Refraction

"To this point I stand,

That both the worlds I give to negligence,

Let come what comes."

--William Shakespeare

* * *

(Lucius Malfoy, 1997)

Sixth year

Peter Pettigrew is dead.

Our Lord wants the murderer found, of course, but, as usual, fails to appreciate all the subtleties of the situation. For example...why should we work to find whoever committed a murder any one of us might have arranged, given time?

Wormtail was never one of Our Lord's favourites, but he became an important pawn when he restored Our Lord's body. Was manipulated into restoring. In any case, Our Lord was indebted to him.

None of us wanted that.

So in addition to his numerous other flaws, Wormtail was a constant reminder of our...perceived faithlessness. Bellatrix is a similar reminder--but a man would be a suicidal fool to attack Bellatrix. She is far stronger, far more ruthless than Pettigrew could have dreamt of being, and she is beloved of Our Lord, besides. Her killer, should he, through some miracle, succeed, would be pursued with passion and persistence, and by Our Lord Himself.

Wormtail, however...

In the end, Our Lord did not like Wormtail.

Whoever planned Wormtail's death has the respect and approval of all of the Death Eaters. We toast his anonymous name--discreetly, of course. We are nothing if not discreet. It's the reason we've survived this long.

* * *

(Hermione, 1997)

Sixth year

I only heard about the plan after it was all over. Knowledge after the fact; I ought to be used to it by now.

Draco Malfoy, of all people, was the one who told me what had really happened. I begin to think Malfoy trusts me more than Harry does. Of course, Harry doesn't trust anyone anymore...except maybe Malfoy. Convoluted, isn't it?

I hear they'd been planning for months. Malfoy's father had mentioned that any useful information on Harry was to be taken to thus and such a place, and he gave him a Portkey. Being entirely insane, Malfoy used it. He arrived in a small house in a small town, which was inhabited by a small, simpering man with a silver hand.

I asked him what message he had delivered. He said he'd gone off on a twenty minute rant on what a twat Harry was, and then detailed what he'd eaten for the past seven meals. Somewhere along the way, he managed to pick up such relevant facts as how the Portkey worked, approximately where they were, and how long Wormtail intended to be there. He says he stormed off (though he failed to mention how he managed to storm off while portkeying) muttering something about Potter's imminent demise at his hands. I asked if that sort of thing really worked to throw off the scent. He said it had been working all his life so far.

He came home and described the man to Harry. According to Malfoy, Harry went "a bit mad" and started plotting Pettigrew's destruction. Surprisingly, the plan was good, and fairly straightforward. After all, Pettigrew was in a very vulnerable position. All Harry and Malfoy meant to do was Portkey in, place a body-bind on Pettigrew, and then owl Dumbledore or Arthur Weasley with the news. If no one could find them, they could simply Portkey Pettigrew back to Hogwarts with them. The only cost would have been Malfoy's position as a spy, which both were fairly tired of anyway.

Such a simple plan. It seemed such a good plan.

They did not expect, when they portkeyed in, to find Molly Weasley at the house. They hadn't realized that Pettigrew's place was just over the hill from the Burrow--Malfoy was the only one who knew the approximate location, and he had never known where the Burrow was. They didn't know, and couldn't have known, that Mrs. Weasley, hearing her neighbour was ill, had gone to check on him. They couldn't have known.

Pettigrew was startled, as they had hoped, but he was not nearly so startled as they were by Mrs. Weasley. He decided, I suppose, that he would do best to keep them off-balance. He had been wrapped in a cloak, to hide the silver arm. No one saw him aim at her. No one knew anything was happening at all until a bolt of green light hit Mrs. Weasley, and she died.

Malfoy tells me Pettigrew tried to run, then. Maybe that would have worked last year. This year, Harry cast a spell on him (Malfoy won't tell me which spell, and that worries me), and Malfoy cast Petrificus Totalus, and the rest of the plan went off just as they'd hoped it would. Though they didn't call Arthur Weasley.

Arguably, it was a success. Only one casualty. Well, and Pettigrew, who Malfoy tells me died of 'complications'--and I would ask what he means, were I not too afraid of the answer.

Malfoy says Harry didn't cry out when Mrs. Weasley died, didn't cry when it was all over, didn't plead for it not to be true, didn't even fly into a rage. He stood over her body and stared at her. He didn't make a sound. Apparently he was 'upsettingly passive' when Malfoy portkeyed the four of them away.

Malfoy keeps his spy status. Pettigrew's not talking, clearly .... Harry cast a spell. Which spell? Which? But no one knows Malfoy and Harry were there, because it's much easier to believe that Molly Weasley managed to call the Aurors before she was killed. Wormtail and Mrs. Weasley allegedly cast Avada Kedavra and Stupefy, simultaneously--dead Molly Weasley, dead Peter Pettigrew? Maybe there are holes in it--but that's the official story. Malfoy claims he could have come up with a better one. I believe him. As it stands, the only people who really know what happened are Harry, Malfoy, me, Ron, and Ginny. I guess Malfoy felt he owed it to us--because Harry doesn't seem to feel anything at all.

Malfoy says he's worried about Harry. He's worried, too, that the Death Eater they managed to kill was the only one who was in any way indebted to Harry. He worries. He comes to me for reassurance.

I used to worry. Now I know there isn't a damn thing I can do to help. I can't help Harry; he won't let me. I have to stand and watch him break from a distance. I can't help Mrs. Weasley, I can't help Ron or Ginny, and I can't help Draco Malfoy. I can't even help myself. So you see, there's no sense in me worrying. What would be the point?

* * *

(Ginny Weasley, early 1997)

Sixth year

I'd nicked Harry's cloak from Draco. I'm sure Draco knew I'd taken it--always knows too damn much, that one--but he didn't say anything. Probably he thought I'd taken it to go talk to Harry in the Hospital Wing. Silly. Why would I want to talk to him? I did want to see him, though. See what he thought of getting my mother killed.

Ron had beaten me to it, of course. He always has beaten me to Harry.

They've been odd together, Harry and Ron, over this past year. I guess I'd underestimated just how odd. Ron walked in and stared at Harry, both of them silent. I was invisible next to the wall next to the next bed--and if that isn't bloody typical. Harry was sitting up, and he stared back at Ron.

Ron's voice seemed very loud, breaking into the hush. "I guess everything worked according to plan, then." He might have been critiquing a chess move. Very out of character, for him to be passionless.

Harry was staring straight into my brother's eyes. It was eerie. He reminds me of Tom, sometimes--and that might be why I finally got over him.

"Yes. It worked," he said, passionless as well.

Ron nodded. His face was completely blank. Ron's face is never blank. He stepped forward and smashed his fist into Harry's mouth. He stepped back. The only sounds had been the smack of his fist against flesh, and the tapping of his shoes on the floor.

Yes, I had very much underestimated how odd they've become. And I thought I was strange. Apparently temporary possession by a Dark Lord doesn't rank with Being Harry Potter for inducing insanity.

Harry turned back to Ron, holding his hand to his lower lip, which was split. There was a terrible amount of blood for such a small wound. I suppose it was deep.

After a long silence, Harry took his hand away and studied it. He reached out slowly, as if in a dream, and painted his blood down Ron's left cheek. He's such a strange balance between the horrible and the beautiful, Harry.

"That belongs to you," he said, his words a little slurred.

Ron touched his bloody cheek, then looked at his red fingertips. His eyes moved back up to Harry. "It won't bring Mum back," he said flatly.

"No," Harry said, sounding sad. "But it can get rid of me."

Ron nodded, and fell into a study of Harry's face. I held my breath. Finally, finally Ron said, "You're missing the point. You're always missing the point." He stepped closer to the bed again, gently touched two fingers to Harry's split lip. "The point was that I didn't want anyone I loved to die. Killing off two instead of one is not the answer I'm looking for." Ron's fingers dropped away, and he stepped back. They moved stiffly, like puppets, or robots, or poor actors playing the wrong parts.

"I'm sorry," Harry gasped. Ron smiled a little, then lowered his eyes and left. I think Ron's always been too forgiving for his own good.

Once he was gone, Harry jerked his hand up to his mouth. He put a finger on either side of the cut in his lip, and pressed it wider, splitting it further, wincing silently. No doubt he would tell Pomfrey he'd tried to get out of bed and had fallen on his face.

I followed Ron out the door. I'd gotten what I had come for.

It could be that Ron isn't too forgiving--it could be that, in this case, Ron was right. It's impossible to hate Harry for what he did. Harry already hates himself so much that there's no room for anyone else to hate him. So we all forgive him, because we know he'll never forgive himself. It's comforting, in its way.

Look, Harry's made me feel better without even trying. What a saviour he is.

* * *

(Harry, early 1997)

Sixth year

"What's wrong, Harry?"

What's wrong?

I'm a failure, I'm weak I'm useless I'm stupid I killed Molly Weasley--

"Nothing's wrong, Hermione. Why do you ask?"

Why do you care?

"You just seem a bit...withdrawn, lately."

Withdrawn. Withdraw. Pull back. Give up. Can't stop it can't stop can't stop--

"I'm sorry. Just, I don't know. I'm worried, I suppose."

"Of course you are, Harry. That's perfectly understandable. Everyone's worried--and I'm sure you're still upset about Mrs. Weasley, but, Harry, that wasn't your fault."

Not your fault, you fool. Incompetence. Perfectly understandable to be worried so long as you pull yourself together and save us all you always have before why not this time why not why not why--

"Thanks, Hermione. I'm just, um, I remembered I said I would talk to Malfoy about something. You don't mind, do you?"

"No, Harry. Of course not." Of course not. No one cares no one wants to see your face.

But Draco? Draco says, Draco...

"Potter, I really don't know why you panic so much. It's disgusting. After all, if you screw this up, we'll all be dead and no one will be left to blame you. You'll probably even be quite popular in the Dark Lord's circles. Fear not, Harry Potter, your name will be revered! In any case, stop being pathetic. Molly Weasley would smack you around if she could see you like this. Come practice curses with me."

He wonders why I love him.

How can he wonder?

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1997)

Sixth year

They're playing a very dangerous game, now. Yes, this whole slave-master routine lets them walk around together, but...how long until someone catches Harry smiling at Draco? How long until someone sees how Draco looks at Harry when he thinks no one's watching? How long until someone notices the way they always work as a team; the way one always knows where the other is without turning to check? They used to hide it better, but now...all it will take is a shade less prejudice, and they're both dead.

And then who will entertain me?

Should I tell them? If I can see, others can. I've never told anyone. That I watch. It's not the sort of thing you tell people, is it? Hello, I'm a freakish stalker, and I've been following you for years! Sure. That'll go over well.

They wouldn't really die. Would they?

Well. Lucius Malfoy. One never knows. And I can't let them die. Or even be ostracized. Or mocked. Or picked on. I've gone and got fond of them, of all idiotic things.

Ah. This isn't going to go well.

* * *

(Draco, 1997)

Sixth year

I was walking next to Harry under his invisibility cloak (I love that cloak), when Luna Lovegood came up to us. She's never...approached, before. She looked nervous. I've never known her to look nervous.

"Luna?" Harry sounded concerned. Had the Gryffindor face on. "What are you doing here?"

She looked at him, but her eyes weren't entirely in focus. It was odd. Well, she is odd. "Harry," she said. "Where is he?"

"He?" Harry looked like he thought she'd finally cracked. "Luna? Who are you--"

"Draco," she hissed. "Malfoy. Where is he?"

I think we both started taking her seriously at that point. Harry's Gryffindor face slipped. In fact, he started looking downright cold. "Why would I know?" he snapped. Be careful, Harry. Too upset and she'll catch on...

She closed her eyes and took a breath. I thought it was a bad sign. I was right.

"How lucky," she whispered, "how lucky Snape thought to look for you, your fourth year. You might have died. After the Triwizard Tournament."

Right, first, no one knew that Snape had been the one to go looking for Harry. And second....

No one knew that I had sent him.

I pulled off the cloak. Clearly, there was no point. "What do you know?" I asked. She didn't even jump when I appeared. Of course she didn't.

She turned away from us. I held onto Harry's arm. Harry's getting a bit...unpredictable, lately, when he's angry. Or afraid. Or having a bad day.

"Oh, I don't know anything," she said, sounding vague. "I had noticed, just looking about, you know, that people in love...have a hard time hiding it. It's always there, if you think to look for it. Very hard to hide, love." She looked back at us. I'd never seen her so upset. Harry's arm was tense as steel.

"I just wondered if you'd noticed that too." She watched us for a moment, whispered, "I thought not," and walked away.

Well. Shit.

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1997)

Sixth year

My life? Is weird.

Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter snuck into my bedroom in the middle of the night. The mother of all wet dreams? Alas, no.

Still, it's nothing but absolute truth that I had Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter on my bed in the middle of the night. Bite me, Padma Patil.

Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter seemed pretty miffed that I had noticed their deep-and-true love. Extremely miffed, actually. Miffed, and trying to hide it, and the net effect was exceptionally frightening. Well done, boys.

I thought I understood how they worked, but I really, really don't. Not at all, at all. DM does all the talking, HP makes all the decisions. Who knew? HP as alpha dog. If I mentioned that to DM, he would kill me. Whoops.

Now, you might think, as I certainly did, that I would get no chance to mention it to DM, because you might think, as I certainly did, that the boys would avoid and/or hex me for daring to comment on, on...them. Alas, no. Alas, woe, eheu, and weeping devastation, no.

Through a long, painful-to-watch sort of conversational process that seemed to involve a lot of telepathic communication on the part of the boys, a plan evolved. It is a stupid plan. I am not going to tell them it's a stupid plan, because that's the sort of comment that might just get me unforgivably cursed.

They ran through love potions, Confundus charms, random poisonings, and mass Obliviating before settling on a love triangle.

A love triangle.

"How delightfully adolescent of us," says Draco Malfoy.

"How pleased Rita Skeeter will be," says Harry Potter, only with more profanity in the direction of Rita Skeeter.

"This is the stupidest plan in the history of the universe," says Luna Lovegood quietly amongst herself. No one pays her any mind. Not even the little voices in her head.

I call them Draco and Harry now. They will apparently be my alternating boyfriends. Draco gets to be my boyfriend most of the time, because Harry's still playing minion or something. Or maybe Draco will dramatically sweep me away from Harry after a while. I'm not really clear on the details. I'm sure I'll be told what they think I need to know.

I swear this is some obscure punishment for stalking them. They think it's funny, of course. Bastards.

So they still do the sweet looks, etc. &c., but now everyone assumes they're directed at me. Because no one is very observant these days. Kids today. Standards dropping everywhere. Nothing as it used to be. Sex drugs and rock n roll.

In retaliation, I am being impassive and dreamy. To the nines. Sometimes a whole day will go by of which I will have no memory. Just like when Mom died, only with less grief and more guilt. Possibly not healthy. Questionable sanity? Ah, well. SO IT GOES.

Is funny though. Would be funny, rather, if it were someone else's life. But it's not.

I need to come up with more synonyms for "alas".

* * *

(Draco, 1997)

Sixth year

Luna Lovegood. What an interesting child she is. Watching us all this time, and we never knew, never knew at all. Clever girl. Very clever.

Unfortunately, the need to keep our Harry under control has prevented me from telling her--at length and in detail--just what I think of her truly impressive cleverness. I have my little ways, I suppose. My little hints. Bright girl. She'll pick up on them.

We can't let her go, our clever little watcher. No, no; she'll stay by us from now on. Can't have our little watcher watching us for someone else. That simply wouldn't do. If she's going to watch so closely, she may as well be watching our enemies. Harry and I will lose our appeal now, I think. We'll be so close; we won't hide anything from her at all. We'll see how long she can bear to watch us as we really are.

Perhaps she'll be useful, before the end. She's already been useful in a small way, I suppose. I really don't think anyone short of an obsessive stalker could have discovered my relationship with Harry, but this school does breed obsessive stalkers. All that small-community enforced togetherness. Best that we have one of their kind on our side. Willingly or otherwise. She can tell us if there are others like her.

Friends close, enemies closer, and so on. And people say I've learned nothing from my father.

So Luna Lovegood is under my eye and under my control. Luna Lovegood is now an irritation, not a problem.

Harry is a problem.

He hasn't recovered from Molly Weasley--how can he? And I'm not helping him. I don't know what to do. He's breaking apart in front of me and there's nothing I can do and yes, the Lovegood situation pales into absolute insignificance by comparison, but I prefer to think about that because I choose to believe that that at least has some sort of solution, where Harry patently, clearly, painfully does not.

I'm losing him. I'm losing him, and I know why, but I don't know how to stop it. I can't bring him back. No one teaches Slytherins to heal broken minds.

* * *

(Harry, 1997)

Sixth year

(There is no truth)

Freakpoorsickweakgreatdangerousmadkindfreak. I am. A hero is a freak everyone wants something from. Unnatural.

Fear what you don't understand.

I don't understand.

He understands. He says it doesn't matter, says he loves me. Maybe. Maybe he does. Maybe he can. He says what he thinks, and he doesn't care if it makes you bleed, so what he says is true, it is, and I can trust him. He is perfect. He's mine.

They...don't understand.

She is quiet and doesn't speak. Is silence safe? No. No. She hides silence with chatter, but she thinks deep inside no one sees no one knows, and I don't know her. Can't trust what you don't know. Says she'll watch for me, watch out for me. She says. She is mine. Also mine. My responsibility.

What are they? They were mine. They tried. Now it's over and I don't blame them because I pushed, pushed them away because everyone dies and there's always blood and always screaming but no, not for them. I won't let it, not anymore. Lost them. Concern and intelligence and the illusion of normality. Can't help me anymore. They shaped me, but I'm twisted. Still twisted.

Dumbledore. Twisted by Dumbledore. Maybe it was a mistake, my foster family. I don't think so. I think he knew. He always knows just what he's doing. Doesn't he? Yes. Yes. Wrong about him. Defined things too clearly. What I wanted, what I had, I confused them. Stupid. I know now. Know what I have to do.

I'll save my own.

The rest will burn.

* * *

This is what I see.

Outside the castle the day is beautiful and clear,

a fine day in spring,

but that never makes any difference

and there are always those

who don't see the sun

and they lurk

sneak

hate

See, there is a boy in the hallway.

He is furious,

and he has always been

devastated by his fury.

he does not allow himself to see beauty

because beauty, for him,

is too painful to perceive.

He walks unnoticed

for he is anonymous,

a Slytherin stereotype,

a personification of rage.

An abusive family

An unhappy home

A damaged mind

Yes

Yes

Yes

An old story

Told far too often

To sympathy grown stale

Or to weary indifference.

He is no one,

and though his name is Will

only a handful know it.

He stops in the hallway

and fails to note

the perfection of soft light

breaking on crystals of

red

green

blue

yellow

the worth of each House

measured in glowing gems

He fails to see

because he knows he is not alone

and his first priority

has always been to protect himself.

to live,

not to question the quality of that life.

Harry James Potter.

Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Names that are

known

particularly where they most wish not to be,

but that is a concept

that someone like Will

could not possibly understand.

The girl with them,

Luna,

exists

somewhat independent of notice

and she is the only one here

who knows that the day is beautiful.

They pass in a corridor

should-be-casual

but something about the moment and the meeting

brings everything that Will has become

screaming

to the surface

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy fail to need to notice,

for they walk with the assurance

that only belongs

to Nature's predators.

Luna sees,

of course,

because it is her curse to be able

to see everything

and do nothing.

She is the only one watching

when Will raises his wand

and pushes a lifetime of bitterness/hatred/fear

(envy and grief and regret)

in the direction of Harry Potter

who

screams

because no one could bear

so much pain

in addition to his own.

And so begins

a chain of events,

because cause and effect

is a pitiless phenomenon.

Draco Malfoy casts Will's spell

back

an eye for an eye

and brutal torture

for brutal torture.

Will's screams begin

where Harry Potter's ended

and both of them fall

but Luna catches Harry Potter

and Will writhes

on the floor

alone in this

as he has been in all things

another betrayal

in a lifetime of betrayal

screaming to no one

Heart.

Beat.

Harry Potter pulls away

and Luna doesn't see it coming because she never saw the hatred/fear/rage in his eyes and he casts the spell he's never cast and he casts successfully, always successful, and a harsh green light fills the hall and clashes with the softer light that was

once

beautiful

and Luna screams and Will's body jerks and Draco Malfoy startles back

and.

it.

stops.

The hallway is quiet.

A deafening sort of stillness.

The silence that follows a scream.

Will is dead.

Harry Potter is unconscious

and his mind

in delirium

paints the walls with blood,

but no blood touches

the stone of the hallway.

Luna is in shock

and silent with it.

Draco Malfoy,

though,

is only resigned,

and he covers Harry Potter

in a shimmering cloth

and both boy and cloth

disappear.

We went for a walk, and

We found Will's body.

We don't know what happened,

He says.

And she asks,

Will?

but he only nods.

Hospital wing?

but he shakes his head.

We couldn't explain it,

he explains.

She accepts this,

and behind her the doors close

on the life she'd hoped to live

though for once

she does not notice.

Not yet.

Time

passes

and brings with it Severus Snape

a jaded man, yes,

embittered,

but even he

is shocked by this.

Or maybe it is only

that he understands too well.

Severus Snape asks

without expectation of an answer

why his student

is dead in the hallway.

He is not disappointed,

because they know nothing of what happened,

and they don't understand how it did.

Or so they say.

And maybe they don't.

It is a beautiful day,

but this is what I see.

This is what I see.

* * *

(Draco, 1997)

Sixth year

Harry. Are you awake? Come with me, Harry. Yes, you can stand.

Moaning Myrtle's toilet. You'll see why, I think. Don't worry. I'll lock the door. I'll set a silencing spell.

I meant to tell you a story. There was a boy named Will Ferox. You know him. He's the one you killed.

Where are you going, Harry? I locked the door, you know. I took your wand. I suppose you could try that, Harry, but do you really want to be in the Chamber of Secrets without a wand?

I didn't think so.

Hyperventilating won't get you out of this. If you pass out, I'll just wait until you wake up.

That's better. Slow, even breathing. You'll need it. I'd stick close to the toilets, too. Oh, now, Harry. Haven't you killed enough Slytherins today?

That's right. Sit down.

Will was another of my cousins, you know. Sometimes it seems I'm related to everyone. I remember the first time I met him. He was hiding behind a cloak stand because he'd pushed peas off his plate during dinner. His father was angry with him, he said. He didn't want to be hurt again, he said. I think he was about five years old.

Yes. I thought you might throw up. Shh.

The next time I saw him, Harry, I was eleven and he was eight. He was so careful. It was another dinner party at the Manor. He ate so...delicately. He was silent unless spoken to--and, of course, no one speaks to children in Malfoy Manor.

Mr. Goyle noticed how careful Will was with his food. He levitated Will's filet mignon onto the table. He thought it would be funny. Perhaps it was, for him. Will couldn't walk the next day. None of us saw anyone touch him, of course. He never ate meat again if he had a choice.

He did try to tell them he hadn't done it, but you of all people understand how well that works.

I saw him every few years. He never spoke to me again. Well, that's not true--he never spoke sincerely, openly again. To anyone. We all have our masks, but his was made of steel. Anger was the only honest emotion he allowed out. It was the only one his father would tolerate, and only when it was directed at his father's enemies. Will played along. He had to let the anger out somehow or go mad. After a while I think he came to believe his father's enemies were his own. It was easier that way.

You had always been his favourite. When he was five years old, hiding behind the cloak stand, he told me that Harry Potter would have been brave, would have stood up to his father. He had no idea he was wrong. How could he have known? We all thought you pampered. You should have been. I think we all idealized your life--made it the life we wished we'd led. We made you everything we wanted to be ourselves, and then we hated you for it. We children of Death Eaters.

Why didn't I tell you before? You were throwing up before.

Oh, that. What good would it have done? "Yes, Harry, and by the way, my companions and I idolized you desperately as children." It shows how weak we are. Admiring the enemy. I didn't realize you would need to know. I didn't predict Will, though I probably should have.

You see, from Will's point of view, you were everything he'd thought you would be. Good and noble and Gryffindor and happy. You hated him, hated all Slytherins. As you should have. Hadn't his father told him all his life he was only worth hating?

There's no point, Harry. I think you've already thrown up everything in your stomach. You don't want to start throwing up blood. Or maybe you do. Maybe you should.

This is where we went wrong, Harry. We were hard on you. And you sat back and took it.

What did Will see? The boy with the perfect life, folding in front of Draco Malfoy. Letting a Malfoy walk all over him and take his girl. Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, no better than Will Ferox. And it wasn't fair. Your upbringing had been perfect, he knew, so why shouldn't you be strong?

That's why he attacked. You were no better than he was. And you should have been.

Don't cry, Harry. Didn't you slay the beast, defend the castle from the monster? Shh, don't cry.

What do you mean, why am I still here? You're ill. I just made you more ill. Oh, don't be absurd, I'm not disgusted with you. No, nor horrified. I love you, ridiculous boy, didn't you know?

Ah, Harry. Don't cry.

I told you because...Harry, I know you know how to make monsters of the enemy. This is a good thing, and I don't really disagree with your decision to kill my cousin. I might have done the same.

You knew how to make monsters where there were only people. I needed to make sure that you knew that was what you were doing--and that you could remember your enemies were human after the fact. You owe them that much. To carry their ghosts.

I don't hate you, Harry, of course not. We're both going to be carrying a lot of ghosts before the end, I know. Mine will probably be related to me.

Don't cry, Harry. It won't do any good now.