Author's Notes: Thank you all for the reviews and the follows, and of course, the favorites.

This is another memory chapter, but it's the last one for some time. I do hope the story's pace is not to slow for you and I promise things will pick up very soon. I don't want anyone thinking that Harry is emo, or self-destructive – that's not my Harry. This Harry is feeling terrible guilt about Dumbledore's death, as we all would, I think. He keeps things inside. He never told anyone about the cave and I don't think he would have been capable in expressing just what he believed about himself in regards to his "bravery" that everyone idolized him for. That's one of the reasons this story is different from DH. In the books, the only person apart from Dumbledore who would have seen Harry for who he is would be Hermione. Ron demonstrated his inability to separate Harry from the Boy-Who-Lived during his bout of jealously both in GOF and DH. (I know, the horcrux certainly brought out the worst in Ron, but I think like the mirror or Erised, a content and happy person would not have had such vulnerability to the horcrux locket—the eleven year old Harry could likely have worn it with little trouble as opposed to seventeen year old Harry, who, with several years of experience now, had far more demons to contend with—even still, it affected him least of the three).

As before, I have used some verbatim lines from Sorcerer's stone and Goblet of Fire – they are not mine.

Lastly – feel free to review.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any other property as owned by JK Rowling, whom I and countless children owe the love of reading and writing. This story is for my own enjoyment.

Chapter Four: Return to Riddle Manor

"Are you ready, Harry," asked Hermione, placing the Pensieve on Harry's desk after lunch. Harry felt more apprehensive than yesterday. Before she had left that evening, Hermione told him of her request to see those memories from his childhood before and during Hogwarts. While Harry did not look forward to reliving those moments, he was more nervous about her second request: the night Voldemort had returned. He knew Hermione saw him as brave; the memory would shatter that image. Perhaps that's why he relented in the end. He needed her to know that the Boy-Who-Lived was not the courageous man she believed him to be.

"Remember," she said instructively, "think about the memories as you extract them – by doing them all at once we can simply watch them in succession like yesterday." Harry nodded as he repeated the extraction spell several times, gently flicking each memory into the Pensieve. A quarter hour later he had deposited all the memories he thought Hermione would like to see concerning his childhood. He paused however as he rested his wand tip to his temple, his thoughts now on the graveyard. He didn't notice his wand hand trembling until Hermione took it into her own to steady him.

"I know this is hard," said Hermione, "but you can't keep it inside forever. I'm not asking you to tell the world, Harry—just me—only me." Harry swallowed and concentrated on the graveyard.

"Subsidium memoria," he said softly and the familiar tickling sensation washed over his brain as he pulled the memory away with his wand. Hermione still held his hand and guided him as he released the memory into the Pensieve.

"I'm so proud of you," said Hermione. "You pick up on spells much faster when you don't have any distractions."

"Only because you're a good teacher," said Harry truthfully. Hermione beamed at him. She took his hand in the same manner as before and together they took the plunge into the Pensieve.

They were standing the Dursley's living room; Vernon sat in his recliner as the television flashed in front of him, Petunia busied herself with knitting, and Dudley played with a new toy. The young Harry in front of them sat on the floor with a small toy soldier in his hand watching Dudley with a longing expression.

"Aunt Petunia," asked young Harry abruptly as he unconsciously traced the lightning bolt scar on his forehead, "How did I get this scar on my head?"

"In a car crash when your parents died," she said annoyed. "And don't ask questions."

"What did they do," asked Harry.

"What did we say, boy," snarled Vernon who had also became annoyed at the interruption. "Don't ask questions."

() () ()

Vernon was yelling at a young Harry who had dropped the frying pan and spilled bacon and grease over the kitchen floor.

"You worthless boy," he shouted. "Do you have any idea how hard your aunt Petunia works to keep this kitchen clean?"

"Yes, uncle Vernon," muttered Harry to the floor and avoiding his uncle's furious gaze. "It was an accident."

"You'll clean this kitchen top to bottom, do you understand?"

"Don't I always," asked the young Harry, unable to resist.

"When you've finished you go straight to the cupboard. No meals for you today. Perhaps that'll teach you to pay attention and be more grateful."

() () ()

Dudley's eleventh birthday. Dudley stomped and hollered about the number of his presents. Young Harry fixed breakfast. Hermione looked like she might be sick.

"Bad news, Vernon," said the angry Petunia. "Mrs. Figg's broken her leg. She can't take him." She eyed young Harry with disgust. "Now what?"

"We could phone Marge," said Vernon.

"Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy." Harry glanced at Hermione; she looked livid. The room swirled again and now they were standing at the snake exhibit. Dudley and Vernon banged on the glass and then left disinterested. They watched Harry speak to the snake; of course Hermione could not understand because the young Harry was speaking Parseltongue. They watched as an excited Dudley ran back to the glass, shoving Harry to the pavement and he pressed his body against the glass, captivated by the now active serpent. Hermione did eventually laugh as the glass vanished and Dudley flew over the railing and fell face first into the pen's water.

() () ()

They were home from the zoo. Dudley was wrapped from head to foot in blankets. Vernon pulled Harry by the cuff of his neck toward the cupboard.

"Go—cupboard—stay—no meals," was all the angry Vernon could say. The room dissolved again and Harry braced himself. They were now in his room after his first year at Hogwarts. Dobby had arrived with his cryptic warning of danger, his admittance of keeping Harry's letters from him, and of course, the Hover Charm that forced Harry into his perpetual cage within his room. The room swirled and the bars on his window were plainly visible and Hedwig was locked in her cage. Vernon was fitting the door flap where he would receive food. They watched as the young Harry was slipped food through the door flap and was only let out to use the bathroom. They watched too as Ron and his brothers, Fred and George arrived that fateful night and rescued him with a furious Vernon screaming out the window.

() () ()

A much older Harry and Dumbledore sat in the living room with the Dursleys while Dumbledore's conjured glasses (full of Rosmerta's Oak Matured Mead) nudged gently against the sides of the Dursely's heads. They watched as Dumbledore reprimanded them for how they had treated him and ignored the headmaster's wishes. Hermione smiled briefly with her head resting on Harry's shoulder. To outsiders, this reprimand would seem inadequate, but as Harry often felt, it was the calm demeanor of the headmaster's voice of disappointment he found more difficult to bear than any of the loud and angry rebukes he had often received from Snape. Harry had thought this would be a good memory for Hermione to see—she needed to know—just as he had to remind himself—Dumbledore meant the words in his letter. He could have shared more but he felt he had given Hermione enough to satisfy her.

() () ()

Everything turned dark now. Harry felt ice-cold shivers run up his spine. Hermione tightened her grip around him but was now very alert. Teenage Harry and seventh year Cedric stood in the center of the graveyard. Harry watched as his younger self read the tombstone nearest him.

"Cedric, we've got to get out of here," shouted Harry. "Back to the cup, now!" It was too late. A high-pitched voice rang over the graveyard; the command to kill was issued followed by the swift green light of the killing curse. Cedric Diggory was dead. Hermione's grip on harry was tightening by the moment.

"Hermione, I can't breathe," chocked Harry. Hermione calmed herself but she did not let go. Wormtail secured Harry against the tombstone of Riddle Senior, lit the fire of the cauldron which brought the liquid into an immediate boil and dropped the weakened form of Voldemort into the cauldron to start the dark ritual. He then took the bone from the grave beneath Harry's feet, cut off his own hand and watched it dissolve as it hit the sweltering liquid, and finally, where Wormtail sliced Harry's forearm for the final ingredient to restore his master's body. Even though they were in a memory, Harry saw the fear wash over Hermione's face. Terrible though it was, Harry was glad to see she comprehended just how horrible this memory was about to become.

Voldemort rose from the cauldron as Wormtail collapsed on the ground clutching his amputated arm. A brief but shrill breathe escaped Hermione. Harry knew this was the first time she had ever seen Voldemort. The Dark Lord examined himself as Wormtail pleaded to his master for help. Voldemort did not oblige of course; rather, he reached for Wormatail's left arm and pressed the Dark Mark that was tattooed to his flesh so many year ago. One by one, the Death Eaters returned and Voldemort told his tale of abandonment and his struggle to return to power. Hermione gasped as he performed the Cruciatus Curse on one of his own Death Eaters and restored Wormtail's hand. Then, Voldemort turned to Harry, welcoming him with a mocking tone in his voice. Voldemort then used the first of several Cruciatus Curses on him, which forced Hermione to bury her face into Harry's chest as the screams of the younger Harry filled the graveyard.

Hermione choked back tears while the young Harry was reunited with his wand as he prepared to duel Voldemort.

"You've been taught to duel, Harry Potter," asked the Dark Lord. "We bow to each other, Harry. Come, the niceties must be observed—Dumbledore would like you to show manners—bow to death, Harry." Voldemort made a swift motion with his wand and the young Harry bowed. Voldemort used a second Cruciatus Curse and Harry's screams were more intense than the last.

"That hurt, didn't it, Harry—you don't want me to do that again, do you? Answer me! Imperio!"

It had been the one place Harry had shown any prowess in that duel; he refused the curse. As Voldemort prepared to curse him again, Harry had flung his body behind the tombstone of Voldemort's father. Voldemort taunted him. The young Harry breathed hard, heavy, and fast, his eyes wide in fear as he hid behind the tombstone.

This was how Harry remembered the graveyard: Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, cowering before Lord Voldemort—no brave charge into flames, no valiant sword thrust into the open jaws of a Basilisk, no determined push against a hundred Dementors—just a scared, helpless teen-aged boy without hope, about to die.

They watched as young Harry closed his eyes and took one last heavy breath. It was then that Hermione saw the emotion on the young wizard's face; it was not the confident look she had always imagined it to be, nor was it the defiant, stubborn one she was all too familiar with—the young Harry's eyes could not have been clearer—he had resigned himself to his fate.

The wands connected a moment later; Priori Incantatem played out before them as one-by-one the recent victims of Voldemort erupted from his wand, each shielding Harry from view. Hermione sobbed as Harry's mother and father spoke with him.

Hermione did not look at the young Harry anymore; rather, she had thrown her arms around him had started to whisper in his ear how proud she was of him. She had realized what Harry was trying to do; he wanted her to see the Harry that no one knew. She had never allowed herself to be taken away by the Boy-Who-Lived—she had only known him as Harry, but the brave Harry none-the-less. Now she saw the vulnerable Harry—the real Harry—the Harry who didn't believe in himself. She knew in that moment she had been granted a special knowledge that no one—Ginny, Ron, Sirius, or possibly even Dumbledore—had ever known. It was a revelation; his humbleness and his disdain for those who tried to honor and celebrate him had been the result of being unable to see himself as other's had—as she had.

"Being brave doesn't mean you're not scared, Harry," she whispered in his ears, both of them no longer paying any attention to the memory they were in. They were unaware they had returned to the grounds of Hogwarts with young Harry and Cedric. "Bravery is facing your fears and you are a brave wizard—a brave man."

"I wish that were true, Hermione," said Harry. Hermione held him tighter, desperate to bring him closer, wanting him to somehow feel what she couldn't put into words. She remembered the feast that had followed that terrible night in the Great Hall. She was surprised when the Pensieve obliged her and they found themselves transported to the Great Hall. Dumbledore stood before them, his hand gestured openly to young Harry's seat.

"He risked his own life to return Cedric's body back to Hogwarts. He showed, in every respect, the sort of bravery that few wizards have ever shown in facing Lord Voldemort, and for this, I honor him."

Harry shook his head defiantly. "I'm not half the man you think I am, Hermione—I'm not half the man Dumbledore believed me to be either."

"I want to see it, Harry," she said no longer whispering in his ears. "Something terrible happened that night with Dumbledore, I know it. Please Harry; help me understand your pain—I can't help if you don't let me in." Harry shook his head. "I know Dumbledore would want me too—but I can't—I don't want you to see it—to see me—that way. If I'd been braver, stronger, I could've—"

They had returned to the darkness of Harry's room. Hermione whispered again and again in his ears as Harry felt her tears against the skin of his neck and the dampening of his shirt.

It wasn't your fault, it wasn't your fault, it wasn't your fault…