Until the End

* * *

It started small. Back in September, on the next day after Harry's disastrous slip with apparition, he received a small note from a certain 'AD'. In that note the man apologised for such a blatant disregard of Harry's wishes and also assured him that all attempts of recruitment ceased for good. Harry snorted at the obvious manipulation and burned the note. He knew better than to buy that load of crap. In a few days, he received another note. This time, mysterious 'AD' asked for assistance with one of his new strange devices, claiming not to have the time for doing it himself. A stupid thing. Harry knew he was being lured into a trap but after a week of dodging nagging Dumbledore at every turn, curiosity won. Two sleepless nights later, 'AD' got his broken trinket back good as new. Despite the lack of sleep, the majority of the next night was spent in the library reading up on time travel. Did you know there was a whole bunch of items spelled specifically for this purpose? All of them being out of Harry's reach, sadly enough. During breakfast the next day, he found another note from AD right under his bowl of porridge. Disillusioned, thankfully. Harry shot it a bewildered glare and, offended by such stupid test, silently banished it to the head table. Then set it ablaze right in Dumbledore's plate with scrambled eggs. Caught the man's beard on fire. Childish, he knew. Couldn't help himself, though. Regretted it immediately. Sort of. The weekend passed without further notes — God bless them — but on Monday Dumbledore decided to up the ante, apparently, and confronted Harry in the hallway at one of the rare moments when he was without his ginger tail, issuing an invitation to join him after dinner in the head office for a discussion strictly about the mended trinket. Harry noticed fire-repelling enchantments on the old man's clothes and hair and burst out laughing. And then refused the invitation. Obviously. Two days later, Dumbledore stooped on a new low and once again asked Harry to come to his office the day after tomorrow — on September 28th — only this time it was done in Ron's presence, which made the refusal impossible. Harry gritted his teeth and politely agreed, feigning interest, but as Dumbledore went past them to do whatever it was that he usually did at this time of day, Harry discreetly cancelled the old man's fire-repelling charms and set his beard on fire again, causing him to yelp and frantically start clapping himself on the chest to quench the slowly but surely inflaming sparks. Because why the hell not, right? Harry too could play dirty. Despite his agreement, he still was planning to ditch the appointment. He nearly did so. If only Ron stopped following him around everywhere like a lost puppy, going on and on about how great Dumbledore was, according to his dad, and how much he wished to know what such a man could want from Harry so soon after their first meeting at the start of the month. The ginger baboon even volunteered to escort him to the head office, destroying his last opportunity to get out of this stupid thing, because Dumbledore was anything but a fool, and met him in the hallway leading up to the Gargoyle. The whole thing turned out to be not as bad as Harry imagined. They actually sat in the office, discussing magical artefacts and drinking tea for about an hour and a half. It was even interesting — and kind of liberating — to finally talk about something that wasn't quidditch with someone who wasn't eleven and dumb. As strange as it sounded. Though, in Dumbledore's books, Harry probably was considered dumb too, because the next morning he could see the old man smiling benignly at him from the head table as if they were the best of friends now. It made him angry again, but this time Harry managed to keep himself in check and ignored the Headmaster altogether. When Harry woke up today, under his pillow — as per usual — he found a long missive from Dumbledore. Apparently, they were exchanging letters now, sometimes several times a day. Last Sunday Harry turned in for the night, and there it was — the first tied scroll, lying innocently on the duvet. None of the inspections had discovered anything wrong or remotely suspicious with it, so he opened it, and even replied in the morning. And so it began. Today was Saturday, and since there were no classes to attend to, Harry knew his dormmates were likely to sleep in, so he had at least three solid hours until they would start getting up to hurry down to breakfast at the last possible second. He stretched on the bed lazily, ignoring his shoulder that apparently decided to kill him today. It was practically on fire from the moment Harry opened his eyes. No matter. It wasn’t like he could actually do anything about it… Pain relievers didn't work — at least not as much as he preferred them to — and he had no muggle pills. The only thing that helped was Occlumency, so Harry locked the pain away and opened the scroll. Today's letter wasn't much different from the others: Dumbledore kept his word and did not stray from the topic of magic. Mostly they discussed the theory behind various spells, their mechanics, and some such. Well, ninety percent of the time, Dumbledore did the discussing (or lecturing as it were) while Harry just asked questions and then compared the answers with his own findings and conclusions, reluctant to share his knowledge yet. It was enough that the headmaster knew that he had it at all. So far between the standard wand magic and Harry's magic (he really needed to name it somehow…) were found several major differences. The most prominent one was the unnecessary complexity and tediousness of using a wand. But, Harry supposed, for those who didn't feel magic as keenly as he did, it was easier. The more they practised, the more automatic the process became. Basically, they were training their magic like one would train a dog. Harry didn't need any of it — he figured a long time ago that magic was like an almost sentient presence inside of him, and found a way to coexist and interact with it with mutually beneficial results. Of course, it refused to be treated like a dog now, but since it made Harry look like an average first year, he couldn't really complain. The only thing left was to find a way to explain to his magic the importance of blending in to avoid all possible future problems. Harry got up and went to the bathroom. It was high time to start the day if he wanted to have anything at all done. Fifteen minutes later, he emerged refreshed and ready. He crossed the dorm, pocketed Dumbledore’s letter and a few other things (just last week he found out about the Undetectable Extension charm and applied something similar to his pockets), then went into the common room to settle at one of the desks. Harry read the letter two more times, deciding what to reply. The contents as a whole were innocuous enough, except for a part when Dumbledore vaguely suggested that he might invite Harry into his office again and soon. '...and I recently ordered a new bag of those special tea leaves I told you about. In fact, I expect an owl any moment…' the letter said. Harry froze, holding his hand with a quill above the parchment. There probably was nothing to worry about, Harry knew very well that — as used as he was to a life with the Dursleys — he always tended to overthink everything. 'One can never be too careful' — that was about him one hundred percent. And right now Harry felt physically worse just contemplating the idea of paying another visit to the headmaster. Every instinct screamed at him to be extremely cautious, because in his experience, things never were that simple, not to mention, never ended without some sort of dire consequences. Dumbledore didn't seem like a person who would give up easily, that much was obvious from the beginning. And, Harry thought, there was no sense in the old man’s tiptoeing around him otherwise. Harry knew that he crossed the line several times, especially with the old man's beard, and yet… here he was still. Enrolled in the school and unharmed, essentially waiting for the other shoe to drop. In the end, Harry ignored any mentions of tea in his reply, and for good measure decided to wait until Monday to send it. Just be on the safe side. He finished the letter and summoned a transfiguration textbook one of the seventh-years left lying around, and delved into it. The author spoke about different aspects of human transfiguration, dissecting a number of spells, which in itself was of no interest to Harry, but at least there were some rather helpful insights into the process — a complete opposite to the simplistic drivel that was a first-year transfiguration text. He devoured about two thirds of the book in an hour and a half that he had, simply out of boredom. Harry had his own way of doing magic that had very little in common with the standard magical theory after all. The clock above the mantel showed fifteen minutes to eight. The common room was still relatively empty: a couple of older students lazed about on the couches, and about a dozen already left, presumably heading to breakfast. From his own year, only Granger had proudly marched past him to the portrait hole, the rest were yet to show their noses out of the dorms. Ron most likely was still asleep as usual. That was why Harry loved weekend mornings so much — it was the only time he was able to have some peace. Today was even better, because Wood had scheduled training sessions every Saturday at 8:30 am, so Harry had a valid excuse not to wait for Weasley to drag his ass out of bed and head to the Great Hall. One meal per week was spent in relative peace — with the Gryffindor quidditch team instead of the ginger. Ron really was a good kid in a general sense, even if with a bit of an explosive nature, but his constant chatter grated on Harry's nerves, sometimes to the point when he had to actively occlude the boy out in order to keep his temper in check and not break the whole ruse. His teammates, though, were usually half-asleep at 8 am on Saturdays, and their ever-cheerful captain didn't talk when no one was listening, thank goodness. Harry would’ve happily eaten on his own, but since Dumbledore had a habit of popping out of nowhere at the most unexpected places, he had to wait for someone from the team. As practice showed, it was dangerous to wander the hallways alone. Sure enough, in about a couple of minutes Harry heard footsteps on the staircase on the boys’ side, so he put the book back. "Hey, Harry!" exclaimed Wood. "Up early again? Good, good! Ready to go have some breakfast?" "Hello, Oliver," Harry smiled, instantly donning the mask of the Boy-Who-Lived, and got up. "Sure, why not? Where are the rest?" The two of them walked down to the Great Hall, talking all the way, mostly about quidditch, which was no less annoying, to be honest. Harry liked flying, liked the sense of freedom it gave him, the speed, the adrenaline, but quidditch, however… He didn't mind the game itself, but some people's blind obsession with it put him rather off of it. Harry had the patience for it, and the ability to focus and all, what he lacked, though, was motivation. He didn't give a damn who won. The practice was long and exhausting, which Harry appreciated. He was used to far more physical activity than Hogwarts students were granted, and it made him restless, so in that regard he was grateful for Wood's insanity. Feeling pleasantly bone-tired, at about noon, Harry dragged himself out of the changing room and made his way to the castle with Wood and Johnson walking on either side of him. "Mr. Potter," called McGonagall when they were in the Entrance Hall, forcing them to stop. "Mr. Potter, come over here. Mr. Wood, Mrs. Johnson, stride along." Harry had a bad feeling about all of this. Very very bad. McGonagall looked at him reproachfully. "I don't know what have you done, Mr. Potter, but the Headmaster wants to see you. I would hurry, if I were you, there’s only forty minutes before lunch." Cold rage burned through Harry's body. The bloody cheating bastard! That’s why his shoulder was hurting so much all day. The old goat got tired of waiting and decided to speed up the process. Fine. Harry refused to make it any easier, though, and his mind immediately switched to the calculating mode, with a speed of light working through several possibilities of screwing Dumbledore's plans. For McGonagall's sake, he did his best to look properly shocked and scared, however. It wouldn't do for her to see his real emotions. In fact, she could be vital in the little fun that Harry was about to have at Dumbledore’s expense. "But I didn’t do anything, I swear!" he exclaimed in a typical whiny manner that the Ickle Diddykins had perfected over the years. Naturally, McGonagall was not impressed. Unknowingly playing right along, she narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “Apparently, you did, Mr. Potter, otherwise professor Dumbledore wouldn’t have called for you,” she stated, crossing her arms. “Please, professor…” Harry pleaded. “Potter!” “What if he wants to expel me?” he whispered. McGonagall’s gaze immediately softened. “I don’t want to leave the school.” Come to think of it, he probably should’ve simply left weeks ago and be done with it. "The Headmaster did seem very serious, so I would not keep him waiting, but I don’t think the situation is that drastic. Let's go, I'll escort you to his office myself. And don’t worry, nobody’s going to expel you. If you didn’t break any serious rules, no one has any right to deprive you of a chance to have an education.” She placed a hand on his shoulder — the one that burned — and Harry fought not to flinch and squirm away. He hated being touched and knew that it wasn’t exactly normal, he especially hated being touched where he was hurt, but didn’t want anyone prying into his private business even more. He flashed the woman a weak smile instead, and they proceeded to the staircase. In twenty-three seconds — he counted — McGonagall removed her hand, and Harry took a slow deep breath of relief. They walked in silence all the way to the headmaster’s tower. Harry didn’t have anything to say to his Head of a House, only from time to time was throwing her anxious glances, and she seemed to be in no hurry to talk to him either, which was good. Harry was seething inside. The initial bout of rage died down just as quickly as it came, transforming instead into a constant but low-burning stream of anger. The longer the two of them were going, the brighter that anger became. By the time they reached the gargoyle, Harry worked himself up to the point where he was ready to show the bloody meddling bastard just why it wasn’t advisable to mess with him right in front of McGonagall, consequences be damned… But at the last moment he changed his mind. He was going to go into that office — preferably with McGonagall — answer some benign questions, smiling if need be, then he was going to walk out, but not just out of the office. Out of this bloody school. The knowledge he was getting here was not worth the amount of effort he was putting into his cover alone. So screw everything… “So—” began McGonagall when they stopped in front of the statue. “Will you go with me, Professor?” Harry whispered, pretending to look frightened. “Well…” “Please?” McGonagall sighed. “There’s nothing to worry about, Mr. Potter, I’m sure. It’s going to be fine.” “But you said it was serious…” Harry wasn’t going to give up. He needed the witch with him. “Harry…” “But you’re my Head of a House, you’re supposed to help me, right?” It was a risky move, and a cheeky one, but he was also aware that McGonagall felt bad for regularly neglecting a lot of her duties as a Head of a House, basically leaving her students to flounder by themselves, so there was a chance that he’d be able to guilt-trip her to the right direction. McGonagall narrowed her eyes momentarily, and Harry did his best to look innocent, but then her expression changed and she sighed once again. “Yes. Yes, I am. Let’s go then, Potter, I don’t have a lot of time either.” Inwardly smirking, Harry followed the professor past the gargoyle and then up the moving staircase. “Oh, Professor McGonagall,” smiled Dumbledore the moment the two of them stepped inside his office. “Thank you for escorting young Mr. Potter here. I’m sure you have a lot to do today.” That was as clear a dismissal as Harry ever heard. Apparently, McGonagall was in agreement, since she only pursed her lips in annoyance and led him to one of the chairs in front of the desk, pushing him down to sit without an invitation. “Anytime, Albus, anytime,” she nodded, taking a seat in the second chair. “And you’re right, I do not have much time, so you better make it quick.” Dumbledore’s smile faltered for a second, and Harry smirked triumphantly, turning slightly away from McGonagall, so she wouldn’t notice it. “There’s no need for you to stay, Minerva, I would hate to keep you away from your duties.” “That’s exactly why I’m staying, Headmaster, to complete my duties as a Head of Mr. Potter’s House. I need to know what has happened. What is the reason for this abrupt and urgent meeting?” “Nothing happened, I assure you, Professor. I merely wished to have a little chat with young Mr. Potter here.” They both simultaneously glanced at Harry, who, in his turn, threw another fearful glance at McGonagall, silently reminding her why she was here. It seemed to work. “And that is all? May I ask on what subject?” she pressed, scowling. “As if he’d tell you…” Now it was Dumbledore’s turn to look annoyed. “I only wish to become more closely acquainted with Mr. Potter, nothing to worry about.” “And you cannot do so in my presence?” McGonagall huffed. “You’re making this whole endeavour way more complicated than it needs to be.” She threw him a meaningful glance. “Perhaps, I have the same wish. Why don’t we combine our efforts and not make Mr. Potter answer the same questions twice, hm?” “How nice of you…” Watching them was indeed fun. Or rather it would have been if his shoulder didn’t feel like somebody was cutting it off with a blunt knife. Thank God for Occlumency, otherwise he would’ve been writhing on the floor right now. “Fine,” the old man relented, clearly displeased. He snapped his eyes on Harry and for appearances sake tried to look like he was supposed to — like a benevolent grandfather. The fucker. “So, Harry,” he continued. “Tell us how have you been. Did you adjust to the school routine yet?” “Um…” Harry looked at both his professors in turn, feigning confusion now more than worry. “I’m good, Professor. I’m friends with Ron, Ron Weasley, I mean, and classes have been interesting. I mean, I learned a lot,” he stammered. “That is great, my dear boy. Exceptionally great. What subject did you like best so far?” “Well, you did this to yourself, Potter…” The quip with ‘the boy’ was clearly intentional, and it sucked what humour there was right out of the situation, intensifying the tension’s level in the room. “It’s hard to tell, Professor. I mean, they’re all been great,” Harry mumbled in response. “All?” McGonagall piped in, amused, obviously talking about the Potions, because, of course, Snape’s irrational hatred toward the Boy-Who-Fucking-Survived instantly became the stuff of legend around the castle. “Well,” Harry drawled, “maybe not all, but I didn’t do anything wrong, I swear it!” Dumbledore chuckled. “Enjoying ourselves, aren’t we? I’ll help you along,” Harry thought, reaching for his magic and choosing a suitable way of retaliation. “I believe you, my boy, don’t worry. What about other students? Have you become friends with anyone else?” Harry did not give the old man the satisfaction of seeing him react, though inside the anger started boiling dangerously close to the edge again. "Um…” “What about Mr. Longbottom? Are you friends with him? I’ve seen you two talking on several occasions,” added McGonagall. “Uh, I guess?..” he shrugged, glancing at the witch. “He seems nice.” “Anyone else? Maybe some of the girls? Or someone from the other Houses?” asked Dumbledore. “I don’t know, I haven't had the chance to properly meet any of them yet. But I’m sure we will all become friends at some point. I mean, that’s what school is about in part, right? Making new friends. Aunt Petunia always says it’s important.” “True, my boy, your—” “Would you fucking stop this?!” “…right, of course. Oh, I remember myself when I first got to the school so many years ago and only just met the boys and girls who later in life became the best of friends to me… Such a wonderful time! Such wonderful people!” “Yeah, and look where it got us all, you fucking pansy…” Harry did his homework, alright… There were a lot of ghosts and portraits in the castle who knew a great number of all sorts of fascinating stories about the past of their illustrious head- or rather backdoor-master and were eager to share. “Like Gellert Grindelwald, sir?” Two pairs of shocked eyes snapped at him, but Harry did not care. He was struggling to keep his face innocent and his mind free of… how to put it politely… rude things he might blur out accidentally when Dumbledore undoubtedly will poke at him yet another time, simultaneously trying to get the old fool to understand that he won't like the consequences of the game he was playing, but without saying it outright. “Excuse me?” “I… Um… Sorry… It’s just… it’s written in ‘Hogwarts: A History’, sir.” It wasn't, at least not about Dumbledore being good friends with anybody, but it was a nice warning. McGonagall — as strange as it was — never in her life cracked that particular book open. She immediately nodded and relaxed in her chair, Dumbledore, though, turned a nice shade of pink at the mention of Grindelwald. From shame or anger was hard to tell, but both options were fine with Harry. "I see," replied Dumbledore after a moment, losing his maddening twinkle. "Well, I was friends with Gellert once upon a time, it's true, but he wasn't always a bad man, you know. No one is born evil. Even Lord Voldemort was simply a small lonely boy many years ago. I wonder, my boy, if he would've turned out differently had he had a friend and a mentor to guide him through the most difficult times." "Oh, you old wanker…" Dumbledore and Harry stared at each other intently, ignoring confused McGonagall. She too obviously felt the tension that suddenly raised tenfold to the point of literally cracking in the air. "What is going on here? Albus," she demanded. "Minerva," said the old man quietly, not breaking the eye lock with Harry. "I swear, I'll explain everything to you, but later. Please, leave now." Apparently, he looked too serious, because, after hesitating for only a few seconds, she got up and left without another word. Harry's arm went numb. It was very very bad… Unimaginably terrible. For about a minute the room was silent. "Harry… " "No. Don't you say a word," he said, standing up, finally being able to drop the act. "Don't you dare say a word. This is going to end incredibly badly, and I'm leaving." Harry turned toward the exit. "Wait." Harry sighed. "Albus… Haven't you tried my patience enough for one day?" "Is this any way to talk to your Headmaster, young man?" "I don't care who you are," Harry snapped through gritted teeth. "If you'd just left me alone like I've been asking you this whole time, you wouldn't have to deal with my insolence. You would not have to deal with me, period." He started moving. "I would've gladly left you to your own devices, Harry, but I'm afraid I simply can't afford it. Too much is at stake." "Bullshit," Harry growled, not stopping. "Wait, please," called Dumbledore, hurrying after him. "What?!" Harry snapped. He was so goddamn close to the exit. "Hadn't I made myself clear enough to you? FUCK OFF, DUMBLEDORE!" For a moment, the old man froze in shock, and stood halfway to the door, gaping at Harry like a bloody fish. But he quickly regained his bearings, and made the last several steps, closing the distance. "I merely wanted to ask you to walk with me down to the Great Hall, that's all. Nothing to worry about, my… Harry. I'm an old man, you see, I might need assistance at the most inopportune moments," Dumbledore smiled and gestured for Harry to go ahead. Harry hesitated, glaring at the headmaster. It had to be some sort of a trap, it just had to. It was too easy. But Dumbledore gave away nothing, and after another moment, Harry turned around and reached for a door handle. "Oh don't pretend to suddenly be…" For a second Harry's mind froze, then started slowly returning to its normal sharp state. It felt like it was submerged into a warm thick syrup that was spreading also throughout his body. "Feeble," he finished the sentence, blinking rapidly. Harry's magic kicked in, furiously fighting through what obviously was some sort of enchantment. It turned out to be stronger than he initially approximated, and getting rid of it took entirely too much time. Usually he broke down all kinds of spells easily and in a couple of seconds. "Fucking… Dumbledore!" Now even thinking was hard. “I just knew it!” Harry felt his forearm being grabbed in a vice grip, and looked down, with utter horror watching black thin smoke-like chains that swirled out of Dumbledore's wand tip, wrap themselves around their joined wrists. Panicked, Harry made to pull away, but his limbs weren't responding fast enough. He redoubled his efforts to break out of the syrup, but didn't make it in time. The chains sipped into his skin and with a sharp zap on his nerves settled inside what felt like around his very soul, weighing him down. Harry stared at his arm, numb from the shock of it all. Dumbledore let go of him and wisely backed out of his line of sight. Somewhere in the background of his mind Harry was aware of his magic still working to break off the first enchantment, but now moving under the restrictions. Harry pushed at the chains, trying to rip them apart by sheer force, but they didn't even budge. He tried again, harder, and then again, and again… to no avail. He tried to get inside the spell and break it from within, but wasn’t able to do so either. "What the fuck have you done?" Harry whispered, finally boring his gaze into Dumbledore's eyes and breathing heavily. Cold fury filled him to the brim, replacing the panic, making the temperature in the room drop several degrees. He didn't even notice the moment when the initial charm was gone. Dumbledore kept silent, gazing at him warily, but as if transfixed. "Are you bloody deaf?!" Harry exclaimed. "What have you done, you old wanking moron?!" he hissed, beyond the point of caring about what exactly he was saying. All he could hear was his thundering pulse. Dumbledore's eyes flashed dangerously. "Now, my boy, there's no need for insults. The novelty has long worn off, they would not do you any good now." Harry growled, but Dumbledore ignored it, calmly walking around his desk and sitting down. "What I did is called an Unbreakable Vow. Usually it requires consent from both parties, but I tinkered with it a bit, made it a little more dark if you want, so it could be simply… applied to another person. And now your magic and your life force is bound to me until you fulfil my terms, which are simple: you are to do as I am telling you no questions asked. Failure to comply with these terms to the last dot will result in your death. Just like any attempt at harming me will result in your death. "It is not forever, my boy, only until the end of the war," Dumbledore leaned forward and softened his voice. "I have no wish to be your enemy, Harry. I've never been your enemy. I planned to fully recruit you much later, but you have to understand, the situation is such that we all must do as needed, not as we please. I tried to reason with you, I sincerely tried to become your friend, but you continuously sabotaged my every attempt. The Light needs you, Harry Potter, whether you like it or not…" Harry shut his eyes tightly and stopped listening. This was not happening… Each of Dumbledore’s words pierced his consciousness as sharp needles, mixing with the rushing, thundering, ringing, whistling noises, fueling his rage. Never in his life Harry had been so furious, not even at the oaf Dursley… His magic pulsed in sync with his blood, getting more and more dangerously out of control. Dumbledore kept talking, kept nagging. “Shut the fuck up, you fool…” Harry whispered, not sure he would be able to control his voice, and subsequently his temper and his magic. “I am one blink away from murdering you…” “You cannot harm me, Harry, I thought we’ve already established that.” And that’s where he snapped. The last hair that was holding his fury was torn off, unleashing it into the room. The desk between Dumbledore and Harry blew up into tiny pieces, followed by a series of smaller explosions when his magic swirled around the office, blowing up everything it encountered and showering them both with wooden and glass splinters. Yelping, Dumbledore covered his head with his arms and leaned sideways in his chair that was ripped from under him the next moment, toppling him down onto the littered with glass shards floor. Harry apparited closer to the Dumbledore, not even noticing the action, and leaned closer to him. He did not care that he was covered in small aching cuts, dripping blood, he did not care that the frigging vow was painfully squeezing his heart, all he cared about was an old man on the floor beneath him and the absolute crystal-clear rage that took hold of him. Ignoring the chains — as if they had any hope in hell to hold him off — Harry reached for Dumbledore’s magic and reestablished the connection, making it boil inside of its host’s body. The man’s eyes widened comically, which only made Harry smirk coldly. “Never, I repeat — never underestimate your enemy, Dumbledore,” Harry said softly. “You’re a bigger fool than I had ever imagined if you think that you’re able to put a leash on me with your little bond.” Harry bid Dumbledore’s magic to start crushing the man’s heart, feeling the chains tighten around his own accordingly. “I will kill you,” he continued, whispering and panting heavily. “I will happily kill myself if only it would bring you with me. You hear me?” Dumbledore’s eyes were filled with unholy terror, and Harry’s smile twisted and widened. He crouched down, fighting the black dots that covered his vision, but pressed on regardless. “Is it fear I’m seeing, old man?” he drawled. “Oh, yes, it is… It’ll do you good. “Did I not tell you not to cross me, you imbecile?!” Harry barked, looking mad again, and Dumbledore shut his eyes. “Did I not tell you not to piss me off?! Your arrogance KNOWS NO BOUNDS, Albus! HOW MANY TIMES AND IN WHAT LANGUAGES MUST YOU BE TOLD TO FUCK OFF SO YOU’D UNDERSTAND?! NO MEANS NO, you FUCKWIT!” His heart hurt so much, and he felt so weak, almost on the verge of fainting, but continued to hold a death grip on the old man’s magic and yell at him. “Please…” Dumbledore pleaded shakily, with tears running down his cheeks. “Please, Harry… Please, please…” A smell of urine hit Harry’s nostrils and he felt sick, but wasn’t sure if it was because he was virtually breathing his last breaths or because of the mess that was the small snivelling figure of the almighty Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledor, the bearer of the light, as pure as the next gutter. “They will all… They will all die without us… Please…” the man mumbled, begging, pressing his hands to his chest and not looking at Harry. “They would all die… Aberforth, Minerva… Severus… children… Children will…” “Shut the fuck up!” “…die… I don’t want to die… Please…” he swallowed tightly. “I deserve it may be, but they… They don’t. Please, Harry…” Harry ignored it all. They would die… So what? Everybody dies, including all Aberforths, Minervas, and Severuses of the world. Harry felt a pang of regret concerning Snape’s name at the thought, but ignored it also. He was about to die himself, what did it matter what would happen to any of them? He wanted to live though. Harry opened his eyes sharply — when did he close them? — and took several rapid breaths, trying to understand what the hell had just flown though his mind. He never particularly cared much for his continued existence on this earth, but he never wanted to die either. So what was he doing? Was really this pathetic old man worthy of losing a life over? The answer was ‘no’. No, he fucking wasn’t. And just a moment before it would be too late, Harry released his grip on Dumbledore’s heart, instantly feeling his own pain subsiding considerably. He vanished the debris from the floor and sat down heavily, leaning back on the wall and looking at the horrified portraits in front of him. Dumbledore kept still, breathing heavily. “I hate you, Albus,” he said in a calm voice. “I’m far from a nice person, so so far, but I never imagined myself capable of that much hatred. I will always hate you. For what you’ve done. Always. And I will see you dead, you mark my words. At the end of it, I will.” He was silent for a few moments. Dumbledore stirred and tried to sit up. “If ever you try to use this Vow you forced on me, you’re dead. You hear me?” Harry continued more firmly. “I don’t want to die, but I will do it in a blink if only to take you with me. I already said that before, but seeing how dumb you turned out to be it would not be amiss to repeat it.” “I’m—” “Vow or no vow, you're no match to me. I bet you don’t even realise what you’ve done.” Harry turned his head to look at Dumbledore and smirked. “You didn’t just tie me to yourself… You tied yourself to me. That type of connection is never one-sided. And unlike you, I know how to use it.” Ignoring the sharp intake of air next to him, Harry looked down on one of the cuts that was located where the chains were previously and started the healing process. It was quick, since the wounds were shallow. One by one the cuts sealed themselves, sucking all droplets of blood into them first. A fascinating process. A minute later it was finished, and Harry got up. “This is the last time I’m telling you this: I will not be your pawn. If you want me to take part in your games so desperately, you’ll have to work for it harder, but if I were you, I would better occupy myself being extremely vigilant and becoming an earnest prayer — you never know when I might completely lose it from the sheer boredom of this place, or what you might find in your food or around the nearest corner one beautiful morning.” Not even trying to mind his step (he was sure he must’ve crushed a couple of half-broken things), Harry got to the door and opened it with magic this time. “Do not bother me anymore, old man.” And then he walked out of the room, leaving this whole mess for Dumbledore to deal with. He had a more giant one of his own now — a brand new — but the main question remained the same as ever: What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

* * *