With an impatient flick of his cloak, Ron Weasley stomped to his office.
He was beyond annoyed.
The Aurors had fire-called him at three in the morning for what they claimed was an "emergency." And since Ron was known as a skilled Auror, his presence was required. But Ron didn't care. The Aurors were known to exaggerate the smallest cases. He honestly doubted that this "emergency" was more important than his sleep.
Running an hand through his flaming red hair, he marched into the office of the Head Auror, Gawain Robards. He slammed the door open and grimaced at the man.
"This better be important," Ron demanded. He didn't care that he looked unpresentable with his disheveled hair and squinted eyes. He just wanted to finish and go back to sleep.
"Ah, Mr. Weasley," Robards nodded. He resumed shuffling through his parchments until he found what he wanted. Standing up, he walked past his desk, parchment in his hand, "You remember our little fiasco in Hepzibah Smith's house, don't you? I dispatched three Aurors to the home after the neighbors complained that they heard blasts and discussion inside what was a fairly desolate home."
He lifted his head and met Ron's eyes with a pointed look.
"Yeah, I remember, you sent them to their deaths," Ron stated irritably, his sleep deprived state shortening his temper, "Sir." He added.
He ignored the glare from his boss.
But Robards did not tolerate disrespect.
"What I did was simply the best of two evils," he affirmed curtly, "You must understand my position. I couldn't simply ignore any suspicious behavior, especially in such a small village. People in small villages tend to know each other and can easily spot when something is out of ordinary. I had to respond," but Robards sighed wearily, "But that is beside the matter. I did not call you in here tonight to defend my position."
But Ron narrowed his eyes. He wondered why the Head Auror looked so agitated. The usually composed Head Auror looked fairly disheveled. Setting the parchment down, Robards turned towards the door and beckoned Ron to accompany him.
The two walked silently through desolate corridors, their footsteps echoing across the Ministry. Weary eyes peered at them from behind portraits. Torches caused shadows to dance across their robes. The Ministry was fairly empty. The only people that lingered, in Ron's opinion, were the people that either needed to find mates or return to their parents where they would actually have a life.
No sane person would work at this time of an hour.
It was only when they entered the lift did Ron realize that Robards was leading him to the Courtrooms.
Tucking his hands in pocket, he asked casually. "What's this about, then? Why are we going to the Courtrooms?"
Robards waved his hand.
"Not the Courtrooms. No. We're going to the Ministry Detention Area," he resumed shuffling through his parchments, "You remember the three Aurors I sent to the home?" Ron nodded, "Stephen Carter, Harper Narsfish, Bimini Bane. Of course, as an Auror yourself, you should know that every Auror keeps a Vivald stone in their pockets to alert their peers if they are dead or not. That way, the lives of the other Aurors can be spared if the battle is too difficult. Well, when I checked their conditions, I was perhaps misinformed that all three Aurors were dead. The Vivald stone had shone green, which indicates death for all three Aurors. But I never believed that the stone could be the subject of deception. Not until Harper Narsfish returned today–relatively unharmed–with only a few bruises and broken bones."
Ron jerked his head up.
"That can't be possible," Ron whispered. They stopped before they entered the Detention Area. Ron turned to lean against a Gargoyle.
"No! It's a trick!" Ron exclaimed. "We found their bodies, remember? We gave them an hour before we went in. We even told their families! They buried them right near their homes. No. I don't believe it," Ron stated firmly, "Not to be rude or anything, but did you even check the authenticity of this claim? What if they're a Death Eater in disguise?"
Robards looked irritated by the outburst.
"I don't think it's necessary to elaborate on how I came to this conclusion. To exercise caution is basic Auror protocol. I certainly do not need you, Mr. Weasley, to question my place in this case," Ron glared, "And if you have any more doubts about this claim, let me enlighten you."
Robards held open the door leading into the prison and regarded Ron with a mutual glare. Ron stepped into the corridor, Robards trailing ahead of him. As soon as they entered, however, several prisoners startled. With feverish cries, they started to clutch the bars, begging the men to release them.
The prisons did not only consist of only men. There were several women and children as well.
Since Harry Potter's disappearance, a sense of paranoia had filled the Ministry. They started chucking anyone who breathed in prison without evidence. They justified this fact by claiming that they were saving the majority by crippling the minority.
No one was allowed to question the Ministry.
Unable to meet the eyes of the prisoners, Ron kept his gaze forward. He didn't agree at all with the Ministry. He didn't know how many of these people were real criminals or how many were innocent. They were only suspects for now until they appeared before the Courts.
Robards brought him to the end of the hall. Ron could feel several wards were placed around this particular cell. The magic hummed and vibrated. Ron recognized it as the type of magic that was placed around the cells of Death Eaters.
"When Harper Narsfish returned," Robards began, "she had company. She claimed that she had identified the source of the blasts within the home of Hepizbah Smith. Mr. Weasley," Robards sighed, shifting his gaze to the man in the cell, "You are looking at Rodolphus Lestrange, Bellatrix Black's husband. You remember him, don't you? He escaped Askaban shortly before Harry Potter's disappearance."
"Only a fool would forget my name," interjected the man lying on the floor.
To Ron's irritation, the man sounded amused. He peeked open an eye to look at the reactions of the Aurors. The fact that the man did not appear intimidated or resentful to be placed in prison unnerved Ron. He had a bad feeling that the man had intentionally imprisoned himself.
Ron struggled to control his tone.
"Only a fool would land themselves in prison twice," he shook his head, "Lost your touch, have you? What happened? The Master not offering up his blessings?"
But Lestange regarded him with a bored look.
"Your blatant efforts to persuade me is pitiful," with a mad cackle, the man sat up and smirked, "But look what we have here, gentlemen. A slight shift in positions. Here I am. A genteel who wishes nothing more than to cleanse himself from the ghastly sins that he has committed over the years, and the supposed light side accusing him of deceit. Surely every man is worthy of redemption."
"Maybe a man," Ron snapped. He didn't want to play around. "Not to someone who condones the killing and torturing of both wizards and Muggles alike. You're hardly a man," he spat, stepping forward with a rash desire to rip the man apart. But Robards held him back, "You're a monster."
But the man's sinister smile widened. "Come, now. Do you really believe that?"
Lestrange tossed his head back and cackled. He then stood up and stepped dangerously close to the bars of the cell. Ron instinctively stepped back and drew his wand from his pocket.
"I know who you are," he whispered. "Ron Weasley, youngest son of blood-traitors," Ron stiffened. "An Auror now, I see. An excellent one, I presume. Quite skilled in the field. How does it feel to have your name finally recognized now that you aren't cowering behind the shadow of the famous Harry Potter?"
In swift motion, Ron pointed his wand at the man's head. He was breathing heavily, and he was slowly losing composure as Lestrange addressed his worst fears.
He didn't how the man knew of his past insecurities. He had never told anyone about them. None except Hermione. But the man was using them against him.
He had spent most of his time brooding and resenting Harry for his fame, his wealth, and even personality. The times that he had wasted wallowing in his own sorrows could have been used, perhaps, to cherish those fleeting moments with his friend. Perhaps even know Harry better. Although they had been friends for five years, both Ron and Hermione had many questions about Harry. In Hogwarts, they had spent most of their time together worried about studying, having a laugh or two, or on an adventure. They hardly had time for a real discussion.
"Ah," Lestrange's eyes flashed. He looked at the wand with amusement, "But perhaps we are delving into private matters. Rest assured, Mr. Weasley, that your secret is safe with me."
Ron scoffed.
"As if I'd believe that."
Lestrange waved his hand and turned his back on the men.
"I am a repented man," he muttered, pacing frantically. "I did not come here tonight to boast. Rather, I stand before you eager to receive punishment for my past actions."
Abruptly, his mood shifted. His deranged laughter echoed across the prisons, which caused the pleas of the prisoners to halt.
"But no matter my intentions," he continued, "the so-called light will continue to accuse me of depravity. You claim to be fighting for the good. But are you really? Tell me, Mr. Weasley, how many lives have been sacrificed on the basis of the greater good?"
"With or without your Master's involvement?" Ron snapped. He refused to be swayed by this demented man.
Lestrange merely chortled.
"Avoiding the question, I see," he tutted, "Not a very bright lot, you Aurors are. But let me indulge you in the fact of the matter then, shall I? Whatever man contributes to life, whether moral or immoral, contributes immensely to the growth of mankind. Take the subject of killing as an example. If murderers didn't exist, would there ever be someone to save? Or perhaps let's consider the subject of greed. If men didn't insist on clinging to their wealth, would charity to the disadvantaged ever exist? Imagine a world where crime or, what you call, immorality didn't exist. Then man, too, would cease to exist. We are the only species in the world that are defined by our ability to distinguish morality. Immorality is countered only by morality and vice-versa. If one of them didn't exist, the other would cease to exist as well. This is what complicates humans. Without this balance, we would cease to be humans.
"As you have probably intuited," he continued, "the frail titles that you justify your actions with is flawed. There is no saint or corrupter. There is no right or wrong. There is no good or bad. Whatever man does is simply good. Whatever man does, whether moral or immoral, benefits all of mankind because without evil, goodness would cease to exist," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "Do you understand now, Ron Weasley? We are all born capable of committing the best of deeds as well as the most wicked of acts. But whatever we choose simply cements the balance between good and evil. Imagine this . . . If Lord Voldemort didn't exist, then Harry Potter, too, would cease to exist."
Lestrange guffawed.
But Ron turned to the Head Auror. He tilted his head towards the cell, silently begging the man if he could start interrogating with his fists. But Robards shook his head.
"What are you saying?" Ron asked slowly, "That Harry still exists to counteract Voldemort?" He didn't understand. Did Harry join Voldemort or not?
Lestrange locked eyes with Ron.
"Harry Potter is dead."
Ron flinched.
"What?" he breathed in disbelief.
At Ron's stricken expression, Lestrange beamed. "How unfortunate it is how quick his spirit weakened. I must admit, he was a rather challenging shell to crack. Loyalty and determination was all that kept him alive in desperate times," Ron stiffened, "Days passed excruciatingly slow as time and time again, he lay bleeding and trembling after prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. Starving and bitter in his cell, he began to feel abandoned. There was no one there to save him. Not even the 'greatest wizard of all time.'
"But the Dark Lord was merciful," he continued, "he sensed resentment and betrayal in the boy and offered him protection under his care. Despite his gaunt appearance, the boy possessed exceptional strength and talent. How unfortunate it is that his blood is tainted by that of his filthy Mudblood mother. A fine pure-blood he could have been. Swift, cunning, resourceful. Traits befitting a Death Eater. But his rebellious nature unsettled the Dark Lord. Never has anyone been so gallant as to challenge the Dark Lord."
But Ron stood there, stunned.
Was it true? While the Wizarding World had denounced his name, Harry had laid there suffering under Lord Voldemort's "care" for ten years. Ron irresistibly recalled all of the blissful times he had spent with his family, his wife and his children. They had only mourned for Harry for about a year before they had abandoned all hope. They resumed their lives in blissful ignorance while Harry had endured hell from the Death Eaters.
An inexplicable feeling of guilt and self-loathing crossed Ron. Harry had never hesitated nor did had he ever accepted defeat when a loved one was in danger. He would always go against all odds to rescue a loved one, even if he had to sacrifice his own life to accomplish it. But the rare times when Harry, himself, needed saving, there was no there for him. Perhaps that reason alone had fueled his bitterness towards his friends.
Ron blinked away the sting of vexation that appeared in his eyes. He would not let the Death Eater get the better of him. After all, there was a slim chance that Lestrange was lying.
Lestrange smirked.
"Perhaps you believe I am concealing the truth, which you might be correct in assuming," Ron clenched his fists, frustrated, "But the Dark Lord does not shy from the truth. The Boy-Who-Lived–the friend, the savior–is no more. Harry Potter, as you know him, is dead. What remains is simply the ashes of his former self."
Lestrange's deranged laughter echoed across the dungeons.
Despite his reckless desire to hurt the man, Ron restrained himself. Lestrange, after all, had been truthful since the information that he was giving was not as pivotal as they expected. Regardless if he had concealed the truth or revealed it, they could not change what happened. They could not re-write history. Yet again, Harry had suffered and his bitterness had led him to contentious paths. After all, ten years with Lord Voldemort was enough to break anyone's spirit. They couldn't change what happened.
The Aurors had allowed Lestrange to ramble and ramble with the hope that he would slip some vital information. But Lestrange was clever. He simply stated the facts without delving into too many details. He had not told them where exactly Harry was, or where the prisons were located, or how Voldemort had even caught Harry in the first place. Rather, he was tactful and meticulous in what he revealed."
Ron clutched the bars of the cell desperately.
"Harry would never turn his back on us, no matter what happens to him. He's been through hard times before, but he's never betrayed us," he said, as if convincing himself of Harry's loyalty, "How exactly did you convince him?" He hissed.
He was done testing the waters, which is what he was taught to do as an Auror. To approach the suspect attentively. To include subtle hints or key words that fueled their emotions. To ask vague or general questions without including specific details. But ironically, that was exactly what Lestrange was doing and Ron was ignoring.
Robards, who had been silently watching the exchange, gripped Ron's fore-arm.
"Ron–" he warned.
Ron jerked his arm roughly and continued glaring at the smug man.
"Where is he?" he bellowed, his frustration growing.
The man hummed, looking at the ceiling with detached interest. Ron slammed the bars with his fists. Deep inside, he knew that Lestrange would not betray his master. What killed him was the fact that Lestrange was expressing more loyalty to Lord Voldemort than Ron had ever shown to Harry.
Lestrange then sat up and studied Ron in interest.
"Why is it that you show loyalty towards a changed man?" Ron looked bewildered, "Why do you mourn for a soul that has forgotten you, that has possibly abandoned you? A soul that would not hesitate to send you and your family writhing to their deaths?" Ron clenched the bars. "Go. Return to your families. Cherish those moments that you have left with them. For when the Dark Lord returns, he will not hesitate to eliminate every man, woman, or child who stands in his way," he smirked, "And no one will be there to challenge him. Not even the famous Harry Potter."
When Ron had floo-ed back home, he did not go back to sleep. Instead, he simply drew the curtains back from the windows and stood there, staring blankly at the outdoors. The sun peeked out from above the horizon, eliciting a soft glow of light into the hushed cabin. He knew that Hermione would be waking up in half an hour to check on Hugo as well as prepare the breakfast.
But Ron could not convince himself to greet her.
Truth be told, he felt like an utter failure at the moment.
It was obvious that Harry would suffer greatly by Voldemort. After all, he had outright defied him over five times. That reason alone had fueled the search to find him. But after the third year of Harry's disappearance, starting somewhere around Ron's first year in Auror training, the rumors of the Aurors had started.
They had stated that they had found an individual that looked remarkably like Harry that worked for Lord Voldemort. These news appeared in the Daily Prophet. But most people had dismissed these claims as rumors.
But overtime, these rumors had strengthened. Explicit descriptions of this individual had began to shed light on these rumors. Influenced by these rumors, Ron and the others had discontinued the search after realizing that the effort was fruitless. Not to mention, Harry's disappearance had deeply affected their emotional states. The fact that Harry was working for Voldemort had perhaps convinced them that Harry had not suffered at all. They had assumed that he had been granted protection by his so-called Master. They had resumed their own lives.
How foolish they had been.
Ron blinked back the sting in his eyes.
He propped open the window, desperate for a change in air. If only they had continued their search, perhaps Harry would remain loyal to the light. How severe had his suffering been to completely change his mind?
But that didn't make sense. In a way, Harry had always suffered. He had never known what a normal life was. He had never felt the security and affection of parents. He never slept a night without Voldemort's thoughts and emotions filling his head.
Ron had known Harry for five years, and all five years, he had to meet Harry in the hospital wing for some reckless thing that his friend had done. He was always close to death. He constantly had to deal with his loved ones dying, be it his godfather, his parents, or even his friends. Though, at rare times, he revealed his resentment, he was never vindictive or bitter. Even after Sirius Black's death, Harry simply distanced himself rather than express a desire to hurt others.
With a heavy heart, Ron realized that it wasn't worth crying over spilled milk. As Lestrange had stated ever-so sagaciously, it was fruitless to mourn over the state of his friend. Despite the reason behind his actions, Harry, with a sane mind, had chosen his path. He had chosen Voldemort. Every person was responsible for their choices and actions in life. And Harry wasn't any different.
Perhaps Ron could go on and make excuses for his former friend, but to what extent? Until Harry outright pointed a wand at him and sent him to his death?
Not a chance.
"Ron?"
Ron jolted and turned to point his wand at the owner of the voice. But he sighed in relief at the sight of Hermione. A night robe was drawn over her dressing gown and her bushy brown hair was tied in a disheveled bun as she peered at him with bemusement.
"Hermione," he breathed, a weak smile crossing his features, "Are you trying to give me a heart failure?"
"Sorry," she whispered. She gave him a studious look before she moved towards the sofa, "I couldn't sleep. I heard Robard fire-call you, and I was worried. I thought something bad had happened at the Office."
Ron shook his head. He sighed, tossed himself on the sofa beside her, and placed an arm behind his head.
"They called me in for an interrogation," he admitted, not remotely concerned about giving away information.
The Aurors had warned him that they were not permitted to discuss any cases with strangers or loved ones. But Ron always ignored their warnings in respect to Hermione.
"When do they not?" she smiled fondly.
Despite his dreary mood, Ron grinned. He was getting quite the reputation with his interrogation skills. But his smile faded as he recalled the subject of the interrogation.
"Actually, this time is different," he said, fidgeting slightly. He moved to place his elbows on his knees, "You remember the Death Eaters that escaped Askaban, right? At the end of our Fifth Year?"
Hermione frowned.
"Yes . . .?" she said slowly.
"Well, one of them was caught tonight."
Hermione frowned.
The four Death Eaters that had escaped Askaban were among the highest rank of Death Eaters. They were known for their strength and intelligence. The fact that one of them had landed themselves back in prison was a startling revelation.
"Which one?" she inquired.
"Rodolphous Lestrange."
Ron then proceeded to inform her of all that had happened throughout the night. He told her about the appearance of Harper Narsfish, the capture of Rodolphous Lestrange, and the information provided about their former friend. By the time he was finished, Hermione's eyes glistened with tears.
"But Harry . . ." she choked with emotions, "Harry would never . . ."
"I know," Ron said quietly.
"How could he possibly think we've abandoned him?" Hermione cried indignantly, "We've searched and searched for him. But there was no signs, no hints," she paused to collect her breath, "He's given access to the outside, hasn't he? And he knows where the Burrow is. Why hasn't he found us there? We could help him!"
But Ron hesitated in replying. He knew his response would break her heart.
"Hermione," he said quietly, looking down at his own hands, "I don't think he wants anything to do with us."
As he expected, Hermione trembled with emotion. Feeling guilty, he drew her against his chest. She had never given up hope in Harry. Before, Ron had misinterpreted her unwavering loyalty to Harry as something that bordered on romantic feelings.
He had been startled when she had accepted his proposal. The feeling that she had accepted his proposal simply because he was replacing Harry had nagged him for months afterwards. But finally, she had finally confronted him and banished these irrational fears.
Her friendship with Harry was, as it was, friendship. The fact that their relationship was perhaps misinterpreted was because of Harry himself. Harry, with his reckless nature and his rather unfortunate circumstances, indirectly demanded attention perhaps more than others. He needed someone to keep him in place. To critique him. To stand beside him. To comfort him. Someone to fill in the roles that he lacked in life. And Hermione had been that person.
She would always be loyal to him.
Delicately, with years of practice aiding him, Albus landed inside in the dreary dungeons and looked around.
After Darcey Weatherborn had awakened, her friends and fellow classmates had greeted her affectionately with rather expensive gifts from their parents and themselves in an effort to cheer up. Albus, too, had furtively Apparated to Honeydukes to buy her an entire box of sweets. He had left it beside her feet without a name. To his amusement, as a Ravenclaw, she had deduced that the present was from him and had thanked him.
To his surprise, she had recovered quickly and had even started laughing along with her friends after a week in the hospital wing. Albus had approached her on wary feet and asked her if she would offer her memory of how she had met Harry.
Although he had trusted her story, she was only human. She could miss or ignore, what seemed like irrelevant, details. Hesitation had crossed her. But when she recalled the gift that he had given her, she agreed.
Albus stood in a rather dark dungeon trying to deduce where exactly the place was. He had never seen the inside of this building before. In fact, he didn't even know what this building even was. He couldn't travel outside the dungeons to check where he was. After all, he was limited only by Darcey's memories.
There was no light at all in the dungeon. There were no windows. He looked around and found dozens of cells lined up against two sides of the wall.
The cells were not connected but spread out evenly. Spider webs crawled along the ceilings. Mold and hanging moss aligned the walls. The prisoners clawed on the bars and walls in an attempt to escape. Faint screams and pleas reached Albus's ears, but he could not identify the source because of how spread out the cells were. His heart clenched as he wondered how many of these prisoners were still alive today.
But there was a hoarse breath coming from behind him. As he glanced behind him, a sinking feeling crossed him. He identified the source. Several Dementors were lingering beside the cells of the prisoners. They were feeding off their grief and melancholy. With a heavy heart, Albus bowed his head, closed his eyes, and muttered a prayer to the prisoners.
He opened his eyes when he heard a heart-wrenching sob from one of the cells. This one was different than the others. It was more hysterical. Screams and sobs came from this cell. Hesitating, Albus slowly walked towards the cell and peered in.
What he found tore his heart.
It was Darcey Weatherborn.
Albus forced himself not to look away. Over the years, he had seen much pain and suffering. Had even experienced a taste of it himself. But the sight of a fourteen year old clutching her bleeding arm and screaming at the top of her lungs was enough to make grown men weep. Her cries vibrated across the dungeons as she tried to staunch the blood that was descending fast from her wand arm. It was clear that the Death Eaters had left her there to bleed to death.
Feeling tears of sympathy sting his eyes, Albus looked up when a door creaked open. Soft footsteps echoed across the dungeons.
A hooded individual approached the cell. He was dressed in black robes with a black cloak strapped across his shoulders. He was tall and thin. His movements were hesitant, as if he was unsure if he should approach the girl. He lurked near the cell door for a moment before he finally decided to enter the cell. Albus noticed that he was wandless as he unlocked the cell with a spell. As he entered, a familiar set of green eyes looked up from behind his hood.
It was Harry.
But it was not the Harry that Albus remembered. Albus had forgotten that, as his friends aged, so had Harry. He was taller now, almost as tall as Albus himself. Gone was the scrawny frame that they had always associated with him. He was still thin, but in a relatively healthy way. His posture, too, had changed. He stood with confidence, albeit with a hint of uncertainty as well. However, he was paler than before, his skin a stark contrast against his dark clothing. And contrary to the rumors, his eyes had not changed to red. They were still green. They were still Lily's eyes. But while Lily's eyes had once sparked with spirit, hope, and determination, Harry's eyes were dim.
"Are you all right?" Harry whispered, his voice deeper than Albus remembered.
Suddenly, he shook his head as if berating himself for the question. He warily approached the girl whose sobs renewed as Harry neared her.
"I won't hurt you," he stated gently, lowering his hood.
But Albus blinked in confusion. For a moment, as Harry had revealed himself, he thought he saw James Potter standing there in the flesh. Harry had never realized how eerily he looked like his father. James had almost been the same age as Harry when he died. Thus, their similarities were even more apparent as Harry grew older. But while Harry had inherited his father's appearance, as he endeavored to sooth the girl, Albus smiled at the thought that he had also inherited Lily's gentle heart.
But Harry stood, studying the girl for a second before he started to fumble with something around his neck. To Albus's surprise, Harry had a pouch that hung around his neck that seemed to contain various items. He approached the boy – or the young man – and looked down at the contents of the pouch. He was stunned by the amount of potions, books, and various items that Albus couldn't quite distinguish for Harry quickly tucked the pouch behind his robes. He then knelt on one knee beside the girl.
"Here, drink this," he said, holding out a vial of Calming Draught to the girl.
Through heavy sobs, Darcey appraised his honesty for a moment. Hesitantly, she reached out with her trembling good hand and gulped it down. Her panicked state had ignored caution. A normal person would have questioned whether the vial was poisonous. Finally, her sobs mitigated.
It was clear that she was still in pain.
But Harry thoughtfully tried to distract her from her pain.
"What's your name?" he asked quietly.
Albus watched in admiration as Harry poured Essence of Dittany over her smaller wounds. The girl, too, seemed to relax when she realized that he wasn't going to hurt her.
"Darcey," she whispered.
Harry cleared the dried blood wandlessly and non-verbally. But Albus was startled. Harry had grown quite skilled over the years.
But how had he learned all this? And who had taught him?
Or had he taught himself?
"Well, Darcey," he raised an eyebrow expectedly. Albus noticed that his eyes darkened before he neutralized his expression, "Care to tell me why this happened?" He gestured towards her arm.
Albus had a feeling that he already knew the answer.
She wiped stray tears from her eyes and whispered.
"I'm Muggle-born."
She bit her lip and looked away. Albus remembered her telling him that she had feared that Harry, too, would hurt her. But Harry was distracted. He seemed to brush aside her comment and instead focused on trying to heal her arm. Alarmed, Darcey then looked back at Harry.
"Y-you're not upset?" she stumbled. But her question had successfully drawn his attention back to the girl. He looked startled by the question.
Albus smiled.
Harry frowned. "Of course not," he said, waving his hand, "Why would I be?"
"Well," she bit her lip timidly, hesitant to upset him, "A-aren't you one of them?" But Harry shook his head, a dark expression crossing his features.
"My mother was Muggle-born," he admitted, his tone bitter and his jaw clenched. Albus, however, was surprised by his reaction.
Not only had Harry remained loyal to his parents, but he had also denied the fact that he was one of the Death Eaters. He looked so genuine, too. Albus could hardly believe it. Harry was not a murderer. His voice was too gentle. His actions too kind. Just the pouch he had wrapped around his neck was proof of that. Harry had stored various potions and tools that would help those in need. Ten years and nothing had changed in his former student. He kept his good heart.
But why did he turn his back and kill innocents? His actions didn't make sense. Something was wrong with the boy – no, the man! – kneeling there.
Something was terribly wrong.
"Was?" the girl inquired, sniffing.
Harry gave her with a regretful look.
"They killed my parents," he said with a heavy sigh. Before she could reply, he clutched her shoulder, "You're bleeding quite a bit. I've got to staunch the blood. I won't lie to you, it's going to hurt a bit. D'you think you can sit still for me?" she looked alarmed, but he added hastily, "You don't have to look. Just lower your eyes, alright?"
Hesitantly, she nodded. Then, she buried her face in her arm. Meanwhile, Harry concentrated intensely on the spell. It seemed like Voldemort had not trusted Harry with a wand. All of the spells that Harry had cast had been done wandlessly. This one was no exception.
Albus watched with a sense of pride in his heart as the skin of the arm knitted back together. Darcey elicited a muffled moan of pain, but Harry was not to be distracted. After the spell was finished, Harry cleaned the blood then ripped a part of his robes near his feet. Before Albus's eyes, the young man elongated the strip of cloth until it was lengthy enough to wrap around the girl's arm.
"Alright," he sighed and glanced at the trembling girl, "You can look up now."
Hesitantly, Darcey peered up from behind her good arm. Her features lit up at the sight of her bandaged arm.
"Thank you," she choked in gratitude. Harry, however, observed her from behind his glasses with something like pity in his eyes.
"That's your wand arm, isn't it?" he inquired gently. Uable to keep his gaze, she bowed her head and nodded. But a flicker of anger crossed over his features. He placed a hand on her shoulder and said quietly, "Don't let them get to you."
Before she could reply, he drew his hood over him and left, his cloak billowing behind him. Albus watched his retreating back before the memory ended and he found himself back in his office.
But he could not sit. He paced and paced as he reflected on what he had seen.
Harry had grown beyond all of his imagination. Not only had he changed in appearance, but he had also grown stronger in both magic and character. The Harry that he had known as a boy was still there, but perhaps more mature and more aware of his surroundings. His words were more careful.
But what saddened Albus was the fact, despite the young man's goodness, there was something missing in him. Something in him had died. His lifeless eyes had reflected that. His demeanor had hardened significantly. In fact, throughout the whole memory, Harry had not smiled once despite being in the presence of a child.
Albus also sensed Harry's bitterness and anger towards the Death Eaters. He had openly admitted that he wasn't a Death Eater. But that didn't make sense. The hooded man that the Aurors had seen had been him, right? But the Aurors had also been proven wrong. They had claimed that the hooded man had red eyes, but based on what Albus had seen in the memory, Harry had kept his mother's eyes. Perhaps this was the Ministry's plan to frame Harry for whatever reason. Or perhaps there was someone impersonating as Harry, perhaps through Polyjuice Potion.
Despite these dismal thoughts, however, Albus could not stifle his joy over what had become of his former student. Harry had remained loyal to his parents. How he resembled them! James and Lily would have proud to see their only son all grown-up. Albus, too, had felt a growing sense of pride as he had stood beside Harry in the memory. He had never ceased to amaze Albus. Thus, Albus vowed that he would no longer doubt his former student. No matter what truths he encountered, this memory was proof of Harry's good heart.
A/N: So, what do you think? Reviews much appreciated.