Author's note: This marks the end of the story as far as I'd planned it initially five years ago. It was really just planned as a sort of short story that I'd write on whenever I stalled on my other projects. I've since grown fond of the story and – perhaps more importantly – with the universe. I've planned out the next year in great detail, and most of the rest of the story somewhat vaguely. The next update will probably be a couple of months away, but hopefully it will be worth the wait.
The first four or five chapters of this story were written some five years ago, and though I still have many shortcomings as a writer, more than a few of you have commented on my improvements. I'll go back while I write the next chapters and rewrite the previous ones in the hope that they will be improved upon. Even if only a little.
Now I hope that you'll enjoy this chapter of the aftermath. It was a bitch to write.
If This Be My Destiny
A shadow passed over Harry Potter's face. The boy didn't notice. He was sound asleep, deprived of any sense, still so very far away – magical healing hadn't been able to touch him. As it had become wont to, unfortunately. Scars already marred his young body. Scars that would never fully heal and be gone. Scars that would remind, that would haunt…
But Harry would pull through, rise above it all… after all, he had done so before…
The shadow swirled, and this time it held him in its gaze not whole but more complete, contemplating him – studying the boy more carefully. Deeper beneath.
He, the boy, was – is the Master of Death…
The Master.
The boy could never know. He could never know that those that courted the secrets of Death would hunt him now. Envy him. And he could never know – forever – that the man – The Master – had been him.
After all, only madness and despair befell those who played with time…
Some secrets… yes… some secrets Albus Dumbledore would carry with him to his grave.
The shadow of Dumbledore gave way and minutes passed, then minutes turned to hours – hours to days… and three days later, through fire and madness and nightmares of vast, dungeon-like caves and awry whispers, there was a glittering light that filtered through Harry's half-closed eyes. The sun, for the first time since most of the students had gone home for Christmas, showed its face, as Harry Potter woke from his bone-deep exhaustion.
He blinked against the face of the sun, against the smile it held, of which poured through the windows to kiss his face, and sat groggily up in his bed.
His mind felt heavy and old, overused, but his body was fresh – young again. Something sparkled on his bedside table and Harry saw through hazy eyes that it was his glasses.
He put them on and beheld his surroundings – the Hospital Wing. He almost groaned. Almost. It was becoming quite the thing for him to end up here, in one of these beds…
He was alone. No one or nothing to be gleamed at in the light. He found his wand – holy wood with a phoenix core – lying on the bedside table along with a note. He picked up the wand, a familiar surge of heat running along the spine of his fingers. A small smile broke onto his lips, his eyes almost prickling.
Fuck.
He clenched the emotion, the sheer relief, down with an iron fist before it rose to something unmanageable.
Oh, he was so very tired.
So fucking exhausted.
Then the note held his eye, lying adjacent to where his glasses had been on the bedside table. His name was written on it, but Harry couldn't place the elaborate, loopy handwriting. He picked it up and opened it, reading slowly as a frown creased his brow.
Harry
Please meet me in my office, when this letter finds you.
We have much to discuss and I believe I may owe you something of an explanation. The password to the gargoyle is 'Lemon Drop'.
Albus Dumbledore
His clothes rested on the back of a simple wooden chair that stood by his bed, placed there as though someone had been keeping guard. Gingerly, he sat up and swung his leg out, bare feet hitting the cold floor. A shiver ran up his spine, and a thought – a desire – to stay in bed and hide away from the eyes of the world festered and tried to grab hold of his resolve.
He quenched it down, too.
He dressed, somewhat numbly as last night – was it last night? – slowly crept along the verge of his mind in spurts and stops. So much had been said, so much had been done – the forrest! – the unicorns! – Ron! – the Prophecy! – Dumbledore's wand! – Voldemort got the Stone! – the fucking Stone! It was all too much to make sense of.
Too much.
Too fucking much.
He opened the doors of the Hospital Wing and slipped out onto the hallways of Hogwarts. The castle was quiet and blessedly empty. Harry didn't know how he was going to cope with the rest of the students when they got back – he barely interacted with them as it were, but now…
How could he possibly bear them after what he now knew?
He began his slow, uninterrupted journey to the Headmaster's office, head down and something of a limp in his step, thoughts awhirl and darkened in trouble. He thought of Ron chiefly, who apparently lived through the ordeal. How had he survived? Where was he? What had happened afterwards? Days, Harry surmised, must have passed. Why had he been out of it for all this time?
He thought of Voldemort – who might very well already be back and in possession of his full strength, ready to tear into the fabric of the wizarding world as he had once done.
And he thought of what lay ahead for him. What was prophesied… What, with growing suspicion, he thought swirled and lived inside his scar…
When he found himself in front of the Gargoyle, he looked up, a tad confused – what had Snape done last time?
"Password?" it inquired.
Oh. "Lemon Drop."
It stepped aside, revealing a steep staircase, and Harry ascended it with a healthy amount of trepidation in his heart. He found the door to the Headmaster's office closed. He raised his hand, then hesitated… As he stood there, he could almost pretend none of it had happened. That he wasn't marked, that he wasn't… whatever it was he had suddenly become.
He knocked on the door.
"Come in, Harry."
He pushed the door open and found Dumbledore behind his desk, awaiting him like he had merely sat there these past days. Nothing had changed since the last time Harry had been there, dragged by a livid Snape, safe for the chair that now stood in front of the desk – waiting for Harry, it seemed.
Harry felt the eyes of the former Headmasters behold him as he trudged across the oval room and sat down in his seat, facing the Professor.
"Hello, Professor."
"Harry." A fond smile creased the old man's gnarled face. "My dear boy – how are you?"
"I'm all right. I'm always all right."
"Are you really?" said Dumbledore, his face held in gentle hues. Kindness. The light of the sun streaked in across his desk, shinning on the silvery, gleaming instruments that littered it. "You acquitted yourself with bravery beyond your peers – above your years… I could not be prouder, Harry."
Harry nodded, numb, feeling a weird sort of detachment swirl and swell in the pit of his stomach. He was, in fact, quite happy about that. It felt as though what had happened wasn't happening to him. Not really. Rather, it was happening to somebody else, and Harry was merely a spectator, standing atop and aside it all.
"You must have questions, Harry? After the events that occurred between us."
"Questions?" Harry blinked. "I – am not sure where to begin – sir."
Dumbledore nodded. "Of course. If I may, one often finds his path clearest at the beginning."
"The beginning?" Harry narrowed his eyes, a furrow on his brow. "You were there – the night Ron and I were being attacked by – by The Master. You were there. Watching us."
"Correct," Dumbledore replied, smiling gently. "I dare say I did very little to hide that fact from you."
"What were you doing there, sir?"
"Following you and Mr Weasley – I admit, ever since this school year began, I've kept a closer eye on you than you could possibly imagine."
"Why?" Harry sighed, caught himself. The reason was, after all, rather obvious. "The prophecy."
"The prophecy." Dumbledore breathed. Exhaled. Tried to live above the weariness that clung to the word. "I kept a close watch on you from the moment you stepped onto these grounds, Harry. But I must say, since Mr Weasley and you were attacked that night – I've hardly let you out of my sight."
"You knew Quirrell – that he served Voldemort?"
"I had my suspicions."
"But you did nothing?" There was no malice, no hatred, no accusation in Harry's voice. There was, however, a ghost of a smile, the first one that felt real since he woke up, touching his lips. "Things went a little sideways, but – you always wanted me to go up against him, didn't you?"
"I wanted to allow you the opportunity to test your strength, yes," Dumbledore admitted, a touch ruefully, but not with shame. "And I thought, with everything you've already been through – with everything that will fall to you – that it was fair you met him, face-to-face. Perhaps even necessary."
Harry nodded, not surprised. This was the easy stuff – the stuff that sort of, if you thought carefully about it, made sense.
"There's not much going on here that escapes your notice, is there?"
"No."
"It sounds dreadful. Boring."
Dumbledore laughed warmly. "Yes – it would be quite unnatural for youth to care for such things. But for an old man such as I, Harry, letting go can be a rather… frightful concept."
Harry nodded, though he didn't really understand what the Headmaster meant.
"Voldemort, err – will he return, then?"
Dumbledore closed his eyes and nodded, and Harry saw what appeared to be decades of age bleed onto the wrinkles that contorted his face.
"Yes. Lord Voldemort shall return, I'm afraid. Sooner than any of us would like."
"When?" asked Harry, a leap of fear hurtling through his chest – as it always did, it seemed, whenever he talked about Voldemort.
"The Elixir of live takes months to prepare – and that is if you know how. Voldemort must first learn that. But, unfortunately, Tom's brilliance – as he reminded us of three days ago – knows no bounds. I expect Lord Voldemort will have his body back within a year."
"A year?" That was slightly better than Harry had hoped.
"Yes – I haven't told the Ministry or even Fudge himself – our Minister for Magic, Harry. I will do so after the holidays. Dark times lie ahead, let them celebrate the good days, whilst they are still here."
Harry nodded, again unsure if he completely comprehended the aged wizard's point of view, and maybe even unsure if he agreed with what he thought he did understand.
"After the attack – I told you about my scar," said Harry, changing the topic somewhat. "About how it hurts. About the whispers I hear and the things I see – you told me you'd help me make sense of it… when I was older – and ready. You seemed to know something. Had it – has it all to do with the prophecy, sir?"
Dumbledore, to Harry's horror, hid his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes tiredly under his half-moon glasses. As though he wanted to remove something particularly unpleasant from his mind.
"You must know – you mustn't think too bad of me, Harry. I've only had you here for four months and already my carefully planned schemes have flown out the window. Done in by the very things I feared – and, in my defence, some quite unforeseen ones, too."
"I don't understand, sir."
"How could anyone except an old man to have this sort of responsibility thrust upon him?" asked Dumbledore, and Harry was sure he was no longer speaking to him. "I never dreamed that I'd be entrusted with such a person – carrying such knowledge… alone."
"Sir?"
"You see, I thought you were too young. I hoped there would be time. I knew Voldemort had begun plotting his return, but I still held onto hope. I was arrogant. I was careless. I thought I could lure him in and trap him… but he had… grown. Or diminished. Or maybe I am the one who's diminished. In any case, I hoped I could have given you years, even decades – a childhood you could remember fondly when destiny called. Before you had to face him. I'd fallen prey to that which I feared I might. But I daresay most would – if they'd but see… if they'd known you – your heart – as I do. I dare anyone to not make the same mistake."
"What mistake?"
"Growing too fond of you," whispered Dumbledore. "Too fond and too proud and too – satisfied."
Harry blinked – Dumbledore was fond of him? Proud? He wasn't sure what to feel about that. They barely knew each other. Or Harry barely knew him, anyway. "I still don't understand, sir."
"Don't you see, Harry? As your man in black – The Master – said… I'd just postpone the inevitable. And everything and everyone would pay the price for my compassion – my fondness of you. I should have prepared you from the moment you first stepped foot here. Perhaps sooner even than that.
"I couldn't bring myself to do it. I wanted to keep it all away from you, hoping that by burying Voldemort beneath the castle he might be there for ages – perhaps forever – at least until I found you happy and ready to face the truth in some half-realized, dream-like future."
"The truth? The prophecy?" Harry whispered, but then he lifted his hand and brushed it against his lightning scar, remembering his half-formed theories with growing dread. "No – that's not it, is it? Or – not all of it."
"You're right," Dumbledore said. "The night I brought you and Mr Weasley into the Hospital Wing, you were wrought with nightmares, your magic turning violent and haywire… and I realized then it wasn't nightmares. You were in a struggle for your life. Voldemort, close by, had sensed how close you were to death and seized your moment of weakness to strike, attacking your mind. He stumbled upon a truth I've feared since I first laid eyes upon your scar. Thereby confirming my suspicions."
"What suspicions?"
"That he left behind an imprint of himself in you. Of his fractured soul – upon yours. That he'd, unwittingly, of course, tethered himself to life through you. That, as long as you lived, he could never be killed."
Harry remembered it now – the dream – the Dream – as though Dumbledore's words had unlocked a memory of it he'd burrowed so deep he couldn't find it.
"A Horcrux," whispered Harry. "It's called a Horcrux, isn't it?"
Dumbledore nodded slowly, a single tear cutting through his beard. "You're as astute as your teachers give you credit for. It is indeed a Horcrux and it is one of the most vile, most gruesome pieces of Dark magic known. Only an act of grotesque inhumanity – like the murder of a defenceless baby boy – can create it. He wanted your murder to mean something – he saw it, of course, as his last step to immortality. His last awry step away from the grasp of humanity."
"But he succeed, then. I mean – I have to die. Don't I?"
Dumbledore became very still all of a sudden, horror-struck and old, white and gnarled. Yet when he spoke, his face was calm. Collected. Woven with the air of a man who had had years to figure out how he was going to tell his tale. "Yes. In the end, you must meet your end willingly at his hand – that is the final key – only then will Lord Voldemort be truly vulnerable. Only then can he be defeated."
Harry clenched his fist as a deep frown creased his brow. He clenched the urge – the dark screaming desire – to strike out against the Headmaster and his infuriatingly calm expression. His heartbeat, a silent yet echoing testament of life, throbbed madly in his chest. He saw his hands shake as they came to rest softly in his lap.
He was here to die. Born. To die.
"At least, that was what I thought."
Harry's eyes shot up, wide and young. "Thought?"
"I must admit, I find myself puzzled by recent events." Dumbledore gazed at his own hands, and Harry noted he cradled his wand in them. He blinked, shivered, and turned his eyes away. "I had not expected – how could I? – that this particular wand would be so eager to join with you."
"Why – why would you wand, err, want that?"
"I don't know," Dumbledore said, smiling broadly, as though his lack of understanding was a source of great joy. "I haven't the faintest idea. It's a mystery – one I never expected to encounter. It's no longer loyal to me, but I can feel it – its will, you might say – vying for you whenever you're close. I felt it the first time Professor Snape brought you into my office, and I feel it ten-folded now. There's something about you, Harry…"
"But what has that got to do with – well, anything?" Harry wasn't quite sure how a wand, albeit a seemingly very special wand, would allow him to escape what looked to be a certain death.
"There's something of a history behind this wand. It's not mine – at least, not merely mine. In a way, I don't think it ever belonged to anyone. Not in the manner your wand belongs to you and mine to me…" Dumbledore paused, gazed at Harry as though caught in thought, eyes not really seeing so much as… lost in his face.
"I'm still not sure I follow, sir – actually I don't understand at all."
"There's a legend surrounding it – I'm afraid I'd rather not go into it today. Surface to say it is peculiar, but not unlikely, that you of all people should be the object of its fancies."
"Sir–"
"Upon this, Harry, I must insist. No more. I will be honest, that wand holds great secrets, some of whom even I'm not privy to. I have a feeling you'll learn most of them, maybe even uncover a few I've not. You and Mr Weasley seem to have a knack for that sort of thing, after all. But, for now, you must do so yourself."
There was something there, unseen by Harry's reasoning. Dumbledore seemed to indicate that the wand now belonged to Harry and yet – he still hadn't handed it to him. Was he supposed to ask for it? Was that – was this a test of some sort? Harry thought he detected something weird in the way the Headmaster almost seemed to caress the wand between his fingers.
Maybe a change of topic was in order.
"I am a Horcrux." He was rather pleased with himself, proud of how he managed to keep his voice subdued, devoid of the dread he felt linger in his mind. "For Voldemort to die, I must first die – is that the power I have over him?"
"It's not that simple, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Voldemort's greatest fear has always been death. He has run from it the moment he found a way."
"You make it sound like he's been at it for most of his life."
"If my suspicions are correct – and most of the time they are – then he wasn't much older than you when he fashioned his first Horcrux."
Not older than him? That meant… "He has more of them than me?"
"I fear so. Last night he confirmed as much."
"How so?"
"If you were indeed his only anchor to life, then he wouldn't boast about his willingness take your life, to murder his own soul, so easily. No. More – a lot more – tethers him among us."
Harry rested his head in his hands, feeling a headache on the rise.
"So… I have to die for him to die, and even then he's still immortal?"
"No one is immortal, Harry. No one. Not even Lord Voldemort. Yet, in a sense, you are correct."
"I need some air, sir."
"Harry–"
"I – need – some – air," Harry said, exhaled, voice slow, eyes closed. Desperately clinging to control of his emotions, desperately trying to stop himself from letting loose and attacking, screaming, crying at everything in sight. He wanted to lay waste to whatever he could get his hands on. To rave and burn and wither and begone. To be anybody but who he was. To see the world burn away before him.
He wanted away – needed a way away.
Far, far away…
"Of course, Harry – my office is always open for you – when you're ready to talk again."
A couple of minutes later found Harry out on the grounds, walking by the shore of the lake in the knee-deep snow. A couple of Ravenclaws – probably second-years – were playing in the snow without a care in the world. He beheld them from afar; they didn't notice him. They were older than Harry, quite a bit bigger and more cared for than he'd ever been – but they looked so very young all of a sudden to him.
So young…
It was like a creature with immense, inhuman power had glanced through him and spent upon his soul centuries of life – a life… filled with regret and shame and… responsibility.
Responsibility. Dumbledore hadn't used that word, had shied away from even so much as a semblance of it, yet it had hung in the air like a bad omen.
He was meant to do this. Born for it. Had to. Nobody else could.
Dumbledore knew of his fate. He might wrap it up in a bow of shrouded uncertainty with careful words, but Harry knew that Dumbledore had possessed more than a strong hunch. The Headmaster had had a plan for Harry, setting him up for slaughter at the hands of Voldemort, when the right time came…
And Harry couldn't find it in him to be angry at him.
Or – rather he couldn't find it in himself to not understand. He was angry, seething beyond madness with rage at what was to become of him. He had been marked – quite literally – for death the moment Voldemort gave him that scar. Marked to die an untimely death at the age of one.
It was an injustice beyond the unbearable.
And yet… somehow – somehow… looking at the children of Ravenclaw playing in the snow, who all were older than him, feeling a heavy sense of disconnect from the world – he wouldn't wish his fate on anyone else. If this be his destiny… he wouldn't rage, he shouldn't moan, he couldn't beg…
Rage.
Moan.
Beg.
No… Never… That was a fucking promise!
A promise…
If he were to die… he'd die like his father – the image of his father woven through him by the Dementor beneath the castle – back straight, head held high, staring Voldemort in the face, until the end of all. If he were to die – he'd die like his mother, standing between that which he loved and the monsters of the world.
If he were to die – and he realized he'd given this a fair amount of thought subconsciously – he'd want to die right. At the right time. That meant finding the rest of Voldemort's Horcruxes before the end. That could be years, even decades away – and he had to enlist help. Help, yes, help…
If the first four months in the magical world had taught him anything it was this: he couldn't do it all on his own.
A couple of minutes later, barely half an hour since he left, Harry knocked on the door to Dumbledore's office and entered.
Dumbledore blinked, clearly surprised. Harry had never seen so honest, open wonder on the old man's face, and he relished the look as he sat in his seat facing the desk. It almost still felt warm from when he'd left it.
"Productive walk?" Dumbledore probed gently.
"How many Horcruxes do you believe Voldemort has made?"
"Seven."
"I can't die before we've destroyed every last part of his soul?"
"The consequences would be dire – the situation all but hopeless, I fear."
"No pressure, then," muttered Harry forlornly, features graced by a small rueful smile.
Dumbledore paused, still utterly perplexed, it seemed. "You're something quite extraordinary. I'd hoped, given who your parents were, that you with time could bear this burden – but this… You have surpassed my wildest, most unrealistic dreams. Still in your first-year and you're peerless. I find myself ashamed of my own obvious misgivings."
"Don't be," said Harry, embarrassed. "Ron often points out how utterly hopeless I'd be without him."
"A trusted friend is an invaluable thing," Dumbledore said calmly. He held Harry in his eye, twinkling and wondrous, watery and smiling. They were unreadable and ageless and Harry couldn't hold their gaze in his own.
"Yeah – speaking off… do you know where he is?"
"My sources…" Dumbledore looked to his portraits, "tell me he's in Gryffindor's common room with his brothers right now."
Harry blinked. "Is that allowed?"
"I don't see why not."
"Wait," Harry said, furrowing his brow. "How do you know he's in Gryffindor's common room?"
He smiled, tapped his crocked nose as though it was a great secret. "An old man must be allowed his mysteries, Harry."
Harry nodded, smiling a little. That was fair. Then a budding frown marred his face. A thought that had been on his mind for quite a while settled. "Sir – why did the hat put Ron in Slytherin?"
"Why, indeed?" said Dumbledore, leaning back with a light in his eyes Harry couldn't place. He seemed… oddly happy. Lighter. "Do you know why we sort our students here at Hogwarts, Harry? And why we have an old artefact from all the way back to the time of the founders rummaging through the heads of our new students?"
"Tradition." Harry shrugged. "Must admit I didn't really think it too much through, though. People seem to do all sorts of nonsense simply because that's all they've ever done."
"I cannot deny there may be a touch of that involved," replied Dumbledore kindly, though Harry got the sense that he disagreed strongly. "Traditions can be a fine thing, after all – with much to show of ourselves and our past. But no, we allow the Sorting Hat to see into your mind, and we place you wherever it deems, simply because it is there you'll grow into the finest wizard or witch that you can be."
"But it's not always right, though, is it?"
"What do you mean, Harry?"
"I mean… the Hat must have sorted Voldemort and his likes… Wizards who'd go on to do terrible things."
Dumbledore nodded. "Is that the fault of the Hat, though?"
"Isn't it? It saw what was in them."
"The Sorting Hat, wrought by Godric Gryffindor, was fashioned with one purpose and one purpose only in mind – to sort the students in the house most becoming of their natural gifts and their future's prosperity. It does not, I believe, judge based on the morality and customs that men such as us value."
"But why place Ron – and me for that matter – in Slytherin?"
Dumbledore, eyes twinkling, smiled knowingly in a manner that befuddled Harry, as though it was quite obvious.
"Every house possesses very distinctive characteristics, as does their students in time. You can look at a crowd of older students and know, based solely on their mannerism, to which house they belong. As you grow in this castle so, too, will your character, because it is surrounded and nurtured by likeminded individuals. For the most part. However, I dare you to find any eleven-year-old who is remotely brave, extraordinarily clever, astoundingly cunning, or remarkably loyal. You won't find many in your search, Harry. But the Hat sees it, sees your wishes and desires, and given time, in the right circumstances and among the right people, many students have grown to the ideals they aspired towards, knowingly and unknowingly – because the Sorting Hat set them on the right path."
"But, sir," Harry began, feeling like Dumbledore was missing the point entirely, feeling as though Dumbledore had made the point and then missed it. "Ron is brave. Really brave. And remarkably loyal. He'd-"
"He'd fit in well in Gryffindor and perhaps even Hufflepuff, two of the houses I'm most fond of between you and me." Dumbledore was still smiling and Harry was starting to get just a touch annoyed. "But Mr Weasley proved that he's far from an ordinary young boy – as did you – you two proved that you were already in possession of bravery far beyond anyone currently in Gryffindor."
"So? Even if that is true, we'd still fit in."
"Yes, but perhaps you'd fit in too perfectly. Think, Harry!" He leaned forward over his desk, vibrant eagerness, old and eternal and joyful, exuding off his every pour. "Why do you think the Sorting Hat placed two boys, who's desire and natural affinities align so well with that of Gryffindor's, into Slytherin. Think carefully about it…"
"Because…" Harry narrowed his eyes, a frown creasing his brow. A half-formed thought shone with careful light somewhere in the back of his mind, growing, coalescing. "Because that's where we'd grow the most."
"Exactly, Harry! Exactly! It could have placed you in Gryffindor and be done with it, had its inclinations been more human it might have, but instead it saw in you a flicker beyond the obvious and it went with that. Placing you – because of the extraordinary qualities you already possessed – not where you wanted, but where you needed to be."
"So I belong in Slytherin," said Harry, trying valiantly to keep the dash of disappointment he felt from colouring his voice.
"Slytherin has garnered an unfavourable reputation over the years," Dumbledore said, no doubt sensing Harry's troubles. "Fairly or unfairly I dare not speculate upon, but, no matter what, Harry, it needn't be such a curse. Ambition and cunning is not merely the tool for great evils, just as bravery is not merely a tool wielded by good. Your choices, and yours alone, can determine what this will all come to mean. I dare say you could change the perception of a great many people."
"And Ron," Harry began, a little more hopeful, "he belongs, as well."
Dumbledore laughed. "My dear boy – you really think it matters? Ponder this: what could the House of Gryffindor possibly teach Ronald Weasley about courage that the boy didn't already know?"
Harry sat there for a while, lost in thoughts. He felt rather than saw Dumbledore busy himself with his wand, conjuring small puffs of white smoke that he lazily twirled about. For some reason he was in far better spirits than he'd thought possible an hour ago.
The way Dumbledore conjured and controlled the smoke stole his attention again. "How did you do some of the things you did against Voldemort?"
"I did quite a lot of things, if I may say so. You'll have to be a little more specific, Harry."
"How did you – both of you, I suppose – reverse the trajectory of your spells? He reversed yours. You… changed some of you own. You almost blew him up with one of them. How do you do that?"
"Ah." He waved his wand, dispelling the smoke, and a rather large tome hovered from his cabinet and to his hands. It was worn, dark-brown, and seemed very heavy and very old. There was a golden lock on the mouth of the book, locking it close. "It is one of my oldest works. Perhaps the oldest one I still have in my possession. Most of it is the musings of a much younger man. Ramblings of magical theories, half-realized spell creations – the act of yanking magic from non-being into the world. The probability of the everlasting resting place beyond life. Most of the conclusions, I daresay, still hold up today. I am very fond of that book, Harry, and there are a great many points of controversy to be found in it. If I burrow it to you, which I am inclined to do, then you must promise not to share it with anyone. Not even Mr Weasley. Can you promise me that?"
"Of course." Harry nodded eagerly, hungrily, almost having to stop himself from reaching out and taking the book from him. "I'll guard it with my life."
"Nothing so drastic is needed." Dumbledore laughed, handing him the – very heavy, Harry noted – tome. "Though if you'd do me a favour I'd be very thankful."
"What?"
"Your eyes will be the first that are not my own to look upon its contents. If you find a point of contention, no matter how small, I'd like you to make a note of it. Make your case for it with me. I'll find that a healthy, meaningful discussion worth having."
Harry very much doubted that he'd ever find a flaw or some such if Dumbledore himself had proposed the theory, but nonetheless he agreed readily enough.
With the book in hand, he stood, turned about, and strode out of the room.
But then he paused in the door, a frown creasing his brow.
"Yes, Harry?" said Dumbledore.
A sheepish smile plastered across Harry's face. "Could you tell me where Gryffindor's common room is, sir?"
There was a twinkle of mischief in the Headmaster's eye, as he beheld Harry over his half-moon glasses, with a smutch of fond remembrance intertwined, as though he suddenly were overcome with memories of his own time as a student.
"Oh, the rules doesn't allow for that at all… so I couldn't possibly tell you that–"
Harry found himself in the Gryffindor common room half an hour and a lot of missteps later, walking through the portrait of the Fat Lady after providing her with the password, courtesy of Professor Dumbledore.
He found himself in a large oval room, filled with squashy armchairs and red and golden carpets. At the far end of the room, twin doors stood side by side and Harry suspected they led to the dormitories of the boys and girls respectively. A little off to the side, close to the entrance there was a large window, showcasing the grounds of Hogwarts and the Forbidden Forest. Harry's thoughts almost drifted, but he quickly looked away.
In the corner of the room – what Harry thought the heart of the common room – there was a great fireplace, awhirl aflame, with a couple of polished crimson chairs adjoining it. Above it there was a single painting of a proud-looking old man that held a silvery gleaming, blood-red ruby-encrusted sword.
It was there, by the fire, he found Ron, who seemed to be playing chess with one of the twins.
"Ah – if it isn't the vanquisher of Dark Lords himself!"
Harry, startled, turned about, his hand going for his wand, and came face-to-face with the other twin.
"Just the man we wanted to see," he said, almost cried, jubilantly, as he grasped Harry by the arm and dragged him towards Ron and the other twin – who had noted his arrival now.
"Harry!" Ron leaped off his chair and hugged him in a manner quite reminiscent of the way the Longbottom kid had hugged Ron all those months ago. He didn't even seem all that bothered by his obvious show of relief and affection when he let go of Harry. "You're finally up."
"Yeah – three days, huh?" Harry smiled, quite embarrassed. "Guess I was spent."
"Well, duelling You-Know-Who will do that to you, I'd wager," one of the twins said matter-of-factly, as though he spoke with great experience.
Brow furrowing, Harry glanced at him. "How do you know that?"
"Well – Dumbledore told us, of course."
"He did?" He hadn't told him that.
Both twins nodded eagerly, looking at Harry as though he was most impressive. "Oh yeah. He told the whole school. The train ride home was postponed to the day after, and he held this great speech where he thanked you and our brother here – said he owed his life to you two."
"Don't forget the three hundred points he awarded them."
"Three hundred points?" Harry squeaked.
"Each," Ron said, smiling broadly, proudly.
"He gave Slytherin six hundred points?" Harry whispered, then grinned like a madman. "How did McGonagall take it – wait! How did Snape take it – No, wait! How did Malfoy and the others take it?"
Ron shrugged, grinning like a fool, as well. "Well, McGonagall seemed to think we deserved more – she gave me fifty points for wishing her a merry Christmas yesterday. Snape saw it, of course, and–" Ron's face darkened to something that resembled fierce hatred. "–took them from me the moment McGonagall was gone. The world has gone mad while you slept, I'll tell you that."
"Damn…" Harry muttered.
"Is it true, Harry – what Dumbledore said?" asked George.
"Probably. What did he say?"
"That he lost to You-Know-Who and you duelled him. Beat him."
Harry blinked, glancing at George like he was running naked through the Great Hall. "No, of course not! He said that?"
"So you didn't duel him?"
"Well – I did, but–"
"So you did save Dumbledore?"
"I suppose, but it wasn't like–"
"What did it feel like, though?"
"Ron – how did you survive?" Harry asked, not wanting the attention. They made it out to be like he had been their equal; he had not – in fact, not even close. He just got lucky that Dumbledore's wand had acted up on its own accord, when it did. If anything, it was the damn wand that should get the credit.
Ron peaked up at the question, looking immensely satisfied with himself. "Dumbledore explained that, too. He said the portion is called the Draught of the Living Death."
"Draught of the Living Death? Sounds ominous," replied Harry, frowning. "Didn't Snape mention it in our first lesson with him?"
"Sounds what?" Ron blinked. "And yes, he did."
"Threatening, but in a spooky way. What exactly did it do?"
Ron grinned. "Spooky?"
"What is the Draught of the Living Death, Ron," Harry said, exasperated.
"It's a portion-"
"That's a given." Harry smirked.
"Don't be a git." Ron – and the twins – laughed. "It puts the drinker into a deep sleep. So deep that it can be mistaken for death."
"You were coughing up blood, mate."
"Well, apparently they had Snape make some modifications to it. For added effect."
"He can do that?" asked Harry, impressed, though he tried his damn hardest not to be.
"He is the Potions Master," Fred said.
"He's an arsehole full of shit in human form," replied Ron, with forced sagely humour in his voice.
"Too true, too true." Harry nodded. "Why, the Dungeons always smell for weeks afterwards whenever he deigns to visit."
Fred and George were cackling at the byplay, soaking up anything that belittled Snape with glee.
"Anyway – what were the modifications, then?" asked Harry.
"Well…" Ron seemed to think about it, scratching his temple. "The drinker had a more violent reaction than usual – apparently it's usually quite peaceful. And – how did Dumbledore put it?"
"Only those of pure intentions and noble bravery could have survived what Ronald Weasley consumed," said Fred, mimicking Dumbledore so well Harry startled. "For steadfast loyalty, for calm strength in the face of insurmountable odds, and for a heart of courage that would put even Godric himself to shame – I award him three hundred points for Slytherin."
"Three hundred must be some kind of record."
"Even mum and dad came – along with Ginny," said Ron happily, not quite able to hide the small awkward embarrassment. "Mum even apologized for some reason." Then he suddenly had of fit of laughter, almost snickering like a schoolgirl into his hand. "Ginny begged them to go see you."
Harry frowned, all confused. "Why?"
"Our sister is quite smitten with you apparently. Mum said she wouldn't stop talking about you after she learned we were friends – mum almost seemed tired of it, to tell you the truth."
Harry laughed, not at all embarrassed, picturing a little girl with stars and hearts in her eyes. It was weird, though, when he thought about it. How many little girls and boys in the wizarding world would sometimes think about him? He knew he was famous, but not really the extent of it. Were it only British people like Ron's sister who'd know of him – or was he famous across the world?
Did the Germans ponder his legend – the unusual circumstances of his scar – as much as they did here at home? What about the French? Or the Americans? Maybe it was high time he sought out to learn about himself – what exactly had happened? He was known as the Boy Who Lived because he survived Voldemort, but others did that, too, right? So why that very specific moniker? Was it all because Voldemort had seemingly not survived?
Perhaps. He'd look in to it, embarrassed that he hadn't already done so.
Ron and Fred returned to their chess game soon after, and Harry sat in the chair between them, looking on with half-a-mind. He'd never really played, and couldn't really follow, but he was able to gather that Ron was really, really good. All the while, he could feel the weight of Dumbledore's tome against his side and he wanted nothing more than to take it out and show it to his friend. Or read through it all in one go. But he had made a promise to Dumbledore, and he'd hold onto it.
He laughed the day away with Weasley brothers – but in his hearts of heart he pondered upon troubled thoughts that ever-slowly slithered back in his head. He looked between the brothers, smiling and laughing and gloating in victory and groaning in defeat – Ron won soundly – young and vibrant. And though a thought of telling Ron everything ran through his mind, a thought of telling him of his destiny, of what would befall him… he didn't do it. Not even afterwards. It seemed quite meaningless – it would only sour the mood, and Harry, despite everything… despite the fear that trickled in the back of his mind…
Well, he was quite happy, wasn't he? Maybe the happiest he'd been in a long while. Because he knew now. Knew it all. All that he had suspected. Everything laid bare…
For now, that was enough.
The holidays were in full effect and Harry had never seen the castle so empty. Harry and Ron spent their days in the Slytherin common room, largely on their own, eating whatever they could spear on a toasting fork. Days, and sometimes even nights, were spent roaming the castle, and Harry soon felt a familiarity that was more than simply passing with the ever-changing magical hallways of Hogwarts.
Like they had at last been accepted by the great castle.
Sometimes they would be out on the grounds with Fred and George, playing in the snow, charming snowball to hurl at each other. They build great igloos in the snow on the threshold of the forest, fashioned long steep tunnels within with the help of the twins – even Percy made an appearance one evening and gladly partook. Sometimes he'd simply stay inside and read in the book Dumbledore had given him.
Sometimes Harry would spot Hagrid as he walked to or from the castle. The anger he had once felt for the half-giant had dulled ever since that night, but for now neither of them had tried to rekindle their friendship.
And so the days went, and before long Harry had quite forgotten – or perhaps simply come to some sort of acceptance – of what he had learned in Dumbledore's office. He knew that one day soon he'd be forced by something to face it again, but for now he was happy to simply act as though he was just another ordinary student of Hogwarts.
The day before Christmas found Ron and Harry summoned to Snape's office late in the evening. Curfew was barely an hour away.
"Can't we refuse to show up?" asked Ron as they journeyed through the Dungeons towards the Potions Master's office. "I mean, for Merlin's sake – it's the Christmas holidays!"
"I don't want to cross Snape if I can help it." Harry had run into Snape yesterday morning on his way to breakfast – the look in the Professor's eyes had been nothing short of murderous. "He seemed… displeased last time I saw him."
"He's probably just disappointed that You-Know-Who managed to screw it up a second time with you."
"Good point, Ron." Harry narrowed his eyes. "He does seem the type. Doesn't he?"
"He's a pile of Hippogriff-shit," said Ron. "But I'm not sure he's a pile of You-Know-Who hippogriff-shit."
"You-Know-Who hippogriff-shit?"
"Not my best work."
"Ah, the struggles of an artist."
"We do have it quite tough," Ron said self-importantly. Soon they found themselves in front of the Potions Master's office.
"Let's just get the broom floating," muttered Ron, racking the door with more force than necessary. "Hopefully I startled him," he answered, when he caught Harry looking.
Harry grinned.
The door was flung open, a swish of harsh air smacked them in their faces, and Harry caught a whiff of something putrid. Quickly, Harry's grin faltered into a carefully woven mask of indifference.
Snape, dark robes cradling him in darker hues at the threshold of his office, beckoned them in without a word, then turned and strode for his desk.
Harry and Ron glanced at each other, and Harry thought he heard Ron gulp audibly, before he stepped forth.
The door slammed shut loudly behind them the moment they were inside, and Harry definitely didn't imagine Ron yelping and jumping in obvious fright this time.
Hopefully Snape didn't see Harry do exactly the same, though the cruel smirk on the Professor's face indicated he had, in fact, been looking for it.
"Never…" he whispered, when Ron and Harry came to stand before his desk. "Never again…"
And that, Harry realized, was the worst thing. He never raised his voice. The fury of the Professor was such that it could, at will, temper the flames of hell and freeze it all over. It was a fury that had stood the testament of days. Never dulling. Always there, beneath the surface, awaiting its moment to be let free. The fury of a prideful man that had been slighted.
"Never again shall you make a mockery of me, of this institution. Know this, Potter, if it was up to me… you would no longer be walking these halls. Unfortunately, my colleagues seems willing to turn a blind eye upon your rampant arrogance, so – for now – you're still a student of Hogwarts."
"Thank you, sir."
"Hold. Your. Tongue. Potter."
Harry felt Ron move to speak and he grabbed his arm, squeezing it hard to keep him quiet. Nothing good would come out of it, anyway. Not when Snape was like this. Maybe – probably – there would never be a time wherein Snape could be reasoned with.
"I have no power of that – just as it would be redundant to undo what the Headmaster granted you. But I can do this – hand over your wands."
Harry narrowed his eyes, but kept them otherwise trained perfectly calmly on the Professor. He couldn't, however, keep Ron from opening his mouth this time.
"You cannot confiscate our wands!" Ron all but snarled.
"Ten points from Slytherin for your cheek, Mr Weasley," said Snape, voice smooth. Cold. "And, as always, you know not of what you speak. Now, hand over your wand."
Harry sighed and reached into his robes, producing his wand. He handed it over to the Professor, Ron staring incredulously at him as he did.
Snape seemed to consider Harry for a moment with a shadow of surprise, before he turned expectantly to Ron.
"You're not getting my wand, sunshine," said Ron, words filtered through gritted teethes. "You are not taking my wand."
"Twenty points from Slytherin-"
"What about a hundred?" Ron said quietly. " Better yet, what about all of them? See who you hurt more. Go on, see if I care!"
Snape bristled. "I could have you in detentions for the rest of your days here. Hand – over – your – wand!"
"Just hand it over," Harry muttered under his breath, though it went unheard.
Ron contemplated Snape with an expression of deep-seated hate that didn't belong on a face so unmarred by time, then violently thrust his – Charlie's – wand into the Professor's hands.
He lay out their wands on his desk and produced his own, then he tapped their wands with a careful touch. Harry felt a tingle go up his spine as his wand was caught in cerulean light that shone brightly for a second before dulling down to nothing.
Without thinking, a deep furrow creasing his brow, he reached out and grasped his wand without asking for permission. His frown deepened to something that could barely contain his anger, as he felt the wand – his wand! – throb with some foreign curse.
"What did you do?" he whispered, eyes burning.
"I made sure that you will never again break curfew, Potter. Your wand will be intolerable if you do."
"What do you mean?"
"As long as you're here, after curfew, you can only be in the common room. Your wand will scream and tremble should you ever break curfew again."
"As long as I am here?"
"As long as I deem necessary."
"So…" Harry blinked. "As long as I am here, then."
Snape smirked and cast a spell, revealing the time. "My, doesn't time just fly…"
Harry, who had also noted the time, smiled. It didn't touch his eyes. "There's a reason for this late our, isn't there, sir?"
"You're dismissed." A smile flittered about on his lips, drawing his pale face into a snarl. "I'd hurry if I were you."
Harry and Ron stood and ran. They ran without looking back, unsure what the hell kind of spell Snape had placed on their wands, but fearful that it might break if they didn't make it back in time.
But – as Snape designed it – they never stood a chance. As they turned the corner and found themselves back on the corridors that housed the Slytherins, the clock struck and the magic took hold.
Harry's wand, as promised, started screaming and trembling fiercely in his hands. He heard rather than saw Ron drop it in his surprise and it scuttled away across the floor, shaking and crying as if tortured.
"Fuck!" Ron swore and hurriedly grabbed it again. Muttering the password to the wall they hurtled inside and sighed with relief as their wands once more came to rest in their hands, growing still at once.
They threw themselves on the couches and settled in, muttering quiet curses about Snape for a few minutes.
"Have you ever heard of a curse like this one before?" queried Harry after a moment of silence.
"No."
"You think Snape created it himself?"
Ron blinked. "Why would you ask that?"
"Read about it recently." He had, in fact, read about it in the book Dumbledore had gifted him. Spell creation, and the legal ramifications, filled a healthy chunk of the opening pages of the book. "I've never heard of such a spell. So, you think he created it himself?"
"He can do that?"
"Create spells? I should think so. He's not here because of his splendid personality, is he?"
Ron furrowed his brow. "But why? Why would he do that? There's a spell for practically anything."
Harry shrugged. "Spells are regulated by the Ministry."
"How do you know that?"
"I… read about it recently. The Ministry keeps a tight control on the creation of new spells to ensure that for every spell there is a counter-spell to it."
Ron blinked, catching on quickly. "But if you create your own spells, if you tell no one, then you have a spell that no one can counter."
"In pricinple, yes. Though I have a feeling not everyone need counter-jinxes to cancel spells out."
"You think that's what Snape has done – hey, wait a second! Why doesn't everyone just do that?"
"Because spell creation is incredibly difficult. Almost impossible. No one but the most talented are capable of it."
"And you think Snape's capable of that?"
Harry sighed. "I do."
Ron, looking intently at Harry, paused for effect.
"So… when are you gonna begin?"
Harry laughed and blew a fringe of hair out of his eyes. "I'm a little ways away from that, Ron."
"How do you do it?" He smiled a tad ruefully. "Would I understand it if you explained it?"
"Spell creation? On the surface of it, really simplified, there are three different ways. There is the long road of education, first here at Hogwarts, and then a five-year apprenticeship at the Ministry. Then there's something akin to intuition – only the most skilled wizards are capable of such mastery over magic. The last one is more… obscure."
Ron seemed to give it some thought. "The first one. Apprenticeship at the Ministry, you said. I've never heard of it before."
"It's not exactly widely known, either. You sign away your career to the Ministry afterwards. After the five years, you've agreed to be bound by magic to serve as a sort of regulator for the Ministry. The contract lasts twelve years. Not many do it for that reason. Or at least that's how it used to be."
"Used to be?"
"The book was really old."
Ron nodded. "Intuition, then? What does that mean?"
"I don't know yet. As I said, it's far more complicated than that. And there are a lot of subcategories."
"And the last – the – what did you call it? – the obscure one?"
"Yeah." Harry looked into the flames of the fireplace, eyes narrowed and thoughts floating lazily abound. "You can, apparently, do things…"
"Things?"
"Unpleasant things… to yourself."
"Like… what?"
"Like Voldemort… You can do things to yourself to make you more in-tuned with magic." Like splitting your soul to pieces. "But that kind of… understanding comes with a great price."
"So… not worth it."
Not according to Dumbledore. "No."
"The intuition it is, then," Ron said. "I'm sure you'll get there."
"You make it seem so simple."
Ron smirked. "If Snape can do it…"
"Snape is a capable wizard."
"No!" Ron said fiercely. "I don't want to hear a single word of praise for that man. Not tonight. And what was wrong with you, anyway? You didn't even try to fight him?"
Harry sighed. He'd known this was coming.
"Tell me, Ron, what would be the point? Snape wanted an excuse to punish us." He smiled bitterly. "I didn't wanna give him one."
Ron looked at him for a long while. "That… makes sense." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't like it."
Harry laughed. "See it this way – we defied Voldemort. Compared to that, Snape is nothing more than bothersome. Not worthy of our time."
"Still… would be nice if we could make his life miserable," Ron said. "What do you think would bother him most? Winning the House Cup because of our efforts, or loosing it because of us?"
On Christmas Eve, Harry went to bed looking forward to Christmas for the first time in his life. His scar prickled and strange dreams of hollowed halls filled with damp floors and a slithering, heavy, whispering voice coloured his nights in awry hues. But when Ron awoke him loudly, the dream rinsed from his mind like smoke.
"Harry, get up!" said Ron sleepily.
"I'm up." Harry blinked away the sleep from his eyes and found Ron's hunched, tired form. "But why am I up? You look dead."
"I couldn't sleep," muttered Ron, eyes bloodshot and narrow. "Might as well get on with the day."
"But I slept just fine!"
"And now you're awake just fine."
"You – you… you can't just wake me up because you couldn't sleep."
Could. Did. Not sorry. Merry Christmas, by the way."
"No, you can't! You too."
"Yes, I can. Thank you."
"Well, that's just rude…" Harry glanced at the end of his bed and found a modest pile of gifts lying on the floor. He blinked. "Ron, I've got presents…"
"Well, yeah – what did you except?" Harry noticed Ron had already begun tearing through one of his gifts from his quite larger pile.
There was the gift from his aunt and uncle. A fifty-pence piece. Harry quietly wondered why they'd all of a sudden decided to give him a gift at all, but forgot when he saw how fascinated Ron was by the present.
"Weird!" he said. "What a shape! This is money?"
He handed it to Ron and turned his eyes on the remaining gifts. There were three parcels left.
One of them was from Mrs Weasley and contained an emerald green sweater and a large box of home-made fudge. She'd apparently, Ron told Harry rather embarrassedly, warmed up to him when she'd heard of what the two boys had done. Harry thought it strange that risking his life would place him in her good graces, but spared it little thought.
He picked up the next parcel, frowning.
"Ron – this is from Hagrid!"
"Wha?" Ron mumbled through a mouthful of fudge. He swallowed thickly, making Harry wince. "What is it?"
Harry tore it open and found a rather handsome leather-covered book. Harry, despite his misgivings with Hagrid, opened the book curiously. It was filled with photographs of a smiling red-haired woman and a young man that looked quite a lot like Harry.
It was filled with pictures of his parents, who smiled and waved and kissed up at Harry.
Harry blinked. Looked at the photos. Blinked again. Somehow, the more he blinked, the more flimsy the photographs became.
Ron, horror-struck, scrambled out of his bed. "What is it, Harry? What's wrong?"
"Nothing, nothing." He quickly ran a hand over his eyes. "It's just… mom and dad…"
He felt sure of it – who else could they be? Harry was, if you counted in the age difference, almost the spitting image of the man. It had to be his dad, and that red-haired woman had to be his mother.
It had to be. Harry had never seen them before, but he felt sure of it, as sure as he'd ever felt about anything.
Harry spent a long while just looking through the book, soaking in every picture with a ravenous hunger. When he had slowly turned every page of the book, he closed it with great care and opened at the first page again, starting over, carefully devouring every photo of every page once more.
When at last he had been, at least for now, satiated, he turned towards the last gift that lay at his feet. On the parcel there was a note wearing the following words:
Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you.
Use it well.
A very merry Christmas to you, Harry.
Albus Dumbledore.
"It's from Dumbledore," said Harry, without looking up from the note.
"It is?" asked Ron excitedly. "Well, what are you waiting for? Open it, then."
Harry opened the gift. Something fluid and silvery grey flew to the floor with a soft thud. Harry blinked – there was something inside the cloth.
Ron gasped.
"What is it?"
"I've heard of those," he said, with an air of awe. "If that's what I think it is – it's extremely rare – and valuable."
Harry picked it up, feeling drawn to it in a manner he'd only tried once before. And then another item fell out of it and landed on the floor. Harry stood with the cloth in his hands and tried to look around it to see what had fallen to the floor.
"Here – let me help," said Ron, stooping to pick up the item. "Weird! It's cold."
"What is it?"
"A wand."
"What?"
Ron held it up so Harry could inspect it. It was long and dark and had an air of timelessness about it, but otherwise entirely unremarkable in appearance.
Harry recognized that wand at once. He'd recognize it anywhere.
Ron handed it to Harry and as soon as his fingers curled around the wand, a fierce, burning sensation of triumph shot up his arm and filled his body. A gust of air, born of nothing, swirled about them and lifted the fringe of hair off Harry's forehead, revealing his scar.
"Wow," said Ron, staring at Harry with wide eyes.
Ron had said it was cold. Nothing had been warmer or more pleasant to the touch. Nothing Harry had ever felt, anyway.
"A wand and an Invisibility Cloak," said Ron thoughtfully. "Why would Dumbledore give them to you?"
There was a note curled around the tip of the wand, and Harry stared at it for a moment before Ron's words registered.
"The Cloak belonged to my father, apparently." Harry draped himself in the cloak and watched, fascinated, as his body disappeared. Then he uncoiled the note and folded it out, reading it.
"And the wand, then?" asked Ron, staring at Harry's missing body. "Why would he give you his wand?"
"I don't know."
"What does the note say?"
It only held two words. Two words that had passed between two men like a promise. A promise that was whispered in a time of need as a consolation to the soul, as a silent hope that this time was different – that something this time would change.
For change.
End of Chapter.
Leave a thought behind before you go. It's what the cool kids do.
Farewell.
