
What's the worst that can happen?
Anything can happen.
"Oh, damn it all," he muttered, marching over to the shop. He glanced around to see if anyone was following him before he entered.
And besides, he had been through worse.
As soon as he stepped in, he was greeted with a burnt remains of what previously looked a bustling shop. Black spots outlined the lopsided bookshelves along the walls as well as the counter. The chairs behind the counter were overturned, some missing legs. Broken glass from the overturned lamplights fanned the tiled floor. Harry could even smell the ashes and remains of the room as if it had been burnt yesterday.
"Can it be? The famous Harry Potter," hissed a voice. Harry startled and looked around. "You've got quite the reputation, haven't you, Potter? Up here."
Harry looked up and found a black-haired man wearing spectacles sprawled along a cracked pillar on the ceiling. He looked transparent. Harry could see the outlines of the ceiling above him from right through him. But the man seemed to be looking at Harry with a hungry gleam in his grey eyes, his chin resting casually on his hand.
Harry frowned.
"You know who I am?"
The man smirked. He tossed himself backwards and let himself float to the bottom, his robes fanning around him as if he was some sort of bat.
"Oh, after your fiasco in the Ministry," the man began, his voice mocking. "I dare say, there is not a wizard alive that doesn't know who you are. Books about you have returned to the shelves. Newspapers, articles, journals!–all discuss the return of the famous Harry Potter. You're quite the legend, Potter. With more backbone than the entire Wizarding World combined. Of course, you don't like to bask in that glory, do you, Potter?"
"Not really," said Harry coldly.
"No? But imagine it," said the man, his eyes glassy from lust. "The glory - the riches! – that you would gain from writing your story. A dead man's dream! Think of the gold that follows after. You'd be remembered as an extraordinary wizard, you know. One of the greatest after Dumbledore. Think all of the tales and adventures that you've been through. Dragons, Basilisks, Merpeople. Enough content to make a poor man rich! Think of all the fame that you'll receive."
But Harry was growing annoyed by the minute. Not only was the man so engrossed in his material worth, but he was getting nothing from being here. And the last thing he needed was an autobiography that, instead of mitigating the stares that he got from being Harry Potter, would only elevate it. As if he needed more fame. He couldn't even step into the Wizarding world at all anymore because of it.
Fame was the last thing he needed.
Harry had enough.
"No, thanks," said Harry coolly. "I think I've got enough fame to keep my head inflated." He had just turned on his heels to exit the shop when the man's next statement halted him in his tracks.
"Nice locket you've got there, Potter."
Harry stilled, his hand hovering an inch above the door handle. Pursing his lips, he turned to the man. The latter was sprawled against the counter, his hand tucked behind his head. Looking, for all intents and purposes, quite bored.
"Must've cost you a fortune," the man hummed, eyes glued on the webbed ceiling. "Quite unfortunate, isn't it? That it's a fake."
"How did you–?"
"Caught your attention, didn't I, Potter?" spat the man, hovering an inch over the floor. "But perhaps you should resume where you left off?"
Harry swallowed his irritation. But instead of leaving like the man implied, he stepped on his pride, stepped further into the room, and shot the man an expected look.
"I'm listening."
The man grinned.
"You've got cheek, Potter. I like it."
But Harry had enough. No more distractions. "How d'you know about the locket?" he asked brusquely. He fixed the man with a steel gaze in his eyes.
"Oh, I don't know anything about the locket," he replied, admiring his fingers. "What I do know, however, is its original owner."
But the man did not elaborate. Instead, he twirled idly in the air, as if bored by the conversation. Harry wondered if the man was deliberately stalling for the sake of being dramatic.
Harry raised a brow.
"And?"
"Ever caught a fish, Potter?"
Harry blinked.
"What?'
"Answering a question with a question?" sighed the man. "What is a circle without an end?"
"Are you winding me up?"
The man smirked.
"Touch the walls, Potter," he said, gliding towards the walls.
Harry offered him a suspicious stare but complied. To his surprise, the room shifted and brightened until its burnt and shabby form disappeared. In its place, stood a tidy room, with several bookshelves along the counter, jagged and webbed ceilings that seemed oddly fitting for such a place, and several lamplights perched along the corners that illuminated what was previously a dark room.
"Not unlike a fish in water," breathed the man, staring wistfully across the room. "it latches onto whatever offers it sustenance, whatever offers it benefit–whilst disregarding the consequences of the hook attached. Do you understand now?"
Harry scowled.
"No."
"Perhaps a hint, then?" he asked idly, sitting cross-legged on a nearby chair. "The original owner of that locket, Potter, and the cause for this shift was an employee at Borgin and Burkes. Oh, lay aside your prejudice, Potter," he snapped when Harry gave him a dark look. "Borgin and Burkes did not always suffer from the stigma of being associated with Dark Magic. It was once a bustling shop, made for ordinary witches or wizards. It was originally designed to sell antiques–jewelry, house decorations, and several harmless items. That is, until that day when a charming young lad offered to work here."
"So . . ." Harry said slowly. "You're saying–?"
"–that this is the Muggle adjacent to Borgin and Burkes," the man nodded. "Makes sense, doesn't it? With Diagon Alley right around the corner."
"Then, the man that worked here before–?"
" –was the man responsible for its demolishment," he nodded. "Quite astute, Potter."
Harry narrowed his eyes, studying the man.
"And you're here because–?"
"You called me here."
Harry looked surprised.
"I did?"
"Oh, yes," said the man, amused. His robes draped around him as he floated. "Funny, isn't it? How we often forget our remarkable ability to forget things."
Absentmindedly, Harry approached a spinning Spindle and tried to lay a finger on it to stop it. To his surprise, he found that his hand passed right through it.
He withdrew his hand.
"Are you a ghost?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the object.
"A memory," the man replied wistfully. "Left to wander aimlessly–like litter on the streets. To the passive observor, I am but an empty room. But to the knowledgeable man, I am but a lonely shop owner–left to fill in the emptiness of the abandoned shops."
"Why are you here, then?" asked Harry. "Haven't you found other places? Why are you here in the Muggle world?"
"Confused, aren't you, Potter?" taunted the man, his hands tucked behind his head. "Perhaps you should consult your other self regarding the matter. I dare say, he knows me better than a doe knows her fawn."
Harry flinched.
"What self?"
"Denial," he said idly, waving a hand offhandedly. "Blatant disregard for the truth. Shame, isn't it? I expected better from the Chosen One."
"What are you on about?" he asked, his heart racing. "I'm . . . me, aren't I?"
"Oho," chortled the man, whipping past Harry. "You'd love that, wouldn't you, Potter?"
"What do you mean?"
The man smirked. "Perhaps that locket of yours might jog your memory, if you pardon my expression. The original owner of it, that is."
Harry touched the part of his chest where the locket was buried beneath his scarf.
"The Heir of Slytherin?"
"Ah, there's the silver lining. Go on, Potter."
Harry's eyes drifted across the room, his mind racked with thought. "Then, the man that worked here before . . .?" he said slowly. "Was he . . . Tom Riddle?"
The man glided. His feet to the ceiling.
"You've got a sharp mind, Potter," the man gave him an upside down impressed look. "Must be why Dumbledore holds you in such high regards. Still does, actually. Much to the dismay of your counterpart."
Harry frowned.
"You think there's something that lives inside of me?" he asked uneasily.
"What I think?" scoffed the man, gliding upright again. "No, Potter. It is not the matter of what I think, but what you already know."
"I don't understand."
The man hummed. "How do you know that name, Potter?"
Harry frowned, his gaze drifting to the aloft window. Where had he heard of Tom Riddle? Sure, he knew the name. But he didn't how he knew it.
"I don't know," he replied honestly.
The man narrowed his eyes. "You don't know?"
"It's hard to explain," said Harry defensively.
"Is it? Have you ever heard of it, Potter?"
"No."
"Ever read it anywhere?"
"No."
"Then, surely you don't know. But he certainly does."
Harry blanched.
"Who?"
"The one who has called me here tonight," he breathed, his eyes gleaming behind his spectacles. "The echo of his memory."
"You're part of Voldemort's memories?"
The man flinched.
"Don't say that name!" he hissed.
Harry ignored him. His mouth felt like rubber. "So, you're here because . . ." said Harry slowly, his voice distant. "he's a part of me?"
The man smirked.
"Caught on, have you? Took you long enough."
Harry's gaze drifted along the room. His eyes stilled at the books that were shuffling into place onto the shelf in front of him. It was not as surprising to him that Voldemort had lived inside of him. Voldemort had often made that very clear in his long, drawn out discussions. Harry often never acknowledged it, though a part of him was aware of it. But even the thought of it all made him feel very nauseous.
"Then . . ." he said, frowning. "am I inside of his memories?"
"Well, yes . . ." he said idly. "and no."
"Explain."
"It is rather like a Pensive, but different still. But instead of watching the memory, one can actually participate in it. Not unlike how Portraits work. It is not the person themselves that you are speaking to. But rather, an echo of themselves. An echo of their core – their essence."
Harry frowned. "Would I find you in other shops as well? The empty ones, I mean."
"Well, not me, per se," he said dully, gliding over the chair behind him. "But rather, the other owners of the shop. And it must meet the requirements."
"Which is?"
"It must be cursed, Potter. What happened here in the past was a devastating tragedy. A tragedy that seared the flesh off a man's back. A tragedy which I, quite unfortunately, condoned."
"You led him here? Tom Riddle, that is."
"Unknowingly? Yes. But perhaps you have already made your judgement about me? No? You see, Potter, how easy it is to stir a man? How easy it is to get influenced? How charming youths, such as Tom Riddle, easily swayed the hearts of countless of witches and wizards? Hardworking. Polite. Fresh out of school. Fresh out of youth. You might ask me, did I see the shift in the young lad? Did I, perhaps, detect a hint of insincerity–a hint of menace at all–in the young boy? Perhaps I did. But I denied it, Potter. I was deluded by his sharp appearance and his rather remarkable intelligence. Who could've imagined what would ultimately become of the boy?"
"What happened to him? What changed?"
"Changed? Oh, no. He was not a changed man, Potter. There was nothing that came later that wasn't already there before. Darkness was his essence–his core. It was always a part of him. But even I was foolish enough to ignore it. When the day came, when he came to me regarding a certain 'spell' that he promised would 'help the shop,' as he eloquently phrased it, I let him in. I gave him full reign over it. And I, too, suffered the consequences."
"What was it?"
"It was Dark Magic. The type that skins the flesh off your bones. It causes the victim's bones and organs to crush against each other, rather like being smashed under concrete. I was informed by dubious sources later that he had invented the spell himself. That day was a test trail of some sorts."
"They all died here? Including you?"
"Oh, yes. Rather unfortunate circumstances, aren't they? Of course, you would know better anyone how cruel life can be. Quite frankly, Potter, I'm quite startled by the fact that you're still standing upright after all this time. What with all you've been through, a common man would've caved under the pressure. Perhaps that reason alone is why Dumbledore prizes you above all others. His Golden Boy, as they say."
Harry's eyes darkened.
"Dumbledore would never accept what I've done. If he did, he'd doubt me, too."
"Doubt you?" he replied, astonished. He peeked his head out from over the shelf. "Dumbledore? Surely not. As far as I can hear from the shop down in Diagon Alley, Dumbledore was one of the few whose faith in you never wavered. In fact, after your fiasco in the Ministry, his faith, if possible, renewed. If anything, it is you that is doubting his faith. I hear he defended you in the Ministry–"
"It's all an act," Harry interjected bitterly. "He only needs me to do his biddings," then, he clenched his fists and whispered. "He never cared for me."
The man frowned.
"Whatever ill-will you harbor against the man is between you and him. But you should seek Dumbledore's guidance, Potter. You don't realize it, but you are losing yourself. Mark my words, if you don't do something about this, you will find yourself in the same sticky end as the young lad that robbed my life. It is either your sanity or your morality, Potter."
"Well, I would've if they would answer my bloody letters," Harry said furiously. "I've tried sending them owls. They've never come back."
"Perhaps you are killing them."
Harry froze.
"What?" he breathed.
"Not willingly, of course," the man waved distractedly. "There is a part of you that cannot bear to betray your Master, is that right?"
"He's not my Master," Harry snapped. "I don't give a damn about–"
"Raising your voice does not validate your claim, Potter," he interjected stiffly, gliding around the younger man.
Harry suddenly had an insane desire to hurt the man. To lash out. To wrap his hands around the man's throat. His vision became blurry, and his chest swelled. Lucky that the man was transparent. If not, Harry would have probably done it.
"I'm sure I would know if I was killing them," said Harry angrily. "It's not like I wake up every night with a ball of feathers over my head."
The man elevated himself slightly. He stared at Harry from beneath his nose.
"Perhaps you are erasing your memories."
Harry snapped. "Why would I?"
The man's lips curled. He glided backwards away from Harry.
"Precisely, Potter. Why would you?" he halted, leaning arrogantly against a pillar, observing Harry like he was his guinea pig. "Perhaps you simply fear the consequences of it. Perhaps you fear your other self. Perhaps you fear your own actions. And instead of confronting it, which any noble person would've done, you simply erased it. After all, you must have a lot to deal with, haven't you? Why add more to your plate?"
Harry was trembling with fury. He was slowly losing control of himself.
"You would know, wouldn't you?" he hissed, his eyes flashing dangerously. "You seem to know me better than I know myself."
The man waved his hand offhandedly. "Oh, everyone knows you better than you know yourself," he then shot Harry a serious look. "You are lost, Potter."
"And that gives you the right to make claims about me?"
"Ah, so you admit you are lost?"
"Would you believe me if I lied?"
The man frowned. He glided directly in front of Harry and looked at him dead in the eyes.
"Time is of the essence, Potter," he said in a low voice. "We've only been given a limited time to make our decisions. To grow as individuals. To learn from our mistakes. It is a trial – a test, to see how you will develop as an individual. You started off in a good path, but now you are treading a dangerous path. A far more sinister path. Mark my words, Potter, seek Dumbledore's guidance before it is too late."
And like that, the man disappeared and the room returned to its burnt and shabby form. Harry stood for a long moment, frozen in place in the room. He didn't know how long he stood there. But despite his irritation with the man, his words rang in his ear like funeral bells.
He knew, though he tried to deny it, that every word that the man had said was true.
A/N: I had too much fun with this chapter. Harry is so hopeless. Oh, and you can't get enough sarcasm. The man's identity will be cleared up in later chapters, so stay tuned.
Enjoy.