Disclaimer: The rights to the Harry Potter series go to J.K. Rowling. All original ideas present in this belong to me.

Chapter Nine | Half Dead, Mostly Alive

I'd like to think I'd get used to how easily the wizarding world switch from nearly euphoric, to hateful, and back again in the blink of an eye. It's not often that I see it this bipolar attitude happening to someone other than me. Well, I don't think I've ever seen it. I've never been able to escape the constant, infuriating attention that comes with being famous.

Just as Dumbledore said during his announcement, the information was in the Prophet, and amazingly, the Prophet delivered. The reporter, whoever they were since I really wasn't paying attention, pulled no punches. They threw heavy shots at Crouch, Bagnold, and even Dumbledore for allowing such a horrible miscarriage of justice to occur right under their noses. The surprising quality of research behind it might be due to the fact that Skeeter may not be working there at the moment, and hopefully this gives the Prophet the kick in the arse it needs to not devolve into a gossip rag.

The news has torn through the school faster than any petty, hateful rumour ever could. Nearly every student quietly, or not so quietly murmuring amongst themselves about the revelations printed for the last couple of weeks. Classes have been constantly interrupted by whispered conversations involving the trial of Sirius Black, notorious 'mass murderer,' and an innocent man. I know that they're students, and I know they're young, but it pisses me off to no end that they only focus on how Pettigrew was named to be the real betrayer. Just a few weeks ago these same people would condemn Sirius. They would have cried for his blood if he escaped the prison like he did in the last timeline, baying to see his head on a pike.

Now? They discuss what a shame it was for him to be locked away for so long. What a shame. Like that even begins to cover what he's gone through. Shame my ass.

They gloss over the fact that he's been tortured for decades, imprisoned for crimes he didn't commit, trapped with demons that would feed on his thoughts and very soul. I remember discussing with him how what hurt him the most was being vilified. Being vilified by the same world that created Pettigrew and all the other monsters of his ilk, and then had the nerve to ask how 'such a thing could happen' in the only country that these mass murders regularly occur. The rat that dared to do something so incredibly despicable, to sell out his brother in all but blood. Not even to save his own skin, since he was never in any real danger, but just for the sake of selling him out.

No, that only receives a passing mention in the paper or the school's discussions. Sirius was destroyed, mind body and soul, and all he's gotten in return was a pat on the back, a bag of gold, and an official declaration of 'well, we're awful sorry.'

I encounter a few curious looks from the staff, as well as any students who took the time to read about what Sirius was allegedly imprisoned for, but they're nothing compared to what I've had to deal with in the past. To be honest, it doesn't really phase me. I'm too excited to finally see Sirius get what he always wanted. Freedom.

It's been exhausting spending the last few weeks counting down the days until he's is released from Saint Mungo's. I'm genuinely happy to hear that he's getting the help he so badly needs, and I'm ecstatic to finally have the chance to build a friendship with him without having to do it in the shadows. No more spending time with him in a decrepit house, reeking of dark magic, the constant threat of dementors lurking around every corner.

I set my fork down, quickly forgetting about my meal as I purple robes out of the corner of my eye. I take a deep breath as I watch Quirrel take his usual path out of the Great Hall, walking between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. Walking on my side of the tables. I run over my plan. Well, it's more of an idea than a plan, but it's a plan all the same. Fall out of my seat, grab Quirrel, and hold on for dear life. I feel a knot in my stomach, feeling guilty that I'm about to kill a man, even though I've done it once before. Even though he's a dead man walking due to the hitchhiker on the back of his head.

I clench my hands nervously, keeping track of Quirrel out of the corner of my eye. I smell garlic before I see him, the severe odour of the plant emanating strongly from his turban. Eyes watering, I pretend to stumble out of my seat, reaching out to grab him as I fall, snatching his hand and 'accidentally' pulling him down with me.

He starts to scream the instant I make contact with him, his hand disintegrating in my grasp. I grit my teeth through the insurmountable pain of touching Voldemort, even through the medium of a possessed professor. Everyone in the hall jumps at the sickening noise, Quirrel's voice cracking shrilly as he continues to scream in pain, writhing uncontrollably and watching in horror as his skin crumbles to ashes. Dumbledore rushes out of his seat towards us, his robes billowing impressively behind him. Noticing his approach, I quickly brush my hand along Quirrel's face, pretending to check and see what's wrong with him. I fall back in faux shock, screaming for someone to help as fissures run across his cheek, smoke rising from his eroding skull.

In the few seconds it takes Dumbledore to run over, Quirrel is already dead. His body has turned to a pile of smoking ashes, the blackened wraith of Voldemort erupting from his remains and spinning round the room before locking eyes with me

With an empty scream, it cries as it rushes towards me.

I quickly throw myself to the ground and dodge the wraith, rolling over as it doubles back and flies at me again, a smoky trail in its wake, carrying a feeling of wrongness, a tangible sense that the wraith should not be on this earth. Dumbledore quickly snaps off a spell, banishing Voldemort through the doors of the Great Hall and presumably sending him off the school grounds, the wraith continuing to shriek as it disappears.

"Oh my god! What was that?" I cry, resting on my elbows and glancing wildly around the room, watching the now screaming students attempt to climb over each other to escape. I grimace internally at the fact that I've probably just scarred most them for life. Hopefully I don't have to pay the healers bills.

A bang erupts from Dumbledore's wand as he calls for the students to calm down, ordering them to their seats. "Everybody calm down! Prefects, escort your houses to their common rooms immediately," he orders, turning towards me. "Miss Potter, stay here," he adds, scanning his wand rapidly over Quirrel's empty robes.

Madame Pomfrey appears out of the blue, pushing her way through the teeming mass of students attempting to leave the hall, gasping loudly as she lays her eyes on the scene in front of her. "I was notified by the wards that someone had been severely hurt… are those Quirrel's robes Albus?" Her gaze locks on the purple turban. "What happened here? Is he… is it too late?"

Nodding solemnly at her he continues to mutter spells and wave his wand over the empty clothing, frowning deeply at whatever he's found, or failed to find. "It seems that Professor Quirrel was possessed by a dark spirit," he announces, the staff now crowded around us inhaling sharply at the confirmation.

"Well, what was it that flew out of his head? All I saw was bright red eyes," I comment, ignoring the muted gasps as I awkwardly pull myself up, grimacing in distaste as I discretely brush Quirrel dust off of my robes.

"Bright red eyes, Miss Potter?" McGonagall stammers fearfully.

"Yeah, bright red eyes. It looked… snakish, if that's a good word to describe its features." I rejoice internally at the knowing looks and harsh whispers being passed around by the Professors.

"I can confirm that Miss Potter is telling the truth," Dumbledore says, frowning almost imperceptibly as his eyes pass over me. "I believe that was the wraith of Voldemort."

The Professors hiss in chorus at the cursed name, Snape visibly recoiling at the mention of his previous master, a momentarily terrified look flashing over his normally dour features.

"Minerva would you please contact the DMLE immediately? Poppy, could you check over Miss Potter here and make sure she's unscathed? I'll be back in a moment, I'm going to go to the gates to bring in Amelia," Dumbledore orders, briskly striding out of the Hall.

McGonagall inclines her head and sends off a patronus, a small tabby cat bursting out of her wand and disappearing through the southern walls. Madame Pomfrey quietly shuffles over and begins to pass her wand over me, murmuring quietly. She continues to scan me for a few minutes, lights of every colour flashing from the tip of her wand before she pauses, her breath hitching in her throat. She re-casts her spell a few times, her eyes nearly bursting out of her head as she continues to repeat it. After a couple of repetitions, along with a few other scans, her features become more and more confused.

With a brooding look on her face, she stoops down in front of me, lifting my chin with one finger and looking me in the eyes. "Miss Potter, I'm going to touch your neck for a moment to check your pulse, is that alright with you?" I agree, and she moves her hand underneath my jaw, pressing two fingers against my neck. She frowns deeply, motioning for Flitwick to join us, giving me another scan before hurriedly pulling Flitwick aside and whispering in his ear.

What the hell is going on here? I follow suit and repeat Pomfrey's actions, pulling my hand up to my neck and checking my pulse, horrified as I realize what has her so confused. "I've got no pulse!" I whisper, almost falling over myself as I quickly check my wrist and then ankle to see if I could feel it from there. I haven't got a bloody pulse!

I cry out loud when I realize that everything around me has stopped. Not stopped, as in halted, everyone pausing what they're doing. No, I mean stopped, like a goddamn movie. Flitwick and Pomfrey stand frozen in the middle of their conversation, Pomfrey's hand held to her mouth in a recognizable expression of worry. I turn to see McGonagall standing behind me wearing a concerned look, her cheeks sucked into her mouth and her eyes locked on Pomfrey and Flitwick's conversation. Glancing around I realize everything has stopped around me, except for one familiar, terrifying figure perched upon the staff table, one leg crossed over the other and looking over the scene with absolute disinterest.

"Death?"

"Yes, that would be me, Miss Potter," he drawls, tapping one long finger against his knee. "I was wondering when you would find out about the whole… half dead issue."

He hops off his seat, impossibly long legs carrying him easily, his steps completely silent. "Half dead?" I ask, watching as he meanders over to Pomfrey, poking her on the cheek a couple times.

"Well yes, you've died once before, so you can't come back completely alive. It just wouldn't make any sense for you to come back completely alive, now would it?"

Inaudibly stammering, I stare at Death in confusion. Questions course through my mind. What does that mean, half dead? Is it bad? Is it good? In what way will it affect me? Does that mean that I won't live as long as I should have?

…why the hell couldn't things ever be simple for once?

"One thing I've learned watching you over the years is that things are never quite simple in your life Miss Potter."

Oh yeah, that whole mind reading thing.

"Yes, that whole mind reading thing," Death mocks playfully, one spindly finger now jabbing at Flitwick's midsection. "Like I said the last time we met, the mind reading makes my job much, much easier." He turns towards me, forgetting whatever experiment he was running on the charms professor and tilting his head. "I assume you have questions?"

"Yeah, although I don't know where to start…"

I scratch my head as I try to think. What the hell was I just asking myself? "I guess I want to know what this whole half dead thing means? Am I a vampire or a zombie or something? My life is crazy enough as it is, so that wouldn't exactly surprise me," I inquire, remembering my self-imposed line of questioning.

Chuckling wryly he shakes his head. I note that not a single hair falls out of place as he does so. "Nothing quite so simple, no. You, my dear. You are half dead," he explains, wagging his poking finger as I nearly interrupt him. "Ah! Let me finish! Half dead means half death, Miss Potter."

He pauses, a thoughtful look on his face. "Have you ever read the Tales of Beedle the Bard? Wait, no, I know you haven't. That was supposed to happen in your seventh year on a... camping trip of sorts, but you had to go and muck all that up, didn't you?"

"The Tales of Beedle the Bard?"

"Wizarding children's stories, mostly based in truth. Within that book there is a story of three brothers. Three brothers who apparently trick me, Death, into giving them artifacts of great power." He clasps his hands together, shaking them in my direction. "This never happened of course, nobody could ever trick Death, why- even the thought of it," he complains, huffing aggressively and running his hand through his hair.

"Excuse me, that story makes me out to be a bit of a buffoon and it gets me quite riled up," he apologizes, looking as sheepish as Death can look. Not very sheepish, evidently. "Essentially, two of the three brothers die terribly, and one 'escapes' my grasp for a number of years before willingly submitting himself to me. Apparently, we wander off as friends and have a great big get together in Elysium." As he says this he does a little tap dance, as if he's walking down the yellow brick road.

"In reality, these three artifacts; a greatly powerful wand, a stone that makes necromantic rituals much more… cost effective, and an invisibility cloak made out of my old, frightfully unfashionable robes were placed on your plane of existence by me to make my existence a little bit more entertaining."

"You put those… artifacts on Earth so that people could die?"

Waving his hand lackadaisically, Death sighs. "Humans have been killing one another constantly. Ever since your species started to act on want instead of need, you've constantly been at each others' throats. So, I decided to give humanity a little gift one day and sat back to watch the fun. Fortunately, or unfortunately for you, you're half dead. What that means, is that you're quite a bit more dead than anything else on this rock that still has some form of mental function," he explains, sighing at my perplexed expression. "No, vampires, inferi, zombies, none of those count. You have to have entered my realm and come back in one piece to be truly half dead."

"So… what does this all mean for me? I'm half death? As in, Death capitalized? You?"

"Right in one Miss Potter! You're actually doing some thinking now!" Death exclaims, leaping towards me, skipping a few times on his approach and tapping me on the side of the head. Death skips? "You're half death, yes, as in me. No, you're not a God or some other insanity," he expresses, shaking his head dramatically. "Did you think this was a story or something? Additionally, yes, I do skip. It's much easier to get around by skipping. Half way between walking and running, it really should catch on a bit more." He pauses, looking slightly dazed. "Well, ignoring your delusions of grandeur, let's cut to the chase. You, being half dead, own those three artefacts in full. Funnily enough, the cloak is already in your possession."

"My dad's invisibility cloak!? That's yours?"

"No, it's God's nightie," he jibes, before cuffing my ear sharply. "Of course, it's mine you fool! It's got my bloody signature on it!" Snapping his fingers, the cloak to appear in his hands. He holds it out in front of me, pointing at a small symbol that has been stitched into the fabric. I squint at it, studying the triangle, circle, and line all neatly stacked on top of one another. I never noticed those before.

"Now, things won't be so simple as to have you ask for them and the damned things just pop into your hands. Actually, I don't think you should even go looking for them for a while, you'll just get yourself killed again and I'm not interested in filling out the paperwork to fix things up a second time," he complains. "Don't worry, you'll get them eventually, and they'll aid you in your little mission to not die a terrible death. I simply thought I'd stop by today and clear the air a bit, set the record straight so to say."

Death holds his hands together as if in prayer, leaning inward as he continues. "I've noticed you've been doing close to nothing to fix things up and make sure that you don't die again, so would you mind if I gave you some advice?"

"Uh, yeah sure," I answer dejectedly. "What have I been doing wrong?"

Death taps the side of his head mockingly. "Hmm… let me think. You've been pissing away most of your time skiving off and reading all these useless books on self defense and other brain melting little pamphlets, instead of learning things that will actually help you in your eventual fight against Riddle."

Pausing, Death rolls his eyes at me. "Yes, I see your look, you have to fight him. I know you that you know you'll eventually fight him, but I have to stress that this is preordained."

"Like a prophecy?"

"Exactly like a prophecy. No, the wording doesn't matter one bloody bit," he stresses, answering my unasked question. "If you're really intent on knowing, I'll tell you right now. I know it'll definitely rub your Headmaster the wrong way if you drop that bomb on him one day, and I'd absolutely love to watch that."

I rub tiredly at my eyes, wondering why my life is just so goddamn weird. So… I'm half dead, which apparently grants me mystical powers of some sort. Additionally, studying charms and self-defence in the way that I have apparently counts for nothing. "What should I be learning?" I demand, getting a bit irritated with Death's constantly condescending attitude. "And that prophecy would be useful to know even if you don't think it is. I'd like to know why the hell my life is such a mess."

Death snaps his fingers, a chair flying underneath him, shuddering to a halt as it meets his legs. He settles into it, tidily crossing his knees and clasping his hands over top of his thighs in a regal manner. "You should be learning useful things that are suited to someone of your talents. Since you're half dead, you're the only person on this Earth that can become a necromancer. To top it off, you're a natural prodigy with Blood Magics. Did you know that?"

I shake my head, feeling a bit sick to hear Death explaining to me that the magics that I should specialize in are the closest thing to evil that I can think of.

"Oh hush," he states sardonically. "These are good things to learn when you're half dead. Don't go and get your knickers in a twist! You people are so stuck up about dark magics and the like, it's so incredibly embarrassing! They're perfectly safe branches of magic if you're born with an affinity for them, Necromancy in particular." Not as if there's any personal bias there, him being Death and all. "The field of Necromancy is only volatile if you're completely alive. The only reason people believe it's dangerous is because of a bunch of idiots dotted all over wizarding history who got it into their heads that they could mess with my realm. That didn't work, of course, and the dunces blew themselves up." Death cocks his eyebrows at me, shrugging as he stands up. "By the way, since you're so interested in learning it, this is the prophecy."

Lifting his hands in the air dramatically, Death throws his head back and begins to speak in a heavy, foreboding voice. "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 them as his equal, but they 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..."

Straightening his tie, Death coughs lightly. "See why it doesn't matter? The thing is so vague it's not worth the air used to recite it. I've never understood why Fate has to make every one of those things a long-winded riddle. She just makes them so ridiculous complicated," he argues to himself smiling slightly. He purses his lips when he realizes that he's gone off on another tangent. "Anyways," he says, waving his hand. "What I'm here to say is: go learn something useful and stop being so damned thick. I know that there's plenty of useful books in Hogwarts, so go find the bloody things and start doing something important for once."

Winking at me, Death continues. "Also, I would try to explain away your lack of pulse as a side-effect of surviving the killing curse. I'd also like to recommend pairing it with an adequately powered confounding charm." Smirking, Death snaps his fingers, disappearing in a chaotic whirl of nothingness as the world around me resumes its motions. I smack myself on the cheeks to get my brain started up again, walking up to Madame Pomfrey and Flitwick, fingering my wand beneath my sleeve.

"Miss Potter," Pomfrey begins, casting a quick glance towards Flitwick. "For some odd reason you don't have any pulse at all. In fact, by all accounts, you're technically… well- not dead, but your heart isn't pumping any blood through your body."

"Umm, I was hit by the killing curse when I was a baby wasn't I?" I reason, silently casting the recommended confundus at both her and Flitwick, thankful that the spell isn't visible in any way when cast. "Maybe this is just a side effect or something? I don't think I've ever had a real medical checkup before, so this hasn't ever come up."

The two Hogwarts staff members eyes glaze over, confirming that my charm worked. "Hmm… it could be. Nobody else in history has ever survived the killing curse except for you," she adds, more for her own sake than mine, eyebrows furrowing in thought. "Make sure you come and visit me at the start of every month for a check up, so I can monitor if there are any changes in your physiology. As far as I can tell you're perfectly fine, apart from your current, er- heart condition."

I jump in fright as the doors to the Great Hall fly open with a thunderous crash, Dumbledore striding into the hall with a group of aurors following behind him, Madam Bones matching his pace step for step. "What's with all the ruckus this year Albus? Never before have I had to make two calls to Hogwarts in one semester," she complains, her eyes stopping on mine for just a moment, shining in recognition.

"We seem to have had a bit of excitement in our halls the last few months Amelia, my apologies," he begins, his tone even and apologetic. "Unfortunately, there's been a very frightful and terribly public death, as well as some incredibly important news being brought to my attention."

Frowning, Amelia looks down on the robes lying upon the floor, the ashes scattered about the room from the bustle and confusion. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but judging by the ashes I imagine there was either a vampire slain in the halls, or a victim of possession?"

"The latter I'm afraid," Dumbledore clarifies, his beard bristling in embarrassment. "By the look of it, our dear Professor Quirrel was possessed by none other than Voldemort himself."

Amelia's eyebrows shoot up in shock, her monocle comically falling off. "You-Know-Who? He died ten years ago Albus, did he not?"

"I'm afraid not Amelia, if you'd like I can provide a memory of his wraith attempting to attack young Miss Potter here."

Amelia frowns slightly. "You appear to be a magnet for trouble Miss Potter. Can you tell me what happened here?"

Glancing at Flitwick, he nods at me to reply. "I was trying to get out of my seat when my robes got caught and I fell over. I accidentally grabbed onto Professor Quirrel when I was falling, and he started screaming and then fell on top of me," I stutter, wide eyed. "I tried to help him up because I thought I'd hurt him and he just… he just started screaming more, and then… then he was falling to pieces! He turned into ashes like he was burned alive!"

Flitwick quickly sweeps over and places his hand on my shoulder. "If you'll excuse us, I think I should take Miss Potter to the infirmary, I believe it would be good to get her away from this terrible scene. I'm sure you've gotten everything you need Amelia?"

"Yes, thank you Filius," she says contritely, wearing an expression highly reminiscent of a worried Terra as she walks over to me, patting me on the shoulder. "Please take care Miss Potter, know that this is not your fault, alright?" She stoops over, lowering herself to my level. "Professor Quirrel was already long gone, what happened here was an accident Miss Potter, you're not in any trouble."

Smiling weakly at her, I follow Flitwick to the infirmary, eagerly taking the opportunity to steal a quick nap. I rest without issue, the tumultuous feelings that were once plaguing me about my imminent homicide long forgotten in the rush of things. As I'm leaving the Great Hall, Amelia's voice trails over, tinged with restrained fury.

"Now Albus, tell me about the goddamn Cerberus on the third-floor."

-::-

Blinking away the sleep from gummy eyes, I hop out of the infirmary cot and quickly check in with Madame Pomfrey to let her know that I'm feeling better, taking an offered calming potion from her. I tuck it into my robes surreptitiously, know that I don't need it right now, but I may need it some time in the near future.

I meander back to the Ravenclaw Tower, quickly answering the riddle and walking into the common room and nabbing a comfortable rocking chair that's tucked off to the side, one that's often unused by the other students. I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my ankles as I think on the days events.

"Half dead, huh," I whisper, picking a bit of fluff off of my knee, watching as it slowly drifts to the ground, disappearing and reappearing as it passes through segmented rays of light, cutting across the room from a nearby window. Dust motes float absently in its wake, blinking in and out of existence.

I'm half dead. What does that really mean though? I know Death told me that it's important, that I can use magics that no others can. But why should I use them? Just because a deity told me to? Is that reason enough to delve into long forbidden magics, ones that have made their mark on history via bloodshed and destruction?

How will Blood Magics even work, when my heart no longer beats? How do I even work, when my heart no longer beats?

I softly rest my hand on my neck, searching for the feeling that I know is long gone. A feeling that marks me as human. Something that marks me as alive, something real. Will I still age? Will I still die? Is all of this some sort of sick joke being played on me by a deity with too much time on its hands?

I've read the Greek and Nordic mythos, and I know the lengths some Gods will go to for a bit of fun- and considering Death explicitly mentioned Fate with a capital F, I can assume that some of those Gods exist. At least, they may exist as an idea of sorts, Gods with no real name or following; Death, Fate, Destiny, these primordial spirits that humans have unknowingly worshipped, that humans have given names of their own. Odin, Zeus, Jupiter, Huitzilopochtli, they may all be referring to the same Gods, just through the lens of a different culture.

I'm going on a tangent here.

I'm not sure how things are going to be from here on out. I'm not gifted with the ability of the sight, there being a severe lack of seer blood running through my veins… if there even is blood running through my veins.

Glancing at my wrist, I ponder checking to see if I still carry the liquid of life. I lift my head and take a quick peek behind me, scanning over the common room. Most students are huddled together, quietly discussing the happenings of the day and Quirrel's incredibly gruesome public demise. I guess that'll take their attention off of Sirius for a few weeks.

Reassured that nobody is going to sneak up on me, I pull out my wand and cast an underpowered diffindo at my wrist, hissing in pain as my skin splits open.

…

Nothing.

Well, not nothing, but barely anything. There's just a hint of crimson leaking out of the wound, a miserably tiny amount compared to how much I should be bleeding. I wave my wand over the cut, healing it quickly with a murmured episkey, watching in morbid fascination as the dry wound knits itself shut, skin reaching out across the tiny cavern in my wrist to grasp the hand of its neighbour, pulling itself tight.

Odd, how I don't bleed now, yet I bled a river during the Goblin's ritual. Could it be because I'm finally and truly me? That because I wasn't, well- Helene, instead of Harry, that I wasn't yet half-dead?

I really don't know how these things work and I don't think I ever will, but I guess I'll just blame it on magic like I do everything else.

I feel a tapping on my shoulder, turning to see Padma and Lisa wearing doleful expressions. Hermione tags along behind them, her arms crossed as she stares at the ground. "Is everything alright?" I ask them, concerned to see them looking so stressed. Quirrel did die right across from them. I breathe sharply, realizing that in addition to scarring many of the students at Hogwarts, I also scarred the three students that I'm the closest to. The three students that are my friends.

Lisa shakes her head spasmodically, her hand gripped tight around Padma's wrist. "We're… we're not okay," she murmurs, eyes downcast.

"We wanted to ask… are- are you okay?" Padma interrupts, blurting out the last few words. Hermione lifts her head at that, averting her gaze when I look into her eyes. I smile at the three of them. They're terrified, absolutely terrified after seeing such a horrible thing, and they come to me to make sure that I'm alright?

"Thank you, all of you." I stretch out my legs and get up to my feet. I put my hand on Lisa and Hermione's shoulders, catching Padma between the two of them as I drag all three into a hug. "I want to make sure that you three are alright, yeah? What happened today… excuse my language Hermione, but it was completely and utterly fucked beyond belief," I admit, a smile tugging at Hermione's lips.

I release the three of them, taking a step back. I'm going to give them a talk that I should have received in my first year from Dumbledore. No trite comments about love, forgiveness, or vague discussions of concepts that would fly over any eleven-year-olds head. I'm not going to leave them high and dry.

I lick my lips nervously, hoping that the talk I'm about to give them helps. "I'm… I'm going to be fine. I'm not a stranger to death," I say, musing silently that I'm not a stranger to Death either. "I've come to terms with things like… this a long time ago, what with the circumstances of my fame. You three need to understand that it's alright to be scared, it's alright to feel sick, and it's alright to not understand what happened today."

The girls brighten up ever so slightly. I notice it in how they were holding themselves. Their sagging shoulders raise by millimetres, their eyes brighten just a bit. It's a nearly invisible change, but it's still a change for the better. "I imagine a lot of people are going to have to do this, but go and see Madame Pomfrey if you have any trouble, okay?" I instruct, making eye contact with them. "You can talk to me if you need to, but Madame Pomfrey is a professional, and she knows how to help people with situations like this."

"Like a psychologist?" Hermione pipes up.

"Exactly like a psychologist," I affirm, Lisa and Padma looking vaguely lost, not understanding the muggle profession. "A psychologist is a muggle mind-healer," I explain to the two, both of them nodding in unison.

"But… I'm not mad," Lisa whimpers, looking scared all of a sudden. She begins to cry, her shoulders shaking violently as tears rush down her face, her voice raising in pitch. "I'm not mad, so I don't need to see a mind-healer, right? Right?"

"Lisa, Lisa, hey- look at me." I comfort her, reaching out and tapping her lightly on the arm before she breaks into hysterics, bringing her back down to Earth. I draw her into another hug, cradling her head in the crook of my neck.

I feel terrible for her. Such an honestly friendly and unassuming child, one that seems to have been shielded from the dangers of this world. It's not a surprise that she's affected the most by what happened today. I pull back slightly, tipping her chin up and looking her in the eye. "You're not mad, not at all. You don't need to be mad to see a mind-healer. In fact, most people who see one aren't mad. Stuff like this… what happened with Quirrel, it affects you in a way that you can't see. It affects your thoughts," I say, tapping the side of my head. "Mind-healers are there to help you understand your feelings and thoughts. It's their job to make sure that this," I continue, tapping my head once more before tapping my heart. "And this, both work as they're supposed to, and they don't work properly when you're trying to deal with bad memories."

Lisa nods shakily, sniffling as she wipes away an errant tear. "I- I guess that m- makes sense," she stutters, hiccupping quietly. "Th- thanks Helene."

"Any time, alright? That goes to you two as well," I add, inclining my head towards Hermione and Padma. "Now, who wants to get some hot chocolate?" I grab Lisa by the hands, dragging the girls off to the kitchens for a quick dopamine boost.

-::-

A few days have passed since Quirrel's passing. A suite of healers from Saint Mungo's have taken up residence at the school to deal with the influx of traumatized students. I'm happy to see their health being taken seriously for once, considering the fact that last time, half a dozen students were petrified in my second year and they were left to stew because 'the mandrakes weren't ready yet.' Like the school couldn't have ordered a bloody restorative potion.

In addition to the healers, aurors have been inconspicuously investigating the school. It's all been very hush hush, but I noticed very distinct marks in the stone up by the third-floor corridor. Marks that look surprisingly like gouges that a dog's claws would make, if that dog happened to be four metres tall and dangerous as hell. Looks like Fluffy has been removed from the school. Thank fucking God. I just hope that Dumbledore learns from this and doesn't go about turning the school into a death trap in the next few years.

Doubtful, but I can always hope for the best.

I jog off to the Room of Requirement to tinker around with my newfound wandless abilities. I've been putting that off for the last couple weeks and really need to hunker down and start figuring things out, lest I get smacked in the head by Death again.

Who knew that an immortal being could be so bloody patronizing?

…and did he really need to cuff me?

Quickly racing up the endless flights of moving stairs, I find myself in front of the painting of Barnabas the Barmy. I pace in front of the entrance to the room, repeating the thought, 'I need a place to practice my wandless magic, I need a place to practice my wandless magic, I need a place to practice my wandless magic.'

Noticing the appearance of the door out of the corner of my eye, I throw it open and enter the Room.

The sight that greets me is confusing. There's no walls, training dummies, or duelling platforms that I'd expect in a training room. Instead I'm met with what appears to be a mish mash of different terrains. A grassy field bordered by a cliff face of rough stone on it's right, rolling sand dunes opposite the field stretching off into another sheer cliff that stretches much higher than the ceiling should. What does this have to do with wandless magic?

Perplexed, I focus in on what I'm seeing, searching for the waves and flow of magic in the air around me. It takes me a few minutes before I notice the shimmer in the air, the same faint shimmer that caught my eye on the boats. I reflexively reach out to grasp it, pulling at the magic like a thread. The air itself begins to move, following along my hand and wrapping around my arms, gently flowing around me and tousling my robes on its path.

Smiling widely, I jab my hand forward, pushing a bit of my magic into the thrust. My assumption was correct, and a sharp gust of air blasts towards the dunes, pulling the tiny grains along with it and producing a small localized storm. Suddenly I can feel a catch as my magic strikes the sand, almost as if the magic changed when it made contact with it. What the hell was that?

Narrowing my eyes, I reach out and attempt to grab at the sand instead of the air, studying for a moment before I make an attempt to control it, if I even can control it. I instinctively close my eyes, feeling the magic in the sand and the earth around it. I get a different reaction out of the earth than the air. It has an indomitable aura to it, it's roots running thick and deep as if it refuses to budge an inch. Switching back to the air, I compare the two. The air feels more... free, maybe even whimsical. The magic is flighty, like it wants to simply move no matter what, incapable of staying still. I can feel it dancing and flowing around me, lightly playing upon everything it touches and practically begging to be let go. I'm assuming the earth must be strictly controlled, whereas the air has to be directed.

Shaking my head and focusing on the task at hand, I flare out my magic, pulling at the sand and watching as a fountain of it begins to pour out over the grass in front of me. "Huh," I murmur. I wonder if I could do something more… creative with it? Clenching my hand, I attempt to bind the sand, forcing my will upon it. I grin as it compacts, the grains hissing as they shudder against one another, compressing into a tight ball. Interesting.

Moving my fingers like some sort of demented puppeteer, I contort and twist the sand, shaping it clumsily into a simple faceless statue. Holy shit, that took a lot more out of me than simply moving it. Panting at the effort, I release my hold on my magic, the figure immediately disintegrating and collapsing to the ground. I grimace at the sands resemblance to Quirrel as it falls to pieces.

"Damnit!" I curse, waving my hand angrily and scattering the pile of sand. I killed a man.

I fucking killed a man.

Cradling my head, I think back on the incident in the Great Hall. Was there any way I could have done something different? Done any research to try and unbind Voldemort's spirit from Quirrel's body without harming the host?

I mean, yes, he was already dead according to what Dumbledore told me in my first year, and Madam Bones confirmed that again for me today. Yes, I have killed him once before, that doesn't exactly change how I feel about it though. Yes, I was going to confront him one day regardless, considering I'd never let him get close to the stone. Voldemort being resurrected in my first year would destroy any chance I have at an even fight with him. The only advantage I might have had if he did come back so soon would be that he would underestimate me, but I'm not arrogant enough to believe that I could defeat him now.

It still feels horrible though, and it doesn't matter how I rationalize it. How the hell am I going to get used to this? To killing someone? Should I even get used to it? I know this isn't the last life I'm going to have to take seeing as I'll eventually have to fight and kill Voldemort. If Death itself says it's preordained, I don't really have much room to argue.

How many people am I going to end up hurting or killing? How many am I going to kill on purpose? I know I'll end up killing Bellatrix given the chance, considering how she slaughtered Sirius in the last timeline along with all of the other lives she's ruined. Lucius deserves to go as well. The piece of shit gives Ginny a dark artifact containing a fragment of Riddle next year, and he must have known what the consequences of that would be! Unleashing Slytherin's monster on the students of Hogwarts? A school that his son attends? Absolutely despicable.

Maybe even McNair? He did take a bit too much pleasure in being Buckbeaks executioner…

For fucks sake, I can't be like him. I can't be like the Death Eaters… like Voldemort. Am I honestly considering this? Becoming an executioner? Am I seriously entertaining the idea of killing these people for crimes they haven't even committed yet? I guess they've atrocities already, knowing that they're marked Death Eaters. I'd imagine there's some sort of sick ritual they have to go through to be part of that special club. Why is it that I must be the one to do all of this? Goddamn prophecies and psychotic Dark Lords.

Sighing I lie down in the grass, trying to ignore my stemming headache as the Room shimmers around me, changing to suit my subconscious needs. The grass suddenly becomes as soft as a pillow beneath me, cradling me as an artificial sun beats down above my head, not hot, but just right. Staring off into the distance I distract myself by playing with my new-found talents, slowly becoming familiar with the feeling of manipulating the air, guiding it as I spin and twist the open space in front of me into miscellaneous shapes.

I slowly drift off to sleep in the false meadow, my nightmares returning with a vengeance. Images of slaughter flashing before my eyes. Not just any slaughter, my slaughter. My own personal deliverance of blood, terror, revenge. Visions of fresh corpses tearing at the masses of Death Eaters, their own companions ripping them to pieces. Long forgotten skeletons held up by threads of necromantic magic shuffling and rattling forward with disturbing speed as they claw at the masked figures, gore flying in every which direction from their deadly grasp. Unbeknownst to me, the Room changes yet again to match my thoughts.

-::-

I wake up in a daze, the nightmares becoming too much to deal with as I roll over and crack my head against the stone floor, shaking and soaked in a cold sweat. I dry heave remembering nightmarish images that were just coursing through my mind, cursing quietly at my unsettled stomach. I look around and find myself in a grim, weathered chamber. Looks like the Room of Requirement is trying to help me with my other magics.

The walls look to be made of cracked obsidian, soaking in the light emanating from the few barren lanterns situated around the room. Ancient bookcases line the walls, shelves bowed underneath the weight of their contents. A familiar looking ritual bowl is set upon a dais in the centre of the chamber, and a workspace rests to my left. The workspace itself contains what I imagine are shelves of borderline, or completely illegal potions ingredients. I squint, looking closer at the ingredients.

"Oh Christ," I groan, noticing a jar of preserved eyes staring back at me. Human eyes. My stomach heaves as I see what I recognize other body parts and organs, sealed in glass jars that are arrayed and sorted along the shelves. I quickly move my gaze from the morbid sight, eyeing the ritual knives that are strung up along the wall, hanging above a table that is empty apart from a large, ratty tome resting upon it.

I assume this is what Death meant by Necromancy and Blood Magics. Lovely how my life turns out. I have to kill people, destroy the most feared Dark Lord in centuries, and apparently practice the darkest, most reviled magics known to the world directly under the nose of Albus-Fucking-Dumbledore. Yeah, Death is right, my life is never that simple.

Resigned to the situation and how incredibly ridiculous my life is. "If I'm going to do this, I need to be drugged," I groan, chugging down the calming potion I received from Madame Pomfrey, blinking slowly as I feel it begin to work and walk over to the table.

I take a seat and read the title of the tome in front of me, Et Necromantium Periti Artium. Damnit! Only the bloody title better be in Latin, otherwise I'm going to be having a much harder time learning this… whatever the hell this nightmarish magic is. Taking a deep breath, I pry open the book, relieved to find that it doesn't scream at me. It's the small things in life that make it worth it.

Oh for… yep. I sigh in relief as I look at perfectly understandable English. The syntax is a bit dated, but it's still legible. It probably would help if I had a better understanding of Latin though, considering it's the basis of most spell work.

"Holy shit!" I cry, falling out of my chair when another book appears in front of me. Cursing, I climb back up and take my seat again. Bloody Room of Requirement, I bet the damned room is self aware and is loving every second that it tortures me.

Rubbing my face, I crack open Beginning Wizards Guide to Latin, mentally asking the room for some writing materials. Thankfully, a quill and a few sheets of parchment pop into existence. The room may have a sick sense of humour, but at least it's incredibly convenient. I crack my knuckles, waggling my fingers to get the blood flowing. Time for the new and improved Helene Potter to crack down and study! Even if that studying involves ancient languages and the most godforsaken, disgusting magics ever created!

Why is it always me?

Edited, 25/05/18.