Posted 5/22/2014

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This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.


Chapter Thirty-Eight - A Friend in Need

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They didn't understand. After a moment of stunned silence, both started yelling their opinion, outraged by the truth he finally been forced to accept. He let them vent, he knew he had had trouble coming to terms with it in the past as well. Unprepared for it and in their stead, he would have disagreed as well, but Harry had made up his mind, and for once, he was actually glad to have Tom in his mind. The additional years of experience gave him the perspective he needed and allowed him to see the simple truth, one the old Harry would have refused out of principle. Tom's insights on the other hand made it hard to ignore the fact that something needed to be done.

"Hermione is right," Ron spoke up. "Reduce their numbers? In case you haven't noticed, we don't really have an army of our own."

"That's not the issue here, Ron," Hermione interrupted before Harry could retort. "We're better than them," she added with a look towards both of her friends, causing the redhead to nod.

Harry sighed. "This is war; you cannot win one with moral superiority I send them a message now, let them know they are not invincible, some of the hanger-ons might decide not to join, or find it in them to reconsider their actions. The less fighters he can field, the less bloodshed all around."

"Others will strike twice as hard," Hermione told him. "You can't expect Bellatrix to just back down, can you? She will only see it as a challenge."

"True, but she can't be everywhere at all times," Harry said. "She is one witch, not an army. Ideally, we will only have to deal with the devoted followers before long. If we can get, let's say, the Ministry to stay out of the fight when push comes to shove..."

"They will go after our friends, though," Ron pointed out, narrowing his eyes. "The moment you take action, it will place my family in danger. The moment they'll see you..."

"As opposed to the safety your family enjoys right now as known dissenters?" Running a hand through his hair, Harry sighed. "Sooner or later, they will be targeted anyway. Do you really think He will just let those who opposed him once go their merry way? True, he has the Ministry, but he also has to deal with cleaning it up. Once he has done that, he will turn his attention towards those who stood against him before. And he won't want people in the Ministry who actually care for their common men; he will want his followers or sycophants, people more concerned for their jobs than the fair treatment of the populace."

"So Umbridge will still be there," Hermione groaned. "Lovely."

"Likely, yes," Harry said, managing a small smile he didn't feel. "She'll probably do anything as long as it'll help her. Who knows, maybe she'll be Minister one day. But back to topic, if I slow the purge of society down, it'll buy us precious time, won't it?"

"This is all nice," Ron said with a scowl, "but it still doesn't change the fact that my family will still be targeted and punished for your crimes."

"Yes, think about them. Do you want to see them die?" Hermione added, looking relieved to have a decent argument. Even Harry had to agree with the sentiment of what he knew would come next, but he didn't share her conclusion. "And you're not a killer, Harry. Think about what it will do to you. Once you have taken that step, you cannot go back to how you were before. It will destroy what you stand for, it will destroy you. It will taint your soul."

"A war is not won by doing nothing," Harry told them, resisting the urge to sigh. "Snape realized this. I don't like him, but he's right about that. We're at war. To win, we might just have to get our hands dirty. A necessary evil, you might say. It's not as if I look forward to it, but they are continuously advancing. It's only a matter of time until they target our friends, until they target your family, until they start looking for everyone we hold dear. Even if we step in and rescue them, bring them here, everyone we know who might become a target one day, we will just increase the number of people we place in danger. Bring Neville in, and you will have his Grandmother, not to mention his parents who are, right now, easy targets. Bring them in and you will have to get their friends as well, though. It will continue until, one day, someone dishonest will walk in through the front door."

"Why you, though?" Greengrass asked from her seat in the corner, sitting up straight and staring at him intently. "Someone else can do the dirty work, assuming it really is necessary. Let others worry about the ugly parts and be the paragon of virtue to lead Wizarding Britain into a new age of love and sunshine and whatnot," she pointed out sarcastically.

Harry blinked, surprised she had spoken up, and even more that she had voiced her agreement with Ron and Hermione. Ron glared at Greengrass, either because he had forgotten about their guest or because he didn't want to be on the same as side as her.

"A good question," Hermione agreed, though Harry could sense her displeasure at having to agree with Greengrass and the sarcasm. "There are others, Harry; it will destroy what you stand for, what you have fought for."

"I'm the fabled Boy-Who-Lived, the hero of the light – that is what I stand for, the belief in justice and valour. But it's a small price to pay if we manage to defeat them. Death Eaters don't duel honourably, and unless you believe in some higher power favouring the just, it will only limit our side if we fight fair."

"Let's say you are correct, Potter," Greengrass spoke up once more. "Let's assume – though you have little to no proof – that 'reducing their numbers' as you put it will indeed help your cause. That still doesn't explain how you plan to manage it, and it also doesn't explain why it has to be you personally. Why not ask Professor Snape to do it whether he is willing to 'get his hands dirty'?"

"Yeah, let him worry about that, Harry," Ron said, nodding reluctantly. It was obvious how little he wanted to agree with her, but unusual situations made for strange companions.

"Not that good of an idea," Harry replied. "I know what he can do, but I'd rather not have him do to much for us. If I get seen, so be it. If he gets seen, he can't protect the children at Hogwarts. He's useful to us right now."

He rubbed his eyebrows. "It's a necessary evil." With a sigh, he added, "So either you are with me…"

"Or we are against you?" Hermione asked, her voice bitingly cold, but whether to keep tears from spilling or from anger, Harry couldn't tell.

"Or you are not," he said, shrugging. "I can't and won't force you." He left the room, not wanting to discuss any longer with them.


By unspoken agreement, no one mentioned their talk for the rest of the day. Hermione and Ron mourned the loss of Hagrid in their own way, Greengrass had hid somewhere, and Harry spent his time alternating between thinking of Hagrid and his plans and words.

He stood by what he had said, he realized on a night-time stroll through the silent house; if anyone had to fight that stupid war, if anyone had to sully their hands, why not him? He hadn't been meant to survive in the first place, and only his actions had given him the chance at a life he had now. Hadn't he earned the right to choose for himself, even if it meant destroying what was left of his innocence? And wasn't this like the Horcrux problem he had found a solution for? A controversial choice, he knew it. He didn't like it one bit, but at the same time, he also knew that it would be necessary. Sooner or later, unless he rushed matters with the memories, something he didn't feel safe to do – Didn't that say a lot about the required time to prepare properly? –, the war would be lost one way or another.

Looking at his hands, he wondered about himself. The part he had inherited from his old life and self disagreed firmly with his decision and considered it murder. But once he changed his perspective, the other part understood his reasoning. It all came down to a decision between childish optimism and the knowledge the memories of the past life had brought with them, between wishful thinking and the harsh reality. He knew their enemy, better than any of his followers or Harry's allies and certainly better than anyone assumed. He knew how the other one thought; he knew Voldemort. It would not end until Harry had won. It would only get better once Harry put a stop to their advance. Voldemort's hunger could not be sated by anything less than the world, and unless he received a warning, he would consume it before long. If Voldemort was the illness, then his followers were the symptoms.

But then, there was the matter of actually doing it. Yes, he had been thinking about it for a while. For the last two weeks, the idea had presented itself; repeatedly, he had heard a little voice in the back of his mind telling him to take action, to stop them, to do something to let his enemies know they weren't invincible. But it had been only moments before he had discarded the notion.

But he had decided. He was a Gryffindor, boldly taking action. And he was also a Slytherin at heart, not allowing someone to stand in his way. So how would he do it? Granted, he could walk the streets of Wizarding Britain, hoping to run into one of their patrols, but that wasn't really for the best – too random, Harry reasoned. On the other hand, he could try getting them to come to him. Hadn't they given him the perfect tool to lure his followers into a trap? Not impossible, no, but then, how many witches or wizards did they send? Four? Ten? Tricky, Harry decided. Asking others to help? But didn't he want to keep the Order out of it as much as possible? Didn't they need the alibi? Setting traps for Tom's followers would have to wait.

Something else then. Maybe he could emulate the Death Eater's strategy of late-night visits? He had a lot of knowledge about rare and vicious spells. But then, what if he was seen? He'd have to silence the witnesses then or let the knowledge of his actual skill escape and reach Voldemort. He couldn't reveal his hand, couldn't let people know what he could do.

So he couldn't simply try to run into them. He couldn't issue a challenge and expect Voldemort to not show up. He couldn't let people know what he could do. He couldn't storm the manors of his supporters either, Harry realized. If even one of the inhabitants escaped, so would the any news about Harry. It would put the Order at risk, and he needed them alive and free if he wanted to win the war. All of that combined led to a simple solution – assassination. But how would he do it? He couldn't rely on magic few but Voldemort knew for risk of cluing the Dark Lord in that someone shared his knowledge. On the other hand, assassinations were tricky, but not really a message that would make people hesitate and – ideally – give Voldemort a mystery to occupy himself with. So how to do that?

Another important matter was the target, Harry realized while he went over his half-formed plans. Should he just pick some random Death Eater? But what would that tell? He had considered for a moment going after Greyback – no one would cry over his death. But then, he stayed with his pack, didn't he? Could Harry reach Greyback and escape afterwards? Well, there were options, of course, and sooner or later, something needed to be done about him as well, but at the moment, Greyback wasn't the best target. Voldemort didn't really care about the werewolf, only about the uses he had. Killing the pet monster wouldn't solve the problem. Killing the werewolf wouldn't send the right message. No, Greyback would have to wait for another time when Harry would be ready for him.

No, the first death needed to be a show of power, something to show both the Death Eaters and Voldemort himself they had opposition. It needed to be someone who was fairly competent and valuable. So who would be a good victim?

Lost in his considerations, he strolled into the drawing room, hoping for inspiration. A quick glance told him that the house was still watched. He turned away and walked over to the tapestry.

Part of him wanted to touch it, wishing for a sign to tell him he should go after one of the people on it. Killing Bellatrix might work, but he didn't know where to find her. She was also unpredictable, and Harry disliked the idea of walking around towns until they ran into each other. Knowing his luck, he'd run into everyone but her.

Of course, there was always Lucius Malfoy. His power were his words, killing him might work somewhat, and it would hinder the Death Eaters. He wasn't the most skilled duellist around, but he was part of the inner circle and reasonably well-protected. Harry also knew where he lived, and thanks to Tom's memories, he also knew a lot about the protections around the homes of Death Eaters. A Dark Lord couldn't be forced to wait at the gates, after all, so each Death Eater had been forced to include a handy back door to their wards to allow Voldemort to walk right past many of the protections. Unfortunately, Harry using that knowledge for a night-time visit or two would be a dead give-away.

But then, Harry realized, Malfoy had fallen from grace, hadn't he? Would Voldemort even care much about Malfoy's death? And he was also a known and previously respected member of society. Killing him might spark resistance against his murderers instead of his master, idiotic as that might seem. It could drive even more people into Voldemort's arms. Was that a risk Harry could take?

Running his fingers over Sirius' name, Harry thought about those that had been sent to the Ministry. Dolohov had been there. He might work. But no one liked him anyway, and some people would assume it had been infighting. Nott? Well, he had been there all right, but he didn't really have the same ring to him. Killing a greedy diplomat didn't really strike fear in the hearts of his enemies. It wouldn't fit the needs for the first strike, at least.

If only Sirius were there, Harry thought. He would have known what to do. Well, most likely, he wouldn't have known. Harry had more experience with fighting a war, knew the Death Eaters better, had a wider array of spells at his disposal, understood the concept of fear and shock in greater detail, and was convinced of his course. Sirius would probably have argued against it, just like Hermione and Ron had done. Would they help him? Harry didn't know, but he hoped they would. It would feel strange doing it without them by his side. In a way, he needed them for it. He needed them to agree with his course, to acknowledge that it really was necessary and not just the result of Tom's influence.

Harry ran his fingers over the name of his godfather. How would things have turned out if the Potters had not changed secret keepers? Sirius wouldn't have betrayed them, but sooner or later, he would have been caught. Sirius simply wasn't the kind of person to sit back and do nothing. But he might have died, standing upright in battle, taking a few of them with him, likely in some great ball of fire. Would he have resorted to such crude methods? Maybe he would have found some hilarious way to kill his opponents. Maybe turning them inside out or something.

Walking back to the window, Harry wondered for a moment whether he could do that.

"Are they still out there?" a soft voice called from the door. Harry turned and found the shadowy figure of Hermione move towards him.

"They are, yes," he greeted the newcomer. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Obviously, Harry," Hermione replied, and her white teeth shone through the darkness. "Did you have a nightmare?" she asked, worry etched in her voice.

"Something like that, yes," he told her. "I had a lot on my mind. I needed to think for a bit. But I'll be done soon, no need for you to lose sleep over it."

"Very funny," she said, joining him. For a few minutes, both watched outside. "Have I ever told you about our first meeting?" she asked into the silence.

"Why do you ask me? You seem to remember everything else." When she didn't reply, he added, "No, I don't think so. You mean the train ride?"

"That too. On the train, I was very nervous. For the first time in my life, I had left my parents behind, I was on a train to a magical school all my old classmates didn't know about; I literally left my old life behind. Then I met Neville. I kind of forced my help on him, trying to find Trevor. Well, new start and all, I was desperate to find some friends as soon as possible. I think I came off a bit pushy, didn't I?"

Harry chuckled. "A bit, yes. Not the best of first impressions, I'd say."

"Well, after everything I had read about you, I had expected more. Instead, you seemed average at best."

"Ouch, what did I ever do to you?"

"Do you want the complete list?" she asked, raising her eyebrow. "Then came Halloween and the troll. And you came to rescue me. That was perhaps the first time I met the real you – a hero, Harry, and not because you help people, but because you try. Think about how many lives you saved during your first years." She turned to face him. "Why are you so set on going through with this? I tried to see it from your point of view, but... we are your friends, Harry. You know you can trust us with anything, right?"

"The real me," he repeated thoughtfully. "On Halloween, I went to find you because I could. I knew someone was in danger, and I could help; I could be useful. I went into the Chamber of Secrets because I could, and someone needed help in there. I spoke to the snake during that Duelling Club meeting because I could." He sighed. "I ran to Sirius' help because I could, both in third year and fifth. I act because I can, Hermione. I did what needed to be done, whether it's running after a troll or trying to calm down an angry snake. I stepped in because someone had to. Now is no different. I want to act because I've figured out how to make a difference."

"I... I'm worried, Harry," she told him, putting her hand on his arm. "You say you acted because you could, but you also knew where to draw a line. What happened to the old Harry?"

Harry swallowed the first reply that came to his mind. He hadn't truly died, so it wasn't true, after all. "Boys grow up, Hermione," he settled on. "It's time to leave the childish hopes behind – we aren't living in a fairy tale. Wars aren't won by the noble, the innocent don't survive, kindness does not save the day, love does not conquer all. No gallant knight will step forward to protect the princess or slay the monster for justice with everyone living happily ever after. The laws are not just, and justice does not prevail. Morals do not lead to victory. There are no winners in a war, just those who have lost less. And then there are the necessary evils. Dumbledore wanted to protect us from that ugly truth, and look where it has led us."

"You are a hero; Ginny thinks so, Ron thinks so – he might as well sleep with a picture of you under his pillow – Neville and Luna, George, Fred, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley... and I, we all think so. And you did it without necessary evils."

"I won't win against the evil in this world just by giving them a slap on the wrist," Harry replied. "Dumbledore's course saw the rise of You-Know-Who. Maybe it's time to try something else. If I do it right, it will buy us valuable days to prepare, and every rabid dog we put down is one less on the streets."

"And one more life on your conscience," she reminded him. "Killing tears apart the soul. Don't we know that? It might destroy you – not what you stand for, but who you are; kind-hearted and brave."

If she had hoped it would bring him around, convince him to change his mind, she was sorely disappointed. She hadn't said anything he hadn't known already. Harry nodded sadly. "I still think it needs to be done. Someone has to step in; someone has to change the rules. A clear warning, an indisputable threat, and maybe I can scare some of them enough to step away. Maybe I can avoid further bloodshed down the line. If someone has to do it, why not me? I have the skills. I'm convinced it has to be done. Why not me, then?"

He thought he sounded very wise. It was a strange sensation, mainly because for once, both sides in his mind agreed with his decision. The old Harry had been willing to die for the world, knowing it needed to be done. Some things couldn't be avoided. If it was his destiny to save the wizarding world, then he would have to do it. Meanwhile, Tom would have shared the sentiment. He revelled in the evil deeds, in murder, torture and the fear he spread. But even he understood the concept of necessary evil, in stark contrast to the fun kind he preferred. For advancements, a price needed to be paid, and Tom had known this as well, even if he usually had others pay it in his stead.

"You are more than a price for peace. You're my friend," she told him. He kept silent. "You know you can tell us anything, right? We are your friends, and I want to understand you. In the past, I didn't see it, but even back then, you were brooding occasionally. It's become worse lately. It's like there's some dark cloud around you, and you're locking us out. What happened, Harry?"

"There is nothing you'd have to listen to," he said, yet he had to keep from telling her about his past. He had always tried to keep his life outside of school to himself. It was in the past now, part of a life he didn't have to go back to. What good would it do to open up to her?

"You will likely condemn yourself with your actions," Hermione spoke after a while. "If I cannot stop you and since I cannot carry the burden for you..." she hesitated for only a moment, "then let me at least share the load with you. I'm your friend. I will help you, but please, Harry, don't ever ask me to kill someone. I would do it – for you, I would do it, so please, don't ever ask."

He narrowed his eyes, torn between his impulses. Part of him wanted to send her away, to keep her as far from that part of his life as he could. What good was his fight if he couldn't protect his friends from harm? But another part of him knew he needed her. She could be his sounding board, his moral compass.

"Let us hope you will never have to," he told her, softly taking her hand from his arm. "And I'm glad you wish to help me."

"I still think you are wrong, Harry," she reminded him. "But you need me, and I'm your friend." She turned away from him, and recognizing her intentions, he stared back out of the window. The watchers hadn't moved, from what he could see. Would they ever find what they were looking for?

"So, what have you thought up so far?" Hermione asked, her voice forced to sound light-hearted.


"No, no, that's not how you can go about it," came Granger's voice from the kitchen. "Look, if you really want to go through with it, you need something of a plan, a strategy. You said you wanted to make them fear you?"

"Not me, specifically," Potter replied. Daphne slowed down. She hadn't known they were planning something. Should she turn around, sleep for a few hours? She didn't really want to be part of it. His war, she reasoned, and one she didn't want to get involved in. Then again, even if she didn't agree with Potter, she could use the insights into his mind. Maybe it would help put her worries about his mental state and the risk he posed to her to rest if she understood him a little better.

"Yes, I know, I meant... well, you want them to be frightened, all right. You want them to hesitate before they act. So let's see what we can work with. We don't have any creatures on our side, or at least none that would cause Death Eaters to fear you." She sighed heavily. "We could try to paint you as deranged, a danger to everyone who crosses your path, but... we don't want them to know you're behind it. We don't want them to go after our friends and family. No, I think you should stick to your plan. Less of a risk to be seen, less of a risk to be caught. But then, how to do it? You can't just walk in, blast them apart and leave, not if you don't want Riddle to know what you can do."

"It looks a lot easier with the Head Hypocrite," Potter said. "He just has to... I don't know, send a letter and everyone cowers in fear."

"Don't you know?" Granger asked. Something about her question seemed odd to Daphne, but she couldn't place it. To her knowledge, Granger was the smart one, the one with all the wisdom, so why would she ask Potter? But she didn't care about it, she was hungry.

"I do, but it's not the same," Potter replied. "They just have to send the Mark up."

Walking into the room, Daphne noticed both falling silent at once. "Morning," she greeted, receiving nods. "You know," she couldn't help but point out, "if you don't want me to know something, you should perhaps not talk somewhere I might walk into. Or put up privacy spells, they aren't that hard."

"We don't intend to keep you out," Potter told her, looking tired. "We're just stuck."

"Who'd have thought killing would be so difficult?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Something like that," Potter replied. "But not exactly, truth be told. Humans are disturbingly easy to harm, but we can't go about it the easy way. If we want them to fear us... me..." He leaned back. "Then again, there is something to be said about simplicity. Maybe it'd be enough to off some of them. A show of raw power, in a way?"

"Maybe we should shelf it for the moment, Harry," Granger said with a stifled yawn. "Gain a bit of perspective on the matter? Wait for an inspiration?" She checked her watch. "We're at it for over four hours, no wonder I'm tired."

Potter sighed, but nodded finally. "All right. Maybe something will come to us later. It's just so frustrating – if they can do it, why can't we? Why can't we think of anything to make them quiver in fear?"

"Well, they have creatures and beasts on their side," Daphne pointed out. "A lot of people have at least respect for them. That has to count for something." She grabbed a few of the breakfast essentials. "And his sign does strike fear into the hearts of people, so half the work is already done. They do have a reputation working for them, one you're missing."

"That's true," Potter mused. "So I'd need something of a reputation first, a few dozen deaths, as brutal as possible, ideally, just so they'd understand I'm serious about it. Not really what I had in mind, though. The less bloodshed, the better."

"Breakfast, first," Granger told him sternly. "And then, no more talk about that for a while. I know we will find a solution, it doesn't have to be right now."

Daphne glanced at both. It was odd; she hadn't expected Granger to join him for his killing spree. But then, maybe they were such friends who could plan murder and still look each other in the eye? And where was Weasley in all of this?

Well, likely still in bed, Daphne answered herself. It would fit, with him still dozing and his two friends planning for hours. Looking at Potter more closely, she watched for the small signs she thought she had seen the previous day. Had it been a trick of the light back then? A misunderstanding on her part? She was quite sure she hadn't imagined it. She was quite sure she had seen a slightly unhinged teen, not the rational warrior sitting at the table. Then again, talk about murder was disturbing enough to make her read more into his words and actions than what was there.

And since when did she see him as a warrior in the first place, she wondered. Well, she had had a rude awakening in a way when she had tried to rouse him. Seeing him use wandless magic as if it were child's play had shown her his potential, so maybe that was why she could see him in a new light. But a warrior? He did have a surprisingly lean build, now that she thought about it, which made for a smaller, faster target. He wasn't the classical hero, broad-chested and confident aura, though, which made it more difficult to see him as something else than what she had grown accustomed to. Perhaps it had been the escape on their wedding night, though, where she had seen the first glimpses of what he could be.

Weasley stumbled into the kitchen, effectively ending her musing. She would get to the bottom of it, she decided, if only to sate her curiosity about the boy she had married.


Heavy rain beat against the windows, and the inhabitants of Number Twelve were happy to have a roof over their heads, but the mood was still a far cry from sunny. Kreacher had taken to giving crooked smiles, bowing whenever someone ran into him. On the other hand, his work had begun to improve once more. With the painting and its influence on him gone, the elf had regained a bit of strength each day. True, any self-respecting pureblood would have kicked him out, but he did clean and cook decently. He did the laundry and held on to less and less of his grudge against Harry. Master Regulus' locket had been destroyed – ignoring for a moment, of course, that it had never really been his to begin with – freeing Kreacher from one of his unfinished tasks and eliminating an old shame.

With his improving behaviour, so did the opinion about him shift. Had Ron initially hated the elf and might have enjoyed the thought of being rid of him once and for all, the regular meals and Kreacher actually doing the work he was supposed to do had slowly convinced Ron of the elf's worth. Harry felt similarly – as long as Kreacher did his job properly, he was satisfied. Why should he care if the elf didn't quite bow low enough or still occasionally pined for his Mistress? Why should he care about the disturbing, crooked smiles? It was probably the best he could manage. Hermione had had a hard time coming to terms of Kreacher not wanting to be free; in her mind, it was simply unthinkable to not want to be the master of their own fate. In the end, she had decided the old house-elf simply was too old to overcome the indoctrination of the past.

Hermione and Harry often stuck their heads together, but rarely talked about his assassination plans. Instead, she also found time to teach him something Riddle had likely never paid any attention to. Granted, Harry also lacked her raw talent with them, but he had started to get a hang of healing and diagnostic spells. It turned out healing consisted of more than just pointing the wand and casting the spell or handing out the occasional potion. In fact, it was actually similar to medicine. To know whether a bone was broken or whether there were naturally two bones needed knowledge of the human body. To recognize an internal bleeding required knowing about the flow of blood in a body. In short, healing arts meant memorizing, something Hermione excelled in. She had little trouble remembering all the details that might just decide over life and death, and it made her a potentially formidable healer.

Hoping for inspiration, Harry occasionally visited the private library, which he still kept closed to everyone else after Hermione had lost all of her hair for three days when he had tried to take her inside in September; the wards apparently didn't want her in there, and Harry was wary to test their luck. He also continued integrating the memories, reliving Tom's life over a hundred times faster. The headaches afterwards aside, that had to be similar to extensive abuse of a time-turner, with reality and time folding in on itself, but at least he made progress.

The first morning after Bill's visit, Ron had stated in a private moment that he'd stay at Harry's side and help if needed. For the time being, that meant him working on his magic. He didn't have a brain like Hermione's. There was no way he could memorize anywhere near the amount of spells she could, and neither would he have the precision she was capable of to pull off the more complex bits of magic. He also didn't have the talents of Harry, and especially not the knowledge from the memories. Yet Ron didn't think he needed either. He was willing to work hard once he got in motion. This wasn't school, he had reasoned when asked about it by his friends; this mattered. Hermione had been furious, but Harry had understood him. Ron hadn't liked to learn how to turn a hedgehog into a pincushion or a bird into a badger; both was possible, but rather pointless. He was learning combat spells to fight and defend. Lazy though he was according to popular opinion, he cared deeply about his friends, and he wanted to make a difference. He wanted to help them. It also helped that defensive spells were slightly more appealing to the redhead in the same way fighting a dragon was a better story than lovey-dovey mush in his opinion – it simply had more thrilling action. To help him, Harry and Hermione planned to join him from time to time for more formal lessons.

Harry didn't mind the new atmosphere too much. He needed time to think. It had sounded so easy back in the dining room – a strike against the Death Eaters to have them frightened and careful once more. Reduce their numbers before the final fight. He had concluded that he would have to resort to assassinations, yes, and Voldemort had learned a lot of ways to kill even if he had a favourite among them. But Harry couldn't use them; he couldn't risk Voldemort realizing someone was copying his style and skills. So Harry needed to be creative with what he had, which proved to be a tantalizingly complicated task. He had the knowledge, yes. He could remember spells and poisons that would have some people running as fast as their legs could carry them, he could think of rituals to boil people alive, but Voldemort was already familiar with all of them. If he wanted to frighten the Death Eaters, he needed to rob them of their safety.

And there was another, more pressing matter to consider. Harry also needed to choose a target, and ideally one who would leave an impression. The lower ranks really wouldn't do, they were too easy. But even if he somehow managed to get Bellatrix, what would that prove? That she was mortal? Voldemort didn't care about his followers, so why should Harry? And ultimately, he needed to impress the self-proclaimed Dark Lord as well. If he wanted to bewilder Voldemort, he needed to come up with a mystery for the Dark Lord to solve.

Or did he think too much about means to deliver the message? Perhaps it was easier than he thought? It was possible; perhaps all he needed to do was stick to the tried-and-tested – cutting curses to bleed them dry, fire to burn them. The killing curse?

Maybe he needed a bit of distance, a fresh perspective? He could look through the books in the library more thoroughly. With the Blacks as dark as they had been, there was bound to be a book with some spell or potion even Voldemort hadn't found out about. And hadn't he found the remedy for Malfoy's curse on Greengrass in there, Harry reasoned, watching the guards outside in the rain from the drawing room. It hadn't given him any inspiration yet, but he hoped looking at the lookouts would give him some idea on what misfortune to befall them and Harry's enemies.

Perhaps Harry could try his hand at the snake? Nagini needed to die sooner or later anyway, and it would send the message well enough – that little was safe any more. But it was also very difficult to tell where the snake was most of the time. Harry could ask Snape, of course. But would that work? It should, reasonably thinking, yet it carried the risk of letting Voldemort know someone knew about his Horcruxes. And it only really worked against the Death Eaters, not the Ministry or the hanger-ons hoping for a better life.

How would Tom have done it? How would Tom have pulled off an assassination to baffle his enemies? In his youth, he had had a talent for concealment and had relied on stealth from time to time, yet Harry found most of those memories unhelpful. What good did it do to have the memories of a psychopathic megalomaniac if he couldn't find a new way to kill? Worse, Harry wanted to keep his method secret, but the actual assassination known.

A car passed, its headlight shining on the hidden figures in the rain, three of them, hidden under the trees to keep the worst of the water away. It wouldn't do to be found out because a downpour had revealed the shapes of the sentinels, not after all this time. Disillusionment didn't mean intangibility, after all, and water mysteriously running off invisible people just might tip someone off. Not that it had done them much good since Harry had spotted them before, but he took it as a sign the watchers were getting careless.

So here they were, Harry thought, sighing, the four of them waiting in the night, keeping watch, each in their own way. Who were those outside? Ministry people? Harry assumed they were. Even if he had recruited every inmate of Azkaban, Voldemort wouldn't waste his troops for something so mindless.

"Ah," someone said behind Harry. He turned around, seeing Greengrass. "So we meet again," she said. "And once again in this room."

"I needed somewhere to think," Harry replied, sighing.

"It's one of the nicer rooms," Greengrass said. Raising an eyebrow, she asked, "The second floor too small for you?"

"Something like that, yes," he said with a tired smile. "I had hoped for some kind of sign as to what to do." Admitting it was harder than he had expected.

"You do know your plan is crazy, don't you?" she spoke up, concern in her voice.

"I'm guessing it's no coincidence we ran into each other?" Harry replied, chuckling when he thought he saw her blush slightly. "I'm aware, yes," he told her when she didn't deny looking for him.

"Good," she told him. After a moment, she added, "You could surrender."

He stared at her. "And what good would that do?"

"You wouldn't have to become a murderer," she told him evenly. "Granger and Weasley don't want to see you do it. And I'm guessing Black wouldn't have wanted it as well. You don't want to do it, do you?"

He leaned against the wall, glancing at the ceiling. "There's a lot I didn't want, yet it happened. I didn't want Sirius to die, yet he died. I didn't want Cedric to die, yet he died. I didn't want to watch as V... the Head Hypocrite took over, but it had been too late to stop it. I didn't want to fight for my life for the last years, yet I had to. I didn't want you to have your choice taken from you, yet here we are – married. It's not about what I want, it's about what I think needs to be done. We're at..."

"War, I know, you said so already," she interrupted. "I merely wanted to point out that with you surrendering, you wouldn't have to become a murderer."

He stayed quiet, but inside his head, his thoughts were racing. A small part of him actually considered it. Or rather, a small part considered surrendering as part of a ploy. Voldemort would want to see him in person; that was certain. If he managed to get the snake, then all that would be left was dealing with Voldemort himself. Perhaps he could use some form of sneak attack? Taunt Voldemort about compensating for something with Nagini? Then, when she was called to punish Harry, he might use a wandless cutting curse to kill her, followed by an attack on her master.

Greengrass cleared her throat, getting his attention. "May I ask you something?"

"Sure, go ahead. If I can't answer..."

"Yes, I know," she replied, cutting him off. "It's about what you already said. You spoke about being the Chosen One and made it sound like a fact, but you neither denied nor confirmed that stupid rumour about a prophecy."

Harry sighed. "Ah, that."

"Yes, that. That it had to be you because of who you are – the Chosen One," she added. "Conceited much, Potter?"

"And what will I get in return for that information?" he asked, but he wasn't one to waste such an opportunity to lure Greengrass out from behind the walls he suspected she had. "Doesn't matter. I meant what I said. I am what people see in me. They think I'm the Chosen One, so as a result, I was chosen by them. It doesn't have to do much with prophecies, really. The Daily Prophet said I am chosen, so the enemy will want to have my hide to disprove it, my allies try to stop them from doing so. People chose me; I am a Chosen One. I have been ever since I entered the wizarding world. First year, I was the fabled Boy-Who-Lived. Everyone had their expectations; many saw me as the saviour of the wizarding world. Second year, in the matter of – what, an hour? Two? – I was the Heir of Slytherin, Muggle-hater and potential threat. People believed I was Slytherin's heir and saw what they wanted to. Fourth year, I went from the Boy-Who-Lived to a cheater in the matter of a few moments and to the second champion merely by not dying in the first task against all odds."

"To be fair, you did give a good showing against that dragon," Greengrass told him. "Especially since you didn't know what to expect."

"Yes, well, champions do usually learn one way or another," Harry said with a shrug. "It's like a tradition. And who am I to disrespect traditions?" He pointed towards their names on the tapestry. "At least I didn't go out of my way to find out, and Dumbledore was too noble to cheat and simply tell me."

"So you're telling me the great and powerful Dumbledore didn't bend the rules for his favourite student, the fabled Boy-Who-Lived?" Greengrass asked pointedly.

Harry shrugged once more, but refrained from answering. The Second Task and the shower of points came to mind. "After the task, girls were lining up to go to the Yule Ball with me because they chose to see me as the fourth Champion instead of a cheater. Fifth year, I was a delusional child and attention-seeker, all because the Ministry said so. Within a day of me and my friends doing the Ministry's job and proving the threat the wizarding world was faced with, though, the same newspaper that had led the smear campaign against me lauded me as a paragon of honesty and courage. The Daily Prophet told the public there might have been a prophecy, and as a result..."

"People started thinking of you as the Chosen One merely because they were told you were." Greengrass nodded slowly, understanding his line of reasoning. "So you are saying people believe about you what they are told. Since someone said you were a prophesied Chosen One, they expect you to be one. It's nothing but smoke and shadows – a big lie."

"Something like that, yes. Sadly, it doesn't matter what I say, they only hear what they want to hear. But guess what, should some drunkard come along and yell about me being the second coming of Merlin and an alien from outer space to boot, the wizarding world would believe it without any question."

"Oh, don't get melodramatic," she scoffed, but he raised his hand.

"No, I'm serious. In fourth year, I said everyone I met that I hadn't entered my name. They didn't believe me. When I returned, we found a Death Eater thought to be dead on school premises. He admitted to it; he told the whole plan to capture me. He was a witness. Well, he was until Fudge went to talk to him and brought a Dementor with him. Oops, but no matter, no loss. Fudge's words, mind you. Once people were told by a sorry excuse of a newspaper to think of me as the Chosen One, as good, little sheep, they did."

"So this whole business with the prophecy is only rubbish," she concluded.

"Story of my life – it's dictated by what people think of me. I'm the Chosen One because they see me as such... and in a way, I was the solution to your contract problem, because you thought I'd be." He sent her a glance, waiting for her to finish the thought. Would she see the parallels as well?

"You are and are not," she told him. "So you are the leader of the resistance because the Dark Lord chose to see you as such?" There was a gleam of understanding in her eyes. "And I am here, siding with you," she said, smiling crookedly, "because Malfoy feared I might. Because of how he treated me and what he saw in me, I became what he expected me to be."

Harry chuckled. "We're that similar, you and I. I had a feeling you'd get it."

She laughed humourlessly. "But at least I don't have a powerful dark wizard against me, just Malfoy." She sighed, shaking her head. "Yes, I get it. You are forced into a specific role not of your choosing; as such, you are a Chosen One by choice of others."

Harry nodded. "Right. It's like I said – the story of my life. Well, if people are so fickle about what to think of me, why not use it to my advantage? I could probably even butcher a bunch of children in cold blood and they'd assume I had good reason for it. And if I oppose the Death Eaters, put a bit of fear back in them... A necessary evil, then. A few months after the war, people will change their opinion of me once more, and I'll be the paragon of morality again, even if they'll have seen me as a ruthless murderer before."

The corners of her mouth twitched while she relaxed somewhat. "Your friends worry about what might happen to you," she reminded him.

"They like me," Harry acknowledged. "Maybe they are too young to understand it."

"Granger is older than you. Weasley as well, now that I think about it, right?"

Harry heaved a sigh. "It's about experiences and..." he broke off. "Well, about life, I guess. They worry about me, I know. I get it. They want to protect me. I've had others try that. It failed. It cost lives, caused suffering." He saw Sirius, dying because no one had thought to warn Harry; Cedric, killed because no one had prepared Harry for his destiny; his parents, slain because Snape had been more concerned with keeping his secrets than actually owing up to his misdeeds.

Greengrass sighed. "You don't know how the Death Eaters will act. You don't know how the Dark Lord thinks. You might be mistaken about them. Maybe you can't make them fear you? Is that chance really worth it to condemn yourself?"

Harry laughed. He knew quite well how Death Eaters thought; he remembered teaching them, after all. "No matter what you do or want or think, you won't change a thing in this world. Didn't you say so?" While he didn't quite agree with it, the words brought both of his pasts to the forefront of his mind – neglect and abuse; what Harry had lived through. Death, destruction, and cruelty; what Tom relied on, what Harry planned to use. The smile slipped from his face. "We'll see," he said with determination, not quite keeping the grim mood out of his voice or face.


She hadn't been able to stay with him; she had needed to get away and some space. She had told herself it had nothing to do with her, that she shouldn't get herself involved in his mess. What did it matter if she had thought she'd recognized something in him that shouldn't be there? What did it matter if there was darkness reflected in Potter's eyes? She had forced herself to focus on her training, but couldn't work properly. Ever since she had returned to her room, her spells had been haphazard, her mind wandering.

It was all Potter's fault, she told herself, furious. He had done something to her; maybe he had wanted to drive her mad. But she wouldn't let him win this round; she wouldn't bother thinking about him. Her, about him? Hah! She had more important matters to take care of. Let his friends deal with the idiot, she reminded herself, he wasn't her problem. She had to get ready for Malfoy; she didn't have time to think about Potter. He had admitted he wasn't anything special, after all! Nothing to his supposed status as the Chosen One, all smoke and clouds and make-believe. So she really wouldn't think about him. Him? Why ever would she?

But after an hour of hardly hitting anything, she fell on her bed, frustrated. She knew why she was struggling again, and she also knew what troubled her. Once she was still for a moment instead of focusing on the next spell, Potter's face came back to the forefront of her mind.

She had seen it in his eyes, in his face, and she had had little trouble recognizing it, almost as if the darkness in him had stared back at her, maybe even greeted her like an old friend. It wasn't the concern of a wife for her husband, or the worry of a friend that troubled her. She had seen something of herself in him. They were similar, or at least she now felt a connection to him, and she knew he was a living being with feelings, wishes, fears –probably –, a past, secrets, and a distinct personality. Both, she knew, had the occasional nightmares, and she could understand him cracking under the responsibility and expectations he had been burdened with. They were similar in some respect, both suffering due to the expectations and fears of others. And then there was that darkness in him – a dark that didn't pass, but had taken root and had festered, had become part of him. He had those eyes, she just hadn't noticed it before, either because she hadn't wanted to or because he had learned to hide them.

But surely she was mistaken, wasn't she? Maybe she had secretly wanted to find something, something she could relate to, or perhaps an explanation for Potter's behaviour. So maybe she had projected part of herself onto him to find someone in the house she could feel some connection to.

But then, why didn't he worry about his soul? Why didn't he mind pain, scars, and harm? Because his body was not important, because pain was an old friend, perhaps. Why didn't he see the potential loss of childish innocence? Because he had already lost it, perhaps. There was only so much someone could endure before they were changed forever.

Was she over-thinking things? Maybe she had seen enemies where there had been only shadows on the wall, or perhaps a troubled soul where there was only a misunderstanding. His friends would surely see it as well, would help him if he had problems. If he was struggling with something, if he was close to breaking, wouldn't they have noticed it? She couldn't be the only one who had seen the signs.

But then, a small voice in the back of her head reminded her that if her suspicions were correct, neither Granger nor Weasley were like him – or her for that matter. She had felt a connection to Potter whether she wanted to or not and could see the hidden darkness lurking in him, even if she didn't know its cause. She had a feeling she was right, mostly because it explained a lot abut Potter. They were similar – she could see herself in him to a certain degree, and this led to a familiarity that just might reach deep enough to show her what she had thought she had seen underneath his outer shell. Would either of his friends understand it? Only because of who she was could recognize the signs, had seen it in his eyes. Only because she had listened, only because she had watched had she picked up on it. Only her experience with that lingering darkness of the soul had made her see it, she suspected.

Experience. Hadn't he used the same word? He had, and she had noticed the odd tone to it then, as well. Was that why at times he seemed to be split – heartless and kind, embittered and, well, not exactly optimistic, but maybe realistic –, but altogether torn and dismal? And that darkness in his soul, that pain, was that the reason he had mistrusted her not too long ago? She felt he needed someone to reach out to him, someone just like she had wished for herself years ago, to guide him back into life and brighten his outlook.

Granted, brightening up anything in such a gloomy house was a challenge in itself.

But did she want to get involved? He had his friends. He wasn't her problem. She would do better to keep well away from that mess. She knew better than to stick her head out. It was of little importance to her. Whether he survived it or not didn't matter to her. If he failed, if he broke down, didn't that mean he was weak? She shouldn't burden herself with him one way or the other. Perhaps, a voice whispered in the back of her mind, it might even be better for him if he simply lay down and sank away into sleep, never to wake.

Daphne swallowed.

No matter what you knew or did or tried, no matter what you hoped for, you couldn't change a thing in this world. Wasn't that how things worked? Since there was nothing to be done about it, no chance of making a change, wasn't it wiser to keep the head down? To weather the storm and be thankful to not have the flood your neighbour was struggling with as well? To worry about your own hardships? To not get involved? To not help others? To keep the door closed and keep the world out?

Or was it something that needed to be done? Was it some kind of obligation, part of being human?

Daphne knew the answer. She didn't need to get herself involved. She wanted to.


His mind was tired, but his body was still unwilling to go to rest. He needed to do something to keep himself occupied. If he had known how to knit, Harry might have begun a small project, anything really to keep himself from constantly walking around. But he hadn't learned it, and neither, it seemed, had Tom Riddle.

Instead, Harry was forced to walk around sleeplessly, knowing he couldn't lie down. His first instinct had been to pick up a book, maybe sneak into the library. The Blacks might offer him some kind of idea. But he couldn't stand sitting down and being in one place, especially since he wanted to sleep. Another possibility would have been the preparation of some potion. Poisons might prove useful at some point, so why not prepare them beforehand?

He cast another glance at the enchanted mirror. Nothing was moving, yet it didn't quell his restlessness, even if he hadn't expected to see something in the dead of the night. No, everyone was probably in bed already. And maybe they had been mistaken, maybe the counterpart wasn't in the Room of Requirement.

He glanced at the empty picture next to the mirror, and frustration rose in him. Part of Harry wanted the security to be breached. It had been months already since he had had to fight for his life, and even though he didn't enjoy it, the rush of adrenaline might have done him something good. A struggle with Death Eaters or Ministry people would have been a dangerous venture, yes, but also would have made him feel alive and strong and capable. Working on a strategy without any hint of what to do felt like an overwhelming challenge. He knew there had to be something they had overlooked, but he couldn't think of what it was.

Or maybe they were thinking too hard about it? Perhaps it was as simple as making a call or snapping fingers. Just because Harry wanted to keep the method of killing a secret to give Voldemort something to worry about didn't mean he had to get truly creative.

Maybe they needed the insights and experience of a trained professional. But then, didn't they already have the detailed knowledge of one on their side? Tom's memories were at Harry's beck and call, how much more professional needed their help be?

Harry knew a lot of nasty spells; however, the troubling parts were not the spells as such. Knowing how to boil someone's intestines or body parts in general was disturbing, yes, but unfortunately, Harry had found himself unable to block some of the connected memories. As a result, he didn't just know the incantations of those horrible spells, but could also remember their use in great detail, clearer even than those times of young Harry in his cupboard or in school. Like an image burnt into his mind, Harry could recall both the victims of those spells and, more troubling, Voldemort's joy when he witnessed their use or the rather more creative uses Voldemort had put those spells to. Harry guessed few people knew how long it took for specific age groups to flay someone alive – never mind the spell itself to do it in a heartbeat – yet Harry did. Few were skilled in the art to keep a tortured mind at breaking point.

Not wanting to linger any longer in his room, Harry left for the kitchen. Maybe he could find something to eat; even if he wasn't hungry, eating would distract him from other matters for a while. Or perhaps they had something he could busy himself with in the house. While Kreacher took care of his work nowadays, Harry could re-shelf the pots and pans, look for any damage he knew he wouldn't find. Anything really to have something to do other than stand or walk around in his room, checking his trinkets for signs of an attack.

But reaching the first floor, he found he wasn't the only one still up and moving. He had reached the landing, thinking about possible tasks that wouldn't insult the cranky house-elf, when the sound of a door drew his attention. Greengrass poked her head out of the drawing room.

"Oh, you," she commented.

"Whom did you expect?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She pursed her lips. "Maybe Granger sneaking into her room, or Weasley off to the bathroom."

"You pay attention to where they sleep?" he said, smiling slightly.

"I'm a Slytherin," she replied with a careless shrug. "I like to know what is going on around me, even if I'm not a part of it. Having information might prove useful sometime in the future. If Weasley mouths off to me, I'll have something up my sleeve to keep him busy and distracted. Only, don't tell him that, all right? Otherwise the surprise would be gone."

"You sound as if you have experience with this stuff." Harry shifted his weight, covertly loosening his wand.

Greengrass shrugged once more. "Knowing Pansy liked D... liked Malfoy meant I could easily convince her to help me with the contract. She was willing to overlook any coincidence if it meant I didn't stand in her way anymore – say, if I prepared for the marriage to be dissolved in time for example. People are more willing to accept a stroke of luck if it suits their needs."

Harry nodded slowly, unsure how to reply to that. "So you are also awake," he pointed out. "And once again in the drawing room."

"I like looking outside," she told him. "I might not understand the Muggle world, but it's still a lot brighter and livelier than this house."

Harry chuckled. "Well, for what it's worth, I'm sorry it came to this – that you are stuck here with us. If there were a good way to..."

"Don't bother," she told him with a wave of her hand. "I understand the security concerns, even if I don't like them." She hesitated, as if steeling her nerves for something. "Potter?"

"Yeah?" he prompted.

"Last time," she began, struggling with herself, "you... chosen. You said you were chosen by people." He had a feeling she had been about to say something else, but didn't comment on it. "Maybe it was something they felt needed to be done? That they chose the one they deemed the most suited? Maybe someone they felt could be what the world needed? Someone they could trust taking care and leading them with his example?"

Harry blinked, unsure what to do with her comment. Finally, he nodded slowly. "Thanks, Greengrass."

"Oh, don't mention it. As long as you keep me out of that ridiculous plan of yours," she told him with a smile that might have been meant as teasing. It looked both forced and twisted.

"Now that I could have gone without," Harry said, grimacing.

"Come on," she told him. "You plan to frighten Death Eaters. To them, you are about as intimidating as a wet towel or maybe a puppy. They don't lose any sleep killing and torturing, do you really think they'd think twice about facing you? One look at you and they'll... I don't know, actually. What do they usually do when they see you?"

"I'm not sure how they'd act, to be honest," Harry mused. "I didn't run into them much without their master or his orders. Then again, they are likely ordered to get him if they ever see me. He kind of has an obsession about dealing with me in person."

"If you say so," she said, looking unsure. "But ignoring him, his followers won't fear you, so your plan... I don't think it will work. Puppies aren't dangerous, you know?"

"Eh, they can be," Harry said, trying not to think of Fluffy or his attack on Bellatrix in the Entrance Hall of the Ministry. He had tried using an Unforgivable. It hadn't exactly worked, but it did prove he could wish to harm people if driven too far.

"Well, they still won't fear Harry Potter," she pointed out. "They might fear someone or something else, though, so you could try being someone or something else instead." She made to return to the room, but hesitated once more, almost as if she were strengthening her resolve. "Potter," she spoke up, not quite meeting his eyes, "if... if you have problems, if you need to talk to someone..."

"What? I should come to you?" Harry forced himself to keep from laughing.

"Oh, Merlin, no!" she told him with wide, shocked eyes. "No, you shouldn't have to come to me. I meant you should talk to your friends. That's what they are there for."

And with that, she left Harry in the darkened hallway.


Now to wait for Harry to have an epiphany, connect the dots, and come up with a good plan. But that's for another day and chapter, I think.