Chapter XII: A Flight From Death
Harry honestly believed he had never flown this fast before. Very rarely had the occasion called for the true limits of his Firebolt's speed. Now, however, with two- no, three Death Eaters barrelling towards him, intent on sending his corpse to the ground, Harry was pushing the broom as hard as it would go. The whistle of wind bushing past his ears was almost deafening. He could feel every inch of his body pushing through the air until the skin of his face sat flat against his skull.
He chanced a glance to his rear. Three, four Death Eaters on his tail - they too pushing their brooms to the limits - and Harry didn't doubt that there would be more to come. Even though he knew he had the advantage when it came to speed, they had full use of their wands to compensate. It would be all too easy for him to lose focus and get hit with a stray spell. He had to concentrate on where he was going.
On the tip of his broom handle, Harry had stuck a small, portable compass, calibrated to point him North-East. He had never paid attention in Astronomy classes, so he didn't trust his ability to chart by the stars. He had thought to try and send them on a wild goose chase, weaving past villages, eventually making his way to Northolt. This was scrapped when Mr Dalton pointed out that the longer he spent in the air, the more likely he'd get killed. He suggested Harry go as the crow flies. If he kept the Firebolt at its top speed of 150mph, all the way to Northolt, he'd get there in less than four minutes. All he had to do was keep flying in the right direction, according to the red line on his compass dial.
Harry looked up from his handle, just in time to see a silhouette racing towards him. He swerved out of the way, sending the death eater sailing past his body. Looking back, he saw his assailant circle back and join the ever-growing pack on his tail. However, they were not the only new arrival. As Harry turned to readjust, he saw two more silhouettes appear right in front of him, materialising out of thin air. They were apparating, Harry realised, to make up for the difference in speed. Granted, having played Quidditch for six years straight, they were easy enough to avoid, but it would only take them one lucky shot. Their numbers would grow, very soon. He had to start whittling them down. He had to get out of the open air.
Harry scanned the ground for anything that he could use as a trap, and quickly found a long line of headlights. A motorway, Harry realised. He pushed down onto the handle of his broom, entering a long dive to the ground. He could tell without looking that the Death Eaters had copied his descent. He kept his broom pinned straight down as the tarmac raced towards him. He waited, with bated breath, as the gap between him and the road steadily closed, until he could just make out the grooves in the surface. He immediately reared up with all of his strength until this broom was parallel to the ground and surged forward. And just like that, Harry Potter pulled off a perfect Wronski feint, to great success. He heard the satisfying snap of two broomsticks colliding with the road.
Not bothering to look back, Harry needled past the nearest cars, weaving between vehicles faster than he ever thought possible. Gliding no more than a couple of feet from the ground, he zigzagged through traffic, using the traffic as cover from the next spell. One by one car alarms lit up as each vehicle took the brunt of a devastating spell. Luckily, with the target being so low to the ground, none of the curses hit the occupants, just cresting the bumpers or shattering a rear window or two.
As quickly as he could, Harry reached into his bag and grabbed the first thing his fingers touched. Gripping the paint bomb in one hand, he reared up and somersaulted into the air. He waited for the Death Eaters to fly past him, only to zip past them into the opposite lane, right into the path of oncoming traffic. Those brave few that followed Harry, kept to just above the vehicles, not daring to copy him as he skimmed across the tarmac, darting between lanes.
Glancing back, Harry tightened his grip on the handle of his broom and jerked it to the side. As he turned mid-air, he chucked the paint bomb as hard as he could at the nearest Death Eater. The bomb exploded, sending paint flying in all directions. The death eater he targeted, now covered head-to-toe in luminous pink paint, cried out in panic. That cry was cut short a second later, as they immediately collided with an oncoming vehicle that they had failed to notice.
Grabbing another paint bomb from the bag, Harry hastily repeated the process before the other realised what had happened. He lobbed a second at a pair on the other side of the motorway. The bomb exploded, its modified explosion radius easily dousing them both in paint. The two Death Eaters wobbled in the air, unable to see where they were going, only to crash into one another and fall into the road beneath them. Harry took hold of another, just as he noticed a Death Eater apparate in front of him. In alarm, Harry threw the paint bomb and hit the Death Eater square in the face. He swerved as the cloaked rider, now dripping with paint, just missed him. Harry's eyes followed their path, which led right into another death eater. The two collided in a mess of broomsticks and cloaks, crashing violently onto the tarmac behind him. Harry was about to celebrate when he noticed a bright beam of headlights reflected in the back of his glasses. He swivelled on his broom only to come face to face with a truck barrelling towards him. Harry swerved his broom as hard as he could into the opposite lane. The lorry missed him by the breadth of a hair.
Not wanting to risk another collision, Harry took to the skies once more. He looked down to realign his compass and took off as fast as he could. Glancing back, he noticed the crowd of Death Eaters had shrunk to a mere two. Far more manageable, but it wouldn't be like that for long. The more time he spent in the air, one by one each of his clones would disappear, as their caster was taken to their safe-houses by Dobby and Kreacher. And as each clone disappeared, the Death Eaters that were chasing them would eventually start chasing after him instead.
Harry scanned the ground for anything he could use to pick off an unlucky few and found a body of water. A small reservoir, in the middle of marshland. His broom descended until he was hovering above the water, his speed casting ripples on the surface. There were four on his tail now, with one slowly creeping towards him, daring to try and take him on personally. This would only work in Harry's favour.
Once again turning to his bag of many tricks, Harry rummaged until his fingers touched a spherical, abrasive object. The Weasley Blasting Bath Bomb, one of their experimental pranks that they deemed a bit too extreme for the general public.
Harry readied the bath bomb, just as a couple of Death Eaters were closing the gap. Slowly down ever so slightly to lure them in, he waited until they were but feet away and threw the bomb straight down into the reservoir. The water exploded behind him in a flurry of boiling water, sending his attackers careening into the nearby bank. A small crack, just barely audible on the wind, told him they didn't land well.
In the confusion, Harry circled back on the rest, producing a roll of Weasley Silly String. Casting the line out wide, he looped around as many of his cloaked assailants as he could. The thin, sticky thread caught the handle of one of their brooms, just as Harry severed his side of the line. The Death Eaters, too busy focusing on trying to hit their target, didn't notice the string condensing and tightening until they were being pulled together. In seconds, they were encased in thin ropes harder than concrete. Those caught in the string smashed into each other, falling into the depth of the reservoir and sinking beneath the surface.
Even with those small victories, Harry couldn't tell if his efforts were making any progress. It seemed like every time he dispatched one Death Eater, two more would appear to take their place. He had to get drastic if he was going to make a dent.
Spying a tall, metal structure not a quarter of a mile away, Harry ascended above the treetops, coursing over open fields towards his target. The group baring down on him was slowly condensing into a swarm, their ebony cloaks somehow darkening the pitch-black midnight sky.
Rummaging in his bag, Harry prepared yet another Weasley invention for use. His eyes fixed on the tall, metal pylon in front of him, getting closer and closer to him. Slowing down to once again entice any who dared, he aimed his broom down at the base of the tower
Just as he was about to hit its foundations, Harry changed course and flew straight up along the height of the pylon. He arced elegantly through the structure, weaving his way past the live wires. Glancing back for just a moment, he saw a few dark shapes following his exact pattern.
He grasped the clump of Weasley Wide-Wrap Webs and threw them with all of his might at the pylon.
His aim was perfect. The Death Eaters that followed him rammed straight into the billowing material, caught on its sticky surface like flies. The edges spread wide and far, wrapping themselves around the only points it could find: the pylon itself.
Harry swivelled to continue his escape, only to hear a loud bang and sizzle from behind him. One of the Death Eaters must have tried using a cutting hex to free themselves because the web had suddenly burst into flame and fried its catch. Harry pushed it from his mind and raced in the direction his compass dictated.
Even with his many tricks, there were still a dozen silhouettes shadowing him in the sky. If it came to defending himself against that many Death Eaters, he'd stand no chance. He had to get to Northolt as soon as possible. Checking the small electronic wristwatch he had stolen from Dudley, he noted that it had been around three and a half minutes since he left Privet Drive. By now, Harry was sure most of the Order had been evacuated, meaning that now, without his decoys, the attention would be all on him.
The ground opened up into farmland, allowing him to push his Firebolt to the very limit and keep it there. A barrage of spells lit up the air around him as curse after curse was fired his way, some of them far too close for comfort. He hoped to all hell that Northolt was close. He wasn't sure he'd be able to keep dodging and swerving for much longer. Even his most rigorous Quidditch matches hadn't been this intense. He was pushing his body and his broom to their very limits.
The amount of physical exertion needed to fly in the way he had been was sapping Harry's energy quicker than he anticipated. Not only that, he didn't even have a second to relax, constantly checking the compass, his rear, the ground beneath and the air in front of him, making sure he wasn't in the line of fire.
Harry was starting to realise just how much trouble he was really in. He doubted he would last much more than a few minutes, especially not in the area he was in now. As much favour as the open-air gave him in terms of speed, the lack of cover was almost worse. The most he had were some passing hedges, maybe a car or two. Apart from that, all he could do was twist and turn and hope that he wasn't hit.
Eventually, however, after dodging yet another curse intended for his head, Harry looked up to the horizon and found a glorious sight. A long runway, adjacent to a group of bunkers, lit up by surrounding buildings.
There it was! RAF Northolt, finally in sight. And he was but half a mile away.
Realising now was the time, Harry reached into his bag one last time and took out his final trick, one that the Weasley twins had invented back in Harry's fifth year, which they used to great effect to cause havoc in Hogwarts' halls. Wildfire Whiz-Bangs, mischievous fireworks that were as bright as they were loud. Except these ones were the outdoor variety, far more powerful than the measly firecrackers Fred and George used to prank Umbridge. Just one of these would get the attention of people for miles around, and he had several.
He readied the Whiz-Bang, reaching for a lighter to set them off.
A flash of red passed just by his eyes. CRACK!
Fiery pain erupted in his arm. The muscles in his fingers spasmed, dropping the fireworks. Harry cried out in panic, reaching out to try and catch the Whiz-Bangs, only to cry out as another spark of pain ran up his arm. His arm hung loose, screaming in agony. Harry looked at it, trying to move it. The limb proved useless. It was indeed broken.
Ignoring the pain for a moment, Harry removed his good hand from his broom handle to stuff his broken arm in his jacket. He hissed at the contact, quickly shielding his useless limb in the safety of his clothes. He scanned the world beneath him, looking desperately for the fireworks, only to realise that they had fallen into the grass far behind him. There were too many Death Eaters on his tail to turn back, even if he knew where to look.
Harry's mind raced, trying desperately to think up a solution. He didn't know whether it was the shock, pain or panic, but his brain just wasn't cooperating. No spells, no other tricks were coming to mind. He had no spare fireworks to light up, and even if he did, he wasn't sure he'd be able to light them with only one hand.
At least he still had Dobby and Kreacher. It was coming up on the time, according to his watch. They shouldn't be long now. All he had to do was last a few more seconds and they'd be here. Any second now.
He looped in the air, avoiding spell-fire, as the seconds ticked by and the house-elves were nowhere to be seen. What happened? This was the plan! Why weren't they here?
Harry waited a few seconds more, and another few seconds after that. The Death Eaters were approaching, more now than ever, like an angry swarm ready to cut him down. Still, the distinctive pop of a house-elf's arrival was nowhere to be heard. It was looking more and more likely that he had been abandoned to his fate.
Everywhere he turned, another flock of Dead Eaters appeared until the entire sky was blocked out by dark robes. No matter where he looked, they were blocking the gaps for his escape. He was vastly outnumbered, hovering above the fields outside of Northolt.
Harry was completely alone.
As if it couldn't get any worse, a splitting pain erupted in Harry's head. His scar was burning. His heart stopped as he realised what was happening. A shade like the visage of death itself - its face deathly pale, its eyes blood red - made itself known. Harry didn't need to look twice.
Lord Voldemort was here, floating like a shadow of the air, staring down at him viciously.
Harry's heart fell into his stomach and his blood ran cold. The Horcrux in his head rang like a death toll. Harry had faced certain death before, many times, but this was different. There was no one here to help him, no secret escape plan or loophole he could exploit. If Dobby and Kreacher weren't coming and he couldn't send a signal to Northolt, then he really was on his own. And there was nothing more he could do to stop what was coming.
The Dark Lord raised his wand, eager to end it all. Harry, realising that he had nowhere left to run, and no tricks left to pull, lifted his own wand in defiance - trace be damned. He heard laughter from all around him, mocking his meagre protest, but he refused to listen. This was about him and Riddle. It always had been.
Their eyes met, time slowed to a crawl. This was always going to happen. From the moment he was born, this moment had been decided.
He was going to die, right here, right now.
He hadn't told Hermione he loved her, but that was okay, he told himself. Better for her to never know than to live with the loss of what could have been. He only hoped the rest of the Order didn't feel too bad about it. Ron and Hermione would make sure to tell them about how it had to happen, how it made them all safer in the end. His death would not be in vain. He'd finally be worth all the trouble he'd put everyone through. They'd finally be free of him.
And him? He'd finally get to rest. No more pain. No more disappointing others. No more of his miserable life. Just sleep. This was right, Harry told himself, even as his heart ached for more and every instinct in his body screamed for him to run away. A voice that sounded so much like Hermione, begging him to live or at least not give up just yet. Fight on, Harry. Come back to me.
But Harry had no more fight left in him. Seemed like all he did nowadays was fight, fight to get out of bed, fight to stay held together, fight to carry on knowing that he'd have no reward in the end. Maybe he didn't want to die, but he didn't want to live this life anymore either.
So, come on, Tom, Harry thought, locking eyes with the Dark Lord in the hope that he would hear every word, let's do this one more time. I'll go easy on you if you want.
And then the most beautiful sound Harry had ever heard cried out in the darkness.
Harry turned, Riddle forgotten, only to find a streak of dazzling fire soaring towards him. Bright orange, tipped with red, alight in a glorious display, so bright that not even the night could dim it. It was like looking into the sun.
It came straight for him and Harry reached out his good hand as a pair of taloned feet stretched their digits. He could see Riddle panicking, waving his wand in what he knew was the killing curse. A flash of green entered his peripheral vision, just as Fawkes touched the fabric of his jacket, digging in painfully.
His world exploded in a ball of fire and Harry Potter disappeared.
The Death Eaters were left alone, levitating around an empty spot, and Voldemort exploded in a furious bellow. His followers glanced at each other wondering what on earth had just happened, what they could possibly do now.
That was until a loud bang echoed from the North-East and one of their own fell like a downed pigeon. And then another, and another. A hail of objects, small, sharp and gleaming, came rushing past them, in the hundreds, thousands, it was hard to tell.
Some tried to fly away, only to be caught in their escape. Some tried shielding themselves, but the objects broke through their shields like rocks through glass. Those who didn't have the common sense to apparate away were left to die, riddled with bullets falling upon them like rain.
Riddle abandoned them all, disappearing as instantaneously as he arrived, leaving his followers to be cut down by the forces of RAF Northolt. Their lives mattered little to him, far less than his own. He had to survive. Everyone else in the world was expendable.
There was a fraction of a second where Harry felt the air shift around him before he felt himself careening into the long grass. His body sprawled, folding awkwardly against his broom and his holstered arm. By the time his muscles tensed to firm the impact, he was already rolling to a stop.
He came to rest in a heap, face up against the earth. Harry breathed, trying to calm his racing heart, to dim the buzz inside his head so he could think again.
All at once, the adrenaline faded away and the pain came crashing down on him. His broken arm throbbed angrily against his chest, a seething pain in his shoulder blades made itself known, and he felt a long sharp sensation of his broom pressing into his leg. Harry grasped the handle and threw it up and away from his body. Rolling onto his good arm, he pushed up against the ground, using the rucksack on his back as a support.
He almost reached an upright position, only for his shaking limb to buckle, dropping him onto his side. Harry knew trying again any time soon would be useless, so he took a second to rest, staring out over the meadow he had been dropped into. It was a clear sky. The night was speckled with stars, twinkling in the blackness. A cool breeze brushed against his face.
Exhaustion clung to his very being.
Harry wished he could stay here, in this calm and quiet moment. It would be so easy to fall asleep here and never wake up. He imagined being left here, for all eternity, to let the grass slowly eat him whole, all for the world to forget him. What a way for it all to end, in silence.
He almost had an end. He was fully ready to die back there, in the skies above Northolt. In but a few seconds, he had made peace with it, readied himself to pass on into the next great adventure, as Dumbledore always said. Then the next second, he was alive. Now, the end was even further away. And between now and then, and endless struggle.
A soft flutter and a chirp signalled the arrival of Fawkes. Harry turned his head to the Phoenix in its full glory, a far cry from the hatchling he saw at Dumbledore's funeral. He put on his best smile, reaching out to stroke the feathers on the bird's head.
"That's two I owe you now," he whispered softly. "Thank you."
The Phoenix responded with a jubilant song that soaked into his bones and filled him with warmth.
Harry heard his name being called in the distance, but he didn't call back, too enraptured to want to interrupt Fawkes' melody. It wasn't until he could make out the sound of grass being trodden underfoot that Harry was finally drawn out of his trance.
"Harry!" Remus said, who, accompanied by Arthur Weasley, was reaching down to check him over.
"I'm fine," Harry replied as the two men hooked their arms underneath his shoulders to hoist him up. "It's just my arm. I think it's broken."
Harry moved his legs as best he could as he was carried towards what he now realised was the Burrow.
"No one going to thank me?" he joked, only to fall silent when he realised neither of them was smiling.
"I don't think anyone's going to be doing that," Remus replied tersely and said no more.
They were approaching the garden path leading to the main house. By that time, Molly Weasley was already hurrying towards them, Fleur in tow with a tray of medical equipment - bottles and bandages galore, so many that the tray was overflowing.
"What happened?" she said hurriedly. "Is he alright?"
"He's alive," Arthur replied, hurrying him into the kitchen. "Arm's broken, but otherwise…"
They sat him down at the head of the table, just as Harry's legs gave way, allowing him to collapse into a chair. He hissed as his arm jostled painfully in his jacket.
With practised ease that Harry had only seen in Madam Pomfrey before now, Molly carefully extracted his arm and laid it onto the table, cutting through his jacket sleeve to get a closer look. The Weasley matriarch tutted, reaching into the tray as Fleur leaned closer to get a better look. Harry only managed a quick glance before he cringed away. His forearm was bent at an awkward angle, the skin a raw, angry red.
Molly shoved a blue bottle into his hand.
"Drink this," she ordered, and Harry complied.
He downed the potion before he had the chance to even smell it, and his tongue was assaulted with a stinging sensation. He spluttered but kept the liquid down as the stinging sensation travelled down his gullet and into his chest. Before long, however, the searing pain in his arm began to weaken to a dull throb.
"Now don't move that arm, I'm going to set it," Mrs Weasley explained. Harry nodded, making sure to stay still, even as a shot of agony spiked down it every time Mrs Weasley moved it, readying a cast.
"I'll admit I expected worse," a familiar, elderly voice remarked from the corner of the kitchen. "You must be a damn good flyer, Mister Potter."
Harry glanced up, past the table to the opposite side of the room, where a familiar face was staring back at him.
"Mr Dalton," Harry greeted tiredly, hissing as Mrs Weasley lifted his arm into a bandage wrap. "What are you doing here?"
"Making sure you arrived safely, my boy," the old man smiled keenly. "And it's a good thing, too. I presume you've thanked Fawkes for saving your life."
And the sound of his name, Fawkes made his entrance, swooping through an open window into the kitchen, landing just in front of Harry.
"Yeah," Harry nodded, winking at Fawkes. "Yeah, I have"
Mr Dalton clicked his tongue and Fawkes flapped onto the man's shoulder.
"I shan't be here in the morning, Mr Potter," He said, stroking Fawkes' plumage, "so I'll say my goodbyes now."
He tipped his flat cap and strode carefully to the kitchen door, his cane tapping against the stone tiles as he went. He was about to open the door when he sighed and turned back.
"Harry," he said, staring the young man in the eye, "Albus is gone. You can only follow him so far." He adjusted the cravat around his neck, turning the doorknob and opening the door, allowing a gust of chilled air to breeze into the room. "I'm sorry about your friend. Goodnight."
A sinking sensation settled in the pit of Harry's chest
"My friend?" he asked, but Mr Dalton had already closed the door. A few seconds later he had disappeared in a burst of phoenix fire. Harry then turned to the adults standing around him, fixing his arm in its new cast. "What did he mean?"
Mrs Weasley gave Remus a quick look that told Harry more than words ever could.
"That should do for now. It should be healed by morning. Take him upstairs to the guest room," she said. "I'll tell the others he's safe."
"I want to see them-"
"No," Remus refused. "Molly's right, I'm taking you upstairs. You and I need to talk."
"What happened?" Harry insisted as Remus lifted him from his seat. "Is everyone alright?"
But no one answered. Even as Harry repeatedly, all but shouting, begging anyone to just tell him what had happened when he was gone. Pulling on his good arm, Remus led him one, two, three flights of stairs - Harry noticed along the way that every room was occupied, spying the lights underneath the doorways, hearing indistinct voices from behind the closed doors. They eventually came to the guest room, a small room meant for only one person. He led Harry inside, helping him onto the single bed that lay inside. The room was small, but it fit him and Remus well enough, decorated with only a few basic pieces of furniture. Harry noticed, as Remus went to get the door, that his luggage was nowhere to be seen, likely still downstairs.
The door closed, leaving him and Remus alone in the small bedroom. Now alone, with no other distractions, no more tricks for him to pull, all laid bare, the mood was tense. Remus stared down at him, shaking his head as if simply dumbfounded at the sight of him.
"That was reckless," Remus remarked brusquely.
Harry shrugged, ignoring the pain in his arm.
"Well, at least it-"
"Enough." The fire in Remus' voice made Harry flinch. The man's arms were crossed so tightly that Harry could see them shaking. "You're going to listen to me now because what you did tonight was monumentally stupid, arrogant and completely self-serving and you are NEVER to do anything like that again!"
In all the years that Harry had known Remus, he had never known him this angry. It was like seeing a new side to the man, a sobering one that made shame radiate from Harry's core.
"You almost died tonight! If it hadn't been for Fawkes, who knows what might have happened. And when I get my hands on that Mr Dalton fellow…"
"At least you lot were safe."
"No, we weren't," Remus rebutted. Harry looked up at him, his eyes wide and disbelieving. Remus took a moment to make sure he had Harry's attention before explaining. "It wasn't long after you left that the Death Eaters, what few didn't chase you, began attacking the house. And because the Blood Wards fell as soon as you left, we were sitting ducks. Kreacher bought enough time for us to get out, but it was close."
Harry's defiance cracked into a thousand pieces. How the hell did he not realise that would happen? They must have turned right back around as soon as they figured out the trick with the decoys. Because of course, they would. But he didn't take that into account. He thought his plan was bulletproof.
"And how is he?" he asked desperately, his own feelings forgotten. "And Dobby? Are they okay?"
"Dobby's exhausted himself but he should be fine," Remus replied. "He's sleeping in the living room."
"Kreacher?"
Remus sighed and Harry felt like he was falling through the mattress.
"… Harry, I'm sorry."
And just like that, Harry landed. A great weight settled onto his chest, pushing down around him. The walls of the room closed in around him.
"No…"
"He took a killing curse intended for one of us," Remus explained. "I don't know who from. His body is downstairs."
Killing curse… body downstairs… Kreacher… dead. That was all his brain could process. Everything in his head fell apart, the cogs dislocating. And as they began turning again, the horror only deepened into an abyss.
Kreacher had only just been freed from that wretched Horcrux's grip over Grimmauld Place. He had been improving, steadily coming out of his shell after all those years of torment. And now he was dead. That poor elf had lived a horrid existence for so long and just as it had begun to get better, it was snatched away. Harry had taken it from him. Harry had forced him to stay. It was his stupid, stupid, stupid plan that forced him to be there. And Dobby too. If he had died as well-
It was his fault. It was always his fault. Another screw-up, another disappointment. He had failed, again, just like so many times before, and he had hurt others. He was going to be the death of everyone he loved. His friends were going to die.
"Harry?" Despite him standing only a few feet away, Remus' voice sounded so very distant. It was barely there before something else took its place. And Harry didn't know what else to say
"I got him killed…"
"Harry-"
"It should have been me," he gasped. The weight on his chest was crushing him now. His head was spinning. The walls were right up against him. He didn't know where he was. It was all going dark. "It should… it… help me!"
He saw Remus kneel down in front of him, carefully approaching him.
"Harry," he called out to him, "I need you to breathe now."
"Why does this keep happening?" Harry cried, shrinking in on himself. His whole body was shaking violently. "I keep getting it wrong. I got Sirius and Dumbledore killed and now-"
"They were not your fault."
"YES THEY WERE!" he roared, clawing at his face desperately. "I'M- Sh- Should have left me behind. Why do I have to keep doing this?" Tears were streaming down his face, soaking his jeans. All composure had vanished. "I don't want to fight any more. I just… I just want to die."
Despite it being a whisper, it felt like a bombshell. The room descended into complete silence, besides Harry's occasional gasp for air. He was sure Remus had forgotten to breathe. Harry felt the seconds tick by, waiting for Remus to walk away, to realise how lost Harry truly was, that he wasn't worth the trouble. And Harry waited to be left alone, just like he always was. Just like how he had lived the first eleven years of his life, shut away in a dark hole and ignored. Left to rot, like the waste of space he was.
Except that wasn't what happened. The door never opened, no footsteps walking away. Harry heard the floorboards creak as Remus moved closer, and he felt two heavy hands rest on his shoulders.
"You don't want that," he heard Remus say, his voice solemn and raw. "You think you do, right now, but that's not it… You just want it to get better. And it can, Harry. I know because I've been there."
For a moment, Harry wondered how the hell Remus of all people could understand how he felt. That was until he remembered the kind of life the man had lived. To his shame, Harry realised how, in many ways, Remus was considerably less fortunate than himself. The man in front of him had at one point lost his closest friends, had no family, no prospects, and yet he had grown into one of the best men that Harry knew. Maybe Remus didn't understand exactly what he was going through, but he at least could relate to feeling like there was no way forward. That state of mind that made every tomorrow a burden, an endless tunnel with no light at the end. Except apparently Remus had been through that tunnel and came out the other side as someone better. Someone who believed that life was worth living.
"Don't give up, not now," his uncle in all but blood spoke, the closest thing he had left to a father figure, except maybe Hagrid. "Your life isn't over yet. You can still make it a good one. You've given more than any of us to make it happen and I'm so proud of you. I know James would be, too, and Lily. You've done so much more than any of us could ever ask of you.
"Kreacher died protecting us; that was his choice. And so did Sirius, James and Lily. I'm not asking you to honour them, just to recognise that they didn't die for nothing. You're a good man, Harry. Better than most. Every single person in this house would risk their life if it meant they could help you because we believe in you. Not the prophecy; not fate. You, Harry. Tonight hasn't changed that.
"We were angry, yes, because you deliberately put yourself in danger. Maybe you don't want help, maybe you just want to fight this war alone, but if you do, you won't get very far. And if you do want us to help you, that's good, but you need to help us, too. You need to talk to us, to anyone. It doesn't have to be me, but please don't keep it bottled up inside. Don't do that to yourself."
Harry felt a part of arms wrap around his shoulders, one hand patting his back in solidarity.
"You're not alone in this, Harry," Remus whispered. "You never were."
And nothing else was needed.
The man rose and gave his shoulder one last squeeze. "Now, get some sleep. We'll talk more about this in the morning."
It was as Remus was walking to the door when Harry finally found his voice again.
"I'm sorry," he croaked out. "I'm… I'm really sorry… I thought…"
Remus raised his hand, shaking his head.
"Rest," he ordered softly. "What's done is done. Besides, it's not me you need to apologise to."
And with that, Remus stepped out of the guest room, leaving Harry alone with his many thoughts. Lying back against the mattress, he dwelt on the events of the night. Looking back, he wondered how he could ever have been okay with dying tonight. Now that he was out of the moment, away from the fight, the last thing he wanted was for his life to end here, when it had barely gotten started. What would his life have been, if he had allowed Riddle to kill him? Seventeen years and only a handful of them well-lived. What would Harry Potter have been after all that? How could he let Tom Riddle of all people decide that for him?
He was jostled out of his thoughts by the sound of the door creaking open, only to latch shut. Harry knew who it was without needing to see. He could recognise those footsteps anywhere, light but decisive, graceful yet efficient.
He almost didn't want to look. He didn't want to face the shame of what he had done, what he had put her through. but that was the coward in him talking. So, he carefully shifted onto his back, turning his head to look at the new arrival.
She looked as exhausted as he felt, her fingers tangled anxiously together, woven in the fabric of her jumper. Harry noticed her frame shaking ever so slightly like she was trying to fight off a chill. Overall, she was an emotional wreck, and Harry felt a wave of regret rise up from his chest. This was what he had done to her. This was his fault.
Even so, even wracked by grief, she truly looked beautiful. A kind, concerned face, framed by a halo of moonlight gleaming in her tresses. Not even the tear tracks on her cheeks, nor her raw, red eyes could detract from the fact that she looked like an angel. He didn't truly deserve her.
Looking back, she had probably been listening at the door. She very well might have heard everything said. Or maybe she had known from the start. He could never really tell with Hermione. In many ways, she knew him better than he knew himself.
"I'm sorry," was all he could think to say. "I'm so sorry. I know I was stupid, but I couldn't-"
"Couldn't what?" Hermione said, her voice cracking at the seams. "Couldn't bear to see any of us in harm's way? Couldn't risk any of us dying?" She was barely holding it together, he could tell, but she was adamant about making sure he heard every word. He deserved to be reprimanded for what he did. "Believe it or not, Harry, I care about you, too. Those five minutes, waiting to see if you came back, were the worst of my entire life. Don't you ever do that to me again."
"I won't," he promised, shaking his head. "I swear, I never wanted to hurt you."
A sliver of the Hermione he loved, her kind, warm, forgiving side, shined through the anger. She sniffed, looking at the floor as she lost the battle for control of her emotions.
"And I never want to see you hurt."
Whatever pride Harry had left was properly extinguished at the sight of Hermione in pain. It was the one thing that he couldn't handle, torture worse than the excruciation of his broken arm.
"What can I do?" he asked desperately. He would do anything - run a marathon, lift a car, bring down God himself - if it meant it would make her happy again.
Hermione asked for none of that. instead, walked hesitantly to the edge of the bed and climbed onto the mattress. She crawled across the sheets, lying down so that she was resting against his good side.
"Hold me," she whispered.
"Hermione?"
He didn't know what to do. What was he supposed to do now? He couldn't say he didn't want this but did she? Or maybe she needed this more than he could ever realise. Her response was to reach up and wrap his unbroken arm around her body, gripping his shirt tightly.
"Just… hold me," she insisted. "Be here when I wake up."
It was the least he could do, Harry reasoned, even when every instinct in his body told him to move away, to reject her affection and instead suffer alone and in silence. A coward's way out. Because, really, this was what he was afraid of, even after facing death head-on. Allowing himself to feel something good, to take pleasure, to love because it never lasted. No matter what, those things he took for granted - friends, family, security, future - would always leave him in the end. and he would be alone.
However, he wasn't alone. Not now, not since he was eleven years old. Because Hermione was there, always and forever. She promised.
She's here. She's safe. Now, you need to be safe for her. Dying would be too easy.
"Hermione?" he whispered
"Harry?" she replied, her breath tickling his chest.
"I'm going to get help," he promised, holding her firmly against him, rubbing her head through her mountain of hair. "I promise. I'm going to get better."
Her grip on his body tightened as she buried her face into his shirt. He heard a barely audible, "Thank you," before her body went limp and her breathing evened out.
Harry spent a few minutes stroking Hermione's hair. He lay entangled with her body, savouring the moment of basking in someone's affection - Hermione's affection, the person who mattered most to him in the world - before he decided that he too should sleep. He was in for a long day tomorrow, apologising to those he had hurt, to those he had lied to. Making amends. Being better than those that came before.
It was funny, Harry realised. In trying to defy Dumbledore, Harry realised he had become exactly like him. He had pushed people away, kept them in the dark, lied, schemed, put them all in danger, kept them in a state of emotional turmoil for their so-called protection. Most of them didn't even know he was dying. All the parts of his old mentor that Harry had resented the most, he had inadvertently adopted.
A road paved with good intentions, indeed.
Well, now at least he knew better.
Harry fell asleep that night realising something about himself for the first time - or maybe something he had forgotten, buried in the back of his mind where it could no longer hurt him. A truth - a painful, awful truth - that he could no longer deny to himself.
I want to be happy again. I want to have a life worth living.
They converged on the land outside RAF Northolt in the dead of night. The team worked silently, efficiently and with utmost discipline. Sixteen bodies were found, removed and carried to unmarked vans, ready for disposal. No words were exchanged, not a moment was spared for hesitation. One minute corpses were strewn across the grass, the next they were gone, as if they had never been there.
The coordinator, a middle-aged man with a sour face and dark, brown eyes, oversaw the transfer from the marshes to the moving vans, making sure that no pictures were taken and no soldier who even looked upon the remains had any thoughts of remembering them. All standard procedure for a mission of this calibre. It was rare nowadays for one to receive a call inciting Code: Emerald; there were only a handful of people in the UK that understood its true nature. The coordinator was not one of them, but he did know how to take orders and how to make sure no questions were asked.
But of course, there were questions. Everyone had questions. Code: Emerald was confidential beyond confidential, going as high as the crown, predating the head that now wore it. A call for Code: Emerald meant only one thing: a threat to national security too dangerous to be exposed to the public and too abnormal to be officially classified, but very much real. A military procedure like that set a dangerous precedent in the coordinator's eyes but upon inspecting the bodies more closely, as they were hurriedly rushed into body bags, he couldn't help but see why it had been called in.
Each of the sixteen corpses was dressed in black robes and their faces covered by ivory masks carved into grotesques distortions of skulls. Below the robes, clothes in a style that was unrecognisable to the modern man. And the surrounding them was littered with brooms, adorned with strange words such as Comet, Cleansweep and Nimbus along with arbitrary numbers. If he were a superstitious man, the coordinator would very well say that they were witches, like his mother used to tell him, missing only their green skin, warts and crooked noses. But he was a rational individual. There had to be some other explanation for this phenomenon. Not that he ever expected to get one.
The only man who might know was Mr Gareth Dalton himself. He was, unfortunately, a footnote in history, but one of the few known facts about Code: Emerald was that Dalton was the man who authored it. The coordinator had yet to meet Mr Dalton in person, but he had heard the folk tales. They said he was the last great witch-hunter, a man who dedicated his life to studying the paranormal. An intensely superstitious, paranoid individual and a gem of the RAF.
Perhaps he was the key to all this, the coordinator supposed. Perhaps Mr Dalton wrote Code: Emerald because in all his years of exploring the unknown, he had found something too terrifying to imagine. A very real, very dangerous threat to the fabric of society. An underlying truth about the world that was best left to those who could stomach it.
The last of the bodies were carted away, and the coordinator sent the remaining troops to their dorms, telling them to get a few hours of precious sleep before dawn. He would be doing the same. There was no paperwork for a Code: Emerald operation. No evidence of it ever happening. It would be best if he simply forgot all about what had occurred tonight. To never again think about the words Cleansweep or Nimbus, or those bodies dressed in clothes he couldn't recognise and masks that made his blood curl. Forget about witches, forget about the unknown.
Forget it all, for his own sake.
Now, what was he doing again?
