Mercy

Constructive literary criticism, however, is more than welcome. All flames will be fed to Hagrid’s salamanders.


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Part I: Harry Potter

Harry Potter sat on the Hogwarts train, staring out at dark clouds and rain beating on the windows outside. He was reminded of the night three years ago to the day, when the train had been attacked by dementors. It seemed like a lifetime ago. More yet, like it had been someone else's life.

Hermione and Ron watched their friend worriedly. He'd barely spoken the entire trip, dodging their questions by saying he just wasn't feeling very well. He seemed grateful when they periodically left to patrol the other train cars as part of their prefect's duties. It had taken a while for Ron to finally leave him to his thoughts, and only after Hermione had nudged him sharply in the ribs with her elbow did he get the hint that Harry wanted to be left alone. The train pulled into Hogsmeade station, and Hermione had to give Harry a nudge as well to pull him out of himself.

"Seriously, Harry. I don't know what's wrong with you, but if you're ill, as you say, then go straight to Madam Pomfrey after the feast and get a pepper-up potion. Otherwise you need to stop this childish nonsense. We are your friends, Harry. You can talk to us. Honestly, I've never seen you mope quite like this before, not even after..."

She sighed and trailed off, mentally kicking herself for almost mentioning Sirius Black and instantly feeling guilty for getting cross with him. She suspected that the loss of his godfather the previous spring was part of what troubled Harry, but felt that it couldn't account for all of this by itself. She and Ron turned to leave the train, and only after some hesitation did Harry follow them out before leaving them to their prefect duties. He approached one of the thestral-drawn carriages and briefly paused to pat the black, gaunt beast on the withers, garnering a few looks from some of the younger students who were unaware of what was pulling the carriages. He felt an odd sort of kinship with the beasts, for some reason. Further down, he saw Luna Lovegood, Ginny Weasley, and Neville Longbottom waving at him and waved back, but he didn't approach them like he knew they were expecting him to do. Rather, he turned from them and climbed into a carriage with a couple of second year Hufflepuffs he didn't personally know.

The ride up to the castle was quiet and uninterrupted, as the younger students pointedly ignored him. Harry supposed they were, like many of the other students, either mildly awed or mildly afraid of him. He couldn't blame them, really, he thought. He was mildly afraid of himself at times (though never awed), after all. He was probably the only non-dark wizard besides Dumbledore who had been in Voldemort's presence and lived to tell the tale. Numerous times, no less. He now knew, after the revelations at the end of the previous term, that he wasn't really a person, in the end. He was a weapon. He was to be the savior of the wizarding world, whether he willed it or not. He wondered if anyone truly cared about him at all. Many people had worked awfully hard to keep him alive over the past sixteen years, but did it have anything to do with him? Or was it just a matter of saving their own necks by grooming him to kill their Dark Lord for them?

He supposed that Ron and Hermione cared about him in their own way, but they could never really understand him. It was as though an impenetrable wall had grown up between them over the past year or so, and their lives had grown apart. They had stood by him as much as they could throughout his years at Hogwarts, but the worst of what had happened to him, they had not witnessed. He felt that he could not tell them of the prophesy, either. They could not understand what it was like to be a marked man, for that's what he was, what he had been his whole life, though he only now knew the true meaning of it. His fate was not his own, he did not belong to himself. Could they possibly understand what it was like to be told that you were bound to kill or be killed? Could they know what it was like to have your life planned out for you from the time you were an infant? He had once held to the idea that Sirius would understand, at least to some degree, but now he would never know. The closest thing to a family that Harry'd had since infancy was now lost to him forever. He knew that Dumbledore might possibly understand, but the old wizard was simply too powerful and had too many responsibilities. There would always be a conflict of interests where Harry was concerned, and furthermore, Harry still could not quite bring himself to forgive the man for everything. He knew logically that the tragedies of his life were not the sole work of Dumbledore, but it was easier to lay blame on him, as he subconsciously knew that Dumbledore would not fault him or hate him for doing so.

As Harry stepped into the bright happy noise of the Great Hall, for the first time in his life, he almost wished he were back with the Dursleys. The last summer had been the least eventful of his life. The Dursleys seemed afraid of him as well, and that suited him fine. They no longer yelled at him or made him do chores. For the most part, they seemed to be trying to ignore his existence as much as humanly possible, barely speaking to him at all. Ron and Hermione had sent him letters often at first, but as his replies became shorter and shorter, and eventually stopped, they left him alone as well. He knew that members of the Order of the Phoenix had been watching him from the shadows at all times, but otherwise he had not been spoken to by any of the members of the Order save through the occasional owl. All summer, it had been as though he didn't exist. He sometimes wished that were the case. He watched the sorting and listened to Dumbledore's announcements in passive silence, longing only for the comfort of his four-post bed in Gryffindor tower. After the feast, he made his way up to the tower as quickly as he could to avoid having to speak to anyone, and dashed to his bed, pulling the curtains around him, enjoying the quiet dark. He heard Ron come in a couple hours later, but pretended to be asleep.

-------

Harry welcomed the resumption of classes, despite the ubiquitous nervousness pervading the school in regards to the return of Voldemort. Nobody really knew what he was planning. Harry's scar tingled occasionally, but it was nothing compared to last year, and his nightmares were not vivid, mostly containing indistinct shadows that often woke him up, but that he could make little sense of. Harry knew that Snape was feeding the Order information from the Death Eater meetings, but he was told nothing and watched closely by the members who were present at Hogwarts. He often caught Professor McGonagall's eyes resting on him slightly longer than necessary in class, and wondered what information was being withheld from him.

Classes, at least, gave Harry something to do with his mind besides brooding, and he threw himself into his study in way that rivaled even Hermione. His friends still pressed him about what was wrong, but they finally gave in to his constant reassurances that he was fine, but simply wanted to get serious about his studies for once so he could get into the Aurors program. He still caught them watching him closely from time to time, but his teachers, at least, seemed pleased with the change. So startling a change it was, after the second week of classes, Professor McGonagall had jokingly asked Harry if he were really someone else using polyjuice potion at the end of class. Harry had laughed lightly and smiled at the joke, but he privately wished that he really were someone else. Surprisingly, even Snape was somewhat less vitriolic with him, despite his obvious disappointment that Harry had somehow managed an Outstanding on his potions O.W.L. the previous year and was still in his class. Snape still loomed over him, baited him, and took points unfairly, but as Harry turned out more and more correctly brewed potions well-researched papers, the man seemed to begrudgingly afford him some tiny iota of respect. At the very least, the jibes sent his way had less to do with his intelligence and settled more on disparaging his character and parentage.

The days passed quickly and mercifully quietly, as a blur of study and Quidditch. As the year wore on, people became more nervous, rather than less, at the lack of news about Voldemort, but when the holidays approached, the students' spirits seemed to lift slightly despite the shadows of danger. The staff in particular, with the exception of Snape and Filch, seemed overly happy about the festive season, but Harry suspected much of their cheer was bravado for the sake of the students.

Hermione approached Harry the day before the trains left, looking somewhat guilty.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to stay here this year, Harry. I'm really sorry, but my parents insist that I come with them to visit my grandparents this year. They said I haven't spent a Christmas with the family in far too long and won't take no for an answer. I'm sure you and Ron will have plenty of fun without me though. He'll probably invite you to stay with his family."

She smiled halfheartedly, hoping he wouldn't take it personally. Harry simply nodded and went back to his transfiguration notes. She looked at him longer, wanting to say something. She had hoped he wouldn't be too upset, but his seeming lack of response worried her more than any outburst would have. She could only hope that Ron would be able to get something out of him, and left to pack her things. Harry no longer felt like studying, and it was late anyhow. He put his notes in his bag, and went upstairs. Ron was already sleeping.

The next morning, he woke up unusually early. Looking outside, he noticed it was still dark, with just a slight hint of light at the horizon, so he went down to the common room with a book to wait until breakfast. Ron came down from the dormitory shortly after and sat down next to him.

"I heard you wake up. You're coming back to the Burrow with me, right? My mom says she'd love to see you--"

"I'm staying here for the holidays, Ron. I need to catch up on my homework."

Ron sat gaping for a second.

"You can't be serious. You can do that homework at the Burrow as well as you could here--"

"I need the library."

Ron's face colored slightly in anger and he stood up in front of Harry, who finally looked up from his book.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Harry? You'd rather sit in this dusty old castle with a few other kids you don't even know and the teachers than stay with your friends? You've been moping around since--, well, since last year. Hermione keeps telling me, 'give him room, he'll work things out and come around' but I think she's full of it. How on Earth do you expect us to just guess what's wrong with you if you never tell us anything? I thought we were your friends. We'd listen to anything you wanted to say, you know. I think you're just being selfish!"

With that, he just stormed off up the stairs. Harry's hands shook. He felt like ripping the book he held in two, but roughly shoved it into his bag instead and stomped out of the common room, heading for the empty astronomy tower. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now. How dare Ron act like this was all Harry's fault! It wasn't-- Harry didn't ask for this. He never wanted to have some stupid scar on his head, he never wanted to be the subject of some prophecy, locked by fate.

Harry looked out from the top of the tower over the grounds, watching as Hagrid moved below on the edge of the forest with Fang, carrying a bucket of something with him. Probably meat for the thestrals, Harry thought idly. He didn't feel up to facing Ron again, and skipped breakfast, hiding in the astronomy tower until the students going home for the holidays were in the carriages and on their way to Hogsmeade station. He finally stood up from where he had been sitting quietly for some time, and stretched his stiff legs. Making his way back to Gryffindor tower, he idly threw a few more books in his bag, pulled his father's cloak over his head, and made his way down to the kitchens to get a snack from the house elves. He knew that there were not many students staying, as most of them were anxious to be with their parents due to the threat of Voldemort, and he didn't want to sit at the table with the teachers either. He somehow didn't think he'd last long under the gaze of Dumbledore.

Dobby wasn't in the kitchens at the moment, but the other elves happily loaded a bag with more food than he'd asked for and sent him on his way. He pulled the cloak back over his head and made his way to the empty library. Apparently Madam Pince had decided to take the holiday off as well, which he thought unusual. He was sure that if a teacher saw him in the library unsupervised and with food, he'd be told off, so he settled himself in a far corner under the protection of his cloak and opened his bag of food and one of his books. The afternoon wore on as he studied, and he barely noted the passage of time at all.

Eventually, he noticed the sun climbing down toward the horizon, and headed back up to his room. There was a large tawny owl waiting on the window sill with a letter. He let the bird in, took the letter, and threw it one of Hedwig's owl treats before it turned and left through the window. He opened the letter and felt a stab of guilt and regret as he read it. It was from Remus Lupin.

Harry--

I received an owl earlier this afternoon carrying a troubling message. Mrs. Weasly says you have chosen to stay at Hogwarts over the holidays rather than the Burrow with your friend Ron. I also know that Hermione has gone to visit her own family and I wonder if perhaps there is something troubling you. I know I can never replace your godfather, but I'd like to think that perhaps I can be of some help for you. You know you can always write me if there is something wrong. In case you haven't been told, I am staying at Grimmauld Place for the time being. If you would like to stay here over the holidays, you are more than welcome to, and I would appreciate the company greatly. I know it isn't as nice as Hogwarts, but I thought I'd extend an invitation anyhow. Just write back if you want to come, and I'll send someone from the Order to pick you up.

Love,

Remus

Stay at Grimmauld Place? He hesitated for a while, but finally pulled out some parchment and tried to write a reply. He didn't want to hurt Remus' feelings, but Harry didn't know if he could stand being there again without Sirius. He decided to be honest about it, and said as much in his reply to Remus, declining the generous offer. He felt awful for doing so, but he just couldn't face either Remus or Grimmauld Place at the moment.

Harry wasn't sure that his absence at the table would be ignored for much longer, and headed down to the Great Hall for dinner. The hall was beautifully decorated as it was every year, with tremendous Christmas trees and various bits of tinsel and baubles and such. Like in his third year, so few students were left behind that the long house tables had been pushed to the side, and a single table was set for the remaining staff and students. The headmaster was already seated there, along with Professors McGonagall, Sprout, Snape, and Hagrid, as well as the caretaker, Filch, at one end. A half-dozen students were seated along the other side, and only one seat was left. Harry groaned out loud. He'd have to sit next to Snape. He supposed there was no avoiding it, and took his seat as quietly and innocent-lookingly as possible. Harry held his breath, but released it when Snape only briefly glanced at him with an expression of minor annoyance and then returned to his conversation with the headmaster. The other students, all fifth years or younger, glanced at him as well, but only Colin Creevey and his brother seemed willing to speak to Harry at all. He wasn't really in the mood for conversation, but he replied politely to the two boys' inquiries and was grateful that they seemed willing to do most of the talking.

After spending a while picking at his dinner, he quietly excused himself from the table and walked out of the Great Hall. He hadn't really thought of where he would go, only that he wanted to be somewhere quiet and empty. He was about to head to the library when the headmaster came up behind him and cleared his throat to get his attention. Harry turned around to see what he wanted.

"I notice you've been rather quiet lately Harry. Your teachers have told me that your performance in class has improved, but Professor McGonagall at least seems to be somewhat worried that perhaps it is not simply studiousness that compels you to spend so much time studying. Even Professor Snape has noticed enough of a change to mention it to me, actually..."

Harry thought carefully before answering. He did not really want Dumbledore worrying about him. The man had enough problems without having to deal with Harry's self-indulgent brooding. That, and he was tired of people pretending to be his friend. He mostly just wanted to be left alone, after all. Was that a crime?

"I'm fine, Professor Dumbledore, honestly. I'm just serious about getting into the Aurors program."

Harry knew that Dumbledore wouldn't buy the excuse, and the man's expression clearly showed that he didn't believe it, but the old wizard didn't try to contradict him.

"Has your scar been bothering you?"

Harry shook his head.

"Any more significant dreams?"

"Not really. Nothing meaningful anyway, just indistinct shadows."

Dumbledore looked at him intensely for a few minutes. Harry blinked a few times, feeling uncomfortable under that clear blue gaze.

"Harry, I have thought about last year. I know I treated you rather poorly pushing you away like that, but I am now aware that doing so was folly."

He seemed to be waiting for some sort of reply from Harry, but Harry couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't be impolite, so he remained silent. After a minute, Dumbledore continued.

"Harry, I want you to know that you can come to me with any problems, whether they involve Voldemort or not."

Harry was slightly taken aback at that statement, but couldn't quite seem to believe it. He wanted to leave. He wanted to get out from under that penetrating gaze as quickly as possible.

"Yes, sir. I understand."

Dumbledore didn't seem entirely convinced of that either, but he nodded and left Harry in the hallway. Harry returned to the library, but found himself unable to concentrate well enough to study. He stood up and left again, and started wandering about the school aimlessly. He was feeling restless again.

He eventually ended up on the seventh floor after a while and perused the portraits along the wall. A couple of medieval looking maidens whispered behind their hands when he passed, but none of them seemed interested in conversation with him. He passed the spot on the wall where the Room of Requirement normally showed up. He suddenly missed the D.A. meetings. He had enjoyed those meetings. He had never thought that teaching could be an enjoyable profession, but last year he was forced to admit that it had its rewards. He remembered his pride when Neville had finally started succeeding. Walking further down, he noticed a hallway he'd never been in before, and turned into it, opening doors as he went. They all seemed to be unused classrooms with dusty desks and chairs shoved against the walls, one the same as the next.

At the end of the hall was one more door, made of dark hardwood with odd little carvings about the edges. He had to force the door a bit, as it stuck badly, but eventually got it open, coughing a bit when he stepped over the threshold as clouds of ancient dust plumed into the air. It was stunning. High windows of stained glass were about the narrow room, four down each side, revealing the disturbed dust swirling in the colored moonlight. He looked at the images in the glass. They were beautiful, he thought. Men and women were frozen in odd scenes of vivid color around the room, none of which he recognized. He thought at first maybe they were historical figures, but he couldn't recognize anything that would mark them as wizards, save maybe one of an old man with a beard, holding a staff as columns of water rose up on either side of him. The heads of a crowd were below and around him. He had never known any wizards who used staffs, though, at least outside of muggle stories. There were low benches on either side of a center aisle leading up to a stone table with a moth-eaten cloth and old candles. In the center was a simple brass cross, and in front of the cross were two old cracking leather-bound books. Behind it, a wooden carving of three figures was set into the wall. They were all nearly naked men, with only cloths bound around their loins, very thin and gnarled-looking, as though they'd been starved half their life and occasionally beaten. They all had their arms outstretched. At first he thought that they were flying, or falling, but as he stepped around the table to look at them closely, he realized that they were affixed to crosses with nails or something going through their hands and feet. A plaque of some sort was tacked above the central figure, who seemed to be wearing a crown made of thorns. They all had their eyes closed and seemed to be peaceful despite their current situation. Harry laughed under his breath slightly, finding the whole scene to be somewhat ironic on more than one level, though he couldn't say precisely how.

Turning back, he picked up one of the old books on the stone table, sending up more dust. As he wiped the cover off, he revealed the title. In what was probably at one time gold leaf, the words "The Holy Bible" were stamped into the crumbling leather. Harry laughed out loud this time, wondering how stupid he could have been not to recognize this room for what it was. It was some sort of church. The men above the altar should have given that away, at least. He'd never read a Bible, but he remembered now that the one in the center was called "Jesus" and was supposed to be some kind of martyr or something. He opened the book, but as he did so, the brittle pages crumbled to dust under his fingers.

Of course, Harry had never actually been inside a church and knew very little about them. The Dursleys were not religious people. Indeed, they were almost as anti-religion as they were anti-magic. Harry had occasionally heard Uncle Vernon grumbling about people who believed in "spooks and superstitious nonsense" when there was something on the television involving religion, though his aunt occasionally attended a local church for social reasons. What confused him, though, was why such a room would exist at Hogwarts. As far as he could tell, the wizarding world, by large, was not religious either. Sure enough, Christmas and Easter were recognized as holidays, but that had always struck Harry as more a matter of English tradition than piety.

Placing the remains of the antiquated book back on the altar, Harry went and sat on the end of one of the benches, then proceeded to stretch out on his back along it, crossing his arms behind his head to gaze up at the colorful columns of moonlight. He decided he liked the room. It was quiet and peaceful, albeit exceedingly dusty. He wondered suddenly if Dumbledore knew about it, but dismissed the thought as silly. Of course he would know about it, he'd been at this school for age.

Perceiving that it was getting late, he finally stood up and went back to Gryffindor Tower. The common room was empty. He figured the Creevey boys were already in bed, and none of the other Gryffindors had stayed, so he went to bed as well.

--------

Over the following few days, he was drawn back to the dusty room he'd discovered, and spent much of his time studying or simply relaxing in one of the corners. He found it strangely calming to sit in the back corner and watch the light dancing through the windows, and there was no threat of him being disturbed by the few remaining students or the teachers. He wondered how long he'd be able to keep the room a secret from the other students.

Harry awoke on Christmas Day to find a small pile of gifts at the foot of his bed. He didn't open them immediately, as he felt somewhat guilty about blowing off his friends earlier. He couldn't really relate to them anymore, but they didn't deserve to be treated like that either. Finally, he sat down and slowly unwrapped his gifts. He opened the Weasley jumper first, then a bag of chocolate frogs and what could only be the latest Wheezes from Ron. He put aside the suspicious candies and ate one of the frogs. The card was another one of Dumbledore, the third one he had gotten. The portrait smiled at him, then disappeared beneath the frame.

After breakfast, Harry returned to his secret room to work on his holiday assignment for Defense against the Dark Arts. Dumbledore had managed to find a somewhat decent teacher for the subject this year. An elderly witch, who'd probably come out of retirement to take the job, spent their classes teaching mostly counter-curses, shield charms, and other defensive spells. Most of them were quite familiar to the students who'd been in the D.A. and the subject was easy going for most of them.

Glancing at his watch, Harry noticed that Christmas dinner would begin soon, and threw his books into his bag and headed for the Great Hall. When he arrived, he headed to the table, finding the only vacant seat next to Dumbledore. He was struck with the odd thought that Dumbledore had been saving it for him, as he usually found the headmaster flanked by McGonagall and Snape, but he didn't have the courage to ask. An extravagant dinner appeared courtesy of the house elves, and party crackers were passed around while the staff and other students chatted cheerfully. Harry pulled a few of the crackers. One contained a pointed hat printed with snitches who's wings fluttered against the blue background, another produced a bag of chocolate galleons, an a third revealed a small model of a brown hippogriff that blinked and occasionally pawed the ground. After the main course was over, Harry was helping himself to a plate of bread pudding when Dumbledore spoke to him for the first time since he'd sat down beside him.

"How is your holiday going, Harry?"

"Fine."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, clearly wanting more conversation from his increasingly taciturn student.

"It really is going fine. I'm nearly done with my homework, even."

Harry hesitated a second, then decided it probably wouldn't hurt to ask, since Dumbledore no doubt already knew about the room.

"Sir, do you know anything about that room at the end of the hall of unused classrooms on the seventh floor? The one that looks like a church?"

Dumbledore smiled brightly at Harry. Harry wondered why he was so pleased at the mention of a long disused room.

"I see you've found the old chapel, Harry. I don't believe that door has been opened in nearly a century. It wasn't used all that much when I was a student, if I recall. I believe at one point the school had a priest come in from the village and hold mass on occasion, but that was even before my time. When I was here, a few students still occasionally used it for prayer, though, myself included..."

The old wizard paused for a second, seemingly lost in his memories. Harry found it a very odd thing indeed to think of Dumbledore praying. He simply couldn't imagine the powerful wizard bowing before anything or anyone, or needing something beyond his own magic.

"I'm afraid there aren't many left in this world who truly put much faith in anything beyond what they see with their own eyes, wizard or muggle...

"Are you interested in religion, Harry?"

Harry considered the question. He'd never really thought about religion much before. It simply had never been part of his life.

"I... I don't really know, sir. The Dursleys aren't religious. They never went to church or anything, except Aunt Petunia when one of her friends invited her. I've never been in one..."

"Well, Harry, you are welcome to come by my office tonight, if you wish to. I have a book you might find useful."

"Uh, sure thing, sir."

Harry picked at the rest of his desert as Dumbledore engaged Professor Flitwick in an animated conversation. He found himself thinking about the figures behind the stone altar. Something about the one in the middle picked at the edges of his mind, like he was trying to remember something he'd forgotten. He'd been told, once, why that man had been put on that cross, why he had to die. It was something vaguely familiar to him, but he just couldn't remember why.

After dinner, he headed back to the empty chapel. In an odd sort of mood, he suddenly felt compelled to do something about the layers of dust. He transfigured a quill into a broom and swept up the floor, and some parchment into cloths which he wiped down the benches, altar, candlesticks, and carvings with. Maybe he'd wash the windows tomorrow.

Harry headed back towards Gryffindor Tower when he suddenly remembered the headmaster's invitation. He hadn't planned on taking up the offer, but as he was finished with his homework, he figured he might as well borrow the book. He needed something to something to spend the last week of the holiday doing anyway. He changed his course from Gryffindor Tower to the stone gargoyle. Standing in front of the statue, he realized that he didn't know the current password. He ran through a list of all the sweets he could think of, until he yelled out "Canary Cream" in desperation and the gargoyle finally stepped aside. He entered Dumbledore's office to find the headmaster sitting behind his desk with a pile of paperwork. He glanced around the room as he stepped forward. There didn't seem to be any lingering evidence of his tantrum from last year. The fact of it almost annoyed him, but he chose not to dwell on the emotion. It would do no good.

"Ah, Harry. There you are. I was almost afraid you weren't going to show up."

Dumbledore stood up from his desk and walked over to one of the bookshelves, running a finger down the row until he rested on one thick leather-bound tome, pulling it from the shelf. He walked back and handed it to Harry. Harry looked at as though he was expecting it to do something spectacular.

"It is just an ordinary Bible, Harry. I suggest you read the Gospels first, they're a little easier to understand than Old Testament books. As I told you earlier this week, you are always welcome to ask me for help if you need it, regardless of the subject."

After it became apparent that Harry wasn't going to ask any more questions, Dumbledore returned to his paperwork and Harry finally turned and left the room with the loaned book

Harry washed the stained glass windows the following morning and spent the rest of the week in the old chapel reading. He wondered how Jesus had really felt when finally knew he'd been asked by God himself to sacrifice his life for the world. Harry had not been asked to die a slow and painful death for the entire world, but plenty of others had died for his sake: his parents, his godfather, and others he may never even know about. He pondered which was a worse fate until he made it to the book of Acts and the stoning of Stephen. He suddenly wished that he could talk to this man, meet this Jesus character. He knew that some people prayed to him, but he felt silly talking to an empty room, even if only in his thoughts. How could anyone believe in something they'd never seen, believe in the love of someone they'd never met?

Harry went to bed the last night before the rest of the students returned from holidays feeling more off-center than he ever had in his life. Something stirred in him, making him want to believe in this "superstitious nonsense" but a thousand other reasons made him hesitant. Unable to sleep, he finally decided then and there to do something decisive. Throwing his invisibility cloak over his head, he walked back to the chapel and up to the altar. Now that he was there, he was gripped with an apprehension and slight anger that he couldn't explain, but he was determined to do this. He began to speak as his eyes traveled across the windows, the altar, and the carving.

"God, if you are there... "

His anger melted away at that moment into an odd sort of desperation as tears sprang unbidden to his eyes. He suddenly had the feeling that if this last ditch effort was fruitless, the rest of his life would be forfeit. All the pain of the past sixteen years seemed to topple onto his head at that moment: being locked in the cupboard and bullied by his uncle's family, sitting in front of the mirror of Erised knowing he could never have what it showed, seeing Ginny Weasley laying seemingly lifeless in the Chamber of Secrets while a monster tried to kill him, the suspicion of the other students that he was something tainted or evil, hundreds of dementors descending upon him, watching Cedric fall in a flash of green light and Voldemort's twisted form rising from a cauldron, losing his godfather in an instant while Lupin held him back, mentally begging Dumbledore for death while possessed by the dark lord...

"Please... Please be there..."

He sat down on the flagstones in front of the altar, drawing his knees up to his chin and staring at the dark floor.

"Please, I'm tired of being alone..."

He fell silent, crying softly for a time. The chapel was quiet, and dark. He thought he saw the shadow of an owl cross the window portraying the Lord's Supper from the corner of his eye.

Harry awoke the next morning feeling very stiff. He wondered when his bed had become so hard until he opened his eyes and, seeing the brass cross shining in the sunlight, realized that he was sprawled on the floor of the old chapel below the altar. As he scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, he realized that he had not had a single nightmare for the first time in recent memory. No shadows had plagued his sleep or woken him in the middle of the night. It almost made up for the painful kink in his neck. He stood up and stretched, looking out over the grounds through a square of yellow glass. It was a clear winter day, the crisp blue sky looking green through his patch of the window. He felt somehow calmer than he had in a long time. Calmer than he could recall feeling, ever. Something had snapped in him the night before, he knew it, but he wasn't sure what. He'd never admit his suspicion to another human being, but maybe, just maybe, his prayer had not gone unheard after all.

-------

Harry was in a much lighter mood when the rest of the student body returned in the afternoon. He met Ron and Hermione as they entered the common room and sheepishly apologized for being so awful to them over the last semester. Ron didn't seem quite ready to forgive him completely yet, but Hermione gave him a brief hug and seemed relieved. At dinner, she seemed to have finally screwed up the courage to ask him if his improved outlook on life was the result of something that happened over the holidays. Part of Harry desperately wanted to share his experience with his friends, but he was afraid of how they'd react, especially Ron. He knew most people in the wizarding world looked down on religion, especially muggle religion, as something primitive, backwards, silly, or just plain madness. He wasn't really sure of it yet himself, anyhow. There was still a great possibility that his feelings were all just in his head, a madness indeed. Instead, he simply shrugged and told her that he'd had a relaxing break and had had time to think some things over.

The following day, Harry and the rest of the school had been expecting an ordinary day of classes and study. Nobody expected the attack. Not after so long without any news about Voldemort. Not so early in the new term, not in broad daylight, and certainly not on the grounds of Hogwarts itself. Harry had been on his way to Care of Magical Creatures with the other sixth year Gryffindors and the Slytherins when it happened. At first, they all thought it was some kind of joke. Nobody could believe their eyes, not even the Slytherins, when Professor Snape appeared at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, flushed and winded, wearing voluminous black robes and carrying a suspicious white mask in his hand, yelling about an army of approaching Death Eaters. The students were ushered back into the school in a panic and the entire staff gathered outside on the grounds. But sure enough, less than ten minutes later, a crowd of masked black-robed men appeared about a hundred yards away from where Snape had appeared, marching toward the school. Nobody could figure out how they could have gotten past the wards. ("Impossible! Nobody can apparate onto Hogwarts' grounds! It says so in 'Hogwarts: A History'," Hermione had exclaimed at first).

Harry somehow managed to slip away from the herd of students and stood off to the side behind a tree out of sight of the teachers. He knew it was foolish to do this, but somehow he knew he would have to face his destiny today. He was also certain he wouldn't be the one to die. He watched the scene unfold from his hiding place. He would know when to emerge, something would tell him.

Aurors, of course, had been immediately summoned by Dumbledore, and it wasn't long before groups of them appeared with odd junk in their hands ranging from quills to what Harry recognized as a remembrall, obviously having used quickly fashioned portkeys to get to the school. The Death Eaters descended upon the small army and the battle was quick and dirty. It took all the strength Harry had not to recklessly leap wand-out into the fight, as he watched aurors falling. He trembled as he saw familiar faces breath their last: Mundungus Fletcher, "Mad-Eye" Moody, and a few others he'd knew by sight but not name.

Suddenly, he saw him. The gnarled figure of the Dark Lord was standing at the top of a small rise behind the fighting, watching his servants do battle with a delighted sneer on his face. Harry grasped his forehead and fell to his knees as his scar burned more intensely than he had ever felt as Voldemort's gaze turned in Harry's direction.

"Please," Harry thought as he felt himself slipping away, "Please don't let me die this way... I can't..."

The pain did not diminish, but somehow Harry was able to stand despite it. He dashed madly through the trees, around the field where men and women were falling, unnoticed by those in the midst of battle. Suddenly, he stood before the demon that had made him an orphan so many years ago. Voldemort stared down at the boy with a twisted grin on his face, waiting for the short thin boy to amuse him with some angry epithet or accusation.

Harry was surprised that he was not afraid. He knew logically that he should be afraid of the creature before him, but something assured him that he would not die today. He looked calmly into Voldemort's reptile-like eyes as the demon's grin seemed to widen. Voldemort had not been expecting such a direct confrontation, after all, and he could not be more pleased. He'd never felt so confident of his victory in his existence. There was no way he could lose now, with the lamb so willingly walking to his own slaughter. He laughed, the sound sending a slight shiver down Harry's spine.

"Little Harry Potter... So you have come to me yet again. I must admit I had never expected such rash stupidity from you, even though you are such the consummate Gryffindor."

Voldemort drew his wand. Harry noticed that it was not the same one he had used before. He would receive no protection from shared cores this time.

" I believe we've done this before. It was... Unfortunate, how it ended last time. We never got to finish our little duel... You know, I'm in the mood for a bit of sport, so I shall allow you the first curse. I shall count to three. 1... 2...

Harry kept his gaze steady, he did not start or flinch. Indeed, he moved not at during Voldemort's speech. An odd thought had occurred to him while Voldemort spoke. He felt that he didn't have to kill Voldemort to win this. He didn't have to be a murder.

"I will not curse you."

By now, both sides of the battle had noticed the drama playing out above them. Auror and Death Eater alike stood in shocked silence, waiting to see how the final battle of this war would play out.

Voldemort looked at Harry with an amused, but faltering expression. He quickly regained his composure, and spoke at him in a mock-concerned tone.

"Is the Golden Savior of the Wizarding World scared?"

"No."

Voldemort laughed with wicked glee

"What a foolish child you are! You will pay for your insolence."

His grin simply grew wider and with a spoken incantation, a green flash sailed towards the calm child before him. The gathered aurors seemed to let out a collective gasp while a feeling of triumph welled up in the breasts of the Death Eaters. Harry felt the curse hit him square in the chest. Blinding pain followed by cold numbness spread from his center out through his body, to the tips of his fingers and toes. The world went black.

...

... ...

... ... ...

... ... ... ...

Harry thought he heard a soft voice whispering from somewhere, telling him not to be afraid, that he was safe. He believed it.

------

It was the Death Eaters' turn to gasp as Harry Potter rose from the ground, bleeding from his wrists for seemingly no reason, but very much alive. Harry looked down at the source of the blood he had scented with wonder. He recognized these wounds. He had seen them before, on a carving in a forgotten, dusty old room on the seventh floor of Hogwarts.

Voldemort stared at Harry with an expression of horror. He glared at the impossible child and hissed.

"How?"

Harry raised his hands as if the wounds could explain themselves. As Voldemort and the rest of the crowd continued to stare in confusion, Harry began to speak, feeling as though he were hearing someone else's voice, someone else's words.

"I once thought that no one loved me, but these marks are evidence of love. They are the evidence of sacrifice. Not that of my mother, but of another, of a deeper and greater love than someone like you would ever imagine. Through this love, I am guarded from evil like you. You cannot harm me."

Both the crowd and Voldemort himself now looked confused. He still did not understand what had happened or what Harry Potter had said. Voldemort stepped back a pace, steeled his expression and stared at the boy.

"You cannot hurt me anymore Voldemort, not truly. Perhaps you can kill me. Perhaps you can kill my family and my friends. Perhaps you can destroy the world itself. But you no longer have the power to truly hurt me."

Voldemort gritted his teeth and stepped backwards, Harry following him step for step. The child's voice grew louder, and now all present could hear.

"You are a coward, Voldemort. You believe you have great power, but you have none. Most people think your name means "flight of death" but they are wrong. Your name is "flight from death." Because you are afraid. All your quest for power and immortality are because of fear. The fear and hurt of a child who was abandoned by his parents and the world and thought that no one loved him. I pity you, Tom Riddle. I pity you because you allowed your heart to harden, you allowed yourself to become Voldemort, and you feel only hatred and anger. Because you will never know that you are loved, by the one same one who loves me. You will never know that, because you have closed your heart to all."

Voldemort sneered, his red eyes bright and fey. He gave an inhuman cry and again threw the killing curse at the child before him with all the force he could muster. A brilliant and terrifying green flash lit up the entire field.

This time, Harry did not feel the blow. For the second time in his short life, the killing curse would not touch him and rebounded upon its caster. Voldemort's eyes went wide as the energy came back on him, as he fell to the ground, cold, his face frozen in an expression of absolute terror. This time he would not return.

Part II: Lucius Malfoy

Under his mask, Lucius Malfoy watched a ridiculous scene playing out before his eyes. He laughed to himself as that weedy-looking Potter boy ran straight up to the Dark Lord himself. Oh today was grand day, indeed. Today would be the day that the Golden Savior of the pathetic muggle-loving mudblood portion of wizarding world would meet his sticky end and all he represented would fall. Today would be the day that the pure-blooded wizards, especially the Old Families, would finally be vindicated. Centuries of declining power and disrespect would vanish like a dream. He would come into his inheritance today and stand as a Lord among men like his forefathers before him. Oh, he would relish this moment for years to come. He laughed as his Dark Lord toyed with the foolish boy. Soon, the pathetic little orphan would start to whine about his dead parents and demand justice or some such nonsense, of course.

Instead, he heard five words he'd least expected.

"I will not curse you."

Well now, that is not what he'd expected at all, but amusing, nonetheless. Perhaps this would turn out to be even more entertaining than he'd anticipated. The boy wouldn't even defend himself!

"Is the Golden Savior of the Wizarding World scared?"

"No"

'Such predictable Gryffindoric bravado,' Lucius thought. 'Good show, Potter. Pity you wasted your life protecting your pathetic mudblood friends.' He could have made a magnificent dark wizard, perhaps greater than Voldemort himself. Even Lucius couldn't deny the child's power. He had heard from Draco all sorts of tales of the boy's schoolyard adventures, and some of them, if true, were indeed astounding. Too late for regrets now, though. It was of no consequence in the end, really.

Lucius smirked as his Dark Lord threw the forbidden killing curse at the foolish child and the boy dropped to the ground, and laughed as the aurors gasped like a school of fish out of water.

He suddenly stopped laughing, his glee being overtaken by shock and confusion. He had not expected the boy to rise. Most certainly not. How in Merlin's name? Even from the distance of Lucius' vantage point, he could see the blood dripping from Potter's wrists. How odd indeed. It was not clear how the boy's survival and the blood coming from wounds in his hands were connected. If not resulting in instant death, should not the curse have been reflected as before? How many other ways could a curse designed to kill react? By all means, Harry Potter should be stone dead. Could the curse have somehow failed? Lucius Malfoy had seen countless people fall from the killing curse, but this reaction was most certainly something new: turning someone into some sort of stigmatic?

For the first time in his life, Lucius Malfoy was at a complete loss. Stigmatics were a fairy tale, after all, and an obscure muggle one at that. An obscure myth from a muggle cult that had somehow gotten out of hand a few centuries ago.

Dumbfounded, he stood rooted to the ground as though frozen. He couldn't decide on an action to take, so he simply stood, and watched. He couldn't deny that this was all beyond interesting. He suddenly felt that perhaps he should do something to intercede on behalf of his sworn lord, should he not? Not that he had any particular feelings of loyalty to Voldemort, beyond being a means of gaining power... But to betray such a powerful man could be hazardous. His father had always told him, be on the winning side, always. It didn't matter which side won, as long as you could at least appear to be part of it. Never show your whole hand, and scorn loyalty.

He was distracted from his thoughts as Potter began to speak to his adversary again. He could not hear him at first, but slowly, the boy's voice grew louder.

"You are a coward, Voldemort. You believe you have great power, but you have none. Most people think your name means "flight of death" but they are wrong. Your name is "flight from death." Because you are afraid. All your quest for power and immortality are because of fear. The fear and hurt of a child who was abandoned by his parents and the world and thought that no one loved him. I pity you, Tom Riddle. I pity you because you allowed your heart to harden, you allowed yourself to become Voldemort, and you feel only hatred and anger. Because you will never know that you are loved, by the one same one who loves me. You will never know that, because you have closed your heart to all human emotion."

Fear? What could the strongest wizard ever to exist possibly fear? Voldemort is all-powerful. Unstoppable. And quite likely immortal at this point. And what is this rubbish about love? Soppy sentimental nonsense. Nothing of the sort existed, really. Even those who professed love carried ulterior motives. And here Potter was, going on about pity. Potter must be even more of an idiot than he had previously thought.

Lucius saw something odd flicker across the Dark Lord's visage. He couldn't quite place the expression, but it was gone quicker than it came, leaving him wondering if he ever saw it at all. It its place was pure hatred and anger. That he recognized. The Dark Lord lifted his wand again and cast the most powerful killing curse he had ever held witness to. The bright flash was something to behold indeed; there would likely be nothing left of Potter but ash...

And then the curse rebounded and Voldemort fell to the cold Earth, dead, his face fixed in fear.

-------

Lucius Malfoy watched as Voldemort fell. He thought he felt the Earth shift beneath his feet. This was not supposed to happen! He was not supposed to die! He was supposed to take control of the wizarding world and Lucius was supposed to ride his coattails to even more power!

All the memories of his father's lessons seemed to wedge their way into Lucius' mind in that instant. Power is everything. Voldemort is Power. Petty teenage wizards with no power who preach maudlin nonsense do not kill Voldemort. This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening.

As the dust settled, the magnitude of the situation seemed to settle on the other Death Eaters. The majority of them ran or disapparated, but a few just sat down on the field where they stood and did nothing. They knew that their lord could not protect them any longer. He was not coming back this time. The Aurors suddenly stirred as well and took to the task of chasing down, capturing, and unmasking the Death Eaters, one by one, and carting them off to be held for trial.

Lucius still stood off to the outskirts of the battlefield. His mind was racing at a million miles a minute. He could not comprehend this odd turn of events. How had the Potter boy survived? With the boy's blood in Voldemort's veins, the mark left by his mother's sacrifice should not have been able to save Potter again. Something else had saved him. Something that would have to be stronger, older, and deeper magic than he had ever seen before had to have saved the boy from the unblockable curse, and destroyed Voldemort as well. But what could possibly have that kind of power? Potter had said something about a love greater than his mother's, something about a greater sacrifice before Voldemort fell by his own curse. Hmph. Love. What ridiculous sentimental tripe. Love is a myth, just some nebulous Platonic form with no perfect reflection in the real world. The world is a dark place, and life has no meaning other than power and influence.

But... But what if Voldemort really had been nothing but a coward and a lost child? What if everything Lucius had thought in his life up to that point had been wrong. That power like Voldemort's is an illusion and the dark arts are fruitless? That he died in the end anyhow? But that can't be ridiculous. It just can't be. Power is everything. From the day he was old enough to understand such matters, he had been told this.

Power is what separates men from beasts and kings from men. There are those who wield power and those who are crushed by it. It is up to you to make sure that you are the one wielding it.

Lucius Malfoy was not accustomed to being this confused. He was always sure of himself. He was a pure-blooded dark wizard, powerful and the master of his own destiny. He was not the pawn of more powerful men. He was not bound by silly concepts of good and evil, of honor and loyalty, of right and wrong. He was not one of the stupid masses, going through life like brainless cattle, shoved back and forth, hither and yon by forces beyond their understanding.

Then why was he currently crouching on his knees, staring down at a blood soaked field? Why was there an uncomfortable weight in his gut, and what were those hot wet lines down his face? Where had he screwed up? He must have made a wrong move in his pursuit of power, somewhere. His mind worked backwards at lightspeed, hashing over the innumerable little moves he had made throughout his life, like pieces on a chessboard, but he could come up with nothing pointing to this moment, no single grand mistake that could have been avoided. The only logical conclusion was that the basis for all of it was essentially flawed.

It was too late for second guesses anyhow. The aurors were headed in his direction. It was all over now. He didn't bother to make a bid for escape; they would only track him down later, probably in his home, under the eyes of his son. Mercifully, the aurors seemed to recognize that he would not fight and did not put him under a binding curse. They simply grasped him under his arms and lifted him to his feet, bidding him to walk forward. He continued to stare at the ground, paying no heed to where he was being led. His world was in pieces, after all, and he knew, above all else, that he had failed. The infallible Malfoy had erred. Oh, Merlin how he had been wrong. As he was marched down the field, Harry Potter walked passed in the other direction. Harry barely heard him as he croaked out a single sentence.

"I was wrong... about everything..."

Harry halted and looked at the elder Malfoy until he lifted his head, and held his gaze. The young man seemed to study him for a moment. His expression seemed confused for a heartbeat, then softened into something else which Lucius Malfoy did not recognize. Harry stepped closer as the Aurors stared at him with a puzzled look. He leaned toward Malfoy and the aurors struggled in vain to hear what he whispered into the Death Eater's ear.

"It's not too late."

Lucius continued to stare at Harry for as long as he could as the aurors shrugged and dragged him off of the school grounds and apparated to the section of Azkaban where he and the other Death Eaters would await their trial.

What was that all about? What was he playing at, saying that it wasn't too late? Too late for what? For him?!? It didn't matter, really. Potter was wrong in any case. It was far too late; he would most likely receive the dementor's kiss by this time next week (the ministry would no doubt have the demons back under their control by then. The dementors had even less loyalty than Death Eaters), and he knew somewhere deep in his cold heart that he deserved it ten times over.

--------

The day for Lucius Malfoy's trial was at hand: just one more Death Eater trial in the midst of dozens. Most of the Death Eaters who had fled after the final battle had been rounded up by the aurors rather quickly. It seemed that far more were willing to rat out their comrades this time to have their sentences reduced to life in prison and none of them were being allowed to worm their way out with protestations of being coerced into service.

The dementors (who had returned to their posts at Azkaban as though nothing had happened almost immediately after the fall of Voldemort) dragged him into the courtroom, threw him into the chair, and left as the chains wrapped themselves around the unmoving occupant's arms, holding him in place, as though there was actually some need to bind him. He was obviously not feeling up to fighting, after all. The aurors were somewhat amused by the fact that Lucius Malfoy had spoken not a word since they brought him in. He was quite different from the last time they'd had him in here. They were expecting a few witty comments and a smug, self-assured grin on their captive's face, but received neither. As unbelievable as it seemed, the great haughty Lucius Malfoy had finally been undone.

The trial began and proceeded quickly. These trials had been going on for a week, most of them held in the petty courts by groups of three judges, not even bothering the wizengamot or a proper jury with it, and everyone knew how they ended. By this point, evidence was barely looked at, and sentences were tossed out quickly in hopes that the trials would be finished soon so the wizarding world could get on with life for once and for all. As this was the last trial, the last Death Eater, they were doubly anxious to get it over with. Nobody ever doubted for a second that he was worthy of anything less than the dementor's kiss. None of the Death Eaters were in the presently harsh eyes of the wizarding world, looking for swift vengeance.

They were a little surprised , but not at all upset by the refusal of Lucius Malfoy to defend himself (especially after a week of hearing some of the most impossibly laughable defenses, from abusive parents, to food additives, to alien abductions). He spoke as little as possible, answering in short or single-word sentences for the most part, and, surprisingly, being completely honest in the matter. The last time this court had seen him, he had at least offered an excuse, that he had been under the Imperious Curse (and had obviously bought off some of the judges and jurors to get such a ridiculous alibi through), but this time, he said almost nothing.

As the senior judge was about to announce the sentence and punishment, the doors of the courtroom burst open and Harry Potter stumbled in, followed by a group of ministry employees who had obviously tried to keep him out. For the first time during the entire course of the trial, Lucius Malfoy looked up. He stared in confusion, as did the rest of the court. What could Potter possibly want or have to say? The little hero should be celebrating with his friends, should he not?

"I beg you, do not convict Lucius Malfoy!"

What? What on Earth had compelled The-Boy-Who-Constantly-Lived-Through-Everything-Whether-You-Wanted-Him-to-or-Not to make a plea on the behalf of one of the men who had been a follower of Voldemort? One of those who had aided in the murder of his parents and who's son constantly gave him hell to top it off. One judge stared dumbly, one gasped, and the third just looked incredulous. The stress of the final battle must have left him a bit off in the head. He had just saved them from the greatest evil they had ever seen a week ago, but still...

The senior judge blinked a few times and finally spoke.

"Well, Mr. Potter, why, pray tell, should this murder go free? I see no evidence to suggest that he is anything but evil at its worst. He was found on the grounds at your school after the final battle wearing Death Eater robes, after all. The evidence is overwhelmingly against him."

Harry seemed to hesitate for a moment, trying to think of something to say in the defense of the man before him. Harry himself didn't know why he was doing this really, other than it seemed like the thing to do. It was a gift of sorts, he supposed. To give someone another chance, that he might find peace with himself and with God. Harry felt that he had been spared by God after all, so should he not show some of the same mercy? The day of the battle, he had seen this man as he was being carried off, completely shattered and at least seemingly aware of his folly, unlike most of others who just ran away. Harry wasn't customarily a liar, but for this, he could make an exception. He knew that at this point, so soon after the battle, his influence on the wizarding world was great indeed, so he said the first thing that came to mind.

"He was not under his own power. I know for a fact that he was under the will of another."

The judge couldn't understand this. Why on Earth had he come in here to defend this criminal? What evidence could he possibly have?

"Can you prove this, Mr. Potter?"

"No, but I know it for a fact. Please consider my testimony. He was not acting under his own will, he was controlled by evil beyond his power to resist. He should not receive the dementor's kiss. Please release him."

Lucius Malfoy finally turned his head and looked at the boy. This made no sense. He must be having a dream induced by some sort of dementia. Yes, that's right, he's still in his cell and this is a dream brought on by exposure to the dementors. Harry Potter would never intercede on his behalf, after all. Potter hated him. He had hated him and his son since the day they had laid eyes on one another. The Golden Boy defending a Death Eater. What a farce. Of course Potter hated him. He was a filthy Death Eater, driven by power lust and greed, the follower of his adversary, a murderer, thief, and liar. And above all, a great bloody fool...

The judge sat back in his chair and regarded the boy for a minute. This young man had saved them from the darkest wizard in history. He had defeated him without lifting a finger. It was against his better judgment, but the judge had to admit that denying The Boy Who Lived Twice of anything he wanted right now would look quite bad for the ministry, and what harm could Lucius Malfoy do now anyhow, now that he was a broken man with a broken wand and without Voldemort to hide behind? Nobody would ever trust him or his ilk ever again, that was for sure. No amount of money in the world would ever gain him respect or power again. He was a toothless lion.

The judge sighed and looked at the boy's face. The pleading in his eyes seemed genuine enough, like he really cared what happened to this bit of dark wizard scum. It really didn't matter at this point anyhow, did it? Just another inconsequential Death Eater with no allies in the world. Nobody cared whether he lived or died, now. Except one. Potter seemed to. The judge sighed, spoke hastily in one breath, and got up to leave the second the words left his lips.

"Fine. Lucius Malfoy is hereby deemed innocent of all charges. You are free to go."

He spoke as he passed Harry Potter on the way to the doors.

"I had better not regret this down the road, young man."

Lucius Malfoy did not move, and, in fact, displayed no evidence of having heard his sentence at all. A couple of aurors walked over to him, roughly grabbed him up under the armpits and hoisted him to his feet, giving him a shove toward the door. The judge addressed him again from the door before exiting.

"I don't know why you were let off, you filth, but it appears you're free to go. You can thank Mr. Potter for that. Don't know why the hell he defended you, though. If it were up to me, you'd be a snack for the dementors tonight."

Malfoy looked up again, and was greeted by a pair of framed green eyes looking back at him. Harry Potter held his gaze for a heartbeat, then turned around and walked out of the courtroom. After a moment of hesitation, Malfoy followed. He ignored the weight of the glares of the courtroom spectators on his back as he walked out of the building. He blinked as he opened the doors, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight he hadn't seen in weeks.

--------

Lucius Malfoy was about to return to his home as he spotted a figure standing next to the door looking at him. He stared at the son of James Potter in disbelief. Had this really happened? Had the son of his enemy and the enemy of his dead lord really saved him from the fate he so deserved? He finally spoke to him in as steady a tone as he could produce.

"I don't understand. You should have let them... Why?"

He was exhausted and his voice trailed off. He couldn't face this now, now that his sense of reality had been ripped from under him like a rug. Harry looked up at the tired and dirty man.

"I told you before. It's not too late. But you are living on borrowed time now. I suggest you make the most of it."

"But why? Why is it "not too late"? And... ...and how is it that you are unharmed by Voldemort?"

"Both of those questions have the same answer. And it is the same answer I told your former master... It's not just a myth in a dusty old muggle book, you know. If you want my advice, first go to your son. He needs you more than either of you will ever admit, especially now. It's not too late for him either. "

Harry Potter walked away. Lucius Malfoy was not entirely pleased with that answer, but he obviously wasn't going to get another one. He walked down the street with the sunlight warm on his back, headed nowhere in particular. As night fell, he finally apparated home, and walked up to his son's room to watch Draco as he slept. He had much to make up to his son. Guilt crept into him as he was reminded of the cold treatment he had given his son since the boy's birth. No wonder Draco hated his him. All this blood on his hands, yet how could it not be "too late"? What was Potter getting at? He was thankful for last-minute reprieve, though he knew he did not deserve it. He still didn't understand what that boy had been talking about.

Potter had been right about one thing though: he was living on borrowed time. And he was going to do his damnedest to make up for his mistakes, though he thought nothing he could do could ever make up for the foolish mistakes he had made in his fruitless quest for power. But he would try.

Still, he knew Potter had been pointing to something specific. Something familiar. Could it give him redemption? It irked him that he didn't know for sure. Something about stigmatics and some old muggle book. He'd have to look into it later. For now, exhaustion was making itself known, and the only thing he planned on looking into was sleep...

Part III: Draco Malfoy

Dust swirled through the column of light that fell across the pale face of a sleeping teenage boy. His face twitched a bit, and he rolled over in annoyance. He did not want to wake up. He knew nothing pleasant was waiting for him today. His father was probably dead by now, and he did not want to face the owl bringing the notice. He fully planned on hexing the accursed beast the second it appeared at the window. Not that he cared if his father were dead, really, he just didn't want to be bothered with all the paperwork and his father's will and other such piddling legal nonsense. That is what was bothering him, of course. That's why he had been feeling like this for the past week, with the Death Eater trials running their course: as though time had slowed to a standstill and the world was holding its breath, like he wanted to scream and cry at the same time. It is certainly not because he cared about the fate of Lucius Malfoy. His father had never cared much for him either anyhow. Draco knew where he stood in this family. He was well accustomed to being little more than a valuable commodity. He knows well that his worth only extended as far as Lucius Malfoy requiring an heir to carve into his own image, as a matter of pride and legacy and little else. His father certainly never cared about him as a human being and a son. And Draco hated him for it too. So why did he feel as though he were on the verge of crying?

Angry at himself for a million reasons and no particular reason at all, Draco vigorously rubbed at his eyes and forced himself awake. He was not going to sit in bed feeling sorry for himself all day, no matter how he felt. He was a Malfoy and whatever else, that meant above all that he was a master of pragmatism. He rules his emotions. He is not ruled by them. Draco also knows that emotion is a weakness, never to be shown and to be felt as little as possible.

You are a Malfoy. You do not cry.

That lesson was one of his earliest, and memories of his father strapping him and ignoring his cries were plentiful. After a while, he had stopped crying out as the leather stung his legs. Crying never did any good. Crying, like all expressions of emotion, is a waste of energy and a quick way to lose face. Face is everything, after all. If you cannot save face amongst your peers, you will never be respected. If you are not respected, you will never have power in this world.

Do you want to be weak? Do you want to be prey to the whims of more powerful men? Power is everything, Draco. Everything else is an illusion for sentimental fools.

Draco stared at the dawn through the window, squinting his eyes at the impossibly bright sunshine beaming in. What right did the sun have to shine on a day like this? There was nothing good about today. Or any other day, as far as he was concerned. Things never went as he thought they should. Life was bloody unfair sometimes. Nothing bad should ever happen to a Malfoy. Until recently, he thought nothing bad could happen to the Malfoys, that the stars were against any misfortune on his part. Apparently the universe had been a bit distracted lately.

Draco glanced about the room, his eyes pausing on old toys piled in the corner, the racing brooms leaning against the wall, the beautiful and expensive robes and fur-lined cloaks lining his wardrobe. Everything he had ever asked for. All this junk had meant so much to him just weeks before, as proof that he was from a powerful family, superior and deserving of the world. Proof that his father, through Voldemort, would insure him everything he deserved.

Now, however, it seemed like a pile of useless garbage collecting dust, utterly meaningless. Over the years, he had always thought like he would finally feel complete after getting that perfect broom and making that perfect catch in the next Quidditch game, that the right robes would make his beauty impossible to ignore by any. He just knew that Voldemort would take over the wizarding world and he'd finally get the respect and obeisance he knew he should have, that the world would be his also, in time. All his house mates at school respected him. They were all his allies. But the emptiness at his core would not go away. He'd ignored it as foolishness on his part until now. Now, as the rift grew wider, he could not stop thinking about it.

He'd always felt to some degree like there was something rather pointless and wrong with it all though he knew not what exactly. Now, he felt it more acutely than ever before. After all, what was the point of all of this? Why spend a lifetime accumulating power, prestige, and wealth, only to have it stripped away at the point of death? The grave was the great equalizer, after all. King and pauper both returned to the dust of the Earth. For a time, Voldemort seemed to hold the promise of immortality, but he now knew what a lie that had been. It had been nothing but an intoxicating fantasy, and that dream was now undeniably over.

Draco stood up and stretched, slowly making his way to his wardrobe. He reached to the back and pulled out a soft dark blue cotton robe, one of the simplest outfits he possessed. He ran a comb through his hair and was about to slick it down like he had done every day for as long as he could remember, but for some inexplicable reason, today he didn't. He just couldn't be bothered with it this morning; it took too much energy to move. He took his wand off the night stand, stuffed it in his sleeve as an afterthought, and started down towards the smaller dining room the family used when not entertaining company. The light streaming in through the high stained glass windows was bothering him all the more as he slowly walked the corridor. Damned sunlight. Damned morning. Why did dawn have to come before it is wanted? A slight twinge between his eyes told him he'd soon have a full blown headache.

He turned around the corner and stopped quite suddenly. There was a figured hunched over a cup of coffee and the Daily Prophet sitting at the table. No, this was impossible. Draco stared and wondered if he was still dreaming, but dismissed the thought as the throbbing in his head spread to his temples and reminded him that he was indeed quite conscious. Draco was snapped out of his reverie as the statue-like figure unexpectedly looked up at him with an odd expression.

"Good morning, Draco."

Draco was quite confused. His father was dead. He was supposed to be dead.

"You're alive."

Draco regarded his father carefully. He had an expression on his face that Draco was quite unused to. It was not the stern mask he'd grown used to from infancy, nor the shallow annoyance or anger that occasionally cropped up. He wasn't sure what it was. He looked almost melancholy, but that was preposterous.

"So it would seem."

His father paused for a heartbeat, as though considering his next words carefully.

"They let me go."

Draco blinked in drowsy confusion.

"Why? How? I've been following the trials, I can't imagine that they would ever..."

As Draco's inquiry trailed off, Lucius' expression shifted again, as though he were afraid of what Draco's reaction to what he was about to say would be. Draco could not get used to this sudden appearance of emotion on his father's face. It just didn't add up with what he knew about his father.

You are a Malfoy, Draco. Never show emotion. Your enemies will use them against you. You must stamp feelings out. They are a sign of vulnerability that others will take full advantage of.

Was the man who told him those words time and time again the same man sitting before him now?

"To be honest, Draco, I'm not quite sure what happened. "

Lucius briefly laughed half-heartedly. Further dumbfounding Draco, he shook his head, continuing with a half-smile on his face.

"That Potter boy.... He spoke on my behalf. I don't understand what happened, but I'm here, Draco. I'm still alive."

Draco just stared at him, wondering if this truly was his father, or if someone was trying to play a nasty trick on him involving polyjuice potion or some odd spell. But nobody save a Malfoy could get past the magical wards protecting this home without invitation...

Lucius tried to read his son's expression but could get nothing from him. He had trained him well. Far too well. Again he was reminded of his treatment of his son and guilt crept back into him.

"Listen, I'm not going to talk about the trial. It doesn't matter now anyhow. I want you to understand something..."

Lucius looked down. He wasn't sure what he wanted say to his son. That everything he had taught him was wrong? That he was sorry for misleading him, for mistreating him? It sounded hollow even to himself. Draco would laugh. This is too damn difficult! He had whispered poison to the minister of magic, deceived an entire society, and quietly destroyed anything that had gotten in his path, but he could not even talk to his own son. He could not bring himself to admit he was wrong to his son and beg forgiveness. What if Draco refused to take him seriously? What if he simply laughed at him and decided his daddy's gone mad? Would he ever respect him again? Was it too late to save Draco from making the same mistakes he had?

Draco raised an eyebrow and regarded him with cool suspicion. After a full minute's hesitation on Lucius' part, Draco began to turn and head back toward the door. Lucius briefly covered his face with his hands and gritted his teeth.

"Draco, listen to me, please."

Draco stopped instantly. His father had never said "please" to him in his life.

"I thought I'd get the owl with the ministry's announcement of your execution this morning."

Lucius did not look up. He spoke quietly, almost to himself, and Draco had to strain to hear him speak.

"And you'd have cared nothing at all and had every right to not care. God, Draco, what have I done to you?"

Draco stared hard at the figure before him. Was this man his father? His father had never felt a moment's guilt in his life. Guilt was not for Malfoys. Malfoys do not make mistakes. This was all highly confusing. He sighed. Nothing was right anymore. Voldemort was dead, his father was acting like some weak Hufflepuffish mudblood, not like the high-born aristocrat he was. Everything was completely wrong with this picture.

Draco turned and briskly walked out of the room, breaking into a run once he was out of his father's line of vision. He felt like the world had been ripped out from under him. He had told Potter on the train after Voldemort's return that he had chosen the losing side. He had been so certain, so confident in the infallibility of himself, his father, and Voldemort. It had been drummed into him from birth that the pure-blooded families of ancient lineage were the true inheritors of the Earth, that their waning power was temporary, and that one day, they would once again seize power like they'd had in pre-Christian Europe, if only they kept the faith and stayed vigilant and untainted by muggle and mudblood ways.

Draco sat down on the couch in front of the window in his bedroom, looking at the calm scene below him. The Malfoy Manor sat on a magnificent tract of land in the heart of Wales, untouched by muggles and modern life. A small lake was positioned a short distance from the old stone mansion, and beyond was a deep old-growth forest. Although it did not harbor the vast assortment of creatures that the forest on the Hogwarts grounds did, it held its own quiet mystery that never quite lost its captivating appeal to Draco. The land was unplottable, and inaccessible to any but the Malfoy family and their guests. The Malfoy family had moved to Wales in the second century AD from what was now northern France, and deep and ancient magic permeated the entire estate. Draco idly wondered if his father even knew what all the enchantments and charms that protected his home were.

What did his father know anyhow? It was a jarring revelation that shook Draco to the core of his being. His father was fallible. Ultimately, he was just another human being. And by extension, so was Draco. What difference did blood make in the end, then? He suddenly dreaded returning to Hogwarts. He had never cared that he was either hated or feared by the other students before, when he'd been so absolutely sure that he was a superior being lightyears beyond any of them...

Draco pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window and closed his eyes. He felt like crying again, but this time he wasn't quite so sure if it was worth the trouble of fighting back. What did it matter anymore? Even if his father was still alive, the man would never carry the influence and power he once did. People would always look askance at him, being found among the ranks of the Death Eaters twice. Also was the fact that the wizarding world at large had lost much of its respect for the old families in general, as so many of them were revealed to be supporters of Voldemort, or at the very least, steeped in the so-called Dark Arts. There was really no denying it any longer: the days of the old families were coming to a close. The pure-blooded population was dwindling rapidly, each generation bringing fewer and fewer children, meanwhile the number of mixed blooded and muggle-born wizards and witches ballooned. The fall of Voldemort really was just the final nail in the coffin. Blood and ancestry had meant less and less before the fall of the Dark Lord, but now it was truly worthless. His name would now be, if anything, a detriment. The path his forefathers walked was now closed to him. Draco would have to make his own way in the world, but what path could he take? His father's quest for power and absolute control now seemed hollow and empty, but Draco knew of nothing else. His entire world had been washed away in a single crashing blow.

Draco was suddenly startled as he noticed movement from the corner of his eye. His father was in the room, moving over to sit on the couch next to him, turning to look out of the window that Draco had been staring through a moment before. Draco turned and looked at his father, waiting for him to say or do something, anything.

"I have never seen another place like this. No land is as fair and beautiful as our home. Our family has been living here for over nineteen hundred years, you know. The Malfoy family has long been one of the most powerful wizarding families of Europe. Quite a legacy, indeed."

Lucius turned and looked at his son's impassive face.

"You are the last scion of this ancient family, Draco."

He turned back to the window, lost in himself, but Draco continued to watch him expectantly. He had heard this speech innumerable times before, but never in such an odd tone.

"Yet even if you have twenty children, Draco, I fear that the Malfoy legacy is over... at least, in its traditional form. The world has changed, Draco. The old ways are swiftly being forgotten. This land once harbored more than just our small family, Draco. I don't recall if I've ever mentioned it to you, but once an entire community, of both magic and muggle peasants lived on this land, tilling the Earth under the strong arm and patronage of the Malfoy family. But they have long since moved on. The old altars of the forest lay empty. The power of the old families is broken...

"I have taught you what my father taught me, and what his father taught him. The Malfoy ways have kept the family strong for centuries, but now I fear that it was all for naught. All the efforts of this family through the generations have ultimately come to disaster. What do we have to show for ourselves, Draco?"

Draco said nothing, but Lucius was not really expecting an answer from him, so he provided one himself.

"A bit of pretty land, a dusty old castle, and a pile of bits of metal in a Gringotts vault. We have won no just wars and saved no lives, but rather destroyed many. It was the ambition and tyranny of our ancestors that drove away those who lived in that city. Our family scorned its responsibility to those people, abandoned their love of them, and forgot them. Simple selfish ambition for greater power ruined us, Draco. I fear this land shall never be fruitful again, at least, not for us."

Lucius looked again at Draco, hoping to divine something of his child's present feelings, but his placid expression surrendered nothing. He truly was his father's son, the man thought grimly. He was now, anyhow. Lucius remembered what Draco had been like as a very young child. He had been a bright toddler, quick to smile and laugh, but also quick to cry. Lucius had perceived the child's open nature as weakness, and had resolved to teach the boy decorum fitting of a Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy never regretted anything so wholly in his entire life.

"We were wrong Draco. I was wrong."

Draco stared hard at an imaginary point somewhere between his father's shoulders. He felt as though the ground below him was crumbling, and that he would soon fall into an abyss. The tears that had been threatening him all morning made another jeer at him as he struggled to keep his frustration and fear from showing. He finally lost the battle as warm fingers pushed an errant lock of blond hair behind his ear, and a single tear traced a path down his slack face. He would rather die than cry before his father, but he could no longer prevent it, and no longer cared if he was beaten for it.

Draco waited patiently for his father's rebuke, but it never came. He finally hazarded a glance up at his father, and nearly gasped at what he saw. Lucius sat before him with his eyes closed, his lashes glistening with unshed tears.

Draco found the sight revolting, though he wasn't certain why. His hatred of the man before him flared up suddenly. He stood up from the couch and backed away. He wanted nothing more than to hex the man before him, though he knew he'd never have the courage to do so. Somehow, all of this had to be his father's fault. He just knew that it was the result of some weakness in his father, now displayed on the older man's face. He spoke, softly at first, but his voice rising with every word until he was practically shouting.

"What's wrong with you, father? Where did this weakness come from? What has happened to you? How could you let this happen to us? How could you be so weak?"

More tears slipped from his own eyes, but he no longer cared. The chasm that had been threatening to swallow him since the fall of the Dark Lord finally opened up, swallowing him whole. He sat down on the floor and wept in earnest. He was hoping, praying that his father would drag him to his feet and slap him, call him weak and unworthy, tell him to act like a Malfoy. His father did none of those things.

Lucius sat down beside his son, pulling the young man's head against his chest and wrapping an arm tightly around his shoulders. Draco's sobbing only increased as the boy wrung his father's robes in his hands as though he would truly be lost if he let go.

Draco hated himself for being weak and crying. He hated his father even more so for being weak and crying and embracing him like he were something precious instead of simply something necessary. He barely heard the man's voice at first.

"I'm sorry Draco. You're right, I am weak. I have always been weak. I know it seems like strange logic, but we were all weak, we who followed Voldemort. Such power is only a fleeting illusion that will betray you in the end, and I have let it betray us both. I led you down this errant path..."

Draco had never hated his father before as he hated him now, but he couldn't bring himself to let go of him. He could only bury his face in the man's chest and cry. The only betrayal he felt was that of his father's.

Here we are, father, crying like fools. You always taught me that such soppy sentimental nonsense was weak, and that power was the only law worth following, the only thing deserving of faith.

Voldemort had held his faith in power. Voldemort was dead. He was dust of the Earth, and would soon be forgotten in daily life. Draco finally unclenched his hands and stopped sobbing, but he could not bring himself to move from his father's embrace, nor could he quite stop the silent tears that still fell. He finally managed to draw the air to speak quietly, more to himself than to anyone else.

"Look at us. Sitting on the floor crying like cowards. Our ancestors must be rolling in their graves."

Lucius smiled genuinely and without malice for the first time since his own childhood.

"They can spend the next month doing backflips for all I care. They were the cowards, Draco. It takes much more courage to create than destroy, to love than to hate. You are right, Draco. I have been weak my whole life, and I have tried my hardest to make you weak. I just hope it is not too late for you to learn from an old fool's mistakes instead of repeating them."