Chapter Text
After checking his watch and realizing he’d only been there a torturous fifteen minutes, Harry decided he needed a cigarette before going back to the Great Hall. Of course, Hermione wasn’t pleased to see him smoking, once she and Ron finally came back with the food they had promised, but the slight relief the cigarette provided and the sight of them walking up to him with way too many treacle tart slices floating around them —which had made him laugh inappropriately loud— had been worth the scolding.
More people followed them out into the hallway, to either admire the portraits of the fallen or continue conversations that had started in the Great Hall, and Harry started suffocating again. No amount of treacle tart could help him swallow down the guilt he felt when he heard Andromeda sob after Tonk’s portrait told her off for calling her Nymphadora.
As he tried to prolong every bite for as long as possible, to keep his friends satisfied without going into a diabetic coma, he looked around the hallway and noticed there was an empty space between Fred and Colin's portraits, with a blank copper plaque underneath it, waiting for a name to be engraved on it. An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach the more he thought about the reason behind this, because no matter how hard he thought about it, he always ended up coming to the same conclusion: they were saving that spot for Lavender, in case she didn't make it.
Harry looked away from that wall, unable to stomach that thought any longer, and started looking for Pansy in the now much bigger crowd, hoping that would distract him enough from the overwhelming grief that was filling his lungs, like the ice cold water he'd almost drowned in, back in the lake at the Forest of Dean.
When his eyes found her, it was like they had set her in motion. She went from standing in her corner, completely frozen on the spot, to walking towards someone, or something, without even looking up from the floor, like a wind-up doll. It was impossible for him to see the emotions on her face through her black veil, but her walk was quick and determined. Maybe a little too quick, which made every nerve in his body tense up, sensing upcoming danger without having to see it, as easily as someone would feel the presence of their sibling in a crowded room.
A blonde, tall man stood between two paintings, leaning against the wall instead of admiring the art. His eyes were set somewhere else, on something Harry’s could not see from where he stood, but he could tell, by the way the other man’s eyes followed movement, that the subject of his fixated attention was a person.
Harry furrowed his eyebrows and leaned to the side to get a better sight of the lingering man over Ron’s shoulder, and by the time he realized the man in question was none other than Theodore Nott, Pansy was already by his side, whispering something into his ear as they both stared at whoever they were watching.
Wordlessly, he handed Ron his half-eaten plate of treacle tart and started walking towards the suspicious pair. It took only a few steps for him to get a peek of who their target was: Jerome Cuffay, Lavender’s stepdad and, coincidentally, the first muggle to step foot into Hogwarts grounds in centuries — if ever.
Before he could process this revelation, Hermione called his name, confused as to what had made Harry walk away, and making both Nott and Pansy look up at him.
He started running too late.
Not only was the other man closer to his target and in better form than Harry — which made him regret rejecting Kingsley’s offer to get right into auror training, and spending the past year sulking, drinking and smoking instead — but Pansy had also disappeared into thin air, like a muggle magician. Still, it was impossible to apparate within Hogwarts grounds, so he was hoping someone would see her frantically run from the scene and catch her before she could get away.
The medals on his chest made a clinking sound as he ran, mocking him. Because there he was again, wasn’t he? The Chosen One. The hero of the wizarding world. The one who had allegedly restored the peace, running after yet another man trying to wound an innocent person, just because of the blood running through his veins. He hadn’t done shit, and by the looks of it, he would fail again, because Theodore Nott already had his wand pointed at Jerome.
Jerome, who had been pushed into an unknown and prejudiced world against his will, and fully embraced it, for the love of a witch.
Jerome, who had adopted said witch’s daughter as his own, staying by her side even as she took the anger that came with the grief of losing her biological father out on him.
Jerome, who had lost his wife to a war he didn’t understand and could do nothing to stop.
Jerome, who was about to lose the only family he had left, his stepdaughter, to an illness he used to think of as mythological.
And Harry started seeing red, because it wasn’t fair. None of it. Not the things Jerome had lost, not the things he had sacrificed himself, not all the lives they’d given up —which flashed by him as he ran, in a mixture of memories and paintings— in hopes of a change… all in vain. All for nothing, because the war continued, just as violent and vicious and merciless as it’d been since it started in both of their worlds.
He thought about the attacker that had killed all those muggles, the one he'd seen in the newspaper at Natalie's bookshop. They had also been unsuspecting and defenseless, at the time they were attacked. They were meeting up with their friends, and the next second, that bomb went off and they were dead. They probably didn't even get to see or process what had killed them. And Theodore Nott was about to do the same thing to Jerome. He would be killed with a quick and simple hex, by something he didn't fully understand, in a matter of seconds, and much like those muggles, he was surrounded by people who had the power to stop his death from happening, but weren't paying enough attention to the danger he was in to do so.
Because, at the end of the day, that was all it came down to: minorities being targeted, people who looked the other way, governments that didn't care at best and agreed with those ideas at worst. Wars that started because the majority thought they deserved to win just because there were more of them, and ended because more people in the group they claimed to be protecting and representing were empathetic towards those being targeted than they expected. And death. So much death as a normalized casualty, as if limbs and rubble were just different types of materials to be cleaned up after a battle.
Were they doomed to repeat the same cruel “mistakes” over and over again?
He wouldn't allow it.
Not again. Not while he was alive.
He yanked Nott by the neck of his robes, pulling with enough force to make him trip backwards, but too late to stop the unforgivable curse from leaving his lips. Both of them froze on the spot at the sight of green lightning, and Harry turned his head just in time to see the spell hit Jerome on his left ribs, and then watched, almost in slow motion, as he fell to the floor unceremoniously.
There was silence for a moment. Deafening silence throughout the entire hallway, as everyone turned around and tried to find the source of the commotion, confused as to what had just happened. Harry’s eyes burned with ghosts of tears that he couldn’t bring himself to cry at the sight of Jerome’s limp body on the ground, the Patil family staring at it in horror, frozen with shock as they processed the fact that the man they had been talking to seconds ago was now dead.
Just another casualty of a war that was supposed to be over.
He turned to look at Theodore Nott, sitting on the floor, making no attempt to pull away from his tight grasp, like he had nothing to run or be ashamed for, and he couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw that the bastard was fucking smiling, grinning madly like a seeker that had just caught the snitch seconds before the game was over. He didn’t care about all that Jerome had lost in the past year. He didn’t care about the girl who had been fighting to survive in St. Mungo’s, or how alone she would be, even if she managed to pull off such an impossible feat. He didn’t care about the other girl, standing just a few meters away from them, who had cried in Harry’s arms at the thought of losing her best friend, who had seen her get attacked, and who he had just traumatized further.
And in that moment, something took over Harry.
Why did he need to spare his life? What had he gotten from his pacifist attitude throughout the war, other than immeasurable losses and disappointment?
Maybe the reason assholes like Nott dared to strike again, even long after they’d lost, was because Harry had felt too morally superior to kill their leader when he had the chance, before that final battle that had caused so much destruction. Maybe — a dark thought whispered into his ear — he should’ve given him a more painful ending, to make an example out of him, and prevent future blood supremacists from rising again.
Because maybe, if people like Dumbledore and Snape hadn’t tried to keep their hands clean and their reputation secure, playing long games and making others do what they considered to be beneath them, they wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.
And if Harry needed to lose it all, to prevent more pain and suffering, then he would happily get his hands bloody.
Merlin knew he had done it before.
Before he could stop himself, his wand was pointed at Theodore Nott’s neck, and all he could think about, as he saw the tip of his wand dig into his skin, too dull to actually cause an injury without the assistance of magic, was that he wanted to cause the other boy — man, he reminded himself, they were men now — as much pain as he could, and that even if he was successful, that wouldn’t be enough punishment for the crimes he’d committed, not enough retribution for the pain he had caused, and certainly not enough to satisfy Harry’s need to see him under his foot.
The shrill voice of none other than Bellatrix Lestrange, the woman who had caused more pain to others around her than anyone else he knew, echoed in his mind, representing all the worst parts of himself: Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, boy?
He felt the same two damning words that Nott had used against Jerome only moments before perch themselves on the tip of his tongue, like a deadly butterfly, getting ready for take-off.
You need to mean them, Potter. You need to really want to cause pain — to enjoy it — righteous anger won't hurt me for long.
If he didn’t deal with him now, he would get away, as bastards like him always did, and even if they managed to catch him, Azkaban wouldn’t fix anything. Azkaban wasn’t enough punishment. Azkaban wouldn’t bring Jerome or Lavender or that muggle couple and their baby back. In the quidditch game that was the war, their side had caught the snitch at the last second, but that didn’t matter, because the death eaters had humiliated them with a score for the record books.
The game was over, but the casualties had been too many to forgive, and Harry would make sure to get even.
“AVADA KEDAVRA!” he yelled, with so much force that he felt his throat get raw and sore before he even got the second word out, his wand moving in that lightning pattern that had been burnt into his skull eighteen years before. The last thing he saw before his vision went blurry was the shocked face of Theodore Nott, who obviously hadn’t expected Harry Potter to kill him on the spot, in front of a crowd of mourning families. Then, the other man fell unceremoniously to the ground, cold and unmoving. Just like that, Harry had terminated a life.
Reality came crashing back, like a bucket of cold water, pushing him down against the cold marble floors of the castle.
He heard several gasps, then a muffled exclamation of his name, asynchronous running steps approaching him… and then his ears started ringing. It was like his body was beginning to fail to perform its basic functions; with his hearing and vision now gone, his ribs felt tighter against his lungs, making it harder to breathe by the second, and for a moment, he was positive that he was about to die too.
Sweaty palms dragged his useless body away from Theodore Nott’s corpse, but he barely made it a few inches away before throwing up on someone’s shoes.
He coughed, which felt like being scratched by a hippogriff from the inside, due to his sore throat. He tasted the bile in his mouth the second he closed it, and a gentle hand placed itself on his trembling back as he fought against the urge to keep vomiting, disgusted by the unpleasant flavor and by his own actions.
Someone was talking to him — maybe several people — but he could not hear a word until the moment he looked up and met her eyes.
There she was again, staring him down, inexplicably getting rid of every negative emotion and sensation in his body, seemingly with just force of will. This time, though, he wasn’t as grateful for it. He wanted to keep suffering. He deserved it. Not only had he been the reason why all the innocent souls in the paintings around him had died, he had also killed a man who, some people would argue, still had plenty of time to change and reinsert himself back to society. Hell, he’d been one of the people who had argued in favor of that system. He’d shown up at every one of their trials, testified for people who had attacked and betrayed him until the very last second of the war, like Draco Malfoy, and had claimed they were both too young to be defined by their actions. And yet, there was Theodore Nott’s body, robbed of its life because Harry had been in a bad mood.
And people were comforting him.
“It’s okay, Harry,” he thought he had heard Hermione whisper, the warmth of her hand on his back and her breath against his ear felt like fire, burning him with shame. “You did what you had to do.”
Then came Ron’s voice, angrier than hers, most likely affected by Jerome’s death and happy about the ex-death eater’s. “No one will blame you, mate,” he said, probably thinking he was reassuring him. “He had it coming.”
He blinked to clear his vision from the tears in his eyes, and that’s all it took for her to disappear. He remembered trying to scream, to tell them all to run after her, but… something stopped him. His brain felt like mush, unable to recall any words in the English language; his throat was not sore anymore, a soothing layer of something that felt like thin mucus covered its walls, causing a slight choking sensation, the way it felt for the first few minutes after he woke up in the morning; and really, there was no point in telling them to go after her because she had vanished, and he couldn’t remember seeing her run in any direction.
Suddenly, his body started feeling heavy with exhaustion, so much so that Hermione had to catch him before he collapsed.
“...no point in questioning him right this second!” he heard Ron shout angrily at what Harry assumed to be a pair of aurors standing nearby, if their crimson uniform and black boots were any indication.
“Take him to the Hospital Wing,” said McGonnagall, after Harry felt his eyes close without his permission. “He can rest there, and you can question him after he’s recovered.”
Harry couldn’t remember anything else after that.
His next memory was waking up in the Hospital Wing the next day, mindlessly following orders to drink a potion and eat a meal, then answering questions from two different aurors and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, though everything felt like he was experiencing it outside his body.
In a matter of hours, he was back home, like nothing had happened.
He had killed someone, and now Hermione was making lunch in his kitchen, while Ron tried to figure out how to work his television.
Thinking back on it, he supposed that’s how their lives had always been. Traumatic events, followed by mundane routine, never acknowledged unless their emotions were a necessary ingredient in the recipe for disaster that Dumbledore had written however many decades before they were even born.
But something about this one felt different. Maybe because there was no plan behind it. There was no mastermind behind his actions, no puppeteer to blame for his every move. He was the only one responsible for this, and it just happened to be one of the biggest regrets of his life.
Was he incapable of making good decisions without someone guiding him?
Had he been right, all those years ago, when he told Sirius he felt like he was secretly a bad person?
When he wasn’t thinking about his own moral shortcomings, his thoughts would inevitably find their way back to Pansy Parkinson. The one who got away… literally. But how? And why had she been there in the first place? Hermione and Ron had seemed curious and interested at first, but after hours of discussing the same subject, they were starting to share those patronizing looks that Harry had hated since their school years.
“There’s no way she’s not involved in all of this. I mean, why else would she follow me around?”
Ron sighed, and Harry knew exactly what he was going to say, because they had already gone over this. “Maybe she isn’t. Maybe she just happened to be there, mate.”
“I haven’t seen her in a year, and suddenly she’s everywhere I go, but sure, it’s all just a fucked up coincidence.” Harry clicked his tongue. “As if those have ever happened to me.”
“You said it yourself,” he said, raising both of his hands defensively, “their side also had losses. It makes sense that she would only get out of her house to go to the hospital and a memorial.”
“The same day I did?” He lifted his eyebrows at him, feeling the slightest bit of relief when he saw a hint of hesitation in Ron’s eyes. “At the same time? In the same rooms? Hogwarts is fucking huge.”
“But the memorial was happening in the Great Hall and the Hallway of the Fallen,” pointed out Hermione, tipping her glass of wine slightly towards him. She and Ron were sitting across from him in his shitty dinner table with an unbalanced leg, that barely fit two people, let alone three, and which they had to clean for him (not without reprimanding him for the amount of takeout containers and empty bottles they’d found on top of it, from Merlin knew how long ago). Their plates were finished, his practically untouched. “Besides, bumping into her twice, at the only places you both poke your heads out of your houses to visit, can’t be considered stalking, Harry.”
“Don’t compare me to them,” he said sharply, glaring at her.
She simply shrugged. “I’m just pointing out facts.”
“Well, it’s a fact that she talked to Nott before he…” Harry swallowed, looking down at his food and wishing he had eaten it, not because he was hungry, but because the smell of it was making him nauseous again. Though maybe that had nothing to do with the food.
“They’re—” Ron winced. “—were friends.”
“I’ve never seen them spend much time together. She was always with Malfoy’s little gang.”
“And we all know you’re the expert on that.” Harry looked up to glare at Ron for his teasing, but his best friend’s smirk remained firm on his face. “Though I didn’t know you stared at Parkinson as much as you used to watch Malfoy, but lately, I’ve been wondering…”
“Don’t,” he said. “This isn’t me obsessing over Parkinson the way I did with Draco. Which I was right about, by the way.” He squinted at Hermione, who just took another sip of her wine. “I just think they knew having her — or anyone, for that matter — stalk me would have me on edge the second I saw her at the memorial. They wanted me to react and I gave them exactly what they wanted.”
“I think what we’re trying to say is…” interrupted Hermione, placing a hand on top of her boyfriend’s. “...that maybe, the reason why you’re overanalyzing every single one of your interactions with them, is because you’re trying to find a justification as to why you did what you did.” She smiled sympathetically at Harry. There it was again. Pity he didn’t deserve, especially not after what he’d done. Guilt stabbed him on his chest, poking the open wound in his heart and making it bigger.
“There is none,” he said gravely, looking down at his glass of wine. He had tried not to drink much, so as to not worry them further, and because he knew there was no telling how his drunk self would behave after the events of the previous day, but it probably wouldn’t be fun to witness. “I know that.”
“Yes, there is,” said Ron, with such unexpected rage that made his head snap upwards and look at him. He was frowning, squeezing Hermione’s hand so hard that his knuckles had turned white. “That prick killed Lav’s dad, and who knows how many other innocent people. We’ll never know how many others he’s tortured or wounded, but we can only assume he had every intention to keep doing more harm, and you stopped it. That’s as valid a reason as it gets.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Hermione, looking just as nauseous as Harry felt. “There’s a reason we have laws, a Ministry, a prison. There’s a system we need to—”
“Oh, please! The same system that let him go free during his trial?” asked Ron, staring at Hermione with a fire in his eyes that even scared Harry. “The same system that supported them while they were committing all of those atrocities? The system that made us war criminals, while we were trying to save their asses?"
Hermione, who had kept her eyes on her drink during his entire speech, pursed her lips. “It’s undeniable that the system is flawed, but we’re supposed to be working on changing that through legislation, not… manslaughter.” She glanced at Harry, but whatever she saw in his eyes pushed her to look back down at her wine. “With Kingsley as Minister, we’re closer to making those changes than ever before, especially with Harry’s implicit support, and I highly doubt the Wizengamot would risk favoring a blood supremacist in this political climate. A year is a long time. If his trial had happened today, he would’ve had a different sentence.”
“So… what you’re saying is, you agree with me. What I did was unforgivable and completely unnecessary, despite whatever twisted plan he and Parkinson were trying to rope me into,” he concluded, hoping he didn’t look as miserable as he was feeling.
“Maybe,” she said, tilting her head from side to side, as if she was still trying to decide whether she believed that or not. “But I’m also saying I don’t think they will be stupid enough to press legal action against you. And even if they do, there’s no chance they’re winning that trial. People would riot.”
As he watched his best friend take a long sip of wine, silence filled the room, and he was left to grapple with the fact that he could pretty much do whatever he wanted with zero legal or political consequences, as if winning a war someone else had masterfully planned for him to win from before he was even born granted him some kind of birthright to corruption and tyranny. Even his best friends, his only family, couldn’t see how fucked up that was, and seemed to be unaware of how much Harry despised that idea.
But then, he had befriended the girl who had locked up a journalist in a jar for months, so maybe this was a bed he had made for himself, and now he had to lay in it.
Because maybe, he wasn’t as good of a person as he always believed himself to be.