Author's Note: This is AU from the moment Harry holds the Resurrection Stone in the Forbidden Forest. I've always wondered what it would have been like, standing there with the pressure of millions, if not billions of lives. Logically, Harry understood that one life sacrificed for the good of all is the best outcome. But emotionally, how does a child who wishes to live, willingly walk to their own death? Dumbledore took that choice from Harry, and so he thought there were no other options. If only he realised that there is always a choice, even if bound by shackles.
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CHAPTER ONE
Hero
Those wisps, those eyes, they lance him like hot needles. He quickens his steps, chest pounding, mouth dry. There's a deep shake within his legs as if his bones were vibrating, throwing him off kilter, but not enough to make him stop. Nothing could make him stop. Not now.
Once he saw the fork in the road, he realised the battle was over. When the path to his death deviated, he knew he would fail. Because any person faced with their own mortality would never hesitate when offered salvation.
The battle against the dark was lost, because Harry Potter was running away like the coward he was.
Even now, a thin smile tugs at his face. He has never understood Pettigrew more than in this very moment, blindly stumbling through the Forbidden Forest. The ghostly faces of his parents, his godfather, his teacher, he sees them in the dark, always smiling, eyes full of love. Eyes that lance like hot needles.
A hoarse sob escapes him, and it takes him by surprise. He stops, mid-step, muscles tense.
Around him, the forest is still and silent. The battle is far behind him now. He raises his wand on instinct, but he doesn't cast anything. He just stands there, sweat trickling, hands shaking, sight blurring.
Are they dead? Did he kill them?
A shuddering intake.
No hesitation, Potter.
His feet stumble on.
There is something following him.
It has been following him for quite some time now. He's long past caring in his exhaustion. Leaning his back against a petrified tree, Harry closes his eyes to rest. There's a shake that hasn't left him since he betrayed the light. It rattles his insides even though he's overheated.
He hears a voice and it takes him a moment to realise it's his own. When he opens his eyes, it's pitch black he sees. The moonlight kept at bay by the impenetrable canopy of the dense forest. His lips are moving of their own accord and he feverishly grapples at the ground as if he were drowning.
As his voice gets louder, his words become clearer.
Burning wetness stains his cheek, drips to the soil, an uncontrolled flood. The boy hunches over, bowed to the ground, hands clawed, digging, gripping for dear life.
But it's no use. Only the dead can hear him and they have no use for apologies.
When he opens his eyes, he can see. But there's a sick, heavy green that settles on everything like toxic mould. The sunlight has little presence here.
Harry sways to his feet and shuffles on. He's delirious now, he knows that, because the dead walk with him like a silent congregation. They all smile, laugh, and look to him with such warmth. Harry finds them hateful.
How many days has it been? It feels like weeks. Months. Years.
Last night, the pain from his scar gave him a fitful sleep. There was a joy foreign to him, a wonderful, giddying kind of joy. At its peak, he emptied his stomach, so nauseous it made him like too much cake. It was the only time the dead lost their smiles.
In his dreams, he sees them fighting. All of them fighting so desperately.
In the ruins of the castle, when things are calm, Hermione and Ron wonder aloud if he's alive or dead.
Ginny is full of fury, a fury that alights her face and quashes her grief. She stands at Neville's side as he takes the helm of the battle. The Snake Killer, courageous and stony, wielding the sword of Gryffindor in his charge.
Luna is the only one that meets Harry's eyes. She mouths something to him. Something true and painful. Her gaze does not judge.
In daylight, he finds a road and an empty house. He decides to rest before continuing.
As he sates his thirst in the kitchen, he glances out at the forest. For the briefest of moments, he thinks he sees the dead standing in the tree line, watching him, even though he has long abandoned the Resurrection Stone.
"Don't follow me," he says aloud, and the ghosts dissipate into the gloom. Instant regret strikes like an arrow. "Wait-don't-" He reels back into himself, heavy with shame. Don't leave me alone.
One foot after the other. There's no going back. Only forward.
This is the last time he's ever going cry, he vows, and it's a vow he keeps for the next five years.