My Past Will Always Catch Up
Allanasha Ke Kiri
Prologue
They were killed on a raid.
Dubledore had assured their safety; said they would be fine. There wasn't supposed to be anyone there. Empty. Unguarded. Everyone would be distracted elsewhere. Harry was needed elsewhere.
Ron told him they'd be fine. Hermione said they'd be careful, and left after hugging him. He'd never liked being hugged, but he'd put up with worse to have them back again.
Dumbledore had promised their safety. He was wrong. Very wrong. Seven Death Eaters waited for them, along with Him. 10 of the order died. Three Death Eaters joined them. None of it mattered. Voldemort killed Ron and Hermione.
Harry watched it happen. In the middle of the important gathering meant to draw Voldemort's attention, Harry was dragged into a vision. He watched them scream; watched them writhe on the ground. He watched a green light snuff out their life.
He didn't watch them beg. Not once. Right at the end, Hermione looked straight at Voldemort, at Harry within him, defiant until the end.
"Be strong, Harry," she said, as though she knew.
Harry broke that night. He grieved as he'd never done before. He screamed, and yelled. Vases, mirrors, and dishes shattered around him. He cried. He refused to fight, couldn't bring himself to do it, to look past the fact his friends, the only family that ever mattered, were dead.
No one could snap him out of it.
Dumbledore apologized for yet another mistake in a long line of them.
"My source was wrong, my boy. I never would have risked them otherwise."
"Find a new source," Harry said, drained of anger; drained of tears; drained of care.
Eventually, he left. Snuck out in the middle of the night, desperate to get away from their smothering. He'd needed time to himself, time away from the constant guarding. He hadn't cared if Voldemort found him. He hadn't cared about anything. Hadn't for weeks.
It was dawn, hours later, before Harry realized he didn't have to go back. He could just keep walking. He didn't need anything. Not really. He had his wand. He didn't need his trunk. His cloak. His memories. It would only lead people to him.
Even his wand was a risk, but he couldn't bring himself to snap it. The thin stick was as much a part of him as Ron and Hermione were. Had been.
He kept walking.
They were taken from him. Both Dumbledore and Voldemort were responsible. Dumbledore sent them to the slaughter, and Voldemort killed them. They were the reason he didn't care anymore. The world could burn around them, and he wouldn't look back.
After all, what good was a savior who'd stopped caring?
Five years passed without him looking back once.
Sometimes, late at night when his defenses fell, when Little Harry continued to grieve in the dark, he wondered what became of them. Who won the war? Had Dumbledore defied prophecy and triumphed? Or had Voldemort claimed victory? Was anyone still looking for him?
Never once did he feel shame. They had taken everything from him, and gave nothing in return. The Wizarding World could burn. It had nothing he wanted. It was no longer his concern.
The world was a large place. A man could be forever lost, if he wanted.
"Raven, you're up."
He glanced up from the mirror, nodding once to show he'd heard. Raven, a temporary name given to him years ago. Another layer between him and who he used to be.
Green eyes, blank of emotion flickered over his face, checking everything was in order. His scar, the only true way to recognize him, was covered. Without it, he was just a muggle look-a-like. A nobody to be overlooked and forgotten. Without it, he could safely hide in plain sight and never worry.
He was still short and slight in stature, but the years had given him a grace where there hadn't been before. Dueling and dancing didn't have much in common, but one needed awareness of their body, an ease in their own skin. He had it. He'd developed it during the war, and honed it at the club.
He rose, turning to the stage. It was his job to give them what they wanted. It always had been. Only the how had changed.
Anything was better than where he had been. He was never going back.
