Chapter 8
Harry wasn't sure what he had been expecting after pacing in front of the Room of Requirement and desperately thinking, I need practice—no, I need real experience in fighting! In combat with actual dangerous situations!
He certainly had not expected to see dozens of towering statues lined up in front of him: some were three meters in height and made of stone, others intricately carved and made of metal, all of them sculpted in the form of different magical creatures. Harry recognized a few like the Acromantula or the Cerberus or the—was that centaur pointing an arrow right at him? Something about them reminded him of the chess pieces from the tasks for the Philosopher's Stone—motionless yet intimidating, as if they would come alive at any moment.
"Look," Hermione pointed at the painted lines on the floor that squared in each statue. "Try and see what happens when you cross that line! Don't worry, I'm right here with you."
"I'm not scared," Harry protested as he stepped over the boxed line containing the centaur and instantly regretted his words when three arrows whizzed towards his face in rapid succession. He had barely raised his wand to cast a defensive shield when he felt Hermione unceremoniously yanking him behind the line and watched with awe as the arrows stopped in midair, as if they had hit a wall. Harry looked towards the statue and was unnerved to find the centaur frozen in the action of pulling back his bow.
"What are they?" He marvelled, his head swirling around to study the dozens of other creatures, trapped in their mini arenas.
"An advanced enchantment, I'm guessing." Hermione warned: "Though you shouldn't underestimate them just because they aren't real. Did you see how fast that thing reacted? I think we should enter those spaces, but keep as close to the line as possible before we gain enough confidence to face them further in. We'll also take turns so that someone else can watch for anything going wrong."
Harry looked down the massive hall and spotted a statue he swore had come straight from the last chapters of The Monster Book of Monsters, feeling a strange mixture of apprehension and excitement wash over him.
The more he and Hermione practiced, the more his excitement dwindled and his apprehension grew. The statues not only had the advantage of size, weight and raw power, but paradoxically moved so swiftly and sharply that he had trouble believing they were just enchanted imitations. Too many times he took a wrong step, responded too slowly, and let panic overtake him before he stumbled back over the line or relied on Hermione to interfere and save him.
Still, every day he and Hermione would find time to battle the stone monstrosities. The more he practiced and the less time it took for him to get in and out of the outlined arenas, the more he could feel himself improving. Harry had always been quick on his feet, but now he was learning to strategize and make the most of what he had, instead of acting recklessly. His responses grew faster, his movements turned sharper and more fluid, and he no longer felt wary of using more 'dangerous' spells on the statues if it meant he could get out in one piece.
Sirius' eagerness to make use of the Black Library had helped grow the 'Potential Offensive Spells' list by quite a bit, but Harry wasn't satisfied just yet.
Harry knew that he could probably just go to McGonagall about getting a pass into the restricted section of the library, but he felt hesitant to do so when he had another option. It wasn't that he disliked his Head of House, it was just that he sometimes felt like he was under interrogation in her presence—as if she was always silently measuring his worth. He also couldn't shake the feeling that whatever he did tell her would find its way to the Headmaster eventually and after this year where almost all of the Hogwarts staff had turned a blind eye to his situation, he didn't feel very charitable in letting any of them be privy to his thoughts.
Flitwick was different, somehow. Harry had been unsure about taking the small, cheerful professor up on his offer to 'talk' at first, but the allure of learning more about his parents had led him back eventually. One thing he liked about the visits was that he never felt pressured to talk; Flitwick was more than happy to chatter on about silly anecdotes and random musings while Harry relaxed on a chair opposite him with a cup of tea and pitched in here and there. Hermione had come along with him for the first few visits, but later decided it was best for him to go alone.
He had a feeling that she knew how hungry he was for the stories Flitwick told, the small crumbs of knowledge about his family, of how his parents used to act when they were his age, how they spent their days, how they performed in their classes, even the little phrases Flitwick happened to remember them saying...they were like pieces of a puzzle that he eagerly held onto and clumsily tried to put together.
Of course, there were other matters brought up during their little chats as well. For one, Flitwick was ecstatic about how much Harry had improved in Charms and was always ready to delve into the subject or encourage Harry to ask him questions.
"Such a pity," Flitwick sighed that day. "The gillyweed you used for the second task was very practical and I wholeheartedly congratulate you on your excellent results, but I was so hoping you would try another charm."
Harry smiled into his teacup, wondering if the professor would once again break into praise over how 'wonderfully' the Accio charm had been cast, with 'no holes in the enchantment whatsoever!'
"The gillyweed was the best option in the end, but I did experiment with the bubble-head charm as well."
"Oho!" Flitwick clapped his hands. "Let's see it then."
Harry got up and demonstrated the regular bubble-head charm on himself and when Flitwick asked to see his 'experiments' he pointed his wand at the professor and chuckled as a half-goblin sized bubble surrounded him, lifting him off the ground.
"Marvelous," Flitwick's voice came out dimmed from behind the bubble. "These walls are very tight, almost solid. What was the reason for the change?"
Harry scratched his head. "Before I found out about the gillyweed, this charm was my only option and it just didn't seem enough. So I played around with it like the charms guide showed me, making sure I would be guaranteed a supply of oxygen that wouldn't run out and making sure that nothing else could come in. Then, I got bored and tried different things."
"Well, I hope you get bored much more often." Flitwick looked much too pleased for someone trapped inside an air chamber. "It takes more than just talent to modify charms, it takes ideas and a willingness to try new things. Usually, we don't teach modification until after your O.W.Ls. I was right when I said you have a knack for charms, just like your mother!"
Being compared to his mum always filled him with pride, but he was barely given any time to bask in the glow when Flitwick murmured, "These enhancements, however, can be rather dangerous. You could use this to render your opponent immobile in the middle of battle. The layers making up these walls are so thick that even I would take some time breaking out and in that delay you could have either deprived me of oxygen or substituted it with another gas entirely. Was that inten—"
"Intentional? I don't know." Harry let out a bitter laugh, cancelling the charm. "Anything I try to learn or do this year, I always end up thinking, 'How would this help me if I was attacked? How would this help me in the tasks?' I guess that's what happens when you're forced into a tournament of death and have your life hanging in the balance by a thread. Everything gets twisted, no matter the original intention."
Flitwick walked over to his desk and sat back down, with solemnity in his expression that had been absent from their meetings so far. "I wasn't accusing you of anything there, Harry. Frankly, it bothers me that you—a fourteen-year-old boy who should be at most stressed over exams—have to worry about survival to the point of obsession. It's not right."
"A fourteen-year-old boy? No one seemed to remember that when it came to me. It was just finger-pointing and judgemental stares, even from the professors who I was supposed to be able to turn to."
Flitwick looked stricken. "The professors were under instruction to not help any champion in order to make it fair."
"Fair?" His voice rose. "Is that really what you all thought? That ignoring and leaving me to fend for myself was fair? When all the other champions are older, all of them legally adults, all of them prepared and trained, all of them ready for what they signed up for. And then there was me—I just wanted to get out in one piece. I never cared about winning, not when I was forced into this. Was that never factored in?"
Harry was silent for a moment and his voice was low when he asked, "What do you make of this scenario? A player in the shadows goes past the defences of the Ministry and the Headmaster in order to enter one particular student into a tournament of death. You know that letting the student participate is giving the suspect exactly what they want, yet you force the student to go through with it anyway, with minimal help. Why? Is it still for the sake of fairness?"
"Harry. That's not—" Flitwick turned pale. "I'm sure Dumbledore had no such intentions—"
"I never said his name." Harry said quietly.
Harry had realized early on why he was being forced to participate in this farce. Going through the old wizarding laws and magical binding contracts had made it clear to him that no matter what Dumbledore had said about having no choice, there were ways that it could have been made easier on him. He could have been made an honorary participant and given permission to merely go through the motions instead of risking his life. They could have compensated his young age and lack of knowledge with real training if they really wanted to make it fair. So much more could have been done, yet in the end… nothing.
The answer was simple, really, once he stopped seeing everything through rose coloured glasses. He had realized as early as that morning, when he had woken up on Hermione's shoulder and opened his eyes to reality. After, he had pushed that thought to the back of his head for most of the year. There was nothing he could really do about it at that point, but dwelling on the truth hurt more than he cared to admit.
He was bait.
Flitwick got up from his chair and started pacing around the room, heavy lines on his forehead. For a second, Harry was sure that he heard something resembling grunts and snarls, but it was so jarring with the polite, gentlemanly image he had of the half-goblin that he convinced himself he had imagined it.
The professor turned around then and barked. "What have you learned so far?"
"What?"
"I may be a Charms professor, but I'm no stranger to offense. I'm half-goblin, Harry, we know how to protect ourselves against an enemy. So tell me, what spells have you learned to defend yourself?"
Harry was taken aback at the frenzied look in Flitwick's eyes but listed out the basic spells he had been practicing with Hermione in the Room of Requirement. Spells like Incendio to set things on fire, Bombarda to make explosions, Defodio to gouge out weak spots like the eyes, Reducto to disintegrate objects near the opponent, Stupefy to knock them out and the list went on. He was careful not to mention any of the Black Family spells.
"All good, decent spells. Some of them you won't learn until sixth year." Flitwick scrunched up his eyebrows in thought. "But if you're right and you really are being used as bait for a person even Albus can't handle, then that might not be enough."
"If I'm right?" Harry raised his eyebrows. "Wait, so you really didn't know about all of this? About someone else putting my name in?"
"The professors weren't told explicitly what happened, no. Perhaps your Head of House knew the details, but the rest of us were given the basic rundown: somehow your name got past the goblet's defenses and you would be participating. I remember that Professor Sprout was quite irritated with the whole affair."
Harry felt his ire rising once again. "No one even bothered to ask how a fourteen-year-old had gotten their name in? Even if I had asked an older student to help me, there was no explanation on how I was chosen as a separate choice from all the other schools. That's not simple magic!"
Flitwick had gone back to his desk and was rummaging through a stack of books but he looked up at that moment, impressed. "Correct. Not simple magic at all, especially when manipulating Albus Dumbledore's enchantments. I suppose none of the professors really thought about it, they just—"
"They just thought, 'oh, there goes that Potter brat making trouble and seeking attention again!'" He felt numb.
The professor sighed and didn't say anything; his silence was answer enough.
"I can't do anything to erase how you were treated at the start of this year. What I can do is help you with whatever I can for the last task. Granted, you only have a couple of months left, but better late than never."
A book flew out of Flitwick's hands and floated over to Harry. "We'll start with this. My speciality lies in charms which you should know by now is just a subset of spells. It doesn't mean I'm incompetent with the rest or that I'm a stranger to the dark arts. Do you know what makes a normal charm or spell dark, Harry?"
Harry thought carefully, remembering the feeling when he had devised the air chamber. "Intent, professor."
"Well said!" Flitwick smiled sincerely. "If you turn to the first chapter, you will find various spells that were created in history for practical means and later used for different purposes. Wizard masonry, for example, relied heavily on a spell used to cut through stone as easily as cutting through butter. Then someone had the... lovely idea to use that on people instead and…"
The professor went on and highlighted different spells throughout the book which he felt could be useful to Harry. They weren't dark in the sense that Harry felt disgusted learning them; they were dark in the sense that he could see the possibility of turning them into weapons. He quite liked the approach.
When Flitwick ended the session and wordlessly passed Harry a note allowing him passage into the Restricted Section of the library, Harry couldn't keep his curiosity down any further.
"Not that I don't appreciate the help—because I do. But when I came to you last time for help, you clearly stated that you wouldn't involve yourself in the Tournament. What changed?"
For the most part, Flitwick's enthusiasm and larger than life cheerfulness made people forget about his height. But at that moment, his eyes dimmed and he seemed to shrink in on himself and looked so small—smaller than Harry had ever seen him.
"Do you remember, Harry? That day shortly after your name was called from the Goblet, in the Great Hall when you made a speech denouncing your fellow students and then turned to us—the professors—with such disappointment in your eyes, not saying a word and just leaving. I remember seeing that and feeling shaken, without understanding why. Today, I saw that look in your eyes again and it filled me with shame.
"I know that it might be far too late of an apology, but I hope you can forgive us professors for failing you so spectacularly."
Harry didn't know what to do with the apology. He wasn't used to his rants and emotional outbursts being taken seriously by anyone other than Hermione. Almost unconsciously, he tried to lighten the atmosphere.
"Well, you were all treating me like an adult, weren't you?" Harry attempted to smile. "I might have forgiven being expected to handle the tournament like an adult, if I had been given the adult status and benefits of it too. Maybe even given the right to manage my own accounts and have full rights over where I can stay or go."
"You mean—" Flitwick sounded aghast. "You don't have those rights? You're not speaking of Gringotts, are you? Have I been living under a rock this whole time or have you always been treated like this? Next thing you'll tell me that this isn't the first time you've been used as bait either! Merlin forbid…"
"Huh. Weren't you one of the professors in charge of making the obstacles to the Philosopher's Stone? I thought you knew that already." Harry himself had only realized much later this year when he had gone back to pick apart his experience at Hogwarts with his newfound suspicions. Hindsight was sometimes just plain depressing.
Flitwick sank into his seat and Harry reached out to refill his cup of tea.
He had a feeling he would be there for a while yet.
With the note allowing him entry to the Restricted Section, books on 'harmless but deadly' spells which Flitwick had loaned, as well as Sirius' eagerness to make use of the Black Library, Harry could finally deem his list of offensive spells sufficient. The only reason to hold back on practicing them on a target was for fear of causing too much destruction.
But that wasn't a problem for Harry. The Room of Requirement repaired each statue anyway, even that giant skrewt he had accidentally blown to smithereens. This was a massive boon to Hermione who kept extolling praises about how efficient the Room was. When they took turns and Harry switched to watching from the sidelines, he noticed that although she wasn't as fast or creative in her battle tactics, all of her spells accurately targeted the statues' weaknesses and never missed. There was a calculating edge to her approach that intrigued him.
Harry let out a low whistle as he watched Hermione freeze her monstrous opponent with a strong immobility charm and then proceed to blast off both of its legs.
"Soon enough, not even the worst of the monsters this room has to offer will be a challenge for you."
"Well," Hermione huffed and pushed the sweaty strands of curly hair out of her eyes. "I'll just have to duel you then."
He raised an eyebrow. "I'm a challenge, am I?"
Hermione studied him with a pensive look and then—in a way that sent a shiver down Harry's spine—smirked slyly.
"As a matter of fact, you are. It's not exactly a secret that you're the strongest student of our year in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Year after year, you manage to achieve some impossible feat. People call you the Boy-Who-Lived for something that happened when you were a baby, but as far as I'm concerned, the Boy-Who-Survived would be more fitting considering all the horrible situations you've survived."
At his scoff, her voice grew fierce. "You don't know how you look when you're completely focused in a battle, do you? I've watched you fight these past few days and there's this—this intensity in you. Wild. Powerful. Burning in your eyes. Maybe it should scare me, but all it does is make me want to face that energy head-on."
Harry stood stock still, not expecting Hermione to have seen into him so closely. Seen the anger and fear and storm of emotions that he always kept bottled up inside of him being channelled into his training. The truth was that he liked not having to hold back, liked setting himself loose, liked not having to care about the consequences.
It frightened him how much he liked it.
Why didn't it frighten her?
He met her determined eyes and said, "Let's do it then. A duel."
"Just one?"
"As many as it takes for you to defeat me." He said and was promptly forced to duck a stinging hex. "Hey!"
He chuckled and got into a fighting stance, readying his wand. "You may not be frightened of me, but I can't say the same for you. You are brilliant, Hermione Granger. And a little scary."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Harry James Potter." Hermione sniffed, raising her own wand. "Let's begin."
And so they did.
The first duel didn't last long. Hermione was quick and precise, but he was faster in the moment and better at dodging her curses.
Harry fired off an Expelliarmus which Hermione parried easily. She returned fire by chain casting a body binder, tripping jinx, and a banishing charm.
Harry ducked and rolled out of the way instead of casting a shield, watching how Hermione moved and waiting for his opening.
Before she could start another spell chain, Harry took the offensive. "Furnunculus! Diffindo! Stupefy! Stupefy!" Harry called as he moved in a semi-circle around Hermione.
His spells rained down on her and she dodged the first and cast a Protego against the following. It was exactly what Harry had been hoping for, and he pushed all his power in a banishing charm. It slammed against her Protego and threw Hermione off balance.
Harry shouted "Stupefy!" before she could right herself and the red beam struck her square in the chest, causing her to fall.
He took a steadying breath and walked over to where Hermione lay, picking up her wand and casting Enervate.
Hermione gasped as she came to, but her eyes quickly narrowed with purpose and she was on her feet again before Harry could say anything.
Silently, they took their places across from each other and began again. This next duel took longer than the first and felt twice as fierce. Hermione was relentless, but what unnerved him the most was the way she focused on every little movement he made—like she was studying him, memorizing his fighting style. Harry won again, but by the end, sweat was beading down his forehead and he was breathing in between gasps.
"Again." She said.
"Again." He repeated, feeling a thrill go through him.
They took their positions at opposite sides of the room and raised their wands once more. At the shout of go, Hermione didn't wait for Harry to fire and immediately began to move and cast spells one after the other. "Avis! Oppugno! Incarcerous!"
The birds she conquered dive-bombed Harry and while they were easily dispelled, It made him vulnerable to the ropes that flew in his direction.
He yelled "Reducto!" just before the ropes wrapped themselves around him.
Harry's curse landed on the floor in front of Hermione, causing her to be hit with bits of stone from the floor. He dispelled the ropes, while Hermione cleared the dust and debris from the air. They volleyed spells, ducking, dodging, and shielding as they moved about the room.
Hermione must have seen an opening in his movements because she tried another chain: "Langlock! Diffindo! Reducto!"
When he still chose to dodge instead of raising a shield, she aimed the reducto at the floor just as Harry had. As soon as it landed, she cast: "Petrificus Totalus! Expelliarmus!"
Harry felt himself falling and his wand go flying.
When he gained control of his body again, he opened his eyes to see Hermione standing over him with her wand levelled towards his chest.
"Thank you," Hermione said with a gleam of triumph in her eyes and a large grin on her face. "For the challenge."
"I'll beat you next time," Harry promised.
If possible, she smiled even wider. "I look forward to it."
And as Harry lay on the ground—tired, sweaty, and his muscles aching from the practice—he couldn't help but laugh, feeling happier and more alive than he had in a long time.
A month after practicing in the room, they had battled and defeated nearly all the enchanted targets save for the last three at the very end of the line.
"Is there a need to fight them?" Harry, for some reason, felt hesitant in fighting these human-like dummies with the same violence he had shown the magical creatures. "Do you think they'll make us fight among ourselves in the third task?"
"Even if they don't, can you guarantee that no humans will be involved in the third task? What if they're shape-shifters? What if one of the champions goes crazy and tries to hurt you? What if the person who put your name in the Goblet decides to intervene?"
Harry felt his hesitance waning. He knew all of this already, really—Hermione's words were just the final nail in the coffin.
Creature or human: did it matter? If they were trying to kill him, there was only one real way to respond.
He tightened his hold on his wand and stepped past the line for the first human dummy. The first one was small and seemed to specialize in speed, illusion, and spells Harry never saw coming from the shadows; the second one took only a minute to memorize his fighting style and imitate him to the degree that it felt like fighting himself; the third one was aggressive and ruthless in its attack, pushing Harry to retaliate with the worst of the spells from the list.
Thud. Thud. Thud. The spell had sliced through the statue's body at three different locations: neck, abdomen, and knees. Harry should have felt sick imagining what it would have looked like if it was a real person, lying on the floor in pieces of blood and gore. However, all he felt was an unfamiliar buzz and a sense of satisfaction—of winning, of surviving.
"You did well, Harry," Hermione said quietly, beside him. She too had shown visible discomfort when a particularly powerful spell had turned her statue to dust.
"I know this isn't easy. I don't truly want you to fight anyone else like this. Maybe I'm being over-dramatic, but as you pointed out... it's nearly the end of the year. If someone wants to hurt you, the logical thing to do is to eliminate the threat. No matter what, you have to survive."
"I will." A shiver ran through him out of nowhere, the voice from his nightmares suddenly laughing in his mind. "I promise you, I will."
Chapter 9
His latest nightmare had put Harry on guard even more than usual. If Voldemort was still in his wraith form, how could he have tortured Wormtail? No, things had changed and even Dumbledore's cryptic answers seemed to be warning him to be careful. The Headmaster had been quiet when Harry asked him about the dream, offering confirmation that yes, Voldemort was getting stronger, but nothing else of substance. What am I to do? Harry had wanted to ask, but held himself back, knowing that he would get no answer besides a sad, sympathetic smile.
Hermione was uncharacteristically silent after he told her about his conversation with Dumbledore.
"I don't like this. Not at all. A clear threat we can deal with... but Voldemort lurking in the shadows and growing stronger in your nightmares? I don't know how to protect you from that."
Harry laughed, momentarily freed from his turmoil. "While I appreciate the thought, there's no need for you to protect me. You don't always have to be my knight in shining armour, Hermione."
"Why not?" Hermione put her hands on her hips. "You protect me and I'll protect you—I think that's a fair deal."
"All right," Harry held up his hands in mock surrender. "But we can worry about Voldemort later. The third task is tomorrow."
With the way she made him revise all thirteen lists and duel against her for two hours straight before she deemed it acceptable to return to the dorms, Harry doubted her concerns were alleviated.
The next day at breakfast, McGonagall informed him that the champions' families were congregating in a chamber down the hall.
"What's wrong?" Hermione asked.
"What if it's the Dursleys?" Harry's stomach churned unpleasantly at the idea of seeing them here. "I don't have any other family besides Sirius."
Her expression hardened. "Well, if it is your aunt and uncle, I have a few words I'd like to exchange with them."
"Hey! You have a History of Magic exam in ten minutes!" Harry yelled after Hermione who had already gotten up and was striding towards the chamber McGonagall had mentioned.
Thankfully, the Dursleys weren't in the room; instead, Mrs Weasley and Bill greeted him with warm smiles. Harry's responding grin faded when he noticed the sharp glance Mrs Weasley threw Hermione's way as she gave her a stiff "Hello."
He was reminded of Easter and the way Hermione's face had turned downcast at the tiny chicken-sized egg she had received from Mrs Weasley in comparison to Harry's giant, dragon-sized one. By that time, he had already developed a heavy disdain for anyone who had sent those cruel letters because of a stupid tabloid article. This was a different cruelty—one that Harry remembered facing often as he was slighted in his childhood—and it stung to see it targeted at his best friend, especially when it came from someone he had always respected.
"Mrs Weasley, you didn't believe that rubbish Skeeter article about Hermione and me, did you? Hermione has been nothing but the best of friends to me."
"Oh—that is—" She stammered, turning a bit pink in the face. "No, of course not!"
"I'm glad," he took Hermione's hand and squeezed lightly. "It's terrible enough that strangers were sending hate mail and curses to a fifteen-year-old girl over lies in a gossip rag, but you know Hermione and her character too well from how much she's done for me and Ron to ever believe that nonsense."
"Yes, yes, of course, dear. Never doubted that." She gave Hermione a strained smile.
Bill tried to diffuse the tension. "Where is Ron, now that you mention it?"
"Going to Binns' class, I suppose." Harry shrugged, not sure if he should let the Weasleys know about the shaky state of his and Ron's friendship.
Although neither of them had talked to each other for months now, it had more to do with Harry forgetting about the matter and busying himself with studying and preparations rather than any petty grudge from the Yule Ball. Ron had never approached him or apologized after their argument and Harry couldn't be bothered to go out of his way and try to fix things.
Still, the Weasleys had been nothing but kind to him all these years and they had come all the way to show him support. He wasn't about to throw that back in their faces.
Hermione slapped her forehead and groaned: "Oh, no! The exam!"
Harry struggled not to chuckle as Hermione muttered an apology and ran out of the room at lightning speed.
"Thank you for coming, both of you. I truly appreciate it." He said instead, turning towards the Weasleys to make small talk for a while before he decided to take his leave as well.
By the time evening arrived and Harry was confronted with the vast, sprawling maze in the Quidditch field, the twisting feeling in Harry's stomach had returned in full force.
Somewhere in the audience stands, he knew Hermione was watching, probably even more nervous than he was. I'm ready for this. I've practiced. I've prepared myself.
Bagman called out his name to enter: "Three—two—one—"
He thought of the mystery person who had put his name in the Goblet, Dumbledore and Sirius telling him to be careful, the human dummy being sliced and falling apart on the floor, and Hermione whispering, "You have to survive, Harry. No matter what."
He took a deep breath and stepped inside the maze.
Merlin help whoever stands in my way.
It was too easy.
As Harry traversed the maze and defeated boggarts, skrewts, and other magical creatures with relative ease, he kept doubting the difficulty of the task. Nothing ever worked out so well for him.
Every action he took was mechanical and well-practiced as he made his way through the obstacles faster than expected. Only when he reached the Triwizard Cup and finally had a chance to catch his breath, did he realize that something else was strange. He had met no one on the way to the cup. Don't tell me I practiced so hard for this task that I sped through the obstacles faster than anyone else?
Maybe the others had run into a harder opponent or were just taking the careful approach as opposed to his adrenaline-charged path. It wasn't so strange when he thought about it: after all, he had arrived first in the second task too. There was something else niggling at him, an uncomfortable sense of wrongness that wouldn't go away, but he was so tired. So goddamn tired. He had worked so hard this whole year with barely a moment to rest and rushed forward to this cup with everything he had and now it was right there. Just waiting for him. He was almost done. The end was in sight, finally.
He pushed the uneasiness aside and reached out to grab the cup.
That was his first mistake.
The second was the moment he took to reorient his senses when he found himself transported to a graveyard; the dizziness from the cup—'Portkey!' his mind screamed at him even as his head spun—added to the exhaustion he had from barrelling through the obstacles, caused him to stumble and crash into a tombstone as his legs gave out.
By the time he had lifted himself off the ground, a short, hooded figure had already approached him. Every instinct of training of the past year, of whispered warnings, and an eerie sense of foreboding had him settling into a battle stance and readying his wand.
It was that small glance at the bundle the figure was carrying in its arms, the single second of hesitation of possibly hurting a baby that had the spell pausing on his lips.
That was his third mistake.
Suddenly, his scar burst with pain—such unimaginable pain he had never felt before in his life. The nightmares had nothing on this agony and it was all he could do not to lose his grip on his wand and fall to the ground screaming.
Harry felt the man reach out and grab his arm, and even though the searing pain and blackness wanted to envelop him, he resisted the hold and struggled to raise his wand towards the man.
It was too late. He heard a "Stupefy!" and when he woke up next he was tied from neck to ankle to a marble tombstone. He blinked his eyes, hoping to erase the terrible headache that was keeping him from seeing clearly, but when he turned his head and his sight settled on the words 'TOM RIDDLE' written on the headstone, he almost wished he had never woken up.
Of course, Harry thought hysterically, as the man lowered his hood to reveal himself as Wormtail.
Of course, he thought, as the baby turned out to be none other than Voldemort's pseudo living, homunculus form.
Of course, he thought as his blood was used to raise a man out of the cauldron, a man who looked at Harry with scarlet eyes glowing with both hatred and triumph.
Of course, it ended like this.
Harry didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. He had trained so hard this whole year, so desperate to survive, so bent on escaping the Tournament in one piece, but never had fighting directly with Voldemort factored into his plans. What use was everything he had worked for? What use was one year of preparation against a man known as the Dark Lord?
He was powerless now, lying like a limp rag doll, tied up tightly with no room to escape, bleeding and exhausted, with his head exploding with agony and—without his wand. Forced to stay silent and wonder deliriously if he would really spend his last moment on earth listening to Voldemort wax poetic about his history: of a muggle father he had killed, a witch mother he had despised, and growing up in an orphanage.
Perhaps even Voldemort grew tired of Harry's lack of response for he soon said: "Listen to me, reliving family history… why, I am growing quite sentimental... But look, Harry! My true family returns… "
Harry had never hated himself as much as he did when Voldemort whispered the tale of his mother's sacrifice to his death eaters and mockingly placed his finger on Harry's cheek, laughing, "I can touch him now."
The pain was still there, worse than before, but his hatred kept Harry lucid. Hatred towards himself for ending up in this situation, for that bloody moment of hesitation, of being noble that had stopped him from taking out Wormtail. Hatred at Voldemort for so casually explaining his plan, as if Harry wasn't even there, as if he was worth nothing since he would die at the end of tonight anyway. Hatred for the 'faithful Death Eater, stationed at Hogwarts' who had been behind this whole thing, who no one—not even the great Albus Dumbledore—had taken seriously enough to sniff out. Hatred for the Death Eaters who remained silent as Voldemort spoke, but laughed uproariously as Harry was tortured.
Even through his delirium and the agony which wracked his body, Harry forced himself to keep his eyes and ears focused. He remembered every detail of Voldemort's sordid tale of his past, of his suffering, and of his plans. He remembered the names and faces of every Death Eater as they stood there, sending smug little glances his way. Harry knew that he would probably die tonight, but he kept himself sane by thinking: If I survive, I'll make you regret it. The plans you so casually exposed. The masked faces that I now know. The laughter. The pain. Everything.
Hermione would probably be proud of him for making plans and lists even upon his deathbed.
Hermione, he thought soullessly, would probably be the only one who missed him when he died. Oh, and Sirius. And poor Dobby. What would they do without him?
When Wormtail untied him at last and gave him back his wand, Harry's head spun and his vision grew blurry as he collapsed to the ground. He closed his eyes in pain and when he opened them again, he thought that he could see Hermione reaching out to him from the blur of darkness, desperately shoving past the throng of Death Eaters in search of him.
Harry raised his own hand feebly in return but the vision of Hermione shook and disappeared like a mirage that had never been there.
But then it came again. When he stood facing Voldemort on shaky feet and his torture induced state of exhaustion, he thought he could hear Hermione screaming in his ears: Wake up! Don't give up just yet! What have you learned this year? Make the first damn move!
So he did. He didn't wait for Voldemort to throw him around like a rag roll with various unforgivables until finishing him off with the killing curse. Harry chose one of the many staple offensive spells he had a list of, half not even caring if it was diffindo or something else that came out of his lips. Not when the spell itself made no difference.
No, all that mattered was that he raised his wand first and fired the spell in time to watch Voldemort's smile fade as he was forced to respond. If Harry was going to die, he would die with his dignity intact. On his own terms.
And then the miracle happened. He remembered telling Hermione that he always survived because he was a lucky bastard, but this… this was something else. As both Voldemort and he were raised into the air, as the phoenix song started and he forced the bead of light towards Voldemort's wand, as he was confronted with the smoky, greyish forms of his mother and father… all of his exhaustion fled. There was a fire in him now, growing stronger by the second. He didn't even need his father to tell him: "... you must get to the Portkey, it will return you to Hogwarts."
From the moment he had been raised into the air, he had already been surveying the scene around him, making plans and outlining the best route back to the Triwizard Cup.
No matter what obstacles were in his way.
This time—Harry gritted his teeth as he broke off his connection with Voldemort's wand and started to run—there would be no hesitation.
Wormtail was the closest to him, having been the one to give him the wand and release him in the first place. He stared at Harry with beady little eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but found himself surrounded by a massive bubble instead. Unable to breathe. Immobile.
Harry had no time for the traitor; he had already shoved past him and behind one of the headstones, pointing his wand and shouting "Reducto!" towards the tombstones where two Death Eaters were approaching him. The marble slab exploded in their faces, stopping them in their tracks.
He kept moving, zig-zagging between whatever momentary shelter he could find, firing off a spell, and running back to the path towards the Cup. One Death Eater got too close—MacNair, he remembered the sharp, arrogant eyes that had laughed when Harry was being tortured—and Harry responded by making a yanking motion with his wand and muttered, "Defodio."
The next thing he heard was a high, ear-piercing scream as the Death Eater fell to the ground, cradling his head in his hands. Those arrogant eyes lay on the dirt beside him.
Perhaps Harry should have been more affected. It wasn't like he went around gouging eyes on a regular basis: the Harry before this night may have been shocked, disgusted even. But the Harry before this night didn't know the hatred that was pulsing through him now, almost like a steady heartbeat, keeping him alive. As it was, Harry simply thought with satisfaction, one man down, and moved on.
While he ran, he couldn't help but look back at the place where he had first started. Voldemort was still occupied by the ghosts of his victims. Wormtail—Harry shuddered, almost stopping in his tracks at the sight.
When Harry had performed the modified bubblehead charm, he was only thinking of the context he had explained to Flitwick: make the opponent immobile, substitute the gas inside, keep them occupied. The fact that Wormtail was enclosed in what was essentially a sealed chamber of toxic gas—Harry had chosen chlorine without much thought—was just a footnote in his mind. He had never actually performed the charm on a living being, after all. He had never envisioned what it would look like.
But he was seeing it now.
The walls of the air chamber and the distance between them ensured that Harry couldn't hear anything. He didn't really need to when Wormtail's face was twisted and scrunched up with more pain than even when his hand had been cut off. He slammed against the chamber desperately, tears and mucous streaming down his face to the point that he was choking on them. Tears and burns started appearing all over his skin like cracks in a clay statue.
No one was paying Wormtail any attention. The Death Eaters were either at Voldemort's side while he fought the ghosts or had taken different routes to get to Harry.
When Harry ripped his attention away from Wormtail, he found one of them, Lucius Malfoy, staring him down with a mocking smile.
"Now, boy. No hasty movements here. The Dark Lord may have said to bring you back alive, but he never said a word against a few broken bones or missing appendages." The man said in a silky smooth voice as he inched closer.
Harry wanted to laugh then. He was still being underestimated. All the Death Eaters had seen of him tonight had been a weak, snivelling boy being tortured like a puppet. They had moved forward before the chlorine had taken effect on Wormtail and Lucius had taken a different path towards Harry, missing MacNair with his gouged eyes.
"Put down that wand, boy." Lucius spoke softly, as if placating a child. As if he truly expected Harry to listen.
Behind the Malfoy, Wormtail's suffering only continued. He was coughing now, great big gulps for air that left him convulsing. The blood vessels on his face and skin were visibly red and they popped one after the other. The gas was burning through his mucous membranes, and scarring, and then burning again in a vicious cycle. He's melting, Harry realized, horrified at the gruesome spectacle but unable to help the chilling thought that ran through him at the moment that Wormtail took his last breath. A fitting end for a traitor.
Barely a few seconds had passed. Harry was so close to the Cup, but his next steps forward was blocked by Malfoy.
"Down." Lucius said, more forcefully this time. "Now."
And suddenly, Harry was no longer in the graveyard. He was back in the Room of Requirement, the Triwizard Cup was the boxed line that he needed to reach and Lucius—he was just one of those human dummies. His opponent. Nothing more, nothing less.
Harry had plenty of practice with those.
In the span of a few seconds, the spell was uttered, the slashing motions were made, and—
Lucius' stately face froze in disbelief as his formerly luscious locks fell loose over his shoulders. His body stumbled slightly and the slight movement was all it took for the no longer connected tissues of his neck to come apart. The body arced slowly backwards, making a dull wet thud as it hit the mossy grass before the head and neck landed beside it with a much louder squelch. In death, his signature smirk was replaced with open-mouthed horror and his mocking eyes were blown wide open with shock and denial.
The head rolled a small distance, before stopping next to the hand which had held Lucius' wand. A hand that could now do nothing to threaten Harry.
He tore his gaze away from the severed head and made his last leap towards the Triwizard Cup. Even as the portkey took effect, Harry couldn't help but recall how the blood had leaked from the Malfoy patriarch's paling face and the lines of crimson that had trickled down his neck, and think that there was nothing special about purebloods after all.
They bled and died, just like everyone else.
Chapter 10
The portkey transported Harry to the edge of the maze. He was back where he had started, with the hordes of people screaming in the stands and the great looming hedge of the maze casting a shadow over him. He was back and he was alive, he had survived the graveyard, done the unthinkable and escaped Voldemort, but then why—
Why did it feel like he was still there? Still writhing on the ground from the pain and wanting to die.
His face was pressed against the grass and there was so much noise hammering against his ears. He wanted it all to just go away. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't feel—he just wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere but here where hands were roughly shaking his body and shouts of "Harry! Harry!" surrounded him.
Someone lifted him off the ground and asked him questions that he couldn't make out. He felt like he was underwater and everyone around him was blurry, moving in slow motion, and speaking a language he couldn't understand.
"Harry… are you … all … right?" It was Dumbledore holding him straight up, preventing him from collapsing.
"What's... wrong... with … the boy?" Cornelius Fudge looked at him with a curious expression.
"I'll take … him," a gruff voice spoke up and Harry strained his ears, but all he caught were snippets of "needs… healing" and "he's… delirious."
Then somebody else was grabbing him, dragging him along and Harry felt a shiver run through him. The cold hands felt repulsive on his skin and laughter rang through his ears: "I can touch him now."
Harry struggled against the tight hold. Where was he being taken? Where was he going? Harry wanted to not care. He wanted to shut his eyes and sleep, to stop fighting the drowsiness. But he couldn't do that yet. There was still something… something he needed to remember, something he had to let the others know.
He needed to be in the clear, he needed comfort and warmth to drive away the icy touch of Voldemort's hand on his scar. He needed to be safe. He needed—
"Hermione," he croaked.
"Don't worry, lad." It was that same gruff voice. Harry blinked blearily to find himself looking up at Mad Eye Moody's mechanical eye. "I'll take you to her."
But...Harry struggled to turn his head and look behind him at the stands which they were getting further and further away from. Was Hermione not there? Where was she, then—
"Harry!" Amongst the shouting and music and chatter, a certain voice rang out. Harry felt like he was emerging from the water, the world relenting its unceasing spinning and settling around him. He knew that voice.
It came again. "Harry!"
"You're going the wrong way," he spoke, clearer now.
Moody grunted and said nothing, gripping Harry's arm with even more force.
"Let go of me." He was speaking normally now. Hermione's shouts were growing softer and panic started growing inside of him.
No response.
"I said," Harry tightened his hold on his wand. Even delirious, he had never released his hold. "Let go."
He saw a glint in Moody's eye and his mouth rising into a sneer and that was all he needed to kick the man in his bad leg, escape his hold, and knock him out with a loud, "Stupefy!"
There was a hush as the crowd in the stands turned eerily silent before exploding into chatter once again.
"What on earth is that boy doing?" Fudge said, aghast, as he struggled to keep up with Dumbledore's long stride. "I told you there was something wrong with him, Dumbledore! Look, he's attacked a professor!"
"Harry, I need you to explain to me what is going on." The headmaster's expression was grave.
Moody hadn't managed to take Harry far. They were still on the Quidditch field and as soon as Harry had stunned Moody, Dumbledore, members of the ministry, various professors, and even a few people from the stands had rushed over.
One of them was Hermione.
The relief he felt upon seeing her was insurmountable. Harry trembingly lowered the wand that he had still been pointing anxiously at the crowd and let out a sigh. The energy he had procured upon sensing danger fled his body and he swayed on his feet before crumpling to the ground, just in time for Hermione to catch him.
"Is that really what matters right now?" Hermione said shrilly, glaring at the adults. "Look at him—he's in no state to be interrogated! He needs a healer!"
She held Harry tighter in her arms and he rested his head against her shoulder, shutting his eyes and taking a shaky breath. The cries in his head screaming at him that there was still a death eater out there, the instinct to get up and fight, the images of gouged eyes and severed heads that were cycling through his vision… finally receded.
He focused on the strand of bushy brown hair tickling his cheek, the tight hold of her arms around him, the familiar, comforting scent of his best friend. For the first time since escaping the graveyard, he allowed himself to accept that the ordeal was truly over. He was safe.
Hermione wasn't done yet. "If you want an explanation, ask Professor Moody what he was doing dragging Harry away from public sight when he was half unconscious. And certainly not in the direction of the healer's tent!"
Dumbledore appeared pensive. "You make a valid point, Miss Granger. That is not something that the Alastor Moody I know of would do."
"You can't be serious, Dumbledore! Not letting the boy get away with this, are you?"
"Regardless,"—Dumbledore ignored Fudge—"I still need to hear what happened from you."
The puzzle pieces came together then. Everything Voldemort had said about the faithful servant at Hogwarts, the uneasy feeling he had this year as if someone was always watching him from the shadows… he had been there the whole time, hadn't he? And no one, not the minister, not the headmaster, not all the professors had noticed.
"What happened?" Harry didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "What happened is that the Triwizard Cup was a portkey that transported me to the graveyard Voldemort chose as his site of resurrection."
There were gasps in the crowd and Fudge exclaimed: "Preposterous!"
"What happened is that my blood was used to create his new body. Do you know what that means, Headmaster?" Harry asked. "I was tortured with the Cruciatus while his horde of Death Eaters laughed. How did so many of them escape Azkaban, I wonder, Minister?"
"The boy isn't in his right mind, Dumbledore."
Dumbledore was silent. Unmoving.
"It could have all been avoided, you know." Harry stared at the man he had once so respected with red eyes, trembling with resentment and a bone aching sadness. "If one of you had simply decided that putting a fourteen year old boy into a death tournament was wrong. If my life was worth more than being bait. Instead you gave Voldemort everything he wanted on a silver platter. A lamb for slaughter." His voice shook as he remembered lying there, limp on the ground, and Hermione squeezed his hand tightly.
He glanced over at Moody's unconscious form and laughed hysterically. "You don't need to believe me. You'll know soon enough."
And so they did.
The crowd around him grew louder and chaotic as they watched Alastor Moody twitch and convulse and transform into…
"Barty Crouch!" Fudge exclaimed. "What in the world is he doing here?"
Dumbledore stepped forward with fury in his eyes and started barking orders to Professor McGonagall and Snape. The crowd around them had grown even larger, more people wearing the Ministry's insignia surrounding them. Fudge was no longer bumbling about and seemed a bit pressured as his contemporaries, especially a woman with a hawk like nose and silver streaked hair, started questioning him.
All of it was no concern to Harry. His vision was growing blurry again, his head dizzy. The smallest of triggers—a blonde head here, beady little eyes there—brought back the memories of the graveyard and the reality of what he had done. What he had become.
Murderer. The wind of that evening seemed to whisper to him.
Harry let go of Hermione and retched into the grass, emptying his stomach until there was nothing left, but the sickening pit inside him only grew.
He was dirty and bloody and bruised. "I'm filthy," he said, pushing Hermione's hand away as she tried to wipe his face with a handkerchief and patted his back soothingly.
The only response he received was a teary, "Oh, Harry," before he was pulled back into her arms.
He stayed there as Dumbledore, looking more enraged than Harry had ever seen him, questioned Barty Junior under Veritaserum. As the death eater exposed how he had cheated Azkaban, how he had put Harry's name in the Goblet and manipulated events under everyone's noses, and how he had been the pivotal player in bringing about Voldemort's return… Harry was silent, but his anger simmered under the surface.
This was the man directly behind his suffering in the graveyard, the man who had made it possible for Voldemort to return. Seeing him smirk in triumph and boast about his plans succeeding infuriated Harry until all he could see was red, all he could hear was his obnoxious laughter ringing in his ears, and all he could feel was that same mind numbing hatred that had seemed to have found a home rooted deep inside his heart.
"This is madness!" Fudge spluttered. "The man is clearly out of his mind and—and—colluding with whatever cock and bull story Potter devised! We can't take a word of what he's said seriously."
The hawk nosed woman shot Fudge an unimpressed look. "He is under Veritaserum. He is telling us the truth, Minister."
"The truth of a mad man, Amelia!"
"Mad!" Crouch let out an insane laugh. "Mad, am I? We'll see! We'll see who's mad, now that the Dark Lord has returned, with me at his side! I, his most loyal servant. I, who delivered Harry Potter under the nose of the great Albus Dumbledore right to his doorstep! I, who ensured his resurrection! He will place me by his side and grant me the highest of titles, the greatest of rewards!"
"Don't believe me, do you? Proof that the Dark Lord has returned!" He shook his bound hands until the sleeve of one fell down, exposing the dark mark: a snake that was black as night and slithering on his left arm. "The Ministry used this to hunt us down, but it is once again our mark of pride. Our connection to the Dark Lord. Why don't you show them too, Potter? Show them how the Dark Lord has marked you as well, how you carry the sign of his resurrection. We carry twin marks, you and I."
Harry's heart went cold. He had shown no one his wound—even that detail of his suffering had been planned in advance? Was he just a puppet in the end? A doll for others to toss around and carve as they willed?
No one spoke as Harry let go of Hermione and stood up. He walked up to Crouch and slowly lifted his sleeve to reveal the snake that had been carved into his skin with Wormtail's knife.
"Twin marks?" Before anyone could stop him, he had raised his wand and slashed exactly where the inky Dark Mark began on Crouch's proudly exposed arm. "Not quite."
There were gasps in the crowd and people started shouting but they were all drowned out by Crouch's high pitched scream that seemed to echo into the night.
"What—what have you done?" the man half sobbed, half screamed, holding his stump of an arm against his chest.
"Not so different from the rat, now, are you? When your dear Dark Lord comes for you,"— Harry smiled maniacally through the furious tears blinding his eyes—"at least now you'll know what reward to ask for."
The turbulent waves of hatred in his heart settled down—satisfied for now—and Harry finally gave in to the exhaustion rampaging his body, welcoming the blackness to overtake him as he fell over and fainted.
When Harry appeared outside the maze, collapsing to the ground and not moving, the blood in Hermione's veins felt like they had frozen, as if her heart itself had stopped beating.
She shot up from her seat in the stands and elbowed her way through the throng of people, struggling to keep an eye on him the whole time.
Someone's hat blocked her view and when she could see again, he was gone from the spot. Panic grew in her chest. "Harry!"
Then she saw him being carried like a sack by Mad Eye Moody, away from the Quidditch Pitch. Where was he taking him? If Harry was injured, the healer's tent was the opposite way—
"Harry!" she shouted, louder now, running towards him.
By the time she reached him, she was confronted with a wild eyed Harry standing above the unconscious form of Moody. Other people had come forward too, encircling Moody and buzzing with noise. And Harry, his wand was still raised towards the crowd, his eyes shifting nervously between everyone, his back hunched in a defensive posture. He reminded Hermione of a trapped animal, bearing its teeth.
She broke through the circle, not caring that she had just shoved aside the Minister of Magic, and watched as Harry's whole being seemed to relax when she appeared. He swayed towards the ground and Hermione caught him before he could truly fall, taking him into her arms.
When Moody was discovered to be Crouch and questioned, she felt Harry tremble and was stunned at the pure fury she saw in his eyes.
When Harry cut off Crouch's arm containing the Dark Mark, everyone screamed, but Hermione was quiet. Numb. She wondered if she was the only one who had seen the helplessness in Harry's face, the vulnerability.
He didn't look like a "vicious brute!" as Fudge later claimed.
He looked like a boy, lost, and with nothing left to lose.
"Will he be okay?" Hermione asked anxiously, after Madam Pomfrey was finally done with healing Harry. "Why is he still not waking up?"
"I've fixed all the external wounds I could, but the mental trauma he's suffered tonight will not be as easy. He's been tortured with the cruciatus—more times than I can identify. His body has also been overworked beyond what it can handle." She looked worriedly at the infirmary bed where Harry lay, twitching and murmuring in his sleep. "I expect that he will wake several times throughout the next few hours, but he might not be in his right mind. If you can't handle that Miss Granger—"
"I'm not leaving him!" Hermione said fiercely.
Madam Pomfrey gave her the first smile of that evening and replied, "I had expected as much."
The first time Harry woke up, he shot up in bed, looking wildly around at the white curtains surrounding the bed as if he expected something to jump out of them.
"Harry," Hermione said softly, careful not to startle him.
"Hermione," he grasped her hand as if reaching for a lifeline. "Hermione, he's dead."
"Who is?"
"Wormtail. Peter Pettigrew. I killed him, Hermione."
Hermione went still, but showed no change in her outward expression.
"I didn't mean it, not really. He was in the way—I was trying to escape and get to the cup—and he was going to try and stop me. So I used the bubblehead charm—the new one that I experimented with—and I left him behind. I think I assumed that he would break free of it quickly like Flitwick had, but when I looked back he was burning. Melting." Harry was babbling. "And do you know the worst part? I didn't even feel sorry. I was glad—glad that he died. Glad that it was painful."
He looked at her as if expecting her to accuse him, as if waiting for some terrible blow. But all Hermione could find in herself to say was, "I'm glad too."
When he froze in surprise, she scoffed. "What, did you think I would want him alive? He's the reason your parents were murdered. He's the reason Sirius spent twelve years in Azkaban, not to mention all those poor muggles he killed. The reason why you grew up without a family. You gave him a chance last year and what was the result? He ran off to Voldemort and crawled on his knees to be traitorous, murdering scum. Wormtail deserved to die and pay for his crimes long ago."
"He deserved it," Harry murmured and fell back to sleep.
The second time he woke up, he was calmer; the solemnity in his expression unnerved her.
"Lucius Malfoy," he said quietly.
"What about him?"
"I cut off his head." Harry held up his wand hand in wonder. "I knew what I was doing this time. I pretended I was back in the Room of Requirement, practicing. That he was just another dummy. But when his head rolled on the ground and I saw the blood trickling down his neck and into the grass, I couldn't lie to myself anymore."
"And if you hadn't?"
"Hadn't what?"
"Hadn't killed him. What would have happened then?"
His expression morphed into one of pain; Hermione hated to see it on him but she forced herself to wait for his answer.
"He would have stopped me from reaching the cup by cutting off an arm or leg. He threatened to break my bones too, actually. Then he would have taken my limp body back to Voldemort and they would toss me around like a doll again. And then I would die."
"And what did I tell you before you went into that maze?"
Harry scrunched up his face in concentration, trying to remember. "You told me… to survive. No matter what."
"That's right. You survived, Harry. That's all that matters, do you understand?" Harry nodded his head hesitantly, but Hermione wasn't done yet.
"Lucius Malfoy was no ordinary Death Eater. His power and influence in the Ministry ensured that many, many others escaped from punishment scot free. He worked directly under Voldemort to spread chaos and propaganda from within during the first war, and I have no doubt that if you hadn't killed him, he would have done the same again. By killing him, you robbed Voldemort of a weapon he sorely needed. By killing him, you gave justice to a man who would probably always slither his way out of the legal system. A man with more blood on his hands than I could possibly know."
"I wasn't thinking of all that when I killed him." Harry frowned. "But I suppose it's for the best he died. He would have killed more people if I hadn't."
"You had no choice, Harry." Hermione said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.
He seemed to accept that fact and went back to sleep.
The third time he woke up, he seemed angry. He looked at Hermione with reddened eyes and clenched his hands into fists at his side.
"Why are you trying to excuse what I've done?" he said. "I heard what people were screaming before I fainted. They called me a brute—a monster."
"For cutting off Crouch's hand? After all he's done! After he was responsible for this whole predicament in the first place! He's the reason you were sent to that graveyard, he's the reason Voldemort is back! Whoever points their finger at you instead of him is just deflecting blame for not knowing what he was doing right under their noses!" Hermione stood up from her chair. "That's not even mentioning that he was already sentenced to life in Azkaban!"
"I hated him," Harry whispered. "I still do—all of them."
"I hate them too," she answered, venom in her voice as she thought of the people who had reduced Harry to this broken state. "It's only human to hate monsters like them, Harry."
The word 'monster' seemed to jolt him back to his senses. He stared at her so earnestly she wanted to cry.
"If I'm not a monster, then… what am I?"
He looked so small then, so scared of her answer. Hermione dug her nails into her palm, fighting back her tears, but in the end her bottom lip still trembled when she replied:
"You're a boy, Harry. A boy thrust into a war with no choice but to survive." She reached out and gathered him in her arms, hugging him tightly. "You were strong and brave in a situation you had no control over. You did nothing wrong."
He said nothing but the tears she felt on her shirt were answer enough.