Chapter 5 - Arc 2 - Dark Truths

It was a scene he knew all too well.

The room was bright with life, almost painfully so. Tall candles near a foot in length burned golden along the walls in their gilded casings. Below, cast in the merry glow of magic light a party lived on. Balloons of scarlet and gold, blue and green and orange floated about the dining hall, while a scattering of confetti whipped overhead like fallen leaves caught in the wind. If that wasn't enough evidence for the party, then the smiles surely were. It mattered not which direction he looked, each and every face was ruddy with cheer, with laughter rebounding off walls and drinks swishing in hands. If happiness were an infection, then he'd happened across an epidemic.

He'd missed it the first time. The second as well, and perhaps the third… but now he saw it. Beneath the carefree masks, churning like the murky waters underneath its frozen surface, darkness dwelt. It was in their eyes, the lines that had no place on their young faces, and the subtle shaking of their hands when they thought nobody was looking. Except he was – he saw it all. The fear, the suspicion, and the paranoia in their shifting gazes, tensing and darting as if expecting a shadow to jump out at them. Maybe that's why they kept the room so bright. The thought had never occurred to him before. It showed that there was always something new to learn.

He turned to look across the richly decorated room, where a four-tiered fountain sat upon a dark stained table, streaming bubbles and crystal liquid that shot thousands of tiny rainbows from the reflected light. Two redheads, stocky as tree trunks, were doing a terrible job of not locking suspicious just off to the side. They were identical, save for a curved scar just below the lip of the one on the right – it was impossible to see from this distance, yet he knew it was there all the same.

A resounding pop burst forth, and the entire room nearly jumped out of their skin, save Harry. Instead, he watched their reactions, something he'd never done before. Listening to it now, the sound was hardly anything to be worked up over, like the bubble wrap the Dursley's would receive with some of their packages. But looking at the assembled crowd, you would have thought the world was ending. Probably because they thought it was. Hands immediately went to wands, some already drawn and others hidden in robes and pockets. There were shrieks of fright, enough white faces to be mistaken for a death day party, and exactly four people who dropped in faint. Panic flooded the room, and the thin veneer that had so carefully been crafted was torn away to show the rot beneath.

All because of a prank that had gone off at the wrong moment.

The twins were red-faced in shame, a pair of tomatoes rubbing sheepishly at the back of their heads. Two immaculate white beards adorned their faces, stretching down almost past their navels, and a bottle of champagne was upended on the floor, its contents slowly pooling to the floor with soft gulps.

Ten heart wrenching seconds of silence went by – he'd counted them – before it was broken. "There's a joke in there somewhere." He knew that bark of laughter all too well.

"Premature spillage is definitely a Prewett problem." Another voice spoke, one not so familiar, but just as sweet on the ears. "Although the imagery doesn't really go with the old man beards."

Soft titters of laughter could be heard breaking around the room, some of the tension easing away.

"As the resident old man, James, I feel as though I must remind you that we live in a world of magic where anything is possible." Ever the showman, Dumbledore entered the room with a flourish, his midnight blue robes swirling and the silver stitching twinkling like stars. His voice was like a glass of hot cocoa, filling you with warmth. "Quite the impressive beards, you boys must pass on the finer details of that piece of magic."

"James, did Dumbledore just make a se –"

"– he most definitely just did, Sirius."

The grins his father and godfather wore nearly split their faces. Sirius had always been handsome, but without the effects of Azkaban, he was strikingly so. The eyes of nearly every witch, from young to old (even the very old), were devouring him with hungry stares. Beside him, tall and skinny and bespectacled, James Potter looked more alive than any photograph could do justice. Though his favorite part was to come, with a head of lustrous red hair that gleamed like fire in the light, pushing its way through the crowd. "Happy Birthday Headmaster, it's fantastic to see you."

"Ah yes… a century." His hands crossed in front of him. "That is why you are all here isn't it." Even now, Harry could pick up on the first signs that something was not right with Dumbledore.

"Are you alright, Albus?" His mother did as well.

The fleeting shadow of melancholy passed over him, and the man sparked back to life. "Oh, fantastic, thank you Lily. I was only just thinking about how difficult it will be for me to blow out one hundred candles." There was something notably false about his smile. "Now," he said, turning his attention to the rest of the party, "I do apologize for my tardiness… though it is my own party so perhaps I can be forgiven. It warms my heart to see you all here tonight, and I wish you the most pleasant of evenings."

The rest all seemed to pass in a blur, he'd seen it all before. Faces lost to history and long dead before their time floated about the room like specters, oblivious to their awaiting fates. A tall dark haired wizard, who's cheeks were lined by a thick bramble of a beard, stood and chatted with what appeared to be colleagues of his. His name was Benjy Fenwick, and in a matter of days he would be found as broken pieces and pulp on the ground. Not ten feet over was a woman, who's ebony skin glowed gold in the candlelight, looking half a goddess. Dorcas Meadowes was to return to her home that evening, where Voldemort himself was waiting. It was a hall of the dead – none more so than those he was staring at right now.

He'd tried to call out to them once. He knew it was foolish, but how could he not? They were right there… perfect and happy and everything he'd dreamed it to be. James and Sirius were poking fun at everyone they came across, teasing and smiling, and leaving them all in breathless laughter. In the shadows of the looming war, they were a patch of brightness that broke through the darkness, drawing others in like moths to an open flame. Lily was there as well, giggling, and playing along with the best of them.

Very quickly, the party came to a close. Guests were slowly making their way to fireplaces, and to the front door to apparate home. Harry could see the last lingering few chatting to Dumbledore, some about the Wizengamot, others about Quidditch, but what was most important were the few whispered words of the war beneath it all. Knowing where to look, he could see the way Dumbledore's eyes twitched across the room each time the Order or the war was mentioned.

"Perhaps I might trouble you to stay behind," Dumbledore said, when his parents finally approached. Sirius looked as though he wanted to speak up, but James waved him away and agreed.

The last few guests flashed away in the floo, Sirius rather reluctantly, and Dorcas who kissed both his parents on the cheek and promised to visit soon. It was only when the last flickers of emerald flame vanished, that Dumbledore turned around. The room was no longer bright; in fact, it was significantly darker. The candles overhead had dimmed and cast an orange gloom over their faces. Shadows stretched from the walls, misty serpents, shaded, and slithering along the floor. And moonlight trickled in from high arched windows, and melted into glowing silver pools along the ground.

"How is young Harry?" His lips pulled beneath his beard into a kindly smile, but his eyes remained as flat as a cloud covered sky.

"Good and healthy, Albus, and already making our lives hell with his magic. We left him at my mothers. The only times I've seen her happy since dad died is when she is with him."

"Why?" James interjected, a frowned creased above the frames of his glasses. "Is he not safe?"

Dumbledore scratched the crook of his nose. "For the time being, yes. Though, I think it would be best if Harry's trips to his grandmother's came to a close."

Lily and James looked to one another then, some silent understanding passing between the two. They'd known something was wrong.

"What happened?" It was Lily who asked, her face cold stone where before it was filled with warmth.

"I have much to apologize for. It would be best if we sat down." Dumbledore sighed, his body sagging like a deflated balloon as he led them to a scattering of chairs left over from the party. "Harry is not safe," he said, blunt and to the point, once seated.

"Why?" His parents spoke at the same time. Their hands were intertwined, and white-knuckled in their grip. They were scared.

A cone of silence was cast over them all, and Dumbledore sat stiff as a rod, searching for something that nobody else could see. "Just over a year ago, a former student of mine approached me for an interview to fill the long absent post of Divination."

"That new Trelawney girl?" James asked.

Dumbledore nodded. "I wasn't looking to re-instate the course, but I couldn't deny her the opportunity to state her case. We'd agreed to meet at the Hog's Head, and over the course of the interview I was beginning to have my doubts whether she was qualified for the position or not. That was until she proved me wrong: The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."

"That's Harry," Lily said almost immediately, her hand clutching at her chest. "Or Neville," James amended, a frown still sitting heavily on his face.

The soft ticking of a clock and sharp cracklings of a dying hearth carried through Dumbledore's pause. "Prophecies are treacherous by nature, but that seems to be the likely conclusion."

"Can we not just ignore it. Prophecies aren't uncommon, and don't necessarily come true, I remember reading once that the Department of Mysteries has an entire branch devoted to them."

"That is what I wished for, my dear, but things are rarely so simple. The interview was interrupted by a… snooping Death Eater, who overheard a portion of the prophecy. I'd thought the matter settled, or that Voldemort had chosen to ignore the more mystical side of magic, but the last few months have shown otherwise."

James' eyes widened a touch, and seemed to shiver in his place. "That's why they've been attacking us." He pulled Lily closer to his body.

"Yes, the attempts to recruit you have been abandoned I'm afraid. Voldemort has taken a dangerous interest in the prophecy, and Harry especially." For a moment, cloaked in the dark hold of dread, Dumbledore looked as old as in the last year of his life.

"Who was it?" The question was a breathy whisper that floated across the tense air like a brush of wind. Dumbledore stiffened. "Who?" Lily asked again, and Dumbledore shifted under her fierce, unblinking stare. "Who did this to my son?"

"I don't think…" Dumbledore cleared his throat, and swallowed, and saw that no words would help him. Harry could feel his heart beating faster in his chest, each pump sending a rush of hot blood pounding into his skull. Say it, he wanted to scream, Say it! But Dumbledore hadn't given up yet. "It doesn't do well to put such blame –"

"Who did this to my son."

A breath stretched into an eternity, before he finally cracked. "Severus Snape."

Snape, Snape, Snape, Snape…

The name ran rings in his mind, trampling his senses, and leaving him with nothing but boiling rage. Everything that had gone wrong with his life, lay at the feet of Snape. It wasn't enough that the man was utterly loathsome from the moment they met, but he was the one to deliver the prophecy to Voldemort. The memory ran onwards, he knew, but he couldn't stomach another moment.

Cold and dusty air hit his lungs when he returned to reality. A second lungful never came, as he was coughing with such force it was a wonder his fingers did not come away with blood. He hated this house – though it was more a hovel in truth. The floors were laid with hard chipped wood, and the walls stood with crumbling timber legs that threatened to collapse at a moment's notice. It made the Burrow look like a proper manor, and it lacked all of the Weasley charm. Not a moment went by where he wasn't breathing in sawdust and minute shards that clogged and scraped his airways on their way down. And no amount of cleaning charms seemed to do the trick.

"Emotions are powerful tools, but we should never allow them to rule us." Two Grindelwalds sat at a shoddy three-legged table, before his vision gradually morphed into one as the wetness from his eyes cleared. The old man was dressed in the drab grey robes he had taken to wearing recently, and the first hints of stubble were growing in at the top of his head.

"I'm fine," Harry grumbled. He sounded half a child, but he was too angry to care. After having to pull out several thick slivers, he'd come to learn where best to place his feet as he walked to the table. His nose twitched, still not having grown use to the signature scent of wood rot.

Grindelwald laughed coldly, pulling a newspaper from the inside of his robes. "I've seen you exit that pensieve for weeks. Do you think it has escaped my notice that one memory in particular festers in you like an untreated wound? I need only look at the murder written across your face to know you most certainly are not fine." He flicked the paper open with a snap.

"Anything new?" Harry asked. It would be nice if there was something to read that wasn't in German.

He waited, knowing it would be some time before he got his response. It was some strange game the man played, making others wait on him in some demonstration of dominance. "I'm still on the front page – decades younger – you would think they wouldn't be so foolish as to not put what I look like now." It was part of the reason why they chose to shave his head, the other being he couldn't stand its unkempt stringiness.

"They're probably doing it stir fear." Not that they don't need any other reason to fear you, Harry thought to himself, keeping his eyes down.

Grindelwald peered over the edge of the paper. "Just so."

The papers ruffled as he flipped the page, sending a photographed wizard tumbling out of his frame. "And they still are investigating the identity of a possible unknown accomplice. Some man named Krum is joining a special task force to find us," Harry's had snapped up to attention, "they're making a spectacle of him quitting Quidditch for this."

"Viktor Krum?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"He's a friend," Harry replied. "You killed his grandfather." Hermione had told him that after Binns' lecture.

"I killed a lot of people."

Harry clenched his fist. "Is there anything else?" He asked tightly, the anger inside him coiling like a spring. The response he received was silence, mixed with gentle mindless humming and the crinkling of pages. "Did they say anything else? You know what I mean."

Grindelwald slowly let the paper down, and met his eye. "No, they made no mention of that girl. I told you before, there is nothing that can be done. She is past any help."

The chair clattered to the ground with an offensively loud sound. He tasted blood, and could feel it fill his mouth and run over his teeth. The table scraped across the floor, sending up a shower of wooden chips, his tongue throbbing from biting down. "Oh, control yourself." That was enough to halt Harry's abrupt exit.

"Control myself?" The last tendril of control he did have over his temper snapped. "You're telling me to control myself? How can I possibly do that, when I'm the one who broke Gellert Grindelwald out of Nurmengard? You are the escaped criminal, yet I am the one who's trapped in this shack all day. Because of this," he practically hissed pointing to his lightning scar, that had a sudden burn of pain. My own personal nametag. "While you are walking free, I'm in here staring at bare walls and counting holes in the ceiling."

"Do you forget that this was my life for decades?" His words were razor sharp.

"No, I don't. Nor do I forget the reasons you were there in the first place. What have I done to deserve this?" You killed Annabelle, a voice whispered in the depths of his mind. She's not dead, he argued back. As good as, it hissed, and he knew it was true. I'm sorry… I'm so, so sorry.

"Is there someplace you would rather be?" Harry knew it was a mocking question, but he couldn't help but put it to mind. There are thousands of places I'd rather be. In the common room talking to Ron and Hermione, on a Quidditch pitch, or just being with… He thought he could smell a touch of lavender, but it was quickly replaced by the house's grungy musk. "You came to me and left with me, and each step of the way I've remained faithful. I could have apparated away any time, or killed you in your sleep, but instead I am offering you my services. Your transfiguration remains sloppy, I can crack open your mind easier than a children's novel, and you wield legilimency like a blind man does a sword. Now do you wish to die, or do you wish to live?"

Thinking back, it hadn't been much of a choice. Live or die. The two were intricately linked, and woven by the same fates who spoke through Trelawney that fateful evening. … neither can live while the other survives… His life would only begin with the death of Voldemort, and he refused to die without returning the favor. As such, he was stuck with Gellert Grindelwald.

Days passed as the sun rose and fell, and the moon waxed and waned, some days hidden behind a canvas of clouds and others shining clear in the sky. Spring was in full flight, its wings spread, soaring through the skies and bringing in fresh showers and the songs of birds. He could smell it in the air, filtering in through cracked windows and rejuvenating the old home. Light stretched, while darkness shortened, the hours of light growing longer each day, and settling in a new feeling of hope.

He found himself in the child's room one afternoon, working to clear his mind for the day. It was on the second floor, and he'd named it for the splintered furniture fitted to the room that looked as if it had been hit by a shrinking charm: a desk sized perfectly for a goblin, chairs that hardly passed his kneecaps, and a chipped wooden bedframe that could fit a mattress for a house-elf. The basics of Occlumency, were still a struggle for him. It seemed that whenever he got close to clearing his mind, his scar would flare in pain. Today was no different, a headache having already bloomed, stray thoughts slipping into his consciousness with every pulse of his head. Working itself over and over in his mind, refusing to be cleared, was the message Dumbledore had left him in the box. He'd been ruminating on its contents for days now, and none of the other memories gave any insight to its hidden meaning. He left me with a bloody stupid riddle. Harry cringed, clutching at his beating temple. Pushing away his reservations, and abandoning the Occlumency, Harry figured it was time.

Staring out a square, dirt smudged window, Grindelwald stood where he could normally found, at the center of the only other room on the second floor, stripped bare to its bone. The view overlooked a green-grey river that almost seemed to swallow the light that hit its surface. Snaking its way beneath bridges congested with automobiles, it split the rows of houses that faced off on opposite banks and moved with a lazy current. It was a beautiful view, urban yet peaceful, looking out upon on a stretch of Berlin. He's told me that much at least, Harry thought. After their escape, Grindelwald had taken them on a long dotted course across the continent before ending up here, a house on the fringes of the Berlin magical community.

"How is your mind?" The man asked, without turning around.

"It hurts," Harry answered, knowing that wasn't his question.

Grindelwald let out a puff of air, and his shoulders shook slightly. "You have a vexing personality, Mr. Potter."

"Only to people I don't like." Harry shifted his feet, the floorboards creaking loudly with the changing weight. He stood several feet behind the man, and was growing irritated with staring at the back of his shaved head – he took to the razor at least once a week.

"You truly are a breath of fresh air to the tedium of my former guards. There was once a man named Franz who worked at Nurmengard. He fought against me in the war, and was one of my original jailers. His son who he predictably named Franz as well, took over from his father, and Frideric – the grandson – had only just taken up his posting before your arrival. All three would curse me the same, it grew rather dull after a time, especially since the original Franz was never quite insulting. Though I suppose it gave those worthless wretches something to laugh about when they told their tall tales to their horrid children. That family grew only uglier with each passing generation, and they were too stupid to understand why I would always laugh when seeing them."

"My Occlumency is coming along," Harry said this time around, not caring to remark on his story.

Grindelwald hummed to himself, the same tune he'd first heard when climbing the tower. "I'm sure it is, though it will never reach a satisfactory level. I grow tired of looking into your mind and hearing your mother scream, seeing your friends die, and feeling all your emotions for that pretty French – "

"Stop." Harry said, louder than he'd intended. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"At least we are fortunate enough that you favor the other side of the coin." Grindelwald turned, smiling. "What is that you want?"

I want to knock that wiggling smirk off your face, he thought, and Harry was certain his smile widened a touch. He was half-tempted to leave the room, but his want to understand the message won out. The parchment crinkled in Grindelwald's leathery fingers when he passed it over. "I want to know what that means."

Harry watched closely as Grindelwald read the paper, then re-read it, and passed over it a third time. His face remained unchanged. "Albus left you this?"

"Yes… amongst other things."

Grindelwald folded the paper and handed it back. "The story he speaks of his that of The Tale of the Three Brothers. Different versions are told to children around the world, but the legend remains largely unchanged. Three brothers cheat death in some way, and Death offers them any one gift they wish. The eldest, of violent nature, asked for a wand of untold power. The middle, drowning in grief over the loss of his lover, asked for a stone that could raise the dead. The youngest and the most mistrustful of Death asked for a cloak that could hide from death itself. In the end, the eldest was murdered for the power of the wand, and the middle took his own life after only the shade of his lover returned. The youngest lived a long and happy life, and when Death came he passed the cloak to his son and met Death as an equal."

"A stone of life, a wand of death, a cloak of truth," Harry said aloud.

"The three gifts from Death, a common enough phrase for those familiar with the tale. Though, curiously, Albus has changed the wording. It is meant to be: A stone of death, a wand of death, a cloak of truth. The moral of the story being that the only true gift was the cloak, the others poisoned and bringing death."

"Why is this so important?"

"Albus and I spent our youth scouring history for a hint of the Deathly Hallows, as they are called. It is commonly believed that the three brothers came from the Peverell family, one shrouded in infamy, before they merged with a newer family rising in power in Britain. The Potters." Harry straightened, and Grindelwald's eyes gleamed. "You see Mr. Potter, the Deathly Hallows are real. I myself felt the power of the wand rush through my veins, before I lost it to Albus, who it appears… lost it to you." Harry couldn't help but reach to touch the wand in his holster, the wood humming against his skin. "And that marvelous cloak of yours, would I be right in assuming it is an heirloom of your family?" His teeth showed, he never needed an answer. "Together the three make the Master of Death. Alas, the stone vanished to time along with its owner." Grindelwald closed his eyes, his voice lingering in the air with loss like a grieving man.

I have the stone, Harry almost said. I have the stone. I have the wand. I have the cloak. What does that make me?

He didn't feel like the Master of Death. He didn't feel like the master of anything, stuck in this house, learning from a man he despised. And what did the remainder of the note mean? The answer lies in destruction, he reminded himself.

It appeared as though Grindelwald thought the same. "Albus always was rather infuriating."

"You don't know what it means either?" Harry felt a pit form in his stomach. Where does that leave us?

He answered the question with a question. "Tell me, did Albus speak to you of Horcruxes?"

"He did," Harry said, trying to keep the shock out of his voice. Had Dumbledore told him everything? He'd kept the prophecy and horcruxes from friends he would trust his life with, but Dumbledore saw fit to tell Grindelwald. The man was locked away forever in a grim, lonely tower, forgotten and isolated from the rest of the world, and perhaps Dumbledore had some reason to entrust the information to Grindelwald – the man was frighteningly brilliant after all – but it still hurt. It cut him deep, like a hot knife running through flesh, stinging and burning and igniting the kindling of resentment. He's done this before, a dark part of his mind spoke to him, betrayed you, hid things from you. Remember the prophecy… remember Sirius. Something was wrong, he could feel it brewing around him. It wasn't there yet, but he could feel it encroaching, a storm building off the horizon, its dark fingers reaching for his neck.

Grindelwald appeared deep in thought, and for a half a second Harry wondered if he'd fallen asleep standing up. "He told you the seven horcruxes?"

Seven? "The Diary, the ring, Hufflepuff's Cup, Slytherin's Locket, the snake Nagini, and something belonging to Ravenclaw. Those are the ones we spoke of."

Grindelwald's eyes widened a touch. "Albus," he breathed out, looking up to the ceiling. "You cowardly bastard, leaving this to me. Would it not have been easier on the boy to hear it from a man he loves, not hates." He spoke as if he forgot Harry was in the room.

But then he looked down, his eyes piercing into his own, and Harry knew it wasn't the case. "What's going on?" He lied to you, hid things from you, the voice returned. "What aren't you telling me?" Panic was rushing into him, sending his voice to a higher pitch as he spoke.

Their gaze never broke, and in the cold depths of Grindelwald's grey-blue pits he thought he caught a stirring of sympathy. "Seven horcruxes." He said, finally. "He never told you the seventh?"

Harry shook his head, though he wasn't sure how much it actually moved. The darkness he'd felt before was overhead, a heavy cloud that shrouded him in its aphotic energy. Gnarled, icy fingers squeezed his throat.

"It's you."

It took a moment before the words sunk in, and another before he understood what it all meant.

Harry stumbled, unable to breath and the air sucked straight from his body. "No… you l-lie." His tongue was tying on itself. "You're l-lying to me." No, he lied to you. Dumbledore lied. The room was spinning around him, Grindelwald was everywhere and nowhere at once. He could hear his voice, a muffled whisper lost in a storm, but where it came from he was not sure. I'm a horcrux, the truth smashed into him like a bludger. "I can't be." I am. "You're lying!" He heard a shriek. I'm a dead man walking. His hand reached to touch his scar, smearing some liquid across his forehead and into his hair. Blood, he realized tasting it. A shard of wood stood out of his hand, pooling crimson that bubbled between his clenched fingers. At some point he'd fallen, the ground hard beneath his back. When did that happen? A face floated above him now, one old and crossed with chiselled lines. "Dumbledore…" he whispered. Why did you lie? He wanted to ask, reaching up to touch his face, blood trickling down his elbow. It couldn't be, he realized, there was no beard and his face lacked any warmth… any love. He loved you enough to send you to die, a thousand voices mocked. "Shut up!" He screamed at them.

"Mr. Potter," a voice called out to him, and a hand closed over his bloody one. "It is true Mr. Potter, a piece of Voldemort entered you the night he killed your parents." Blood was running like beads from his eyes, but when they reached his lips he tasted salt. "You are a horcrux, Mr. Potter. But all is not lost." It was Grindelwald speaking, kneeling down on the floor beside him. I'm being comforted by Gellert Grindelwald. He wanted to cry, but then remembered he already was.

"I'm dead." Harry's breath was caught in his clenched throat, coming out low and cracked.

"Not yet," he said. "Albus loved you. He toiled and slaved and wept for your life. He swore not to fail you, it was near all he spoke about, and I in my foolish sentimentality promised my aid."

"How?" He croaked, the pulsing of his injured palm was overran by the throbbing of his scar.

"Unfortunately, I do not know." Grindelwald looked angry with his admission. "Though there is someone who knew Albus and his mind almost as well as I do," he said with a visible frown. "And has a talent for making the impossible possible."

AN:

Another update done!

Now... whew, I did not expect the last chapter to be so polarizing. I understand people might not like the fact that Harry freed Grindelwald, but if you take a close look at Harry's motivations, the position he's in, and everything that's happened to him, then you'll see why it happened that way. You're all my readers, and I appreciate you all very much, but I feel at times that some of you are applying too much of your own outside knowledge as a reader and assuming to much, and not considering the way in which the story has unfolded thus far and the logical flow of the narrative. Not every situation has an easy answer, and bad things sometimes need to happen. It might seem dark right now, but don't dismiss possible changes that might come around in the future. Have faith some faith in Harry guys, he's not an evil kid and he's full of surprises.

As always, let me know your thoughts, both positive and negative. But do try to leave criticism that is constructive in some form and backed by the text in some way. Thanks!