CHAPTER 53: Year's End (Part 2)

Hogwarts, Fourth Floor Hallway

February 20th, 1994

11:45 a.m.

It had started three months ago.

Ever since that night in the train, as he sat alone in his compartment and everything suddenly turned dark, he saw it. The monster, the ghastly demon that had infiltrated the carriages and made its way across the train. He remembered the way his water turned to ice, the sudden chill that had settled on his compartment, and the feeling of his scar burning up once more as he heard his own screams over and over again.

And then it appeared, the dark spectre, its body rotten and a thin veil that covered its face. It stopped, as abrupt as could be, and slowly turned its head towards him. It had no eyes, only empty sockets, and yet, he could almost feel them from behind the hood, gazing deep into his soul. He was petrified, for the first time in years he froze, fearing the creature would enter his compartment and reveal what lay behind the hood.

But it didn't. It just stared at him, basically devouring him from the other side of the glass yet seemingly powerless to do more than that. And then, it was gone, off to roam the halls of the Express as if nothing had gone amiss.

Dementors, they were called. The guardians of Azkaban, monsters of the worst kind now sleeping right in Hogwarts grounds. Monsters the Ministry had leashed, controlled, monsters Dumbledore ensured would never get anywhere close to a student again. And if they did, their bindings to Azkaban would prohibit them from attacking anyone who wasn't Sirius Black.

The notion held true, at first. They remained in the outskirts of the grounds, their presence noticeable, even visible from the right angle. But they stayed away from the students, and never came close to the castle itself.

But all of that changed as soon as November came. It happened slowly, the creatures gradually getting closer and closer. At first, he had thought it was his own paranoia. His mind playing tricks on him. However, sooner than he would have wanted, it became more apparent it wasn't, and it all culminated atop the Astronomy tower.

During one of his Astronomy lessons, they suddenly attacked. Bursting down from above and pinning him to the ground, he would never forget the feeling of the cold, rotten hands on his throat as everyone screamed around him and ran away. The way his vision quickly went blurry before he was falling into a vast darkness, only for it to stop abruptly as chains appeared around his wrists before latching themselves to the roof, the force almost tearing out his arms.

And then the knife. The confession. The blood. The pain.

Trapped once more inside the memory, he could do nothing but relive it completely. Relive the pain anew, feeling his skin being torn again for the first time. He had grown accustomed to the pain over the years, it had turned into more of an inconvenience than anything, but feeling the knife pressed against his skin again… there was nothing like it.

The second time it happened was nearly two weeks later, as they found him roaming the grounds. Third time was four days after that during the Care for Magical Creatures class. It quickly became a daily routine for them, to seek him out and subject him to his worst memory over and over again. As winter break came, and he stayed within the castle's walls. The castle became his safe haven, its walls the only place the dementors would not dare enter.

And for a while, it held. For a while, he was safe. He stopped going to his Astronomy and Care for Magical Creatures classes, avoided the Quidditch matches and Hogsmeade trips. Made sure he wasn't even close to an open door, lest the dementors suddenly get brave. While not much of a sacrifice, somehow Snape found out about his absences, and he wasn't pleased with this development. He took every chance he could to make it clear just how big of a slacker he was and how he'd be lucky if he ended up inheriting Filch's position after he finished Hogwarts.

Stupid git, he and all the other teachers who told on him to his Head of House. Where were they when Montague was tearing him open? Where were they when the diary took hold of him and nearly possessed him? Where were they when the dementors attacked him? Nowhere. Giving him piteous looks and telling him they were telling Dumbledore. And the esteemed Headmaster? Away on mysterious business in France and Eastern Europe, offering apologies through the mail and assurances that he was doing everything humanly possible to stop this.

But it never stopped.

And just as he had gained a sense of security, it was torn from him once more. Everyone was out of the castle, the Quidditch craze pulling everyone out into the grounds to watch the Gryffindor Ravenclaw match. Alone in the large castle, he roamed around the halls, just allowing himself to feel the air. With his time split between the Room of Requirement, his dormitory, and his classrooms, it had all turned suffocating lately.

He was still reeling from his victory against Lupin. Getting the map - even though he wouldn't be able to use it until next year - and access to the Room of Requirement had been its own reward, but making the professor look like an absolute fool with his peers had been exhilarating. He had never thought he'd gain so much joy out of seeing someone so ostracized from his peers to the point where they began avoiding eating at the Great Hall in the first place.

And the assets it brought him had been beyond what he had imagined. The Room of Requirement and what it could do made his previous training look like child's play as he was finally allowed to explore his skill in as close to a real life situation as possible. If not for the dementors, he would be really pleased with his accomplishments this year.

But of course, their presence couldn't be forgotten. Couldn't be avoided. And there was no better example of that than the sudden sound of glass breaking behind him as a loud shriek pierced his ears.

Startled, Harry grabbed his wand and aimed it at the creature. "Stupefy!" The curse hit it, but before any sense of relief could get hold of him, he watched as the dementor shook it off as nothing more than a soft burst of wind and launch itself at him. It grabbed him by the throat and pinned him against the wall.

Harry shook his legs in the air, avoiding looking at the disfigured creature in front of him as he struggled. But as he did, three other dementors floated into the room behind it. The four of them began grouping on him, making it impossible to see anything other than rotting flesh. He panted, convulsing violently as he tried freeing himself.

His head began hurting, nausea overcoming him as he struggled to keep his eyes open. He forced himself to stay awake, forced himself to keep fighting. But then, just like always, he was falling.

He closed his eyes, waiting for the moment the chains bound to his wrists as he faced Montague once more. Prepared himself to feel the knife on his back, the raging pain of his betrayal on him, on their friendship, on everything he had thought was true.

But instead, he landed on a soft cushion with yellow sheets. More surprising than the cushion was the red bars around it. Thick and tall, they must be ten feet tall. Harry tried standing up, but fell face-first into the cushion as he did. His arms small, somewhat deformed and fat, with tiny hands on their ends.

"What the fuck?" He tried saying, but gibberish came out.

Suddenly, a massive door to his left crashed open and a giant red-headed woman came through. Her faced anguished and eyes bloodshot, she immediately grabbed him from his cage. She looked at every inch of him, analysing him for a moment, before she gave a quick, satisfied nod.

"Mom?" He said, but his words were once again muffled.

She grabbed him and stood still for a moment before Harry realised something awful was happening. "Fuck," she said, her voice strangled. She stood there. A second passed, then another. And another. Harry's breath was sucked out of him as he realised what was happening. She was trying to apparate them out of here.

Quickly but gently, she put him back down on his crib before kneeling on the other side. "Harry, you are so loved." She sobbed, tears flowing down her eyes. "So loved. Harry mummy loves you, daddy loves you. Harry… be safe… be strong."

At that moment, the door was torn off its hinges and sent flying across the room. His mother immediately stood, placing herself between a tall man with long, dark hair and a sick grin on his face. "Lady Potter," he licked his lips and slowly entered the room as he twirled the wand in his hand. "How lovely you look tonight."

Pulling out her wand, she launched a series of curses at the man, but he batted them away with ease before hurling his own curse that sent her flying across the room and crashing on the wall, which she stayed pinned to.

"Leave her alone!" Harry tried to say, but his voice failed him. He tried to stand, but his legs gave up on him.

"And who are you?" The man asked, carelessly grabbing him from the crib and bouncing him up and down with one arm. "You're a little fighter, aren't you?"

"Leave him alone!" She snarled.

"I'll get back to you in a second, love, don't you worry. I'm not taking my eye off you," the man winked at her.

"Rabastan," a firm voice commanded from outside. "Stop fooling around and bring the girl downstairs."

"You always know how to take the fun out of everything, Barty" he scowled. "I'll be there shortly." With another wave of his wand, his mother was sent flying across the room before she crashed against a wall outside. Harry screamed, rocking back and forth as he tried to rid himself of the man's grasp, but he only held him tighter. "Don't worry, little one," the man whispered. "You won't miss a thing."

Blackstone House

December 31st, 1995

10:00 p.m.

"Stand upright, boy," his grandmother berated him for the millionth time that night. "You're making a mockery of your House."

"Yes, grandmother," he mumbled.

"And don't mumble. You'll speak with a tone befitting a Longbottom, is that clear."

"Yes, grandmother."

Fifteen years now. Fifteen years filled with nothing but reproach and humiliation. Whether it was from his classmates, the Daily Prophet, or his own grandmother, it didn't matter. There was not a single day he could remember in which he didn't have to face it. But there was no day when it was worse than during the New Year's Balls. A day he was forced to spend around his grandmother the entire time, in which she would make sure to point out every single thing he has done wrong in the past fifteen years.

If it wasn't his posture, his tone, his face, or his dressing style, she'd bring up how he once forgot his bow tie in his room and embarrassed the family. She'd berate him for all those times in which he lost the pristine composure a Longbottom should have when he'd run around the manor at five years old. Find and say anything she could to embarrass him even further.

And this year's ball was no different. It was exhausting. More than that, it was pissing him off. For years, he'd just done what he thought was right. He's done everything his grandmother had asked of him. Everything that was expected of him as the Boy Who Lived, and he'd gotten nothing but scorn about it. He'd risked his life so that the people he saved could just turn around and shit on him relentlessly.

And yet, everyone was suddenly concerned about Potter. Suddenly paying attention to him, saying his life's unfair, that he had been done an injustice while everyone forgot about him. Dumbledore had gone down to visit him various times over the week, while he had done nothing but avoid him after Voldemort's return.

The mere thought filled him with anger. No one had cared about him after that night. They'd sent him packing home, where his grandmother had tossed him aside and ignored any of his pleas to talk to her about that night. Even Ron and Hermione, who had taken to living in Grimmauld and Shadowfield respectively, began ignoring his owls, answering his letters in the most cryptic ways as he was shut off in his room for the entire summer.

And then, not even a week into the term, and they began calling him out on his aggressiveness, telling him to "calm down," and asking if he was okay. They didn't care. None of them did. They just needed him around to do whatever Boy Who Lived shit they needed from him.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," Neville gritted out and left without waiting for an answer. His grandmother berated him loudly, but he ignored it.

They don't love you, a voice in his head said. They don't deserve you.

Too lost in his own thoughts, he didn't realise someone was in front of them before he crashed into them so hard, it knocked them to the ground.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he hurried out, helping the man up as he tried to avoid thinking about how hard he was blushing. "I didn't see you. I'm sorry."

"Nothing to worry about," he waved him off, a jovial smile on his face. "You're Neville Longbottom, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Neville said, his shame quickly turning into dread at the thought of the man either attacking him or praising him for having his parent's murdered.

"I thought I recognised you, it's an honour to meet you." He shook his hand. "Say, I could actually use your help."

"Help?"

The man's face sobered slightly as it gained a sombre look. "I was hoping you tell me where your brother was."

"My brother?"

"Harry Potter. Well… you're not technically brothers, but… you know… semantics and all." He smiled.

"I…" he trailed off, the mention of Harry making him angry once more. "No, we're not. I- I wish I could help, but I'm afraid Harry's been grounded for the night. He won't be making an appearance in the ball."

"Is there nothing that can't be done? I really need to speak with him, it's rather urgent."

"I'm sorry, but no."

"Oh, well." He said, trying to give him a smile, but it looked forced and defeated.

"But maybe I can help you." Neville said quickly before the man could turn to leave. "I'm sure I could do anything that you needed Harry to do."

"I'm afraid there's nothing you can do. I was hoping to speak to Harry about something he might know about. Information… on my brother's death."

"Your brother?"

"Graham," he said. "Graham Montague. I… well, I heard Tracey Davis killed him, but… he and Harry were once very close friends. And since they were both from the same house and Davis was in his year… I just wondered if he might know something about it. Something the Aurors didn't tell me."

"Mister Montague…"

"Please," he smiled almost shyly. "Call me Eli."

"Eli…" The words caught off in his throat. He couldn't bear to lie about this. To protect Potter and take away any peace and resolution Montague's brother could have about Graham's passing. How would that be fair? How could that be right? "I… Eli, I don't think Tracey murdered your brother."

"What do you mean?"

"I… this isn't going to be easy… but I think Harry was the one that murdered your brother."

"Harry?" He shook his head. "No, no. There must be some mistake. I knew the two had a falling out a few years ago, but surely, he couldn't have been the one to kill Graham."

"I'm certain." Neville said fervently. "I don't have any proof, not yet, but I just know it. You said the two of them had a falling out?"

"I mean, yeah, but surely that couldn't have led to Harry killing him, could it?"

"Did Graham ever tell you what happened between them?"

"Just that he got jealous. Harry couldn't handle the fact that Graham had other friends outside him. Eventually, he…"

"What?"

"Well… he went a little crazy on them. He began to prank them. Not regular, harmless pranks, either. But vindictive and potentially dangerous pranks. Some of them even ended up in the infirmary because of it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, definitely. But… I just… he couldn't have killed him, right?"

"I think he did." Neville said. "And I'm going to prove it."

"I…" Eli faltered for a moment before his eyes gained an intensity to them. "I believe you, Neville. I trust you. Let me help you. Together… we'll make him face justice for his crimes."

Parkinson Palace

10:00 p.m.

"Come on," Pansy stood up, grabbing Theo's arm and pulling him with her. "I can't handle seeing you mope around the entire night."

"I'm not moping," Theo said, his tone betraying his words. She rolled her eyes before settling the two of them in between the others and placing her arm around his shoulder as she grabbed his other hand with her own. "Besides, if you wanted to dance, you needed only ask."

He immediately began to lead them, his form and grace befitting a son of an old pure-blooded house. There were no slip ups or hesitant steps, and the rhythm began to calm him, exactly as she had hoped. Closing her eyes and leaning into the dance, she drew closer to him and let out a steady breath.

"Did you really want to dance, or did you just need an excuse to get this close to me?" He asked, and she could almost feel the smirk grace her ears with his words.

"You have a high opinion of yourself," she said. "And I much rather dance than sit around all night."

"And it was either me or to chose between Draco or Marcus Belby who's been ogling you for the past two years now without mustering the guts to actually ask you for a dance."

"You're making me regret not going for Belby."

Theo laughed, overpowering her scowl as it forced a smile out of her. "I would've thought you've gone for Draco."

"And deprive Daphne of that privilege?" Pansy retorted.

"From what I heard, Harry was enough torture, don't you think?" Theo said, and a moment passed before the smile on his face slowly left him.

"He's going to be fine," she told him, trying to believe it as she did. "Kieran probably found him already, and the two are having a pissing match about who's the bigger arsehole of the two."

"Yeah…" he trailed off, eyes drifting into themselves as his movements lost their fluidity and turned more rigorous.

"Look," Pansy nudged him. "He's Harry. If Montague and those idiots at the Three Broomstick couldn't stand a chance, then neither do Longbottom and his old, frail grandmother. He's probably just pissed at us and ignoring our letters because we abandoned him or some other shit he'll come up with."

"But we did abandon him. And after that night, after our talk… I promised myself I'd never leave him on his own like that. And barely a month passed before I did."

"What were you supposed to do?" She asked, the annoyance creeping up in her voice. "It's not like you could have packed your stuff and moved yourself over to Blackstone House, could you? And I somehow doubt your father would have been thrilled if you kidnapped him and moved him to your house."

"I don't know, okay?" He snapped. "But after everything that's happened, everything we know about Harry, the Longbottom's is the worst place he can be at. He needs us, and I can't just fuck off and stop being concerned about the whole thing."

"You should be concerned," a gruff voice said from behind her that startled both her and Theo from their dance. A black-haired boy, with a large jaw, crooked teeth and a familiar face, loomed over them.

"Marcus?" Theo asked.

"Marcus? Marcus Flint?" She suddenly recognised him. The ill-favoured boy who prowled around the Slytherin dungeons, keeping to himself when he wasn't off playing Quidditch. He had grown in the past year and a half since she had seen him, looking bigger and almost taller, the change making him just the more unnerving.

"Is there somewhere private we can speak?"

"About?" Pansy asked, unwilling to set off with him so carelessly.

"A mutual friend of ours."

"Harry?" Theo asked, only to be silenced by Marcus' intense glare.

She hesitated, looking at Theo for a moment before she nodded. "Follow me." Leading them out of the ballroom as she made sure they weren't noticed or followed as they left the public area. She passed the living room and study on the first floor before spotting the cupboard beside the kitchen. It lacked in tables and chairs, but the room was far from small, and few would think of looking for them in there. It would buy them time, at least, if someone noticed their absence.

Marcus lit up his wand before launching the orb of light into the air and allowing her to close the door before they were enveloped in darkness. Immediately, and with the same paranoia as Snape whenever she had her Healing lessons with him, Marcus began casting privacy charms against the door and walls of the room before he was satisfied with it.

He turned to them with clear distaste. "The both of you can't seem to keep your mouths shut, can you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Pansy countered.

"Exactly what you heard. The next time you wish to speak of topics of such gravity as Harry Potter or allude to some conspiracy, make sure you're not heard."

"What about Harry?" Theo asked.

"Potter's missing. Madame Longbottom reported him missing not even twelve hours after she took him home from King's Cross. The DMLE has been searching for him for the past nine days and haven't managed to find even a trace of him."

"Missing?"

"Ran off during the night." Marcus said. "I'm sure he'll come find one of you eventually, but that's not your concern right now."

"Then what is?" Pansy asked, impatiently.

"The fuck-up the two of you made. Remember last month? When you were staying at the infirmary with Potter after the attack at the Three Broomsticks?"

"What about it?"

"You idiots talked out-loud, inside a government facility, not just about a confrontation between Potter and Montague during Halloween, but also alluding to some conspiracy aside from any Montague business."

"We-"

"Scrimgeour placed an informant inside the room with you." Marcus continued with a firm tone. "Disillusioned, but listening to every word and reporting it right back to him."

"What exactly did he hear?" Pansy asked.

"Enough for Amelia to allow Scrimgeour to lead his own investigation on Potter. Not just on his connection to the Montague murder, but to everything and anything going on in his life - including a possible conspiracy."

"Bloody, fucking hell." Theo groaned.

"The whole operation is underground. He's been recruiting Aurors who he believes are firmly loyal to him and won't present a conflict of interest. Mostly those with whom he's worked on for the past years, but also a few rookies here and there. And fortunately for you, I was one of the few rookies chosen for operation."

"So we're just that lucky all of a sudden? You show up and tell us about this operation just so that we can confirm or deny any of the things you're accusing us. Accusing Harry."

"Your friend was there for my brother when I couldn't be, Parkinson. Michael has grown to care quite a bit for him. I'm not about to repay that debt by selling him out to the Aurors. If I'm telling you this, it's because I can't help Potter on my own. If you and your friends truly don't want to leave him for dead, especially after such an effort to protect him from Azkaban, then I suggest you make up your mind and quick."

Azkaban Prison

10:25 p.m.

A majestic yet horrifying thing war was. Its image so beautifully haunting, so brutal and raw in an almost glorious way. It had been years since he had fought in his last battle, over a decade and a half now, but he hadn't forgotten how it felt. The rush, pure adrenaline that drove him as his instincts took over most of his actions - his mind left to plan on a grander scale as his body almost moved on its own. There wasn't a night he couldn't recall it, not a morning he didn't wake up to the sounds of screams and a blaze of horror.

But in that horror, he'd lost sight of the twisted beauty it held. Oh, the striking portraits a scene like this could invoke. The inside of a dark, grimy tower lit up with a rainbow of different coloured curses all over the place. The guards, frightened and sweaty, brought to their knees as they were surrounded with the corpses of their fellow brothers who had taken up watch. The Death Eaters, dressed, their faces covered with masks and their bodies robed in dark cloaks that almost made it seem they emerged from the very shadows within the staircase.

And in the centre of it all stood the Dark Lord, with an unnerving coldness behind the blood-red eyes as he tore all his opponents apart with his wand still concealed within his robes. The blood of those who stood against him drenched on the walls and stairs, pieces of their organs and brain matter scattered, staining the Dark Lord's bare feet red.

It was an image he'd never forget. One that lasted a lifetime inside his mind before he was abruptly pulled out of it and the battle resumed. The screams of agony that echoed across the tower, the sound of stone being blasted apart and spells clashing mid-air.

The Ministry's forces were large but weak. Filled with cowards and scoundrels who committed petty crimes and were left with no other choice but to serve the prison rather than be subjected to it. They didn't stand a chance. The smart ones fought, knowing they'd die quickly in battle - regardless of the gratuity of said death. The weak ones, those that attempted a futile escape from a desolated island, those had fates worse than death as soon as his compatriots caught them.

They pushed forward, climbing the Grand Staircase at a steady pace, and ventured deeper into the tower. He could feel their presence. The way the air was getting colder, the more they rose, the blood on the floor drying quicker and the consuming feeling of despair that began to fill them. The mere thought of facing them was daunting, though a part of him knew that was only the very dementors amplifying that effect. Manipulating them into believing such a confrontation had no possibility of ending well for them. Though there was little need for that as things stood.

There were hundreds, if not over a thousand dementors, chained by the magic of the tower. Forced to defend it against any attack it may face, any invaders attempting to overwhelm it. And even if it was only a couple dozen of them, only three Death Eaters within the party had mastered the highly complex, near impossible to cast Patronus charm. The fact that the Dark Lord was not included in this select few was the only consolation for his own inadequacies in this branch of magic.

If not for the urgency of his mission, and the need to reinforce his commitment to the Dark Lord and his goal, he would have averted this assignment. But Rookwood held too much of a threat, and with the dangerous game, he was playing against some of the smartest and most capable wizards in the country, he could not afford his personal fears to impose against his plans. For if he faltered, he'd end up right beside the poor, idiotic boy he had put down, not a fortnight ago.

He stayed with the group. The temptation to move forward through the shadows and reach his target before anyone else did was powerful, but until the Death Eaters separated and began sacking each of the main levels for their compatriots, the risk was too high. For the moment Rookwood disappeared, he would make sure he wasn't blamed.

A flash from the corner of his eye had him rolling out of the way of a curse. It shattered against the wall behind him, sending fragments of stone flying everywhere. Moros surged from behind him and launched a vicious green curse at the man. The curse hit true, and the man's knees gave out to him that very instant. Like a puppet whose strings were cut, he crashed face-first onto the ground.

"Come on," Moros growled, pulling him up, and he followed.

The orchestra of curses blasting all around him was nearly too tough to tolerate, but he pushed through it. Within the flashes of light generated with every new curse, he found his target. An old, weathered man who was shouting orders at others while he stood in the front ranks.

He almost felt a twinge of pity at what was to come.

Yaxley launched a couple of curses at the man. A bludgeoning curse that hit him on the hip and brought out a cry out of the man's mouth before the other curse raise him to the air. The man fumbled with his wand, but before he could do anything, Yaxley cut off his wand arm, leaving a black and red stump where his elbow used to be before using another spell to pull him forward, his shaking body dangling above the hole in the centre of the tower before it was dropped down into its dark abyss.

The death of their leader discouraged the rest of the guards as they retreated into the first level and ran from the endless barrage of curses that were sent towards them. The Dark Lord didn't hesitate, his body evaporating in a second as the spot in which he stood was filled with a cloud of darkness that immediately rushed upwards and towards the guards. The rest of them followed, some taking their own flying form and rushing behind them, while others let out victorious howls and ran.

He followed with them, the distance before reaching the ground level of the prison near negligent. Their opponents were foregoing taking a stand or even launching much of an attack at them, relying mostly on shields and aimless cover fire. But just as all seemed won, there was a chorus of loud shrieks that stopped all of them in their tracks and allowed the guards to escape.

A blood-curdling, inhumane sound that brought fear to those who heard it. They appeared soon enough, flying through the corner and hurling themselves at them with such commitment. Nearly three dozen of them, Yaxley took a couple of steps back as he braced himself.

But the Dark Lord was not swayed by them. With a confident stride, almost indifferent, he walked ahead of everyone and stared down at the demon's that haunted every child's nightmare. Raising his hand, revealing an almost shinning brass ring he had not noticed before.

The Dark Lord clenched his hand into a fist, whispering an almost rhythmic chant as the ring began to glow brighter, filling the room with a bronze light. The dementors froze on their path, their rotten hands going to their heads, before they all began shrieking in unison. The sound tore at his earlobes, bringing him and the other Death Eaters to their knees as the pain became unbearable.

But the Dark Lord stood still, unbothered by the assault as he kept chanting and the room grew exponentially brighter. Then, these gray, almost shadowy chains surged from within the ring. The attacked the dementors, latching around their necks one by one and bringing them to the ground as well. And when every dementor in the hall had been subdued, the chains began searching outside it, going through walls and through the passageways as more and more began emerging from the ring.

Their shrieks grew louder and when he couldn't hold it more, he began screaming too. Shaking in the ground, crashing against his fellow Death Eaters as he convulsed violently. And so did them, so did everyone and everything in the prison apart from the Dark Lord.

The agony was unending, the pain far greater than anything he'd ever felt before. So much that, for a moment, he wondered if facing a dementor would have been that much worse. Before suddenly, the shrieks stopped and the chains that held the dementors solidified for a moment before disappearing altogether.

In unison, all the dementors rose and looked straight at the Dark Lord.

"Guard the island," he commanded. "Ensure no one reaches the prison."

That's it for this chapter, thank you all for reading!

Next chapter you'll finally see someone nice interacting with Harry (it took a while, I know) and a big character will make his return. Be excited! :)

By the time I'm posting this, I'm SIX chapters ahead, and I'm almost finished with the next arc titled What We Leave Behind, which will be an in-depth journey inside Harry as various secrets that have been kept start coming out to the light! If you are interested in learning how to get early access to them, join my discord server using the following link: discord . gg / jyPfbGqhJT

As always, thank you for reading, favouriting, and commenting! I appreciate all of you! :)