Chapter Two: Confrontation
Disclaimer: Nobody who hates Dumbledore as much as I do could possibly be mistaken for JKR.
A/N: I've had a long hiatus due to life sucking as it does at times, but am now attempting to complete my fanfics. Sorry about the wait!
It's the price I guess
For the lies I've told
That the truth, it no longer thrills me
Why can't we laugh
When it's all we have
Have we put these childish things away?
Have we lost the magic we once had?
In the end, in the end
It's time for us to lose our weary minds
In The End – Snow Patrol
Harry waited impatiently. The mediwitch had assured him that Healer Morgan would be in soon to speak with him about being discharged. But he couldn't help fidgeting impatiently. He had never liked being in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, and he found he liked being in St. Mungo's even less.
Remus was outside, sending the others who had been waiting for Harry away with promises that they could visit him at Grimmauld soon.
Yeah. Right.
Harry had no intention of making nice with anyone. He wouldn't be around long enough to regret bruising their feelings; and it might make it easier on them when he died if they weren't so fond of him anymore.
The door opened and Healer Morgan stepped in. "The Mediwitch tells me you're asking to be released." The Healer's kind brown eyes regarded him with concern. Harry nodded.
"That's right."
Healer Morgan stared at him for a few long moments.
"There are a few things we'll need to check first, Harry, and you'll need to meet with the Mind Healer who'll be treating you from now on before I can discharge you."
Harry scowled. "I don't need a Mind Healer."
Healer Morgan gave him a sympathetic look. "I know you probably aren't very comfortable with the idea, but it's necessary. And you won't be discharged until you've spoken with her."
Harry glared.
"And before you go getting any ideas, you'll be required to sign a form agreeing to regular meetings with the Mind Healer before we release you. While our Healer's Oaths prevent us from discussing any of your medical issues with anyone else, if you fail to keep your appointments without a valid reason, the agreement gives us the authority to alert the Ministry. And while we may be bound to silence, they are not. So unless you're keen to have rumours spread about the fact that you're required to see a Mind Healer, you'll attend the appointments."
Harry opened and closed his mouth wordlessly, and his magic began to crackle and sizzle around him as his fury rose. The Healer swiftly conjured a shield. Harry blinked, startled, then noticed the magic swirling around him. He gasped.
"I- I still have magic?"
Healer Morgan looked baffled. "Why wouldn't you?"
"The spell I used..." Harry's voice trailed off. He shook his head.
Healer Morgan wisely didn't ask. "We need to test to make sure it's safe for you to use magic, Harry."
Harry's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why wouldn't it be?"
"Your magical core is... unstable."
"Not surprising," Harry murmured, staring at the wall. "It has nothing to tether it anymore, after all."
Healer Morgan bit his lip, wishing he could ask the boy what he meant. But it was obvious that Harry had not been speaking to him, and he was certain that attempting to pry would only make him shut down more than he already had.
"Since you were exposed to the radiation, your magic has also become... somewhat radioactive." At Harry's alarmed expression he hastened to add, "Not enough to be a concern to you or to anyone around you – we just have to make sure that it stays that way when you actually use your magic. That it won't cause anyone around you to be exposed to radiation, even in small doses, that if you were to hit someone with a spell, it wouldn't hurt them, and that using your magic won't speed up the deterioration of your system."
Harry nodded, a slight twist of fear churning in his gut. Going too long without using any magic whatsoever would lead to bursts of accidental magic. The only exception to that was when a witch or wizard was imprisoned in Azkaban. No one knew why that was... except Harry.
He felt vaguely nauseated by the idea that the only way for him to avoid using magic altogether – intentionally or accidentally – was to have a daily těte-a-těte with a Dementor. If, in the end, it turned out that his magic might be harmful to others, he knew a safe place he could go. It wasn't like he wasn't planning on going there anyway.
At least the fact that he still had magic would make getting there more feasible.
Healer Morgan handed Harry his wand. Then he asked him to step over to the far side of the room, erected a shield between them, and instructed Harry to start casting at the wall.
Harry closed his eyes, and began casting – Leglocker Jinx, Incarcerous, Expelliarmus. He let his mind drift back to his training, and began throwing out more and more dangerous curses, faster and faster, running, rolling, dodging from an invisible opponent.
Sweat rolled down his forehead, trickling along his nose before beading on the edge of his upper lip, where it swung precariously with his movements, until a particularly sharp drop and roll sent it flying. Sweat was coming in rivulets now, as he moved more and more quickly, constantly in motion, not stilling even for a fraction of a second. And with every single move he made, he cast. Curses, hexes, shields, and counter-spells.
His breath came quick and sharp and short, his pulse thundering in his veins and roaring in his ears and his eyes, despite their dependence on a pair of glasses, were somehow eagle-sharp and able to spot the slightest motion of his opponent's, able to move in perfect counterpoint to defend and to attack. To win.
Harry jumped out of a roll, springing to his feet, where he stopped. Staring at the far wall, waiting, wand out, eyes and ears straining, every muscle tensed to move again. The black-cloaked figure across from him didn't move.
Slowly, he let out a shaky breath, and stepped forward. Slowly, cautiously, wand unwavering pointed at the limp body lying haphazardly on the ground. Eyes narrowed; watching for a deception, a trick.
Finally he stood over his opponent, staring at the slack features of the man he'd beaten. He kneeled and held his wand to the other's temple.
"Enervate," he whispered.
The figure groaned, dark lashes fluttering. Black eyes snapped open and narrowed when they observed his presence, a sneer curving waxy lips.
"Do you need Madam Pomfrey, sir?" Harry didn't flinch under the murderous glare; his voice remaining level and cool.
For a moment they stayed as they were, eyes locked, mutual hatred and enmity sparking in their eyes. A flicker of something passed through the eyes of the one lying on the ground, and the hatred was – not replaced; but dulled, and joined by – something that closely resembled grudging respect.
"Potter," he bit out through gritted teeth. "I'll thank you not to annoy me with useless prattle."
"I'll call her then, sir." He started to rise, but his arm was seized.
"Potter..."
He tilted his head. "Sir?"
"I'll tell the Headmaster you are more than ready to begin training against multiple opponents."
Harry nodded. "I'm certain he will be pleased, sir."
The dark haired figure on the ground scowled at his lack of response, but Harry simply rose and sent a Patronus to Madam Pomfrey. He didn't mention how difficult it was to cast a Patronus these days. He didn't think it was anyone else's business but his own. He stared after the stag as it galloped away, ignoring the tiny flicker of fear inside that said he might one day lose the ability to cast his Patronus altogether.
"Potter."
He tore his eyes away from the wall where his stag disappeared, and glanced back down at the floor.
"You are not... entirely useless." There was something in that dark gaze; eyes glazed over in pain, yes, but behind that, again he thought he saw that fission of respect, or reluctant admiration.
"Sir?" His brows drew together in confusion.
"I am beginning to believe," his companion said slowly, eyes fluttering shut against the pain. "That your death at the hands of the Dark Lord may not be as absolutely certain as I had previously assumed."
Despite the fog of apathy that surrounded him, Harry felt a tiny smile appearing on his face. Light warmth ran through him, as he realised he was receiving approval from a man he had no idea he sought it from – but from whom, he realised suddenly, it somehow meant more than any and all accolades he had ever received from any other source. He swallowed heavily.
"Thank you, Professor Snape."
The Potions Master attempted to rise, then fell back; resting his head on the ground, he closed his eyes, panting. Harry knelt beside him and conjured a small cushion, slipping it underneath his teacher's head. Snape opened his eyes, staring straight into Harry's.
"You have your mother's eyes," he murmured, reaching out and touching Harry's face. "Lily's eyes."
"Sir?" Harry blinked, thrown. "You... you knew my mother?"
"She was my best friend." Snape's eyes became slightly unfocused as he spoke, his words slow and tired. The sorrow in his face made something inside Harry ache. "She was my sister in all but blood."
Harry's eyes widened, and he held back a gasp. If Snape had been so close to his mother, why hadn't he heard of it before? Why had Snape joined the Death Eaters, and why had he told Voldemort the prophecy that got Harry's parents killed? Why did he hate Harry so violently? How could his hatred of Harry's father outstrip his affection for Harry's mother to the degree that all he ever saw in Harry was James Potter?
"What... what happened?"
"I..." Snape faltered. "I was... going through..." He paused, staring vacantly for so long that Harry thought he wouldn't continue for a moment. "I was going through something... extremely difficult. James Potter," he sneered the first name, and his eyes narrowed to slits as he spat the second, "and Sirius Black were tormenting me – as usual – and I was feeling particularly vulnerable emotionally at the time. Lily intervened; and while she stopped them, I was humiliated at having to be saved by a girl in front of my housemates and lashed out at her. Stupidly; cruelly."
The misery written all over his face spoke volumes. "I called her a Mudblood... and no matter how I apologized afterwards, she wouldn't listen; wouldn't forgive me. I was too proud to keep begging the way I had been, and gave up. I wanted to try again after some time had passed and I realised how empty my life was without her, but she began dating Potter." He closed his eyes, the pained bitterness in them nearly a tangible thing.
"I became so bitter and angry; I convinced myself that I hated her. It wasn't until I learned that the Dark Lord planned to go after the Potters; killing them and any of their friends who stood in his way that I was hit by the inexorable truth that my love had not diminished with the years. Potter and Black I still hated; I would not have mourned or regretted their deaths in any capacity. But the thought of losing Lily or Remus was anathema to me. I would have died to protect them." The pain in his voice was so raw that Harry felt it like a curse gutting his insides.
Snape continued, his voice faint, speech slurred and his head nodded slowly to one side. His words were sliding out in a rambling tone, seemingly without awareness that he was speaking.
"I went to Dumbledore and begged him to protect them. Promised him anything if he would keep them safe; swore to do or give anything he asked. I offered my services as a spy; swearing my life was worth nothing as long as they could be saved. My sweet, sweet, precious sister," he whispered, his voice choked with tears. "My guiding angel from the time I was a boy; and the man I..." He choked, and drew in a ragged breath through slightly parted lips. Harry noticed they were trembling. "The one I... the only one I ever..." His voice broke, and his mouth opened slightly and shut again a couple of times before he clenched his jaw and swallowed hard.
His eyelids fluttered open, and he turned his dull, glazed eyes back to Harry. "Love," he said, enunciating each word carefully, "is pain, Mr. Potter." His face twisted, and he closed his eyes. But Harry had seen the despair in them, and he felt something inside him shift as he looked at the broken man before him.
Snape's words came more softly, slipping out haltingly as he lost hold of consciousness, his head lolling to the side again. "I... was so... hesitant... to... love... or trust... anyone... by the time I... left... Hogwarts." His voice was a mere whisper, but Harry was utterly silent, straining to hear, not wanting to miss a word.
"Narcissa... was a friend. We became... close. She... made me... godfather... to her son. I... grew to... love them... both. But I... stayed... closed off. Held them... at arm's length. And... after... Lily..." His voice cracked and he made a small wounded sound. Harry hesitantly reached out and laid his right hand over Snape's."I saw... her eyes... The light... was... gone..." A shudder passed through him. "The... sparkle... the... laughter... the... warmth..." He let out a small whimper. "I... held her. She... was so cold."A shudder ran through him, and Harry felt slightly sick at the implication that Snape had clutched his mother's body after that Halloween attack.
"I... swore..." Snape's voice was so faint Harry had to bend down with his ear practically laid over Snape's mouth to hear as he breathed out the words. "Never... again. I would... never... love... anyone... again." His breathing was shallow and soft. "I've... loved... four... people... in my life. Lily... Remus... Narcissa... Draco." He swallowed again, this time less painfully. "I lost... two... of them. One of them... is dead... and it's on my own... head. My... only... family..." He lay quietly for a moment, breathing as if in sleep. Harry wondered if he had been sleep-talking.
"I... will... protect... the ones... that are left. I swore... to protect them... and... to protect... Lily's child... for her sake... and... to pay... a life debt... to Potter. Three... that I... love... and one... that... reminds me... every day... of my mistake... but whom... I... will defend... to the end. I... fight... for them. Everything... for their sakes."
His voice trailed off and he made no further sounds, save for his soft breathing as he slept. Harry slowly straightened up, his mind whirling with what he'd learned.
He was confused. Understandably so. He struggled to make sense of what he'd learned, but found himself filled with more questions the more he thought about it.
Absently, he checked Snape's pulse. He knew the Potions Master was merely unconscious, but it was a good idea to make sure his pulse was still strong. It was; which was a bit of a relief. Snape had been confused and disoriented enough to spill his secrets, which had made Harry slightly concerned for the amount of damage he'd sustained. Harry hadn't meant to go quite so hard on him.
He was very well aware of the fact that Snape would never have said anything to him without the head injury clouding his judgement. He was also fairly certain that his professor would make him pay – in spades – for the indignity of having seen him so vulnerable and learned his secrets; once he was recovered sufficiently to do some damage, that was.
He wondered about Snape's relationship with Remus; by all accounts, they hated one another with a passion, and had since their school days. Yet he had spoken of Remus as if...
Harry shook his head. He was being ridiculous.
A hand fell on his shoulder, and he jumped at the contact. He glanced behind himself, and saw Remus standing there.
For a moment he was tempted to pry; to ask for answers to the questions raised by the Potions Master's clearly overheard lapse in discretion, but the look of anguished confusion in Remus' eyes held him back. There was something so private about the storm of emotions he saw swirling in the werewolf's eyes – something vulnerable that made him feel almost embarrassed and guilty about having noticed it. Considering his intentions of distancing himself from everyone, that would be a decided step backwards.
But as he alternating watching the Mediwitch cast healing spells on Snape with observing Remus' rapt attention to the black-clad man, it didn't stop him from wondering.
"We're here, Harry," Remus said softly, and Harry tried not to show how startled he felt at being jerked so suddenly out of his thoughts by the unpleasant sensation of Apparition. After a year of being trained by Severus Snape in person and Salazar Slytherin in spirit, it was easier to appear unaffected than it once might have been.
He suspected, however, that Remus could still tell. Whether it was because his werewolf senses told him, or because he simply knew Harry that well, Harry wasn't certain. It might have even had something to do with his as-yet-unexplained relationship with Snape. Harry gave the older man a wan smile.
"S'alright, Remus." He flashed a reassuring smile at his friend, and got a slightly guilty look in return. "Remus?"
Remus cleared his throat and glanced away. "I told everyone that you wanted some space, some time; but I don't know how well they listened. There might be some people there," he explained, looking slightly awkward. "I couldn't keep them out, since we haven't recast the Fidelius yet."
Harry closed his eyes and sighed, trying not to let his frustration bleed through. He didn't know if he could deal with this, right now. His core was unstable; prone to bouts of accidental dark magic; particularly if he got upset. The coping technique he'd worked out with the Healers wasn't really something Harry wanted to show off to all and sundry, but he might have to depending on how things went with the ones inside the house.
"The Malfoys wanted to give you the privacy you asked for, but the wards around the Manor were compromised at the beginning of the summer and they had to move in. The wards are being repaired now that almost all of the Death Eaters are gone, but it's not safe for them to leave yet. I just thought I'd let you know ahead of time that they feel bad about not being able to honour your wishes."
Harry nodded, feeling a vague sense of appreciation that they had at least wanted to do as he'd asked.
Remus wrapped his arm around Harry's shoulders, and Harry couldn't help leaning into him a bit, aching for the familiar comfort. His emotions felt numb and hollowed out, and it seemed like only the negative ones bled through. The hint of warmth he felt in Remus' embrace made him hungry for more, even if it could only ever be a shadow of what he might have once felt.
They moved slowly up the walkway to the front door of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. He sent up a silent plea to the gods for the Order to have shown him some basic human courtesy for once and backed off, knowing full well that it was hopeless.
As they entered the house, Harry tried not to feel overwhelmed with grief at the loss of Sirius. I avenged him, he reminded himself silently. That bitch is dead, and so is her Master.
"Potter."
He paused in the hallway at the sound of that deep, smooth voice that always made him think of melted dark chocolate. He stood with his head cocked slightly to one side, examining his teacher. He met the man's glittering black eyes without fear and gave a sharp, decisive nod. "Professor."
There was a moment's awkward pause while Snape gave him an assessing look. "How are you?"
Harry felt slightly surprised, but a smile quirked his mouth none the less. "Tired."
He thought he saw the faintest glimmer of an answering smirk in the other man's expression. "Of course. Please, don't continue to stay awake on my account. I'm only curious as to how you did it, and why it was that I never felt the call."
Harry dipped his head in acknowledgement. "We'll talk later," he promised, and saw the satisfaction settle into the other man's face as he stepped out of the way and motioned Harry forward.
He grinned inwardly as he wondered if the man would be quite so pleased if he knew Harry intended it to be more of a bargaining session for information about Snape's relationships with Remus and Lily in exchange for the information he wanted.
He shrugged off Remus' arm and moved for the stairs, but was stopped short by a cheerful, deceptively benevolent voice.
"Ah, Harry, my boy; I was wondering if I might have a word?"
Anger and hatred flooded him so quickly it was all he could do not to explode right at that moment. The bitterness he felt was so poignant that he felt like he was going to be sick. He turned slowly to meet those twinkling blue eyes.
"Dumbledore." His voice was flat, and his eyes glittered with so much malice that the Headmaster stepped back, eyes wide. He was standing in the sitting room; not quite in the center, but close, standing a little further away from Harry, allowing him a full view of all assembled.
He recovered himself quickly, the twinkle returning to his eyes as he gave Harry a beaming smile. "My dear boy, you did it! You've defeated Tom, and won the war for us single-handedly!" A look of false sympathy crossed his face. "I understand that things must be very difficult for you, but surely you can understand why your friends and family wish to be here to congratulate you!"
Harry's gaze flitted over the sitting room, realising to his fury that the entire Order seemed to be present, as well as Hermione and the entire Weasley family. Even the Malfoys were present, standing at the back, just beyond the doorway on the other side of the room.
He examined the expressions of the room's occupants with a sense of cool detachment, knowing his face was as blank a mask as the Malfoys had ever managed. The thought flitted through his mind that dabbling in the Dark Arts apparently helped one build such a mask.
His new emotional coldness allowed him to view the people assembled there without any filtering through a lens of emotional bias. There was no affection to blind him, no nervousness or apprehension about their perceptions of him to hinder him, and no guilt to shame him; and without any emotional distractions he was able to see things that he never would have noticed otherwise. Even his anger, fierce as it had been a moment before, was easily swept aside; forgotten for the moment.
This was a new skill, he observed idly; another thought that flitted through his mind before dissipating. While his studies in the Dark Arts – Occlumency in particular – had helped make him colder, more perceptive, and less transparent, they had also increased his connection to his darker emotions. No one could ever achieve such a perfect degree of detachment when there was always at least a hint of anger simmering below the surface of their consciousness.
He strode forward, his expression betraying nothing. Dumbledore's twinkle diminished slightly as he realised that Harry didn't appear thrilled to see everyone there to meet him. Harry stopped a few feet away from the Headmaster.
"Funny," he commented lightly, voice flat. "I don't seem to recall inviting anyone to make themselves at home in my house."
Dumbledore smiled condescendingly. "But surely you wanted to see your friends again, Harry; if only to reassure them after they were so worried about you."
Harry tilted his head slightly as he met Dumbledore's gaze. "Actually, I expressly stated that I didn't want to see anyone yet."
He looked around the room, coolly meeting the eyes of everyone present, feeling a vague ripple of satisfaction as they all averted their eyes and flushed.
"But Harry," began Hermione, but she was cut off by Harry.
"Harry, dear; surely you don't mean that!" she cried, and Harry narrowed his eyes slightly.
"I assure you, I don't make a habit of saying things I don't mean."
He turned back to Dumbledore and arched an eyebrow. "I can see I ought to reset the Fidelius sooner than I had anticipated."
A low murmur ran through the room at that, and he had a sudden thought that gave him a hint of amusement. He decided to go with it, just to see the reactions of those assembled.
"Hey, Malfoy," he called.
Draco started, his eyes darting from side to side before he licked his lips and replied. "Potter," he said warily.
"How'd you like to be my Secret Keeper?"
Draco's eyes widened, then he smirked. "Why not?" he drawled. He couldn't help enjoying the scandalized looks and gasps of outrage that rose up with Harry's words. Allies they might have been, but Gryffindor baiting was still such fun. He was a little mystified as to why Potter was willing to oblige him so by providing such a perfect opportunity, but he certainly appreciated it.
"Harry," came Dumbledore's voice, his eyes hardening slightly. "You need to be careful. You wouldn't want anyone to wonder whether you might be going dark, now, would you?"
The glass in the room began rattling ominously, and Harry's eyes narrowed into slits as he moved towards Dumbledore. "Dark?" he whispered, and the sheer venom in his voice unnerved the listeners. "You call me dark?"
His lip curled in disgust. "You, who left a 15 month old baby on a doorstep like a milk bottle in the middle of the night – in November!? Who never bothered to ask if the Muggles were willing to take him in or even check on his welfare afterwards? Who ignored that his relatives called witches and wizards 'freaks', that they had lied to him about his parents; his heritage? Who ignored the bars on his window, and his pleas when he begged not to be forced to return to his relatives? Who ignored him at every turn, fed him lies, forced him to fight your war for you? Why, Headmaster," his voice became saccharine. "Whatever would possibly give you the idea that I might have any reason to go Dark?"
"Harry," Dumbledore began, a hint of steel entering his eyes. "There's no need for exaggerations-"
"Oh, I'm exaggerating?" Harry's eyes widened in mock surprise. "So you didn't have wards on the house to monitor my condition when I was little? You never knew about how Dudley pushed me down the stairs when I was five, and after my arm broke my uncle threw me into the cupboard for two days as punishment for crying? About all the times I went without food because my aunt and uncle didn't want to have to feed a freak?"
His eyes narrowed again and he hissed, "I know the truth, Dumbledore. I know that you monitored everything; that you knew everything. I know that it was all part of your plan to make me nice and malleable to make me your weapon; to turn me into a child soldier!"
He laughed humourlessly. "If I didn't want to get beaten to a pulp, I had to run fast. Now I'm faster than anyone else I know. I had to learn how to hide, how to be absolutely silent. How to manage without food and water. How to keep going; to keep working when I'm exhausted, cold, and hungry. How to avoid panicking when I'm locked in a small, dark place for days. When I got to Hogwarts, I was so happy and grateful to have been saved that I never questioned why no one seemed to know. Why no one had ever checked on me. What the fact that my Hogwarts letter was addressed to 'The Cupboard Under The Stairs' might mean. But you knew everything, all along!"
His voice trembled. "You left me there on purpose. From the day you left me there I was neglected, locked up, starved, and beaten – and you let it all happen to me. All 'For the Greater Good'. Telling yourself that it would teach me the survival skills that might help me defeat Voldemort. What if I'd been raped, too – would you have let them do that to me, too? Told yourself that it might save my life one day to know how to suck a little Death Eater cock?"
He laughed again, choking on it like a sob. He could feel tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, feel his magic burning underneath his skin like lava. "You made sure that I was prejudiced against Slytherins before I ever came to Hogwarts, to make sure that I would stay out of the only House that would have nurtured my self-preservation instinct; the self-preservation instinct that all abused children have, and that you were determined to squash out of me. You ensured that my childhood would convince me I was worthless, so that when the time came I would be a good little hero and die with Voldemort!" His voice rose to a shout, and all the glass in the room exploded. His magic swirled around him in a small whirlwind, sparks of what appeared to be blue lightning fizzing and leaping out from his aura.
"Leave." His voice was hoarse, and he seemed to notice for the first time since he'd begun shouting at the Headmaster that he and Dumbledore were not alone. "Leave right now, old man; before I lose control of my magic and someone gets hurt."
Dumbledore opened his mouth to object, and Harry's magic flared up in a visible roar as he took one step forward. Fear lit the old wizard's eyes for a moment, and he Disapparated with a nearly silent pop. Harry closed his eyes and drew in a shuddering breath, but it was too late for him to draw back his aura. The whirling, sparking magic around him was seething; a pot on the verge of boiling over.
"Intracingo!" he gasped out, falling to his knees. A shimmering ripple slid over his skin, and he could feel himself shaking from the effort of holding back. "Totum Contineo Sphaera!" A second shimmer burst out from his skin, rapidly expanding and encompassing him in a large opaque bubble. His eyes fluttered shut, and somehow, he knew just what he needed.
"Fiendfyre!" He could barely wheeze out the incantation, and the magic poured out of his fingertips with a scream. He heard the distant shrieks of the others, but dismissed them as unimportant as the cursed fire rolled and prowled and moved around his body. Enclosed within the container he created, it could't harm anyone but him. And his body was encased in a perfect shield; one that would hold back anything. He laid his forehead on the floor in relief as his magic purred and began to settle. He was trembling – he knew he was trembling; he could feel it – but it didn't matter. All he needed to do was wait for a few moments in the heart of the firestorm he created while his magic burned off his uncontrolled anger, and ride it out.
Part of him was glad for the anger – welcomed it, because at least he could feel something while he was that angry – and part of him was bitter that negative emotions came so easily while positive ones left him so cold. Most of him was indifferent, calming and relaxing in the midst of the Dark Magic he'd called up. After a few moments, he judged his magic back under his control and cancelled the spells.
"Quam aptus," he murmured, not really registering that he was speaking in latin. "Quod perfectio imago animae meae."
He opened his eyes, and he could see the various Order members all pressed against the walls, staring at him in shock. He sat up slowly, feeling calm and in control once again. While vaguely aware that he was naked, he felt no shame or discomfort with being seen thus.
"What was that?" Hermione whispered.
"Fiendfyre," he answered. "Cursed fire; Dark Magic. Beautiful, isn't it? Terrible, yes; but beautiful. It's an accurate parallel of what Dark Magic truly is, actually. All Dark Magic, like Fiendfyre, is powerful and has its uses. But if it isn't absolutely, perfectly controlled it will consume everything around it – including its caster. The witch or wizard using it has to know exactly what he or she is doing, or all is lost. It's dark, beautiful, and terrible all at once."
"So, is that how you did it?" Tonks' voice was shaking, fearful. He cocked his head to one side and gave her a quizzical look. "You killed Voldemort with Dark Magic?"
Harry snorted, mildly amused. "Oh, that? No," he shook his head. "I didn't kill Voldemort with Dark Magic." He shot her a pleasant smile. "I killed him with Black Magic; which is much, much worse."
Then, because he knew there were more questions coming and he really didn't feel like answering any of them just then, he Disapparated without bothering to get up off the floor.
Harry stretched as he rose, absently shooting a silencing and locking charm at the door to Regulus' bedroom. While the Dark Magic made his wonky core feel somewhat refreshed, it had only served to heighten his physical and mental tiredness. He stumbled towards the bed and collapsed into it, breathing deeply as his eyes fluttered shut.
"Ut exstinguat vitam, anima mea ego discutio," he murmured. "Sic fiat."
A/N: Latin translations:
Intracingo – protect within
Totum Contineo Sphaera – all-containing sphere
Quam aptus - "How fitting."
Quod perfectio imago animae meae. – "A perfect reflection of my soul."
Ut exstinguat vitam, anima mea ego discutio. – To extinguish (quench, annihilate, destroy) life, my own soul I shatter (smash to pieces, shake violently, dissipate, disperse, break up, scatter, bring to nothing).
Sic fiat – So mote it be. (So be it, in this way it must be, thus it shall be)