Chapter Twenty Five

So. This was drab as hell to write. Either because I'm burning out or because being stuck in Harry's depressed mindset is taking its toll on me. Or both. Sorry that this chapter took forever (forever = one week) to come out. Tch.

On the morning of the 10th of January, Harry finally managed to talk some sense into himself. It was about time, too, as the hearing was to be held in a few hours' time.

As of the past week, he had been successful in his feat to avoid human interaction. Tom's constant absence made it easy. Harry wasn't sure where the Head Boy was spending his time but thought that it was likely the library to study. No matter the pickle that Harry and Hermione had gotten themselves into, the N.E.W.T.s year would continue its steady march forwards.

Earlier that morning, Slughorn had nervously delivered Harry a message from the Headmaster regarding the procedure of the hearing.

After the charge is read out, wrote Dippet, you will plead not guilty. The prosecution will then open its case and all evidence will be examined. Next, the defence will open its case. Likewise, all witnesses on your side will be examined. You should be aware that Elijah Jenkins and Axel Renshaw will also be present. They have been questioned within the past few days by Albus Dumbledore and proven Rowan Poole's claims that he was involved in your torture to be true. There is only a slim likelihood that you will be found guilty, but despite that, stay alert. Good luck.

So Dippet believed that he should plead not guilty. Staring grimly down at the message, Harry wondered whether he should do the opposite of that.

But upon further consideration, he decided that that would do nothing but draw suspicion into Hermione's court as well, and she would likely be convicted as his accomplice. That couldn't be allowed.

Why did they have to be attached by the hip in this case? It wasn't fair for her, an innocent bystander.

Balling up the parchment, Harry hurled it across the room and earned little satisfaction when it gently bounced off the wall.

For a few long moments he glared at the crumpled letter on the ground, channelling all his fury, hatred, anguish at that little heap. It abruptly burst into livid red flames. This did bring him some satisfaction, but it hardly lasted long. It was almost immediately overwhelmed by a tidal wave of despair.

Harry swept across the room and stamped out the fire with his foot.

There were only three hours left to prepare for the hearing, so he paid a visit to the bathroom for the first time in a week. He would probably have a better chance of emerging not guilty from the trial if he looked half sane.

But as he evaluated himself in the mirror, he didn't look sane at all – instead, he probably could have passed as a corpse. With a grimace, Harry turned the shower on, cranking it up to the highest temperature so that he could at least regain feeling in his fingers and toes.

Beneath the scalding water, he scrubbed his scalp clean of oil, washed away dried tracks of sweat and tears on his skin. It was like peeling away a layer of himself which he had once been.

Upon emerging from the shower, Harry felt somewhat more alive, his skin flushed and his eyes sharper.

But his hair.

When it was wet and falling into his eyes, he could tell that it was long, easily long enough to be tied back. It made him look young, pretty. Innocent. How disgraceful.

Sneering at himself, Harry picked up his wand from beside the sink and held out a lock of hair with his other hand. "Diffindo."

The snippet of hair curled up when it was severed from his head, as if coiling painfully into the fetal position before its death. Harry let it go, watched it float down into the sink.

Then he continued. "Diffindo. Diffindo. Diffindo."

Gradually the sink filled up with black curls of hair, until finally Harry paused, looking back at his reflection to evaluate his handiwork.

His hair was now very short at the back and sides, but he had maintained a long enough fringe at the front, only to conceal his jagged scar. At least he no longer looked quite so innocent.

Wrapping his towel around his waist and knotting it in place, Harry left the bathroom to find himself a suitable outfit for his hearing.

Perhaps a convict costume would be appropriate.

Tom was waiting for him in the dormitory.

Harry paused when he caught sight of him, then continued on his way, shuffling through his belongings to find a clean shirt. He had certainly neglected the hygiene of both himself and his clothes this past week, so when he found a shirt, it smelled musty.

"Tersus," he muttered, tapping the shirt with his wand, and it smoothed itself out as though it had been ironed, refreshing its scent.

He pulled it on in silence, waiting for Tom to speak.

"Why did you cut your hair?" he finally said.

Subconsciously, Harry brought his hand up to run it through the short strands. His head felt a lot lighter than before. "I didn't like it."

"It was beautiful when it was long."

Steadily, Harry finished buttoning up his short. Then he turned to look at Tom, whose face was devoid of emotion as he leaned against his bedpost.

"Maybe I didn't want to be beautiful anymore," said Harry.

"Mon amour," murmured Tom, stepping forward and away from his bed. "A haircut doesn't take away from the fact that you are, to put it simply, stunning."

Harry didn't reply, stared down at his hands. His familiar, reliable hands, scarred and tanned. His hideous, traitorous hands, too weak to hold on.

Tom held open his arms, and Harry walked straight into them without hesitation. Tom's body was warm, a solid presence, and Harry remembered for the first time what human comfort was. It was something which he had unknowingly been craving during his isolation.

He buried his face into Tom's shirt, inhaling his sunlight scent, allowed Tom to run soothing hands down his back. They slotted together like two puzzle pieces which were destined to fit.

Why did I allow myself to forget what this feels like?

Because you don't deserve it.

Harry hung onto Tom tighter, then said in a muffled voice, "I'm scared."

"Don't be, mon amour." Tom leaned away from Harry so that they could meet each other's eye. "You have Dumbledore on your side, and as much as I hate to admit it, that insufferable old man isn't going to lose. In a matter of hours, you are going to walk free again."

Harry tore his gaze away from those dark blue eyes which could so easily be mistaken for black, and he whispered, "What if I don't believe that I should be allowed to walk free?"

"Don't say that," snapped Tom, and Harry started. "You were purely on the defence."

"But I did to him exactly what he was trying to do to me."

Tom took Harry's face between his hands, inclined his head so that they were forehead-to-forehead. "Listen to me carefully. You may have done to him what he tried to do to you, but your intent was different from Poole's, and intent changes everything."

A shiver ran up Harry's spine, and he pulled away. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe."

"Everything is going to be fine." Tom grabbed after him. "Please, Harry. Promise me that you won't do anything regrettable at the hearing."

"Like what?" Harry passed Tom a sideways smile which felt bitter on his face.

"Declare yourself to be guilty. Make sure that you lose." Tom's hands were desperate as they clasped Harry's. "I know that you've been having a hard time. But don't jeopardise your entire future just because–"

"Just because I killed someone?"

"You didn't kill him!" shouted Tom. "You tried your damn hardest to hold on even though that git didn't deserve it! He isn't worthy of your guilt!"

"I have a conscience," retorted Harry. "I'm only human."

"Then be more than a human!" Tom gripped Harry's shoulders hard enough to bruise and his eyes were fierce. "If that's what it takes to make you see sense. Now please, Harry. I want you to promise me that."

He pressed a frantic kiss to the corner of Harry's mouth as if that would force Harry to see things from a different perspective.

"Tom," murmured Harry, closing his eyes. "Where have you been?"

"What do you mean?"

"This past week. You've never been around."

Tom tensed, shifted slightly. "I've been studying. Making plans."

"Plans for what?"

"For when this whole mess is over." Tom smiled, and it was a smile which once would have made Harry's knees weak. But he was too empty to feel anything anymore. "I'm going to make sure that you're happy again."

Harry sighed, and the sound was as light as a butterfly's breath. But he said nothing.

Tom read between the lines. "Don't doubt your worth," he said.

"I should finish getting ready." Harry's tone was flat.

"As you wish." Tom's fingers shadowed over Harry's cheek, a loving caress, and then he left to give Harry that privacy that he wanted.

Once the dormitory door shut, Harry collapsed onto his bed, massaging his eye sockets with the heels of his hands.

There. He had faced Tom. Next on the list was Hermione. If anything, he expected her to be more difficult.

As it turned out, he was correct.

He and Hermione met outside the Headmaster's Office to Floo to the Ministry of Magic.

She was wearing a long skirt and a respectable blouse, her hair pulled back into a stern bun.

When they encountered each other, there was an initial awkward silence.

"How have you been?" asked Hermione at long last, and Harry pulled his shoulders upwards into an excuse of a shrug.

"As you'd expect," he said. The whole exchange was horribly formal, and Hermione nodded her head once, a sharp gesture.

"Of course." Up close, she didn't look well. Harry suspected that she had applied make-up underneath her eyes, probably to conceal shadows, and there was a frazzled light to her expression.

"I'll be speaking before you, won't I?" asked Harry, and Hermione gave another nod of her head.

"That's right." She did an awfully good job of hiding whatever emotions were roiling beneath her surface. A skill that Harry wished he possessed.

Another awkward silence.

Over their week of consolidation of all that had occurred, perhaps she had finally realised that Harry truly was responsible for her friend's death. Because those two had undeniably been friends, even if their relationship had fractured towards the end.

Perhaps Hermione hated him now.

Unable to bear the tense silence any longer, Harry opened his mouth to say the password to Dippet's office, but Hermione cut him off.

"I have to tell you something," she said quietly. "About Riddle."

Harry stiffened. "I'm not in the mood."

"You'll want to hear it." She fidgeted with the cuff of a sleeve, looked to the ground. "It's… it's the reason why I asked to meet you. That night."

A black cavern in Harry's chest whirled open, threatening to swallow his heart whole.

He subconsciously pressed a hand to his chest, turned back to the office gargoyle. "I'm not in the mood," he repeated. "Alohomora."

The gargoyle swept out of the way, revealing the staircase, and Harry moved forwards, never glancing back.

It was time to meet his destiny, dire as it may be.

Tom watched Harry pass Dippet's gargoyle from around the corner.

It hurt to watch that boy's tragic deterioration. He had once walked proud and true, but now his figure was slumped, downtrodden. There was not a hint of light to be seen in his eyes anymore.

Tom blamed it on Delacour, who followed Harry into Dippet's office several seconds later. It was her own fault for clinging to Harry. If she had just let go, the Mudblood Poole never would have targeted him.

Harry was still a chivalrous fool, but he was Tom's chivalrous fool. Once, Tom had believed that the raven-haired boy's chivalry would be his downfall.

Tom was never incorrect.

But it broke his heart, which was why he was going to fix this. He was going to clean up Hermione Delacour's mess, for good this time.

The gargoyle bowed back to its original position, and Tom turned away. Harry's fate was in Dumbledore's hands now – and he supposed that that was the safest it was going to be. For now.

Meandering back to the library, lost in thought, Tom almost missed the impressive Eurasian eagle-owl which alighted on one of the corridor's many windowsills.

It made a cooing noise to capture his attention and Tom glanced at it. Clasped in its talons was a parchment letter.

It was about time that somebody replied to him.

He strode over and freed the message from the owl's grip. The owl screeched in his face and launched back out the window. Tom ignored it, tearing open the letter's wax seal to read it.

My lord –

I do agree that this is an opportune moment to cast the False Memory Charm on Delacour, if you insist on doing so. The others agree. We have all been reading the newspapers, and along with what you tell us of Delacour's condition, he has never been more vulnerable, even as a budding Occlumens. Since he has also distanced himself from everybody, primarily his cousin, few would find it suspicious if he, to be it lightly, changed. It could easily be explained as being his natural response to the Mudblood's death.

Please wait until we return in two days' time before you take action.

Do remember that I still maintain that there would be more suitable candidates to fill the position of the seventh member of your circle.

Cassius Mulciber

Satisfied with the response for the most part, Tom set the letter alight with his wand and crumbled the ashes out the window.

It wasn't often that he sought the approval, if it could even be called that, of the members of his inner circle. But he wasn't so arrogant as to refuse to seek validation when it came to an action as drastic as this.

Tom returned to the library briefly to confirm details in the books before moving back to the Slytherin common room where he would go unbothered.

He chose an armchair in a private corner, reclined, and closed his eyes.

False Memory Charms were a tricky business, and to seamlessly perform one meant that the practitioner was exceptionally in touch with their consciousness. To weave a false memory was a purely internal process.

With his eyes closed, Tom delved into his own mind, conjuring up images of the memories he had gathered from Harry.

The first to appear were of those three Muggles – he wasn't sure how they were linked to Harry, but there was already a seed of spite implanted within the memories. It was easy enough to manipulate. Tom merely had to inflate the sentiment into turbulent abhorrence.

The overweight boy was a tyrant.

The beefy man and the skinny woman were embodiments of the devil.

In this copy of Harry's memories, Tom crafted Muggles into truly detestable creatures.

He tucked the false memories into a safe corner of his mind alongside the memories he had already altered over the past week. Here they would be accessible when the time came, then he came to himself with a gasp. Wiping sweat from his brow, Tom observed the empty common room.

Quiet, peaceful. Completely oblivious to what its ward was currently doing.

Grimacing, Tom closed his eyes again. Draining as this might be, he wasn't done yet.

He stepped back into his mind, collecting up the memories of Delacour. A common sentiment that Harry harboured towards her was a quiet buzz of resentment. Delacour thought herself to be smarter than him, sharper and more perceptive. She thought that she knew best, was rigid in her ways.

Tom magnified this in the memories.

Hermione Delacour was contrary, opinionated. She was conceited, thought herself to be superior. What else could be expected of the dirty-blooded spawn of Muggles?

Pleased with his alterations, Tom stacked the false memories with the others, moving on to another significant change that would have to be made.

The redheaded woman.

The circumstances of this Mudblood's death were unknown to Tom, but Harry's memories contained traces of bright green, the woman pleading for Harry's life.

The Killing Curse.

This scene mystified Tom to no end, but there were no answers to be found within Harry's head. Wherever the answers lay, Harry had hidden them very well.

In Tom's copy of the memory, the woman wasn't pleading for Harry's life. She was pleading for her own.

She was cowardly, repugnant. Mudbloods should not be welcomed into the wizarding world, because they were all like this. They could not be trusted to not betray their secret society.

Gradually, the number of false memories increased, the pile stacking higher and higher. For hours Tom worked to refine Harry's views of the world. When these memories were transferred to Harry's head, he would finally see the scum which were Muggles, the deceit of the Muggle-borns, and the glory of pure-bloods.

He would finally see that he had done a service to everybody in ridding the world of Rowan Poole.

It was late afternoon when Tom finally let up. Sweat was running down his forehead and into his eyes, and he was panting as if he had run a particularly long marathon.

But it would be worth it.

For a few long minutes he lay back, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal, gulping down air. Few wizards played with False Memory Charms because of how mentally exhausting they were, especially if it was many memories which needed to be altered. But Tom couldn't allow himself to burn out just yet. There were still more memories to organize.

He dragged himself to his feet and headed up to the shower.

It was evening by the time Harry and his entourage returned.

Tom had been waiting by the gargoyle, confident in Dumbledore's ability to bring Harry back to him safely.

At long last, the gargoyle bowed out of the way and Delacour was the first to emerge. She barely glanced at Tom as she passed by him. Her hair was a bird's nest, as if she had been tugging at it all day, and her face was white, her eyes wide and stunned.

A ball of dread began to form in Tom's stomach. What had Harry done?

For a long time, nobody else emerged from behind the gargoyle, and Tom was just beginning to give in to the panic when a lone figure passed through, very small and very pale.

Dumbledore, tall and bearded, followed Harry out, but Tom paid him no mind.

"Harry!" he managed to choke out, rushing forward and pulling the green-eyed boy into his arms. For once he didn't care for the audience, because this was all that mattered. Harry had returned to him. "What happened?"

"I got off," murmured Harry, his voice dazed. "Free of charge."

Tom could have wept, but he didn't. He looked at Dumbledore, met those brilliant blue eyes. For the first time in his life, he said to the man, "Thank you."

Dumbledore gave a small dip of his head, his face weary, and he said to Harry, "Their judgement may sting. But never forget, all of this is just debris."

"Yes, sir," said Harry quietly, and the Deputy Headmaster disappeared behind the gargoyle again.

Wordlessly, Tom led Harry back to their common room, patiently waiting for Harry to break the silence.

Once they were safely within Slytherin's walls, Harry ducked out of Tom's arms, retreated a few steps. His face was shadowed, his gaze evasive. All relief faded from Tom's bones and his expression hardened.

"What happened?" he demanded, yet again.

"I don't want to talk about it." Harry shrugged and slumped onto the arm of a sofa, bringing his hands up to cover his face as though he could block out the world that way.

"I think that it would be best if you told me," said Tom disapprovingly.

Most unexpectedly, Harry burst a blood vessel. "What if I don't fucking care what you think?" he barked, and the mirror above the fireplace exploded. "What if I don't give a flying fuck what anybody thinks anymore?"

Tom raised a lazy eyebrow, but Harry was far from done.

"Never has anybody given a damn how I feel!" he shouted, storming around the common room, and bricks were flying out of the walls when he passed, sofas ripping themselves to shreds, tables splintering and the wood in the fireplace erupting into wild blue flames which threatened to creep past the grate and onto the floorboards. "Nobody cares if little puppet Harry is sick of his stupid, pathetic life! I'm expected to mindlessly follow orders and be the hero, and I try to be the hero! But even when I try my hardest, I still do nothing right! So, what if–" the chandelier overhead creaked "–I don't–" the entire thing began to shiver "–want to be–" the crystals vibrated as if an earthquake was nearing "–the hero–" the entire chandelier shattered "–anymore?"

A magnificent rainstorm of glass cascaded down over them and the ruined common room. Harry stood in the middle of it, his nostrils flaring as he breathed wildly.

Tom smiled, and it was a very wide smile. "You don't know how long I have waited to hear you say that," he murmured. "Harry. I never wanted you to be the hero."

For a split second, a look of horror crossed Harry's face as he registered what he had done, then those expressive green eyes of his welled up with tears.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, to who Tom did not know, and then he ran, past Tom and out of the common room like a shadow.

Tom watched him go.

The Slytherin who had been lurking around the entire holidays peeked out from the staircase which led to the fourth-year boys' dormitory. "Is it over?" he asked.

Tom opted to ignore him, lifting his wand to clear the damage.

"Merlin," said the fourth-year, eyes wide as he examined the results of Harry's wrath. "Delacour is powerful. Absolutely bonkers, but powerful nonetheless."

Indeed, thought Tom, gesturing to the broken chandelier upon the ground, and it flew back up to its original place, all crystal shards restoring themselves. And it is long overdue that he became mine.

It was two days later that Hogwarts filled up again, the corridors once again bustling with professors chasing rapscallions, students rushing to class and owls sailing overhead with letters gripped in their talons.

But with the newly renewed life came talk.

It was worse than when Harry had been chosen as the fourth Triwizard Champion. It was worse than when he had been denounced as a lunatic, a liar, after revealing that he had witnessed Voldemort's return.

Ever since his outburst after the hearing, Harry had returned to his subdued state. He had returned to the common room, apologising quietly for his temper tantrum, and gone back to his brooding in his dormitory.

The brooding easily continued into the revival of the school year.

Lestrange, Nott, Mulciber, Avery, Rosier and Dolohov seemed, of all things, pleased by the drama. They appeared almost proud of Harry's dramatic 'defeat' of a Muggle-born, and that did nothing to lift his spirits.

The other Slytherins were impassive at best – their house had been targeted in the newspapers, and they were unhappy about it. While in public, they formed a unified front around Harry, but once they were within the safety of their own walls, they melted away in contemplative silence.

Harry had noticed that Crockett and Parkinson avoided being near him like the plague. Margot made no attempt to connect with him, but he sometimes saw her watching him. Simply watching. Nobody other than Tom and the rest of their group spoke to Harry, and while he felt terribly isolated, he was glad. He didn't want to speak with anyone either.

The other three houses tiptoed around him, as if afraid that he might throw one of them from the top of a tower. Ignatius had approached Harry once or twice before, but it quickly became evident that he was mostly unresponsive.

From then on, Ignatius let Harry be.

Tom was a great help in blocking out the rest of the student body, but that didn't mean Harry didn't hear the whispers.

"Why do you think Delacour killed Poole?"

"I heard that Poole was in love with Delacour's cousin. Delacour didn't like that."

"Haven't you read The Daily Prophet? Delacour just hates Muggle-borns."

"Slytherin scum."

"Murderer, more like."

"He should have been expelled."

"He should have been put in Azkaban."

"He should just kill himself."

Their voices made his ears bleed, and Harry reminded himself of what Dumbledore had told him after the hearing.

"They are all going to talk," Dumbledore had said gently. "Like many other great witches and wizards, you will be doubted, and that may feel overwhelming. But keep your chin above the water, Mr. Potter, because one day, they will all need you."

Harry knew, knew deep in his heart, that they would indeed need him one day. They would all need the Boy Who Lived. And what none of them knew was that he was a figure from the future, trying desperately to save them all.

But a sliver of darkness had crept into his ear, it whispered to him.

Why bother anymore? it asked. Why bother?

What scared him was that he no longer had an answer.

Once, Harry had heard Sybill Trelawney. She was delightfully pleased with Poole's death and made no attempt to hide it.

"I said this would happen!" she would say to whoever paid attention to her for more than five seconds. "I called it!"

And then there was Hermione. Harry had not spoken to her since the hearing. He hadn't even spoken to her at the hearing, because all she wanted to talk about was Tom.

Harry didn't want to talk about anything, least of all Tom, or even Poole.

He had tried, once. Never again.

It had been on the first day back at school. Harry had arisen early, before anybody else in his dormitory, and he had gone straight to the top of North Tower. He had been doing that a lot of late. It seemed one of the only places that he could be alone with his thoughts.

But other people had had the same idea as him that morning.

Harry recognized the downy blonde hair which belonged to Quincy Lovegood. He had been scattering white flowers out the hole-in-the-wall window, surrounded by other Ravenclaws.

Harry recalled hanging back in the shadows, knowing that he should leave but was unable to, because watching Quincy fractured what remained of his heart.

The violet-eyed boy was singing a song as he let the white flowers fall from his fingers. It wasn't even a song, it was nothing but a tune. It was the ancient chanting of sticks and stones, the humming of wildflowers in a grove, the lamenting of somebody who had lost his mother, father, and now his best friend.

It was haunting, bittersweet. It lured Harry out into the open.

"Quincy," he had faltered, and Quincy had stopped singing.

He hadn't turned to face Harry, but the other Ravenclaws had, suspicion and fury shining out from their eyes.

"Quincy," Harry remembered repeating, his voice as unsteady as a shadow. "I… I'm so sorry, I–"

"Let's go, Quincy," one of the Ravenclaws interrupted, and they pushed past Harry with snarls upon their faces as they escorted Quincy away.

"Snow," said Quincy sadly as he passed Harry, and their eyes met for a split second. Then Harry was all alone at the top of North Tower.

Snow.

"Snow symbolises the unknown," Quincy had once said. "It makes you wonder what really lies beneath the layer of white. Nothing is as it appears."

That single word – snow – was like a bullet in Harry's chest, and he braced his arm against a wall, breathless from the strength of his self-hatred.

Quincy's words had to be an accusation, that Harry had appeared to be a friend, and had turned out to be anything but. Yes, an accusation. What else could they be?

It seemed to take eons for the next article about Harry to emerge from The Daily Prophet, an article which all the students were panting after at that point, but emerge it did.

They thought that it would be an answer to all their questions. Harry thought it would be yet another condemnation.

Seated between Tom and Nott at the Slytherin table one morning, it seemed like any other day as the owl post arrived. The usual stares, the usual whispering. Harry even dared to believe that everything was beginning to quieten down.

But optimism would always be the bane of his life.

He knew that something was wrong when a hush fell over the Great Hall and all heads ducked down over their newspapers. Even the professors had gone silent.

"Hardwin," said Lestrange grimly, holding up a copy of The Daily Prophet which had just been delivered to him. "Page four."

Wordlessly, Harry snatched the newspaper from him before anybody else could and flipped the pages over to reach his destination.

He, Hermione and Dumbledore took up the largest photo, standing side-by-side as they faced the cameras. Dumbledore was his usual quiet, reassuring presence in the frame. Hermione stood tall and without a hint of weakness in her stance. And then there was him. Harry. His hair was in his eyes, his shoulders slumped. Vulnerable, pitiful.

Harry would have felt disgusted at himself if he had any feeling left in him.

Beneath were photographs of Poole's angry parents, and one of Elijah Jenkins and Axel Renshaw. Both delivered to speak their parts before returning to whichever hole in the earth they had re-emerged from.

Harry could barely stand to look at their faces.

He realised that his hands were shaking so badly that the newspaper was rustling like leaves caught in a wind, and Tom reached out, encircling one of his slim wrists with his fingers.

"You shouldn't have given it to him, Peregrine," said Tom darkly.

"No," said Harry. "He should have."

With seven pairs of eyes on him, Harry began to read.

SHOULD HARRY DELACOUR HAVE BEEN RELEASED FROM HIS LEASH?

By Cecily Pollock

As you are all aware, Daily Prophet readers, I have been following this student-gone-barmy case for the past couple of weeks. The update I bring to you is regarding the hearing of the Delacours' on the 10th of January. I believe that we can correct this to being the hearing of Harry Delacour, singular, as little suspicion was held over the head over Hermione Delacour, friend and – dare we say – love interest of the deceased, Rowan Poole.

The hearing was not open to the general public due to sensitive witnesses, but yours truly was granted a seat.

The entire Wizengamot was present in the court upon my arrival. As Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Chief Warlock, was to appear as a witness for the defence, Leonard Spencer-Moon, our very own Minister for Magic, took the temporary place as Chief Warlock for the hearing.

Delacour was the first to step up to speak, and I recount that he was very shifty-eyed about the whole matter. I summarise his account of the night of the 3rd of January:

He and Miss Delacour met at the top of North Tower to discuss matters (the subject was not divulged) when they were interrupted by Rowan Poole, who challenged Delacour to a wizard's duel. Delacour was overpowered by Poole's use of Fiendfyre, and at the duel's conclusion, Poole clumsily charged at Delacour, resulting in them both hanging out the open window, and ultimately Poole's fall to his death.

I repeat, this is Delacour's account of the story, and I while I am not trying to discredit it, it does seem an unlikely tale. Fiendfyre is considered a Dark Art, and Poole is not practised in the Dark Arts. We all wonder how reliable a narrator Delacour is.

You, dear readers, may ask why Veritaserum was not used on the one in question, but I remind you that Veritaserum is not always dependable. There are methods that one can learn to subdue the effects of the truth-telling serum, including the consumption of its antidote and the use of Occlumency. Additionally, if Delacour really is barking mad, his conception of the 'truth' would differ greatly from ours.

Hermione Delacour's own account was a spitting image of Delacour's. I speculate whether she replicated his story because she felt threatened by her cousin's tendencies. Anonymous contacts of mine from within the walls of Hogwarts tell me that the two Delacours have often been seen having disagreements throughout the year, with Harry Delacour going so far as to alienate Hermione Delacour. All evidence suggests that he is a temperamental character, so him threatening her doesn't seem far-fetched at all.

The most unexpected of witnesses stepped forward next. Elijah Jenkins and Axel Renshaw, ex-Gryffindor students at Hogwarts School, presented a case that Poole had been an accomplice in the torture of Delacour earlier this year. This was the first time we at The Daily Prophet had heard of this juicy event, and it left me with yet more speculations. If Delacour was aware of this, had he murdered Poole in cold blood after all? Some do say that revenge is sweet.

Dumbledore had an entirely different viewpoint. He declared Poole to be the unstable one as opposed to Delacour and presented the fact that Poole had pleaded guilty to these crimes before his death. Dumbledore put forward that Delacour was acting purely on self-defence with Poole attempting to murder him.

There was much for the Wizengamot to consider during the deliberation period.

While they met in private, I attempted to question Dumbledore, the Delacours, Jenkins and Renshaw, but the former three refused to comment and the latter two were rapidly whisked away. Where to? I presume that they are being held in a psychiatric hospital of a sort – being responsible for torture, neither can be sound of mind. Therefore, how valid can their word really be?

The Wizengamot were in deliberation for a few hours and when they finally emerged, they cast their judgement on Delacour. He was declared not guilty.

It was a surprise for us all. All evidence in support of defence seemed dodgy to me, and Slytherins like Delacour are notorious for being manipulative. One can only wonder how much he brainwashed the witnesses.

Poole's parents were livid about the result when I spoke to them after the hearing had passed–

Harry stopped reading there, resentment curling behind his navel. He didn't want to know what Poole's parents thought. He wasn't interested in hearing about what a good little boy Rowan had been, how he didn't deserve the fate which had befallen him. He didn't need to read about more people who hated him.

Harry stood, tossed the newspaper in front of Lestrange. The rest of the Great Hall was stirring as they all finished the article, and he could sense the spotlight returning to him, just as hostile as before.

"Well?" asked Lestrange haltingly.

Harry stepped away from the table, swallowed with an audible click in his throat. "Bullshit."

He left them all to their readings.

Tom picked up Harry's half-finished mug of bitter black coffee, taking a thoughtful sip as he watched his beloved stalk out of the Great Hall.

Titters were beginning to circulate around the room, and Lestrange and Nott stood, making to follow Harry like loyal puppies.

"Leave him," said Tom, and he met Mulciber's eye, who was perfectly relaxed as he drank from his teacup. His manner suggested that he was viewing a particularly entertaining theatre show.

"But–" began Lestrange, and Tom cut him off like a hot knife through butter.

"I am confident that Harry will be feeling like himself tomorrow," he said, and there was a glimmer in his eyes when he spoke.

The group immediately pressed in closer to Tom, all eager to hear his words.

Even Mulciber put his cup down and leaned forward, his pale eyes vaguely intrigued. "Tonight?" he asked.

"Harry is long gone," said Tom by way of response, and it was all the confirmation that was needed.

A wave of barely contained elation flooded through his inner circle, because at last, after so many years of waiting, the circle would be complete. Never would they be stronger.

Pleased, Tom laced his fingers together and placed them beneath his chin, gazing around and considering them all.

First there was Peregrine Lestrange, his eyes as black as night. He was Tom's ruthlessness.

Then there was Francis Nott, sharp of nose and with front teeth too large for his mouth. He was Tom's intelligence.

There was Caspian Rosier, classically gorgeous with flowing blonde locks and chocolate brown eyes. He was Tom's beauty.

Next came Antonin Dolohov, large and muscular. He was Tom's inhumanity, it ran as thick as blood through his veins.

Cassius Mulciber. His skin brown and warm, his eyes silver and cold. He was Tom's boldness, and that put him above the rest.

But now there was another, the last one.

Harry Delacour, whose green eyes were a mystery and his voice a poem. He was Tom's power. He was Tom's snake whisperer. He was Tom's first and only love, and unlike the rest, he would not bow before the Dark Lord's feet. They would stand side-by-side, as equals.

Tom's eyes flickered towards the Ravenclaw table. Hermione Delacour looked no better than Harry, but the difference between the two cousins was that no one would be there to catch her when she fell.

Delacour stood, The Daily Prophet tucked under her arm, and followed Harry's path out of the Great Hall.

Grimly, Tom looked to Dolohov. "I want you to intercept Delacour. Don't let her reach Harry."

"I won't." Dolohov stood, checked the time and paled. "Oh. I'm afraid I can't. Dumbledore expects me to be in Transfiguration in five minutes. The lesson is meant to begin early today."

"So be it." Tom turned to Avery. "The task lies in your hands, then."

"I have Transfiguration, too," said Avery apologetically.

When Tom turned to Rosier, Rosier shrugged by way of saying, "Me too."

"Must I do everything myself?" asked Tom, annoyed, and as he made to stand, Lestrange leapt to his feet.

"I can do it," he offered and lowered his gaze meekly. "Throughout the course of this year, I have been… disappointing. I hope to somehow earn my way back into your favour, my lor– Riddle."

It was true. Lestrange had done little right this year, and Tom rested his chin in his hand, regarding the other boy shrewdly. Finally, he relented. "Of course. But remember – Delacour must not speak to Harry at all costs. She will be attempting to mend their relationship, and that cannot be allowed."

"Yes, sir." Lestrange snapped a salute and strode out of the Great Hall, a man on a mission. While Dolohov, Avery and Rosier prepared to head to class, Tom gestured for Nott to pass him The Daily Prophet.

"Let's see what the fuss is about," he said. The paper was wrinkled beyond repair from where Harry had gripped them.

Without attempted to straighten out the pages, Tom read the article.

The library seemed a good place to go. It had become a haven of a sort since school had started again. Nobody went there to talk, so there was nothing for Harry to overhear.

The librarian, whose name Harry could never remember, barely spared him a glance when he crossed the threshold. This was another thing he highly appreciated. The librarian was always lost in her own little world of organizing and repairing books that she seldom paid attention to what was going on around her.

Harry doubted she was even aware of the fact that one of the students was dead, much less that he was involved.

Harry went straight to the Charms section, tucked away in the furthest corner of the library. A place where he would go unbothered.

The library was mostly empty at that time of day with only a Hufflepuff and a Slytherin sitting together at a table, their heads ducked over a heavy book as they puzzled over some tricky theory. They seemed thoroughly absorbed in their reading but Harry avoided going near them either way. He ducked into the most secluded Charms aisle and stood there for a moment, listening to his own breathing.

Listening to his breathing had become common for him. Sometimes, that was the only thing which reminded him that he was truly alive in this cruel world which tried so hard to drown him. It tried, and Harry knew that it was succeeding.

Their judgement may sting. But never forget, all of this is just debris.

He pressed his hands to his face, sunk to the floor, and mourned all that he had lost.

"Hardwin," said a voice in a low tone.

There was the rhythmic sound of footsteps approaching him.

Harry didn't lift his head.

"Hardwin," repeated the voice more urgently, and a hand touched his shoulder.

Shuddering, Harry lifted his face from his hands and brought his eyes up to meet Lestrange's. Wordlessly, he awaited an explanation.

Peregrine Lestrange. The kindest, most unkind boy Harry had ever had the fortune, and misfortune, of meeting.

He was glad that they had met. He wished that they had never met.

Lestrange's face was a picture of distress as he assessed Harry, a broken figure upon the floor.

"I'm sorry," the black-eyed boy said, and his voice cracked. "I'm sorry that this has happened to you."

Harry drew his knees into his chest, stared ahead of him blankly. "So am I."

Lestrange lowered himself to the floor to sit next to Harry, met his eyes solemnly. "There's something that I have to tell you. I shouldn't, but… but despite everything…" he gave a fractured sort of laugh. "You have earned my loyalty, Hardwin. Harry. And I consider you a friend. I admit that I don't have much of a conscience, but I have enough of one to know that I could never live with myself if I didn't tell you this."

Silently, Harry waited. Lestrange's gaze was shifty, he was gnawing on his thumbnail. Harry had never seen the debonair wizard that he knew behave like this.

"I implore that you don't think ill of any of us after I tell you this," Lestrange finally said, and he took a deep breath, met Harry's empty eyes. "Riddle is going to cast a False Memory Charm on you tonight."

Something small lurched in Harry's chest, it startled him enough to make him blink before he retreated into himself again. "Is he?" he asked detachedly.

Lestrange cast a wild glance over his shoulder as if afraid that somebody had followed him here. "But it's for the best. If you could see yourself… you are completely crushed, Harry. Demoralised. Shamed. It hurts to see you like this. But with the False Memory Charm, you can be happy again. Riddle can repair you."

"But I'd be living a lie," murmured Harry, looking down at his hands, cradled loosely in his lap.

"Anything would be better than this hellhole that you are stranded in," said Lestrange fiercely, grabbing Harry's hands from his lap so tightly that both their fingers turned white. "Trust us, Harry. You have nothing to worry about. All of us – me, Francis, Cassius, the others – we're brothers. We look out for each other, and you can be a part of that. Please. Trust us."

Trust.

Harry felt like laughing.

That little idea, that little seed of hope which grew from trust, always had to make an appearance to taunt him. Trust. It was something which Hermione rambled on about like a mad woman.

Hermione.

"Will I remember everything?" asked Harry, and his voice was as small as a mouse. "Will I remember everyone? All my memories… what's it like, to live a lie?"

Lestrange released Harry's hands, leaning in. A tiny smile curled the corner of his mouth. "It's like waking from a bad dream."

After Lestrange left, Harry remained for a long time afterwards, staring ahead of him at the Charms books which lined the aisle.

Maybe Lestrange was right.

Maybe things would be better this way.

To give in was the weak option. But for once, just for this one time, Harry didn't want to be strong.

He was a killer who didn't deserve a reprieve, yet he had just been offered the holy grail.

In the back of his mind, Harry knew that if he went through with this, there was no going back. No going back to Ron, who had lost him. No going back to Ignatius, who had stayed by him. No going back to Margot, who had released him. No going back to Hermione, who believed in him.

Hermione.

Somewhere within his numb chest, Harry's heart was being carved up into millions of pieces because Tom had betrayed him, and this was a betrayal which could not be forgiven. But with the False Memory Charm came oblivion, the sweet, desensitising effects of oblivion.

Oblivion. The weak man's salvation.

Harry came to his decision.

It was an overcast night. There was not a star to be seen in the sky. As darkness crept in, the shadow world came to life.

A heavy hush lay over Hogwarts Castle that night like a thick blanket which smothered all who dared to breathe too loudly.

In Gryffindor Tower, a boy with dark red hair and the most beautiful brown eyes that Harry Potter had ever seen looked out a window in silence. The beauty of this stifling night was not lost on him.

In Ravenclaw Tower, a girl with a keen gaze scoured through book after book on Memory Charms, desperately seeking a solution to her problem. As the hours ticked by and she found nothing, she buried her face in her hands and wept.

In the Slytherin Dungeon, a pretty blonde girl sat alone by the fireplace, staring into the flames and wondering what she had done wrong in her life.

In the deepest dormitory of the Slytherin Dungeon, a black-haired, green-eyed boy drifted into the world of dreams and waited for his time to come.

And there was one other. A boy with the face of an angel but the mentality of a demon delicately pushed his way into the green-eyed boy's mind, bringing mountains of false memories with him. Standing in that deep and dark recess, the boy with the handsome face smiled.

He released the false memories, each one taking flight like a dove, and he said into the silence, "Obliviate."

Don't hate me, everyone. There are still five more chapters of drama to write and if you kill me, none of that will happen. On a side note, we've just about hit 300 pages! :3