Author Notes: Jenn the Freak, you were officially review number 1000…wow, 1000 reviews…I'm so grateful, everyone :- ) Jenn, just e-mail me your address, and I will mail you your very own pack of Harry Potter trading cards! I know, it's not much…but I want to say thank you, to everyone who's supported me, and this fic…I would never have gotten this far without you! If you're bummed about not winning, you'll have another chance! Check the reviews for details…And now: To business. Enjoy, and thank you again!
"Don't call me that," Peter Pettigrew said in his normal, wormy voice, pocketing Harry's wand. It was bizarre to hear Pettigrew's voice, see Pettigrew's stooped posture, and fidgety hands all performed through Kingsley's tall, muscular frame – like some kind of twisted Punch and Judy show.
Now he'd done it. Away from everyone who could help him, no wand – fine work, Harry.
But another thought was nagging him, even now…had he known? Had he let it happen? Was he just so tired, so…so…
"So ready to die?" whispered a quiet voice in his mind.
"Get moving," Peter said, coldly, jabbing his wand at Harry once more, clenched tightly in his silver fist.
Dean's words came back to haunt him: "One of them was bald, and had a silver hand, like," he had frowned.
As bald as Kingsley Shacklebolt. Why hadn't he put it together?
"You must have been here a lot with my Dad," Harry ventured, dully, dragging his trainers, trying to take more time. He knew what was coming – Pettigrew had to be taking him to Voldemort. But where, and how?
"Keep moving," Peter snapped. He was trying to stay cold, forget that he even knew Harry – he prodded him roughly with the point of his wand.
"And Sirius, and Remus of course," Harry continued, "Of course, it's only you and Remus, now."
"Shut up!"
"Didn't I spare your life, once?" Harry asked, still dragging his feet, "Oh yes, Sirius was going to kill you…right here, actually. Perhaps I should have let him."
"Shut up and keep moving!" Peter snarled, though there was a tinge of desperation in his voice.
"I imagine you're feeling quite chuffed," Harry said, trying to build his anger – he would need it. Or was he building Wormtail's anger? "First you hand Voldemort my parents – " He noticed, oddly, that Pettigrew was flinching at the sound of his Master's name – "And now you hand me over, practically gift-wrapped. How do you think he'll reward you, Wormtail? Do you honestly believe he'll let you live in the end?"
"I said shut it!" Peter cried, though he now sounded thoroughly disturbed.
Harry kept his silence the rest of the way down the tunnel – there was no fighting it, really. Pathetic though he was, Peter Pettigrew had both Harry's wand and one of his own, and he sounded desperate – Harry knew only too well was Peter was capable of when backed into a corner.
Harry stepped into the Shrieking Shack, which groaned and creaked in the wind as usual, dust falling from the timbers above his head.
"Go on," Pettigrew said, with another sharp prod from Harry's wand, which caught his broken rib and made him gasp aloud, "Up the stairs."
Harry wondered dully what Voldemort had in store for him, and found, shockingly, that he didn't care. It was as though everything had been emptied from his heart – Neville was dead, and it was his fault. And worse, even worse than that (if there could be anything worse), he had died in vain. Harry wasn't a good person – he wasn't even worth saving. All the people who had put their faith in him, their trust, now knew he was a murderer, no better than the cringing, filthy coward behind him. Worse, in fact: Pettigrew had never dealt the killing blow to his parents, even though he was an instrument of their deaths.
These thoughts carried Harry mutely into the chamber where he'd first met Sirius, and Peter Pettigrew, for that matter, that fateful night three years ago. It looked much as it did then: decrepit. There were still some tracks faintly visible in the dust, places where it had been disturbed. Were those Sirius's ghostly footsteps on the floor there? Remus's? Or were they Theodore Nott's, hurriedly downing his Snackbox and putting on Malfoy's spare uniform to sneak into Hogwarts?
"It is haunted," Harry thought, morosely.
Harry's eyes raked the broken, clawed chair in the corner. Had Remus destroyed it? When had he? When he and Sirius and James were all still young, and alive?
"Right," Peter snapped, giving Harry an excruciating push forward, "On the count of three, I'm going to grab your arm, and we're going to Apparate. And no funny business!"
"I think not," came a strident, angry voice, and Harry looked up to find Remus Lupin stepping out of the shadows. Harry recognized the telltale swish of an Invisibility Cloak, as Remus's fist, then the rest of him suddenly came into view, and the shimmering garment fell to the dusty floor.
"R – Remus!"
"Accio wands!" Lupin shouted, and Harry's wand flew out of Pettigrew's hand, but Pettigrew's own, the one clutched in his silver hand, remained.
"Hello, Peter," Remus said quietly, dangerously – he reached into his pocket, and waved a worn bit of parchment in the air…Harry recognized the Marauder's Map.
"Borrowed a few tricks from James, though I suppose you remember that, even now. I've been waiting for you."
Harry felt a sudden wave of relief – everything was going to be alright. He'd have to thank Hermione for thinking to give the map to McGonagall…obviously Lupin had recognized it, had thought to check for Pettigrew – had known all the ins and out, the secret entrances and exits…perhaps that was one of Mad-Eye's cloaks…Mad-Eye who was currently lying dead in the main hallway…
"W-what d'you…Remus, it's me, Kingsley…Kingsley Shackle – "
"I thought you'd use this route tonight," Lupin snarled, "Can't Apparate out of Hogwarts, can you? Nor create a Portkey – Dumbledore learned that lesson from the Triwizard Tournament. Using the tunnel, and the Polyjuice Snackbox – After all, it worked for Theodore Nott…and Dumbledore would never expect you to be so stupid as to use the same route twice. Besides, isn't it just like you to exploit our trust, every advantage, every secret – "
"P-Petrificus," Wormtail began, flustered, but Lupin was too fast for him.
"Expelliarmus!"
Pettigrew's wand jumped out of his hand once more, and clattered to the floor. Harry made to grab it, but again, the pain throbbing through him made it impossible. He fell to the floor with an agonized grunt, managing at least, to knock the wand away as he fell.
"Harry?" Lupin asked, concernedly. Harry caught a glimpse of his worried, scarred face, before he wheeled on Wormtail, absolute fury now stamped on his mild features, "What have you done to him, you filthy – "
"Rat?" Wormtail spat, in return. He drew himself up to his full height (which, in Kingsley's body, was actually a bit fearsome), "That's all you ever thought of me, wasn't it, Remus?"
"You know that's not true."
"Well, it was true of Sirius and James. Calling me names, cracking wise about me when they thought I couldn't hear. Maybe if they had – "
"Come off it, you sorry sack of Streeler spit!" Remus snarled, looking murderous, "Maybe that's what you tell yourself at night, but don't think I'm going to buy that sob story for a second – James Potter and Sirius Black were the best thing that ever happened to you – the best thing that ever happened to me!"
His eyes went a bit wide in surprise – it seemed he hadn't planned to say that, and was surprised that it had come out of his mouth.
"And you killed them," he finished, his eyes growing wild and bright, "You killed them both…and Lily. Who else, Wormtail? Was it you who killed that Muggle over at the Riddle place? Did you kill Kingsley too? How many have died tonight because of you?"
"You're not the boss of me anymore, Remus!" Pettigrew shouted, sounding disgustingly juvenile for a man his age, "You of all people should know that it's dog-eat-dog out there…well, I've got a different pack, now. The Marauders are dead! It's over! Now…stand aside, or…or I'll kill you!"
"Well, you ought to be quite practiced at that by now," Remus whispered, viciously, "But I'll be damned if you're going to take Harry from me."
"Fine with me," Pettigrew snarled, and lunged for Remus, his silver hand outstretched.
Remus seemed momentarily shocked – Harry could tell that he'd never expected Pettigrew to attack him head-on…But this was not the same Peter Pettigrew Harry remembered from the Shrieking Shack, either. Something about his new hand, perhaps, had poisoned him, an extra touch of madness lending daring to his cowardice.
"Stupefy!" Remus finally managed to yell, stumbling backwards, but Pettigrew held up his silver hand, and the red light bounced off of it, narrowly missing Harry on the ground. Remus was about to stumble over the chair, when Pettigrew reached out, and wrapped his silver fingers around Remus's throat.
"AAAAGH!" Remus cried, and at the same time, an odd, metallic sizzle reached Harry's ears. Sweet, foul-smelling smoke began to issue from between Pettigrew's fingers.
"NO!" Harry cried, the effort making his chest explode with pain, as he struggled to get to all fours. Where had that blasted wand gone?
"Did you think it was an accident," Peter snarled, "That this little gift from my Master was made of pure silver? Full moon coming on, is it? I've been waiting for this, Remus. How does it feel to finally be the weak one, the foolish one? Where's James and Sirius now, Remus? Who's small and fat and stupid and useless now?"
The skin of Remus's neck had now turned black, and he was no longer able to scream. His hands scrabbled furiously on Wormtail's arm, but gained no purchase. The look of pure hatred burning in Remus's bloodshot eyes slowly turned desperate - his tongue was beginning to protrude.
"STOP!" Harry yelled, "STOP IT!"
"Why?" snarled Pettigrew, "Why should I?"
"YOU OWE ME!" Harry roared.
Pettigrew paused, and turned to look at Harry. Harry again felt unnerved at seeing Pettigrew's shifty gaze come from Kingsley Shacklebolt's normally calm, sober face. Pettigrew's grip seemed to loosen slightly on Remus's throat, though the sizzling sound didn't abate.
"I saved your life," Harry spat hurriedly, fully aware that Remus could be dying, even now, "You owe me a wizard's debt. Let him go, now!"
"And?" Pettigrew asked nervously, his eyes narrowing.
"And I'll consider your debt repaid!"
Remus looked horrified, and was trying to kick Pettigrew, and shake his head "No" to Harry at the same time, but Harry ignored him.
"No tricks?" Peter Pettigrew asked, supiciously, "And you'll come quietly?"
"I swear!" Harry cried in desperation, "Just put him down!"
"Fine."
Pettigrew dropped Remus carelessly. The sizzling sound faded, and there was a dull thump as Remus fell to the ground, gasping and croaking for air.
"I'm sorry," Harry said, feeling a lump rise in his throat, though whether it signified tears or panic, Harry couldn't say, "I'm so sorry, Remus."
Remus caught his eye, and tried to croak something to Harry, but it was unintelligible. He reached out a hand to Harry.
"I'm sorry!" Harry choked out, reaching for Remus's hand.
"This might be our last chance to say goodbye," Harry thought, wildly.
But Pettigrew gave Remus's reaching hand a rough kick.
"No tricks!"
Anger welled up in Harry – anger unlike any he'd ever known.
He'd killed once. He could kill again.
"You – YOU!" he roared, and with a supreme, painful effort, flung himself forward, gripping Wormtail's robes, trying to pull himself upright.
Wormtail simply grabbed Harry's arm.
There was a sudden, loud "snap!" and a bizarre sensation that make Harry's ears pop, and before he even had time to think, the wooden floor under Harry's knees had changed to cold, black marble, and the light was no longer the wan, pale light of the moon, but blue, and flickering…
Harry's heart sank in his aching ribcage, and he let go of Wormtail's robes weakly. He was back in the Corridor, the Corridor that led to the Department of Mysteries.
"Imperio!"
Harry felt the familiar sensation of relaxation, but none of the bliss he had felt previously – he was too far gone, too deep in pain to let go entirely.
"Get up," Wormtail's voice whispered in his ear.
Harry's feet carried him upwards smoothly, the pain in his ribs now only a dull flutter.
Why not? He was wandless, hopeless – it was too late.
He followed mutely after Wormtail, gliding as though in a terrible dream into the circular, torch-lit room. It did not spin, however, as it had the last time, and the door was open for them, waiting. He registered the glittering light as they walked through the room, but did not look up.
Finally, they reached the destination Harry knew they were heading for – he followed the swish of Wormtail's robes down the cold stone steps, the amphitheater seeming extra icy. Harry's nerves began jangling quietly – he could feel them even through the weak bonds of Wormtail's Imperius.
"How interesting," came a high, cold voice that made Harry's blood burn, "He doesn't even struggle. The lamb walks willingly to the lion's den."
"Not so effing willingly," Harry thought angrily.
"Bow," Wormtail commanded in his ear.
The small voice at the back of Harry's head cursed rather violently, and with an almighty force of will, he threw aside Wormtail's flimsy Imperius.
Almost immediately, he wished he hadn't. The pain in his ribs was now searing almost as badly as the Cruciatus Curse – it took all his willpower and hatred to keep himself standing, to straighten, vertebrae by agonizing vertebrae, and meet his nemesis's red slit eyes.
"Harry," Voldemort said, eyeing him appraisingly, "Harry Potter."
"Tom," Harry spat, through gritted teeth.
Lord Voldemort smiled, and then laughed a dry, acrid chuckle that made Harry's flesh crawl.
"Your anger, Harry. It both amuses and pleases me."
"Good," Harry said, jaw set, "Glad one of us is having fun."
"Oh no, Harry," Lord Voldemort said, his eyebrow-less brow lifting, as though appraising Harry, "I will say this – it has not been, as you put it, 'fun.' You have put me through hell, young man. Yes, you are at last, a man. In ancient cultures, both magical and muggle alike, the first mark of manhood is the first hunt, the first kill. I can see you have killed tonight. I can smell it on you."
His sinister smile grew, as though it was drawn on, pencil thin and painfully wide.
"How does it feel? You have already observed the irony that you are no longer so very different from myself – the irony that you have become, as prophesized, a killer, though it has not led to my downfall…not, not by half. If anything, I count the hatred, the dark magic coursing through your blood at this very moment among my greatest victories."
Harry didn't have a ready rebuttal for this. He decided to ignore as much as he could, even as the words crept icily through his core, the truth in them a burning frost.
Voldemort paused for a moment, and then brought his bony fingers over his heart, a gesture Harry found ridiculous – Voldemort had no heart.
"You are a worthy adversary, Potter. You are the first, and last I have yet to meet. I salute you."
"Really," Harry lied, eyes watering from the pain, "Well, you were a pushover. I've stamped roaches that put up a better fight. Didn't manage to take Hogwarts, did you?"
"The battle for Hogwarts was simply a diversion," Lord Voldemort dismissed, with a wave of his pale, spidery hand, "It too, will fall, once its champion is no more. I did create quite a spectacle, did I not? I thought the mangled corpse of Madame Bones was a particularly creative touch, myself, especially seeing as her body had already been discovered and buried."
This information stuck oddly in Harry's mind, for a moment, like a puzzle piece that didn't fit – hadn't Lupin won an Order of Merlin for finding Madam Bones's body?
"Those ingenious Snackboxes," Lord Voldemort purred, "It's almost a shame that it was those wretched Weasleys who invented them. Although due credit goes to the late, and equally ingenious Bartemius Crouch, Jr. It was he who first opened my eyes to the effectiveness of such a simple draught – banal, almost. But I knew that Albus, fool that he was, would not expect me to use the same old magic trick twice, now that he knew its secret. But that's precisely the beauty of it. Not only to use it twice…but again, and again. If the Imperius curse was the key to my first rise to power, this would be the key to my second coming. A random Muggle vagrant disappears and no one bats an eyelash, but a quick Imperius and Snackbox later, and the noble Madam Bones is found dead in an alley. A few stolen accoutrements from Mr. Malfoy, and Theodore Nott penetrates the walls of Hogwarts with absurd ease. Place Kingsley Shacklebolt under the Imperius, and not only can we order enough of those Snackboxes to suit our needs for years, but Wormtail here – "
He gestured nonchalantly to Pettigrew, who was still half-bowing, not daring to raise his eyes from the stone floor.
"Can masquerade as Kingsley Shacklebolt for months on end. That's not to say there is no room for human error," Voldemort added, his voice darkening, "Nott, of course, was a failure. And Wormtail here, of course –"
"They have a Secret Keeper, my Lord!" Wormtail whimpered, his voice muffled by his chest, "I couldn't tell you the address, even if I – "
"And you are telling me that after months of trying, you not only failed to learn the address of the Order's headquarters, but failed to determine who the Secret Keeper was?" Voldemort hissed venomously, "Not only that, but you also fail to determine Harry Potter's Secret Keeper, and the address where his mother's blood still lingers? You have consistently failed me in every simple task I have asked you to complete, Wormtail. Interrupt me once more, and I will kill you to spare myself the sound of your voice."
Pettigrew snivelled quietly, hunching even lower. Harry realized he probably wanted nothing more than to change back into a rat, the form he'd enjoyed for thirteen years in a row – it made him ill to think about it. His mind traveled to Lupin, lying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, unable to call for help…
"So, Harry – did you enjoy the battle? I could almost feel the blood pounding through your heroic veins, itching for the fray. Tell me," Voldemort added, red eyes narrowing in delight, like a cat who'd caught a mouse, "Are you still itching for battle, young hero, now that you have tasted Death? Is it as repellant as you feared? Or worse – enjoyable?"
"I am not a Death Eater," Harry spat. He reached up to wipe spittle off his lower lip, and was alarmed to see his fingers tinged with red.
"Master," Pettigrew begged pathetically, falling to one knee, "I haven't always failed you – I have brought you Harry Potter."
"I can see that, you idiot," sighed Voldemort in utter exasperation, "Crucio!"
Wormtail cried out in pain as the spell hit him, then crumpled to the stone steps as he was released.
"Why," he wheedled pathetically, his voice muffled by his own body as he curled into a ball, "Why, Master…"
"Do forgive the interruption," Voldemort said, "It is so hard to find competent help, don't you find? Look how useless Longbottom turned out to be, for example."
Harry didn't reply. He knew what Voldemort was trying to do. He was trying to make him angry – trying to make him do something foolish. He took as deep a breath as his aching chest would allow…forced himself to clear his mind, make it ice cold, and dark…
"Ah," Voldemort said, Cheshire grin still in place, "Much better, Harry. You are learning."
Harry noticed for the first time that there was something in front of the archway, blocking his view of it – something tall, with a black drape thrown over it, roughly the size of a regular door…he couldn't even begin to imagine what it was, or why it was there, or what horrible torment Voldemort was planning to heap upon him…
"Even now, Harry, even when we have finally become blood brothers, alike in every way that really matters, you doubt me. Ah, but Lord Voldemort is a man of his word, Harry. Yes, if you continue to defy me, you must die. But must they? Must your bushy-haired Mudblood and impoverished redheads one-through-nine all meet the same inevitable end as Longbottom? And what about Dumbledore, your tardy, ineffectual saviour, who mucks about Hogwarts masquerading as Father Christmas? Must he die, as well?"
"You want to cut a deal," Harry said, managing to smirk weakly, "You're afraid the killing curse will rebound again. So, I kill myself, fulfilling the prophecy, and you promise to leave them alone?"
"Lord Voldemort fears nothing, not even death," Voldemort smirked, "But I have learnt caution. Oh yes," he added, with a kind of gleeful malice, "You, young man, have taught me caution."
With a painful surge in his scar, Harry felt for a moment the pleasure he took in tormenting him, in watching him suffer – the deep satisfaction he gained after years of denial…
"And what's to say that you're not going to kill them all once I'm dead and can't do a thing about it?" Harry asked, his ribs a slow, constant scream of pain that made his voice sound strange and strangled in his throat, "What then?"
"Well then," Voldemort said softly, his Cheshire grin lit with a strange fervor, "I can make no guarantees. But perhaps a gesture of good faith with convince you…Perhaps I can return something I stole from you."
With a flick of his hand, the black shroud flew from the object in front of the archway that Harry had thought was a door. But it wasn't a door – it looked like the frame surrounding an enormous portrait – but it was facing the wrong way, towards the archway. Something about it looked oddly familiar, though.
"You no doubt recognize this unique and valuable artifact," Lord Voldemort was hissing, "And knowing your agile mind, you are recalling the Gringott's break-in you read about so many months ago. Not my most discrete maneuver, but fortunately one that was ignored, and forgotten in the wake of other audacities…"
Harry was racking his brains – what on earth was Voldemort talking about? And why did that frame look so bizarrely familiar? It almost called to him – just as irresistibly as the archway called to him…but he couldn't remember ever seeing a portrait in that frame…
"It was you, of course, who managed to retrieve the Sorceror's Stone all those years ago, Harry," Voldemort said, his voice growing icy, "Yes, I will admit, an interesting idea of Dumbledore's. Oh, it burned, Harry, to recycle the brainchild of a brainless child's mind…but I mastered my pride. You brought the mirror with you, I trust?"
The mirror? It took Harry a moment to piece together what Voldemort was trying to tell him. Could he mean Sirius's mirror?
"Ah," Lord Voldemort sneered, his red eyes burning triumphantly, "Realization dawns."
Harry put his hand tentatively in his back pocket – the cool glass of the mirror shifted slightly – it had been cracked, but it was intact…he withdrew it and looked into its depths. Even as he watched, felt it in his hands, there was something hypnotic about it – the same inexplicable pull that had caused him to put it in his pocket that night.
"It was no mean feat, I can promise you that," Lord Voldemort said, "To influence your mind, your dreams…Now that you were aware of the connection, I had to be patient…I could no longer barge in and take stock, no. I had to exercise stealth…so many times I was shut out, pushed away. My patience was pushed to its very limit. Similarly, I had to exercise extra caution to keep you out of my mind, as well. Carefully laid plans were boxed, shelved, put under lock and key," he said, tapping his temple with an impossibly long, tapered finger, "Caution, Harry. As I've already said, you taught me caution."
"What can I," Harry stammered, "What do you expect…With…"
He trailed off, and held up Sirius's mirror, mutely.
Voldemort's grin widened evilly.
"Did you think I was lying?" he hissed, "What I promised you, all those many years ago, when you stood before this very mirror?"
He swept a pale, spidery palm down the tall, gilt frame, and with a sick feeling, Harry recognized it for what it was:
The Mirror of Erised.
"You do want him back, don't you?" he whispered, "I can bring them back. All of them. Your parents, as well."
Harry wavered, on the spot. He stood no chance of making a break for it. There was no sign of Dumbledore, or any reinforcements. They might just now be realizing he was missing – and how would they know where to find him?
He stalled for time.
"And you'll leave Ron and Hermione and –
"All you need do, Harry, is this – you don't even need to die. None of your friends need to die. I am immortal, Harry," he whispered tenderly, almost lovingly, "But Lord Voldemort remembers the pain of death – the separation…the horrible, horrible ache, the Great Divide that can not be bridged nor repaired. The Prophecy says that one of us must die. I say, to hell with Prophecy! And to hell with Death! Help me, Harry – help yourself. Help all wizardkind. Together, we can defy fate, cheat death – we can obliterate it. It is your destiny…if you only have the courage."
Harry wavered. If he didn't agree, Voldemort would kill him, surely. He knew the only reason he was still alive, was because Voldemort had something to gain…and maybe…could Sirius really?…
"You have already taken a life tonight, Harry," Voldemort said, and Harry's insides were racked with painful guilt, "And another was taken tonight, before his time. Lestrange, Longbottom…We could bring them both back, Harry. If you have already taken a life so recklessly, why is it such blasphemy to bring one back? Isn't that a more noble cause? Do not let your hatred for me cloud your judgement. Yes, I have dealt in death for many years, but I have also made it my life's work to defy death!"
"No one is coming to save me," Harry thought wildly, his feet already carrying him hypnotically towards the archway, "No one is coming. I have no wand. I'm dead anyway. And maybe if Sirius…no, don't even think it…but maybe?…"
"A trade then," Voldemort hissed, "A balance…this is preordained…this is Prophecy, Harry…the Power that even I Know Not…yes, not even Lord Voldemort…the power of life and death. Together…together we can Heal the Divide…together we can restore the balance…"
Harry's feet continued to carry him robotically, inexorably towards the archway – towards the Mirror…
"Your decision is already made, young man," Voldemort hissed quietly, stepping slowly backwards, away from the mirror, allowing Harry full access to it, "Just look in the Mirror…it already knows your heart's desire…"
Harry stood for a moment before the mirror, the veil rippling quietly behind him. For a moment, all he saw was himself, and the veil fluttering behind him…but then, the whispers grew louder…one, in particular, came to the fore…
"HHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRYYYYYYYY….."
Harry's heart gave a painful jerk in his chest, and a lump rose in his throat…in the mirror, he watched as a hand slowly protruded from the veil behind him, gripping the edge of the archway for support. A hand attached to an arm, attached to a shoulder, and then the veil was parting, and it was Sirius Black standing there, smiling roguishly, looking just as he'd looked that horrible, horrible night in the Ministry but maybe that had never really happened anyway, and Sirius put a hand on his shoulder, and Harry could almost feel the warm weight there, and he thought his heart might burst from his chest.
"Hello, Harry," Sirius in the mirror said, warmly, "I've missed you."
"Sirius!" Harry cried out, and ignoring all pain, clapped his hand to his shoulder, but found nothing. He wheeled about, staring into the fluttering veil, desperately.
"Where are you!" he shouted, the pain in his ribs and arms nowhere near the pain of this separation – to be so close to Sirius, but unable to touch him, know that he was real, that this wasn't a nightmare, a fever dream – "Sirius!"
"HHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAARRRRYYYYYYYYYY…"
The sepulchral whisper from the veil behind him seemed louder. Harry turned to face it.
"Here!" Sirius called from the mirror, and Harry wheeled around yet again to face him.
"How do I know you're not just an illusion?" Harry asked, ignoring the tears that streaked down his face, "Prove it!" He smacked the heel of his hand into the cool glass. "Prove it!"
"The mirror," hissed a sibilant voice, as though in his ear, "Use the mirror…there, in your right hand…"
Harry looked down desperately, and saw the small mirror Sirius had given him – he had told Harry that it was a two-way mirror…that they could contact each other…there was already a connection forged there…
Harry could feel the powerful magics blending and rippling in the air around him, lifting his hair, prickling his skin like magnets, or static electricity…
He had pulled the stone from the mirror somehow, hadn't he? He had made his desire reality…
Why couldn't he, then? What was stopping him?…
"Harry!" Sirius said, from the mirror, and Harry looked jerkily back up to meet his eyes…eyes which were shining with love, and excitement, even though they would never lose the haunted look they had acquired though years of torment and injustice. "Harry…I missed you so much."
"I'm so sorry!" Harry choked out. Normally, he would be ashamed of his tears…but this was Sirius, Sirius who had died…who he thought he'd never see again…who he loved. He felt a surge of pain in his scar, but he ignored it. "I should never have gone – it was Voldemort, a trap, he made me think –"
"The mirror!" hissed the voice impatiently, in Harry's ear, "Use the mirror!"
"Harry, you have nothing to be ashamed of," Sirius said warmly, putting his hand back on Harry's shoulders, squeezing gently. Harry desperately clawed at his shoulder, trying to feel Sirius's fingers there…
"I am so proud of you…we all are, your parents and I."
"My parents!" Harry gasped, "You – they – "
"Yes, Harry," Sirius smiled, his eyes red-rimmed, even though he was beaming, "We are all so very proud of you. We can't wait to see you."
"The mirror!" hissed the voice angrily. Harry felt another searing throb of pain in his scar.
Harry jerkily lifted Sirius's mirror up, until it was at eye level.
"We miss you so much, Harry," Sirius began to say, in the mirror…
"HHHAAAAAAAARRRRYYYYYY……RRRRRRRUUUUUNNNNNN…."
"What?" Harry asked, distracted by the whisper behind him…he was too busy listening to Sirius, in the Mirror of Erised...the small mirror in his palm began to hum…there was a strange smell in the air…the veil was rustling, tickling his legs as it snaked out to caress him…He could see it, both in the Mirror of Erised, and the hand-mirror Sirius had given him…were those fingers, creeping around the edge of the archway? Or was he imagining them?
"It's time for you to come home, Harry," Sirius said, warmly, stepping backwards towards the veil, "Come home to us…"
"RRRRRRUUUUUNNNNNNNN!" whispered Sirius's hoarse voice from behind him.
Harry was suddenly jolted aware, as though someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over him – he realized with a horrible feeling that he had almost stepped backwards through the archway.
"Come home to us," Sirius in the Mirror repeated, stepping backwards into the veil. Harry watched as they were both swallowed by the veil.
"NO!" he cried, and threw Sirius's mirror to the stone floor. It shattered into a million pieces. The veil was whipping around him now, but he ran, stumbled, tripped – he fell to the stone floor, and a scream ripped from his body involuntarily, as his ribs crackled…he tasted blood on his tongue…
"So disappointing," came a high, cold voice. It was hard, and frank. It had lost all of the musicality it could possess when taunting or tempting.
Harry tried to lift his cheek from the stone floor, and could only see the swish of Voldemort's robe as he swept towards him.
"And now, of course, you die. You give up immortality, Harry Potter, the chance to refute death. You give up your godfather, whom I know you love – " He spat the word like a curse. "And for what? Why? Tell me! Crucio!"
Harry screamed, as the white-hot knives began slashing, stabbing, burning. It lasted only a second, but a second was far too long…Harry racked his brains, trying to make sense of what had just happened to him. The pain was so intense he could barely remember his own name, let alone answer whatever Voldemort had just asked him…
One memory floated powerfully, inexorably to the surface…and with it, a sense of calm…
"It was the wrong decision," Harry said, calmly.
"According to whom?" Voldemort snapped. With an angry, burning stab, Harry felt his scar light on fire, felt just a fraction of the Dark Lord's rage…
"It is up to each of us to decide what we wish to bring into this world, and what we wish to remove from it," Harry said calmly, releasing his body into the cool, stone floor…he felt oddly light-headed…his vision began to blur, but the words came from him as smoothly as though he'd known them his entire life, "A true wizard is one who governs the power that dwells within him, not one who is governed by that power."
"Foolish words from an old fool!" spat Lord Voldemort, "You disappoint."
He raised his wand.
So this was it. Oddly, Harry no longer felt afraid. Oddly enough…he felt…
Good…as though he could take a deep breath for the first time in months…if this was dying, he was ready.
"Avada – ""Sirius…" he thought, and the image of Sirius's shining, red-rimmed eyes came back to mind, his earnest face, his beckoning arms…his parents' proud, beaming faces…
His scar began to sear painfully – he could just barely hear Lord Voldemort's anguished cries – or were they his? Yes, they must be his – this must be dying.
Poor Ron, and Hermione…and Ginny…I'm sorry…Take care of one another…Take care…
The pain tripled in intensity, and now Harry was sure that at least some of the screaming was his…but then there was another voice…
"TOM!"
And Harry knew nothing else but darkness, and relief.
