Chapter I

"Protego Diabolica!"

He shielded her, not himself. If it were only him, the world would have shattered before the curse reached his skin. Blue fire roared around them, searing the stone, twisting the air with heat and smoke. She screamed, her side split open, blood spraying across the floor like ink in water.

"No! Keep your focus!" Her voice tore through the chaos. "There are too many!"

The aurors pressed in, a tide of shining wands and shouted commands, but the flames rose faster, curling like living serpents, consuming everything in their path. Those foolish enough to step into the inferno evaporated instantly. Sparks bounced off the walls, igniting curtains, papers, and shards of stone. The stench of burning magic and iron choked the atrium.

Harry knelt beside her, clutching her torn robes, his hands slick with blood. "We need to move!" he bellowed. The gash was deep, the blood pouring like a river, already forming crimson puddles on the cold floor. He pressed his hands to her wound, muttering charms he knew would do little, she needed a healer. He shook her gently, forcing her to stay conscious.

"Not yet!" she gasped, teeth clenched, eyes wild. "He’s still inside..."

"He can handle himself!" he shouted. "I’m taking you out of here!"

Curses collided in the air around them. A jet of green light slammed into the stone wall, shattering it into jagged fragments. He ripped her to her feet, their combined magic erupting in a storm of fire and shadow. Sparks of crimson and blue lit the air as he sent curses ricocheting, blocking every path, every angle.

Flames licked their ankles, curling higher with each heartbeat. The walls shook as hexes slammed against them, some melting, some shattering. Her hand was slick in his, but she clung like part of him, guiding him through the inferno.

"Maximus Eruptio!" He roared, sending a wave of molten rock, broken glass and debris hurtling toward the aurors. The ground trembled, and the aurors slammed against the walls, their bodies crushed under the weight of his magic, like rotten fruit.

Screams echoed as the remaining aurors fell back under his onslaught, but more kept coming. Amidst the chaos, he caught sight of a pair of cold, unblinking eyes, lips murmuring. Rage flooded him. With a guttural cry, he unleashed "Ignis Gehennalis!" Crimson fire erupted from his wand, carving a path of death through the air, hunting for one-just one-if only this could end him.

"That's it!" He twisted a shard of broken stone into a portkey and slammed it into her hand. "Go! Now!"

Even now, Harry could still see the look in her eyes. He traced his bloodline on the Black tapestry, as if searching for meaning, as if trying to stop the memory from clawing its way back. That expression haunted him in his dreams, in his waking hours, in the silence of the night. It lived, engraved in the back of his eyelids, etched into his mind. Voices hurled at him in the dark, his mind had become his prison.

"I'm not leaving you!" She cried

"I will push you through!" He pressed his lips to hers, heart breaking. "Go!"

With all the power he had gathered over the years, he cut through the chaos, the wards, and the flesh, sending her tumbling through the portal, away from the inferno, away from him, and away from the hell he was about to unleash.

He closed his eyes, shutting out the screams, the stench of blood, the sight of mingled bodies on the floor. "There is only pain, and those who learn to inflict it," he whispered, raising his wand for one last spell. "Duleo!"

Long before that night, before the fire and the screams, he had stood in the dim light of Grimmauld Place, shoulders slumped, staring at the Black family tapestry.

"I know you're tired, Harry." said Hermione softly.

Harry stood before the Black family tapestry, staring at the scorched spot where Sirius's name had once been, now marked only with deceased. He had rarely felt so tired. Even their long year on the run hadn't left him this numb, this lethargic. He frequently found himself staring into space, unable to summon the energy to do anything. He found himself drawn to the tapestry, standing in front of it for long periods, as if hoping to find something other than hurt in it.

Most days, for hours at a time, he hid in the basement of Grimmauld Place, where they had discovered an ancient library bursting with books on every magical subject imaginable. Many bore the signatures of their authors, addressed to various members of the noble House of Black.

But the library was not without its dangers. Some books were cursed. Others demanded offerings to open. A few interrogated the reader at first touch. One particularly vile-looking tome had hissed, Would you rather kill a Muggle or a Mudblood? When Harry answered "neither." the book whispered "unworthy" and went blank.

Harry could tolerate the gloom of Grimmauld Place. He could tolerate Ron and Hermione breaking off their whispered conversations whenever he entered a room. He could even tolerate the endless owls, some wishing him health, some wishing him death. You'd better not be crossing any dark alleys alone at night, Potter. He simply piled the letters away.

He could almost tolerate the Prophet and the Ministry speculating about him, demanding things of him. What he could not tolerate, however, was himself.

It wasn't the lack of purpose the Prophet suggested. It wasn't the idea, timidly offered by Hermione, that he'd actually died. Nor was it the absence of Quidditch, as Ron had reassured him. It wasn't even the loss of so many friends and loved ones.

The Burrow had been unbearable. Mrs. Weasley's grief was expected; Mr. Weasley's was not. He had wept openly, blaming himself. George, however, had turned to stone. He hadn't spoken since the funeral. He had left for the shop, and only Lee Jordan claimed to hear from him at all.

What truly gnawed at Harry was the sense that he hadn't done anything. He had been a pawn, manipulated, kept in the dark until truths were either obsolete or too late to change. He had even walked, willingly, to his own death. "The noble act of He Who Lived Twice!" the Prophet had called it. To hell with that. Harry hadn't even really killed Voldemort, he had just... died. Twice. Yes, he and Ron and Hermione had destroyed the Horcruxes, an impossible task for anyone else, but now it all felt strangely hollow.

He knew, intellectually, that they had stopped a mass-murdering Dark Lord. He knew he had saved lives. He knew it was remarkable for three teenagers, pawns or not. But why did he feel so empty? Why not victorious, joyful, powerful?

Ron, in a rare moment of insight, had told him he had never truly processed the deaths around him because he'd always been running, fighting for his life. Now that there were no more battles, no more distractions, he was left with nothing but the gloom. Harry had laughed, accusing Ron of spending too much time with Hermione.

"Harry?" Hermione whispered now.

"I was thinking... Well... It doesn't matter." muttered Harry.

"Harry, you can talk to me. To us. You have to." she insisted.

"I know, Hermione... it's just that... there's nothing really." He looked away.

"Of course there is. How can there not be?"

"I don't know... What time is it? Lunchtime? Is Ron here? Kreacher!"

Harry tried to slip past her, calling for Kreacher as Sirius once had, but he felt Hermione's gaze on him and paused at the door.

"Look, I'm fine, really. I'm just not feeling chatty. I like to enjoy the calm after all that's happened. That's all." he said kindly.

She didn't look convinced, so he added, "Okay, I'll try to talk more, all right?"

"Well... all right. Just don't close up on us, Harry. Okay?"

"I don't think I could after all."

They both smiled. Harry knew the pep talk had bought him a few days of peace from concerned lectures.

With a loud crack, Kreacher appeared, bowing deeply. "Master forgives Kreacher. Kreacher was preparing a meal for Master and his friends."

"That's great, Kreacher! We're starving."

"Lunch will be served right away, Master."

And with another crack, Kreacher vanished, leaving Harry alone under Hermione's still-heavy gaze. She smiled faintly and left the room.

Harry lingered for a moment, steeling himself for a lunch he knew he would not enjoy as much as he once would have.

They were his friends; he loved them. He didn't want Ron back at the gloomy Burrow or Hermione returning to a family that no longer remembered her. That thought made him feel selfish, but they had all sacrificed, all risked everything.

He descended to the kitchen, where Ron greeted him with a grin. Harry took his place at the head of the table, Sirius's seat.