It was dark, and cold. It was not the cold of a January blizzard, nor was it the cold of the heartless world that billions inhabited. No, if anything, it could be described as a penetrating cold, and yet not on a physical level. It was the cold of a world that was absent of life.
'Ut daret spiritum mortuis. Perduc animam de profundo.' A deep voice seemed to whisper from the recesses of his mind. It felt vaguely familiar as it caressed his mind. He did not have time to pay any attention to it as a light seemed to flicker on all around him. Reflexively, he shut his eyes shut, but to no avail. The power of the light easily pierced his closed eyelids, blinding him.
"Do not be afraid child," A voice sounded from everywhere. "No harm shall befall you."
Green eyes blinked open and Harry Potter took in the sights before him. The light was not as harsh to him as he had previously believed. The light warmed him body, both inward and outward. He turned his present task to that of locating the sound of the second voice that he heard. No matter how he twisted and turned, he could not see a single person near him to explain the voice. In fact, once his mind caught up to him, he could see nothing around him at all.
"Where am I?" Harry asked aloud.
"You, for all intents and purposes, are dead. You are nowhere, and everywhere." The voice sounded again. Despite the length of conversation, Harry could still not place if the voice was male or female. More than that, the voice itself seemed to reverberate all around him. It was full of coiled power, and the feel of it in the air made him shiver.
"So I'm dead now," Harry spoke, suppressing the tears threatening to cascade from his face. "I still have so much to do, so many people to save." The last part was spoken more to himself, but it mattered not as the voice seemed to hear him anyway.
"Hence, the reason for your presence." The voice spoke again.
"Is it that you want something from me? I'm not sure I have much to give being dead and all." Harry muttered, still recovering from his latest bout of shivers from the intoxicating touch of the voice.
"What do you want Harry Potter?" The voice asked after a moments pause.
"I don't know," Harry started. "I… I guess I'm tired." Harry spoke, surprising himself with the honesty of his words. He paused a moment to evaluate his statement.
'Am I tired? Tired of what to be exact? Of running for my life? Of being mistreated by people that don't even know me? Am I tired of being expected to swoop in and save the day? I wonder if Dumbledore ever gets tired?' Harry thought grimly. He speculated that Dumbledore was a one of kind human being, in that the man never seemed to tire from helping people and saving lives. Dumbledore, though, had many more decades of experience. It was likely that Dumbledore had already forgotten more about people than Harry could ever hope to learn. The thought was somber for Harry.
'Here I am, a 15 year old wizard who has faced the current Dark Lord and survived the current Dark Lord more times than I would like to count. And yet, no one seems to care about Harry Potter. If I weren't the Boy-Who-Lived, would I even matter to some people? Would they care that I can never get to sleep because of the nightmares? Would they care that I have scars that new skin, and spells wound never end.' Harry continued his morbid manner of thinking.
It was true. Since he could remember, he wasn't sure of anyone that started off liking him for him. Even the very first time, Hermione had greeted him with a strong, "You're Harry Potter. I've read all about you." Most people, Harry realized, saw the scar and immediately came to a conclusion about him that was drawn from inaccurate depictions of him in the Daily Prophet. It truly baffled him at times. Even Ron, his first best-friend, was fickle in his appreciation the true Harry Potter. Fourth year was the most recent proof of such actions, as Ron immediately believed that Harry had tossed his name into the Goblet of Fire. Second year, was even worse with people immediately thinking that he was the Heir of Slytherin. In the eyes of the public, he could do nothing right.
It was a painful realization that his destiny was to save and protect the very people that cared nothing for him. Yes, he was indeed tired. To any outsider, looking into his green eyes would show the depth of pain hidden within. He was cut off from his thoughts by the voice speaking again.
"Alas, the road you travel, that many before you have travelled, is never an easy path. It is often fraught with pain and very little happiness. And yet, you must remember that the decision to continue to embark upon that path lies solely in your hands. No one can truly make you do that which you do not wish to do."
"I've never felt like I had a choice. Everyone treats me like a child! Or a thing to be admired one moment and tossed aside the next." Harry retorted, his tone growing angrier. The voice was silent, as if beckoning him to continue his tirade.
"No one listens to me. No one cares about me and what I want. Mrs. Weasley, with all of her intentions coddles me! I am too old for that. I have seen too much for that. Even the Order seems to think I'm a useless teenager, and that I need to be babysat." Harry continued, oblivious to the pressure that was attempting to build behind his eyes.
"What do you wish for Harry Potter?" The voice spoke again. Harry stood, or floated, or simply existed, quiet for some time.
The truth of the matter was the no one has asked him what he wanted before. It seemed as if everyone always thought they knew best about his life. It seemed ironic that Dumbledore often mentioned wanting to keep Harry happy, and yet did everything but.
'Hell, what is happiness?' Harry thought morbidly. Yes, he had smiled. Yes, he had laughed. And yet, even then he could sense his own false cheer. It was as if he was brought into this world to be miserable.
"Would you wish your pain on another human being?" The voice asked.
"What? No… I guess I'd wish for them to understand how alone I feel in the world." Harry whispered. There, he had finally said it. He felt lonely. With that admission the dam broke, and the tears flowed freely down his face. His eyes, unseeing, did not register the scenery around him changing as scenes from his life flashed by.
He stood stock still as he noticed the images. He could see the rage and utter disdain for his existence on the face of his uncle. He could still feel the sting on his cheek the first time he had asked his Aunt if she loved him. He had been seven years old, and had heard a mother tell her son that she loved him. At the time, he immediately thought he did something wrong. After she had slapped him, she had grabbed him by his ear and bodily threw him into the cupboard, where he'd stay for the entire weekend without food or water. When he got out of the cupboard, to get ready for school, his uncle had smacked roughly on the back of his head for irritating his wife.
He could remember coming home from school and having his cousin Dudley push him roughly into the wall, leaving a dent in the wall and Harry with a bloody face. Although his Aunt and Uncle had clearly seen what had happened, he was blamed and punished first for being clumsy enough to fall into the wall and leave a blemish, and then for getting his blood all over the house. He didn't eat for a weak that time. He wasn't sure how they explained his absence.
He could remember the one time that Uncle Vernon had gotten sloppily drunk and viciously beat him until he was unconscious. He had the bruises for the next two months, and his then broken arm had never felt the same to him. He had coughed up blood for the next several days, only being taken to the doctor when Petunia was afraid that he'd die. They had lied to the doctor and told the staff that he had gotten attacked by some neighborhood bullies.
Throughout all of this, he only ever sought their love. He rarely raised his voice to them, had learned meekness the hard way, and never felt a loving embrace. Whenever Vernon had a bad day at work, or a dispute with his wife, Harry had taken the punishment.
He could remember being an outcast at school as well. Being bullied for being short, skinny, and for wearing his cousins hand-me-downs did nothing for his self-esteem. The teachers seemed only a little better than the Dursleys, and yet they would only intervene when they deemed it necessary. It wasn't as if he was a bad student either. He had been forcefully reminded, multiple times, about showing up his cousin with better grades. Some of that mentality explained his habits at Hogwarts as well. He was nearly wired to never succeed, or think that he was better in any way.
In hindsight, some of those vicious lessons and reminders and only made him stronger. He didn't cry much anymore for instance. He noticed, too, that the sting of rejection wasn't nearly as strong as it used to be years prior. It made him stronger because he no longer felt the need to depend on anyone, or be led to believe that anyone could truly care about him.
Too, though, he knew his heart was heavy. He would give all of his worldly possessions for a conversation with his parents, who he knew loved him unconditionally. Would they be proud of him? Would they scold him for nearly always being in some form of trouble? Would they still loved him now that he wasn't an innocent baby, and now that he had a taste of the darkness that they world had to offer?
"That can be arranged." The voice spoke, startlingly Harry out of his thoughts. He had forgotten where he was with all of his reminiscing. His eyes focused and he could see the imagery from his life pause. The scenery around him changed without any obvious movement, and suddenly he could see two figures walking towards, each strikingly familiar.
"Hello son." Spoke the voice of James Potter.
Dumbledore almost immediately appeared at Grimmauld Place. He, without thought, pushed down the feeling of nearly overwhelming guilt as he walked through the halls of the mansion. Though he knew that Sirius was beyond his help and truly gone from the world, he understood that he could not get lost in that rush of emotions that had been eating away at him. As he walked, he studied the slight burden in his arms, Harry Potter. He hoped that he wasn't too late. Technically, what he was about to attempt was illegal, and was not likely to know looked as a form of Light Magic. In all of his travels and studies, though, he had yet to find a spell that was truly Dark or Light.
The ritual that he was going to attempt came to his mind, only because he knew of the protection that Lily had left for Harry as she sacrificed herself to save him. There were myths that the ritual was once used to save Merlin, but reports from such a long time ago could not always be trusted.
"Fawkes!" Dumbledore cried, hoping that his phoenix was up for the task already. After the Killing Cure he had swallowed at the Ministry, he was still young and not fully revived as of yet, but the power of the phoenix lay in its healing and ability to revitalize. He was hoping that the potion of his own making, coupled with the protection provided by Lily, and the tears and song of Fawkes would be enough o bring Harry back.
He entered Sirius' bedroom and without a thought or physical motion he vanished the bed that was in the room. Carefully laying the pale boy down on the cold wooden floor, he used his wand to carefully cut the rest of his tattered shirt from his frame, exposing the multitude of cuts and scrapes the boy had gathered in the fight for his life. Though not the Healer that Madame Pomfrey was, Dumbledore was fairly accomplished as a field medic from his younger days, and with his arsenal of magic, was able to make short work of the major damage. Unfortunately, it looked as if some of the wounds had been aggravated by the constant motion that Harry must've been in. Madame Pomfrey would have to see to those as all of the available tears that Fawkes had at the moment would be going into the potion.
Another flick and his personal cauldron appeared from the depths of his office, already starting to heat over a white fire. Several flicks later and his potions kit, appeared as knives began to cut bits and pieces of this and that and tossing them in at the right intervals. Dumbledore took this brief moment to fully survey the young man that lay before him and sighed at the revelations.
Harry was skinny, as if his last true meal had been a long time in coming. He had lost a lot of blood, and that would have to be seen to, but if Dumbledore's elixir didn't work, then the loss of blood would hardly matter. With that thought, Dumbledore shifted gears and shed his outer cloak. He would need to be careful from this point on as the elixir that he was preparing could be extremely dangerous if he even made a simple mishap.
He stirred the cauldron carefully six times counter-clockwise with a foot long stick made of pure silver. Next, he sprinkled in some of the dried unicorn blood and followed that by stirring the cauldron ten times clockwise with another foot-long stick, this one made of gold. He motioned to Fawkes, who fluttered over and dropped exactly ten tears into the concoction before gliding back over to Harry to continue his vigil. Dumbledore continued to stir, wait, stir some more, and wait until the allotted time before he added the second to last bit of the potion; his blood. With an exceedingly sharp dagger that he always carried on his person, he took the blade and sliced it across his left hand. Carefully, he dropped in ten large drops from his hand into the cauldron, changing the color of the potion to a bright emerald color.
With a quick flick of his wand, he healed the cut and set about the other part of the ritual until the potion was ready for the very last ingredient. Carefully, he drew a glowing triangle around Harry Potter. Once completed, and making sure that Harry was well within the triangle, he drew a glowing circle within the first shape. Finally, he took Harry's wand, which had been loosely held in his fingers since the battle and laid it on the boy's chest, directly below a scar that Dumbledore theorized came from another Killing Curse.
Stepping back, he examined his work, and seeing that it was nearly perfect, let out a sigh of relief. Dumbledore could not remember the last time that his body wanted to shake as much as it did right now. To him, this was more than simply saving a life. He knew that saving this life could save millions of lives down the road. He knew too that if anyone deserved to live, it was the young man that lay on the floor in front of him. Distantly, he heard the sounds of others in the house, perceivably going about the task that he set for them.
"Fundamenta montium conturbata." Dumbledore incanted. A brief flash of light illuminated the room as the spell took its course. The spell that Dumbledore incanted was an older spell that he had found during his research. Incanting it allowed for no one to be able to locate him specifically, with either magical or mundane means. It was easily broken of course, but he doubted anyone in the house knew about the spell in the first place. He secured the door itself with a simple locking spell that he put his full intent into. No one would be entering the room any time soon.
Thirsty seconds later, he was standing over the potion once again. This time his left hand grasped the ring that set on his right hand. The ring base, while ordinary was simply a way to easily carry around the jewel, which was the most important. The stone was a dull red, but when the light reflected from it, it shined with a ferocious red, or more aptly a rosso corsa. In his hand he held a shard of the Sorcerer's Stone.
Harry stood stock still as his heart raced at what he estimated to be a million miles per minute. Standing in front of him was his mother and father. He could see them, and if he fantasized about it he could smell the perfume of his mother. She was beautiful. His father was still as handsome as his pictures had alluded to. They were standing before, and in his shock he didn't speak for nearly a minute. He literally stood there smiling and crying. Well, it was far crying than smiling, but his heart was happy.
Numbly, he walked forward at the same time that his parents did. The family met in the middle and collapsed into a hug. They stood that way for several moments before they all tearfully pulled away. There was a moment of silence before anyone touched the nerve to spoke Harry only had one question.
"How?" He asked tearfully.
"Honestly, we don't know," His father replied. "This may hurt son, but we don't want to be here right now."
The last statement caught Harry by surprise and felt like a hammer blow to his chest His breath caught in his chest and the tears that he had so recently wiped away, threatened to burst forth again. 'Even my own parents don't want me.' Harry thought in panic.
"James," Lilly admonished, smacking him in the back of the head. "Harry, sweetheart, of course we want to be here with you. But being here with you means that you are dead, or dying. We don't want that at all. We want you to live. Harry, you deserve to live." Lily spoke with conviction. She shot a glare at her husband who could only return a sheepish grin.
"Why am I here?" Harry asked. He still didn't even know where here was.
"Er, I wish we had a name for it, or even a location. For the most part, some people get the choice to go back, to finish what they started," James spoke. "Some people can't go back. Then, there are those that choose to go back for whatever reason, and they become the ghosts of the world. Essentially they feel that they have unfinished business. Then, there's a third group of people, a much smaller percentage of the population that will be offered a choice to return fully to their lives. As corny as it may sound, we call them the Choosers."
"Why me?" Harry asked. He was starting to understand what his father was getting at.
"From what we know, and understand, and from the cleverness of the beautiful witch next to me, we can only guess," James started, not wanting to feel as if he was lying to his son. "We think it has something to do with the prophecy between you and Voldemort. Though, Bellatrix was his minion, she wasn't ordered by him to pursue you. In fact, he's a bit enraged about it. He has some sort of fixation with taking you out himself. So, because it wasn't sanctioned by Voldemort, you technically did not die by his hand."
"So, I'm alive, sorta, because of a prophecy?" Harry asked. His mother was the one to respond to him.
"Well, that a bit of the protection that was left when we sacrificed ourselves. It helped too, that Petunia wasn't too far away from you. Her proximity is likely the reason that you were truly allowed to make it here, where you can make the choice. Because of it and your own magic, your body wasn't too badly damaged. Any wounds can be healed with time." Lily spoke, running her thumb over his scar.
"You have to go back son. You're far too young. Believe it or not, there is so much more for you to live for. Yes, there's Voldemort, but there's also Hermione, Ron, the rest of the Weasleys, Hogwarts, and Hermione. In a lesser extent, there is the potential of saving countless lives just by your presence." James spoke up.
"But… I want to stay here with you guys," Harry started, confused as to why he would leave the happiness and comfort of his parents and not catching on that his father had mentioned his best friend twice. "I don't like it there."
"We know son. We know. And yet, all of us Potters have existed to protect, and to defend. Even when our line was once called Gryffindor," James spoke up. "Yes, we are his descendants."
"We want to see you and spend time with you. For us, as parents that is, it is enough to know that you are not here with us. It is enough for us to know that as long as you are alive, you have a fighting chance. Your life matters Harry. You must believe that." Lilly spoke, glancing to her husband as he nodded at her words.
"The choice is yours though son. We will support you either way of course." James spoke.
Harry's mind was reeling. Here he was, standing and talking to his parents, and yet couldn't enjoy it because of a damned prophecy.
"What would happen if I didn't go back?" Harry asked, concerned about his friends.
"We have no clear way of knowing," Lily began, but Harry could tell that she had more to say. "But what we can guess at is that your loss weakened the magical world considerably. Hogwarts wouldn't last much longer. Dumbledore would likely succumb to a powerful grief that would slowly rob him of his magic. He'd still be very powerful, but no longer a match for Voldemort. Your friends… Harry, your friends wouldn't make it without you."
"And if I go back? How can one person make such a difference?!" Harry spoke, starting to hyperventilate.
'Ut daret spiritum mortuis. Perduc animam de profundo.' The deep voice sounded again. The Potters collectively looked around, with the older pair sharing a grim smile.
"We don't have much time son." James spoke.
"You probably wouldn't realize it Harry, but for the majority of the wizarding population, you are a source of inspiration. Yes, the papers write disgusting articles about you. But, for the most part, you give people hope. You take that away, and Voldemort wins." Lily continued.
"So I have to go back then?" Harry asked. There didn't seem to be much choice to go otherwise.
"Yes. No. The decision is yours. You have lived a fairly selfless life, and have done incredible good. If you go back, don't let the world change you."
"Can I spend a few more minutes with you, please?" Harry asked quietly.
"Of course honey! We'll still be with you, in your heart." Lily responded, wrapping her son in her arms again.
"I- I'm… so sorry about Sirius. I was stupid and he got killed for it. I know you can't forgive m-." Harry started. His mother gave him a sad smile as James patted him heavily on the shoulder.
"Don't worry about it son. You did what you could with the information that you had at the time. You did something brave and noble. In fact, Sirius himself doesn't even blame you. We've seen him. He still loves you very much. No one can blame you for caring enough to go after your Godfather. That's what we do for those that we love." James said wisely.
Albus Dumbledore was finally at the next stage of the ritual. He had carefully drawn 101 runes on Harry's upper body, using the potion as an ink of sorts. As soon as the last rune was done, they started to glow a brilliant white collectively. The rest of the potion, he carefully drank himself, not even grimacing at the awful taste. His body has responded immediately. If he had a mirror, he would have noticed that his pupils had turned the purest of whites. He did notice, however, the eyes of Fawkes turning a bright white.
Less than a dozen miles away, in the Department of Mysteries located within the Ministry of Magic, a bright white light began to shine from under a door that was kept locked at all times. A low humming could be heard on the inside, sounding suspiciously like the phoenix song.
Back at Grimmauld Place, Dumbledore was preparing for the very final step; the incantation. Without prompting, Fawkes starting to sing beautifully, perhaps the most beautiful song that he had ever heard from the phoenix. At the rise of the second note, the runes around Harry began to pulse extremely brightly.
'Merlin help me.' Dumbledore thought furiously, as he began his methodical chanting.
"Ut daret spiritum mortuis. Perduc animam de profundo." Dumbledore's deep voice rattled off the string of Latin flawlessly. Despite having never practiced it, the need for him to be perfect outweighed his fears of mispronouncing a word.
He continued his mutterings of the phrases, his words coming at nearly in intelligible blur. Before he knew it, he entered a trance-like stance, and the view around him shifted. No longer did he only see the old and dingy walls of Grimmauld place, but his vision began to take in the unseen as well. He could now see very magic that permeated the walls of the home, a sort of pale gray. His phoenix was a brilliant orange-red color, and it reminded him of Fawkes' burning days. Harry, on the other hand was a deep black. It was as if his dying was literally draining the ambient in his surroundings.
He began to slowly increase his awareness. If he were right about Lily's protections, then Harry's essence should not be too far away from his body.
"Harry our time is coming short here. Someone on the other side is calling for you, extending themselves very deeply in order to try to save you." James spoke, looking off into the distance. Harry looked to his mom once more.
"I love you sweetheart. I love you so very much, and I don't want you to ever forget that." Lily said, his green eyes filled with comfort and affection.
"I love you too mum." Harry responded, choking up as he drew his mother into a deep hug. He then turned and looked towards his father.
"Son, you're already a better man that I could ever dreamed of. I am proud of you and I love you. Don't sell yourself short, ever. And son, don't forget to love." James spoke. His words made Harry's heart swell. He embraced his father for what may be the last time for a long time. After a moment, Lily joined the hug and held them both closely. After only a few short seconds, Harry's head perked up.
"What is that?" Harry asked. It sounded vaguely familiar but he couldn't place the source of it.
"That, Harry, is the sound of your way home." Lily pronounced, if a touch sadly.
Faintly, Dumbledore could hear the sound of his phoenix coursing through his very being. He knew that the phoenix itself allowed for the soul to be calmed if it was in an agitated state. The ritual itself was mostly used by True Seers in order to consult with past relatives, or in some cases, ease a soul into the afterlife. The trance-like state was essentially used in order anchor one's soul. The potion, coupled with the runes that Dumbledore had drawn on Harry marked the body as the home of the soul; otherwise, it was very possible for Harry not to be able to find himself. Dumbledore had linked himself to the wards of Hogwarts, things of immense power that were more than up to the task of anchoring his own soul as he went off in search of Harry's.
From some prior research done nearly a lifetime before, Dumbledore knew and understood the nuances of searching for a soul. Being magical, it was an extremely tedious task for one to locate and communicate with a lost soul. The point of the ritual, then, was to put the souls on an equal footing so to speak.
Generally speaking, as long as it was done correctly, the connection of the blood runes that Dumbledore drew on harry and the blood sacrifice that he gave of himself, created a link between them. The point of the link was often referred to as talon de Aquiles or more simply, The Heel of Achilles; named after the famed warrior that was once said to be unbeatable. This link, though, was of pure magic, and the weakness came as a result of the different types of magic involved in establishing said link. Where they met, a beacon of sorts formed.
Such a beacon had formed for Albus Dumbledore, and with it he began making short work of traveling to his destination, uncertain of what he would find. As he traveled – for that was likely the best way to describe his form of movement – he reflected on what he may have to say in order to convince Harry to come back. Or, perhaps, to even convince Harry that coming back was even possible. He had entertained the idea of using Harry's protectiveness over his friends, or the fact that Harry did not like to run away from situations. But as his mind automatically took him through the scenarios of Harry's response, he realized that he likely wouldn't get very far. Indeed, it was likely that Harry would choose to go further away as opposed to attempting to come back. Life, after all, had not treated the young man kindly.
Another thought in his mind was the sheer vastness of the location. The afterlife, for essentially, that is what it would be called, had no sense of direction. Generally, most wizards had a general sense of what direction they were heading in, and in some case, how fast they were going. And yet, in this very place there was no such sensation. Even the Tempore Sensu, or his ability to sense the time of day was not working correctly in this world.
To Albus, it was quite fascinating.
Having no conceptions of speed, direction, or even the time, Dumbledore suddenly found himself much closer to the actual beacon. At the end of his travels, he suddenly had three extremely familiar people appear in front of him.
"Hello Albus." The spectral voice of Lily Potter spoke, her words floating on the winds of magic.
"Lily, so great to see you again. And you James. I have missed you both terribly." Dumbledore spoke softly. "I wish, though, that such a meeting was under different circumstances." He continued, turning his gaze to Harry Potter.
"Yeah, my son is dead. I don't like that." James snarled, though none of the anger was aimed at the venerable wizard.
"The fact that you are here has given us hope Albus. Have you found a way?" Lily asked, absently reaching over to rub the arm of her husband. Her son was still quiet for the moment. Dumbledore nodded in response to her question.
"Indeed I have. I am uncertain of how much time we have, or if there even is such a thing as time in this place. I do know though, that the link and the beacon will not be strong for long," He spoke, pausing once he realized what he had to say next. "As such, we must make haste if we are to make it."
James turned towards Harry and appeared to look him deeply in the eye. Dumbledore noted the stillness of Harry, and the unseeing eyes that were lost as the boy searched for a hidden meaning within his thoughts. Without warning, Dumbledore watched Harry roughly shake his head and release a deep sigh.
"I'm ready to go back." Harry spoke, his voice hoarse. Inwardly, Dumbledore sagged with relief. He wasn't relieved that Harry had made the decision to return, but more so that a decision had been made at all. The choice between reuniting with his parents and going back to a world where was not tolerated had to have been an increasingly difficult one. Dumbledore knew and realized that the road ahead for Harry Potter would not be an easy one but would be full of death, tragedy, and immense pain. More than that, Dumbledore knew that Harry would be making a lot of difficult choices and personal sacrifices.
"Let's go Professor." Harry said, turning his back on his parents and not bothering to look back. Dumbledore knew that the young man before him needed to not look back in order to save his strength.
"Grab a hold of my arm Harry. I am not sure what it is that you should expect on your end, but be at ease, I will be guiding you. From my perspective, I can see a guiding beam that will lead us back to our bodies. From my research a lifetime ago, there was a general consensus that there was little to no pain in the process. More than that, Harry, they say it may take you a while to get used to your body and your magic again. Are you ready to return my dear boy?" Dumbledore asked, looking kindly over his half-moon glasses. There was silence from the boy to begin, but he finally responded to the question.
"Yes sir. I think I'm ready."
'Ut daret spiritum mortuis. Perduc animam de profundo.' A deep voice spoke again.
"Ahh, nearly perfect timing Harry. The spell that I incanted is nearing completion." Dumbledore said, his voice tinged with relief. He had managed to forcefully evict any thought of the "failed" experiments with this very ritual.
"Professor, before we go back, I need you to make me a promise." Harry said, speaking on a sudden influx of inspiration that had flooded him.
"If it is within my power, then it is yours." Dumbledore responded, smiling kindly at the young man before him.
"I want you to promise that there will be no more secrets. I want you to promise that if it pertains to me, that you will tell me. Keep in mind, I am the one that has to end this war, it makes sense if I am to know as much as possible." Harry spoke. Dumbledore mulled over his options for only the briefest of moments.
"Harry, if it does not conflict with any of the other promises that I have made, then the information will be yours." He finally responded. He couldn't very well go back on his word to one person just to keep a promise to Harry. He did, however, understand the need for information. It was hard to fight a battle if you had no information regarding it.
"Thank you Professor. Let's go home." Harry spoke after a moment of silence.
Dumbledore stood silent, waiting for the ebb in the magic permeating around him that would announce the next passing of the incantation. For the return trip, he had to time this perfectly.
"Ut daret spiritum mortuis. Perduc animam de profundo." Dumbledore heard and spoke at the exact same time.
And then, there was blackness.
*AN*
Translations:
Ut daret spiritum mortuis . Perduc animam de profundo. (Give breath to the dead. Bring this soul from the depths.)
