It is a shock to come back to Hogwarts. To come back to magic. To come back to it all. Not back to life, not quite. Not exactly. The numbness of the summer clings to him like a wet cloak. It surrounds him, not wanting to be far from his body.

The twins help. They talk on and on and on, unceasingly, as Harry does his homework, as always. They never stop once and refuse to leave his side until the feast. In the end, they almost take him to the Gryffindor table with them. If not for the glares, from three different tables including the Professor's, they would have. As it is, they walk him to his seat and stare at all defiantly before going to their own.

Harry sits at the edge of his age group, paying enough attention to them to make sure he isn't tricked, but no more than that. He doesn't bother pretending that he wants to talk to them and they do the same. Ever since second year, they have offered less and less protection. He is use to it by now.

The announcement of the Triwizard Tournament is interesting, but it also makes his stomach hurt. He has a bad feeling about this. Even without his strange nightmares he would worry about it. This is just the kind of thing that would make trouble for him. But with them? Something is definitely going to happen. And it is most likely going to be painful.

The new DADA Professor also puts him on edge right away. First the man is late. And then he has the most alarming appearance he has ever seen – fake eye, wooden leg, wild hair. He gives Harry the chills. He deeply regrets having to take his class. He would skip it, if he thought he could get away with it. Professor Moody is almost as bad as Professor Quirrell. And the only reason he isn't is because he doesn't make his scar hurt.

He can tell it already, it isn't going to be a good year.

.

.

Sometimes, when the nightmares go on long enough, it is hard to tell when one is awake and when one is asleep. It is all the same.

.

.

And he is right.

It isn't.

When his name gets pulled from the Goblet, he stares at the Headmaster in shock. Surely this has to be some kind of mistake. Surely. They can't honestly believe that he put his name in it, can they? Not only is he not smart enough, not powerful enough, to trick the Goblet, why would he? What motivation would he have to compete in a competition that was banned for being too dangerous? Students have died. And they were Seventh years.

What chance does one, scrawny Fourth year have?

Everyone says he has no choice, he has to compete. It is a magically binding contract. But none of them seem to understand that they are forcing him to his death either. None seem to care that, one way or another, he isn't going to survive this year. Not that it should surprise him, that no one cares. But even the foreign students seem to think he did it.

He doesn't understand. Do they want him dead that badly? Is he that much of a burden that they are pushing him to die? If they want him dead, can't they do it an easier way? A less painful way? Hell, he'd let them. Just give him a painless poison and he would drink it. Clearly his life isn't worth living. Why would he continue? He's not that stupid.

But, once again, no one cares.

In a united front, the whole of Hogwarts once again turns on him. It is a repeat of second year all over again, but worse. This time they aren't afraid of him. They are angry. And angry students can be quite creative when they want to be. Within the first week, he is sent to the Hospital Wing. And it only takes that long because he couldn't hide or fix the result of the curse by himself and the twins forced him.

The Hufflepuffs are downright vicious. Harry wants to laugh. So much for the House that has the reputation for being the weakest. There is nothing weak or mild about them. They are the ones doing the most damage. There is something to be said about strong loyalty.

There is a button campaign, courtesy of one Draco Malfoy, that read 'Potter Stinks' or 'Supporting Hogwarts Real Champion', alternatively. The entire school wears them. Even some of the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang wear them.

None care. Except some do.

The twins have taken to shadowing him constantly. Not like last year. Last year was tame compared to now. He walks in between them, sheltered by their bodies, glares and wands. Any one who thinks the twins are too goofy to be a threat soon find out differently. They are as vicious as the Hufflepuffs. At this point, they have declared war on the school. No one is safe. They make it very clear. Someone messes with Harry, they mess with them.

There is the small Ravenclaw Harry remembers from the train two years ago. The one with vacant eyes. Only, he soon learns, they aren't as vacant as they seem. Her eyes may look through you, but she sees so much more. She sees beyond the surface, right into a person's center. She talks of nonexistent creatures and vague statements, but she is the most intelligent student Harry has met. Luna Lovegood is a force of nature, if an unexpected one.

And then there is Professor Black. Professor Black who is once again talking to him, if still in secret. Professor Black who insists on teaching him. Training him. Helping him survive. It is positively unnerving to have a Professor help him like this. To have an adult help him. It makes him warier than ever.

His Professor blows hot and cold. One year, he talks to him, the next he abandons him. Yes, he explained that last year he didn't meet with him because of Black, his brother. He didn't wish to be accused of helping him get to Harry. Yes, it is a good explanation. It makes sense.

But how does he know something more important won't come up again? He can have the best of intentions, but still desert him again. Abandonment is still abandonment, no matter the reason.

And he refuses to make these meetings known publicly.

So Harry will take the lessons, but still watch. Because one of these days, the price is going to come. And he is going to be ready for it. Because the Professor can't actually care what happens to him. That's as unlikely as the Chudley Cannons winning the Quidditch World Cup. It isn't going to happen.

He is lucky he has the twins. He is at the point where he wants to believe they are his true friends. But there is always this tiny voice in his head warning him. Reminding him that he is a Freak. That if his own relatives, his soulmate – whoever it is – can't care for him, how could anyone else? That he is a possible danger, with this terrible power he has inside him. That he is not worth it. He is never worth it.

Who could love a worthless Freak?

That poisonous idea is sounding better by the day.

When he is in the Hospital Wing for a broken arm, he wonders how he would do it. There are several ways. This is a magical castle. Accidents happen. All he has to do is pick a method and find a time when the twins are busy.

No one would miss him. He has been a disappointment to everyone since he arrived at Hogwarts four years ago. No. He has been a disappointment since he was left on the doorstep of the Dursley's ten years ago. And that's assuming his parents actually cared for him. He doesn't assume they loved him. Why would he? They only had him for a year. That is hardly enough time to love someone.

It is an option to consider.

Things are not improved by the articles written by Rita Skeeter for the Daily Prophet. Harry's so called life is splashed on the front page any chance she gets. Which is quite often. What kind of person he is depends on the day. Sometimes he is a poor, misunderstood student just trying to survive. Other times he is an attention seeking prat. Still other times he is the hero turned next Dark Lord.

Nor it is helped by the still strange nightmares he gets, seeing through eyes not his own. They chill him to the core every time. Something is very, very wrong.

And it is a better option than fighting a dragon after all.

When Fred and George deliver the news, he feels like crying. Dragon. He has to fight a dragon. Who in the right mind wants to fight a dragon? Certainly not him. Just because life isn't looking so great anymore doesn't mean he wants to die a fiery death. A jump off the Astronomy Tower would be better. And less messy.

Even more terrifying, Professor Moody is blatantly helping him cheat. He corners him alone after class one day, staring at him intently. Or maybe just staring at him. It is hard to tell.

"Do you have a plan boy?"

Harry flinches at the word. He hates being referred to as boy by other people. It reminds him of his Uncle too much.

"Not yet Sir."

"Hmmm," he leans in closer and Harry leans back, "You do know what the challenge is?"

He nods. "Dragons."

"Well, at least that's something. What are you good at?"

Harry blinks at him. "Good at?"

"Yes, what are your skills?"

Surviving near death experiences, but he doesn't think that is what the Professor is looking for. Also wielding his dangerous power, but that is never on purpose, so it doesn't count either.

"You have to utilize your strengths boy."

What strengths? He doesn't have any. He is nothing special, just a disappointment.

He sighs. "You've shown great skill in this class. One of the best students, hands down. This is defense class. You don't need to fight a dragon, you need to defend yourself against one. Understand?"

Harry nods.

"Don't go for anything fancy. Stick with simple, fast and easy. Better to perfect a few useful spells than half manage more impressive ones. Get in and get out."

"Right Sir. Thank you Sir," he says and then flees the room, shaken. This is the second adult that has tried to help him and he is terrified. As much as he doesn't truly trust Professor Black, he is still better than Professor Moody.

Use defense spells? It's not a bad suggestion. DADA is, ironically, his best class. Either through need or through interest, those are the spells he finds the easiest. They stick in his head. And, realistically, he knows he isn't stupid. Between his Ravenclaw tendencies, the twins and Professor Black, he knows magic above his age level. He can do it too. But none of that makes him feel any better.

He's smart, but he can't be that smart. He's no Granger after all. She is the one who is always number one in their class ranking. And if you don't count his dangerous power, his magic level is average. It isn't as if he has a large reserve to rely on. Nor is his core fully developed in any case. He is fourteen.

They are sending a fourteen year old to fight a dragon.

In the end, he learns the smokescreen jinx, the shield charm and the summoning charm. It isn't enough. Apparently the judges thought the summoning charm would be too easy of a solution and spelled the egg he was suppose to retrieve against it.

So Harry has to use a skill that has nothing to do with magic. He has to be fast. He never thought he would be thankful for his cousin. But Harry Hunting is the only reason Harry is as fast as he is. And it still isn't enough. He cast "Fumos" as soon as he enters and directs it over a large area. Once his "Accio" fails, he recasts his smokescreen jinx and goes running into it.

The dragon isn't happy. Not that Harry blames her. He isn't any happier than she is. But at least he isn't spitting flames at her. She is. He throws up a quick "Protego" to protect himself. It works, but only the bare minimum.

His shield charm is the only reason he runs out of the arena with second and third degree burns covering his side, instead of never leaving at all.

The first ones to reach his side are, of course, the twins, followed shortly by Luna and a man Harry doesn't know. He is too busy gritting his teeth in pain to be paying close attention. It's not as bad a being bit by a basilisk, but it is still high up there. Probably number two at this point. He can feel the blood running down his face and side.

And then the wizard points his wand at him and he feels nothing at all. He is unconscious.

He spends the next week in the Hospital Wing, enduring Madam Pomfrey's fussing and anger. Not at him, but at the people who let him compete. She spends her time muttering about 'incompetent fools' and 'meddling wizards' and 'crazy old coots'.

He is told that he will make a full recovery, but there may be some lingering nerve issues. At times, his skin may be too sensitive or it may not have much of any feeling at all. It can go either way with this type of injury. There is also some minimum scarring. Not much because magic is a wonderful thing, but some because dragon fire is nasty stuff. It is mainly on his torso, which bore the brunt of his burns.

He then finds out he scored the lowest, which doesn't surprise him. He is still in the tournament, which also doesn't surprise him. The egg is his next clue, which was fairly obvious. And he is the laughing stock of the whole school, which is so far from a surprise that he could scream. Or sick up. Nausea is a bit of a problem for him right now.

He dreams of fire consuming him. He wishes he had let it. He was one spell away from his wish. One spell. If he wouldn't have used that stupid charm, he wouldn't have to worry about any of this anymore. His mistake.

But life went on.

He spends his days in class, training, doing his homework and avoiding the student population as best as he can. He spends his nights dreaming of death, both old and new. His feeling of dread grows everyday. The numbness that he felt at the beginning of the year suffocates him. It had slowly started to go away, but when his name was called, it came back.

Now it chokes him. Nothing seems to matter anymore. Nothing is important. Why bother with anything? He is going to be dead by the end of the year. Why put in the effort? It will just go to waste. Focusing is hard. Getting out of bed is a challenge. He is always tired now.

Still he goes on.

Luna figures out the clue for him. Dobby steals gillyweed for him. He rescues George and Fleur's sister from the bottom of the lake. He had panicked when George was gone. It was last year all over again. But then he was used for the challenge. Whose bright idea was it to use real people for the challenge? Stupid.

He was worried because he couldn't swim. When would he have learned? Who would have taught him? But he didn't need to worry because apparently gillyweed took care of that. He also didn't need to worry about the people dying at the bottom of the lake if no one came for them. But how was he to know? People had died in this tournament before. And, frankly, he wouldn't be surprised if they really were in danger. This school does not have a good record when it comes to safety.

So life goes on. And then the third challenge comes and brings it all crashing down.

.

.

How much can one person take? How many hits? How many disappointments? How much crushed hope? How much can one person take before they break?

.

.

He and Cedric grab the Cup at the same time.

A stomach turning sensation.

"Kill the spare."

A flash of green light.

Tied to a tombstone, confused, scared and helpless.

A horrifying ritual.

A sharp pain from where the blood that was needed for said ritual was ripped open.

The rebirth of a monster.

.

.

You can only have so many near death encounters before you wish the person would get on with it. You are ready to die.

.

.

"Harry Potter," Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, hisses as he caresses Harry's cheek gently. Mockingly. He winces in pain. His head feels as if it is about to explode from the man's... monster's touch. Can one really be called a man anymore if one resembles a snake more than a human. He isn't going to lie. The absence of the nose is probably what horrifies him the most. Or maybe that is the most horrifying thing he can process out of this whole situation.

"We meet again. Tell me child, not so powerful now, are you?"

Harry doesn't say anything.

"Yes," Voldemort continues, "imagine my surprise when I first heard of you. Harry Potter, I had carried your name on my wrist since birth. Soulmate or enemy. And then I get word of a prophecy, one that foretells the source of my demise. Two boys, but one name. Yours. Does Fate really think you have the power to defeat me?" he asks derisively.

Harry shakes his head. No. He has to agree with the monster. He doesn't think he can defeat him. As he sees it, he survived with luck. Luck and his Mum. But his Mum is dead and he used all his good luck that night. Now all he has is bad.

"No indeed. You are a pathetic little worm. A worthless, insignificant thing. How you have managed to survive this long is beyond me. What a sorry excuse for an enemy."

So Voldemort assumes they are enemies, not soulmates. Well, Harry can understand that. He doesn't think Voldemort has much thought for love. Or anything positive at all actually. But is he right? Or is it just that, an assumption? Can they really be soulmates?

Not that he wants to be soulmates with a monster. But don't they match, in a way? Riddle has already said how alike they are. And they are both murderers. And their wands are brothers. Harry remembers when he first got his wand, how shocked he was. The brother wand to his was the one this Dark Lord he had just heard about owned.

And now it is just another similarity between them.

Can it be possible? He is decades older. He is cruel. He has no room for love. He is a monster. But what is Harry? A burden. A Freak. Bad blood. And, well it would be just his luck to have a soulmate that wanted to kill him.

But as he looks at Voldemort, he decides it doesn't matter. None of it. He doesn't want to know who his soulmate truly is because both hate him. Both wish him gone. Does it matter which one was destined to love him? Obviously Fate messed up.

"Time to die Harry Potter."

Finally.

"But first," he presses his wand into the Mark of the nameless man who helped Voldemort complete the ritual. The man hisses in pain, "let us see who of my faithful will return."

Pops are heard. Men and women appear out of thin air, looking wary. Ah, the wonders of magic. Too bad Harry is in no position to appreciate it.

"My faithful followers," Voldemort says and he acts as if he is putting on a performance. Maybe he is, "I have called you here today to tell you of my glorious return. But," he pauses, "I find myself disappointed that I need to tell you this." He shakes his head, "I have wandered as a spirit for years now. None have sought me out. None have helped me.

"After the abrupt end to my glorious reign, I find myself abandoned. After all I have done for you, none seek to return the favor. Not until recently have any searched for me. I had one faithful find me. And two faithful help me. But only they. No one else tried."

It is a good performance, Harry gives him that. The monster is obviously a talented speaker. Then again, how else would he have gotten followers to begin with? His looks? But then he sees a flash of Tom Riddle at sixteen and amends that thought. Charm and looks. Yes, that would draw them in. Too bad it is poison under the honey.

"My Lord, forgive us!" someone cries.

"I do not forgive the weak," he answers coldly, "Crucio," he says and the man screams in pain.

"But now," Voldemort says when he stops the spell, "now is the time for a new era to begin. I have captured my ultimate enemy. Soon there will be no one to stop me. The world will remember why it should fear me. Soon, the world will be mine once again."

Harry can't help the annoyance he feels. Oh stop talking and get on with it already. Really, does he ever shut up? Or does he makes grand speeches before every action? Impressive or not, he needs to learn to talk less, do more. Actions speak louder than words after all.

Then two more pops. "Ah, my faithful," Voldemort announces, "you are here. You shall be rewarded for your loyalty."

"Thank you my Lord," a familiar voice says.

"We are truly honored to be able to serve you," another says.

"Rise my faithful and watch as I end any threat to my rule."

And then they move int view. Professor Black. Professor Snape.

Harry feels as if the air has been sucked out of him. Yes, he never trusted Professor Black. Yes, he knew Professor Snape hated him. But this? They were on this monster's side all along? They helped him? How could they? Can't they see what he is? Or doesn't it matter to them?

He refuses to look at them. Not because he feels betrayed. No, to feel betrayed you have to have trust to begin with. He didn't. He doesn't look at them because he is so tired of it all. He wants it to be over with. He is ready.

He has been ready.

But then there is movement. A shield forms around him. And then the fighting begins. He watches in astonishment as his Professors take on the others, moving in sync with each other. His breath catches. It is amazing to watch. It is as if they are dancing, each one moving gracefully, always knowing where the other one is, where they will be next.

He has heard stories about soulmates dueling. How they are always aware of the other. How they can move around each other, always together. The true meaning of the word. They can be perfectly synchronized because they are made for each other.

He never thought it was true until now. It is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Vicious. Those are not Light spells that they are using. That any of them are using. Clearly they are out for blood. As he watches, a woman is decapitated. He should look away, but he doesn't. He can't. The sight holds him captive.

Voldemort seems to be having his own issues. He appears to be stuck, unable to move, unable to duel. Finally, he jerks free of whatever was holding him. But by then his Professors are ready for him. They are the only one left standing now. Just his Professors against the monster.

The spells come even faster now. It is quieter too. Nonverbal spells are being used. He doesn't know what they are, but he can tell they are nasty. The ground is torn up from them. Professor Black is bleeding heavily from the shoulder. It looks as if Professor Snape's leg is hurt. But still they duel on.

Voldemort isn't looking much better. He has a long cut on his left cheek. A bloody cut on his stomach. Dirt covers all of their skin. Robes are ripped and torn. Sweat drips from their faces.

And then Professor Black begins to chant as Professor Snape takes over the duel himself. He doesn't understand a word. At first it doesn't seem to have any effect. And then Voldemort starts screaming. He drops to his knees, clutching his chest in pain. That's when Professor Snape joins his partner in his chanting.

Harry feels a tugging in his head. In his scar. The tugging gets more and more painful as the chanting gets louder. Finally he can't take it anymore and screams. It hurts. It hurts so bad. Forget basilisk venom, this is the worse pain he has ever felt. All of the pain is in his head, but there is so much of it. He can't tell if he is still screaming or not. Nothing seems real anymore. Nothing but the pain.

He wishes his head would explode and be done with it. He is ready. He's been ready. So why does dying have to be so painful? What has he done that he deserves this? Is his blood that bad? Is he that much of a Freak? Why can't his last moments be pain free?

Why can't he have a peaceful death?

Finally the pain stops. Whether that is because it is done or his body just can't handle it anymore, he doesn't know. He doesn't care. He welcomes the dark as an old friend.

Finally.

.

.

They say each day is a gift and not a right. But when you no longer want that gift, it becomes as welcome as socks at a child's Christmas. That is to say, not at all.

.

.

When Harry wakes up and realizes he is in the Hospital Wing, he begins to sob. He can't help it. It is too much. It is just too much. Why? Why is he still here? Why isn't he dead yet? Why?!

A hand touches his head gently and he jerks away. Professor Black. "Shh child, it's alright. Are you in pain?"

Harry shakes his head, sobs still making his body tremble.

The hand is back, carding through his hair softly. "No," he manages.

He stops, "No what, Mr Potter?"

"I'm not suppose to be here."

"Oh? Where are you suppose to be?"

"Dead," he says before he sobs harder, making talking impossible.

"No child, you aren't suppose to be dead. You're safe now."

"Never safe."

"You're not? Ever?"

"Bad blood. Freak. Disappointment. No one cares. No one loves. Worthless," Harry tells him in between his crying, not making much sense. Repeating what he is to his Professor. Finally letting it out.

"You are a mess, aren't you?"

Harry nods in agreement.

"I suppose we have more to answer for than we realized."

He disagrees. It's not their fault he is like this. It is his. He is the one with something wrong with him. He is the Freak. He can't blame them for pointing it out when they see it. He has been defective since birth. Bad blood. Burden. Worthless. Freak.

Freak.

A pair of arms startle him as they wrap around him. He squirms, wanting to escape. No. Hugs are traps because no adult hugs him. They want to hurt him, not hug him. No one can care for him, like a normal person. He isn't. He isn't.

"Shh child. Relax. I am not going to hurt you," the hand is back in his hair, stroking it again, "Calm now. Calm, that's it. Good boy," he praises when Harry's crying decreases some.

Good boy? He has never been called a good boy before. He's always been called bad. Bad boy. But his Professor thinks he's a good boy. He must be lying. Or confused. But it feels so good and he can't help but lean into the touch. He knows he shouldn't. Knows it's wrong. But he can't help it.

He is just so tired of everything.

"Shh, that's it, that's right. Just go back to sleep now. That's a good boy. That's it. You're safe now. Go to sleep, it's fine. Shh." His Professor's lies send him to sleep.

When he wakes up again, he is numb. He already knows he is still alive. He knows he will still have to endure. He knows he will have to continue on. For now.

"Awake again baby Lord?"

"You know Harrykinns,"

"There are better ways to ensure your reign,"

"Than by getting kidnapped by the current Lord,"

"And ensuring his demise."

"That's what Snuffle Rudgins are for," Luna adds helpfully.

Harry slowly opens his eyes to see the twins and Luna sitting where Professor Black had been. He blinks at them, eyes adjusting to the light. There are dark circles under their eyes, despite their smiles. "You look tired," he croaks.

Fred hands him a cup of water. "We all can't get our beauty sleep like someone else,"

"Sleeping for two weeks straight. Although,"

"I'm sorry to say, but,"

"It didn't improve your looks any,"

"Certainly not your hair."

"That would probably take at least a month to fix,"

"More. At least up to six."

"And then you have your eyesight,"

They shake their heads. "Best not try it again,"

"With your looks, you could be asleep forever."

That doesn't sound like a bad thing, but he doesn't tell them that. They don't need to hear it. They wouldn't understand.

"Alright you three, you've seen him awake. Now out," Madam Pomfrey chases the three of them out, checks him over and goes back into her office.

Luna sneaks back in and sits down. "You aren't feeling very well, are you?"

"Why would you think that?" he asks, a bit sarcastically.

She tilts her head thoughtfully. "You've always had a Nargle problem, ever since I met you. But now you have a bad infestation of Three Eyed Jackalburs."

"Three Eyed Jackalburs?" That's a new one.

She nods. "Yes. They were bad my First year, but they got better. But now they are back. They just keep getting worse and worse as the time goes on. They need to be gotten rid of before they completely take over."

"Would that be bad?"

"Yes," she nods seriously, "very bad. The Jackalburs feed off of the will to live. Let them go too long and they will eat the life right out of the person."

Harry stares at her, slightly shocked. He knows how perceptive she is. How much she notices. But, somehow, he didn't think Luna would know about his death wish. Stupid. Of course she would. The surprising part is that she cares. He's only known her for a year. Why would she?

Luna nods as if he spoke out loud. "Yes, I can see that between the Nargles and the Jackalburs, you have a long road to recovery. Jackalburs can only be gotten rid of by other people, mostly. They stick too well to the person they feed off of for them to do it themselves. It can be painful, but with time and care it can be done."

And people think this girl is dumb and crazy. Amazing. Not that she helps with those opinions, but still.

She reaches over and kisses him on the forehead. "And don't worry. I'm an expert," she tells him as she leaves, walking away quietly.

He shakes his head. Well, that was oddly enlightening. But then again, that's how talking with Luna usually is. One tends to come away both confused and informed, if only the person knows what in the hell she is talking about. He's never found that part hard. So she talks in metaphors instead of plainly saying what she means. All that is needed is a little attention to figure it out.

Plus, he is half convinced she is at least part Seer. Can someone be part Seer? Or are they a whole Seer, just with varying levels of skill? Whatever it is, Harry is fairly sure Luna has something. More than Professor Trelawney in any case.

He sighs and absent mindedly traces the names on his wrists, something he hasn't done in a long time. Not since second year, when he learned the truth. He remembers before Hogwarts, how he was so excited to meet one of them. How he thought one of them would love him and take him away. What a long time ago that seems like. What a hopeless wish. Either his soulmate is a monster or the boy who hates him.

Does it matter? Did he ever had a chance? All he ever wanted was love, but it appears more and more as time goes on that he will never get it. That he doesn't deserve it.

Draco Malfoy

Tom Riddle

One is dead. The other is out of reach. Perhaps it is time to kill this hope, this dream, once and for all. He thought he had let go in the graveyard, but it is still there, hanging on by a thread. It is time to let it go completely. He is not worth it. He has never been worth it.

He wishes he would have died in the graveyard. Why did his Professors have to save him? They would have been doing him a favor, if they hadn't. Everything is too much and not enough at the same time. The numbness threatens to consumes him as the pain eats him alive.

He doesn't want to be here anymore.

.

.

How does one carry on, when one never expected to survive their teenage years?

.

.

When Harry is finally released from the Hospital Wing, he is summoned to the Headmaster's office. What does he want with Harry? Another speech about how he survived? Another souvenir like the basilisk fang? Another manipulation, like he did with Mr Malfoy? Because that was manipulation, pure and simple. He recognized that after the fact.

He doesn't want to go. The Headmaster has always unsettled him and he hates being in a room alone with him. Almost as much as he hates being in a room alone with his DADA Professors. They unsettle him at he same level. At least the Headmaster hasn't tried to kill him. Yet.

But when he arrives, he sees he will not be alone. Professors Black and Snape are already there. Great. He isn't sure which is worse. The strange thing is Professor Snape isn't sneering at him like always. Instead he is watching him, a speculative look on his face. That just scares Harry more.

"Hello Sirs," he greets softly, taking a seat in the only open chair available. Fawkes startles him by landing on his leg when he does. He strokes the phoenix's feathers and he croons in approval, rubbing against Harry's cheek. Well at least someone will protect him if things go wrong.

"Harry my boy," the Headmaster greets happily, "lemon drop?"

"No thank you Sir."

"Ah well, more for me than," he pops one into his mouth cheerfully, "I suppose you are curious about your latest adventure?"

Professor Snape snorts.

"Yes Sir," he says, only partially lying. The part that isn't numb is curious. The rest doesn't care.

"Well it appears we have had another slight mix up when it comes to Defense Professors."

Great, the DADA Professor is involved somehow. Just what he needs.

"It appears that Barty Crouch Jr, who was thought to have died in Azkaban was still alive. His Mother saved his life and his Father kept him under watch, for he was still a Death Eater. But then he escaped and managed to contact Lord Voldemort. He disguised himself as Professor Moody so he could gain access to Hogwarts and thus you. He is the one who entered your name in the Goblet of Fire. He also was able to make the Cup into a portkey, to take you to the graveyard."

Harry has a strange urge to shout 'I told you so', but doesn't. It wouldn't do any good.

"But what Crouch didn't know was that the entire time, Professors Snape and Black were working against him. They have been on the side of the Light all along, subtly sabotaging the Dark. They have been working for years to find a way to defeat him once and for all, ever since his first fall. And at the graveyard, they did just that. Voldemort is gone and he is never coming back," the Headmaster says, in obvious satisfaction.

"Of course that meant working with the enemy, making them believe they were still loyal Death Eaters themselves. For that to work, they had to act a certain way. They couldn't be seen helping the Boy-Who-Lived, no matter if he were Slytherin or not. It also meant helping Voldemort return before killing him. This was war and in war sacrifices must be made. For the Greater Good."

The Headmaster says that so firmly, so matter of fact, Harry wonders how he can stand it. That is his justification? For everything he has been through. For everything he has endured. It is alright because it is for the Greater Good. The ends justify the means. Who cares if one little boy suffers if they can save hundreds of lives. If they can stop the War before it begins again. He nods, understanding. He does not matter in the long run. It is just as he thought.

The Headmaster beams at him. "I am so glad you understand my boy."

Professor Snape snorts.

"You have something to add Severus?" he asks mildly.

"The boy does not understand. Potter is not a noble minded Gryffindor, no matter how much you wish he was. He is not thinking about your so called 'Greater Good'. No. He is a Slytherin. What he heard was that he does not matter. That no one cares. He heard you tell him he is a pawn in his own life and an unimportant one at that."

"Come now Severus, no need to be so cynical. I am sure Harry can understand why certain hardships must be endured. It is nothing personal."

"It never is," his Professor sneers bitterly.

"Now, now my boy. It is not the time to get into old history."

"Nor is it ever. You may play at Saintly Grandfather old man, but we all know that isn't true. Everyone is a chess piece in this little game of yours. Gryffindors at the top, Slytherins at the bottom and the Greater Good ruling over all of it. It does not matter if individuals are hurt as long as the board as a whole is still intact. Potter is just another victim in that long game of yours."

While the two wizards argue over what is obvious some very old and painful issues, Harry thinks about what he has been told. So his Professors were spies this entire time. That is why Professor Snape acted as if he hated him. That is why Professor Black never acknowledged him outside of their secret meetings. Honestly, it sounds like a load of rubbish to him. Professor Snape obviously hates him and used this as an excuse to bully him. And Professor Black...

Well, it is now clear why he helped him for so long. He found the Professor's price. Bait. He was obviously bait for Voldemort. And to be bait, he needed to be alive and in reasonably functioning condition. So he gave Harry some help every now and again to get him through the year. And then, when the time was right, he lured Voldemort in with him and killed him.

Or he assumed he killed him. He doesn't remember that part. Everything was a bit of a blur at that point. He remembers chanting and a terrible pain in his head, but nothing else. He obviously blacked out at that point.

But at least he now knows what his Professor wanted all along. He can stop looking over his shoulder now. It is done. The price has been paid. And his Professor will have no more reason to talk to him. He watches the argument unfold, wondering if he should interrupt. If he even can. Probably not.

But then Professor Black lays a hand on his partner's shoulder. Professor Snape closes his mouth with an audible snap, but stays silent. "I believe we should continue with this some other time," he raises an eyebrow at the Headmaster, looking very much like Professor Snape in that moment, "For now, shall we continue telling Mr Potter what occurred?"

"Of course my boy," the Headmaster answers and does he call everyone 'my boy'? What makes him think that is alright? "Well the spell used was a rather obscure one, which is why it took so long to find. It is also rather difficult, requiring quite a bit of power to complete it. It bound Voldemort together and then sent him into the ground below, dispersing his power."

"Why... why did my scar hurt?" he asks hesitantly, not sure of he is allowed to ask. Not sure of he wants to know.

"Ah yes, now that was a surprise. You gave us quite a scare. But it appears that on the night Voldemort attempted to kill you, he transferred some of his power to you when the curse backfired. The pain you felt was his power leaving you and binding itself to his newly formed body."

Harry stares at the man in shock. The Headmaster just announced that like he was announcing what he wanted for lunch. He just told Harry that he had some of Voldemort's power stuck inside of him without blinking. He shudders, feeling suddenly dirty. The need to wash is almost overwhelming. He had part of Voldemort's power inside his head.

He had part of Voldemort inside of him.

It all makes sudden sense now. No wonder he has this dangerous power. No wonder he has bad blood. No wonder he is a murderer. He had part of Voldemort living inside of him. He feels nauseous. This is the final proof he needs. Tom Riddle, Voldemort, was his soulmate. He is the soulmate to a monster.

He lets out a high whine, not being able to handle it. Not anymore. His breathing picks up. His heart is pounding too hard inside of his chest. He trembles. He curls in on himself. Absently, he recognizes that he is having another panic attack, but he can't stop it.

Fawkes rubs his head against Harry's crooning softly.

"What is it my boy?" the Headmaster asks, concerned.

But it is Professor Black who kneels down in front of him. "Shh, it's alright now. It's fine. He's gone now. He's dead. Listen to my voice. Just listen. Breathe in and out for me. In and out. In and out. In and out. Good boy," he praises as Harry obeys, his voice cutting through his panic, "Continue now. In and out. In and out."

Harry's breath eventually evens out, but he is still shaking. He can't stop.

"What is the matter?" he asks gently.

Unable to talk, he rips off the cloth and shows him his wrist. Tom Riddle.

His Professor looks at him for a few moments before understanding lights his eyes. "No child, this does not mean Riddle was your soulmate."

Harry shakes his head and shows him his other wrist. Draco Malfoy.

Professor Black sighs. "I can see why you would worry. It does appear to be a problem. But Harry, Tom Riddle is not your soulmate."

"Is too," he insists, needing them to understand. Just for once, they need to understand. "Voldemort put some of himself in me. I had a monster living in me. I have bad blood. I've always had bad blood. I am a murderer. I have a dangerous power. I can kill people with my touch. The Headmaster explained it when I killed Professor Quirrell. I killed him because I have this power in my blood. And now Voldemort put his power in me, so it is his power. And it's been in me for so long it turned me bad. I am dangerous. I am a Freak. I am the soulmate of a monster. Don't you see? I shouldn't be alive. I shouldn't," he stresses.

"I am not good. I'm not. You said I am a good boy. But I'm not. I've never been anything but a burden and a disappointment. Everyone always tells me I am. I'm never good enough. I'm not good at all. I'm a burden. A Freak. I should have died a long time ago. I shouldn't have been born. I'm not good. I'm bad. Why are you lying to me now? You got what you want? Voldemort is dead. There is no longer a reason to be nice to me. I paid your price.

"You don't have to lie anymore. I know what I am. I know I am never enough. I know I am not worth it. I don't deserve it. Worthless. You can stop now. Stop lying. Stop pretending. I know you don't care. No one does. No one can. Don't deserve it. Not worth it. Pathetic. Weak. Useless. Disappointment. Freak. Stop lying. Stop it!" He is breathing erratically again by the end of his speech.

"Albus," Professor Snape growls dangerously.

Harry shivers in fear. Not that anyone could be able to tell. He hasn't stopped shaking from his first panic attack. Fawkes trills comfortingly, but it doesn't really help. Not this time.

"I am not lying Harry."

"Yes you are. No one cares."

"No one at all? Not even your friends?"

"The twins..." he hesitates, "maybe, but I don't understand why. They have no reason to like me. I can't understand why they stick with me. They promised. Promised to spend the rest of their lives convincing me I am worth it. But I'm not. I'm not."

"And Miss Lovegood?"

"She can't be my friend yet. I've only known her for a year. That's not enough time for her to like me enough to be my friend."

His two Professors share a look. It doesn't seem like a very encouraging one to Harry. Professor Snape turns his death glare back onto the Headmaster. He is honestly surprised the wizard is still alive. Obviously he feels as if his look is all that is needed to get his point across because he doesn't say anything. Just glares.

"The Wizarding World has not done you any favors," Professor Black says, "but tell me, I assume from the state of your back that your so called family has not helped the matters."

That is enough to make Harry freeze. "What do you mean?"

"The scars-"

"Are nothing," Harry interrupts, "they're nothing."

"Don't tell me they are nothing child," Professor Snape turns his fierce glare onto him now, "I know exactly what those scars are and how they got there. I have enough of them on my own back to have intimate knowledge of the fact. So don't you dare lie about them to me."

Harry bows his head. "I'm not," he says, "they're nothing. I got them because I was bad."

"And how were you bad? Did you perhaps breathe too loudly? Or was it your mere existence? I assure you, I have heard both."

"I woke them up."

"You woke them up?"

He nods, rubbing the scar on his hand. "I scream when I have nightmares and wake my relatives up. Uncle Vernon wasn't happy about that."

"I see," Professor Snape says simply, but manages to put more into those two words than an entire book. "He is coming with us," he then declares.

"Now Severus, surely-" the Headmaster starts.

"No. Don't you dare Headmaster," Professor Snape says lowly. Dangerously. "I believe you have done enough."

"And you haven't?" the old wizard challenges.

The look on Professor Snape's face is murderous. Harry is convinced he is one word away from killing the Headmaster. Two words. The Killing Curse is two words. He is sure his Professor knows it. "I have always done my part," and it sounds more like a warning than anything. Now if only Harry knew what it meant.

He is escorted out of the office in between the two Professors. Fawkes calls out a goodbye from the chair where he had been sitting.

.

.

What lies beyond the breaking point? What happens when all the pieces are scattered? Sink or swim. To dream or not to dream. Isn't that always the question?