Digging The Hole and then Climbing Out

Digging the Hole, And Then Climbing Out

Prologue

 

They painted up your secrets,

with the lies they told to you.

And the least they ever gave you

was the most you ever knew.

And I wonder where these dreams go,

when the world gets in your way

What's the point in all this screaming?

No one's listening anyway.

-- The Goo Goo Dolls, Acoustic #3

 

He loved the feel of power. He savored every moment as someone quivered before him, as people fainted if he so much as blinked. He loved being the ruler. He loved being the hated apprentice.

But he didn't love his master. He didn't love the people he murdered. He didn't love his job. He didn't love himself.

He just loved the recognition. That was the extent of his life.

Recognition.

Maybe he had a hope to love again under his callused exterior. And he did. But he didn't want to show it.

He had once been loved. He had once loved something other than power. He'd once been admired, not hated. But that was all gone now.

He wanted to throw the blame on them. On those who thought him inferior, who egged him on into the darkness. One little thing after another...

He was an orphan. He had a horrible life up until he was eleven.

And then he had a wonderful life. The wheel of luck had turned in his favor.

Of course, it turned again. His best friend, then his mentor, and then almost he, all died.

He often wanted to cry. Why had he allowed himself to fall for the temptation? He already had all he could want.

You didn't have a real home, a nagging voice always leered. You didn't have parents. You didn't have anything that truly mattered, boy, admit it.

And he had admitted it.

When, in his saddest moments, he realized it truly wasn't their faults, he quickly tossed away the thought it was he to be blamed. He blamed him.

Voldemort had, after all, given him the taste of power, pushed him to the edge and then tapped him on the shoulder so he fell over the brink. It was his fault. Yes, that's whose fault it was.

He was seventeen when it had happened. He had been walking along the lake, getting fresh air after having been stuck in Potions for the final exams, a friend of his, Hermione Granger, walking along next to him.

Hermione had been going on about how she hoped she passed the test. "I mean, I know I studied and all, and I'm fairly certain I got them all right, but what if by some freak chance I missed them all? Oh, Harry, what if I failed?"

He'd just laughed and shaken his head. "You? Fail? I'm more likely to have."

Hermione hadn't seemed convinced. "Harry, don't say that. You'll jinx me! I mean..."

He'd stopped in front of her and grabbed her by the shoulders. He'd shaken her. "Hermione. Get a grip. If you failed, the whole school did."

She'd smiled a little then. "I hope you're right. At least I won't be by myself next year then."

He remembered wanting to kiss her. He'd wanted to do that a lot in their seventh year. But he knew Hermione was too strict with school, so she probably didn't feel the same way.

It had been an addition to his list of misfortunes: I'm in love with someone who doesn't love me back.

There had been a sudden, loud, bloodcurdling scream and a huge, thundering crash, and they'd both jumped. Hermione's hands had flown to her mouth and her eyes had grown as wide as dinner plates.

Hogwarts had suddenly collapsed into a huge heap of rubble. The screaming hadn't ceased. It'd grown louder and louder until it no longer seemed a scream but silence as it deafened their hearing.

The last thing Harry remembered, and he didn't know why he didn't remember more, was Hermione suddenly seeming to start laughing at him, was the whole world a blur, all but for the screams which had suddenly transformed into laughter...laughter directed at him.

That was one thing he blamed his downfall on. But he knew it wasn't true.

Voldemort had turned his head. He had kidnapped him, locked him up for days, maybe months; Harry didn't know. He fed him lies. He'd told him things over and over again so rationally they became the truth.

"...They never really liked you. They used you, Potter. They used your fame..."

"...What was so wrong about wanting power, boy? Why am I considered evil for it?..."

"...I wanted to save the world. I only killed your parents because they tried to kill me!..."

Harry had attempted to block out that voice as it drilled solid lies into his mind month after month. But, like the real person fighting every never-ending battle would do, he gave up. It was so much easier to believe him. It was so much easier to kill. It was so much easier...

Don't think about it now, he scowled himself every time the thoughts crossed his mind again. He's right. They used you. Dumbledore only treated you well because he feared you. Remember? Hermione never loved you. She used you to her own advantage too, just to be able to say, 'Harry Potter's in love with me,' just for that...

But he couldn't fight down the torrent of regret that rose inside him every time he saw someone else die because he was too weak to try to stop Voldemort...no, that's wrong. Because he was too strong to care. Yes, that was right.

He was strong now. He wasn't weak.

But if he was so strong, he often realized, then why was he lying in bed in the middle of the night crying for the past to come back? Crying for all those who he'd killed? Crying for the single fact that he'd disappointed them...

He couldn't take it anymore, he suddenly concluded, staring at his reflection in the cracked, grimy mirror. He couldn't. All the guilt, all the pain, all the blood shed by his hands...

But I can't take it back.

He buried his face in his hands. He could almost hear Voldemort laughing, almost hear him saying, "That was the point, boy! I can ruin you and use you at the same time!"

But he'd never said anything like that. Voldemort had never once admitted it...

He was so confused. The smell of rotting wood in his little hut along with the grimy clothes that were stained with blood was too much for his already poisoned mind.

Then open a door, he thought suddenly. And leave it all.

But he didn't think he could... Voldemort would kill him for being a traitor. All his friends would kill him for being a traitor. How could he have ruined his whole existence in one single moment? How was that possible?

He would die one way or the other. He just had to decide whether he wanted to die guilty or innocent.

He peered gingerly at his face and hair in the mirror, as if his evil years would show in his face. No. It didn't.

His eyes were the same gentle green of his mother's and his hair was the same wild black of his father's. Yes, it had grown out a bit. Yes, his face was paler than usual. And yes, he had a bit of a beard.

But he thought he could live for a little while in freedom from Voldemort and evil. Maybe he could live in peace until he was captured by Muggles or wizards and witches and thrown into Azkaban.

Or maybe he could convince them Voldemort had fed him lies and poisoned his heart and soul.

But he knew that was wrong. He had allowed Voldemort to do so... He was just as guilty as Voldemort was.

Maybe... he thought, maybe...maybe if I kill Voldemort and never do anything wrong again...maybe I can be free of this guilt and evil...

But he didn't know how he could. He was stuck in a hole. There were two ways out: sink farther down and hope to reach the other side of the world, or climb back out, where people were waiting to take his head...

Sink lower or die right away... Nice choices.

He swallowed hard. Maybe he could get away if he climbed out...

He glanced to his door, which was bolted shut. If he left, where would he go?

A flash a pretty girl with long, bushy brown hair, books in her arms, came to mind.

Hermione Granger?

But she used you...

He hit himself hard in the head.

Those were lies... Remember? Everything Voldemort said was a lie...

He couldn't help but see the way Hermione had always done schoolwork rather than hang out with him or go to his Quidditch games, though. He couldn't help but see how she obviously didn't love him...

Don't think that way, he snapped at himself.

And before he could doubt himself any longer, he began to climb out of the hole he'd dug himself into and strode out the bolted door into sunlight.

* * * * *

Professor Hermione Granger was sitting at her desk, a small, dim light illuminating the parchments she was grading for her classes. It was one o'clock in the morning. She hadn't been able to sleep. She could never sleep well.

Her past had too many horrors, she'd decided a long time ago.

She was only twenty-two, quite young for a professor at Hogwarts. She'd just graduated from secondary school for teaching the year before, which she had been going to since she'd left Hogwarts at eighteen.

She blinked a few times against tears threatening to flow as she thought of that last year at Hogwarts.

She'd lost both of her best friends and then her parents to one of those friends.

Peter Pettigrew, a feeble man who had been a follower of the dark wizard Lord Voldemort when he had been in power, had killed Ron Weasley. He'd hidden himself as Ron's pet rat for twelve years, and then, when he'd been found out, had run away again. He came back out when Voldemort began to gain power, and killed Ron while Ron had been sleeping, hating the boy for not saving him. He'd then attempted to kill Harry Potter, Ron's best friend, at the same time, but Harry had woken up just in time and grabbed his wand; Harry managed, somehow, to kill Pettigrew.

Hermione wished she had taken in this sign of his power, but she hadn't and hated herself for it to that day. She hated how, when her mind was half-asleep at night, she would warp that guilt around and throw it at herself: you should have seen it; you should have helped him; he was your friend; this is all your fault!

A year after Ron's death, she had been walking along the lake shoreline with Harry, rambling on about what would happen if she hadn't passed the Potions exams, when Hogwarts had suddenly collapsed, killing almost everyone inside.

It was one of those times life seemed too horrible to be true for Hermione. It all seemed a dream, a terrible nightmare. Voldemort had come, and with a last burst of dark magic, had managed to destroy Hogwarts absolutely, if only momentarily.

Hermione always wished never to see the destruction or feel the feelings in her mind, but her mind, of course, refused to permit, and she saw it over and over. Whenever she shut her eyes, she saw Harry suddenly collapse in her arms, the last time she ever saw him as himself.

And then she, too, blacked out. Another layer of the guilt she felt: if only I hadn't passed out, Voldemort wouldn't have taken Harry...

She knew it wasn't true. She knew it well. She, a helpless, horrified witch, could never, even now, destroy the most-powerful dark wizard ever.

She'd woken up later on lying on a cot in an infirmary, a Muggle infirmary. People were bustling around, and when she painfully turned her head to the side, she saw many others lying on the same white and rickety cots, all with blood-soaked bandages wrapped about various limbs.

She felt horribly confused. She hated feeling confused. She liked knowing things. She usually always knew things too.

Questions zipped through her mind a million kilometers an hour: Where was Harry? What happened to Hogwarts? Why was everything white? Was she dead?

But most of all: What happened?

A few tears threatened to burst from her eyes as always when she remembered what happened next. It wasn't nearly as destructive physically as Voldemort or Hogwarts collapsing, but it disabled her quite fitfully mentally.

She supposed she fainted again, because the next thing she saw was a very strained, pale face and large, square glasses glinting in the bright florescent hospital lights: Professor McGonagall.

She'd survived! How on Earth had she? Or was Hermione truly dead...?

"She's awake!" came McGonagall's voice, too hoarse to be from one in heaven.

Hermione tried to speak, but her lips and tongue seemed too thick and lazy to form words, so all that came out was a low, gasping moan.

"Oh, Hermione, does it hurt?" asked McGonagall worriedly.

Hermione had wanted to say she didn't hurt at all. She'd wanted to beg for an explanation. Why can't I speak?

After a long argument with her mouth, she managed to gain control over it again and speak, forcing words out. She had so many things to ask: What happened? Did Voldemort come? Was everyone okay?

But she asked the one question that hadn't yet crossed her mind in this phase of awareness. "Where's Harry?"

Hermione cursed herself immediately, for McGonagall's face collapsed and she almost began to cry. She blinked rapidly. "We don't...know...quite yet, Hermione," said McGonagall gently.

"He was...right...next to me when I...blacked out... Where...?" Hermione stammered.

McGonagall took a slow, rattling breath and bent her head back so she was staring at the ceiling. Her lips formed words but no sound came out and she seemed to be praying. Hermione stared at her professor's wrinkled hands, feeling awful for causing McGonagall such pain. McGonagall snapped her head back so she was looking again at Hermione, her face seeming to have regained strength.

"We saw You-Know-Who...take him away..." said McGonagall carefully. "I hadn't been in the castle at the time, thank God, I was in the greenhouses talking with Professor Sprout when the castle collapsed. I ran out, of course, shocked, and then I looked down at the lake and I saw you and Harry suddenly...collapse and..." She shook her head. "I don't know quite what happened. I don't know how I saw it either, or why I looked at the lake... But, Hermione, I saw Voldemort grab Harry, and stare at you for a moment, as if he were considering taking you too, and then he seemed to have, thank God, reconsidered, and suddenly disappeared..." McGonagall said this all very rapidly.

Hermione opened her mouth but all that had come out was a small whimper. "He...took Harry? Wh-why?"

McGonagall had been like a mother to Hermione. She'd taken Hermione and cradled her in her arms. "It's all right, Hermione. I'm sure Harry's okay..."

Hermione had just cried. She knew McGonagall didn't believe her own words. If Voldemort had truly taken Harry, then Harry would either have to join him or die.

And Hermione knew Harry would rather die.

She hadn't really realized how much she loved him until he was gone, same as Ron. It was a horrible thing about being human. You never realized the worth of something until it was gone, and Hermione thought that was awfully unfair.

About a month later, she'd received word Harry had joined Voldemort. He'd been seen with Voldemort while they attempted and had destroyed the Ministry of Magic building, killing everyone inside, including the Minister.

Hermione hadn't believed it. She wouldn't believe it. No, Harry would never hurt anyone! It was a trick! Yes, that was it.

She'd told McGonagall so, and McGonagall has just looked at her with sad, moistened eyes and forced a smile.

As Hermione left the room, she heard her strong, strict professor collapse in a stream of sobs.

Why was everyone so blind? Hermione wonder. Harry would never hurt anyone...

It was the beginning of another Dark Age. Not quite ready to take over England, the two dark wizards had lain low for a while.

But not before convincing Hermione Harry had truly turned.

As Hogwarts was no longer in session, the only way to get her witch's license was to finished her term at home and take a test with McGonagall in her home. So Hermione was home for a while, and was going to stay there until she was allowed to go to the next school for witches and wizards who wanted to become teachers. Her parents were very worried about her going back out into the magic world, having heard of the sudden horrors and the fact that the little Harry Potter they'd heard so much about was suddenly evil.

But Hermione knew they'd let her go. She was fairly wrong and fairly right.

One day, in the summer, while Hermione had been out with an American witch friend named Merinah Gattes playing tennis (Hermione was quite good at it, as she was at everything), a sudden storm had ruined their match, so they'd decided to go back to Hermione's house and "hang out" for a while.

Laughing and talking, Hermione and Merinah had entered the house. Hermione stopped dead in her tracks, causing Merinah to run into her. "Hey, what's holding you up, Hermione?" she'd asked, still giggling.

"What?" Hermione whispered, horror-stricken. The room had been ransacked. Sofas and plush armchairs where throw everywhere, slashed with a knife so their insides were spilling out. Books and magazines, a treasured possession in the Granger household, were torn apart and paper littered the floor. Anything and everything breakable was shattered into a million pieces.

"Oh my God..." Merinah gasped. "What the hell happened here?"

Though Hermione usually chastised cursing, she didn't then. She just let out a small, almost silent whimper and entered the room, her tennis shoes crunching on the plush carpet as she stepped onto broken pottery and porcelain.

"Mum?" called Hermione frantically. "Dad?"

She ran through the sitting room into the hallway, seeing the same destruction. Pictures from her mother and father's wedding were shredded and glass was cracked. There were dents in the walls and lamps that her mum had treasured with her life were in thousands of pieces.

Her heart was beating loudly against her rib cage, feeling as if it would soon break out. She ran through to the kitchen, finding horror, as every single on of her mum's favorite tea cups were destroyed and her father's hunting knives where embedded in a picture of Hermione's family: one in her chest, one in her mother's head, and the rest stuck into her father.

Too frightened to cry, she whirled around and almost crashed into Merinah. "Hermione...what happened?"

Hermione just stared at her, wide-eyed and unable to speak anything but, "Mummy... Daddy?"

She pushed past Merinah and sprinted up the stairs, slipping on shards of glass and pieces of herself through the years. She kept crying, "Mum? Dad? Where are you?"

She threw herself into her parent's bedroom and almost fainted. She'd found her parents, all right. She'd found them...dead.

"Mummy," she wailed, tears welling up in her eyes. "Daddy... Oh my God, oh my God, oh my GOD!" She fell to her knees by her mother's limp form, a knife grounded into her back. She pushed her over, so she could see her face. Yes, she could still be alive. Yes...

Her mother's eyes were wide and her mouth was open in a silent scream and blood had dried around her lips.

Hermione screamed. "NO!"

Merinah came sliding into the room and froze at the sight. She muttered a curse Hermione couldn't hear, for she was too wrapped up in grief. She hurried to her father's side, slipping on the blood, and not caring her bare knees were now crimson, not brown. She tentatively turned her father over and saw the same thing... They seemed frozen in this stance... Could they be...petrified?

Merinah bent over Hermione's mother and took her wrist in her fingers, feeling her pulse, though it was obvious she was dead. "What the hell is going on here, Hermione?" asked Merinah shakily. "What happened?"

"They're petrified," whispered Hermione. "Only a dark, dark wizard could petrify them...but why would he bother with knives? To cause me pain by seeing their blood," she answered herself, realizing it suddenly.

"Brilliant, Hermione," a voice she knew all too well had said suddenly. "Absolutely brilliant. But why would I be surprised? You always were smart."

Merinah jumped up and whirled around, staring open-mouthed at the doorway. "What the...? You're...Harry Potter...?"

He stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest in a cocky way, dressed entirely in black: black turtleneck, black trousers, and even a black cloak falling over his shoulders and swished against his body all the way to his feet, which were clad in black leather boots. His hair was the same wild, crazy black and his eyes still shone like emeralds. But the hair had lost its innocent way of James Potter and the eyes had lost their gentle love of Lily. His face no longer radiated politeness and kindness. It was paler and colder, making him look more handsome, but still too evil for one as caring as Harry Potter.

"H-Harry!" Hermione cried, relief in her voice. He'd help her. He'd somehow make things right.

Merinah realized what had happened, though, before Hermione. "You did this?"

"Merinah! Harry would never..." Hermione started.

But Harry smiled coldly at her and nodded his head. "Smart one, huh? I never did enjoy anyone beyond Hermione's level of intelligence." He raised his hand and Merinah shrieked and flew back against the wall, unconscious.

Hermione stood rooted to the floor, cold with fear and realization. She noticed a few odd things at the moment, not quite knowing how to react: her legs itched from the blood, Harry's hair kept twitching, why was Merinah sleeping?

"Harry...?" she asked softly.

He turned to her and she almost melted in her spot. No, he wasn't cold. It was all in her head. He was as warm as ever.

"Ah, yes, Hermione," said Harry calmly, casually walking towards her. "I understand you don't quite believe the fact that I joined my master, Voldemort? I appreciate that, thanks. At least someone has faith in me."

She let her face break into a relieved smile. Yes, this was Harry. She stood up and was just about to throw her arms around him when he continued and threw her hopes out the window.

"Lucky you do, too, Hermione. I'd have to kill you if you didn't..." She fell back to her knees. What was going on?

He faced her, his lips quirking into a smile. He bent down next to her and she could almost feel a draft coming from beneath his cloak. He ran a chilled finger along her jaw line. She shuddered and grabbed his hand. It felt frozen. She blink rapidly and dropped it, feeling slightly faint with the handsome Harry Potter's face so very close to hers, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek, somehow cold and dry...

Why was he so physically cold?

"The dark arts do take a toll on your body, I'm finding," said Harry quietly. Hermione shrank back.

"What...?"

He gave a sly little grin and moved so he was practically on top of her. She trembled in fear. This wasn't right...something was wrong...

"Yes, my body temperature is going down. I quite enjoy it now, though. It seems to add a fear to people when they're near me, like it's doing to you now, Hermione."

"Harry..." squeaked Hermione, staring up into his now pasty-white face fearfully. "What's...going on?"

He went on, as if he hadn't heard her. "I'm not going to kill you, Hermione. You're far too valuable. See, when Voldemort dies, I'll need someone, a child, to take over for him." He touched her cheek softly. "Since both you and I are strong in magic, you'd be the perfect vessel."

It had been a horrible moment for her, then, to realize Harry was truly gone. If he would refer to her as...as a vessel...he must have truly, truly been gone. She hated it. She hated the truth. How could someone so good turn so awful? She didn't know. But she knew Harry Potter was no longer the hero of the world. He'd tossed all that away. He was now feared more than even Voldemort for good reason.

Harry smiled at her, almost kindly. "I used to love you, you know," he said casually. "I knew you never loved me back..."

"But I did, Harry," she croaked.

"You were all I had left, Hermione," he whispered. "All I had left. And you didn't love me back."

"But...Harry, I did..."

He stood up, freeing her. She scrambled to her feet.

Harry stood silently for a moment, staring out the window. Hermione thought the coldness seeping from him wavered. But when he turned back to her, his face was just as cold and hard. "Run away, Hermione," he hissed. "I'll be back for you." He clenched his fist. "Go. Leave. Run away."

Hermione hurried over to Merinah and whispered a spell to make her float. She grabbed her arm and pulled her along behind her. She walked carefully around Harry's frozen form, blinking back tears as she left her dead parents and best friend...

She swore, as she hurried off, she heard Harry whispered, "I never meant to hurt you... Don't believe it, Hermione... Don't ever believe it..."

But when she turned back around to see if he meant it or not, he stared coldly at her. "Run away, Hermione, run away..." he said quietly. "Run away."

So she ran.

* * * * *

She cradled her head in her hands and tried not to cry. Five years later, the thought was just as painful. A vessel. She was just a vessel to Harry. It was painful enough for her to know he'd loved her and she hadn't known, so he didn't love her anymore...

But to be considered a vessel. To know she only had a fixed amount of years to live, till Voldemort died...

She had reasons to be so strict and to not be able to sleep.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and put away the students' parchments, knowing she wouldn't be able to grade the essays properly now. It was better an attempt to sleep, even if she probably never would.

She crawled under the covers and whispered nox and the little lamp puffed out. She swallowed hard, the sound echoing in her mind, and she closed her eyes, wishing for sleep to come. But it's hard to sleep when you know someone's after you. And when you know they can get you whenever they feel it appropriate.

 

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