Chapter V: The End In Sight
The next few days passed slowly. Harry, still very aware of Draco's plans, made it a habit to check on the Room of Requirement every day, scoping it out to see if the Slytherin made an appearance. So far, he hadn't, which did nothing for Harry's nerves.
Luckily, he had Hermione to keep him somewhat grounded. She didn't exactly condone his obsessive behaviour, she knew that he had reason to do it - a valid reason at that. She had seen first hand the depths to Malfoy would go to achieve his plans, so if what it took to keep others safe was to give up Harry for an hour each day, then so be it.
However, she always made him pack an extra bottle of calming draught, specially made by her after several weeks of practise. He treasured it gladly, smiling at the lavender cutting carefully taped to the side of the glass.
He would often rub it, just when he was bored or lonely, imagining the care that Hermione had put into it, how she would smile whenever he noticed the effort. He wondered if this was what it felt like when couples did similar things. He had seen instances of Molly Weasley decorated her husband's lunch box, tucking in endearing notes and treats, sending him off for a new day.
The thought of his own wife, beautiful and smiling and loving, came to Harry's mind, and he blushed bright red, glad that he was hidden behind a pillar on the deserted seventh floor where no one could see him. It was a welcome thought, something that Harry had imagined for years now. A family, all of his own, divorced from the prophecy, or the Order, or the responsibility of saving the world. Something normal and peaceful. With someone who he could love and cherish and not have to worry about their safety. Someone who could give him children to love in turn.
Someone who smelled like lavender flowers. That would be nice. Ginny smelled like lavender, didn't she?
A crash from nearby broke through his daydreams, and Harry sprung to life. He spied out from behind the pillar, expecting to see Malfoy. But it wasn't him. Instead, it was someone desperately clutching at a large wooden box, spilling dozens of clear bottles all over the floor of the hallway.
It was Professor Trelawney, he realised. His used-to-be Divination teacher.
"Professor?" Harry called as he walked out from behind the pillar. Trelawney jumped, shrieking in surprise. She turned towards him suddenly, her glasses warping her eyes into huge, blinking headlamps.
"Oh, Harry," she gasped. "Oh, deary me. I was just getting rid of- um, I mean, transporting a few things to my classroom." She casually tried to sweep some of the bottles behind her, away from view, smiling as casually as she could, which of course meant very awkwardly.
"Right," Harry nodded, unconvinced. "Would you like a hand with those?"
Trelawney glanced at Harry, then back to the bottles strewn across the hallway.
"Yes," she nodded numbly, "O-Of course. Thank you, my boy."
Harry slowly began picking up the empty bottle glancing at the label, noticing for the first time that they all used to contain sherry. Used to, because Harry was pretty sure where it had all gone if Trelawney's erratic swaying and murmuring were any sign.
"Are you alright, Professor?" he asked carefully.
"Yes, why, yes, my boy," she stuttered. "Simply… tired. Yes, tired. Must be working myself thin. Oh, I remember when I used to be young. I had dreams, Mr Potter. Dreams of becoming a great Seer. And now look at me. A teacher."
"Being a teacher isn't so bad," he tried reassuring her as if he deposited a few more bottles into the crate.
"Oh, no, I suppose not, but oh, there are so many who come into my classroom who do not possess the gift. And far fewer interesting Objects. I always found that you, Harry, were a fascinating Object."
"Right," Harry murmured, remembered very well what it was like being Trelawney's object of interest and how much he hated it.
"One of the most interesting I've ever seen… But, oh, look at me. I'm not your teacher any more, no since you decided to… quit."
The last word she spoke with a tone of voice so flat that Harry almost paused.
"Well, I just didn't have the gift, did I?" he offered, to which Trelawney sighed.
"No, you didn't. You were a dull Seer. Still, we can't all read the universe and its signs with fluency. No, not like me."
"No," Harry nodded, "I don't think anyone's quite like you, Professor."
It certainly wasn't a lie, Harry justified to a scolding voice in his head that sounded very much like Hermione.
"Oh, but they mock me, Harry!" she cried furiously. "I heard people say that I have not inherited my great-great-grandmother's gift. Those rumours have been bandied about by the jealous for years. You know what I say to such people, Harry? Would Dumbledore have let me teach at this great school, put so much trust in me all these years, had I not proved myself to him?"
Harry mumbled something indistinct, placing the last bottle in the crate and lifting it into his arms, carrying it as Trelawney absently lead him to her Divination classroom.
"I well remember my first interview with Dumbledore," went on Professor Trelawney, in throaty tones. "He was deeply impressed, of course, deeply impressed ... I was staying at the Hog's Head, which I do not advise, incidentally - bed bugs, dear boy - but funds were low. Dumbledore did me the courtesy of calling upon me in my room at the inn. He questioned me ... I must confess that, at first, I thought he seemed ill-disposed towards Divination ... and I remember I was starting to feel a little odd, I had not eaten much that day ... but then …"
And now Harry was paying attention properly for the first time, for he knew what had happened then: Professor Trelawney had made the prophecy that had altered the course of his whole life, the prophecy about him and Voldemort.
'"… but then we were rudely interrupted by Severus Snape!"
"What?"
"Yes, there was a commotion outside the door and it flew open, and there was that rather uncouth barman standing with Snape, who was waffling about having come the wrong way up the stairs, although I'm afraid that I myself rather thought he had been apprehended eavesdropping on my interview with Dumbledore - you see, he himself was seeking a job at the time, and no doubt hoped to pick up tips! Well, after that, you know, Dumbledore seemed much more disposed to give me a job, and I could not help thinking, Harry, that it was because he appreciated the stark contrast between my own unassuming manners and quiet talent, compared to the pushing, thrusting young man who was prepared to listen at keyholes - Harry, dear?"
She looked back over her shoulder, having only just realised that Harry was no longer with her; he had stopped walking, and they were now ten feet from each other.
"Harry?" she repeated with uncertainty.
Harry was standing stock-still as waves of shock crashed over him, wave after wave, obliterating everything except the information that had been kept from him for so long.
Without another word, Harry put down the box of sherry bottles and began marching - nearly jogging - the other way, his face set in stone, and his eyes burning.
"Harry?" he heard Trelawney call after him. "Harry, do mind-?"
But it was too late. Harry turned to the corner before she could finish her sentence.
He didn't stop, not until he reached the gargoyle guarding the steps to the headmaster's office.
Harry dictated the password at the gargoyle and ran up the moving spiral staircase three steps at a time. He did not knock upon Dumbledore's door, he hammered; and the calm voice answered, "Enter," after Harry had already flung himself into the room.
Fawkes the phoenix looked round, his bright black eyes gleaming with reflected gold from the sunset beyond the window. Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, carefully writing. He glanced up and smiled.
"Harry," he greeted. "How can I help you?"
"It was Snape," Harry said, trying desperately to keep his voice level. "It was him who overheard the prophecy. Don't pretend it's not true. Trelawney told me."
Dumbledore's expression did not change, but Harry thought his face whitened under the bloody tinge cast by the setting sun. For a long moment, Dumbledore said nothing.
"When did you find out about this?" he asked at last.
"Just now!" said Harry, who was refraining from yelling with enormous difficulty. And then, suddenly, he found he could no longer stop himself. After all that had happened to him recently, his patience had been worn thin. "And you let him TEACH here, and he told Voldemort TO GO AFTER MY MUM AND DAD!"
Breathing hard as though he were fighting, Harry turned away from Dumbledore, who still had not moved a muscle, and paced up and down the study, rubbing his knuckles in his hand and exercising every last bit of restraint to prevent himself knocking things over. He wanted to rage and storm at Dumbledore, he wanted to tell him that he was a foolish old man for trusting Snape, but he was terrified that Dumbledore would just shut him out, dismiss his qualms as teenage angst and nothing more…
"Harry," said Dumbledore quietly. "Please listen to me. Professor Snape made a terrible-"
"Don't tell me it was a mistake, sir, he was listening at the door!"
"Please let me finish." Dumbledore waited until Harry had nodded curtly, then went on. "Professor Snape made a terrible mistake. He was still in Lord Voldemort's employ on the night he heard the first half of Professor Trelawney's prophecy. Naturally, he hastened to tell his master what he had heard, for it concerned his master most deeply. But he did not know - he had no possible way of knowing - which boy Voldemort would hunt from then onwards-"
Harry let out a yell of mirthless laughter.
"So, what, because it was just any old child he would have been fine with it, would he? He was a Death Eater, Professor. As far as I'm concerned, he chose his side many years ago. Professor... how can you be sure Snape's on our side, even now?"
Dumbledore did not speak for a moment; he looked as though he was trying to make up his mind about something. At last, he said, "I am sure. I trust Severus Snape completely."
Harry breathed deeply for a few moments in an effort to steady himself. It did not work.
"Well, I don't!' he said, as loudly as before. "He's up to something with Draco Malfoy right now, right under your nose, and you still-"
"We have discussed this, Harry," said Dumbledore, and now he sounded stern again. "I have told you my views."
"I'll bet you haven't even considered that Snape and Malfoy might decide to-"
"To what?" asked Dumbledore, his eyebrows raised. "What is it that you suspect them of doing, precisely?"
"I DON'T KNOW!" Harry finally losing all sense of composure. "I don't know what the HELL they're going to do! Do you? Do you have ANY IDEA what Malfoy is planning? Do you have ANY IDEA about Voldemort's next move? Because I don't. I don't know ANYTHING! Nothing about what I'm supposed to do or how I'm supposed to do it! I didn't even know who was responsible for my parents' deaths until a few minutes ago-"
"It's not professor Snape you should be angry with―"
"SHOULDN'T I?" Harry bellowed. "No, actually, maybe you're right. Because he's not the only one who's been keeping secrets from me, is he? He's not the only one who seems to know more about my own bloody life than I do, is he? I bet you're keeping plenty of things all to yourself, aren't you, Professor? You spent the entirety of last year doing exactly that! Hell, I didn't even know there was a prophecy about me, until I found it, deep in the Department of Mysteries, after I had to break into the MINISTRY OF MAGIC! If you had just TOLD me about the prophecy, if you had just TOLD me about my connection with Voldemort, then maybe Sirius would be alive!"
"Harry!"
"SHUT UP!" Harry shouted back, the shock of his own outburst drowned out by his intense anger. "Don't you dare say that's not true, because it is! Every time you, or somebody else, keep something from me, I'm the one who pays for it! It's me who has to lose the people I love! It's MY FAMILY that has to be killed! IT'S NOT FAIR!"
"Enough!" Dumbledore bellowed. The feeling akin to a gust of wind rushed through the room, silencing Harry before he could utter another word. The office was left deathly still. Not even Fawkes dared to break the silence. "I understand that you are angry, Harry. I recognise that I have not told you all that I know, or perhaps all that you deserve to know, but I have never withheld anything from you to merely spite you. I care about you far too much to show you such cruelty."
Harry bristled, his fists balling up tightly. Refusing to react, Dumbledore continued.
"Every secret I have kept from you was for your own good, for the sake of your health, for the sake of your happiness, for the sake of your studies. It was always for your own good. I knew that if I told you about the prophecy from a young age, it would be robbing you of your childhood. It would be destroying what little security you had left. It would have changed you into something awful. I wanted you to have a life separated from the realities that you would soon have to face. I wanted you to feel like you could have a life outside of Voldemort, protected from prophecy or expectation. And if there was anything you truly needed to know, I told you."
Harry couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. He couldn't quite fathom how the person responsible for his parents' deaths, for being raised as an orphan, unloved and abused, for his worrying lack of self-worth or confidence, was information that simply was not deemed his by rights. It felt like a betrayal on the most fundamental of levels. Harry trusted Dumbledore to tell him what he needed to know, to give him as much of a leg-up in this fight as he could, and yet, apparently, he didn't trust him with the most essential of truths. As if Harry were still but an irresponsible little child, who needed to be shielded from the horrors of the world.
Not that it protected him from Quirrel, or the Basilisk, or the Dementors, or the Triwizard Tournament, or Umbridge, or even the Half-Blood Prince. In fact, if what Harry had experienced was protection, he dreaded to think what Dumbledore's version of apathy was. Or maybe this was it. Perhaps he thought if he left Harry alone for a while, then he would magically turn into the chosen one, the hero of the Wizarding World. Well, safe to say that wasn't happening any time soon, not at this rate.
"This can't continue, professor," Harry said tersely. "You can't carry on keeping secrets from me anymore. I can't do this if you keep not telling me what I need to know. I know you wanted to shield me from the truth, from the fact that at some point, I was always going to have to fight Riddle, but now? Even after he came back? Even after the prophecy? That's not excusable. It only left me vulnerable. It made me into this… someone who's certainly not ready to kill any dark lord, let alone Riddle. You need to start trusting me, sir, because if not, then I might as well just walk up to Voldemort's front door and let him kill me."
He caught a glimpse of Dumbledore going stiff, the old Professor's gaze quickly averting his. Harry stared at him, dumbfounded, narrowing his eyes.
"Professor… You're not really going to do that, are you?"
To Harry's horror, Dumbledore remained silent.
The teen paled, realising that his worst fear had just been confirmed. The man who always believed in him, no matter what, had all but admitted that he expected Harry to die. Even Dumbledore thought he was going to lose. Worst of all, apparently he was planning on it.
"I guess that explains why you never bothered to train me," Harry growled. "Why waste time trying to give me a fair chance when I was always just going to die anyway? At least now I can pretend that it was all part of the plan!"
"Harry," the old man sighed, his eyes shining with a sudden rush of tears, "If I knew any other way, I would have taken it. I didn't know if I could save you, and I tried to find alternatives. I tried everything… I'm sorry, I have truly failed you…"
Harry stared at him, unable to fathom what was happening. There was no way in hell that Dumbledore was simply giving up. That was… Impossible, surely.
"There must be some way that I can survive, some secret weapon or- or weakness that we can use?" Harry hurriedly suggested. "You said it yourself, what about the power of love? What does that have to do with it? Why are you so sure that I'm going to die?"
"Because it is the only way," Dumbledore replied gravely, his head hung low. "It is imperative that Voldemort takes your life, not so that he may survive, but so that he doesn't."
Harry exhaled, somewhere between a sob and scoff, as he tried to decipher the headmaster's words.
"I don't understand," Harry began. "Why…?"
The truth came crashing down on him like a guillotine.
His Parseltongue. His scar. How it burned whenever he and Voldemort were near. How it connected their two minds. How it allowed the two of them to share abilities, memories - even emotions.
Dumbledore's very words, describing what Voldemort had done to him, how he had left a part of himself upon Harry when he was only a child, resurfaced in Harry's brain.
"Voldemort put a bit of himself in me?" Harry had said, all those years ago, unaware at just how appropriate those words really were. Utterly oblivious of just how true they would turn out to be. The blank, trained face of Professor Dumbledore, staring back at him in his memory, suddenly seemed all the more frightening.
"It certainly seems so," Dumbledore had replied. He knew, even back then, it seems. He knew all this time, and yet…
Harry suddenly felt very faint. His breathing began to draw less and less oxygen, and the corner of his vision began to fade. He knew what was happening, what was about to happen, and he hurriedly reached into his cloak, producing the bottle that Hermione had given him. He popped it open and swallowed about half, immediately feeling the tension in his muscles release.
Despite this, Harry toppled, leaning against the stone pillar as he slid to the floor. He curled up against the stone as his world came crashing down, everything he had ever known no seeming to matter anymore.
He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do.
The scent of lavender flowers found Harry's nose, and he began to cry. He would never have the family he always wanted. He would never wake up to a beautiful wife or gorgeous children. He would never own a house, have a job, eat packed lunches, cook dinner for the little ones, never grow up or grow old watching them become adults, never live to see grandchildren. He would never have any of that.
All because he was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and he wasn't allowed it.
There was only one more question left in Harry's head, amongst the grief and sadness and overwhelming feeling of loss, and so he spoke it.
"Who else knows?" Harry asked once his voice returned to him, his tone completely flat.
"I have not-" Dumbledore began, having stood in a bid to help him, but the old headmaster never finished.
"Who else did you tell?!" Harry exclaimed through gritted teeth, every syllable hitting Dumbledore like a swift punch. Harry knew that he wasn't acting very mature, nor would lashing out necessarily help. But he was angry, and he wanted Dumbledore to know it. He refused to let the headmaster worm his way out of giving him the truth.
To Harry's grim satisfaction, Dumbledore at least had the decency to look ashamed.
"Severus," he replied. "Only Severus."
Harry's eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched at the thought of that greasy-haired man-child being afforded more trust than he ever did - to his own secrets, no less. To his own future.
"And when did you plan on telling me?" Harry asked with all the warmth of ice.
The silence that followed spoke far more than words ever could. Harry's shaking fist clenched his brain fighting between panic and rage despite the smothering effects of the calming draught - with anger winning the fight, easily.
"Let me guess," Harry drawled in a corrosive tone, glaring holes into the headmaster's eyes, "I didn't need to know."
For once, Dumbledore was without a response. The old, wizened wizard merely stood behind his desk, staring down at Harry with something akin to pity, or was it shame? Harry didn't much care. He couldn't bring himself to care about much anymore. He struggled to see the point.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he finally asked. "Why wait?"
Dumbledore fidgeted, sighing heavily, shaking his head in a way that reminded Harry just how old Dumbledore really was.
"You have to realise, Harry," he began, his voice hoarse and rough, barely compose, "I was never sure. I never… I couldn't believe that Tom would have done something so… so monstrous. Using a living being as a Horcrux, let alone a child, is an abomination, an act so vile that it has never been attempted, not even by the darkest of wizards. I don't think even Tom meant to do it."
"And there's no way we can destroy it without me dying?"
Dumbledore shook his head.
"Not that I know of."
Harry's gaze fell to the floor tiles. The fight had left him.
"Then I guess that's it," he shrugged morosely. "I have to die."
"No, Harry," Dumbledore replied, "not necessarily."
Harry couldn't help but scoff.
"What else can I do?" he asked. "You said it yourself. If I don't die, then neither does Riddle. There's no other way."
"It seems like it," Dumbledore said cryptically, "And, until 16 years ago, Harry, there was no way to survive the killing curse. And yet you did so."
"Not on my own, I didn't," Harry noted. "That was my mum, not me."
"Exactly, Harry, exactly," Dumbledore exclaimed quietly, bringing himself around and kneeling in front of the teen. "Your mother's love for you, her child, is the reason you still live to this day. A love so powerful and so pure that it could bring about the impossible."
For a moment, Dumbledore faltered, glancing down guiltily at Harry's feet.
"I didn't tell you, Harry, because I wanted you to know what it was like to love, and to be loved, to allow yourself to open up to people, to let others into your heart in a way that Riddle never could. And knowing that you had a death sentence over your head would have made that all the more difficult. Even now, I suspect you're thinking of shutting out the people closest to you, for their own protection. Because you care about them. You love them all so much that it hurts. But you must let them in, Harry. You must always hold on to hope, and to the people who love you."
"What hope?" Harry asked, trying to calm his wobbling lip. "What can I possibly hope for now? I'm going to die."
Dumbledore looked at him, a sad smile adorning his face.
"As am I, Harry. Before the end of this year, I should think."
The old man produced his blackened, withered hand for Harry to inspect. It was looking worse now that it ever had before as if any moment it would fall off. Dumbledore pulled back the sleeve of his robe, revealing thin, black lines running up through the veins on his wrist, creeping up his forearm like spider legs.
"I have managed to keep it contained, with the help of Severus, but I do not have long. It is a miracle I have survived as long as I have."
Harry stared at it, suddenly feeling a wave of pity for his old mentor, almost wishing that he hadn't been as severe as he had, but knowing all the same that he was entitled to his anger.
"It is why I am unconcerned with Draco's mission. His endeavour is merely a punishment, not for him, but for his father. Voldemort knows that, even now, in my condition, a teenage boy is in no way my equal. He will either succeed or be expected to die trying, which is undoubtedly the result that Riddle is expecting. Keeping Draco here, in Hogwarts, is for his own protection. And I know, Harry, he has done little to deserve it, but I cannot allow another soul to be lost to Tom's machinations if they can be saved."
"You think Malfoy is worth saving?" Harry asked. "Over Katie? Over Ron?"
"I did not make this decision lightly, Harry. Contrary to how I may appear, I am hardly the type to make plans on a limb. You must understand, Harry, that Malfoy is as much a victim of Riddle as anyone else."
"I doubt that," Harry argued. "He took Riddle's side, agreed to try and kill you. He made his choice."
"Did he?" Dumbledore said pointedly. "If Voldemort came to your front door, asking for you undying allegiance, I doubt many people would have the courage to oppose him, let alone a child raised on the extreme values of a staunch blood-purist. Draco has done many deplorable things of his own volition, but I struggle to believe that this was entirely his choice."
Harry considered it for a moment, still not entirely convinced. Of course, Malfoy had been his tormenter for many years now, so he certainly wasn't willing to give Malfoy the benefit of the doubt. But he had to face the facts. Malfoy was a woefully inept choice for an assassin, and Harry refused to delude himself into thinking that Riddle couldn't have known that. This was undoubtedly a way for Riddle to toy with Draco, to set him up to fail spectacularly.
"Then what happens?" Harry asked. "You're not going to let Draco kill you, surely, sir?"
"No," Dumbledore replied. "He will not be the one to kill me."
Harry's eyes widened.
"Then who will?"
"Severus," Dumbledore explained, continuing before Harry could protest, "Under my orders, Harry. Killing me will both save Draco from a terrible choice and allow Severus to gain favour from Tom."
"But, then, Draco will have failed."
Dumbledore nodded.
"But Tom has contingencies," he explained. "He will turn to Severus to finish the job, thereby voiding Draco's oath."
Harry sat rigid, staring at the old man in front of him, the image of his cod, dead body lying at the feet of Snape sending waves of anger through him.
"Do not be dismayed for my sake, Harry," Dumbledore said, "This is a kindness. If Severus weren't to kill me, the death that I would be bound to is far worse. The curse that was placed upon me is a dark and terrible one, designed to consume its victim in the most torturous way imaginable. Even now, captive in my hand, it is agonising. It would not be a quick death. It will be slow and meticulous, keeping me alive long enough so that I can feel every nerve in my body fail, long enough to render me a living corpse, begging for death. In contrast, the killing curse is almost merciful."
Merciful. The word echoed throughout Harry's head, the idea that imminent death could be any kind of mercy. What kind of death awaited him, Harry thought, now that his fate lead to Voldemort. Would Voldemort allow him a merciful death? Or would he drag it out, forcing Harry to experience a long, painful end to his life?
A sense of existential terror gripped Harry's body as he realised that his future was all but certain. He was going to have to face Voldemort, alone, with not even Dumbledore around to help him.
He was going to lose.
"Sir," Harry trembled, "without you, I don't stand a chance. How am I supposed to do this on my own?"
"You won't," Dumbledore insisted, staring the younger man in the eye. "No matter how dire, no matter how the dark the days that are to come, you won't ever be alone. That I promise. You are right, in my efforts to protect you, I've left you woefully unprepared. No longer. I am going to take measures to make sure the Order will still be around and active after I am gone."
"But what about Hogwarts?" Harry asked, his thoughts flitting to the students, the ones most vulnerable without Dumbledore's protection.
The old headmaster smiled a small, melancholy smile that made his eyes twinkle once again.
"Snape will take my place as headmaster, and he will help you in any way he can. He will protect the students under my express orders." Harry was about to protest, to question whether Snape could possibly be the one to hold that responsibility, but Dumbledore interrupted him. "He may very well have the capacity for spite - his behaviour towards you is proof of that - but it is either him or someone far worse. Severus is not a cruel, nor vindictive man, not to the degree of the rest of Tom's inner circle. I promise you, Harry, he is more than ready for the position, and he will not filling it lightly.
"As for you, Harry, I intend to accelerate your training with me to every other day. There is a lot I have yet to share with you, and it is about time I did. I have been far too complacent in my aid as of late. No more. It is time that I commit to arming you for the coming fight."
Stray beams of moonlight, seeping through the stained glass windows, crested Harry's vision as he slowly walked through the hallways towards the Gryffindor common room. His footsteps echoed heavily, creating a hollow thudding noise that matched the one slowly thumping away inside his head. The one Harry couldn't help but listen to as he trudged his way back to bed after a long, long evening. It terrified him to know that one day that noise, the steady sound of his heart pumping away, would cease forever. To know that he was going to die sooner, rather than later.
Death had always been a part of his life - it had taken his parents away from him at a very young age, and the Dursleys had no qualms at reminding him of that - but the concept of his own death had yet to truly sink in. Whenever Harry cast his mind to the future, it always went the same way. Graduation; a job; a wife; a house; a child or two; a pet; Sunday dinners; washing machines; TVs; little school clothes; grey hairs; reunions; retirement; drifting away peacefully. The idea of having none of it made Harry feel so very empty. How much he had taken for granted, how much was denied of him, for merely being born.
How on Earth was he going to tell the others? Because he would have to tell them eventually. His friends needed to know - deserved to know - that his time was limited. How was he going to tell Hermione? Or Ron? Or Remus? What words could possibly describe how grateful he was to each of them, of all they had done for him.
For helping him believe he had any future at all.
Harry came to the portrait hole too soon. He would rather have stayed out in the hallway, find a lonely corner and disappear. Anything to avoid what he knew he had to do.
He spoke the password, the entrance swung open, and he stepped inside.
Harry had barely taken a few steps when a familiar voice met his ears.
"There you are."
It was Hermione, sitting vigilantly on the sofa, right where she always was. The common room was empty, not a single person around except for her, as was usual for the time of night. She must have stayed up to wait for him. The thought made him want to cry.
She stood to greet him, and Harry stepped out of the archway, into the light of the fire.
"I was wondering when you…"
He must have looked a wreck because the words died in her throat, and her cheery, bright demeanour had shifted to wide-eyed shock.
It was all Harry could do to meet Hermione's gaze, his eyes barely seeing anymore. She looked so worried, her eyes darting across his face for any clues to his current state.
"What happened?" she soon asked, guiding him back to the sofa, so that he was seated right beside her. So close that he could almost hear her heart beating away. The sound of life.
She was here. She was alive. She deserved to know.
And so he began, telling her all he knew about the Horcruxes; about how Voldemort created several soul anchors to help keep him alive; about how one of them caused the mess in the second year and had possessed Ginny; about how if even one were still intact, Voldemort would retain his immortality.
All the while, Hermione remained silent, her composure slowly losing its colour as she realised the gravity the situation, how impossible of a task that lay before Harry's feet.
It took all the strength in Harry's soul to look Hermione in the eye, to tell her what - or whom - the last Horcrux was, and watch her heart break in two.
Her beautiful brown eyes were flooded with tears, her shoulders hunched together, her fingers reaching out to hold onto him.
By that point, he too was crying, and he too was reaching out, bring her in closer for a desperate embrace. She gripped him tight enough so that he couldn't escape if he wanted to, as if any moment she feared he would crumble into dust.
Her tortured sobs rang loud in his ear, in contrast to Harry's silent ones. He was too tired to scream - he had shouted plenty enough at Dumbledore earlier in the day.
Occasionally Hermione's wails would lapse into barely literate words. Often along the lines of "No," or, "Not fair," or, "Why?"
Harry could only hold her, gently reminding her by his very presence that he was still alive, that they still had time.
Time - Harry was reminded by every tick of the clock and every beat of their hearts - that was slowly running out.
