For the Heir

More Than Just An Ordinary Nightmare

"Kill the spare," said a high, cold voice, which Harry identified at once as that of Voldemort's.

"Avada Kedavra!" screeched Wormtail into the night sky.

A green light shone in front of Harry's eyes. Cedric, by his side, fell down, dead, onto the cold hard ground. His sightless eyes were open wide in horror. Harry gasped as Cedric's spirit rose from his body. Harry stood transfixed, his body frozen in place.

"Why didn't you save me, Harry?" beseeched Cedric. "Why didn't you do anything?"

"I... couldn't... I just couldn't... I'm sorry..." pleaded Harry.

Cedric's spirit spat at him. "Sorry? It was your fault that I died. It was all your fault. Everything's your fault. 'We'll both take the cup...' Bah! You...you murderer!" Harry winced. "You knew the cup was a portkey, didn't you? You tricked me... Didn't have the guts to kill me yourself, did you, the famous Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived. So you got someone else to do it for you! But it doesn't matter who cast the curse, it was you who killed me... all your fault! Entirely your fault! It was all you!"

Harry pleaded with Cedric. "No... I didn't do anything! I didn't do anything!"

The scene shifted before he could say more. Harry was at the Department of Mysteries again.

Harry swung around just in time to see Sirius being blasted through the veil by Bellatrix Lestrange. And Sirius's spirit came out of the veil, just as Cedric's had done.

The mist spoke to him. "Harry, how could you? You could have done something, you could of saved me! Why didn't you?"

Harry lowered his head even further, not wanting to see the accusing eyes of his dead godfather. "I didn't do it," he whispered, wishing it were true.

"It's all your fault! You killed me! You didn't deserve to be born to Lily and James!"

By now, Harry was begging at his godfather. "It isn't true! It's not my fault...it's not my fault..."

"Oh, but it is, Harry, and you know it is. It is your fault!"

"No..." Harry whispered, but the last of his resolve was about to give way.

"It is. It is," pressed Sirius. Cedric joined him. "You killed us. It's all your fault. Always. We died because of you. It is. It is." Their voices increased in volume until it reverberated through Harry.

"No..." Harry whispered again, this time softer.

"IT IS! IT IS YOUR FAULT!"

Harry crumbled down. Everywhere he looked were the accusatory eyes of Cedric and Sirius. He pressed his hands against his ears, but could still hear the accusations directed at him, vibrating through him. Harry tried to resist, but everything around him seemed to be pressing down on him, crushing him. He felt as if the mist were choking him, curling around him so he could not breath.

"It is. It is my fault." Harry finally gave in to the voices of Cedric and Sirius.

"Yes, Harry. Don't you see? There is blood on your hands. Every single person who dies in this war will die because of you," came Voldemort's high, cold voice, cutting through the mist. He sauntered out of the mist, black robe billowing out menacingly. Harry's scar burned, and he gritted his teeth, trying to stop himself from crying out.

Voldemort waved his hand. At once, the mist cleared. "Let me show you what will happen because of you. Look, Harry," commanded Voldemort.

Harry tried turning away, but something was holding him in place, forcing him to watch the scene in front of him.

It was Hogwarts. The halls and corridors were stained with blood, and dead bodies littered the ground. Every way he turned, there were students, all dead. Dean, Neville, Justin, Ernie, Ginny, Cho. Harry choked, trying to block out the images. He looked at his hands. They were stained with blood, blood from hundreds of students.

Voldemort laughed again, seeing Harry's anguish. He snapped his fingers and they were in the dungeons. "Look, Harry. Look at your friends. They're almost dead, and can you guess whose fault it is? Who did this to them?"

On the walls, hanging from the manacles, were Ron and Hermione. They were emaciated and bleeding from wounds all covering their bodies. A guard of Death Eaters stood at either side, using the Cruciatus Curse on them every once in a while. Harry whimpered at the sight.

"No!" Harry cried plaintively. "NO! This can't happen! It isn't real!"

"Ah, but it can," mocked Voldemort, who seemed to be enjoying this very much.

At this, Hermione turned her head at Harry, staring straight at him. "You traitor. You murdering, lying traitor! COWARD! You led Voldemort to us! You did all of this to us!" Her brown eyes were pain-ridden and hateful. Harry shivered at her words, trying to block them out as he did Cedric and Sirius's. It didn't work.

Ron's voice joined her's. "Harry," he hissed, "we trusted you. What did you do? You turned us over to Voldemort. Everyone else in the school is dead because of your spinelessness." Ron spat at Dream-Harry.

"No, no, no! Oh, no! I can't be! I didn't turn anyone over to Voldemort! I didn't do anything!"

"Who brought me back?" asked Voldemort maliciously.

"Me." Harry sank onto his hands and knees, shaking.

"Who suggested that Diggory take the portkey with him?"

"Me." Harry's voice sank to a defeated whisper. Voldemort went relentlessly on.

"Who was Sirius trying to save at the Department of Mysteries?"

"Me." Harry was struggling not to cry.

"Whose fault is all of this?"

"Mine." Harry broke down, trembling, a thin stream of tears making its way down his face. His scar was throbbing and his head felt like it would split open at any moment, but that was nothing compared to the ache that his heart was feeling.

Voldemort continued, relishing seeing Harry's broken form on the floor. "Can't you see, Harry? Everyone would be so much better without you. That boy would be alive. Your godfather would be alive. Do the world a favor, Harry. End it."

End it. The words echoed in Harry's mind. Everything Voldemort was true (for once). The world would be better off without him. If only the curse killed him fifteen years ago. If only he hadn't even been born. But it was too late for that now. But he could prevent further pain, if only he ended it now.

"Yes, Harry. End it. End the suffering. End the pain," urged Voldemort, his face full of triumph and gleeful malice.

In Harry's hand appeared a dagger. It had a dark green hilt set with silver jewels. Harry felt his hand go toward his heart. Voldemort's eyes gleamed dangerously. "Do it. Now," he hissed.

His hand seemed to go of its own accord toward his heart. But Harry didn't seem intent on stopping the dagger, either. The tip came to rest gently on Harry's chest. It was here that Harry started having second thoughts.

Voldemort seemed to feel Harry's resistance, and roared, "End it! NOW!" Harry just whimpered again, tears still free flowing down his cheeks. Voldemort started to murmur again. "Look again at your friends." He gestured toward the wall where Ron and Hermione were chained. "Look what you've done." The graveyard and the Department of Mysteries appeared again, replaying in front of Harry's eyes. "Don't you think that it might be better if you just stopped right here?"

Harry tightened his grip on the dagger, feeling it drive a little more into his chest. He should. He really should end his life right here... shouldn't he?

It was then that Harry felt a slight peck on his shoulder, then another. His dream self seemed to be fading back into consciousness. Voldemort let out a howl of rage that his prey had escaped once again, while a searing pain flashed across his scar along with a tug of anger... Voldemort's anger.

Harry blinked, breathing heavily. His heart pounded against his ribcage, and his scar throbbed uneasily still. He was sitting on his bedside after a particularly vivid dream, one that didn't seem to want to go away, like the majority of his visions did. Hedwig was perched beside him, hooting anxiously at her master. Harry supposed she was the one who pecked him out of his sleep.

He couldn't get those images out of his mind. Ron and Harry chained up... his fellow students massacred... Cedric... Sirius... the blood on his hands. At this, he looked down at his hands. He paled, the blood draining out of his face.

His shirt was stained with a few drops of blood and was torn by a small cut.

And in his hands, he held a silver dagger with a dark green hilt set with silver jewels.

And engraved upon the hilt was the name, "Slytherin," in winding, snake-like letters...