Harry bolted down the trail to Voldemort. But almost like a bolt of thunder had struck his head, a thought occurred to him. Knowing Voldemort, he would probably still seek out information. He slowed to a halt behind a long pillar, pointed his wand at his head, and erased his memory of the recent incident with Ron. When he was done, he hurried down the cobblestone trail, feeling intense heat as he neared the center. A rotten, ashy scent was in the air. One of the buildings near the hillsides was blazing, its wooden pillars shattering. Harry knew that it was bound to collapse and spread to other homes. But he had to hurry to get to Voldemort before it got worse. As soon as he glimpsed the long, dark robes in front of him, he thrust out his wand, his spell whipping onward.
"Stop!" shouted Harry, blocking the curse with a shield. Unperturbed, Voldemort turned slowly to meet his offender.
"Who dares–?"
"Your Death Eaters are down, Riddle," said Harry, his wand aloft at his side. "You're alone in this fight."
Voldemort stood for a long moment, his features rippling with both irritation and amusement. It was clear to Harry that he was considering his offer. The pile of dead and living bodies were in front of him, but he turned away from them. Instead, he turned his head towards Harry, who could now see the large, cat-like red eyes from beneath his hood. The dim light of the moon illuminated his lower face, giving his already pale snake-skin a tint. Then, as if humouring Harry, he straightened, his eyes glittering with a challenge. His long, spider-like fingers curled around his wand.
He accepted the challenge.
"Ah, ever the Gryffindor, Harry," commended Voldemort with a mock bow. "Chivalrous and noble as your father. If only he could see his son now, how proud he would be . . . How unfortunate that he is too occupied rotting in his grave to notice."
"I've had enough of your lies, Riddle," said Harry angrily. "I'm going to stop you here – tonight. We'll see who's the better man, then."
Voldemort looked amused. "Then perhaps let us adhere to traditional dueling etiquette. First, we bow, Harry," he said with a mock bow, his large slit eyes pinning into place. "Bow before Death."
Harry didn't see a reason to defy him. So he complied.
"Of course," he replied, bowing with a pointed glare. "Master."
Voldemort straightened with a wry smile. "You learned your place. You see, Harry, I disciplined you more than Dumbledore ever did. Funny how the thing which you despise is the most is often what is best for you."
Harry's hand clenched around his wand, his teeth gritted in anger. "You'll never be better than Dumbledore."
Voldemort's lip twitched. Harry had struck a nerve in him. But that was what he was intending. Before either could consider any other alternative, they lifted their wands and fired their spells, drawing an earth-shaking collision between them. A long, spindly, electric cackle emerged from between them. Suddenly Voldemort repositioned to wand to cause the connected spells to hit the walls on the side, breaking the connection. A stream of curses surged towards Harry, who quickly drew a shield to block them. He shifted a few steps back, slightly repelled by the curses. Before Harry could blink, Voldemort appeared behind him, knocking Harry through the wall of the house behind him.
Growling, Harry quickly bolted to his feet. He had just lifted his wand to cast the blasting charm when a dark shadow surged past the opening. Voldemort appeared in front of him, catching him off guard by the wrist.
He was fast!
"Do you really think you can best me in a duel, Harry?" he hissed, his teeth bared. Harry gritted his teeth, struggling against his grip. "Do you really believe that you possess the power that the Dark Lord knows not?"
With a twist of his hand, Voldemort twisted Harry's wrist with a loud snap. With a loud cry, Harry recoiled, dropped his wand, and stumbled back a few steps. With a flick of his own wand, Voldemort sent Harry crashing against the bookcases behind him. He gave a loud cry when his back collided roughly against the edges. Mountains of books and thick dust crumbled over Harry. He couldn't move. Coughing out dust, he shoved the books off of him and reached up to wipe his glasses. Breathing heavily, his mind numb with pain, he tried to rise to his feet but found that something was keeping him in place.
Panting, Harry glared as Voldemort moved to stand over him. The latter looked down at him with unconcealed disdain on his face. Clutching his broken wrist to himself, Harry chanced a glance for his wand. He found it hanging on a long, broken wooden tile, its hinge hovering in air near his foot. He tried to move his head an inch above the ground, but he felt a dark fog cloud his vision. He groaned and let his head slump back, swiping his sleeve against his dust-clouded glasses.
"Your actions have proved to be insufferably predictable, Harry," said Voldemort idly. Blinded by pain, Harry squinted his eyes open to glare at him.
"Go to hell," he hissed.
Voldemort's lip curled.
"Oh, I have a place reserved for both of us."
But as Voldemort tried to wave his wand, Harry kicked his wand and rolled to the side to catch it with his left hand. In one move, he rose to his feet, pointed his wand at the ground, and blasted the ground under Voldemort's feet. Struggling to squint past the dust, he gasped when something suddenly curled around his foot, sending him crashing face-first to the ground. One of the statues besides the bookcases had apparently risen to life. It hurriedly pinned him into place and climbed on top of him. Harry tried to scramble out from beneath but it only tightened its arms around him.
Harry cursed.
"Or perhaps you can serve that position for us both," said a distant voice. "I'm afraid that I will be rather barred from entry . . . as protected from Death as I am."
Growling in frustration, Harry looked around again for his wand, but to no avail. He could feel his heart hammering at his chest. He didn't even know where Voldemort was. To no avail, he kicked and shoved at the statue, trying to get it off him. In the back, he could hear the shatter of glass and smell the burning flesh of the villagers nearby. He resisted the urge to vomit. Breathing heavily, he looked around the room for something that would get him out of this mess. But as he wrestled against the rather burly statue, which continued to tighten its grip around him, the hollow jerks of the floorboards suddenly gave him an idea.
These were wooden floorboards.
With a loud cry, he brought his foot as high as he could from under the statue and slammed his heel hard on the floor. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he heard the tall tales of a crack in the boards. He conjured the strength to kick harder and harder until the crack got larger. Suddenly, when the crack got too big to support them both, with a stone statue making it worse, the floor near his legs crumbled. Harry quickly shuffled back on his hands, wincing when the ground made contact with his broken wrist. But the legs of the statue hovered in the air over the crack in the ground. With all his might, Harry pushed at it until it fell below to the basement where it cracked under pressure. He stood up and tried to scurry away when a voice came from behind him.
"Clever, Harry," said an amused voice.
Harry whipped around . . . But too late. With a swift wave of his wand, Harry was sent crashing into the next room. He gasped when his back hit the porcelain edge of the sink. Groaning in pain, he collapsed on his arms besides a tall, full-length mirror. He drew a palm to his side only to find his palm drenched in blood.
Looking around, he supposed that he was in some kind of worn bathroom than anything else. Through the mirror, he glimpsed a stream of curses coming towards him. He quickly drew the mirror in front of him to shield him and outstretched the other arm to summon his wand. He ducked as shards of glass sprinkled the room, some of which pierced his skin. But as he did, he could feel a strong heat in the room that almost singed his skin. Had Voldemort lit the house on fire?
"Competent as I was, I met Death at his door," said a triumphant voice from the cracked opening of the room. Harry caught his wand using his good wrist. "I trounced him – outwitted him."
As Harry scrambled to back away, he cursed at the loud creaks of the floorboard. Sure enough, a curse came flying towards his direction, and he quickly ducked. He shuffled next to the wall behind the shower curtain. He needed to get away. But if he so much as stepped out, the floorboards would give him away. Not to mention, there was a fire somewhere in the house. He needed to avoid it, or put it out.
"I took what gift he was given and transmitted it to myself . . . immortality," Voldemort breathed, his head twisting like that of a reptile. "While you rot besides the graves of your parents, I will remain here on this Earth. And through each passing generation, I will gain what knowledge that we now know as the 'tales of the ancients.' There will no limits, no boundaries to my knowledge. No rival in power."
Pursing his lips, Harry heard Voldemort step through the crack of the wall. Harry quickly stole a glance at the ajar doorway to the bathroom. He needed something to muffle the sound of his footsteps. From beneath the curtain, he pointed his wand at the shower head and blasted it open. Barrels of water gushed out, which allowed him the opportunity to sneak away through the door. He didn't notice Voldemort's phantom rush out to meet him. But as soon as he scampered out, he found himself face to face with Voldemort.
Voldemort moved to disarm him of his wand. Cursing profusely, Harry found that the water at his feet had solidified into ice. He was stuck. Feeling a ripple of irritation, Harry gritted his teeth.
"You're deluded."
Voldemort waved a hand. "A man with knowledge is a man with power, Harry."
"Who're you going to rule over?" asked Harry angrily. "There won't be anyone left."
Voldemort's lip curled.
"All the more reason to implement my plans."
"Not a very thorough one, is it?" Harry shot back.
"Those who cannot die have no boundaries, Harry," said Voldemort calmly. "What punishments await him in the afterlife becomes wholly irrelevant to him. You see, even at the tender age of sixteen, I learned that the only way to conquer Death . . . is to simply acquire his strengths."
"Acquire it?" asked Harry forcibly. "You mean steal it?"
"As long as man lives, Death will always be there to claim his life. He is gifted, Harry. He sees the future, knows the exact time and place that the individual will perish, then pounces on his prey like a wolf among sheep. He is immortal for as long as man is mortal. And he is not limited by time."
From behind Voldemort, Harry saw at least a dozen knives float from the kitchen, their sharp edges aimed towards him. Harry's eyes widened at the sight. With his legs still held in place, he discreetly inched his left hand to the tall cabinet behind him, searching for anything that could block it.
"Ingenious as I was, I took these strengths for my own gain. Unlike Death, I am protected, in short, by seven Horcruxes."
"Seven?" breathed Harry, horrified.
Voldemort smirked.
"You see, Harry," he said icily, with a curt flick of his wrist. "it was fruitless to challenge me."
Harry grabbed a shield from the armoured suit near him, sank down to a crouch, used it to block against the incoming knives. The impact of the knives repelled him slightly. He slammed the edge of the shield against the solid ice, causing it to crack, which allowed him to maneuver his feet. He scrambled backwards, the shield held aloft in front of him. His eyes flitted around hastily, trying to find something that he could fight with. He saw that Voldemort had disappeared from his spot. His heart beating madly, Harry quickly broke a glass case containing a sword used as a decoration and took the sword. His scar pricking was the only reminder that Voldemort was still around. Was he invisible? Was he hiding somewhere? Left? Right? Up?
Suddenly, an idea struck him. He closed his eyes and tried to give into the dull beating in his head. He could look into Voldemort's mind. He wanted to know where he was. And sure enough, he saw himself near the doorway to his left, beside the counters, his wand arm outstretched. Opening his eyes, Harry positioned the sword towards his left. Without another thought, he hurled the sword across to where he knew Voldemort stood. But Voldemort reacted in time to move aside, the sword managing to graze his shoulder where a string of blood appeared. But he didn't look the slightest perturbed.
"Well done, Harry."
Before Harry could think, Voldemort appeared right behind him, striking him with a powerful cutting curse that brought Harry toppling to his knees, the shield dropping with a loud thud. He spit out rivulets of blood. His glasses slipping from his nose, Harry looked up with pain-clouded eyes and saw that Voldemort's skin was shedding; his small wound on his shoulder was healing. Harry clenched his teeth. But Voldemort wasn't paying attention to him. Instead, he started to pace around the armchairs and sofas beside the fireplace. With a sudden dread in his heart, Harry realised that there were bodies there. And judging by the rise and fall of their chests, they were still alive.
"Look at them," said Voldemort, gesturing towards the sleeping bodies. "Slumbering away, unaware of your willingness to save them. While you bleed for them, they grow blind and ignorant. That's what Muggles are, Harry. Will they ever know, perhaps . . . If I offered them up as sustenance . . .?"
Harry blanched. Voldemort flicked his wand lazily. Harry soon felt an icy feeling in his stomach. A large, rippling black cloak emerged from behind Voldemort, slinking through the large gap in the wall. It looked almost like a bat, gliding along the floorboards, the edges of its cloak-like body drifting onward. It was a Lethifold. As it approached its prey, it sank onto the floor in a horizontal fashion, slinked on top of its victim like an oversized snail and began digesting it, leaving no traces behind. Harry wanted to stop it; one of the victims couldn't be more than ten years old. But he couldn't move. Voldemort was forcing him to watch.
"No!" breathed Harry.
"But of course," said Voldemort lazily. "a criminal such as yourself would always defend his mutual."
"You're one to talk," spat Harry.
Voldemort's lip curled. "Oh, I do not deny my crimes, Harry, nor am I ashamed of it. I accept readily what I have become. I learned that the only way to rule humanity is by corrupting my own. I do not suffer, Harry. I do not mourn for the innocents. Perhaps if you followed my path, you would find that it will be woefully unnecessary to possess you."
Harry's eyes stilled on the Lethifold. It didn't stop. It just continued to digest its prey like a greedy pig. Finally, it continued onto the last victim: a ten year old boy sprawled on the sofa near the fireplace. But Harry was trapped. He wanted to help, but Voldemort had hit him with something that pinned him in place. He felt dirty just watching it happen. He felt a hollow feeling inside of him, and he clenched his jaw, and turned away.
"You're lying."
"Amusing, is it not?" sneered Voldemort. "That the one born and protected by love is often the one least loved. Did my mother love me, Harry? Perhaps she did. But I saw past it. Beneath a façade of compassion, I saw greed, lust, and selfishness. And from the fruitless infatuation that she had for my father, I was born. A product born out of deceit. A fitting offspring, I dare say. Perhaps she appeared to love me. But were they ever genuine?"
Harry felt numb, his eyes fixed on the looming fire down the hallway. Something about what Voldemort was saying unnerved him beyond measure. What was he on about? And why the hell should Harry listen to him in the first place?
"These fanciful ideas of love are conditioned onto those too weak to fight it," spat Voldemort. "Tell me, Harry, do you protect these people for your own benefit? Do you protect them perhaps because it is engrained in you by Dumbledore? Did you ever ask yourself whether this was genuine love at all? Or is it mere blind faith?"
Harry clenched his teeth. With hot, boiling fury, he wandlessly summoned the sword that he had used earlier and hurled it at Voldemort. But instead of hitting the intended target, it hit a Portrait of a young woman above the fireplace, who shrieked at the sword that pierced her chest. But Voldemort's sticking charm had worn off. Without thinking, Harry rolled aside, ducked under the spell that whipped past his cheek, and dived through the opening of the wall. He tried to make a hasty retreat to the next door. But before he could, he heard Voldemort speak behind him.
"I grow tiresome of these silly brawls," hissed Voldemort. "Nagini, bind him."
With the speed of a predator, Harry found something heavy slither up his body. He tried to move, but the snake had wrapped itself around him, causing both of them to collapse onto the floor, Harry still wrestling with it. It wrapped its head around his necks, its fangs bared, hissing spitefully at him. He had landed somewhere in a storage room of some sorts.
"Let go of me," hissed Harry to the snake.
"I hear and obey only my Massster," the snake spat, his tongue flickering from between its fangs. Harry felt the insane desire to ring its neck, but unfortunately, his hands were bound by the snake's body.
So he tried for another approach.
"He'll let you die," hissed Harry in Parseltongue, struggling against the snake. But the snake simply snapped at him with his fangs. "He'll let me kill you, given the chance. You're nothing to him."
"Do you speak truly, Harry?"
Harry suddenly felt himself being lifted in the air, the snake slithering off of him. But he couldn't move. He was sent crashing into the ceiling and into the chandelier above. The side of his head hit a plaster, which busted his eyebrow. He felt himself crashing through the wall into the next room, where he finally collapsed face-down onto the floor.
He heaved himself on his arms, breathing heavily, trying to blink out the dark patches in his eyes. He could feel a rough, metallic taste of blood in his mouth that was dripping from a large gash to his head. He felt groggy, almost like he was about to give away into unconsciousness. His arms shook like rubber, and he collapsed again against the floorboards, spitting out mouthfuls of blood as he did. His torso blazed with excruciating pain, his robes drenched with blood. He tried to look up, but all he could see in front of him was a black, blurry haze in the form of a thin figure. And only then did he realise that he had lost his glasses sometime during the fight.
"You know what I loathe the most about supremacy, Harry . . .?" said Voldemort distastefully, his slit-like nose wide with silent fury. "There is hardly a worthy adversary these days."
At the sound of skittering, Harry lifted himself to his arms, wobbling in place, only to look right to find a clutter of rodents feeding on a large, overturned crate of quinces in the corner under a long, thin wooden plaster with overturned flagons on top. There were almost a dozen of them, feeding on leftover food. With the rotten smell of the village in his nose, and the rough taste of his blood, he almost felt the urge to vomit, but he swallowed it back to save his pride. His scar was on fire. Panting heavily, he snapped his head up at the faint susurrus of robes against the floorboards. He looked up and found Voldemort staring down at him with an expression that Harry couldn't quite decipher through his blurred vision.
Voldemort twirled his wand, his snakelike features poised and pensive, but still somehow ominous and intimidating.
"To someone such as yourself, Death is a mercy – a gift. A gift which you will soon beg me for. Shall I grant you your heart's desire, Harry? Shall I finally sentence you to death – for mutiny, for treason? What do you think? I crave your reckoning, Harry."
"Do it," spat Harry.
"But perhaps you have forgotten my one rule," Voldemort sneered. "shall I remind you again? Of course, being the ever merciful Lord that I am, I shall, of course, comply," he leaned forward and hissed. "I do not live to serve, Harry, I live to be served."
Harry refrained the urge to spit at him. But Voldemort must have caught that thought becuase he felt his spine curve until he promptly was lifted off of the ground and onto his knees. A dizzy feeling overcame him, his blood dripped onto the torn rug on the floor, his breathing growing shallower and shallower. Suddenly, two ropes wrapped around his wrists, the ends held by two stone statues on either side of him. His arms were stretched out like the letter 'T'. With a sense of dread in his heart, Harry dearly hoped that Voldemort was bluffing with this method. He couldn't possibly be thinking of . . . Harry blanched.
"In the Middle Ages," began Voldemort wryly. "stretching was used as a method to punish prisoners accused of capital crimes. I dare say, a fitting punishment for you, Harry," he smirked, his eyes blazing. "Strange . . . how Muggles can just as savage, if not more, than wizards. These are ones you are adamant to defend."
This time, Harry could hardly stifle the genuine fear pooling in his stomach. His heart thundered rapidly in his chest, as if desperate to be released. His hands were sweating profusely, his teeth gritted in anticipation. The snake slithered to and fro in front of him. He looked around, trying desperately to find something that would help him out of the ropes.
"Did you think I shall ever oblige to your wishes, Harry?" hissed Voldemort. "I know, equipped with the gift of foresight, that it is Death that you desire. And it is that modicum of mercy I shall never offer."
But as soon as Voldemort caught Harry's eyes wandering, he elicited a tut-tut and waved his wand to tighten his bounds. Harry repressed a scream at the feeling of being pulled apart, the muscles of his arms protesting against the agonizing pain. It was almost like the stretching of an elastic band, only without an end. He could almost hear the tear of his tendons as Voldemort continued to tighten them. But Harry didn't want to give Voldemort the satisfaction of hearing him scream. Instead, he gritted his teeth, his eyes crunched closed, his head pounding. He felt like he was being torn in half. He could hardly take it.
"Scream, Harry," breathed a distant voice, a hint of triumph in his tone. But Harry could hardly hear it droning in his ears. "Pray that others will come to your aid. Watch hopelessly as they abandon you in fear for themselves. You sacrifice yourself for them while they lurk behind shadows – driven by fear and hatred for you. Alluded by the lies that I have fashioned against you. No one will come, Harry."
But Harry continued to hold onto his last bit of dignity and clenched his teeth. He wouldn't let Voldemort hear him scream. But the more defiant he grew, the more amused Voldemort became. Breathing heavily, his eyes bloodshot, his vision blurred with agony, he managed to pry open his eyes to glower at Voldemort, showing him every bit of hatred – every whit of anger that he felt towards the man. But Voldemort simply took his defiance as an excuse to tighten his bonds.
And finally, unable to stifle it any longer, Harry crunched his eyes shut, unclenched his teeth, and elicited a piercing scream that he was sure that the whole world could hear. He could feel the searing tear of his tendons, hear the snap of his disjointed arms, his breath stopping somewhere near his throat, his vision rippling in shades of blacks and red. It was torturous. It was monstrous. He wanted to die. He wanted it to end . . .
"Do you feel betrayed, Harry?" asked Voldemort in a mock sympathetic tone. "There is none that knows the feeling better than myself," with bloodshot eyes, Harry glowered fiercely at Voldemort, the latter in which hissed at him. "Let this be a lesson to never attempt to challenge me again."
Harry clenched his eyes shut. His ears were ringing. His blood had rushed to his head. His muscles strained beyond measure.
'Just do it,' said an inner voice. 'Just beg him to stop.'
'I won't,' said a stronger voice. 'I won't.'
Harry vaguely registered the fact that Voldemort was laughing, relishing in his agony. In fact, the world was very much a haze of black blurs. He could hear a loud droning noise in his ears, but he didn't even realise that it was from himself. The bones on his already broken wrist pierced his skin. Ten years of pain didn't do justice to just one second of pure agony. For the first time, he wished – he longed for someone to enter, to help him. But true to Voldemort's word, no one came. Harry could feel – hear the tear of his muscles. The feeling of muscles being ripped from bones, and it broke all of his resolve. His chest felt tight, his skin unstitching. This type of pain was beyond comprehension. Beyond thinking. It was either surrender or suffer. It was even worse than a thousand Cruciatus Curses . . .
"I dare say, it gives me great pleasure to keep you alive," laughed a distant voice. But Harry hardly heard anything. "If only to see you suffer and suffer . . ."
The whole world could hear his anguish. His pain. He nearly lost his voice screaming himself hoarse. He wanted to give in . . . But he didn't. Finally, feeling the last bit of sanity dissipate, he had just opened his mouth to beg Voldemort to stop when the stretching suddenly stopped, and the ropes were loosened. Harry gasped, his muscles cramped and sore, his eyes glistening with agony. But he forced himself to calm down. Groggily, he saw that Voldemort was distracted by something. But Harry, so engrossed in his pain, couldn't bring himself to care.
"What?" snapped Voldemort, moving towards the side window. "What is this fracas? Who dares to intervene?"
The ropes were slightly loosened to the point where he could barely tuck his elbows. But as he tried such a simple movement, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of pain that he had to close his eyes for a moment. Drawing in a shaky breath, Harry lifted his heavily-lidded eyes when spindly, bony fingers fisted in his hair. His head was forced up until he found himself staring into cat-like red eyes. Vaguely, he could feel Voldemort sifting through his mind, but he didn't have the strength nor will to stop him. Finally, Voldemort straightened, though his face didn't give anything away.
"Could it be . . .?" he murmured almost absently, releasing his grip on Harry. "Another traitor, perhaps? . . . Ingenious."
Unable to keep his head up, Harry bowed his head, his groggy mind unfurling. Drawing in shaky breaths that felt like thorns in his lungs, his mind was racing. He watched, unable to speak out as Voldemort swished his cloak and stalked outside, the snake following behind him. Harry could feel a prickle of panic overcome him. He hoped that Voldemort didn't suspect Weasley. If he did, then not only was Ron dead, but Arthur, too. The man was nearly on his death bed, anyway. Hell, Harry reckoned that he wouldn't even survive the week if someone didn't find him.
Breathing heavily like a starving man in a thousand days at sea, Harry dimly shook his head, trying to rid himself of the large black patches in his eyes. He could vaguely hear the shouts and blasts outside, but he could hardly register them over the precarious wave of unconsciousness that he was so tempted to give into. He wobbled slightly on his knees, the bounds near his broken wrists preventing him from collapsing face-first onto the ground. But no. He couldn't give into unconsciousness now. Not now. Voldemort was out there. He could probably hurt someone – everyone. No. Harry needed to get up. To follow him. He needed to hold back Voldemort.
Just a little longer.
But he was so, so tempted to just give in. Who exactly was he trying to save again? Did it even matter? No, he thought firmly. This wasn't the time to dwell on petty matters. Through the hazy pits of his pain, he realised that he only had one objective. He had to get himself out of these bonds. But the searing pain in his torso and his shoulders reminded him just how devastating his injuries were. Hell, everything hurt. Blinking several times, he managed to get his head up in time to look through the broken side window. He could see a flicker of shadows in the walls, hear people cry out for each other, and feel the shake of the house from several blasts near to him. From beyond, he could see the hint of a light, and he knew that it was almost dawn.
He needed to get out.
But how?
There was a fire somewhere in the house. It was a bit far from him, but he knew, with the houses made of wood, it would spread fast. He could feel its intense fury flickering behind him. Knowing that he didn't have much time left, he shook his head again and looked around the room. He could almost feel the searing heat in the room, his lungs felt on fire, and he was sweating in barrels. There were still people outside. They were going to be burned alive if he didn't act soon. His ears perked at the sound of skittering and a low noise coming from his left. He directed his gaze there, and his heart leapt in his throat.
Rats!
Of course. Almost a dozen of them feeding off a large pile of rotten quinces in an overturned crate in the corner. Swallowing away his panic, he looked around at the ground, trying to find something that would lure them in. Something that was near him, perhaps. He lifted his head, his eyes stilling at a rotten quince about four steps from him. Casting a wary glance at his bound arms, he stretched himself down on the cracked floorboards and outstretched his legs as far as they could, trying to reach the fruit. Though the heat from the room was becoming unbearable; he could almost feel the ashes down his throat. He gave a loud scream when his disjointed arm strained, but finally, he caught the quince beneath his heel and shuffled it towards him.
Breathing heavily, he winced at the blinding pain. But something – a survival instinct, perhaps – kept him going. Spitting out mouthfuls of blood, his head throbbing, he ducked his head, caught the fruit between his lips, and rubbed the rotten edges against the bonds of his left wrist before spitting it out. Grimacing against the ashy taste, he glanced left, desperate to be released. He could almost feel the heat of the fire against his back. His face drenched with sweat. But finally, after what seemed to be the longest three minutes of his life, one of the rats noticed the smell.
'Come on,' he thought vehemently. 'You know you want it. Now come and get it.'
And sure enough, he was right. After a moment of stillness, the rat skittered over, hopped over his knees, and unto his arms where it began chipping away against the ropes for the quince residue. Other rats soon followed, almost a dozen of them. By the time the last thread of the rope in his left arm was pierced, Harry felt the fire licking away against his back. He hissed at the impact, cursing himself profusely for letting Voldemort disarm him.
He hadn't a wand. Voldemort had kept his wand.
As quickly as he could manage, he wobbled to his feet and backed away from the fire, a wave of nausea clouding his vision. He could hardly hold himself up. Carefully, he sauntered over to the aloft window and kicked it open. It shattered. He caught one of the shards of glass and used it to pierce the rope of his right hand. Swinging one foot over the sill, he lifted himself out of the house and collapsed onto the barren grass, panting like a thirsty mutt. Sweat ran in rivulets down his body. But the cries of the people nearby propelled him forward. He felt detached from his body. He didn't know what kept him going, what kept him limping . . . one foot in front of another . . . until a purple blur rushing towards him caught his attention.
Was he dead? He wondered. Was that Death finally coming to claim his life? Funny . . . he had always imagined Death in dark robes. Should he welcome it? Should he resent it? He had seen enough, hadn't he? Harry dimly registered the rugged surface of the pillar that he was leaning against. His strength faltering, he sank down, his breathing shallow. Dimly, he could hear the incessant cries of, what seemed like, a very familiar, elderly voice. But as he strived to give into unconsciousness, something bitterly cold splashed onto his face.
"Harry! Harry!"
Blinking rapidly, Harry groggily looked up at the figure in front of him. It was rather tall, bespectacled with a long, white beard. But for the life of him, he couldn't fathom who it was. But he didn't have time to dwell on that. Feeling himself dried from the water splashed onto his face, he gave a loud cry at the sound of his arms popping back into place. But that was enough to snap back to reality. Wincing, he squinted up into hazy blue eyes that seemed both familiar and not.
"Dumbledore?" murmured Harry, prying his eyes open to stare at the blurry figure. He felt something slip on his face, and his vision cleared. "What are you–?" After a moment of confusion, he bolted up when his groggy mind cleared enough for him to recognise the man. "Dumbledore – the Order – !"
"The Order is safe," reassured Dumbledore, guiding Harry to his feet. "It is far too dangerous to stay here, Harry. We must leave at once."
But Harry blinked several times, regaining a bit of strength. "No!" he said stubbornly, jerking his arm away from the man. "We've got to stop them."
"It's nearly impossible to save all of the villagers," said Dumbledore. His wand was aimed at the burning home, its tip gushing water. "There is hardly enough Thestrals to carry –"
Harry shook his head, his head suddenly sound again. "Nevermind Thestrals . . ." he said, stumbling on the cobblestone trail. "There's another way."
"Harry," called Dumbledore, throwing him a stern side glance. "We must leave –"
"No!" said Harry vehemently. "Go, get out of here! I've got a plan."
"Harry – "
"Trust me," he said hurriedly, clutching his side. "I have a plan. Take what you've got and get out of here."
Dumbledore gave him a long, piercing look. "Very well," he nodded, levitating the bodies down to the Thestral stables. "Good luck, Harry."
Harry nodded. Without a backwards glance, he tore down the trail with only his adrenaline fueling his energy. There was fire everywhere, beaming in the dim string of the dawn. The smell of burnt and rotten flesh nauseated him. It was almost like a nightmare, something that couldn't possibly be real. It was searing. It was merciless, flickering, snapping, unfurling. A reminder of the chaos and despair of the world. But where the hell was Voldemort? He was around here somewhere. Harry could see flashes of images of where he was in his mind.
There were bursts of light all around. It seemed that the Order had responded to Ron's Patronus. They had joined in just in time for the Imperius Curse on the Death Eaters to wear off. And they were everywhere. On the rooftops, inside the buildings, on balconies. Some of them, both Death Eaters and Order members, even started aiming their wands at Harry as he whipped past. An entire building toppled to the ground in front of him, and he had to duck and find another path. Cursing himself for being wandless again, Harry hastily grabbed nearby Death Eaters and used their bodies to shield himself from incoming curses. Without thinking, he dragged one of them beneath a steep wall and searched their clothes for a wand. And he found one. But his faint sense of victory was ill spent, for, a tall, slim familiar figure moved to stand in front of him. Harry merely swallowed at the sight.
Shit.
Voldemort's lip curled. His blazing red eyes were glittering madly from behind his hood, almost as if amused that Harry had managed to escape again.
"Back again, Harry?"
Before Harry could think, he ducked, letting Voldemort's spell hit the wall behind him. Quickly casting a shield behind him, he gradually moved backwards before turning the corner and bolting to his right. Voldemort was right. It was fruitless to fight him . . . not with seven Horcruxes to back him up. Harry leapt over slain bodies, sprinted across the cobblestone trail, ducked under the arms of nearby duelers in his way. He didn't even notice how much blood he was losing. All he knew was that Voldemort was following him. And the fact that he could travel in phantoms unnerved Harry beyond measure.
"Come out, Harry," mocked a quiet voice from behind him. Harry quickly ducked behind the stone wall of the bridge ahead. "You cower behind the shadows like the coward you are. Your father would be disappointed."
Harry bristled. He wanted so much to prove Voldemort wrong by meeting him face-to-face, but he had to get to the Thunderbird. Carefully, he backed up, cast a Silencing Charm on his shoes and a Disillusionment Charm on himself, and inched up the stairs to the platform above him. He could hear Voldemort's footsteps drawing ever closer, and he sped up his pace. He didn't know whether Voldemort could see past Disillusionment Charms, but he didn't want to risk it.
"What strength do you have left?" hissed Voldemort, drawing ever nearer. "Nothing. In time, you will come to see the consequences of your actions. For every soul that you save, a hundred more will die . . . By your hand, of course."
From above the platform, the Thunderbird wrestling wildly behind him, Harry could see that Voldemort was aiming at a large pile of bodies littered across the cobblestone path. Harry felt his heart racing. He knew that Voldemort would never take back his word. He would do it, which is what compelled Harry to disable his Disillusionment Charm and step up to the edge of the platform.
"We'll see about that," said Harry loudly, holding onto a rope levitating almost a dozen flour sacks that were tightly wound together.
Voldemort sneered up at him, emphasising his snakelike features. "Your deplorable sense of morality sickens me. You will find yourself in the same rotten end as they are. Nothing but ashes and dust – forever forgotten."
Harry tried to bit back with a retort when he felt an agonizing pain in his forehead. Blinded, he sank to his knees, one hand clutching his forehead, the other to the rope. The world was nothing but a hazy blur to him. It was as if someone was amputating him – limb by limb until he was almost completely separate from his body. Harry hardly registered the fact that Voldemort was laughing.
"You see, Harry, you can never truly betray me. I see through your eyes, I hear through your ears. No matter where you go, when you try to flee, you will always risk the lives of others. That is your fate," he swept his arms over the village. "Look at what desolation you have brought about, Harry."
"I didn't do this," muttered Harry, his hand fisted in his hair, pulling hard on it. The other hand clenched around the rope. "I'd never let this happen."
"Of course you would," said Voldemort softly. "Who else but a follower of mine could ever harbour such cruelty?" he laughed and lifted his wand again. "Tell me, Harry, do you fear Death?"
A rush of fire surged from his wand and onto the sleeping bodies on the floor. Like a balm to his forehead, Harry felt the pain from his scar mitigate. He returned to his former state so abruptly, almost like he was drenched in ice cold water.
"No!" shouted Harry.
But Harry quickly snapped back into reality. He could put out the fire. He had gone through all that rigmarole just get Voldemort out of here. No use in stopping now. Scrambling to his feet, he severed the rope, which caused the flour sacks to collapse and fall apart. The air misty from flour, Harry quickly covered his face with his cloak and rushed to the Thunderbird, which screeched wildly at him, its feathers shifting to a dark purple colour. A stream of curses flew at him, but he ducked. He felt the ground cracking at his feet, the platform that he was standing on wobbling in its place.
He knew that he had get out.
He grasped the flailing wings of the bird, aimed his wand at the chains binding its bird's legs and neck, and blasted them open. But as soon as the Thunderbird realised that it was free, it gave a loud cry, and soared it into the air. Harry yelped, holding tightly to the edges of its wings. He was dangling in the air by the skin of his teeth. Gulping, he managed to free one hand and began to climb up. His glasses were dangling precariously off of his nose. He didn't dare look down. But finally, when he was settled upright, the Thunderbird glowed a bright gold colour, beat its wings rapidly, and the Heavens burst open. A cackle of thunder was heard from above, and a shower of rain thundered down onto the burning village. The bird was rapidly changing colours, eliciting billowing winds as it whipped past.
To Harry's horror, he discovered that a dark smoke rose up to meet the height of the Thunderbird. With a jolt, Harry realised that it was Voldemort. He can fly, Harry thought, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Tightening on the bird's plumage, Harry outstretched his wand and met Voldemort's curse in mid-air, trying to block it from coming towards him. The spindly magic between them cackled like electricity before the bird screeched and sent another swirl of winds ahead, cutting off the clash of spells. Finally, with an upward spiral, it nose-dived out of the village and headed to land. The smell of salty air overwhelmed Harry. He could feel himself losing consciousness with the snapping winds at his hair. Glancing back, he saw that the black fog from Voldemort was gone. Only the incessant throb of his scar reminded him that it wasn't over.
Not yet, anyway.
Feeling the last of his adrenaline efface, he finally registered the numbness of his limbs, his eyes growing heavy, the darkness alluring. Before he could reach the ground, he let his head slump forward onto the changing plumage of the bird and sank into nothingness.
. . . . . . . . . . .
With a numb fear in his heart, Albus paced and paced across the shore of the other half of Fraisdaill Village, trying not to think of all the possibilities – all the predicaments – that Harry could have gone through. He had trusted the young man enough to leave. But if somehow Voldemort managed to get ahold of him again . . . Harry's wounds were severe enough already. Once again, he glanced around at all of the sleeping bodies dispersed on the shore, some with their flesh burnt, some with bruises, some dead. But no one was tending to them . . . not yet, anyway. The Thestrals nearby kicked at the powdery sand of the shoreline.
But suddenly, a loud screech pierced the silence. From across the majestic sea, a large, colour-changing Thunderbird was approaching the shore. Albus squinted through the faint spray of the water. It seems that it had brought a companion, and his heart settled at the sight. As the Thunderbird reached its landing, Albus hurried up to it, grateful that the animal had not forsaken its companion. He patted the bird's plumage before he reached up his wand and levitated the unconscious Harry onto the shore. He quickly checked the pulse, and he felt an ineffable amount of relief when he found one.
Albus tried hard to resuscitate him as well mitigate the severity of his wounds. He removed the blood, fixed his cracked glasses removed the shards of glass poking out of his skin. But as much as he tried to assuage his wounds, he was still in a precarious state. There was still large, blue bruises littered across his body, a large gaping wound in his side and leg that was still actively bleeding, his right wrist still broken, his arms slightly disjointed; he was drenched in ashes and blood. His back was slightly singed from the flames. It was surprising that he had survived so much. But Albus knew that Harry needed the hospital.
"Harry!" he called after casting 'Renervate' on the young man. He bent down on his knees and tried again. "Harry!"
Harry's eyes snapped open. He recoiled at the bright light of the rising sun. But after blinking for several moments, he opened his eyes and tried to sit up, only to draw back slightly, wincing and clutching his throbbing side. He looked quite bewildered at the sudden change of setting. Albus could see his turbulent thoughts racing in his mind as he gathered his wits. Wincing slightly at the pain, he finally rose to his feet, wobbling slightly. His gaze drifted from Albus, to the sleeping bodies of the villagers, and the sky where the last hint of the village lay desolated.
"He's gone," he muttered.
Albus nodded. "For now."
"I couldn't kill him."
"He cannot be killed," said Albus gently. "Not now. Not at this moment."
"Not as long as I'm alive, you mean," replied Harry, a bite in his tone. But he didn't meet Albus's eyes.
"Harry–"
Harry shook his head.
He redirected his gaze to the large stretch of bodies lying spread-eagled on the shore. "What will happen to them? The villagers, I mean."
With a heavy heart, Albus sighed. "Perhaps what is ordained is often best left untainted," he muttered, his eyes fixed on the bodies of the sleeping villagers.
"You mean, that's it?" demanded Harry, sounding faintly cheated. "Just leave them there?"
"Sleep is a deathlike state, Harry," explained Albus. "And, as far as we know, Death cannot be reversed. The consequences of doing so are, as you know, quite severe."
"Then . . ." he pressed, his voice brittle. "They're dead?"
"If Death is deemed as a sort of an eternal sleep," sighed Albus. "then, yes, Harry. In a sense, they have indeed passed."
"But . . ." argued Harry in disbelief. "There must be another way. I heard–back in the Ministry–the Wiggenweld Potion–"
"–will only render them unfit and unstable enough to process anything, let alone interact with others, rather like victims of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. In short, they will become insane and become prone to inflicting physical harm to themselves as well as their loved ones, which will inevitably result in their deaths. They will be regarded as criminals before the court of law. They cannot be helped, Harry. What little can be done, however, is simply feeding them, nursing them, caring for them until Death claims them."
"Then," said Harry, sounding faintly frustrated. "Why did we save them in the first place? None of it mattered in the end."
"Of course it matters, Harry," insisted Albus. "They still live, do they not? Perhaps immobile, perhaps unconscious, but they live nevertheless. Is an unconscious mind therefore less valuable to you? Or those who live without knowing, for instance, that they live."
Harry looked taken-aback.
"What?" he breathed. "I–No, of course not!"
Albus raised a brow. "You consider your efforts tonight to save the villagers less valuable than perhaps Ron Weasley's life?"
"I–No!" he said vehemently. He shook his head, mildly irritated. "How can you ask that?"
"But these concerns are purely rational, Harry," pressed Albus. "Objectively, economically, globally perhaps. After all, to have the Ministry pay for the sustenance and care for these individuals must be difficult – strenuous, even. Do you understand now, how precious a human life is, no matter its state of being?"
"I-I've always –" he pressed, looking slightly nettled by the implication. "I never doubted –"
"Of course not," smiled Albus, his blue eyes drifting across the area. "I am not accusing you, Harry, nor am I implying how you, yourself, would regard the significance of a human life. Of course, you have proved your compassion and your nobility purely by your actions tonight. Perhaps this is proof, of course, that there is always hope after suffering. There is always perseverance, if only one regards it with patience and compassion. We cannot possibly pretend to be the dictator on the matter of life and death, Harry."
"They're innocent," said Harry, disgruntled. "I know."
Albus shot him a piercing look. "Would the fact that they should sleep indefinitely have changed, perhaps, your priorities in saving them?"
Harry shuffled on his feet. "Well," he hesitated, his eyes drifting across the bodies. "I'd like to say that it wouldn't . . ."
But Albus smiled. The twinkle in his eyes returned to his blue eyes.
It seems like Harry had never changed.
"Should one man dictate the faith of thousands, chaos will inevitably follow," said Albus cordially. "It is best to leave these sensitive matters to, perhaps, a higher authority or even the whims of the majority."
"You think they'll keep them there?" asked Harry, throwing a wary glance at the villagers. "I've got a bad feeling about this."
"You suspect the Ministry of treason?"
"Those men tonight," started Harry quickly. "They weren't all Death Eaters, Dumbledore. I didn't recognise half of them, and they didn't have the Dark Mark."
"Quite an astute observation, Harry," remarked Albus, with a pleasant smile. "I, too, have begun to suspect the Ministry. It is not a mere coincidence that Voldemort happened to appear in the center of the Ministry, or why Muggle-borns have been disappearing at a rapid rate over these past ten years. And, of course, the attack on Arthur Weasley –"
"That was me," said Harry quickly. "But–I–I mean, he wasn't Arthur Weasley. He's a spy. He's been using Polyjuice Potion to spy on the Order."
"As Alastor suspected . . ." muttered Albus, marveling the brilliance of his oldest friend. And of course, Harry as well. For his tremendous acts of bravery tonight. "Brilliant, of course."
"The real Arthur Weasley is locked up in the prisons," continued Harry. "I've been watching him. I hid him from the Death Eaters –"
Despite himself, Albus felt his eyes begin to water. Harry didn't realise how very true to himself he was being right now. It was almost nostalgic. As if the ten years had never happened. As if Harry was still the boy that had woken year after year in Hogwarts hospital wing. Albus knew that Harry doubted himself. He could see those thoughts surging through his mind, rippling as clear as water. He knew that Harry thought himself to be the same, or even worse, than Voldemort.
But surely he realised how very unlike Voldemort he was being right now?
"You are very kind, Harry."
"But he's sick," continued Harry, a hint of concern in his voice. He didn't notice the unshed tears in Albus's eyes. "I don't know what – What's that?"
A loud shout pierced the stillness. The two wizards looked up from behind the wooden homes of the residents and found the Order members wrestling with several Ministry workers – or several Aurors, in particular. It was almost a battle judging by the way they summoned their shields and blocked some curses. It was clear to Albus that the Ministry wanted to arrest the Order members, to frame them for the troubles tonight, which further proved to him that they were, indeed, working for Voldemort.
"It appears that the Order will take the blame for all that has happened tonight," said Albus gravely, his mind racing with ways in which he could alleviate the situation.
"They're going to arrest them?" demanded Harry in disbelief. "They can't do that!"
"Oh, they most certainly can," affirmed Albus, almost bitterly. "They have both the power and the jurisdiction to undertake it. Of course, on the basis of false truths . . ."
"But there must be another way!"
"There is little that can be done, Harry –"
"I'll take what little I can salvage," said Harry firmly, already hastening towards the Order. But Albus tried to call him back.
"Harry –"
"Don't try and stop me," snapped Harry.
"I have no such intentions, Harry," said Albus patiently. He wanted Harry to understand just what he was getting himself into. "But, of course, you know the consequences –?"
"Don't start that, Dumbledore."
"You must understand, Harry," insisted Albus. "If you take this path, there is no turning back."
Harry shook his head and whipped around with a blazing countenance. In the dim light, there was a fire in his eyes that Albus had always thought was lost ten years ago.
"It doesn't matter," he replied, frustrated. "You know what you should've done, Dumbledore, back in the Ministry. You should've killed me. You could've saved all those villagers tonight, but you chose me instead. You chose me over everyone else."
A part of Albus felt unsettled by the accusation. Every word spoken by Harry rang bold and true. That there was a consequence of keeping Harry alive. That he was risking the lives of others by keeping him alive. But was he? Harry only needed to learn Occlumency. That was what would fix this whole predicament in the first place. He didn't need to be killed. Not yet. Not at this moment. Perhaps eventually. But Harry needed to be guided first. He didn't need desolation both in this life and the next.
"And yet," began Albus, his eyes twinkling. "you fail to recognize what mercy that you, yourself, not Voldemort, have brought to others, Harry. Had I killed you then, would the prisoners ever have been released? Would the villagers likewise ever have been saved? Or rather, the members of the Order, which all are, as you know, quite indebted to you?"
Harry's eyes darkened.
"It doesn't matter."
"Every person deserves a second chance," reassured Albus gently. "A chance at redemption – a chance to better themselves for as long as they live."
"Not everyone," said Harry firmly, his voice cutting and bitter. "Not me, or Voldemort."
Albus shook his head. "You are not a murderer, Harry. It would give me great grief if you were to pass as one."
"Choosing what you feel over what's right?" said Harry accusingly. "I've always admired you, Dumbledore, but you're wrong. You should've killed me. That was the right thing to do. It doesn't matter what happens to me. One life is nothing compared to a thousand others."
"I do not deny it, Harry," said Albus gravely. "Death, after all, is an inevitable fate –"
"I'll die eventually, I know that," Harry bit out, shaking his head. "Voldemort's a part of me. Why does it matter when it happens?"
"Have you ever considered why an individual as clever and as puissant as Voldemort fears Death above all other things?" asked Albus. But Harry looked taken aback by the response. "With all his power – with all his ambitions, surely a matter as trivial as Death would be something that can be reckoned with, something that can be defeated. Perhaps Death is a trivial matter to the good man, but it is something to be feared by those who challenge it. Consider it, Harry. Had I killed you then, would you have therefore died as an innocent man or as a murderer?"
"It's war," he replied firmly. "It doesn't matter."
But Albus repressed a chuckle at the answer. It was ironic that his answer proved just how selfless he was. Just by the fact that he would willingly sacrifice himself for others. By considering his life as less of a value as others. To even risk suffering indefinitely in order to bring peace.
But he never realised it. And that made him all the more extraordinary.
"Ah, but how the tides have turned," muttered Albus, a watery smile waned his face. "You have proven yourself to be the better man – a better leader than I, with all my glory and ingenuity – could not possibly hope to measure up to. This is, indeed, proof that those who do not seek fame or glory are often more fit to possess it."
"Then . . ." asked Harry, slightly taken aback. "You'll let me go?"
"Let you?" asked Albus, mildly astonished. "My dear boy, it is beyond my powers nor desire to intrude on your own free will. The choice is yours, Harry. It has always been."
But something about that answer caused a guarded look in Harry's eyes. Clenching his teeth, he looked away.
"I find that hard to believe," he muttered.
"You are a good man, Harry," said Albus gently. "Perhaps, someday, if fate permits it, you will come to realise how extraordinary of a man you are."
Unable to keep the man's gaze, Harry's gaze settled on the Thestrals in the corner. A faint look of doubt appeared in his eyes. Albus knew that he doubted himself. That he doubted his morality, his sanity, judging by his haggard appearance. But as the sound of the quarrel reached his ears, he snapped his head up and straightened from his previously slumped position. He turned to look into the direction of the Order and the Aurors with a look that bordered on determination and hesitance.
"Well . . ." said Harry, a hint of reluctance. It was clear that something was still troubling him, but he didn't voice it. "Thanks . . . for everything, I s'pose."
"Good luck, Harry."
Harry nodded. He turned to rush towards the wrestling Order members. Albus watched him go with a heavy heart. A part of him wanted to drag the younger wizard back, but he knew that Harry was stubborn. He would never relent. He just prayed that somehow, by some miracle, that Harry would manage to get himself out of Askaban. But the Ministry was determined to offer him the Dementor's Kiss. He would only be given a limited time until his sentence. But then, he thought . . .
He could always use his own ingenuity to break Harry out of it . . . if necessary, of course.
So, he let him go.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
"Wait!" called Harry loudly, skidding to a stop in front of the Aurors. Every person whipped around to look at him. "Stop! Don't arrest them."
He had to duck his head to regain his strength. His duel with Voldemort had weakened him so much. He could feel his adrenaline fading, which caused him to become more aware of how devastating his injuries were. Not to mention, the blood that trickled down his body didn't help much, either. Just the short run from Dumbledore to the Aurors made him pant. He felt out of breath, almost like his lungs were on fire. Straightening up, he caught a glimpse of the Order members looking at him with fear and curiousity in their eyes. It was clear that they were perturbed by his actions.
But as he glanced around, he realised that some of them were lying face-flat on the ground with the Aurors standing over them. Some of them even had bruises and burns, some with their robes torn, some with large, open wounds from their efforts to save the villagers. Some looked irritated by his interference. But at Harry's entrance, one of the Aurors recomposed themselves, straightened, and stepped up to Harry with a startled look on his face.
"Potter!" startled the burly, brown-haired man. He was wearing chestnut robes with a parchment and a Quill hovering in front of him. He turned to look at, what Harry presumed, the surly Head Auror beside him.
But as Harry stepped up again, he froze when suddenly almost a hundred wands were pointed at him. Both the Aurors and the Order members had apparently resolved their differences through him. But as Harry tried to open his mouth to mitigate the situation, he suddenly heard a loud screech and felt a furious, billowing wind cross him. Drawing his cloak over his face, he blinked dust out of his eyes. He looked up through squinted eyes and froze. It seems that the Thunderbird had come to his rescue. Flapping its wings furiously, it settled behind him and tried to snap at anyone who tried to hurt him with its beak, its feathers blazing red. Knowing that the Ministry could very well use that as an excuse to execute it, Harry hurried to stop it.
"No!" he shouted, both hands outstretched. He moved to stand in front of the Aurors, knowing that the bird won't hurt him. "Stop! Don't hurt them."
But one of the Aurors near the Thunderbird straightened up stiffly, his hand clutching his bloody shoulder, shooting an blazing glare at the bird.
"This ruddy bird!" he cried, backing away with a look of fear on his face.
"Well," said the brown-haired man, adjusting his spectacles with a grimace. "it looks like we've got another ache on our heads, boys."
"Call the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," said the Head Auror gruffly. "And bind this wild thing."
One of the Aurors waved his wand to cast a Patronus Charm: a raven, which went soaring into the misty sky. But as the Aurors drew their wands to conjure ropes around the Thunderbirds talons, the Head Auror turned to Harry, who was struggling to keep the Thunderbird down, but the effort proved difficult. But as he heard the Apparation of the Naturalists, he pointedly stepped aside. They paled as they saw him but they immediately got to work by chaining the Thunderbird in place. They wrapped chains around its beaks, neck, and talons to stop it from moving. Irresistibly, Harry wondered whether they would actually keep it alive or kill it.
"Harry Potter," acknowledged the Head Auror curtly, his eyes pinning Harry to the spot. But Harry stepped up, one hand outstretched.
"Stop," Harry urged. "Don't arrest them. It was me. I burnt down the village, I sent the Lethifolds against the villagers. They're innocent."
"What sort of madn – ?" cried the brown-haired man – Vendor.
"It's the truth," replied Harry firmly. He pointedly avoided the stunned gazes of the Order members. "Arrest me. They've got nothing to do with this."
"Harry," breathed a man that looked almost like one of Ron's relatives only with longer hair. "Are you out of your mind – ?"
But the Head Auror interjected. "Mr. Potter," he began sternly, ignoring the curious looks from the villagers nearby. "You confess to destroying Fraisdaill Village?"
"Yes."
"To the unauthorized use of Lethifolds and the release of the Thunderbird?"
"Yes."
"The killing of Neville Longbottom?"
Harry stiffened.
"Yes."
"Of course he did," barked Vendor bitterly, shooting Harry a repulsed look. "He's Harry bloody Potter. We don't need these silly interrogations."
"But, Sir," sputtered another Auror. "Surely he should be given a trial –"
"A trial for You-Know-Who's second in command?" chuckled Vendor bitterly. "Fat chance."
"N-Neville's dead?" choked a pink-haired girl.
"Where's Ron?" demanded one of the Weasley brothers.
But the Head Auror interjected. "Mr. Potter, do you confess to the breaking in of the Ministry as well the office of the Head Auror?"
"Yes."
"Were you perhaps involved in the disappearance of Arthur Weasley?"
Harry hesitated.
"No," he said flatly. "Voldemort's got him –"
"He's lying," said Vendor.
"Well, the evidence speaks louder than words, Mr. Vendor," said Gawain. "Regardless on whether or not he is telling the truth, he will, nevertheless, receive a life sentence in Askaban for so much as merely fraternizing with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, as well as the illegal usage of the aforementioned Unforgiveable Curses."
"And justice for his victims, of course," added Vector with a suspicious stare.
"Of course," said Gawain, waving a hand. "Bind him."
Suddenly, Harry felt his wand flying from his hand. It was only then did he feel a modicum of gratefulness about the fact that Voldemort had kept his original wand. The Aurors would sure to have destroyed it. That wand was one of the Death Eaters, which he didn't have the slightest care if it got snapped. But then he thought sullenly, he might never see his wand again. Not where he's going. He struggled to repress a wince as the Aurors roughly grabbed his arms and tied them behind his back with enchanted chains. A dizzy feeling overcame him for a moment. He closed his eyes to try to regain his composure, but he reckoned the amount of blood that he had lost was slowly addling his wits.
"Wait," called a bushy-haired female, sounding oddly emotional. "You can't – ? Dumbledore – you can't let this happen!"
Dumbledore?
From his kneeled position on the arid grass, Harry directed his focus on the tall, elderly man that had just walked in on the quarrel. Dumbledore was looking directly at him, his countenance grave but calm. The original villagers were circled around them, their faces rippled with annoyance and curiousity. Harry tried to project his thoughts out, to plead with the man to let him do this. He knew that Dumbledore was a Legilimens. He knew that he could read his mind. He just hoped that Dumbledore trusted him enough to go forth with this, even if it risked his life. They needed the Order, not him. They needed someone to keep fighting Voldemort. Even if he had to risk his own life to do it, well . . .
So be it.
After a long stare, Dumbledore straightened. "After instigating the destruction of nearly the entire village," he said, almost serenely. "Surely Mr. Potter deserves the punishment, wouldn't you agree, Ms. Granger?"
He gave the bushy-haired girl a pointed look from over his spectacles. But she flinched at his response. It was clear to Harry that she was in denial.
"What are you – ?" sputtered one of the twin Weasley behind Granger. "He's possessed, you old coot –"
But the Head Auror cleared his throat loudly. "Harry James Potter," he began loudly, unrolling a long piece of parchment. "You will, therefore, receive a life sentence in Askaban without any possibility of parole. The Courts will deliberate on whether or not you will be offered the Dementor's Kiss. Any questions?"
"No."
"Very well," nodded the Auror. "Take him away, lads."
"If I may intervene, Gawain," interjected Dumbledore calmly. From behind the Aurors, Harry shot him a warning look.
But the Head Auror's eye twitched.
"What is it, Dumbledore?" asked Gawain impatiently. He didn't seem too thrilled to be talking with Dumbledore. Not to mention, the Order members all around were glaring at him.
"Perhaps it is wise to heal his wounds before sending him to Askaban," replied Dumbledore calmly, and Harry felt a rush of gratitude in turn. "After all, we cannot have the suspect dying in prison before he receives his sentence."
But another Auror interjected. "Well, he'd just have to make do without it, then," he said stiffly, straightening his robes with a glare. "Don't want him to kill the Healer we send to him, do we?"
"On the contrary, Baird," replied Gawain calmly, his eyes fixed on Dumbledore. "Dumbledore is right. We can't bring justice to the victims if the suspect dies before his sentence. It's best that they see the face of the murderer who robbed them of their loved ones before he passes."
"Oh," huffed Vendor. "but this all getting quite dodgy, isn't it? Very well. Very well. He shall be looked after."
He signaled to the Aurors to take Harry away. The other Order members watched with mixed feelings, their postures stiff and tense. Their expressions grim and forlorn. Their faces burnt and ashy. They couldn't deny the evidence. Irresistibly, what Voldemort had said back at the village echoed in Harry's mind like the drawl of a knife along glass. He gritted his teeth and looked away. But as soon as the Aurors neared him, the burly, brown-haired that Harry recognised as Vendor hissed at him.
"You're lucky Dumbledore's here, Potter," sneered Vendor, his voice lowered. "If I'd had it my way, you'd be ten feet under the dirt before you could say the 'dead.'"
Harry groaned when the sharp edge of the man's elbow hit his ribs. He felt his breath knocked out of him. Partially blinded with pain, he glared at the man. He just hoped, if anything, that Weasley would make it out of this mess.
"Before you could form the word in your head, you mean?" asked Harry darkly, his eyes glistening with pain.
The Auror sneered.
"Cheek, Potter."
A/N: Holy crap. This freaking chapter. That combat scene killed me, but I wanted to do justice to the characters. I really hate absurd power levels. I like it when characters are resourceful and smart about how they fight, and I hope I demonstrated that well. I mean, we all know that Voldemort is obviously just too OP. I don't think Harry can ever meet him in terms of skill alone. He would need – or anyone except for Dumbledore would need – some kind of powerful object to beat him. But whatever. Just me ranting.
Anywho, I just wanted to say that I'm starting University at the end of August, and this story is fixing to be about 40+ chapters, so . . . updates are probably not going to be as frequent then. (These chapters are so long).
I just to emphasise a point, just in case there's a misunderstanding. I am not writing a psychopathic, killing machine dark Harry at all. It goes against his established character to make him out to be someone evil. He is naturally a good person, and if anyone is in trouble, it's his defining character trait to leap first, think later. That's his essence. He is naturally noble.
And that's the trait that I wanted to explore. I wanted to challenge that aspect of the character, to the point where 'saving people' can actually have consequences I am not intentionally making him dark. He is not naturally evil. That's the essence of the character.
If you're looking for that kind of story, this is NOT it.