Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Return to Reality
... ... ... ...
... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord ...
... ... ... ...
For some disconcerting reason the boy distinctly reminded Harry of a pig in a wig. "Getting a little on the podgy side, aren't we cousin?" he asked, cold green eyes glinting dangerously.
The fat boy only squealed in response, cowering further behind his parents in a pathetic attempt to hide himself. As if either could ever cover their son's obese mass.
The beefy man with a fat moustache, Harry presumed he was Vernon Dursley, drew himself up to his full height. Harry wasn't in the least intimidated, shifting his wand between sweaty fingers impatiently. "I want you both OUT," the man spat, flecks of spit flying from his mouth, glaring at the two teenagers. The protruding vein on his forehead pulsed, expanding, ready to burst. "I demand you unnatural freaks leave us NOW. We want nothing more to do with you!"
And still the Light thought these 'people' had a right to exist. It was laughable, ridiculous.
Stupid. Muggle. Scum.
They repulsed him.
"But why should we leave, muggle?" Draco Malfoy sneered, raising one eloquent eyebrow. "We just got here."
Harry pointed his wand at the horse-faced woman, his grin lopsided. "You're only getting what you deserve," he added, taking a last swig of beer and tossing the can at their expensive television set. The usually pristine kitchen was in ruins. "And honestly, the world will be much better off without you."
Let the fun begin.
"Crucio."
... ... ... ...
... born to those who have thrice defied him ...
... ... ... ...
Sirius felt completely numb as he made his way up the garden path to Godrics Hollow, wishing for all he was worth it could be someone else - anyone else - to break the damned news. He walked as slow as he dared, booted feet patting lightly on the wet bricks winding a pathway up to the manor. The old, cracked oak door marking a side entrance was reached only too soon, and Sirius knocked quietly in a half-hearted hope no one would hear. In the time it took James to thump down the hall, Sirius had already backed away three steps.
"Padfoot!" James greeted with a boyish grin, swinging the door open wide.
Sirius just stood there, unable to move. His heart thudded hard in his chest, his mind racing, pounding. A thick silence overpowered them, drowning the Potters' overgrown garden in stifling unease. Sirius' stomach tossed violently. He didn't know what to say, how to find the right words. There was no enticing way to put it, really.
James frowned, wary. "Padfoot?" He took a small step forward, away from the warm comfort of his home, and slung an arm around Sirius's shoulder, shaking him. "What's wrong?"
When all else fails there's always honesty.
"They've found him, James."
"Found him?" James asked, his voice thick with dread, disbelieving. "What do you mean exactly?"
Sirius cleared his throat and plunged on. There was nothing for it.
"Harry. The ministry has him."
... ... ... ...
... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal ...
... ... ... ...
Harry opened his eyes slowly, his vision blurred from the bright light overhead and his left forearm stinging painfully. Had that been a dream? Yet it had felt so real...
Harry moaned, his head buzzing. It would be his last morning ever with the Dursleys, but as relieving as that was, somehow the nightmare of torturing them to death with Draco Malfoy did not seem fitting. In a matter of hours he would be seventeen and leaving the house for what he hoped to be a very, very long time. He could hardly wait.
Putting his weight on his elbows, Harry sat up from the bed, glancing quickly around the dingy room. Sleep suddenly dissolved, his breath caught tight in his throat. Wherever he was, it was not the smallest bedroom of number four Privet Drive.
The room was dark and square, with not a single window to allow in any natural light. There were ugly grey, mouldy tiles stretched across the walls, reaching right up to the ceiling. Harry was reminded slightly of a very dirty hospital. He wore a set of itchy pale blue trousers and a plain nondescript T-shirt. A small door loomed in front of where he lay, but there was no handle or any hinges joining it to the walls.
With another stab of surprise, as Harry tried to rub the image of the room from his eyes - convinced he must still be dreaming, he found himself restrained to the bed with a handcuff on his left wrist.
"So, you're finally awake."
Harry jumped.
Unnoticed in the far corner sat a shadowed figure, perched on the edge of his seat.
Harry blinked and the man shuffled, moving further into his sight, the familiarly bemused expression catching Harry's memory.
"Shacklebolt? What's going on?" Harry stopped tugging on the handcuff, relieved that an Order member was there. Wherever he was, and whatever he was doing there, surely Harry would be alright now. There's no need to panic, Harry told himself crossly. Yet.
"You've been captured, Mr Potter. A team brought you in earlier this morning."
Harry started panicking.
"Brought me in? Is this a joke?" Harry demanded, not in the slightest bit amused. His gaze flicked about the room again, searching for his wand. He couldn't help but feel just that bit more vulnerable without it at hand.
Kingsley ignored him, bringing out a copy of the Daily Prophet from a pocket of his robes. He leant back on his chair in the corner, content to read his paper and ignore the prisoner.
Harry's earlier relief at the Auror's presence had fled, screaming. Something was very off.
"I haven't done anything wrong," Harry began again. "Why are you acting like this?"
"You can't fool me, Potter," Shacklebolt quipped back, raising his head slightly over the top of his paper and blinking at the wide emerald eyes. "Don't waste your breath trying."
"What?" Harry groaned, sitting up straighter in the bed. The sharp, stabbing pains of a migraine began to hurtle themselves about his temple mercilessly.
Shacklebolt took a deep breath, his patience wavering thin. Still not lowering his paper, he spoke over the top of the thick, large pages, his voice muffled and coarse. "You are a Death Eater, Potter. You have been captured and now you must pay the price for your sins."
"That's ludicrous!" Harry laughed bitterly. "Am I dreaming? Are you /mad/? Me? A Death Eater!"
"Are you mad?" Kingsley snapped back. "Thank Merlin your parents aren't here to see this."
"My parents? Why would they be here?" Harry tugged again on the handcuff and added, rather sarcastically, "they died years ago, in case you've forgotten."
Shacklebolt rose instantly from his chair, his wand pointed straight to Harry's heart. He couldn't miss.
"Why would you say such a thing, Harry?"
Harry stared dumbly back at Shacklebolt, confusion clearly evident on his face. "I don't understand what's happening. I want to see someone..." Who could he trust? There was obviously something very wrong with Kingsley... "Remus. I want to see Remus Lupin."
"Lupin?" Shacklebolt repeated slowly, not making an move to lower his wand. "And why should he waste his time with the likes of you?"
"What?" Harry tugged again hard on the handcuff, with a slightly higher sense of urgency. This could not be happening - not now, not then. Not ever. He mustn't yet be awake, surely. "I am not a Death Eater. I've never killed anyone, Kingsley, you know that. I haven't done anything!"
Shacklebolt sank slowly back into his chair, keeping his wand steady on Harry. "I wont talk to liars, Potter." With one last pressing glare, his wand was swiftly placed back into his pocket and his head disappeared again behind the newspaper.
Harry stared at the front page, starting at the large picture of himself. "Is that me? On the paper?"
Shacklebolt flipped the Daily Prophet over briefly to look at the front page. "Yes."
Harry took a shuddered breath and smiled, trying to reassure himself. This wasn't happening, it simply couldn't be. Perhaps he was delusional? Crazed? Suffering from harsh post-traumatic stress? But maybe the paper could explain something ... anything. "Can I read it?"
Shacklebolt held his gaze, plainly suspicious. "Why should I let you?"
"Please?" Harry looked at him wide eyed, his voice ebbed just a little bit desperately.
Shacklebolt ignored him for a moment before throwing the paper over, thinking it would probably be the last thing he'd ever read anyway. A life sentence in Azkaban was waiting right around the corner.
Harry picked up the paper with a shaking hand, his eyes blurring over the article. "I need my glasses."
Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow, annoyed. "You don't wear glasses."
What the fuck? Harry looked back at the newspaper, quickly deciding not to bother arguing with such blatant stupidity. There was no way in hell the Auror could have ever gotten away with being that unobservant. Perhaps it wasn't Shacklebolt at all, Harry thought. Most likely it was a Death Eater taking Poly Juice potion, or under some other misguided disguise. In fact, Harry reasoned, he had probably been captured by Voldemort. That explained it. Now he would just have to play along until he figured out a way to escape.
Surprisingly though, Harry didn't find it too hard to see the words in the article now that he looked closely, and the picture of himself wasn't wearing glasses either. Harry stared again at the picture, quite satisfied - there wasn't even a scar on his forehead, his most famous and recognized feature. The newspaper was obviously a fake and a lousy one at that. They hadn't even bothered to get a real photo of him! Harry smirked.
Lights Victory on Right-Hand Man
Report by Special Correspondence, Rita Skeeter
The Wizarding world will sleep peacefully tonight knowing that Harry Potter, right-hand man of You-Know-Who, has been captured at last. The most unlikely Death Eater, coming from a good and loving family dedicated to the Light, has been on the Ministry's 'Most Wanted' list since June of last year.
Potter has risen quickly amongst the ranks of Death Eaters since leaving Hogwarts in his fifth year, You-Know-Who putting his strong magical gift to the worst offences.
Last night Potter was found with his school-hood friend Draco Malfoy, also a known and wanted Death Eater, having tortured then murdered his muggle relatives in Surrley. A squib (at present time wishing to remain anonymous) living down the street from where the attack took place, heard sounds of the brutal abuse in the quiet muggle neighbourhood and notified Auror's immediately. By the time the Auror's had arrived all three muggles were dead. Malfoy was quick to disapparate, but Potter was in such a drunkenly insane state he was easily stupified and taken in to the Ministry.
Potter will go to trial shortly that will inevitably end with a life sentence in Azkaban. The specific charges on which he is being held have yet to be released, but at least eight allegations of murder have already been approved.
You may ask, with such an upbringing as Potters', what could possibly have gone so wrong?
And in answer to that I leave you with a few words of caution. In times as dark and uncaring as these, where faith and trust and hope are fast diminishing, where families are frayed, justice forgotten and morality unkind; no-one is safe. No-one is innocent. No-one can be trusted. And no-one can really be quite sure of anything.
Harry's mind reeled.
Voldemort must be stark-raving mad to have come up with this! Completely bonkers. What was the point in it all? Making a stupid newspaper and getting some other lunatic to dress up as Kingsley ... It made no bloody sense. The whole thing was completely preposterous. What were they trying to do, brainwash him?
"Well then?" Shacklebolt asked, quite disinterested. Nothing that came out of the boy's mouth could be trusted anyhow. "What do you have to say about that?"
Harry threw the paper back with as much force as he could muster. It hit the wall to the right of Shacklebolt with a slap, falling to ground.
"I've had enough. I want to see him, now."
Kingsley sighed. "The problem is, I don't think Remus will want to see /you/, Harry -"
"As if I want another bloody imposter!" Harry yelled, rolling his eyes at Kingsley's bewildered look. "I know you serve Voldemort," he laughed airily as Kingsley flinched, "and I want to see him, now. Enough messing around."
Kingsley leant back in his chair, pretending the outburst had not disturbed him and opened the paper again, determined to ignore the juvenile for good this time around. "You really are crazy," he muttered, fingering his wand through the fabric of his robes.
"Crazy? Me! As if you're one to talk!" Harry glared at the newspaper, his splitting headache only increasing as the nightmare went on and on. Shouldn't he have woken up already? "Thinking you could fool me into thinking I've done all those things - that I'm a Death Eater! I suppose I was under the Imperius curse or something, right? Well, I'm not that gullible! I know I haven't done anything."
Shacklebolt made no response.
"What's the point in keeping me here?"
Harry gave another violent tug on the handcuff, his skin breaking under the metal. "I'd rather he just killed me and got it over with."
"So would I."
"Brilliant, glad we agree on something," Harry rolled his eyes and kept tugging on the handcuff, attempting to dislodge the rail from where is was secured to the bed. Blood began to form around the crease of his wrist, folding under the cuff, irritating Harry more.
He wasn't asleep. He wasn't about to wake up.
"Stop it."
"No."
Slowly, Kingsley lowered his paper. This would have to be the most heart wrenching ordeal he'd had in a long while - to think, poor Lily and James - and all he was meant to do was watch the stupid brat. He'd never been particularly close to the couple's only child, but James he'd known for years as a fellow Auror and the family had always been in the Order, as close to Dumbledore as you could get. "If you honestly believe you aren't a Death Eater, Harry, explain the mark on your arm."
Harry looked down at his left forearm, his wrist rubbed red and dripping. At first glance it wasn't even noticeable, but as Harry stared hard at his pale skin a pink glow of the familiar skull and snake symbol became clearer, darker - more painful, intoxicating, frightening. Harry's heart thumped harder in his chest.
"This has never been here before," he hissed, glaring at Shacklebolt, fighting the first bout of real, uncontrollably intense panic growing inside of him. It had been a ridiculous façade to begin with, but they were definitely pushing it too far now. Actually marking the Boy-Who-Lived and then pretending like he was one of them!
"You put it there," Harry accused.
"Oh, really?" Kingsley went back to his paper, albeit a little unsettled by the boy's relentless lies. "Do you deny knowing Mr Malfoy too, then?"
"Of course not! We went to school together, but I hate him! I've always hated him!" Harry rolled his eyes again in exasperation. "What, I'm supposed to believe we're little Death Eater buddies, am I? You couldn't come up with anyone any better? Personally, I think Pansy Parkinson might be slightly more believable."
"And last night? You have no memory of murdering your relatives in Surrley, I suppose?"
"That was a dream. It didn't really happen. And you must have planted it in my mind, eh? Now it's making sense." Harry closed his eyes tightly shut, wishing to believe that he was somewhere, anywhere else, and if he could perhaps only go back to sleep he'd wake up again at the Dursleys, where Ron and Hermione would soon be arriving and their search for the Horcruxes' would begin, like they'd been planning for all summer ...
Shacklebolt's frown deepened and he brought the Daily Prophet up once again to hide his face. Was it possible Harry was telling the truth, that he honestly didn't believe or remember that he had committed those horrid crimes?
Perhaps he was in denial.
Either that or psychotic.
... ... ... ...
"Why did he do it, then?" said Harry, who felt numb and cold. "Why did he try and kill me as a baby? He should have waited to see whether Neville or I looked more dangerous when we were older and tried to kill whoever it was then -"
HPatOotP, pg 743.
... ... ... ...
Voldemort heard the complete prophecy.
A timeline was corrupted, tainted - doomed.
Fate was beaten.
Destiny washed away.
Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.
... ... ... ...
... /either must die at the hand of the other/...
... ... ... ...
...pppqqq...
... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord ...
... ... ... ...
For some disconcerting reason the boy distinctly reminded Harry of a pig in a wig. "Getting a little on the podgy side, aren't we cousin?" he asked, cold green eyes glinting dangerously.
The fat boy only squealed in response, cowering further behind his parents in a pathetic attempt to hide himself. As if either could ever cover their son's obese mass.
The beefy man with a fat moustache, Harry presumed he was Vernon Dursley, drew himself up to his full height. Harry wasn't in the least intimidated, shifting his wand between sweaty fingers impatiently. "I want you both OUT," the man spat, flecks of spit flying from his mouth, glaring at the two teenagers. The protruding vein on his forehead pulsed, expanding, ready to burst. "I demand you unnatural freaks leave us NOW. We want nothing more to do with you!"
And still the Light thought these 'people' had a right to exist. It was laughable, ridiculous.
Stupid. Muggle. Scum.
They repulsed him.
"But why should we leave, muggle?" Draco Malfoy sneered, raising one eloquent eyebrow. "We just got here."
Harry pointed his wand at the horse-faced woman, his grin lopsided. "You're only getting what you deserve," he added, taking a last swig of beer and tossing the can at their expensive television set. The usually pristine kitchen was in ruins. "And honestly, the world will be much better off without you."
Let the fun begin.
"Crucio."
... ... ... ...
... born to those who have thrice defied him ...
... ... ... ...
Sirius felt completely numb as he made his way up the garden path to Godrics Hollow, wishing for all he was worth it could be someone else - anyone else - to break the damned news. He walked as slow as he dared, booted feet patting lightly on the wet bricks winding a pathway up to the manor. The old, cracked oak door marking a side entrance was reached only too soon, and Sirius knocked quietly in a half-hearted hope no one would hear. In the time it took James to thump down the hall, Sirius had already backed away three steps.
"Padfoot!" James greeted with a boyish grin, swinging the door open wide.
Sirius just stood there, unable to move. His heart thudded hard in his chest, his mind racing, pounding. A thick silence overpowered them, drowning the Potters' overgrown garden in stifling unease. Sirius' stomach tossed violently. He didn't know what to say, how to find the right words. There was no enticing way to put it, really.
James frowned, wary. "Padfoot?" He took a small step forward, away from the warm comfort of his home, and slung an arm around Sirius's shoulder, shaking him. "What's wrong?"
When all else fails there's always honesty.
"They've found him, James."
"Found him?" James asked, his voice thick with dread, disbelieving. "What do you mean exactly?"
Sirius cleared his throat and plunged on. There was nothing for it.
"Harry. The ministry has him."
... ... ... ...
... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal ...
... ... ... ...
Harry opened his eyes slowly, his vision blurred from the bright light overhead and his left forearm stinging painfully. Had that been a dream? Yet it had felt so real...
Harry moaned, his head buzzing. It would be his last morning ever with the Dursleys, but as relieving as that was, somehow the nightmare of torturing them to death with Draco Malfoy did not seem fitting. In a matter of hours he would be seventeen and leaving the house for what he hoped to be a very, very long time. He could hardly wait.
Putting his weight on his elbows, Harry sat up from the bed, glancing quickly around the dingy room. Sleep suddenly dissolved, his breath caught tight in his throat. Wherever he was, it was not the smallest bedroom of number four Privet Drive.
The room was dark and square, with not a single window to allow in any natural light. There were ugly grey, mouldy tiles stretched across the walls, reaching right up to the ceiling. Harry was reminded slightly of a very dirty hospital. He wore a set of itchy pale blue trousers and a plain nondescript T-shirt. A small door loomed in front of where he lay, but there was no handle or any hinges joining it to the walls.
With another stab of surprise, as Harry tried to rub the image of the room from his eyes - convinced he must still be dreaming, he found himself restrained to the bed with a handcuff on his left wrist.
"So, you're finally awake."
Harry jumped.
Unnoticed in the far corner sat a shadowed figure, perched on the edge of his seat.
Harry blinked and the man shuffled, moving further into his sight, the familiarly bemused expression catching Harry's memory.
"Shacklebolt? What's going on?" Harry stopped tugging on the handcuff, relieved that an Order member was there. Wherever he was, and whatever he was doing there, surely Harry would be alright now. There's no need to panic, Harry told himself crossly. Yet.
"You've been captured, Mr Potter. A team brought you in earlier this morning."
Harry started panicking.
"Brought me in? Is this a joke?" Harry demanded, not in the slightest bit amused. His gaze flicked about the room again, searching for his wand. He couldn't help but feel just that bit more vulnerable without it at hand.
Kingsley ignored him, bringing out a copy of the Daily Prophet from a pocket of his robes. He leant back on his chair in the corner, content to read his paper and ignore the prisoner.
Harry's earlier relief at the Auror's presence had fled, screaming. Something was very off.
"I haven't done anything wrong," Harry began again. "Why are you acting like this?"
"You can't fool me, Potter," Shacklebolt quipped back, raising his head slightly over the top of his paper and blinking at the wide emerald eyes. "Don't waste your breath trying."
"What?" Harry groaned, sitting up straighter in the bed. The sharp, stabbing pains of a migraine began to hurtle themselves about his temple mercilessly.
Shacklebolt took a deep breath, his patience wavering thin. Still not lowering his paper, he spoke over the top of the thick, large pages, his voice muffled and coarse. "You are a Death Eater, Potter. You have been captured and now you must pay the price for your sins."
"That's ludicrous!" Harry laughed bitterly. "Am I dreaming? Are you /mad/? Me? A Death Eater!"
"Are you mad?" Kingsley snapped back. "Thank Merlin your parents aren't here to see this."
"My parents? Why would they be here?" Harry tugged again on the handcuff and added, rather sarcastically, "they died years ago, in case you've forgotten."
Shacklebolt rose instantly from his chair, his wand pointed straight to Harry's heart. He couldn't miss.
"Why would you say such a thing, Harry?"
Harry stared dumbly back at Shacklebolt, confusion clearly evident on his face. "I don't understand what's happening. I want to see someone..." Who could he trust? There was obviously something very wrong with Kingsley... "Remus. I want to see Remus Lupin."
"Lupin?" Shacklebolt repeated slowly, not making an move to lower his wand. "And why should he waste his time with the likes of you?"
"What?" Harry tugged again hard on the handcuff, with a slightly higher sense of urgency. This could not be happening - not now, not then. Not ever. He mustn't yet be awake, surely. "I am not a Death Eater. I've never killed anyone, Kingsley, you know that. I haven't done anything!"
Shacklebolt sank slowly back into his chair, keeping his wand steady on Harry. "I wont talk to liars, Potter." With one last pressing glare, his wand was swiftly placed back into his pocket and his head disappeared again behind the newspaper.
Harry stared at the front page, starting at the large picture of himself. "Is that me? On the paper?"
Shacklebolt flipped the Daily Prophet over briefly to look at the front page. "Yes."
Harry took a shuddered breath and smiled, trying to reassure himself. This wasn't happening, it simply couldn't be. Perhaps he was delusional? Crazed? Suffering from harsh post-traumatic stress? But maybe the paper could explain something ... anything. "Can I read it?"
Shacklebolt held his gaze, plainly suspicious. "Why should I let you?"
"Please?" Harry looked at him wide eyed, his voice ebbed just a little bit desperately.
Shacklebolt ignored him for a moment before throwing the paper over, thinking it would probably be the last thing he'd ever read anyway. A life sentence in Azkaban was waiting right around the corner.
Harry picked up the paper with a shaking hand, his eyes blurring over the article. "I need my glasses."
Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow, annoyed. "You don't wear glasses."
What the fuck? Harry looked back at the newspaper, quickly deciding not to bother arguing with such blatant stupidity. There was no way in hell the Auror could have ever gotten away with being that unobservant. Perhaps it wasn't Shacklebolt at all, Harry thought. Most likely it was a Death Eater taking Poly Juice potion, or under some other misguided disguise. In fact, Harry reasoned, he had probably been captured by Voldemort. That explained it. Now he would just have to play along until he figured out a way to escape.
Surprisingly though, Harry didn't find it too hard to see the words in the article now that he looked closely, and the picture of himself wasn't wearing glasses either. Harry stared again at the picture, quite satisfied - there wasn't even a scar on his forehead, his most famous and recognized feature. The newspaper was obviously a fake and a lousy one at that. They hadn't even bothered to get a real photo of him! Harry smirked.
Lights Victory on Right-Hand Man
Report by Special Correspondence, Rita Skeeter
The Wizarding world will sleep peacefully tonight knowing that Harry Potter, right-hand man of You-Know-Who, has been captured at last. The most unlikely Death Eater, coming from a good and loving family dedicated to the Light, has been on the Ministry's 'Most Wanted' list since June of last year.
Potter has risen quickly amongst the ranks of Death Eaters since leaving Hogwarts in his fifth year, You-Know-Who putting his strong magical gift to the worst offences.
Last night Potter was found with his school-hood friend Draco Malfoy, also a known and wanted Death Eater, having tortured then murdered his muggle relatives in Surrley. A squib (at present time wishing to remain anonymous) living down the street from where the attack took place, heard sounds of the brutal abuse in the quiet muggle neighbourhood and notified Auror's immediately. By the time the Auror's had arrived all three muggles were dead. Malfoy was quick to disapparate, but Potter was in such a drunkenly insane state he was easily stupified and taken in to the Ministry.
Potter will go to trial shortly that will inevitably end with a life sentence in Azkaban. The specific charges on which he is being held have yet to be released, but at least eight allegations of murder have already been approved.
You may ask, with such an upbringing as Potters', what could possibly have gone so wrong?
And in answer to that I leave you with a few words of caution. In times as dark and uncaring as these, where faith and trust and hope are fast diminishing, where families are frayed, justice forgotten and morality unkind; no-one is safe. No-one is innocent. No-one can be trusted. And no-one can really be quite sure of anything.
Harry's mind reeled.
Voldemort must be stark-raving mad to have come up with this! Completely bonkers. What was the point in it all? Making a stupid newspaper and getting some other lunatic to dress up as Kingsley ... It made no bloody sense. The whole thing was completely preposterous. What were they trying to do, brainwash him?
"Well then?" Shacklebolt asked, quite disinterested. Nothing that came out of the boy's mouth could be trusted anyhow. "What do you have to say about that?"
Harry threw the paper back with as much force as he could muster. It hit the wall to the right of Shacklebolt with a slap, falling to ground.
"I've had enough. I want to see him, now."
Kingsley sighed. "The problem is, I don't think Remus will want to see /you/, Harry -"
"As if I want another bloody imposter!" Harry yelled, rolling his eyes at Kingsley's bewildered look. "I know you serve Voldemort," he laughed airily as Kingsley flinched, "and I want to see him, now. Enough messing around."
Kingsley leant back in his chair, pretending the outburst had not disturbed him and opened the paper again, determined to ignore the juvenile for good this time around. "You really are crazy," he muttered, fingering his wand through the fabric of his robes.
"Crazy? Me! As if you're one to talk!" Harry glared at the newspaper, his splitting headache only increasing as the nightmare went on and on. Shouldn't he have woken up already? "Thinking you could fool me into thinking I've done all those things - that I'm a Death Eater! I suppose I was under the Imperius curse or something, right? Well, I'm not that gullible! I know I haven't done anything."
Shacklebolt made no response.
"What's the point in keeping me here?"
Harry gave another violent tug on the handcuff, his skin breaking under the metal. "I'd rather he just killed me and got it over with."
"So would I."
"Brilliant, glad we agree on something," Harry rolled his eyes and kept tugging on the handcuff, attempting to dislodge the rail from where is was secured to the bed. Blood began to form around the crease of his wrist, folding under the cuff, irritating Harry more.
He wasn't asleep. He wasn't about to wake up.
"Stop it."
"No."
Slowly, Kingsley lowered his paper. This would have to be the most heart wrenching ordeal he'd had in a long while - to think, poor Lily and James - and all he was meant to do was watch the stupid brat. He'd never been particularly close to the couple's only child, but James he'd known for years as a fellow Auror and the family had always been in the Order, as close to Dumbledore as you could get. "If you honestly believe you aren't a Death Eater, Harry, explain the mark on your arm."
Harry looked down at his left forearm, his wrist rubbed red and dripping. At first glance it wasn't even noticeable, but as Harry stared hard at his pale skin a pink glow of the familiar skull and snake symbol became clearer, darker - more painful, intoxicating, frightening. Harry's heart thumped harder in his chest.
"This has never been here before," he hissed, glaring at Shacklebolt, fighting the first bout of real, uncontrollably intense panic growing inside of him. It had been a ridiculous façade to begin with, but they were definitely pushing it too far now. Actually marking the Boy-Who-Lived and then pretending like he was one of them!
"You put it there," Harry accused.
"Oh, really?" Kingsley went back to his paper, albeit a little unsettled by the boy's relentless lies. "Do you deny knowing Mr Malfoy too, then?"
"Of course not! We went to school together, but I hate him! I've always hated him!" Harry rolled his eyes again in exasperation. "What, I'm supposed to believe we're little Death Eater buddies, am I? You couldn't come up with anyone any better? Personally, I think Pansy Parkinson might be slightly more believable."
"And last night? You have no memory of murdering your relatives in Surrley, I suppose?"
"That was a dream. It didn't really happen. And you must have planted it in my mind, eh? Now it's making sense." Harry closed his eyes tightly shut, wishing to believe that he was somewhere, anywhere else, and if he could perhaps only go back to sleep he'd wake up again at the Dursleys, where Ron and Hermione would soon be arriving and their search for the Horcruxes' would begin, like they'd been planning for all summer ...
Shacklebolt's frown deepened and he brought the Daily Prophet up once again to hide his face. Was it possible Harry was telling the truth, that he honestly didn't believe or remember that he had committed those horrid crimes?
Perhaps he was in denial.
Either that or psychotic.
... ... ... ...
"Why did he do it, then?" said Harry, who felt numb and cold. "Why did he try and kill me as a baby? He should have waited to see whether Neville or I looked more dangerous when we were older and tried to kill whoever it was then -"
HPatOotP, pg 743.
... ... ... ...
Voldemort heard the complete prophecy.
A timeline was corrupted, tainted - doomed.
Fate was beaten.
Destiny washed away.
Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.
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... /either must die at the hand of the other/...
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...pppqqq...
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