Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality
Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see
I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy...

Bill's hands were shaking. What had he done? What had he done?

The lifeless body of his co-worker, his partner, his friend, lay at his feet, eyes open but glassed over, the last expression this man had ever conveyed in his life frozen on his face forever. It was one of surprise. Of panic. Of fear.

Bill began to cry, silent sobs that made his shoulders heave. Had he done this? Had he caused this? Everything that had happened over the last ten minutes had been a blur of panic and fury; surely what Bill thought had happened had not...

It couldn't have. It just couldn't.

A sharp, masculine voice pierced the depths of the cavern, far closer than Bill was anticipating. Panic set in once more, his anguish overcome by a driving force—a need—to get out of there. He needed to survive.

But as he began to run, the feeling that overwhelmed Bill was guilt. Why should he survive? What had he done to deserve this? Why should Jacob have lost his life when it could have been—should have been—Bill? The redheaded boy kept running in spite of these gut-wrenching questions that persisted in his mind. His heart throbbed in time with each heavy footfall.

Suddenly the voice in his mind took such a suddenly sinister turn that Bill had to skid to a halt, panting, in order to calm himself. But it was no use; his hands were shaking as he clutched at the uneven wall of rock, grasping both physically and emotionally for some sense of stability. The underground corridor was spinning, and even though Bill knew he needed to escape the tomb, he was rooted. That voice persisted, far louder and more sinister than the words that had triggered the devastating and unexpected chain of events of the last ten minutes. The events that had resulted in Jacob's death. Those words had included: traitor. Return. Voldemort.

But these words were more terrifying to Bill. This voice was more unforgiving.

You killed him.

"Mother. Mum. Ma'am. Mummy," Bill practised in a desperate voice, stood on the doorstep of his own family's home, the inhabitants of the house completely unaware of his presence. It was six o' clock in the morning. No one was expecting him.

Somewhere, a rooster crowed.

"I killed a man," Bill whispered in a broken voice, eyes wide. "I killed a... a friend."

He gulped. The reality of those words, spoken out loud for the first time, hit him like a tonne of bricks. Like the Hogwarts Express ploughing into him at full force. And suddenly everything was clear to Bill. Crystal.

It's what he deserved.

"I have to go," he whispered to the unopen door. "I've got to leave you all behind, and..." He took a shaky breath. "Face the truth." Tightening his fists, urging himself to be courageous—to be the Gryffindor he still hoped he had the honour of calling himself—he turned away.

How could he ever look them in the eye, Bill demanded of himself, knowing what he'd done? How would ever be able to let other people love him when he would never be able to forgive himself for the terrible things he'd done. Who could love him after what he'd done?

No, Bill decided firmly, it was he who had to leave. It was he who had to sever ties with his own family. Best he do it than have them do it to him.

Halfway across the yard, Bill suddenly stopped to take once last look. He could see the window of his childhood bedroom. He wondered which of his brothers—or sister—was asleep in there right now. He hoped it was Ginny. Pure, sweet Ginny, who had her whole life ahead of her. She could be anything she wanted, hopeful and innocent. Not like Bill. Not like her big brother.

Murderer, the vicious tongue of his subconscious hissed at him.

"Goodbye," Bill said aloud, unable to look at the Burrow any longer. He couldn't be sure if he was saying it to his mother, his family, or the world itself. "Goodbye," he said again.

Plunged into darkness, Bill heard voices. He groaned, but he wasn't sure it was audible. Voices, he thought angrily; enough with the voices.

But these ones weren't part of his subconscious, he realised. They were real. Who they belonged to, Bill wasn't yet sure. But they were real, and they were talking about... him?

"Terrible thing for someone of his age to go through. Terrible."

"How old is he?"

"Twenty."

The second voice made a sympathetic murmur of agreement. "Terrible indeed."

They were familiar voices, Bill recognised. Both masculine, but he couldn't quite identify them just yet. If only he could open his eyes. But something about the darkness soothed him. In some respects, Bill hoped he'd never cease to be in this state. Numb to the world, disorientated, dark but safe. That's where he wanted to stay forever. Nothing mattered anymore.

"Have his family been informed?"

Bill felt a surge of panic so strong he almost opened his eyes.

"Not yet."

"Big family, aren't they?" one of the voices asked casually. "Nice people."

"Big," the first agreed. "Lovely." He paused. "Very poor," he added as an afterthought. "I..." Bill thought he heard a gulp. "Something like this would devastate them. Family's all they really have."

"Ah."

A silence filled the air, but Bill felt two pairs of eyes settle on him. He wondered if he should make his semi-consciousness known. Who were these men? What did they want? Where even was he?

"He didn't deserve this," the first voice said, his tone full of sympathy, of pity. "He didn't deserve this... this monstrosity."

"The terrible thing is: he did the best he could. He did the best he possibly could have in this situation. It was unavoidable. We'd have lost both of them if he hadn't done what he did. And then we wouldn't have... known. About the situation."

What situation?—Bill wondered. But before he could even think about stirring and reaching out to these men—men he was sure he knew well—he felt the darkness dragging him back under. Sweat began to pool, but the young redheaded man felt cold as ice. "No!" he tried to gasp, but it was no use.

Bill was in a tomb. Had he been here before? It all seemed so familiar...

Wait.

"It's this way," Jacob whispered, gesturing towards a passage to the left.

Bill did a double take. "Jacob?" he asked, completely shocked. What was happening? Was any of this real? It seemed it, but no—that was impossible. It had to be. Jacob was...

"Revelio."

Bill stared at his partner in disbelief. His unkempt blonde hair looked as charmingly dishevelled as it always had done when they were on curse-breaking missions, his deep tan making him much more adept at blending in with the sandstone walls than Bill's pale disposition. He had thought he'd never see him again; never experience the thrill of a mission—that sense of exhilarating unease that assured Bill he was still, and always would remain a true Gryffindor.

A doorway revealed itself.

"Are you sure?" Bill asked uneasily, as Jacob made towards it. "Should we do more security spells?"

"No," Jacob said firmly, a hungry glint in his eye as he stared at the revealed entrance to the very depths of the tomb. "It will be fine... Everything will all be fine..."

Bill couldn't be sure, but it seemed as though Jacob was talking to himself more than to Bill. He said nothing, but suddenly felt a great sense of unease. Something was... off.

"Should I go first?" Bill offered. But Jacob was already pushing through the door.

The events that followed were a blur in the memory Bill knew he was reliving. This wasn't real; this had already happened. But oh, God, he didn't want to go through it again.

There were voices coming from inside the central chamber of the tomb. A set-up. But they didn't attack Jacob. At least not right away. Bill had flattened himself against the wall, hidden from the view of the unknown men within. His chest was heavy as he struggled to hold his breath, fearful of revealing his location. Was Jacob in danger? He strained to hear the conversation happening within.

Certain words jumped out at him: Traitor, return, Voldemort...

Just as before.

Bill began to sweat again, but he couldn't be sure if it was in real life or in this awful nightmare he seemed to be reliving. What was happening? He hadn't understood it then, and he didn't understand it now. But Bill knew what came next.

He started to run, and he didn't look back. Because he couldn't relive it again, he just couldn't. Jacob was screaming his name, yelling at Bill to run, to escape, to get out of there, and he obliged. But he looked back. Just as he shouldn't. Just in time to see Jacob struck by the Killing Curse and fall to the ground. Cold. Dead.

Bill began to scream but no sound came out. "GET ME OUT OF HERE," he shrieked, hysterical. "LET ME GO." Were the words he was shrieking echoing around the cavernous walls or in his own skull? Was any of this real. "Please!" he begged, falling to his knee, grasping his head in his hands. "Please!"

It was no longer dark. And Bill was no longer back in that cursed tomb. He was in a bed in St. Mungo's. He had been for a week.

"Are you ready to talk now, Bill?"

The redhead nodded, staring forward with no emotion in his eyes. He didn't feel anything anymore. He just felt... numb.

Two men were sat on his left side. Two men he knew well—his employers, in fact. His superiors. Men he trusted with his life. Men he trusted to tell him the truth. And yet...

"You understand the situation that we, ah, explained to you, yes?"

Bill said nothing. He felt the two men share a concerned look with each other.

"Bill, please. We know how much you've struggled to come to terms with this, but Jacob was a traitor―a double agent—and you aren't responsible for his death. You have to understand that. The fact that you even survived is a miracle. He was intending to use you as a decoy. He wasn't a good man."

Several people had explained this several times to him over the last week, but Bill still didn't understand. Jacob was a dark wizard, they'd told him. They hadn't known but he'd been tipping off other dark wizards about the curse-breaking team's missions. But something had gone wrong. Dangerous things were happening, and the traitor had been betrayed. Bill had been dragged along into this and hadn't ever been intended to survive.

But he had. And no matter how many times they told him it wasn't his fault, Bill knew he had killed Jacob. Traitor or not, Bill should have gone first; he shouldn't have run. He should have faced the threat and risked his life for the man he'd considered a friend. It just didn't make sense.

"I'd like to leave now," Bill whispered in a hoarse voice. He didn't even know how he'd gotten himself into St. Mungo's; they wouldn't tell him yet. But everybody talked to him with deep concern, no matter how much they tried to disguise it.

"I want to go home."

Again, the two men shared a look. Bill was fully aware he hadn't responded to anything they'd said.

"We can't let you go, Bill. You're, ah, you're not well."

Bill said nothing—just continued to stare, still feeling as numb as before.

"But," the second man said brightly, "we do have something that might cheer you up."

Unlikely, Bill thought, but kept his lips pursed.

"Someone to see you. A lot of people to see you, actually."

Bill's interest was piqued, but before he could really process the news or form any guesses, a whole swarm of people were bursting into the room, despite irritated calls not to disturb him from who he assumed was a Healer. Warm arms enfolded him from every side. Excited voices reassured him how much they loved and missed him. It was difficult to take much in, but Bill noticed a lot of red hair.

Nothing matters anymore, Bill thought. Not to me.

But as his family continued to surround him with physical comfort and emotional support, maybe he did feel something beneath the numbness. A warm spark of hope, of love. A love that would never betray him, that would never make him feel so desperately alone.

Bill felt the small flicker of a smile.