Thank you so much, all of you - Aaron Leach, Anka7995, , WolfReinMoon, Shadowsmage, Shoveler, amata0221, Arawn D. Draven, Le Diablo Blanc2, Perpetual Dreaming, shugokage, Firehedgehog, Separ, Srutokirti, DancingintheRayne, Junky, Shellzbells24, Ahsilaa, Mikler22, Caine 1st Vampire, Lord Mortensen, loki0191, Aquajacks, Penny is wise, Sol, OoOXylionOoO, SemenDemon, EoP, Zeromaru Chaos Mode, three guests, Echa, Zofirah and Lutcy.

DISCLAIMER : I own nothing, as always. Except the plot, of course.

Words count: 7608

This is the un-betaed version. I found a new beta, so I'll re-upload it as soon as it's ready!

Harry inhaled deeply. "Forever.. is a very, very long time, Renesmee. Too much of time kills you."

Renesmee seemed like she was about to cry. But Harry couldn't do anything to assure her this time. It felt like it was out of his range. But she smiled softly. "I'll be young forever, Harry. I won't marry someone normal or have kids. I'll stay forever a teenager, forever a kid in everyone's eyes. It just feels.. empty."

"You're not a kid," Harry said without thinking. "You're never a kid, not from the very first time I saw you."

Renesmee turned to meet his eyes. Her small smile turned wider, and the happiness that was lacking found its way back to her chocolate eyes. Harry watched silently, knowing that deep down inside, he did not like how things were either.

Chapter 14 – Death's Call

"Run!"

The sound of laughter rattled in her ears. It was loud, and musical, too lovely to belong to a grown man. That particular sound rose above from the rows of chuckles that the nearby adults produced. Still, she could certainly differentiate the chuckle of her mother, dripping with warmth and affection.

"Run, Renesmee!" Emmet shouted again. She only giggled. He might be big, but he wasn't the fastest runner in the family.

"Run, Nessie, run!" This time Jacob's voice joined in, causing Emmet to laugh harder, though it didn't confound his acceleration.

She turned, grinning so widely that her cheeks hurt, to see Emmet and Jacob competing with each other to reach her first. She laughed mischievously as she leapt the large lake that could be passed by one leap only by Edward, Rosalie and herself.

"Run, Renesmee—RUN!"

The horror in her mother's voice was impossible to be misheard. In one second, the glee that complied her vanished, replaced by a dragging pit that seemed to weigh heavier than the earth. She was pulled down, through the black, freezing water where even her eyes found hard to see through. Despite her ability to survive without oxygen, she was kicking the water viciously. Her lungs hurt terribly as it felt like all of the air was being sucked like a vacuum. The ocean got darker, but the voices in her head still pounded, all screaming for her to run.

"PLEASE-RUN—"

The sound of footsteps tapping the wooden floor jerked her awake. It was like being electrocuted; she stared at the ceiling, eyes wide, breathing heavily. Both of her hands were grasping the sheet tightly, which was now torn under the pressure of her sweaty fingers. Her lungs, even though didn't hurt, felt curiously strange as she forced herself to breathe.

"Renesmee?"

Harry's voice was the first reminder of reality in that morning. It was a good escape, and she took the chance as fast as it was served. No matter what that bizarre dream meant, she did not want to think about it. "A second," She said, loud enough for him to hear.

She shut her eyelids for a while, gaining her calmness back.

"I just want to tell you that I'm going to the Ministry," Harry's voice called. "It'll possibly take a long time, so you'll be here alone all day. Or I can take you the town."

Renesmee glanced at the sun-shaped clock on the maroon wall; the only clock that had numbers in this house. The feeble piece of carved wood was pointing at eight. Her eyes turned to the sketches lying miserably on the floor. "The town it is. I'll take a minute to get ready."

Harry sighed, his footsteps indicating that he was already walking away from the door. "I'll wait for fifteen minutes. No more than that."

"Hey," Renesmee called back, slightly offended. "I'm the girl that can get dressed under three minutes!"

Harry's laughter answered her call.

The young man had been more cheerful for the last few days. It might be after their visit to the graveyard, she wasn't quite sure. He wasn't as talkative, or even as energetic, but at least smile visited his face once more, now more frequent than before. Still, she wasn't satisfied with it. She wanted to see the same carefree, bright glint in his eyes when he flew. The wonder in his eyes, the joy in his lips, all of which had died after things went to a darker turn.

Approximately after two minutes thirty three seconds, she already wore her clothes that were nothing more but a white shirt with a big 'PUDDLEMERE UNITED' written on it with a black tint, accompanied by a worn-out jeans that she bought from an old lady near the Knockturn Alley. It was hideous, but she liked it. It didn't stop Harry from reacting aggressively, circling his wand all over it for minutes until he was finally sure that the simple piece of clothes wasn't jinxed.

"You've got a weird taste, you know that?" Harry made a face at the sight of her clothing. "I thought you're the fashionable one around here, but look at you."

"This is gorgeous," Renesmee pressed. "Don't you dare lecture me about clothing, Harry."

Harry raised his hands up. He was smiling. It was a really small smile, just a small upturn of the corners of his lips. But the mirth dancing in his eyes was a very good indication that he meant it.

Involuntarily, her lips surrendered to imitate his smile.

As laidback as he appeared to be, Harry spent no wasted time, taking her to the Diagon Alley with a quick Apparation and as soon as she was in, he tapped her shoulders and disappeared, leaving her in the sea of humans. She would like to nag for it, she would, but she didn't think these people would not mind if she nagged about their savior.

She strode through the crowd without touching a person; a trivial skill that she secretly took pride in, despite this ability being possessed by any other vampire. Still, it was convenient, as she managed to get into a small, plain shop at the end of Diagon Alley, the one that had a glittering banner with 'PAINTING PANTIC' on it.

Despite its exterior, the shop's interior was similar with the others in Diagon Alley. It had a long room that was the shape of a rectangle rather than a square. The shop had numerous levels, which were all included together in one huge, spacious ward, like the stairs in Hogwarts. From her point of view, she could inspect countless dusty boxes stored in the rows of shelves that looked identical from the bottom to the ceiling. Of course, it wasn't as boring as she would describe. The walls were covered with paintings, all of them moving and prattling quickly; it made the shop feel oddly throng in spite of the lack of customers in it. In this broad room, there was only her and an old man writing on a paint-splattered desk, too absorbed with his work to even notice her presence.

"Good morning," She greeted him cheerfully.

The man turned very slowly to see her, grunted, and looked back to his work.

After having experienced shopping with Diagon Alley's shop owners, Renesmee wasn't entirely taken aback by his response. She meandered around, looking for anything that remotely resembled painting equipment. "I'm looking for paints. And palette. Brushes and canvas would be nice too."

Really, it had been a long time since she actually painted. She rarely drew when she entered high school, though after meeting Harry, she did draw a lot in their adventures. But there was not a picture that she was satisfied of. They were all meaningless scribbles, dead spirit spluttered in the form of graphite on a feeble, thin paper that Harry could provide. All of them looked haunting for her, as if they had been denied the opportunity to live. They lacked life. They lacked colors.

The old man, which she suspected to be Mr. Pantic—since most of Diagon Alley's shops were named after their owner, looked up again. He seemed very sleepy—or bored, she couldn't determine—as he put on his half spectacles before his eyes, hands shaking a little. "Gray paint or light paint?"

Renesmee arched her eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

The man eyed Renesmee for a moment, before coming to the conclusion that she was not familiar with Wizarding arts. "Light paint is what we use to draw these living portraits. It is light, it is bright. It takes art into another level, way beyond those Muggle artists. Gray paint is what they use. It's lifeless. It's gray."

Renesmee's eyes sparkled to life. "You can create a talking portrait by using light paints?"

"Yes, though the subject that intends to be drawn has to undergone specific magical print spell to make it act like the subject, provided by a licensed Wizarding artists."

"Oh," Renesmee said, disappointment heavy in her voice. "I'll take the gray one then."

It turned out that such a tedious place had exceptional amount of variations; the paints that could be completely erased, the palettes that refilled themselves, absorbing the paints from the shelves that the man had stored, even brushes that refused to paint certain colors. Though the latter was the most interesting, she couldn't find the logic to purchase that, so she left the shop after thanking the idle man, giving one last glance to a worn-out brush in a small container that seemed to be disappointed that she left without buying it. She sighed as she walked away, her steps unwavering despite the imbalance that the huge paper bag of painting equipment should've caused.

It was a little quaint, perhaps, that Renesmee couldn't decide what to do for the day after so many places and events that she had taken part in. Or it might be the whole reason itself; she was used to following Harry around in his little adventures that it felt a bit off when he told her to look around by herself.

Renesmee cheered up a little when her eyes caught the rows of clothing shops that looked very inviting. The first time she visited Diagon Alley was during the preparation of Hermione's surprise wedding, so she didn't look around to shop for herself. And as the opportunity presented itself, she grabbed it within a second. Cheerfully, she rummaged the piles of enchanting, exotic clothes from Giselle Fontaine's boutique (who did not particularly mind the mess she had made, again) to the small clothing shop called 'Twillfit and Tatting's' that seemed to close soon. After hours of frustrating the owners with her countless, trivial questions, she finally left the last shop with multiple bags which the last owner, a round kind-faced lady with a gloomy long robe, benevolently casted a feather-light spells on. Renesmee did not necessarily need it, but the kindness was what she favored.

The sun was blazing hotly, even by her vampire standards. It did not make the crowd falter, though. The Diagon Alley was still as packed as can be, and Renesmee felt like she could not go on simply because of the oppressiveness. She found her escape in the form of a decent restaurant right in front of George's shop. She thought about visiting George, but decided against it the moment she slumped down at a soft silky sofa with a plate of spaghetti in front of her. It was a good decision; the spaghetti was one of the best that she had tasted. Despite having eaten numerous kinds of cuisines with Harry, Renesmee could definitely say that the meal was one of the best in a really long time. The taste, as well as the smell, was exquisite and in no way appalling. Renesmee frowned at the empty plate in front of her.

When did she start to like spaghetti anyway?

By the time she decided to leave, the owner shouted her a loud thank you with enthusiasm that could light up the whole Diagon Alley. She was shocked by it, and she managed to respond politely, kindly though not as eagerly. The stares that she received because of this were uncomfortable, but she had taken a mental note to come back again, just for the spaghetti and the owner that appeared to be very nice and vivacious. The room wasn't bad either; it appeared a tad somber, with little sunlight that only peeked from the rows of small windows from the front shop. There were candles floating—which she found both fascinating and terrifying—not enough to actually light up the room, but enough to make it look beautiful. The front door was garnished with a hanging ribbon that carried tiny children's figures with bells under each one. They jingled in a high ringing tone as she pulled the doorknob.

And then she was back again amidst the horde of people. Humans moved quickly for their standards, all meandering and buzzing like a pack of bees. It was impossible to miss the joy, the hype that these families are engulfed in.

"—told you, Sunniva, we should've gone to Madam Malkin's first! Now we're going to be late—"

The little girl whined. "But Mum, the owl would be taken by someone else by then!"

"It's one ugly owl, who in Merlin's name would take that as a familiar is beyond me—"

"Father!" A voice of a teenage boy rang from the furthest part of Diagon Alley. "Can I go to Hogsmeade, please?"

"As long as you promise to degnome our garden tomorrow, then yes."

"What?" The boy sounded enraged. "I did it yesterday! It's her turn now!"

"—is made from Dragon's hide, Peruvian Vipertooth to be exact. It's getting very rare these days, took them months to gain it—"

The woman next to her gasped in wonder. "This is gorgeous, my dear. I should reconsider to change my wand holster myself. This one is mere leather, you see."

"So can I go, Father? Can I, can I?"

"The owl is beautiful! Its wings are so big and bloody wicked!"

"Language, little girl!"

Renesmee was recalled to her surroundings, blinking a few times. There was an unexplainable sadness that reached her at the moment, just by being aware of the crowd's racket. There were many humans in the cobbled place; from the elitist Purebloods, the bunch of obnoxious teenagers, whining children even to the people that wore shabby-looking coat with too much holes to actually protect against the cold. All of them, even the impoverished ones, looked very content with their day. And then there was Renesmee, who was standing still at her spot.

How could she feel so alone in such a crowd?

Renesmee shook her head. She was being high-strung, she was. There were a lot of pictures she could paint if she went home; a lot of activities that she could do in order to fill this colorless day.

Right as she was about to move from her spot, she heard a small sob.

It was small, fragile, and most likely would not be heard by anyone who did not possess super-hearing. The sob was strained and low, yet it called for her in the midst of the sea of voices. It emerged from the center of the crowd, from a small blonde boy that looked no more than seven.

"Hey," Renesmee approached. She still got some Chocolate Frogs that she bought at the restaurant's special stall. It was too surreal for her to eat it, so she could give the boy all of it if he wanted.

The boy's wide eyes looked up, and he looked even more terrified at the sight of her.

"Why are you crying?" She queried softly. "Are you lost?"

The boy didn't answer. He was too busy sobbing, his body shaking harder at her question.

"You want me to find your daddy?"

"Dad's gone," The boy hiccuped. Normally, she couldn't understand the affection for children. They appeared to be a nasty, spoiled creature that would wreck anything to gain what they want. Yet now, she squatted down, eye-to-eye to the boy who let his emotions out on a stranger. "And now Mum's gonna leave me too."

The boy's father had passed away. Renesmee felt a knot on her stomach. She held the boy harder, though soft enough not to make her wince.

"'s alright, it's alright," Renesmee shushed. Her hands circled him, embracing him tightly. He didn't seem to mind. The blonde boy's tiny little arms hugged her back hesitantly.

"I'll find her for you," Renesmee whispered. "How does she look like?"

The boy sputtered, clearly flabbergasted. "I—I don't know. I can't describe it—"

Renesmee squeezed his tiny little hand. "What is her hair color?"

"Red," The boy pondered, momentarily forgetting his distress. "Red. Or orange. You know, like sunset."

"Her clothes? Is she wearing a dress or—"

"Um, blue robes. Like the sky."

"The sky," Renesmee noted, smiling. "We'll find her. Don't worry too much, alright?"

It didn't take a long time to find the little boy's mother. She was rather easy to spot on; a tall woman with a bushy flaming red hair that she let down her plain blue robes. The freckles on her pale face were excessive, but the smile that lit her face turned Renesmee's attention elsewhere.

"Tony!" She cried in relief, running through the crowd, ignoring the 'Ouch!' or 'Hey!' that died down as the reunion between the mother and her son took place. Few people peered, some with fondness, some rolling their eyes, before going through each own ways. Renesmee simply stood there, watching the pure joy in the little kid's eyes, whose name she had just found out.

The boy's tears didn't stop streaming, but this time, for the right reason. She wanted to watch the heartwarming scene longer, but she couldn't help the shame that crept on her upon disregarding their privacy. She sent one last smile to Tony, which he had missed, before quickly spinning around to leave the stertorous spot.

"W-wait up!"

Tony struggled through the adults, ignoring her mother's questioning look. Renesmee turned around, watching him with a surprised, yet pleasant smile on her face.

"Thank you," Tony told her with earnest gratitude. There were still hints of tears and snots by the sound of his voice, but he sounded like a child should be. "My Dad said I've gotta always thank people when they're doing something nice."

"That's quite alright," Renesmee returned as happily.

Tony watched her talking with odd curiosity that ignited his face. His eyes slowly rounded, sparkling, like he was seeing his favorite toy for the first time.

"You're so pretty."

Her laugh earned her a few curious looks, but she didn't particularly care. "Thank you."

"You're pretty," The boy grinned this time, showing her a row of pearly teeth. "I want to marry a girl like you!"

Renesmee giggled even further. How could a small boy be so amusing, yet adorable at the same time? Tony's smile turned into a small, prissy pout.

"But mum said we all grow up.. so we never be in the same age.."

At Tony's words, her eyes fell to her lap. It jabbed, but she didn't let it show him. "I don't grow up."

The astonishment on his face was pure. Perfect. "You don't?"

"Yeah," A soft smile spread on her face as she looked up. "Like Peter Pan."

The eyes of the child widened even more. "Peter Pan?"

"Yeah. A girl Peter Pan."

Then, a smile. A wide grin that made him look like the child he was. "That's so cool!"

Renesmee grinned. "I suppose so."

And Tony left after he hugged her goodbye, running freely under the heat of the sun, to his mother's arms. Renesmee exchanged smiles with his mother, whose eyes shone in gratefulness. She mouthed a small thank you, barely above a whisper, but she could hear her perfectly. She watched from where she stood, watching the joyful boy who was walking by his mother's side—to their warm, comfortable home.

She felt hot tears threatening to fall from her eyes. She wiped it with her sleeve. What did she cry for, really?

Renesmee went home after that. The house was empty, of course. She threw all of her bags to the bed, rummaging one sack until she found the brushes and the paints. Her fingers danced, moving the brush that seemed to have magic in itself. In half an hour, her first painting in the last few years was finally done.

It was the painting of an exuberant boy with a grin too big for his small face. Renesmee stared at it for a long time, before carefully placing it on the bed, along with the piles of clothes of various kinds and colors that suddenly didn't seem that appealing anymore. Renesmee sat on a small stool. She stole one glance to the painting again.

Renesmee's brush hit the canvas, and she didn't look at the first painting anymore.

"Mr. Potter."

Harry swirled at his spot. The voice that spoke to him held the authority that caused his body to involuntarily tense up. He faced the dark man that stared at him with piercing black eyes, although there was a little hint of smile on his lips.

"Minister," Harry greeted back.

Kingsley Shacklebolt finally showed a welcoming grin. He shook Harry's hand firmly, his long navy blue-robes moving swiftly as he did so. Without another word, he led Harry down through a white, plain corridor. The two walked quickly, as if there had been a real emergency, gaining curious stares from people nearby.

"Did you get it?" Harry asked, his voice strained.

"The potions used to heal you at Halu'iowa are all unidentified," Kingsley grunted, clearly displeased with the news. "Based on a world level, of course. Whoever healed you could not possibly be a wizard from this century. Even the essences of the ingredients thought to be extinct were found in your body, namely Starozenalis and Pordenbush. I honestly do not know whether to be glad or worried that you were saved by such wonderment."

Harry swallowed. "About Rawlins Paxton?"

"We've gained several occurrence that can be linked with that, but none exactly explains—"

An impatient snort escaped Harry's mouth. "Can't it be done faster—"

"I've changed the course of the entire research division to find the right information for you, Mr. Potter, which, pardon my bluntness, shouldn't be considered as a priority for the Ministry," Kingsley drawled. "Please be patient, Harry. We're getting close, but any reckless acts can cost you your buttocks."

Harry bowed his head shamefully. "I'm sorry."

"You've been very anxious, I know," Kingsley paused momentarily. "I can see it, Harry, your discomfort and anxiety. I can see how urgent this matter is. We're doing everything we can. You might not be the Head Aurror anymore, but you're the Savior."

Harry rolled his eyes, smiling weakly. Kingsley grinned. "It's just a good cover, of course. I'm getting fond of you, kid."

The two intimidating-looking men strode down the hallway. Harry rushed right behind Kingsley, following him through numerous turns and identical corridors, which he would probably not be able to memorize it if he was never trained to do so. Soon, they reached a huge double door with silver "E.H.T." carved neatly on the middle.

Head Healer Hemmington rose from his seat as Kingsley and Harry entered the room. Despite the secretive look that the door had, the room was nothing but a small office with paperwork that seemed too much to fit in the drawers.

"Harry," Hemmington said. There were more lines on his face. "How do you feel?"

"Horrible," Harry conceded. "How am I supposed to feel?"

"I wouldn't blame you if you faint from distress," Hemmington shook his head. "I'm being serious. You shouldn't think too much about this. The examination will go through your head. Any emotional unbalance can alter the final result."

"I can put up Occlumency. I'm not too keen on it, but I can do it."

Hemmington eyed him speculatively. "Are you sure? You're not particularly gifted in Occlumency, Harry."

"You mean I'm rubbish, yeah," Harry muttered. "I can do it. I've gained focus after these two years. I'm different with the freshman who can't keep his mind focused anymore."

"Yes, yes. I don't mean to underestimate your skills," The sandy-haired man tapped his foot impatiently. "If you're confident, then we can begin."

With one smooth wave, the wall behind the desk altered, splitting into two ragged sides which disappeared at the end of two identical windows. It was like revealing the Fidelius charm, in the way the walls moved. Neither Hemmington nor Kingsley flashed a gesture, but Harry followed when they entered the gaping hole that led them into a tremendous room. The room was mostly white, with very little amount of objects occupying it. The only significant object was what looked like an altar. There were also four people there, all of them dressed in white, waiting for their arrival. They turned, interrupted from their small talk, and stared at Harry with wide eyes.

Harry raised his eyebrows, but he didn't object. As he lied down on the cold stone, half-naked and wandless, he closed his eyes in an attempt to clear his mind. The dread that was hanging on his throat had to disappear, at least for this one moment. But before he could succeed, Hemmington spoke again, "Are you sure with this, Harry?"

Hemmington's eyes were piercing, testing his determination. But his decision was as hard as steel, and Harry stared back, eyes blazing, to prove that he was absolutely ready to undergo whatever Hemmington had planned for him. Meanwhile, Kingsley licked his dry lips, his eyes darting from Hemmington and Harry in worry.

Suddenly, a tune rang in the silent ward.

"I'm sorry," The dark man muttered his apology, his face a little flushed.

Harry stared at the black flip phone on the Minister's hand. "A gift from Hermione?"

Kingsley gave him a quick nod, before turning his attention to the speaker on the line. "What is it, Heatherwings?"

Kingsley switched into a fast, fluent Russian. The phone call was not a simple call; whatever Kingsley was hearing, it put him to distress that caused him to raise his voice in the silent room, all of its occupants listening to his inapprehensible speech. Then, the dark man ended it with one hard flip.

"Didn't know you speak Russian," Harry commented.

Kingsley turned to look at him. The pit on his stomach dragged down. He swallowed the rising jitters hard, but subtle enough to appear normal. Kingsley, on the other hand, showed no effort to hide his complication. "They found a blocking in your mind."

"A blocking?" Harry repeated calmly.

"Some sort of a glitch, if I must be so bland," Kingsley said. "This glitch turned off your unconsciousness, causing your magic to go beyond control. Still, how you managed to gain that level of power in span of few months is still debated. Heatherwings speculated that you somehow gain a very high level of magic that is too much for your brain to control that it shut down. You quite possibly stumbled upon an old artifact that can pump your magic out. He fears that your display of power isn't a display of your increasing magic. You are squeezing your magic out, wasting it until it possibly disappears."

Harry stared. He wanted to believe what Kingsley just said, but even his brain agreed with his guts this time. "He didn't mention anything about possession?"

Kingsley shook his head, grim. "Harry, there has been no possession that can suddenly escalates one's magic. It's purely done inside one's head. This.."

"—might be an entirely different case," Harry objected. "Remember what I told you about the Hallows?"

Kingsley's eyes widened. "Harry, you can't possibly—"

"Hemmington," Harry snapped. His chest rose as he gritted his teeth in frustration. "We can start now."

Kingsley and Hemmington exchanged looks. Kingsley looked skeptical, but Hemmington's face was blank when he conjured walls that framed the altar, blocking Harry's view but the plain white ceilings. Harry felt liquid leaking into the altar, and he forced himself to be patient with the very low increasing of the liquid level. The liquid was like water, but a bit bluish, like a memory in a Pensieve. Soon, he was drowned in it, with the cold liquid moving against his skin that gave him an urge to leap away. But he stayed, and tried to breathe normally through a Bubble-Head charm.

Then, he could feel his own body going numb. He activated his Occlumency; the only part that he had control over at the moment. The scent of alcohol suddenly invaded Harry's nose, and it was harder to concentrate. He gritted his teeth, closing his eyes, organizing his own hackwire of a mind as the sickeningly sweet scent slipped into his opened mouth.

His mind became relaxed, as if he was going into a deep slumber..

'Master.'

His eyes snapped open. His head became very heavy, like he had missed days of sleep.

'Speak to me.'

Harry opened his mouth, but no sounds came out.

Who are you?

This time, the voice was stronger, bolder. It echoed in his ears, directly into his head. 'Your most faithful servant.'

Harry gritted his teeth, alarmed. He attempted to move his body, but he couldn't. For a split second, he didn't remember that he was immobilized, and when he did, he was downright terrified.

My most faithful servant, you say?

'The only one,' The voice agreed, this time with a hint of pride in it. 'Born to serve the mankind, yet existed to serve you.'

Harry never felt so much fear in his life.

There was such a vital difference between facing Voldemort and this. He fought the old snake with head held up high, with determination in his eyes and the supports of his companion as the source of it. But he was now alone, trapped in the dark abyss, suffocated with unreasonable fear that he himself could not understand. His deepest instinct was trembling, commanding him to run when he was unable to.

'Do not fear me, Master.'

He didn't feel anything apart from dread and regret. He couldn't even remember why he agreed to this. He felt his consciousness spinning, and it was very hard to stay awake even if this level of fear should have him awaken and alarmed at all times.

'I am here to be your weapon,' The voice uttered smoothly. 'Your shield. You have no reason to fear me. Let me in, and I shall be the key to your true victory.'

Harry stilled. He concentrated on his Occlumency. Soon, Hemmington would cancel the spell and—

'I have been with you for a very long time,' The voice whispered, as if hurt by his repulsion. 'I have been there even if you did not realize. I understand your deepest dread and desires. I understand your hurt, your loss, your self-loathing that had consumed you in your loneliness. Who, Master, could possibly be a better companion than I, who understand your darkest, your most tainted?'

The heaviness on his head disappeared, along with his negative thoughts. It was like his mind was being swiped clean like a whiteboard. Then, the words that the voice had uttered filled the board with very slow pace, lingering with every emotion that Harry had buried in the span of those two years.

No one had understood what he really felt in the two years. No one had ever truly known how loneliness, horror, guilt can combine so perfectly to shape one's mind. No one could see his justification, his reasons for shutting the world away. Even the closest to him blamed him for closing himself, right?

Not even the closest to him understood the burden that the Prophecy had given him. How hard it was to breathe every single night remembering every part that he messed up, every part that had caused deaths. How hard it was to forget the loneliness in his childhood, when after the war, he was all alone. Verily alone.

Would it be wrong to welcome the one true soul that accepted the way he truly was?

'Let me in, Master.'

All it would take was his word. He knew the word. It was already on his lips.

"HARRY POTTER!"

He was jerked away. In one second, his vision shifted from the absolute darkness into a blinding white light. He could feel the control over his body, along with the feeling of the ground under his feet. Blinking, he maintained his standing position until his eyes adapted with the sudden brightness.

He didn't realize he was breathing heavily. But he did, and at the sight of his surroundings, his breath was caught in his throat.

The altar and the walls around it had shattered into small debris across the room. The floor was soaked with oleaginous water that reached the front door, which one side was destroyed. Its occupants, the original six people in the room, were all pointing their wands at him. One long-haired man had a bleeding leg and stumbled as he tried to walk closer, his wand shaking a little. On his side, Hemmington stood, blood slowly trailing down his face.

"Harry?" Kingsley called, warily taking a step closer.

Harry nodded jerkily, his eyes downcast. "I'm here."

Hemmington breathed a sigh of relief. As blood trailed down his right cheek, he gave Harry a small smile. "Good."

Rain fell again that night. Harry turned up the collar of his coat as he walked quickly across the road. He was exhausted, and couldn't wait for anything to get some sleep. There was no lasting effect on his body—just some bruised knuckles, which are nothing compared to what he had caused in that room. After many apologies to Hemmington and Kingsley, as well as the other four who eyed him in half interest and half fear, the three men moved to Hemmington's quarters to discuss the result and the possibilities. The Head Healer and the Minister engaged in a mouthful, long debate about what had occurred. They were stubborn to their own arguments, while Harry stayed quiet, watching the exchange.

That was how Harry ended up in his own doorstep, effete, with raindrops wetting down his shirt. His damn wand refused to even cast a simple waterproof spell, and while it should be worrying him, Harry found that he currently was too tired to care.

"I'm home," Harry called as the door sprung open. There was no answer.

Should he be worried? Harry pondered for a moment. It might seem as an overreaction for someone else, but Harry felt something was off when Renesmee was not at the drawing room, greeting at him cheerfully. Even at her worst moments, she would call back, telling him that she was there and was currently not talking to him.

As his body protested for his inconsistency, he finally decided to go straight to his room. But as he passed Renesmee's door, he couldn't help but to knock. There was no answer, and when the door was opened, there was no one there; only a ridiculous amount of sketches all over the floor and the bed.

"Renesmee?" Harry called again as he turned downstairs. "Accio watch!"

He looked at his left hand in exasperation. Where the bloody hell is that wretched watch when you need it?

Then the watch came darting, right into his hands. Renesmee is in this house. The little worry that he had earlier slowly increased as he disapparated to the the third floor, arriving at Regulus Black's bedroom. It was the one room that Harry chose not to tamper with when he arrived here, as a personal display of gratitude for what the man had done.

"Ren—RENESMEE!"

He hurried inside. The bronze-haired girl was sitting limply on the floor, her eyes wide and traumatized. In front of her, there was a tall, dark figure with long swarthy robes that swayed the dusty floor. It was very still, and was only focused on Renesmee despite Harry's earlier shout. On where the face was supposed to be, there was nothing but ashes, floating in the air, as if trapped by the nigrescent robes.

He leapt towards Renesmee, catching her in his arms. She gasped in a mixture of surprise and horror, but there was no time to reassure her. Harry gripped his wand tightly, concentrating on everything he had gotten to cast this one spell..

The creature incarnated. It became a floating, hooded figure with scabbing and rotting hands. Its dreadful mouth parted slowly, and Harry suddenly understood what was going on. He muttered the spell on his head, and the wand gave nothing but silence. He clutched his wand very tightly.

"RIDIKKULUS!"

Harry felt an involuntary twitch from his wand, and the Boggart ended in a puff of smoke.

Renesmee coughed heavily, clasping Harry's wet shirt with a force that tore it. Her hands were shaking and wet with cold sweat. The room was deathly quiet, and Harry didn't even dare to breathe, afraid that he might break her with one wrong budge.

Slowly, she let out a strangled sob. Harry closed his eyes, putting his arms around her tightly. He let his face touch her sweet smelling hair. "It's alright. It's alright."

Her fingers clawed his back, and Harry tightened his arms around her. "It was just a Boggart. I'm sorry. I didn't expect one to move here."

Renesmee was still too distraught to answer. Tears fell down her face, and Harry couldn't deny the constriction on his chest. Harry stayed still, offering a simple company like what she did for him. She was depending on him desperately, as if clinging to a lifeline, and all he could really do was to be there. She had seen his breakdown; his fears and his self-loathing. Now, it was his turn. Harry was here, and he refused to move an inch.

It might be hours when Renesmee's sob finally faded. Harry helped her up, carrying her down to her bedroom. When she lied on the bed, Harry still didn't move. He sat slowly next to her. Renesmee's eyes were opened, staring at the ceiling.

"It's a Boggart," Harry explained kindly. "It takes the form of what one fears the most."

Renesmee nodded, closing her eyes. "I figured."

"You want to talk about it?"

Renesmee slowly turned to see him. Her eyes were still red. "I didn't know I feared it that much until it appeared in front of my eyes. I just couldn't.. move."

"What was it?" Harry inquired.

Renesmee looked away. For a moment, Harry pondered if he had asked the wrong question. But she turned to look at him again.

"Death," Renesmee whispered. "I mean, I don't know how Death actually looks like, or even if Death has a form. It's just.. what I've been imagining him of since I was a kid."

"You don't have to fear Death," Harry replied softly. "Everyone comes to an end. It's going to end either way."

"You don't understand," Renesmee's voice rose, her eyes shining with tears. "You don't get it. You're going to be fine. What about me? What about people like me, who live for a very, very long time? What if there's no afterlife for us? What if we just.. cease to exist?"

"The same question can go for me," Harry retaliated quietly. "And for everyone. It's what the world has been questioning for a very long time."

"You?" Renesmee eyed him with utter disbelief. "You'll get there, Harry. Meeting your parents. I can't see you anywhere else."

"I can't see you anywhere else either."

"Please, just drop this," Renesmee begged. But Harry couldn't do it. People had always thought that it would be better if they gave him time to sort it out himself. In the end, all it did was to shove him further into the blackness. He refused to let the same thing happen to her.

"No, listen," Harry insisted, holding her face in his hands. Their faces were very close. "What happens later, after all this? No one knows. People just move on with their life and try to enjoy it to the fullest. In life, they find the answers to those questions. The answers differ. That's okay. In the end, we find happiness in living."

Their eyes met, green to brown.

"We all want the same thing, don't we?" Harry said. "Call it love, call it peace. You don't have to be human to taste what happiness feels like."

Their foreheads met. Tears still streamed down her face, and Harry smiled a little as he brushed one lone tear off. Renesmee smiled too, and suddenly all of his fatigue disappeared, evaporated in his warm insides. His eyes laid on her rosy, slightly moisturized lips.

All of the sudden the ground shook. It started off small, light, and both Harry and Renesmee looked around in alarm. It lasted only one second, and then it was quiet again. But in the interval of six seconds, the ground shook again, harder this time.

"What is going on?" Renesmee asked, confusion and fear combined in her voice.

Harry's footsteps boomed against the wooden floor as Harry rushed to the window in Renesmee's room. He wiped the dew on the window, and the moment his eyes caught the scenery of the outside, he froze. Renesmee went panicked.

"What is it, Harry? What is it—"

Her gasp interrupted her own question as she saw what he had seen. Down there, in front of the entrance of Grimmauld Place 12, were ten people dressed as regular muggles. Two of them only watched, whispering together in a rather intimate position. Three were arguing about something that Harry couldn't clarify, but it seemed so heated that one of them—the black-haired—seemed to about to rip one of his companions' head. The other five, were on the entrance, running against the door, the building, the windows, all with the might of a speeding truck—

The house shook again. The light bulb on Renesmee's ceiling fell down to the floor, shattering with a small sound compared with the incoming jolt.

"How could they find the house?" She hissed in frustration. Harry had no answers to that.

"This way," Harry told her.

Harry raked his brain as he walked. He casted spells as he walked for their defense, but the only response he could get was one sparks that created nothing but eye-catching colors. The wand on his hand—which had been his partner for so many years—refused to budge.

What the bloody hell?

He couldn't deal with this frustration now, not when his only remaining legacy of his godfather was about to be invaded. He shouted the spell again and again, nothing came out; this time not even a spark responded to his call.

"REDUCTO! DURO! EXPELLIARMUS! BOMBARDA!"

The wand on his hand was cold, lifeless. He could not feel the warmth anymore.

"Lumos," Harry whispered desperately.

Renesmee looked at him with pity that Harry wanted to brush off that moment. He didn't understand. The wand belonged to him; it always had been, and there should be no reason for it to completely defy him. Even the wands that he forcefully took from Malfoy worked better than this.

His holy, Phoenix's feather-cored wand had done the highest form of betrayal to its master. Harry was suddenly visited by savage anger. He had the urge to snap the wand into two. That was when a memory struck him. A small voice deigned to query, referring to Ollivander's letter.

Who betrayed who, exactly?

"Harry," Renesmee approached warily. "It's no use."

"Then what do you reckon we should do?" Harry shot at her. The quake was now almost repetitive. He was surprised that the house wasn't broken down yet.

Renesmee didn't seem like she wanted to say it. "The motorcycle's upstairs, isn't it?"

Harry's stomach tightened. "You can't seriously expect me to leave this house to their mercy."

Debris started to fall from above their heads, and Renesmee caught one of them before it hit their heads. She gave him a pleading, helpless look. "There's nothing more to do."

The front door, which was only a few feet away from them, twitched slightly.

Harry didn't answer. He couldn't bring himself to say it. He held out a hand; a gesture which Renesmee had been too familiar with. She took it with no hesitation, and they reached the highest floor in no time. Harry immediately disclosed the heavy cloth that covered Sirius' motorcycle. Renesmee leapt, clinging to one of the block on the ceilings, destroying the roof with impressive blows, sending debris all over the place.

Both of them could hear the booming sound of the front door being blown away.

There was now a gaping hole on the roof, through which they can see the sky, Renesmee jumped down. Harry was already on motorcycle, wearing a helmet which he thought he would never use. Renesmee sprung into the seat.

Harry's blood ran even colder as a thought hit him. "The backpack—!"

"Got it right here!" Renesmee showed him the Gryffindor colored sack. He didn't know how or when she could get it, but there it was, lying innocently on her lap. Renesmee continued, "Now off, Harry!"

Sirius' motorcycle roared very loudly. If somehow those vampires couldn't hear their hammering heartbeats before, they surely had given themselves away. Just as the motorcycle began to float and rotated so it can leap off to the bright sky, one of the vampires showed up at the door.

It happened very vast. They were close to the ceiling, but Harry's right leg was clung on by the vampire. He could hear the crack, and Renesmee's cries amidst the uproar. The motorcycle spun and Renesmee sent a piercing blow to his face as she held on the motorcycle's silver handle. It was enough to buy Harry time to roll the gas down to its maximum speed. In one split moment, Harry realized that the wand on his pocket was gone.

They jolted upwards, leaving Sirius' last real legacy, enraged roars slowly fading from their ears as the motorcycle flew higher to the open sky.

Alright, you all can have my head.

Joking, of course. No, siriusly, I owe you guys an apology. So here it is, from the deepest part of my heart: I'm very, very sorry! There's a story behind this; I got the inspiration, worked for it, ended the chapter a week ago. Almost about to post it, when I gave it to my (best) friend for a quick read, who do it occasionally. He told me it was my worst chapter ever written, so I waited a few days. I re-read it, and indeed, it was absurd, mushy and down-right flame-worthy.

So here's the chapter. It's probably still flame-worthy for some of the readers, but hey, I feel satisfied with this one. So go with the flames, I'll welcome it here.

IMPORTANT NOTE: I think my readers should be notified that I have a new beta (yay!). Which means that, it will take even longer to upload the chapter. I take my time to write, and she takes her time to edit. There are two options:

1. I write the chapter and send it to my beta, wait until she's done and then upload the chapter. UPSIDE: Better writing quality. DOWNSIDE: Longer time to update

2. I write the chapter, post it THEN send it to my beta. So when she's done, I'll re-upload her work. UPSIDE: faster update. DOWNSIDE: Normal writing quality.

You decide! Please state it in your reviews.

Oh, and seriously, do I annoy people with my call-out at the beginning of the chapter? Please notify me if I do!

I probably don't deserve this, but please review. Hate the chapter? Get it off your mind and write it down. Love it? Why, I'm flattered. Tell me then! Just remember, if you intend to send flames, please tell me the reasons.

Love it, hate it, couldn't care less, let me know!