Chapter Twenty-Seven: Lies and Love

It had been six days, sixteen hours, twelve minutes and forty-two seconds. Forty-three. Forty-four. The school year was over. Forty-six. Harry was still in St. Mungo's, clinging to life. Forty-eight. They were still banned from seeing him. Fifty.

Daphne was struggling. Coping wasn't something she was used to, neither was facing her emotions. Both were now confronting her and refused to let her be. Grimmauld Place had slowly become a prison, Ron and Hermione wanted to leave for Hogwarts, to return to normality but Daphne couldn't face it. She'd hidden in the room Sirius had given her at Christmas and barely showed her face to anyone. Tracey and Astoria had sent letters. She'd read them. Cried. Tried to reply. Failed. Cried a bit more and then eventually managed to forge a half-baked reply.

It was the uncertainty that killed her. Right now he could be alive with a chance at coming back, or he could be dying slowly with no chance of a return, or even something in between. She'd thought about that a lot. A Harry that woke up from all of this, nothing like the one who'd left her. It was the most likely outcome, that was if he even woke up at all.

Just as things had been going well, they'd had to fall apart. The small voice in her head had been smug at that, an almost 'I told you so' of pessimism and grief. Yeah, it had. Great. Wonderful. Daphne loathed self-pity, even her own, and so the combination of her accidental premonition and her current situation was a painful cocktail that even the heaviest of drinkers would refuse.

When she wasn't obsessing over Harry, her mind would drift back to the Department of Mysteries. She'd wanted to contact her uncle but had thought against it, knowing Voldemort he probably had spies all over the Ministry and her family by now. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that there was something in there to do with Harry. This mysterious 'weapon', she hated the term for she was not so foolish as to think Voldemort would be seeking an actual weapon but rather some form of strategic advantage, swam in the river of her consciousness. Just flowing too far ahead to be grasped at as she drowned in her own thoughts.

"Thought you'd like this up here," a voice said gruffly to her from the doorway. She snapped out of her reverie to see Sirius standing there, a plate of sausage and mash in his hands. He'd found Kreacher mooching around in the attic as he'd thought and ever since the convict had been keeping a close eye on the House Elf, much to Kreacher's outrage. The result was that Sirius now refused to accept his cooking for fear of poisoning, mild or otherwise.

"Bit crowded down there," Daphne said, gratefully, accepting the plate despite the fact she wasn't hungry. Despite the dark shadows under Sirius' eyes, Daphne had a funny feeling he looked a lot better than she did.

"They're worried about you," Sirius was nothing if not direct. "I am too as it goes. You can't stay up here forever."

"Not like this. I'd planned on remodelling, maybe a small window garden and a bath in the corner," she said sarcastically. Sirius just continued to stare at her, his dark eyes penetrating into her very soul. "Alright, fine. I know. I just, they don't get it. Or, well, they do get it," Daphne corrected herself, "just more than me. It's weird."

"Yeah, they've had to worry about Harry more than anyone," Sirius nodded. "But trust me, they hide it well. They're as scared as you are really. We all are."

That wasn't as comforting as he'd thought, but Daphne did her best to smile. It probably looked like she'd swallowed frog spawn. "Have you ever known you were going to be somewhere, but when you got there you were weaker than you thought you'd be?"

"Azkaban," Sirius nodded, gravely. "I knew I was going as soon as I saw Peter disappear. It's why I was laughing. The stupidity of it all." A hollow chuckle escaped his lips. "Still, I'd fought Death Eaters and all kinds of evil you can't dream of. I thought, yeah, it might be tough but I'll be fine. Nothing prepares you for that place. I complain about it here, but compared to Azkaban this is a tropical island.

"Cracking isn't the worst part, breaking isn't even that bad, not really. Everyone falls, Daphne. Everyone. The thing people don't tell you is it's the time between that and picking yourself up again that's the worst. But you'll be alright."

"Will I?" It was a genuine question, as the hours had stretched into days, Daphne had begun to wonder if that was even possible. Numbness had grabbed and refused to let go. Everything seemed dull. The vibrancy of life muted. Food was bland, conversations refused to keep her interest. The only constant was the eternal weight, pulling her down, wrapped around her neck, refusing to let her stand.

"Did I ever tell you I knew your father?" Daphne shook her head, wanting to object, but Sirius cut across her. "He was a decent man, not that we spoke much, but Regulus, my brother, he knew him. In fact, so did a lot of other people who became Death Eaters. I'd always thought he'd follow them, most Slytherins did back then. Part of the pack, you see. But one day, I came across him in the halls, helping up this Hufflepuff girl, can't remember her name now."

He paused, frowning. "Anyway, that's not the point. Your father was looking after her, I'm pretty sure Regulus' pals had jinxed her for reporting them the week before and being a telltale muggleborn back then, well, I'm sure you can imagine. Of course, then he became a Death Eater and I thought, like everyone, he was just another Slytherin falling in with the crowd."

"What're you trying to say, Sirius?"

"That there's more to you than you think. You make the hard choice, even when you know it's going to go wrong. Just like he did. It was easy for me or James to not become Death Eaters. We had Gryffindor Tower and after a while I didn't even bother coming back to this place, I'd shacked up with James and ignored it all. But your father, my brother, surrounded by that lot. Regulus joined up, like the good little son he was, but it's a bloody miracle your father didn't just give in."

"So did everyone, but then everyone thinks you're a mass murderer so..."

"Funny what people'll believe."

"Hilarious," Daphne said sourly, she wasn't in the mood to have her father's memory forced to the front of her struggling brain along with everything else fighting for space. She turned away from her, pretending to busy herself with the plate and cutlery Sirius had given her. There were no footsteps, no sounds to indicate Sirius had retreated, all she heard was a sigh and then the creak of a floorboard, as though he was toying with the idea of moving but couldn't quite force himself.

"He's better with you," Sirius said eventually. Daphne didn't move, but a single thought pulled yet another thread from the unravelling tapestry of her mind. And I am with him, that's what scares me. "I've never seen him so happy. Just remember that, 'cause I bet it's what's helping him right now. Enjoy your food."

And with that the floorboards finally signalled his egress from the room and Daphne allowed herself to sag once more into her bed hoping that the next person in her room was someone telling her this nightmare was over.

oOo

"Do you have a better idea?"

Shutter sighed as she followed Dalir down the Harry Potter's room to his office, jogging with every other step to keep up.

"No, but I wouldn't exactly qualify this as good either."

"Well, it's all we've got so we're doing it." Dalir insisted, wishing it was that simple. There were ethical considerations, parental permission, which by right extended to either the school or his relatives, who to the best Dalir's knowledge was a small muggle family from Surrey. But he had to try.

"Saffy, please, just stop for a second."

The door to the office swung open and Dalir crossed in a single stride to his desk to try and find the relevant paperwork. Forms, that was the majority of a healer's life. Documents, wavers, signatures from the relevant people, a 'sign here, please' and a 'Oh, I'm sure it will be alright' were good enough in the old days but not anymore. Normally Dalir was glad he didn't practice in a time where the title healer was more a statement of optimism than a job role, but this case was one where he wished he didn't have so many hoops to jump through.

"Why? So I can let him die?"

"So you can stop yourself from causing any more harm."

"He's suffering already," Dalir snapped, overturning an empty inkwell in his haste to find the bit of parchment he was looking for.

"And we don't want to add to that, this could cause irreparable harm. You've seen Lockhart and the Longbottoms, they're what happens when people suffer sever spell damage."

"I'd wager Harry's already suffering severe spell damage, wouldn't you? Ah ha!" His hand had finally fallen on the waiver form. He rounded on Shutter, whose usually calm expression had vanished to be replaced with severe anxiety. Morris had been transferred over to another ward when his complaints about Dalir had fallen on deaf ears, leaving Shutter and Dalir to deal with a junior healer whom neither especially trusted. The result? The case was effectively theirs alone and that meant a lot of arguing. It was like travelling without a map in a country you weren't from with locals who really didn't want to be asked for directions.

"Look, Anathema," Dalir rarely used her first name when they were at work, both of them worried what people would think. And they'd be right, at least they would from his point of view anyway. He'd never quite managed to figure hers out. "It's this or we just let him carry on fighting whatever's going on in there. But you and I both know he can't last much longer like this."

His vital signs had taken a nosedive over the last few days. They were doing their best to keep him going, but it was a battle they were losing.

"Is this all we can do?"

"I think so," Dalir nodded, after all they'd tried everything else they and the experts at Spell Damage could think of. Nothing, and he meant nothing, had worked. If anything, all they were doing was keeping him comfortable at this point. More senior healers were beginning to ask questions, pointed questions. They had to try something, both for Harry and for themselves. "I know it's not necessarily traditional —"

"Or even sane."

"But it's our best shot."

"And that other thing?"

"I'm going to ask him about that too," Dalir said quickly, having been equally as perturbed by their discovery as Shutter herself. "Will you make sure no-one goes in there while I'm gone?"

"Of course, Dal."

He smiled, he wasn't used to her calling him Dal. "Thanks. I'll be back soon."

It didn't take long for him to reach Hogwarts castle, the air was crisper than he'd expected for mid-May but it wasn't cold. Professor Flitwick greeted him at the gates and escorted him up to the Headmaster's office, where Professor Dumbledore expected him. The students were all lazing around either on the lawns or in the corridors, with exams over they were getting ready to return home for the summer.

Dalir remembered his own time at Hogwarts and the school hadn't changed. He found himself dropping into the same slightly subservient pace as he followed Flitwick, his feet falling into step as student and not Healer. Flitwick had been one of Dalir's favourite teachers and so it was a pleasant chat as they wound their way through the belly of the school before reaching the ornate gargoyle which stood guard outside Dumbledore's office.

"Lovely to see you Safiq," Flitwick squeaked happily as he turned to leave, the gargoyle springing to life after he'd said the password and leaving space for Dalir to enter the office. Dalir repeated the sentiment before letting himself be whisked up to Professor Dumbledore's office. He had never been there, not even as a Prefect. The door opened before he'd even knocked and he was greeted by the sight of an incredible room. Old Headmasters and Headmistresses lined the walls, some chatting quietly in the frames, while other frames stood empty. Various instruments stood on spindley tables in front of the Headmaster's large desk, behind which Dumbledore himself sat smiling merrily up at Dalir. The effect was quite disconcerting.

"Headmaster," Dalir said, a little stiffly. It was incredibly difficult not to feel like an awkward teenager again.

"Ah, Healer Shafiq, welcome, please take a seat." Dumbledore said, with an air of cheeriness that Dalir was beginning to find increasingly unnerving. It was only after he had gone out to work that he realised how peculiar Dumbledore's general atmosphere was. It was as though he presented himself as everyone's grandfather, he idly wondered how sincere that act was.

"I wanted to speak with you about Harry Potter," Dalir began, realising too late how stupid he osunded. What else would he want to talk about? The weather? That the Tornado's had thrown away a record fifteen point lead and lost to the Chudley Cannons for the first time in their history? That one had actually embarrassed him in front of Shutter who'd bet him their overtime that the Cannons would win. He focused.

"I have an idea on how I can help him. Only, I need your permission or the permission of his guardians before I can proceed." Muggle guardians were always tricky to deal with, so the hospital preferred anything major to go through the school for ease. "I believe our problem is twofold. Firstly, we have no idea what Harry is experiencing and secondly we're not really sure why. I propose that we enter his subconscious using Legilimency, it would allow us to observe and perhaps figure out the second problem."

Dumbledore inclined his head thoughtfully. "I know Harry is a special case, everyone does and there are certain risks attached but, if I may be frank, I don't know what else to do. There are no other tests, no stimuli that will wake him, nothing. If he's unconscious for much longer, I dread to think who will wake up."

"You think perhaps he is being possessed?" Dumbledore asked gently, although without the scepticism that everyone else had asked the same question with when Dalir had mentioned it. After all, there hadn't been a recorded case of possession in almost four hundred years.

"Sorry, I didn't make myself very clear, I'm not sure whether Harry will still be Harry when he wakes up," Dalir amended, before adding, "possession could be possible though. Again, until we see what we're dealing with it's all guesswork really."

"And what risks are attached to such a plan?"

"Well, firstly it could cause some psychological trauma," Dalir admitted. "If for instance Harry believes the reality he is seeing it could damage his perception of, well, reality should he detect a foreign entity. Then there's potential magical damage should his Occlumency training repel us, although I personally doubt that given the, erm, givens."

Dalir was sweating. Without realising he scratched his beard nervously. "But I really do think it's a risk worth taking. In my professional opinion, we're dealing with something completely new. Any additional attempt to cure him is entirely uninformed, this is the best shot we have at helping him."

"And if I were to agree, I assume that anything you see will remain entirely confidential?"

"Of course," there was a certain code of conduct that went along with mental trauma. It wasn't something anyone, let alone Harry Potter, would like to have shouted from the rooftops. Dumbledore remained seemingly impassive, mulling Dalir's words over in his incredible mind.

"There's something else too," Dalir said, knowing that if he didn't he might never get another chance.

"Something other than entering the mind of one of my students'?" Dumbledore asked calmly. Dalir let out an awkward laugh, coughed and silently hated himself. God he wished Anathema was here. Shutter, he mentally corrected. He was in charge of their team after all, he couldn't go playing favourites.

"Er, quite. It's just, we found something strange. None of us are really sure what it is, but it's definitely something dark. Something that seems to be mirroring his life signs, it's like a symbiote. It seems to latch onto Harry, if he's weak, it's weak, if he's strong… well, you get the idea."

Dumbledore nodded, as if Dalir was reading him the morning news or telling him how many sugars he took in his tea. Any suspicions he'd had entering Hogwarts sky-rocketed. Dumbledore had seemed too calm, too casual at Harry being 'possessed', or whatever the hell it was. If he hadn't been debating the idea before, Dalir was now convinced. Dumbledore knew something. It just didn't help that Dalir himself didn't know what that something was.

"I've heard of magical beings attaching to living creatures before," Dalir continued, trying not to make it obvious that his suspicions were suddenly taking form. He'd been reading up on a lot of dark magic. A lot. The Safiq's were an old, old family and with age came dusty tomes on ancient magic. It had meant seeing his mother, which always meant questions of when he was getting married, but it had been worth it.

"And I've found some more too. But we're not detecting any individual life signs, which rules out most living creatures and our scans don't reveal anything physical in there. So that suggests some kind of extra something, an ethereal being, like a ghost. It could be what's taking over his mind."

"Do you believe that you can help, Harry?" Dumbledore asked. Dalir blinked. He hadn't expected that.

"Yes, I do."

Dumbledore's pale eyes seemed to look into every possible dimension as he stared vacantly off behind Dalir's shoulder. It was almost impossible to resist looking round to see what the Headmaster was looking at. But Dalir had a funny feeling he knew. Possibility. Parents had the same look staring at their kids when they were hurt.

"Harry is no ordinary boy," Dumbledore began, with a small sigh. "I wish he was. It would spare him a great deal of pain. Pain I've no doubt had my own fair share in being responsible for."

Dalir stared and said nothing, it was sometimes better that way. People liked to fill silences, especially the strangers. Strangers were safe. Strangers wouldn't come back into your life and ask awkward questions. You could happily tell a stranger you were cheating on your wife, suffering from crippling anxiety and had debts to your eyeballs. Why? Because the next minute they wouldn't be there and your life would carry on.

"I have had my suspicions over the years, but I had hoped I was wrong. Alas, it appears I was not." He gave Dalir a sad smile. "Tell me, if you were to surmise what it is you have found inside Harry, what would you — in your educated opinion — suppose it is?"

Answers filled Dalir's brain, fighting for space. They all took different forms but all shared the same root origin. After all, it was the only thing that made sense. Where else would a fifteen-year-old boy who lived with muggles pick up something like that?

"You Know Who."

"Yes," Dumbledore nodded. "I feared you would say that."

"We can sever the link." He was, after all, a brilliant man. Brilliant men didn't shy away from challenges, if they did, how would they know they were brilliant? "I'd have to find out exactly what happened, of course, but nothing is impossible. It's just about finding the right answer."

"I do not believe there is a link to be found."

"But you just —"

"I asked what you thought," Dumbledore corrected, "I did not say that I agree with you. Whatever you have found, or believe you have found, I would ask that you tell no-one. Not even Harry, he has suffered enough and does not need to believe that there is something so terribly wrong with him."

"But if there is something, something from You Know Who inside Harry, even if it's just dark magic, surely it's worth trying to remove it?"

"Even if this were the case, and I repeat that I do not believe it is, how many symbiotic relationships survive the removal of one partner from the other. Host or parasite. They are entwined. If this is what you believe, then I would surmise that Harry is even more in danger than you expect. But," and with this Dumbledore drew himself back up in his chair. "I will allow you to attempt to help Harry, but I would ask that you not enter his mind alone. But on the condition that you leave this line of thinking alone."

Dalir breathed, sucking in the thousands of protests that wanted to burst from his lips and instead simply asked, "who?"

oOo

It was dark. The cathedral room had vanished a long time ago. Even Daphne's screams had left him. Memories raced in front of his eyes, except each one was distorted. Dudley chasing him. Ron on the chessboard, only this time dead. Hermione, not petrified, but lying under a sheet in the Hospital Wing. Sirius, his soul being sucked out by a Dementor. Tracey falling from her broom and slamming into the ground. Daphne. It always came back to Daphne.

"They make you weak," Voldemort whispered in his ear. "Weak. Give in. Give in and I will save them."

Harry couldn't see Voldemort, he wasn't even sure where the voice was coming from. It seemed to echo in his own head, if such a thing were possible when everything he was seeing was in his head. This had been his bargain. It was always his bargain. Sometimes he would disappear, leaving Harry to a void, but he would always return with the same offer.

He wanted to accept it. Desperately wanted to believe that he would let them live. But every time the words formed in his mouth his mother's screams filled his head. Her dying screams. Then his acceptance scattered and he was left watching those he loved fall before him. Again. And again. He wanted to be numb, but each time was like a fresh cut ripping across his brain. Anguish filled him. Spilled over and then filled him again.

"I won't help you."

"Foolish boy," Voldemort laughed, "you think you can really stand against me? I will destroy you."

Another scream echoed around the blackness. This time it was Lupin, followed by Sirius' fury-filled sobs. "I will destroy them. If you will not give in then I will trap you here. I do not need you to die, Harry Potter. Merely remain out of my way."

Harry tried to picture what McGonagall had taught him, tried to force barriers to stop Voldemort's voice entering his head, but they shattered, just like they always did, and Voldemort laughed.

"Occlumency will not stop me, not now that I am here."

Then, without warning, a shimmering figure appeared in front of him. Harry blinked. The blackness rippled as the figure walked closer. No, it was two people. One taller, slim, with a thick beard and white robes. Another Harry recognised all too well. He groaned. He couldn't. Not again. Please.

"Harry?" He closed his eyes. Her voice was just as he remembered, but filled with concern and wobbling on the verge of tears. He'd heard that before, countless times. Voldemort had shown him Astoria dying. Daphne cradling her sister in her arms. Or Tracey. Or him. Always leaving Daphne heartbroken. He'd nearly caved then. Inside he'd been begging for it to stop, he would do anything to save her and Voldemort knew it.

"Harry, my name is Dalir Safiq." The man's voice, Harry didn't recognise him. He spoke with a posh accent that completely threw Harry. "I am a healer at St. Mungo's. It's a wizarding hospital."

"He knows what that is," Daphne snapped.

"I am here to help you."

"Yeah, right." Harry laughed. He kept his eyes firmly shut, not wanting to see her face, hearing her voice was hard enough, knowing that any minute something twisted and horrible was going to happen that would cause him to watch her die all over again. "You're just him. Very clever, Tom. I'm impressed. But you're not fooling me. I'm not helping you."

"He's not lying, Harry."

"You would say that."

A cold high laughter was growing in Harry's head again. He just wanted it to stop.

"And why is that?" Daphne asked, or at least, the version of Daphne Harry was seeing, or not seeing as he still kept his eyes firmly shut. He knew they weren't his actual eyes, but something about the process seemed to conjure up a shield so that Voldemort could no longer show him his worst fears in the flesh. But he could still hear them.

"Because you're just part of this, you always are. Sometimes you're dying. Sometimes you're holding Astoria or Tracey."

"Well, I'm not now, am I?" Her voice was soft and gentle, a far cry from the horrified screams that so often echoed around Harry's conscience. "I'm okay, Harry. I'm right here, just open your eyes, you'll see."

Against the hammering of his heart and the anxiety in his chest, Harry let his eyes unscrew themselves. She was feet from him, her hair lank, deep bags under eyes as though she hadn't slept in days. A forced small smile creased his lips, but it never reached her eyes. Light blue and filled with sorrow they looked into his own as if searching, trying to see if he was still in there.

"See, not going anywhere. I promised, didn't I?"

Breath stopped forming in Harry's lungs as he waited for his world to fall out from under him. It was like being on a rollercoaster, hanging before the drop, never knowing when it was coming but certain it was there. Seconds passed and nothing. No scream, no world shattering change, nothing. Just her face and his own doubt coiling like a snake in his mind, ready to strike. This was a trap. It had to be. Voldemort had run out of scenarios and thought of something new, something worse. Killing his hope.

"We're here to help," Daphne continued, still kneeling before him. "This Healer Safiq. You're in St. Mungo's, you've been there for almost a week. I'm really hoping this is helping him figure out what's going on because we haven't got a clue. None of us do. Ron and Hermione, Snuffles, none of us. We're just waiting, Harry. We just want you to wake up."

"Say I believe you," Harry said uneasily. "Say, that's true, how did you even get in here?"

"Legilimency," Safiq answered from his vantage point behind Daphne, he was looking around the blackness of the void with extreme interest. "I suspected that whatever caused this was not Legilimency, but rather another form of magic I'm yet to encounter. That's why I suggested it, but I don't think we've got long."

Another shaft of light cracked through the darkness to Harry's right, lancing across the almost impenetrable blackness. In the shadow, he could see the small hunched figure he'd spotted out of the corner of his eye so many times before. It was almost crying, like a scarred, horrible baby. It curled up and never looked at him, but it was always there on the periphery of his vision. He had no idea what it was, perhaps Voldemort was conjuring up an image of how Harry felt. It wasn't far off.

"You Know Who doesn't like us being in here," Safiq said rather calmly. "At least, I assume that's who 'Tom' is?"

"Like you don't know."

"I don't as a matter of fact, but it's always nice to be right."

"You're him, you both are. That's all this is, it's just you. It's always you. But I'm not falling for it, I won't help you."

"Help him do what, Harry?" Daphne asked. "You might as well tell us. If we're him, like you think we are, then we know already and if we're not it could help you. Help us."

Harry considered this, there was no arguing with her — as if there was ever any arguing with Daphne — and so, against his better judgement, he began to tell them the story. The shelves and the orbs, the ones that contained something, whatever it was Voldemort wanted it. They didn't say much, letting him speak and only when he was done did Safiq break his silence.

"How long have you seen this?"

"I don't know, months? Since I went back to Hogwarts, but never like this."

Another bright crack of light shattered the darkness again. The creature was crying again. "Interesting, very interesting. Allow me to propose a theory. I suspect You Know Who is trying to control your mind, influence you. The first visions were subtle, attempting to make you go after this orb on your own, and now, now that your defences are stronger he has instead gone for the assault. Show you your worst nightmares in a bid to claim this prize, either with you retrieving it willingly, or by wearing your defences down until he is able take control himself.

"Yet you continue to fight, you do not crumble. Why?"

"He'd just kill them anyway, just knowing me is a death sentence."

"No it isn't," Daphne corrected him, fiercely. "Knowing you has given me more life than I've had in fifteen years. Knowing you has helped me get closer to Tori, knowing you has helped me have friends, helped me find who I am. Harry, you are one of the kindest, most selfless, caring people I know, but Merlin's beard it holds you back."

"What?" Harry asked, gaping. This wasn't like anything Voldemort had thrown at him before.

"Look, Hermione's a muggle-born, right? So she's marked anyway. Ron's a blood traitor and the Weasleys are friends with Dumbledore so he'd have been dragged in whether he liked it or not and me, well, you saw what Voldemort did to our family."

A spike of pain was searing in Harry's scar, he closed his eyes again, trying to push it away but Daphne kept speaking, her voice loud on the fringes of his mind. "My point is, you're not killing us, he is. He's the one who goes round murdering muggle-borns and blood traitors. He's the one that tears apart families. That killed your parents and my dad. But that's what he wants you to think, he wants you to blame yourself. He wants you on your own, wants you desperate and scared because then you're weak and easy to kill. Because then you're like him. Alone and scared and angry and screaming against a world that never loved you.

Light was burning against his eyelids now. "I hope you can hear this, Harry. I want you to know I love you, and if I'd known all those months ago where I'd be now, I'd do it all again. I am never, ever leaving you. You can win this, you're better than him, so you wake up, alright? Wake up and show him that the world he wants to crush isn't about to roll over that easily."

She's lying, she'll leave. They'll all leave, Ron, Hermione, they'll run or die but either way you'll be alone.

"No, I won't."