To Be Ready

Harry remained still as the Headmaster finally explained all the details that he could have been told at the beginning of the year, information that could have been shaped in a way that even if Voldemort took his mind, there would be nothing useful for him. Outside of Dumbledore's office, the sky was growing paler as the dawn started to beat back the night, but there was no comfort in knowing that the battle at the ministry was actually finished, there was no weight being lifted from the Chosen One's shoulders now that he knew the why.

Why his family had been targeted, why his years since he walked back into the Wizarding World seemed to always revolve around Voldemort, and why he had been manipulated, leading to Sirius' death. The Chosen One actually listened to Dumbledore's misguided attempt at taking the blame for everything that happened: fault. How could it belong to any but Harry? Hadn't his mind been the one to be manipulated by Voldemort? Then again, if I was actually told what was going on, I would have expected a trap, and maybe Sirius would still be alive.

Maybe the Headmaster was at fault. At least partially.

Harry hunched forward on his seat and pressed the palm of his hands against his eyes, hoping that the pressure would be enough to make him feel something else than hollow. But the only thing that closing his eyes brought, was seeing again the events of the evening: from his and his friends' run from Hogwarts on the Thestrals' backs, to the retrieval of the damned prophecy, to the heated fighting, a fight in which he had thrown around stunners, tripping jinxes and the usual collection of harmless meaninglessness until Sirius' death.

He remembered how he had cast the Cruciatus, free of any influence of Voldemort, and the brief flash of glee when Bellatrix fell. And he remembered the flash of green when the Killing Curse left his holly and phoenix feather wand.

A wand that no longer existed, as Voldemort proved capable of learning: Harry's wand saved him in the graveyard, and the Dark Lord had removed it, it was as simple as that.

When Dumbledore had arrived, Harry had been too exhausted to celebrate, even within the not-so-safe boundaries of his mind. He simply felt... Hollow. The unholy sense of vindication that hit him at the death of Bellatrix didn't turn into relief at the Headmaster's actions. Logically, he knew that there should have been a reaction of some kind when the aged wizard appeared to save the day, but in those moments, the fabled Chosen One simply felt tired.

It was a bone-deep heaviness, a cold cover that seemed to keep him from shattering in the same way manacles could keep someone from escaping: maybe he had wanted to fall in pieces and cry, maybe he had wanted to actually die and join Sirius, he didn't know, and he couldn't bring himself to care.

The battle between the two magical behemoths had shaken the Ministry to its foundations, no charm, ward, or quirky development of the magical building had been useful to prevent the tremors that echoed through the tiles, and nothing had been capable of keeping Harry's ears from ringing painfully at the passing of the spells over his head.

In the chaos of the confrontation, Harry had ended up palming the wand of Bellatrix Lestrange while he more or less kept behind the marble corner of one of the many columns that doubled as chimneys for the Floo, he had been more or less... disbelieving, of everything that was going on. Detatched.

The emotional rollercoaster of the day had apparently ended up squeezing him dry of anything: there was a dull ache at the thought of Sirius, a throbbing absence that he felt with each breath, and the twin raging hate that felt as if slumbering now that Lestrange was dead, a hate that flickered almost with his own mind each time his green gaze landed on the wand of his fallen opponent. It had a handle that described an angle with the length of dark wood, and the difference in feeling that it gave off now that Harry lacked his fated companion...

Even with his eyes closed, Harry could feel it: the barely hidden hunger of the wand, the power begging to be unleashed, to seek out any deadly confrontation that could be found, and the will to break, to shatter, to impose itself upon the lesser, to kill.

He tried taking a deep breath and to direct his thoughts somewhere else, inwardly grimacing at how much that wand reminded him of the moment in which he had cast the Killing Curse.

Slowly, he returned to listen to Dumbledore's voice, his calm, unhurried voice, and words, carefully chosen as they undoubtedly were, that were explaining everything that had happened, and Harry admitted to himself, with a twinge of irritation that immediately was echoed back at him by Bellatrix's wand, that he did not care.

Ultimately, the only one to die had been Sirius -and Bellatrix of course-, the wounded would recover, and whatever kind of possession that Voldemort attempted utterly failed because of what? Love?

The prophecy, and whatever it meant, was cast aside: Harry had another, much more important question, the only piece of information that apparently wasn't important, and the only thing that could actually matter. "If love protected me from Voldemort, why didn't it protect Sirius?"

Dumbledore's voice quieted as Harry acted on his own initiative for the first time since the beginning of the conversation. For all the hours between his arrival in the Headmaster's office and that moment, it hadn't mattered the topic, the disguised needling, the more blatant prodding, the younger wizard had been utterly passive, looking almost as uncaring as he wished himself to be.

"Harry," and the amount of pity in that word washed over the boy like a tidal wave: leaving no escape, and being utterly unwanted, "love is your greatest strength: from Lily's sacrifice to your own grief for Sirius, it had and it will defend yourself from Voldemort, for which it's anathema."

And I should be happy for that? Still hunched forward, Harry's right hand clenched roughly around a strand of his hair, pulling it painfully for a couple of seconds, as if the pain could root him and make him awake in a world that felt so indescribably dull. Luck and chance were the only thing that had allowed the others to survive that night, and for once they hadn't been enough to save everyone.

The flash of Cedric's death haunted Harry for a brief second as an increasingly familiar grimace appeared on his face: how many times he had escaped death by the most narrow of margins? How many times Hermione and Ron had risked the same thing that apparently kept happening to those that surrounded him? In hindsight, Harry regarded his past adventures with utter disbelief bubbling to the surface of his mind: why had he ever been proud of what he had accomplished? Why couldn't he leave it well enough alone?

Hermione had the right of it: my saving people thing is a mistake. But even as he wished for it to be real, the image of Ginny on the damp floor of the Chamber of Secrets flashed before his eyes, and his memory of a stag Patronus scattering the dementors that were trying to eat Sirius' soul.

Once more, Harry opened his eyes only to focus on the carpet: he could not bear to look at Dumbledore at the moment, frankly, he couldn't bear to look at anything.

"In regards to your actions against Bellatrix Lestrange..." Dumbledore's voice assumed a sterner tone, "I considered it wiser to imply with the Ministry that Voldemort killed her in a pique of rage, as I didn't think they'd be reasonable enough to understand the kind of influence Tom was capable of exercising on you this night."

A mirthless, startled laugh left Harry's lips before he could hold it back, and for the first time in a long while he lifted his eyes, observing the aged Headmaster. Outside of the office, the dawn had already broken beyond the horizon, while Fawkes chirped sleepily in a handful of ashes. But Dumbledore's blue eyes were almost completely hidden behind a layer of unshed tears, and even the air around him f to felt like it was about to break apart in tears.

For a split second, Harry considered it: had it been truly him to kill Bellatrix? Or had it been another game for Voldemort? Letting him believe it only to further destabilize him? "What is it, professor? Either Love protected me from Voldemort, or it didn't. Either I was his puppet, or I am responsible for everything that happened tonight."

"One doesn't need to be under the Imperius to make a bad choice when everything around him crumbles." the Headmaster blinked, his tears finally falling over his cheeks and into his long beard, "The happenings of this evening brought you on the brink, and only a nudge was needed then..."

Harry shook his head minutely: he remembered that moment, how could he not? The decision was his, and there was no one he would share that... honor? burden?.. with. He had Crucio'ed and Killed Bellatrix Lestrange, for once, he had been able to actually strike back, for once, they paid as dearly as himself always had.

"Voldemort said that you weren't trying to kill him tonight." Harry shifted to the last topic that he wanted to face before going away, away from Dumbledore, from his pitying eyes, from his constraining office, from everything, at least until the world began to make sense again.

"I wasn't."

"Why?"

"There are things much worse than death, Harry." there was a heaviness to those words, as if they held more meanings than what the much younger wizard could hope to understand, but once more, the Chosen One realized that he didn't care for Dumbledore's mystifications and usual obfuscations.

"Who else but you?" the question slipped tiredly from Harry's lips as he regarded the ancient man in front of him with detached confusion: "You, who are the only one he ever feared? Why didn't you kill him, or at least try to?"

Dumbledore's sorrow was palpable as it tinged the air around him and his blue eyes settled on his young charge: "We already went over the prophecy, my boy."

"And you explained that it's important only because Voldemort thinks it is." the green eyes of the last Potter burned coldly in the warm light that the rising sun provided through one of the windows, "We agreed that I want him to die, and that I'd like to be the one to kill him: but waiting for me to be ready to fight him doesn't seem fair when he'll keep hurting others in the meantime."

"Ah," the Headmaster nodded slowly, recognizing the point that had just been made, "I had hoped to face this topic during the next year, as there is very little that we can do about it now, and frankly my boy, you are truly exhausted, and some rest would do you good after the tribulations..."

"No." Harry shook his head immediately, "You've just told me how keeping secrets cost us, how you 'caring for me' brought you to withhold necessary information... please, I need to know, how can we all prepare if we don't know what we need to do?"

Dumbledore seemed to age in front of his eyes, the lines on his face deepening as he closed his eyes for a moment, "I understand where you are coming from, my boy, but after the night you've just had, I won't add another burden to it. Take the next days to rest, and the summer to mourn. In September, we'll revisit the topic."

The denial for more information, for clearly fundamental information, if it was something that pushed the Headmaster to not try to kill Voldemort with his own wand, hit harry like a punch in the solar plexus. Obviously, he was unworthy of trust, especially so soon after he had cause Sirius' death.

The only thing that made sense to Harry, the only motive why Dumbledore would think it wise to not tell him the things he wanted to know, that he needed to know, was that for some reason, the Headmaster didn't think him ready. And the Chosen One had hardly proved him wrong, had he? Failed at Occlumency, failed at keeping Voldemort out of his mind, failed at keeping everyone safe: Harry had failed, failed, failed.

Was it truly a wonder to see that even after all the admissions of the Headmaster, in which he claimed a share of the faults that brought about Sirius' death, he still refused to trust Harry?

The young Griffindor rose from his seat and walked out of the office, and this time, Dumbledore let him.

He descended the stairs guarded by the Gargoyle and strode without thinking across the castle, familiar halls still empty because it was too early echoed back at him his own steps: Quirrel, the Basilisk, the Dementors, the Tournament, and the Battle at the Ministry. Again and again, Harry had found himself against insurmountable odds, and by a combination of luck and well-timed help he had survived, somewhat saving the situation.

Luck and well-timed help hadn't helped that night: Sirius was dead, and that proved that Harry wasn't ready to actually be a part of the fight, to help the Order of the Phoenix. And the only thing that the young wizard could take away from the conversation with the Headmaster, the only thing that he could influence, was in fact that unworthiness that he could feel settle like a yoke around his neck, like stone weights clamped to his heels.

Without stopping in his stride, Harry reached the Seventh Floor, and the Room of Requirement. In there, he had managed to teach others how to defend themselves, hadn't he? It was time to start preparing himself, in order to be able to fight.

The next time he'll encounter Voldemort, he'd be ready.

Harry would be ready.

AN

I'm sort of sorry that I've skipped the actual battle and possession, but given that they went more or less as in canon, I thought that there'd be little point in repeating something that everyone already knows.

I decided to skip to the confrontation between Dumbledore and Harry in order to get started with the first butterfly's effects, I hope I didn't disappoint.

And yes, I sneaked in the two new things that have happened during the fight, namely, Harry taking Bella's wand, and a soft Dumbledore's POV: there is always a lot of mysterious references to Dark Magic in the Potterverse, but of course, the lore isn't really well explored or built, and I'll try to not fall into over-exploration of magic as I often do (and I enjoy doing), giving just enough mystical mumbo jumbo as to make it look like it all makes sense.

I didn't want to repeat the conversation that by now everyone nows by heart, so I've just used Harry's recollection of events to take a plunge, so to speak, into his head: and as someone has pointed out, I'm not going to turn this Harry into another Dark Lord or a whiny baby, but considering that Sirius has just been killed, there is a bit of time needed for his psyche to settle.

And I hope everyone noticed that he didn't spare a second thought to Bellatrix, nothing beyond the satisfaction of actually removing an enemy.