CHAPTER 60: What We Leave Behind (Part 4)

Grimmauld Place

January 3rd, 1996

4:45 p.m.

Restless nights weren't uncommon for someone like Albus Dumbledore. More often than not, these past couple of decades had seen him sleep a few hours at almost every night. He couldn't remember the last time he enjoyed a full eight hours. Then again, that was something befitting a man with as many responsibilities as him. Hogwarts. The Wizengamot. The ICW. Voldemort. The four of them had latched themselves onto each of his limbs, tearing at him viciously as they gave him no moment to catch himself.

He often wondered how he ended where he did. How he allowed himself to get roped into so many positions of power after he swore to abandon his search for it. Even to this day, there was a certain fear in how he handled it. What others saw as reluctance was him making sure to keep himself in check. To avoid losing himself as he had in his youth.

But people didn't understand. How could they? They'd never felt it, the lust it brought him. They believed him modest. Noble. Kind. And if he was being truthful, he wanted it to be that way. He would rather they believe the lie than see him for who he saw himself as. And he'd keep helping them. Spending his days and nights working for them, for the betterment of their world. The one he almost destroyed in his haze.

And maybe if he did… one day… he'd grow to believe it.

But as his hands weakly pushed the large tome closed, the sound echoing across the empty room, and he looked towards the unconscious boy in the bed beside him, he sighed. Today wouldn't be that day.

Leaving Aberforth and Alastor to deal with the fallout of Voldemort's siege of Azkaban, Albus had spent every waking moment of the past couple of days focused on Harry Potter. The subject of the Mind Arts was one of the myriad of magical branches in which he considered himself to be at the very least proficient. And while not a master in the subject, he was as close as they came without dedicating the continuous and relentless effort that was needed to keep the mind at its sharpest.

He wondered if that would have helped him now. All his research had been for naught, and his attempts to pierce into the boy's mind had left him adrift in a void of flashing images assaulting his eyes. Too fast to paint any picture of Harry's mind, and too chaotic to even reach the person inside. It only left him with a numbing headache and less time to work on saving his life. Worst of all, his research hadn't found something that would indicate anything about Harry's condition.

The use of Legilimency to destroy someone's mind, to shatter it, so utterly they were left a living carcass, was not unheard of. Quite the opposite, it became one of Voldemort's signature methods of murder in the first wizarding war. Used on those he considered blood traitors or people with crucial information, he'd tear up their mind until there was nothing left to it, and left them to be breathing corpses for the rest of their lives.

However, this was different. Harry's mind was still there. His memories, his very soul. He could feel it. It wasn't the cold and empty wasteland he saw in the mind's of Voldemort's victims. Unlike anything he'd seen before.

But as his research led him nowhere and all his attempts to reach him proved themselves to be fruitless, he was beginning to lose hope towards it. It had become evidently clear that he alone wouldn't be able to help Harry. There were few people in Britain who could surpass him in the subject, those who actively relished in devoting themselves to the magic of the mind. He did not know whether it was fortunate or not that one of those people could currently be found in the cellar of the very manor they were in.

After leaving Severus inside the cell and walking out of the basement. He had promised himself that he would never allow him near the boy again. That no matter what was to come, what it would cost, Severus Snape would be placed nowhere near Harry Potter. And while there were others who could help him, those who had mastered the Mind Arts as Snape had… there was not enough time. To risk wasting any more by trying to find someone else to help would be to put Harry's life in greater risk.

And through all his faults and the wicked way in which he went about it… there was still one thing about Severus Snape that he could count on. He wanted Harry to survive.

The doorknob to the basement was cold when he turned it and pushed the door open. Unlike with Harry, no one had come down to give him any food. No one had paid him a visit or given him any of the basic cares that he'd granted Harry the night he was incarcerated. He'd thought it difficult for the Order to turn against someone more than they had against Sirius. But then again, Severus Snape always did his best to surpass Sirius Black's expectations.

He sat in the centre of the room, legs crossed, completely unbothered by the situation. Looking as he had two days ago, he could have been fooled that time passed different down here. Snape knew he was there. He hadn't opened his eye or made a single move, but he knew. And Snape knew he knew.

"The Dark Lord has been calling me," Snape's voice was monotone, as if reporting a nuisance. Some inconsequential rumour he heard through someone or another.

The fact was concerning. An inevitability he'd been purposefully circumventing from his thoughts. For The Greater Good. He grew to hate those words as he witnessed the carnage they wrought upon Europe. The willingness to excuse any action, no matter how vile or unspeakable, on the mere basis of something good coming out of it… It's easy to bask in the beauty of a castle, and nearly impossible to see all the bodies buried in its foundations. But how many people would die for punishing one man?

"You knew of the attack," Albus said. "The planned siege of Azkaban."

"So did you. An instrumental move for the Dark Lord to make. It was only a matter of time."

"Why didn't you warn us?"

"Various reasons, most of which I'm sure you're very aware. However, it was mostly done because it needed to happen. Too many of the Dark Lord's followers were being held there. The very tower became a monument to his failure. He would not have stopped. Would not have changed his mind and chosen new targets. He needed to bring everyone back into the fold, show them their loyalty is rewarded, and that nothing, not even the mythical Azkaban, can stop it. If I had told you, the Order would have attempted to halt it. The Ministry would have most likely been involved as well. The only thing we would be giving the Dark Lord is the knowledge that we knew about the attack beforehand."

"You wished to save your own life."

"Naturally," he drawled. "None of your dunderheads upstairs understand the need for my involvement in the Order. They would have gladly tossed my head to the Dark Lord's feet if it gave them the opportunity to make a bold yet meaningless stand to prove to themselves they're actually doing something. But you don't need me to tell you this. You understood well before you came down to the room. So, why are you really here?"

"Harry hasn't woken up."

"Give it time, the brat will eventually manage."

"What did you do to him?"

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Surely, you must know."

"The subject of the Mind Arts has never been my obsession, Severus. Merely yours. All the research I've done has come with no outright conclusion, and my ventures into Harry's mind have left me more puzzled than before."

"Don't do that." His voice was harsh, more serious than before. "Potter's mind is fractured, shattered, but it's still there. The more you interfere with it, meddling inside, the faster it will decay."

"Decay?"

"The Dark Lord always treats his victims with a blunt approach. He has no interest in keeping any prisoners or give them the chance to put their mind back together. I've been training Potter in Occlumency, using more… unconventional methods to build his walls. His performance was… adequate, at best, but recent events forced my hand and brought an acceleration to his tutelage. The walls he managed to build, however meagre, have all been destroyed. His very mind scattered into little pieces."

"How can we rebuild it?" Albus asked urgently. "Help him in the process?"

"None of us can. If Potter wants to survive, if he wishes for his mind to grow stronger, rebuild itself from being torn apart that way, he needs to want it. He needs to force his mind to endure, to survive. To rebuild itself from its very core. And stubborn as Potter is, that should come easy to him."

"It's been days, and he hasn't shown even the slightest sign of improvement."

"He'll do it."

"And what if he doesn't?"

"Then the boy dies," Severus said coldly. "There's nothing anyone can do, not anymore. You're wasting your time on him. The Dark Lord is the priority right now. Taking Azkaban was only his opening salvos, he's waged war on the Wizarding World. Our time for waiting and manoeuvring in the shadows of the Ministry is over. If we don't act now, make a suitable response, then the war will be lost before it even begins."

"Harry's the priority right now," Albus said quietly. "He's what matters now."

"Don't pretend that you care. You've left Potter to fend for himself for the first fifteen years of his life. How is this any different?"

Azkaban Prison

7:55 p.m.

The light. Blinding. Burning. Peeling his skin off. He panted for breath. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't. Fingers. Sticky. Red. Black. Bleeding. Stinging. Where were his nails? He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't-

The air was sucked out from him. He needed his mouth to breathe. Needed to get some air. There was nothing. Nothing but pain. His fingers instinctively going to his head. He felt the blood in his throat before he began coughing. Could almost feel bits and pieces of his innards climb up his throat as well. His body shook. His eyes bled. He couldn't move. Couldn't even stand.

And in front of him, a pair of pale white feet. Unmarred. No dirt. Clean. Otherworldly.

"Adikia was right about you," the voice said. The voice that was torturing him. Punishing him. Stalking him. He couldn't hear himself think. Couldn't hear himself speak. Could only hear the voice. His voice. "A traitor in my midst. Well done, Rookwood. You should be proud. That is no easy feat."

A set of bony fingers grabbed him by the cheeks and pulled him upward. Put him on his knees. And made him look into the red eyes. He saw himself in them. Saw him being torn apart limb from limb. Saw his face being gutted until it was dripping blood all over. He saw himself die in impossibly gruesome ways. He heard himself begin to whine, to groan and gasp. Heard the ungodly sounds that came from his mouth before his throat was seized by an invisible hand. And he was pulled into his body.

His mouth began screaming, though it quickly became muted as he was enveloped in a madness of sounds and colours. Too fast to grasp. They weren't around him. They were going through him. His brain began burning. Melting. Swimming in magma. It spread through his entire body, from head to toe, travelling through his veins as everything inside burned.

His body thrown like a rag doll inside the abyss. Attacked by the colours and noises. The pictures and voices. He could remember fighting it. Attempting to resist it. How stupid he had been. To extend his own suffering for an insignificant delay.

"Deal with the prisoners," the cold high voice only brought a second of respite before

Even from within his mind, he could feel it. The blood that dripped down his cheeks. The vomit his body expelled. The tearing of what was left of his fingers as he gripped onto something for the pain. He'd bitten off his tongue already. His teeth chipped away at the tip. It was hard to breathe with how much he screamed. For all he knew, he had torn one of his lungs from the bitter effort.

And then it stopped. He fell face-first to the ground. Couldn't even relish it stopping, as he still felt it. He felt everything.

"Forgive me for the interruption, my Lord," a serious voice spoke. "I wished to confer in private for a moment."

"We can discuss this later."

"I'm afraid not, my Lord. Potter's still out there. I wish to go out there tonight and begin my search. I'm taking Dolohov with me… if you let me, my Lord."

"Dolohov?" The voice was curious.

"He's the reason why I wanted to talk. He's given me crucial insight… not just towards Potter, but other alarming matters."

"Very well," the voice hissed before the tall, pale figure began to slowly walk out of the cell.

He panted. Clinging to the ground. Weeping openly. There was no escape. No relief. Nothing. The voice would return. Would keep bursting into his mind. Would hurt. Torture. Maim. Kill. He wanted it to end. Wanted everything to end. He couldn't live anymore. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't-

Suddenly, he felt his arms fall to the ground and his blood ran cold. Rookwood felt as his entire body stilled and sobered from the mess it had been only moments ago. He could feel none of the pain that had been tearing at him. Couldn't feel anything at all, except for the soothing words whispering at the back of his head.

Run, swim - kill, if you have to. Do anything to escape without being caught. No matter the cost.

He stood sharply. His spine was rigid, and he only took a moment to look around the room. To see that the chains that previously bound him were no longer gone, before he sprinted away. Running faster than ever before, like a deranged animal, nearly going on all fours. And when he reached the stairs, he began jumping down them. Always so close to tripping, but his body somehow remaining perfectly balanced as he took his next step.

It wasn't until he had gone five floors down when he met his first resistance. A Death Eater who, as soon as he saw him, fumbled for his wand. But he was too slow. Jumping on him, he growled before biting at the man's neck with a depraved ferocity. Blood sprinkled out of the spot he ripped out, and Rookwood kicked the wand away from the Death Eater's hands before he turned to sprint.

Do anything to escape without being caught.

Without thinking twice, he disrobed the man in front of him and put on the black robes and steel mask. Checking twice around the hall, Rookwood picked up the bloody corpse from the ground and threw it out of the windows, through the bars. And without checking to see where his body landed, he turned and began calmly walking down the stairs.

The corridors were empty, even as he continued descending the steps of the tower, he met very few Death Eaters in the way. Those who he did meet never suspected him, only giving him half glances before they went back to their business. Even with a massive patch of blood in his robes, everyone just let him through.

And when he reached the ground level, he saw why. The chaos in the courtyard as various Death Eaters attempted to rein in what looked like a riot from a large group of inmates. Much larger than the actual number of Death Eaters he'd seen across the prison. Taking his chance, Rookwood ran onto the other side of the island away from the courtyard. He vaguely thought about the boats that were near the courtyard before he felt himself ran straight into the sea and begin swimming away from the island.

The ocean was unforgiving, but Rookwood kept pushing through. He could hear it. The voice in the back of his head that repeated the same statement over and over again. Run, swim - kill, if you have to. Do anything to escape without being caught. No matter the cost. It wasn't a need or an order. It was simply what he would do. What he was doing. Nothing else mattered in that instance. Only doing what he was doing.

Twenty minutes he fought against the current. Twenty minutes of restless swimming in the volatile waters of the ocean. And then he saw it. The small boat that was heading straight towards him. And atop that boat sat a tall woman. She was wearing fancy blue robes, her hair snowy white and lips coated in vivid red lipstick. And she was calling out to him.

"Rookwood!" She shouted, the boat getting closer to him as she smiled. "Rookwood? Right? I work with Yaxley. Come on, I'm here to help you get out" she herded him up the boat as she rambled. "Take off the mask if you'd like. God, I don't know how you managed to swim with that weighty piece of-"

She screamed, interrupting herself when she saw Rookwood launch himself at her. She grabbed her wand from the boat and managed to hit a cutting charm to his lower abdomen. He saw the blood drip out, staining the brown wood of the boat, but he didn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything.

Before she could get in another curse, Rookwood grabbed her wrist and began pulling it up before he gripped it so hard, she lost her hold on her wand. It bounced inside the boat before tumbling down into the ocean.

"Stop!" She shouted, struggling to breathe as he put a knee to her neck. "What are you doing? I'm here to help-" her voice gave out, and she began panting for air.

Placing himself fully on top of her, he sunk his fingers into her eyeballs and began to press with a vicious determination. She struggled, her body shifting beneath him, before the eyes exploded, coating his face red with her blood before she went limp. Brusquely getting up, he grabbed her body and tossed it down into the ocean as well before turning to the far away spot he recognised as land.

No matter the cost.

Deep Within Harry Potter's Mind

As he sat on the floor, his back to the wall and his knees hugged to his chest, his body shivered violently against his will. The house was getting colder. Or at least what remained of it. The walls were half-torn, falling apart with every second, letting the purple light from the outside swallow the room. The island in which the house was standing began to gradually fall, the edges nearing closer with every moment. But with the imminence of the death of his very mind, at least there was quiet.

Montague was long gone, left him alone after their road down memory lane. Perhaps his mind considered it as another step to pay his penance, to be left alone with his thoughts after all of it. He, on the other hand, was more sure than ever that his subconscious had just gotten tired of Montague's droning voice. Facing death with Montague's continued whispering in his ear would have made him throw himself into the void just to shut the bastard up. It was easier to focus on that than letting his mind wander.

He let out a shaky sigh, rubbing his knees as he scowled at the cold. As if something so trivial would make it cease.

Still fearing becoming a monster, Potter? Wake up. You turned into one long before you killed me.

Left on his own, he'd spent hours pondering it. Why had Montague shown up? Were his words what Montague would have told him if he had been alive? Or was it something deep inside him, the hateful, spiteful part of his mind - the one shaped by Montague's wrath - that was trying to speak to him and merely decided to take Montague's form for sadistic pleasure.

It was more than his face. It was his words. The words of everyone else that had shown up just to point out all the flaws and shit stains that marred his life. To single out every single horrible thing he'd done and shove it right down his throat.

Why can't you just accept that, deep down, you're just… like… ME?

Was this his mind's sick way to provoke a fight or flight instinct that would force a reaction and wake him up? Or did he just truly hate himself so much, his mind had no quandaries with torturing him for every second before he died? Thinking too much would lead to all these questions. Would force him to actually think about it all. Which is why he didn't think at all. Which is why he wanted Montague to be in that room, so he could have an excuse to throw himself into the depths of oblivion. He needed the excuse. Maybe that way it wouldn't be so pitiful.

"You've never given into the excuse before," a voice called out from behind him. He launched himself upwards, feeling the cold send a chill down his spine as he turned towards the kitchen behind him and saw them. The two figures standing together. There wasn't a scratch in their body, not one inch of dried blood in their faces. They were perfect and alive and everything he didn't remember them as.

He could feel the words in the tip of his tongue, the denouncement of them and their realness. Felt for a brief moment how the walls of anger and hostility form up before they were shattered to the ground. They were real. As real as they had been all those nights he'd dreamed about them. When he'd pictured them as he begged for a better life and wondered how ashamed they would be if they could see him now. Any ounce of fight left him, his mouth shaking in between the largest smile he'd ever given and the deepest sob from his very soul.

He didn't care as tears poured out of his eyes like never before. He was alone. He was in his mind, his own sacred palace. The one place where he could run towards his parents, looking like a gigantic five-year-old as he launched himself towards them and gripped them tightly with one hand each. Their clothes were woolly. Soft. Real. They were real. They were here. And the fact that their appearance brought the certainty of his end, a sign labelling his final miles into Death Road, it brought him no sadness or despair. Not even a sense of calm or peace. It was almost he'd never felt before, as if he was floating. His heart beating so fast as if its only purpose were to power the unfaltering smile he was wearing. Along with the unending stream of tears, he wondered if this is what it felt to truly be happy.

"My sweet boy," his mother cooed, her lips so close to his ear, he could feel her smile. "My beautiful boy."

A shaky sob left him, but somehow, it didn't shake his smile. Only made him grip her tighter. Of all the days and nights, he spent daydreaming about this moment. About what he would say to them. What he would do. And he was left a blubbering mess, unable to say anything more coherent than a conglomeration of sniffs and laughs. Never in all those times he imaged what it would actually be like, to be so overcome by the whole of it that the only thing he wished was to never let them go. He didn't want to say a word. Didn't want them to say anything, either. Nothing that would risk ruining the moment, tearing him apart back towards reality.

It was the moment of beauty everyone took for granted. Half-heartedly done and almost out of a feeling of obligation or pity. A way of saying goodbye rather than the special home that it was, that you would never get back once you lost it. That some never even got to have. When he watched all those kids at King's Cross, those who ran towards their parents or those that reluctantly went to their side after the million and a half goodbyes they dedicated towards their friends, he often wondered why they did so as a greeting rather than live them as a moment.

He wanted to stay there. To hold on to them until his very last seconds. Until he was swallowed whole by the abyss beneath him. Feeling his father's hands gently tear him away from them felt worse than any knife in the back.

"Time's running out," his father said. The calmness in his voice, the sureness in his face. His dad was a slightly older copy of him, one which he would see in the mirror in only a few years. And yet, he could never imagine himself looking like that. So peaceful. Wise. Almost otherworldly in how old he seemed for someone who barely got past his teenage years. "You can't stay here any longer."

"Time?" Harry took an unwilling step back from his parents. "I… no. No. I want to stay. I'm going to stay. I'm staying. I'm not… I'm not leaving you guys."

"You know what staying means," his mother said. Long red hair flowed neatly down her shoulders, looking at him with a concern unlike any other he'd seen in his life. One so innate, it didn't even make him angry or weak or pitied. It was the type of look he should have gotten tired of by now. One he would have hated as well. But now… it was more than welcome. "There are no second chances, here. No taking this back. You stay… you die."

"Good," he heard himself say, and though the answer felt good, it was clearly not the one that his parents were hoping to hear. "Why should I wake up? What's waiting for me out there? For Black to keep me locked in that cell until he dies? For Snape to come down and torture me to half-death any time he's just feeling pissy about life? For Dumbledore and Longbottom and Granger and every other entitled arsehole to come down there and lecture me about redemption? Claiming all of this is my fault as they all laugh and smile at their blessed and happy lives? No. I'm sick. I'm tired. I'm done. There's nothing out there for me. Not anymore."

"You have responsibilities," his father said. "You have people counting on you, the prophecy that-"

"I never asked for them!" The scream tore at his throat, eyes stinging as the joy he felt had so quickly evaporated. "I never asked for this life. I never asked to be played around with by everyone I came into contact with. To grow up being tortured and beaten to the ground to the point where I can't even try to save my girlfriend - to save every-fucking-body in that tavern - without being turned into some… some bloody monster as everything I ever had, however little it was, is being taken from me. This… dying…" His voice gave out on him, and he turned around, away from his parent's eyes. "Easiest decision I ever made."

It was almost time. The walls around him were gone now, absorbed into the oblivion of his mind, as the floor around the kitchen began to slowly creep up on them. He forced the sobs to stay inside, shut his eyes until no more tears came out. He opened his eyes, nearly panting, before he suddenly saw the uncanny beauty that would come with his death. The shattered remains of his mind, falling apart, being consumed by a purple vacuum. As far as deaths went… at least his would be painless. At least his would be beautiful.

Easiest decision I ever made.

He felt a small hand on his left shoulder, and Harry had to repress the urge to squirm away from it. His mother wanted him to turn around, but he just looked down and cursed himself when her very touch sent him back into tears again.

"But what about everyone else?" Her voice was soft and kind. There was no hint of reproach or urging. It was a quiet question, genuine, unbiased. "All the people who are counting on you. Who depend on you. Who, whether they know it or not, will one day need you to save them."

"I don't care about them. What did they ever do for me? Besides… they have Longbottom. They have their hero. They'll be fine… living the rest of their lives in happiness. They won't ever care if I'm gone."

"I'm not talking about them." She whispered, gently pulling his shoulder so that he turned around to face them. Only… they weren't alone anymore. Theo. Pansy. Michael. Hannah. The shadow of Alastor Moody with his face shrouded in darkness. Ginny Weasley. Even Draco, Daphne, and Blaise were there. "I'm talking about them. All the people who believe in you. Who trust you. Who love you. Those you've come to call friends and who you've come to care for, even if you aren't so willing to admit it to yourself."

"What about those you've saved?" His father asked, and more people began appearing in the crowd. Granger, Longbottom and Weasley. Terry and a few others from the DA. A mass of kids without clear faces. Daphne's little sister. Mrs Weasley. "Everyone you have saved. From Montague. From Dolohov. From Umbridge. From any future Death Eater that would want to attack them."

"And what about us?" His mother's voice shook slightly, and he felt a stab in the heart when a final blond figure appeared in the crowd, smiling at him wide and beautifully and alive. "All of us who believed in you. Who loved you so deeply and so fully… that you can still feel it even after we're gone."

"S-Susan?" He whimpered, and she only smiled brighter.

Dizziness overtook him and just as he was about to feel his knees give up on him, Susan stepped forward and hugged him. He looked for the words, any apology that could be worthy of having three people's deaths in his conscience, to make up for all the mistakes he did. But he couldn't. He clung to her, placing his head in the crook of her neck as he sobbed into her jumper.

"Look at all of us," she whispered in his ear. Her voice soft and kind and as beautiful as he remembered it. "All the lives you've changed. The people who wouldn't be here without you. You've convinced yourself that you're a monster, tore yourself away from everyone well before you met me." She gave a small laugh, and Harry only hugged her harder. "You tried your best to turn yourself into the world's biggest arsehole. A loner who couldn't give the slightest care about anyone else… and even then, you couldn't. Even with everything you went through, all the pain and misery that has riddled your life… you never lost your true nature. It didn't matter how much you tried to hide it, push it down, deny it… even with the world beating you down… you never allowed yourself to turn into who they wanted you to be. Not really."

"S-Susan," he whined. "I'm… I'm not…"

"You helped Michael, someone you didn't even know, and changed his life. You accepted Pansy and Theo - and to a lesser extent the other Slytherins - into your life and became a true friend to them. You saved Neville, Hermione, and Ron even after they were condemning you and calling you a monster. All the people Montague would have tortured and killed. Every student ill prepared to deal with this coming war that you taught and helped even when everyone hated you. All those kids in the tavern that you stopped Dolohov from killing-"

"But I couldn't save you." He tore himself from her shoulder and cupped her face, his eyes lost in hers. "What does that matter if I… if I didn't save you."

She grabbed his cheek and he leaned into her touch. "You tried, Harry. You can't save everyone, but you still tried. You went against a group of adults, up-and-coming Death Eaters, and you stopped them. My death… it doesn't change any of that. Doesn't take away from the fact that you're a hero."

"I… I should've saved you. I should've tried harder. Should've done more. Should've killed Dolohov before he had the chance to lay a finger on you. I was supposed to protect you."

"Harry," she rolled her eyes before gently punching his shoulder. "I wasn't with you just so I could have a personal bodyguard, you prat. I was with you because I loved you. Because I loved that big heart you show to those you care for. Because I loved how I could just look at you, and you'd make me smile. And most of all… I was with you because I could always see who you are, deep to your very soul. Because you, Harry Potter, are living proof how it doesn't matter how much life can kick you down, how you could have the entire world against you, putting you on your knees and on the mercy of this cruel world… and you can still stand up. No matter how much you lose, how many rock bottoms you've hit, and just how much the odds are against you… you always get up and fight back. And this is no different."

"I… I'm sorry. I can't."

"Yes, you can," his mother said with so much sureness, it was hard to keep denying it.

"I don't have my wand… I don't have magic. I can't even get out of my cell, much less… do anything else. Even if I woke up, if I somehow managed that… I can't honour your memories. It wouldn't matter… I'd just be waking up to spend the rest of my life in a cell."

"No, you wouldn't," his father said with the same determined look he saw in the mirror. "You made it by with the Dursleys. No magic. You survived Montague in your first year at Hogwarts. No magic. You survived Tom Riddle, Lord bloody Voldemort, and stopped him from possessing your body. No magic. You survived through the Dementors effects, lived inside a hell that would have torn anyone else's mind apart. No magic. Everything you lived through before this year, all the worst things that have ever happened to you… it wasn't your magic that survived it. It was you. It doesn't matter how powerful everyone else is, or how weak and naked you might feel without your wand. What you have, inside of you, that's something not even all their magic and spells and wands combined could ever stop."

"You're a Slytherin," his mother said. "More than the best dueller in the school, you have a cunning mind. You're smart, resourceful. You're going to get out of that cell. You're going to get your magic back. You're going to prove to us, and to everyone else, why we were right for believing in you."

"Why we still believe in you." Susan said.

He avoided their gazes, avoided their words, as he looked into the crowd and saw all those faces staring back at him. Their mouths didn't open, but he could still hear them speaking so vividly in his mind.

Harry was about to turn when he saw Hannah walking towards him, with the other four Hufflepuffs following her. As she reached him, she gave him a large hug - causing him to flinch. "I'm so sorry, Harry," she said tearfully.

"Just remember, you're not alone anymore, Harry." Theo turned towards Pansy. "You have friends here."

"Easy for you to be so judgy, the worst thing that's ever happened to you is a tie between a stupid prank the twins played on you and having your leg bitten by… a dog. You don't know what it's like," Ginny turned to Harry, a wave of recognition - a shared suffering - passed through him, and he gave her a barely noticeable nod. "You don't know what they're like."

"You saved the lives of my children. And Slytherin or not, that speaks louder than words to me. You did it in a situation when any true Slytherin, one whose solely focus is himself, would not have done that. Because it gives me hope that… perhaps… I was wrong. Perhaps not everyone has to become their House."

"I don't blame you," Daphne told him abruptly, just when he was about to start walking again. "For what you did. Attacking him, carving… that on his face. I'm glad you did."

"I'm sorry, Harry." Theo repeated. "I'm so sorry." Harry began to shudder in his embrace, but Theo only tightened it. He was crying, silently, but crying nonetheless. A moment passed, and he felt Pansy join them from the other side, though with much more hesitancy than what Theo had shown.

Michael began to rub the yellow salve slowly on his right hand, whimpering as he did so. The two stayed there in quiet for a while, before Michael spoke up.

"W-why are you here?"

"I promised, didn't I?"

"Son," his father's voice brought him back from the memories as he saw the three of them looking patiently at him. There was so very little room in the island now, they were crammed in together. There wasn't more time to waste. His father put his hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze as he looked at him with brimming pride. "This is your responsibility now."

"I know," his words came out a shaky whisper. "I…" The thought of going back, choosing to return to his hell rather than finally getting his rest. To stop himself before he could join his family, join Susan… But his father was right. They were all right. To squander his life after they gave theirs for him… to make their costly sacrifice meaningless… it wasn't right. Wasn't fair. More importantly, it wasn't who he was. And as he squared his shoulder and tried not to think about what his return would entail… it was good to feel like himself again after being lost for such a long time.

"I know."

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

Next chapter will be the start of the arc titled The Devil's Greatest Trick, so be excited! You'll see Harry already awake at the beginning of the next chapter, as the chapter will focus on the reactions of everyone inside Grimmauld Place to the news.

By the time I'm posting this, I'm SEVEN chapters ahead, and I've finished writing the last chapter of The Devil's Greatest Trick and will begin the following arc titled Irreconcilable Differences. In which the Winter Break is over and the return to Hogwarts brings a lot of tensions begin to boil over. 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! :)