Author's Notes: Wasn't Piers creepy though? Couldn't you just see him doing that? Rat bastard. I love that part… does that make me sick and twisted? Anyway, thank you very much JadedRoses and Sapphrine, I hope you like this next installment.
Disclaimers: The person that owns Harry Potter sure as hell wouldn't do this to it. (Though I'm beginning to think she should. I mean, come on, we all know that Cho wasn't worth the paper she was printed on! She was fan-service!) Anyway, I don't own it, I never will, don't get pissed at me for having a little fun.
Some Days
~
He belonged here, in the dungeons. Pressed flat against the slime coated walls, where it was cool and disgusting. Chained like a prisoner in the darkness with the rats and the reptiles. Nothing was sugar coated down here, he was beginning to see why Snape liked it so much. Harry enjoyed his solitude, curled up in a corner with a book and his wand, he often fell asleep in a lost corridor, it reminded him of simpler times, his child hood. The spider webs were thick as pea soup and there were slick spots on the stone, spots where the lake water above him had corroded the ceiling and dripped on the ground like a mother's heartbeat. It was some of the best rest he'd ever gotten in Hogwarts, cool, comfortable, the air remarkably clean, if stale. If he weren't obligated by school policy to sleep in the Gryffindor tower at least once a week, he would live down here, never attend class, never see the light of day again, it would be perfect and bitter. A surrounding for his soul.
He had developed a cough, it was unsurprising surrounded by the mold of the dungeons, but it was a small price to pay. The mold was just a part of life, like everything else down here, it stunk, it was uncomfortable, but it was real. Every time he saw one of his old friends, he shied away from them, he didn't mean to be rude, and he knew he was hurting them but he couldn't stand their company any more. Like sugar, like warmth, like Weasley sweaters, there was a memory attached to every face. A memory that haunted him, for there would never be another day like that, his entire life had changed. Everything that defined him in the past had a different flavor, it didn't seem real anymore, like all that was good was false. The truth was not a happy thing, the dungeons were not a happy place, but they were honest.
Dumbledore had lied to Harry for the last time, and he was dead because of it. Harry still remembered that day, he remembered it like yesterday, better than yesterday, it was the start of everything. Voldemort rose in the middle of the night. The earth rumbled, the foundations of buildings in Hogsmeade shook apart, a curse was placed over the halls, students and teachers alike were drawn towards the Great Hall to bear witness before they were cut down by Death Eaters, and then Voldemort emerged. For the first time in it's remarkable history, Hogwarts was invaded by evil, Harry's other half had entered with a bang, and only one of them would emerge alive.
Harry had been plagued by nightmares and subsequent insomnia, he was wide awake when it happened, yet he had not been the first to arrive, it was a sight he was not prepared for. Watching people he'd known for years fall at the hands of people he had pegged as evil years ago, and watching people he had pegged at evil working for his side. It was bizarre and terrifying, standing in his pajamas, remarkably calm, it was surreal. He thought he was secure in the walls of Hogwarts, but Voldemort had been biding his time, waiting for Dumbledore's wards to fail in some way. Harry wasn't the first person in the Great Hall, but neither was Dumbledore, the old wizard was struck down before he had a chance to defend himself. Harry recalled watching in awe as Dumbledore, the regal wizard that had coached him, the fatherly figure that had tried to protect him failed, caught off guard by a poorly aimed spell. He crumpled to the ground, unnoticed by anyone but Harry as the chaos seethed around him.
And so Harry killed. He fought just like everyone around him, of his own will he spilt blood and threw himself into a fight like never before. Dumbledore had lied to him, in the past he had been in every way an innocent bystander, wallowing in guilt that wasn't his. He had been a casualty of circumstance, but everyone killed in the cross fire was on his conscience. Now he willingly took life and realized something that changed his life forever, villains kill, but so do heroes, light side, dark side – there couldn't be one without the other. And so Harry killed.
Then dawn came.
~
Night fell. With it Harry could hear the hundreds of students still populating Hogwarts crashing down the stairs for their dinners, their little feet thrumming on the stone like a herd of charged elephants. There was laughter, it echoed down the hallway, ricocheting off the walls, there was a haunting quality to that laughter. Like an echo of something very long ago, though reasonably, he had laughed like that but a year ago. 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days, 8760 hours, 525600 minutes ago. It wasn't so long when he really thought about it.
Harry curled in on himself, he found himself a corner, and shut out the sounds of the happy people. People that had families, people that didn't lose anyone, the people that had were just… getting better, they were all happily laughing without him. The moment he'd entered the school people, students, teachers, reporters, and happy citizens bombarded him with questions, congratulations, Harry nearly had a mental break down. All those well wishers, every face smiling, a few crying, hugging him, thanking him. What for? Harry had done just what everyone else had done, he killed. He was just the one that killed the figure head. And himself, he had died too. Briefly he wondered if the happiness that had died with Voldemort had joined his parents.
His parents, he was laughing with them, he was so happy with them. His father was lifting him and smiling happily, his large brown eyes were squinted against the sun, filled to the brim with mirth as he swung his son high over his head. Harry felt himself giggle and squirm, he had never been happier. He loved the air, he loved flying in his father's strong arms – it filled him with a comfortable glow that saturated every moment with love. The love that every human being craved was evident in their small family – and then it was gone so abruptly that his head spun.
Harry felt like he'd been ripped from his father's arms, thrown head first into a nightmare. He heard James's bellow "Lily, take Harry!" His mother, crying, pushing him into his cradle and glimpsed her back, her towering form fell. He couldn't see his parents anymore, he couldn't feel them laughing and smiling, he couldn't really feel anything but fear and later pain.
He felt Dudley's fists, he felt Malfoy's barbs, he felt it swirling around him like a maelstrom, bringing him to the pin-point catalyst of Voldemort. Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort. They were so close, locked together in that black tunnel, pressed against each other, tearing each other apart. The human behind the monolith of evil that was Voldemort was small, Harry's size. Harry could feel the remarkable similarity between them, Tom Riddle was no more than a boy like himself, a scrawny, skinny, orphan, there was nothing remarkable about Tom Riddle – nothing despite an arcane ability to talk to snakes – nothing but his ego.
But in those moments, some witnesses say the struggle lasted for a mere fifteen minutes – to Harry it felt like an eternity. Voldemort's blood tasted acrid, corrosive, like bleach and ash. It dripped into Harry's mouth as Voldemort rolled over him, desperately grappling for Harry's throat. Harry scratched at his enemies hands, he felt the clammy skin peel away under his fingernails, he bit and scratched, squirmed away under the oppressive weight. It would have been so easy to give up, to let the powerful force above him have his revenge – Harry didn't have the energy to wish for his death anymore. Harry just wanted to sleep. He wanted to escape this cycle, fighting, recovering, fighting, recovering, thinking about each other constantly, living with the weight of each other; dying, joining his parents might be a blessing.
He closed his eyes, he let everything go, and that's when it happened. Everything exploded out of him, he had an obligation to upkeep, a duty to destroy this monster before him. He wasn't working under his own power anymore, he was an observer in his own story, he could feel, smell, taste, hear everything that was happening, but he wasn't in control. His whole world was on fire, he'd never felt more alive and he knew without a doubt he was dying. Dying, his muscles spasmed, his skin screamed, his throat gave way, his entire body needed to give up, cried for release, and he cried.
Then it was over, there were no more tears, the tunnel was gone, the danger was gone, all that was left was mop up and emptiness. And the screaming never stopped, in his head, it never stopped, it echoed, it reverberated, it sang, it cried – in every memory he heard a scream. They fueled Voldemort, they ruined Harry's morale, and they were in his head for all eternity.
Those arms were wrapped around him. Safe, warm arms that he didn't deserve, arms that would be chopped off by one of Harry's numerous enemies, he knew it. He struggled, but they held him fast, sheltering him. He squirmed, trying to escape the contentment he felt, it wasn't right, it wasn't possible, it shouldn't have been possible, it had to have been a lie. They were so comfortable, so real, so warm, strong, firm. Those arms, the body without a face, didn't expect anything of him. It couldn't be real, never.
"Potter!"
No more, please no more – he couldn't take anymore demands on his heart, no more.
"Potter!"
"No more."
"Jesus Potter, stop screaming and bloody wake up!"
Harry awoke with a start, his head smacking against the stone wall. When had he fallen asleep? How long had he been here, why on Earth…? "Professor?" His voice sounded as groggy as he felt, he was incredibly dizzy – like he'd had one too many butterbeers.
"Yes Potter, wake up. On your feet. What the hell are you doing down here Potter?"
Harry blinked against the light that the recently lit torches cast on him, he pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall as he squinted up at his teacher through dirty glasses. "It would appear as though I was taking a nap Professor… Snape?"
"Who else Potter." It was a rhetorical statement, but Harry could come up with a number of people he would rather see… or could he? "Potter," Snape sighed, torn between the desire to let James Potter's son rot in his dungeons and the desire to save Harry, the hapless kid that did his best to save everyone but himself. "What am I going to do with you?" Another heavy sigh, "When was the last time you ate?"
The fact that he had to think about it scared him, "Three days maybe?" but it didn't matter how long he'd gone without food, because he couldn't hold much down anyway.
Snape rolled his eyes and strode off, Harry in tow, "Jesus Potter. Was the fan club too much for you? Dungeon rats not a sufficient diet for the celebrity?"
Harry didn't fight the barbs, instead he gave a wry little smiled with something akin to satire. Some things never changed, no matter how often they stood by each other in battle, they still hated each other with a passion. "Something like that."
~
"I'm really worried about Harry," Hermione said quietly, staring at her hands and gently kneading her lower lip. "I miss him."
Ron turned away from her with a 'humph' and returned to eating his eggs in silence. The red-head was rather furious with Harry Potter at the moment; with absolutely no provocation the hero had been giving his best friends the cold shoulder for weeks. Refusing to speak with them, or even be in their general vicinity. Ron was upset of course, the hero had every option available to him, friends in all the right places, a cache of money, the fame of having not only escaped Voldemort six times, but having finally defeated him, and the pride and joy of every teacher in Hogwarts. Yet the boy was still unsatisfied, seeking something else and running away from the people that cared about him.
For some reason, it infuriated Ron to no end to be ignored by someone he thought of as his best friend. The youngest Weasley son found this to be cruel and unusual punishment, having grown up with six siblings and two extremely loving parents, for all that they were busy, one was never ignored. In fact, privacy was a thing of fairy tales and school days. He didn't understand why Harry was having such a difficult time of life. He didn't seem to be surviving any specific survivor's guilt, he seemed to realize that no death was truly his fault, yet he persisted in this cold treatment of the people that loved him. It was frustrating, and Ron missed his friend.
Seamus laid a gentle hand on Hermione's shoulder when Ron turned away. "He'll be back to us before you know it. It's not like he's gone."
Hermione looked up and the boys could see she had tears in her eyes so Seamus, surprisingly diplomatic Seamus, who always knew how to lighten the mood slid an arm around Hermione's narrow shoulders. "If he's not back to Harry in a month, we'll throw him a funeral reception and put a headstone out by the whomping willow 'Here lies the grave of Harry James Potter – died in the second war against You Know Who.' Who knows, maybe he'll fall in it one day." Hermione looked momentarily scandalized before she realized he was teasing her. "If he's not normal in a month," he amended carefully, "we'll go down to the dungeons and beat the stuffing out of him until he is."
Even Ron nodded to this little plan while someone else looked thoughtful. The one place he hadn't looked, but why?
~
It was close to midnight, Snape had forced food down his throat, and forced him to keep it there. Harry felt like his stomach was made of lead but no matter how much his body wanted to vomit, the potion Snape slipped into his meal kept it down. Harry felt like cursing his name, but it would have been futile because he'd already done that. These corridors were expansive, incredible honey combs. Harry found catacombs behind a passage not marked on the Marauders Map. One of these days he would modify his father's work, build on it, the map multiple levels, but that would require going up to Gryffindor tower to retrieve it. Instead, he built a map in his head, memorizing the stones over countless dead bodies, it was really something incredible, even now, after the attack of Voldemort, these structures stood the test of time. They echoed power, and Harry wondered if the bodies of wizards retained some power. Probably not, the magic thrummed from mystery, the wands belonging to each individual set into the stone hummed a tune that no one really understood. Harry liked it down here, he didn't have to think. Just like Hermione lost herself in books and studies, he lost himself in the catacombs, memorization, speculation. Thinking without the necessity of thought, an escape from the pressing matters, he liked these dead people. Dead people he'd never seen, never known – the ghosts resided here, but they were more than a memory, and not truly dead to him.
Harry found himself slumping against the marble slab of a grave – he didn't know whose. His shoulders shook, he couldn't stand this lump in his stomach, he could feel it, see it, Harry didn't want to be so thin, but he didn't want to eat either. He wanted to retch, vomit, if Snape had poisoned him there would be no way to expunge the toxin. Harry just couldn't keep his mind in line, he tried, but it continuously strayed, murder plots, people that should have been ghosts, ghosts themselves, he couldn't concentrate on not concentrating. If a ghost's body was destroyed would he be destroyed? He would have to ask Nick… if he ever got upstairs again. Damn it Harry!
He stomped his foot, a bit petulant perhaps, but satisfying, he closed his eyes and felt the dust settle around his feet. What if he never got over this? What if he never gave himself the opportunity to ask Nick? He wanted his life back! He kicked the wall again and turned away sharply, to sharply. There was someone behind him, propelling him through the air to land solidly against something warmer than the subterranean earth. Harry stiffened, but didn't squirm, there was a knife, its thin blade effectively holding his mouth shut with a threat, if not force, and an arm, pinning his hands to his sides. Familiar arms, strong arms, arms that Harry didn't feel harm from. This was no Voldemort, this was no Hitler, this was John Wilkes Booth, Jack the Ripper – genocide wasn't on the menu today, just murder.
"Don't scream." Said a voice behind him, soft, breathless, husky and undisguised, "no one will hear you." The knife moved, its tip slowly scraping a line down his jaw, leaving a welt that did not bleed and settling at his throat. Right above his corroded artery, Harry remained perfectly still.
He was calm, his muscles didn't stiffen in fear, the metal was cool on his skin, much like the catacombs. Was this death? Voldemort had been so hot, stifling, burning, painful, searing, agonizing, but he was still alive – this was cold. "I wasn't going to scream." He murmured finally, the soft statement released in a sigh. The tension in his neck died, the discomfort of his stomach forgotten, Harry felt like his bones were the only thing holding him up. A skeleton, a puppet relying on balance alone, no strings. He slumped against the person behind him, breathing deeply, he relaxed, fell into the embrace, his neck fell back against the rough shoulder, the person that was blatantly man-handling him. Growling at him.
Harry gave up, he knew, with no one here, with no one but himself and the corpses to protect, with no obligations to up hold, Harry relaxed. He willingly fell into death, if death was coming to him. He was almost asleep against his assailant, his throat exposed, he swallowed gently and sighed.
~
What the hell was that?! Potter didn't fight him, wasn't fearful, he was perfectly calm and controlled, he didn't react at all. He fell asleep, he bloody fell asleep! Draco didn't understand, he went down to the dungeons, following Potter to places he'd never been before, fully intent on killing him. Draco's whole life had been turned upside down by Harry Potter and the bastard hadn't thought twice about it. The bastard had killed his father, ruined his home life, shattered his self esteem and forced him to reevaluate his entire standing on the war front mere moments before things came to a head. Harry Potter made him want to scream, he wanted to tear his hair out, he wanted to tear the insipid twit to pieces for merely existing. He always had, and now it was worse.
Harry was no longer the first thing on everyone's thoughts, he heard a few whispers here and there, but the shining star of the wizarding world had disappeared with Voldemort. In fact, Voldemort got more publicity than ever, people were more careful with the distribution of his name than ever. Dumbledore was dead, and You-Know-Who sent a shudder of fear through everyone, people were known to have seizures in the middle of the hallways upon thinking about him. His mere presence in Hogwarts had soured the majesty of the Great Hall. Tom Riddle was equally well known, equally well feared, as though uttering his name would resurrect him. And where was Harry Potter to save them from the big bad wolf? Few people blinked anymore, Harry was a name, he wasn't a force, he wasn't the force, Voldemort was, Voldemort who still struck terror in the hearts of the wizarding community, Voldemort who had fallen at the hand of a sixteen year old boy. And poor Harry, who was less tangible, less real, less substantial than Voldemort – less alive.
Draco felt it when Harry fell against him, he didn't feel alive anymore. His skin was as cold as his surroundings, his body frail and thin, pale in comparison to the memory. Killing him would be a mercy, Draco had followed him to the dungeons with every intention of murdering the bastard. He relished in the thought of ridding himself of the constant thorn in his side, alone with no witnesses. Harry didn't deserve anything more, Draco wanted to be the only person there, the only person that witnessed Harry's passing, no martyrdom, no heroics. Draco Malfoy would take pleasure in knowing Harry's last secret – where he was buried. It might have been worth while, just to slit his throat with that slender little blade he kept strapped to his thigh, it might have been, but Draco was glad he didn't.
Harry was suffering, and there was nothing a Malfoy enjoyed more than seeing a Potter suffer. No, Draco wanted to see Potter cry before he killed him, he wanted to see the unflappable Gryffindor break. That would be a memory worth waiting for.