The Longest Nitgh

The Longest Night

TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : The Longest Night

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Welcome to Chapter 12, The Longest Night .

As always, a big thank you to my beta readers, x102reddragon and NerdDragonVoid.

This chapter seemed to take me a while, a few trips to and fro to the cutting room floor, lacked a bit of motivation in the face of a few things. But we're here!

Next chapter is almost entirely a Fleur POV, so I'm excited for that breath of fresh air.

Be sure to review!

And as always, stay safe and enjoy!

The Mad-Eye was alone.

He trudged through knee-high snow that tried valiantly to halt his daunting advance. His protruding wooden prosthesis cutting through the frost like a knife through hot butter.

Wind burnt cheeks stung as the gale continued its relentless assault. Ice filled his single boot, cutting into his heel as warming charms long since dispelled from his clothing offered their protection no longer. The cold bit at his skin but served to keep him from falling to drowsiness. Saved him from falling victim to the same lure of slumber that would surely spell his end as it had Podmore's.

Where did it get so fucked up along the way?

He'd lost Kingsley sometime in the last week. Somewhere in the pearl-white expanse they had been separated by another ambush, caught following the same trail he was now.

The same winding, serpentine trail that cut through the thick cold with little effort. A perilous road decorated with the bodies of deer and other wildlife. Most sapped of their lifeblood, some with meat taken from them with precision charm-work.

All of them with the same puncture wounds on their neck - an embrace of fangs that promised a quick death.

Can't be more than half a mile behind them now.

He'd caught sight of them a few days ago coming over the icy hills outside of Helmsdale. Any apparition would've sent them hiding, knowing that he still lived would've heightened them into hypervigilance. So day after day, wood and flesh began the trek to follow their twisting path northwards, eager to remain unnoticed.

He'd already met two foes in the freezing clutches of a nearby ravine. They'd struck, assuming him weakened by the cold and age, full of bravado and armed with their wands they had played their hand. They had wanted to fell the Mad-Eye, as so many had - wanted to claim a bounty of luxuries and galleons.

The black cloak he donned and the silver mask that adorned his belt wove a different tale.

Courage is a poor substitute for numbers, he mused, Now they rot in some crevice for the rest of their days.

There's some justice in that.

He had his plan for what felt like an age. Ever since he crossed wands for the first time when he found himself alone - for all of his skills, there were six of them.

Seven with the snake.

Reinforcements they had been ensured weren't coming, a fool's dying breath they mindlessly latched on to without another thought. They should've known better.

I should've known better.

Should've known to take first watch. Should've known to cast the wards myself. Should've known not to light that fucking fire.

Before the battles in the snow when they simply tracked a snake, believing they held the upper hand, he had dreamt of many things. Of steaming mulled wine in Hogsmeade, of a warm hearth to fend off the elements.

He had dreamt of spring - of days that rose and fell without the dark shadow lingering over them.

But now? His dreams were all too different.

There was no more spring, autumn or summer. No longer any sweet kisses of the warm sun, just the cold cackling of fires and the bitter chill of winter.

Dreams of Sturgis Podmore, face down in the snow with his back torn open with a curse. Of Emmeline Vance, tears frozen on her cheeks as she fell into a bitter rest.

It was the manor come again.

He remembered a time where similar ebony hair surrounded a girl, younger than she had been. The prospects of a full life ahead of them and yet it was snuffed, born from his inability to act as he should have.

His negligence bred death.

History is a malicious bitch. He swore.

The wasteland ahead was nigh invisible in the frozen dusk. His advance was shielded by the sunlight that had disappeared over the rolling hills. The air was still permeated with the smell of death, thick and heavy. It sat in the wind like a trail to be followed.

The world was sparse and barren, cold and unforgiving. Yet, it had finally granted the man a boon.

A fire in the distance, a lull in the cold. They had made camp, as he had. They had believed themselves safe, as he had.

Death still lingered in the air, but he could taste a different scent. It was sweet, a taste that pledged to whet his appetite. Yet, it still felt bitter on his tongue, acrid and hot. He'd experienced it before, too similar to many others of the same type to properly discern.

It could've been the same sour of failure, the sharpness of resignation. Yet, it was more familiar than them all.

It was vengeance in all its bittersweetness - a taste that made no false pretences, one that did not seek to beguile him into its embrace. It promised retribution, a taste that would die on his tongue with their deaths.

Or mine.

There were still seven atop the hill, wrought from harder matter than those he'd faced raiding hamlets. Hard enough to ambush them in the cold, hard enough to trek across the countryside at the behest of a serpent. For all his skills, all his talent - it was a battle he could not win.

Not conventionally.

He lifted the silver mask from his belt and removed his electric blue eye. The scarred socket victim to the unforgiving frost for the briefest of moments before the countenance was donned. It glittered in the rising twilight, carved lines arcing the moonlight into the snow below.

I cannot beat them. He thought, But cunning can.

The mask seemed ripe with memories of its own; it's cold metal touched his skin and set a flame alight within him.

Their fire roared tall against the night, as did his - the same memories of a fire that consumed the manor still in his mind.

Fucking fire, it's always fucking fire. He cursed, But those cunts will die for this one.

The black cloak fluttered behind him in the wind, and the slope of the offending hill came underfoot. His vigilant ascent began.

Homenum Revelio .

The spell leaked from his wand, the radiant light fleeing up the hill to detect his foes. The pulse soon returned, battered against the haphazard wards they'd erected. He caught a sentry patrolling the outskirts, aimlessly staring into the darkened snow as he had for days on end.

Argent Brutum

His wand twisted and sang, a small silver jackrabbit coalescing in front of him. Another charm had the meagre creature bounding across ice-laden plains towards the sentry, the glint of metal bound to catch his eye. The diminutive game was in its element, even if conjured and soon the sentry was roused.

The Death Eater stepped towards the barrier, daring not to cross the wards, but the lure had completed its role admirably.

Carpo.

The alarm wards were never meant to defend against spells, only to alert the occupants to trespassers.

Unlucky for you, lad.

Foraminis

The first spell crossed the distance, pale as the snow it illuminated below. The second was fiercer, a spitting orange aimed wide from the first.

The first spell connected, as he had foreseen, and tugged the man across the ward. A series of stumbles that sent him sprawling off-balance directly into the path of the second spell. The piercing curse struck true, tearing flesh asunder as it ripped through the Death Eater's mask, coating the silver in viscera. A final spell banished the corpse further down the hill, sending it out of sight.

He dashed forward as fast as his prosthetic would allow him - he'd exchanged one body for another. Passing the alarm wards with nought but a tickle against the nape of his neck, desperately hoping his ploy had seen him through without much trouble.

The wards had detected an individual leaving and it had recognised one returning - there was equilibrium. He had been fortunate the sentry did not cast the wards himself, else his attack would've been foiled before it truly began.

The apex of the hill was flattened, decorated by their raging fire and a series of small tents and shrouded with a mist of frost. Though his attention was not drawn to the pieces of cloth and canvas shielding sleeping foes, but towards the serpent that slithered near the flames.

It basked in the heat, its tongue flickering animatedly against the heated air. It swivelled its head around with intelligence beyond any simple beast. It peered keenly towards the direction he had banished the body, its body slowly shifting over.

It can taste the blood in the air. Moody thought. I don't have long .

The disguise would not fool the snake, the men he could deceive but the snake was cut from a different cloth.

A thousand plans had been formed, tailored to every situation he could've found himself in. His thoughts of battle had been a constant companion, as hardy as any he had fought beside. Yet, no plan seemed apt, no solution to the problem seemed to fit.

He reached for his staff, or rather, where his staff would have been. Instead, he clutched a splintered length of oak, the heartstring braid still hanging from the centre. He weighed it in his hands, as he considered his options.

His mentor had fought in the First Wars, Grindelwald and his ilk.

Napoleon and his sorcerers too if the old bastard could be believed.

He had taught him many lessons, honed him into something far greater than he could have ever envisioned when he remembered a fresh-faced lad, still with two eyes and two legs, free of scars.

But one lesson had always lingered, an anomaly amongst even the coarse man's rhetoric.

Fear bites deeper than any blade. He had said almost a lifetime ago, Of bronze, steel or silver, no cut can compare to a man routed of one who fears for his life above all.

His staff had been a gift from the same man, an oak that had once been new, a heartstring that was once fresh. Now, it was shattered by some nameless face, by some unnamed battle in the raging snows.

He tapped his wand against the staff, it turned to the same silver as his mask and glittered as it had. With the change, the brown oak vanished as did the core. Banished to somewhere beyond here and with it, the last piece of his mentor.

Not quite the last piece. He amended.

Fear bites deeper than any blade, he repeated.

The snake still peered around inquisitively. The rest of the Death Eaters remained in their tents. They were entrusting their lives to a guard that couldn't uphold such.

The snake gives them courage. They wouldn't have been half as bold to attack us without it.

Fear bites deeper than any blade . He echoed again.

He tore the mask off his face, it would not serve him as well as he had assumed, not against the snake. Instead, he donned the familiar electric blue eye again, pulling the darkened hood of the Death Eater robes back over his head.

He waved his wand and held the long, steel shaft aloft like a javelin. The time to strike had arrived.

A flick of his wand sent the remnants of his staff careening towards the inquisitive snake. Where spells had failed, his plan had not. The sharpened steel stake pinned it to the cold ground, blackened blood spilling from the wound channel inflicted.

It writhed and hissed in wrath, waking the men inside the tents to rush to its defence. Disorientated and slow from their short-lived slumber, his advantage despite their numerical superiority could not be underestimated.

A flick of his wand coated the fire with snow and water as he had done all those nights ago. But he was no longer the prey, hunted by a pack of Voldemort's bruisers.

He descended upon them like the first lances of dawn piercing through the morning mist, invisible save for a glowing, electric blue eye that shone through the darkness. The snake remained affixed to the ground, hidden from its protectors in the night.

There were cries of ' Mad-Eye!' The same fear that cut deeper than any blade was as heavy in the air as the scent of death had been.

He seemed a hundred men, instead of one. Thought himself a hundred things, instead of one.

He was vengeance, justice, fear, retribution. Thousands of words to justify the urge, thousands of hours to ponder on such.

He couldn't put words to what he felt. But he knew a single truth at that moment, hidden amidst the fog of frost.

I am the Mad-Eye.

Seven.

The word had never meant much, it had been as mundane as any other he had ever spoken. Now it had seemed obvious. The number taunted him for the fool he was. Born in the seventh month, seven adorned the back of his Quidditch jersey - he could think of a hundred situations where the number seemed to mock him.

All in preparation for this very moment.

Victory had been their high, they had relished in it if only for the briefest of moments. Now gravity had slammed them back into the reality of the world around them.

"Seven." He whispered aloud, an effort to test that the word itself wasn't tainted.

There was a glimmer of hope, a fleeting optimism inside of him that desperately wished it wasn't so. That perhaps in his path to power he found the soul couldn't be split that many times. That he possibly had not found enough objects of sacrificial importance.

A ritual in the seventh month, the death of a seventh child.

Those were Slughorn's words, a man who knew the Dark Arts more intimately than any alive.

Save one.

Perhaps the prophecy could influence the former, but the diary had possessed Ginny, a seventh child. Maybe the black book that found its way into her cauldron was not as happenstance as they'd once believed.

He had wanted to hope. But it was a fool's gambit not to expect the worse, especially now. If any wizard could have undertaken such a task and completed it, it was Lord Voldemort.

The silence between them felt almost tangible. Harry wished to reach out and tear it open. He hoped for words to come to his lips, reassurance and confidence. Instead, he had nothing; they both had nothing. Save for the dull echo of the swirling Pensieve and the pale wisp of a memory they sorely wished they hadn't seen.

"'Ow?" Fleur asked quietly. Her soft voice was the first to cut across the silence.

His heart ached for her. Her voice betrayed fear. A tone that had never belonged on the confident witch as she reverted into her accented English.

I should have never made her see it. Harry lamented, I never should have brought her into all this.

They sat on the soft carpet for what felt like an age. He willed his mind to find anything to answer Fleur's question, to assuage both her fears and his.

But there truly were no words.

Harry swallowed what felt a lead weight in his throat. "I don't know."

"How do we destroy them?" She asked, her composure somewhat regained after a few more moments. " Can we destroy them?"

He nodded idly, "There are ways."

"How do you know this?" She asked, her eyes drifting to him from the hole they attempted to bore in her office floor.

"I destroyed one in my second year here - his diary." He explained, meeting her eyes, "Dumbledore destroyed another, a ring."

"Will you help Dumbledore destroy the others?" She asked, "That's if even he knows where they are.

He had known from the outset that this conversation was never going to be an easy one, known this was a topic he'd eventually have to explain to her, yet, it did not make it any easier when that eventuality arose.

"Dumbledore's dying." His throat was raw, not from the smoke of the party nor the copious chatter. "He's been dying for months. He won't see past Christmas."

" How? "

"He was cursed trying to destroy a Horcrux. He told me he got careless, didn't give the item the proper respect."

"You didn't think to tell me?" She whispered, her voice alight with indignation. "After all this time?"

"I think part of me didn't want to admit it." Harry sighed softly, "Didn't want any of this to be real. Maybe if I didn't tell anyone, it'd die unspoken."

"That's why he's been teaching you, sending you to Slughorn's parties." She said - the realisation had hit her. "He's been pushing you from the nest, he wants you to carry the banner for him."

Harry simply nodded, not wanting to put words to his thoughts.

"What's to say we could even find them?" Fleur asked, "That he's not just condemning you to die for a lost cause? That they're not just spread across the continent or at the bottom of the sea?"

"He's not." Harry refuted, "He won't have. He's arrogant, more confident in the defences he could provide over whatever a random hole in Europe could offer him. He wants them close."

"You can't think so little of him, Harry," She chided, "He's a Dark Lord, not a child hiding sweets. If we underestimate the lengths he'll go to secure such an object; we'll have lost before it even begins."

"I know this, Fleur, it's not a guess."

"Did Dumbledore tell you this too?" She spat, sorrow replaced by anger at the Headmaster. "He seems to be taking quite an interest in you."

"No. He's a good man, Fleur." His voice was succinct and soft; he drummed his fingers idly against the carpet. Desperately attempting to summon the courage he didn't have. "I- I see them, sometimes. I can see through his eyes, see what he wants me to see and sometimes, what he doesn't."

"Harry-" Fleur tried.

"All the headlines in the Daily Prophet about me being the Chosen One?" He continued, "They were true Fleur. It's been prophesied since before I was born, I've been following footsteps that were planned for me since I came to Hogwarts."

He breathed a hot blast of air, and his eyes drifted back to hers.

"It's me, or it's him - it's never both. We're destined to die at the hands of one another; we always have been."

"Prophecies aren't infallible." She tried again, her wits seemed to have abandoned her in the moment but had returned in earnest. "Wizards and witches are forever getting lost in visions, searching for meaning in leaves and stars. Just because someone wove a tale doesn't mean it should be read, less so believed."

Some stories are just stories. He'd been told months ago. It's a shame this isn't such a case.

He lifted his hair from his forehead, his scar on clear view to her.

"It's not that simple."

It has never been.

"So make it simple, Harry." She demanded lightly, "For me, please."

"He marked me that night. I survived as it was foretold. Now I can see through his eyes. I can hear his thoughts. I can't escape this Fleur, I never could. Neither of us can live while the other survives."

She reached forward and took his hand in hers, "If I had known-"

"It wouldn't have mattered, Fleur." Harry spoke, "You've given me more than I could've ever asked for."

Much more than I could've asked for.

"You're going to need more," She replied, "You're going to need allies, Harry."

He let loose a hollow scoff. "We're alone Fleur." He said sadly, "The Ministry and the Aurors are in shambles and Dumbledore's dying. No one will fight for the losing side."

"I'll come with you," She resolved. "We can find allies, Harry. We just need to search for them, France, Germany - the entirety of the continent. They remember what Dumbledore did for them. Their memories aren't so short as to forget Grindelwald."

"They remember Dumbledore." Harry agreed lifelessly, "But Dumbledore is almost dead."

As good as the man is, that's the hard truth.

"But the world they built isn't." She urged, "And they'll defend it to the last."

"Or they'll turn us away, leave us to our own war." He remarked pessimistically.

"We'll only ever know if we seek friends amongst foes and unknowns." She returned, "Just like at Slughorn's party, Harry. You said you remembered Dumbledore's lesson? Use it, don't just remember the words. You have a gift, Harry. I saw it that day in the common room. People listen to you. You make ten of them feel double that, you make them feel confident like they never have before. They'll follow you if you ask. I'll follow you. "

Harry sighed; the offer was more tempting than he cared to admit.

"You'd be better off going to France, where it's safe. Once Dumbledore is dead, this world is going to go to hell."

"You think I'll just flee?" She said dangerously. "You appear to know very little of me, Harry Potter."

"I don't think so." Harry tried to placate her, "But you don't need to get any further into this, you could start a family, be an enchanter - see the world like you wanted to. This is my fight. It's been mine since before I was born." He explained. "I've carried too many to their deaths."

"So you intend to fight this alone? Is that your masterful plan ?"

"No, but I also don't intend to have anyone shoulder a burden that is rightfully mine to bear." He bit back.

"Do you think us as idiotic to toss ourselves in front of every curse you face?" She countered, "Do you possess such an opinion about me?"

"Of course not."

"Then let me help."

"Why do you care?" He asked brusquely.

It was uncaring and callous, as soon as the words left his mouth, he felt the weight of them. An instantaneous regret filled him and found a steadfast companion alongside his sorrow.

She seemed stunned for a moment, though her beautiful features soon turned dangerous. "I promised you I'd help you, Harry, one I've always intended to keep. I won't just flee because the tide starts rising."

" Why ?" He urged.

"I have my reasons, Harry." She challenged, "Just as you have yours."

Her eyes looked to be taking the same avian slant that had during Slughorn's party. They seemed daring - daring him to refuse her, daring him to delve deeper into her words.

"If we do have to hunt for Horcruxes, It could take years." He said, "Maybe decades, I don't know ."

"I'm more than capable of patience, Harry."

"It'll be dangerous."

"You, above all, should not doubt my prowess with a wand." She scolded.

"What would Bill think? Wouldn't he want you with him?"

It was the first time he'd ever knowingly sought out the gap in her armour. It wasn't the subtle reminder he would have prefered, nothing akin to the words she would have wielded. It was a blunt instrument, one he sorely wished he didn't have to use and one she didn't expect.

But it was his final gambit to protect her from a life she'd be better off not living.

The dangerous look she had adopted had slowly reverted to neutrality throughout the conversation. But the moment that comment left his mouth her eyes flashed with something conspicuously akin to pain before she appeared cold again. An affront to the fire inside of her.

"William will be in Egypt." She said frostily, and despite the situation, he allowed himself a selfish piece of hope. "And Asia, Australia, the Arctic. I feel unwilling to extend respect I was never given myself."

At that moment, the shroud had fallen. In her eyes was a pain he seldom ever saw, a realisation came to him that he had always suspected.

Bill has left her behind. He thought darkly. She truly is a bride forgotten.

Perhaps it was her feelings or the gravity of the moment that had such an elucidating effect. But she seemed more a girl in her office at that instance than the witch that was Fleur Delacour. She had been scorned by the Weasleys and left by her partner as he pursued tombs and curses on other continents.

She had hidden it well, only ever allowing glimpses of her uncertainty flicker behind her ocean blue eyes. But at that moment, she was not Fleur Delacour, not the intelligent Veela nor the Triwizard Competitor.

She was as human as he was.

And she was hurting.

Harry had tried to convince her, he had failed. He squeezed the hands that still held his own gently.

She's a grown witch, He conceded, I'd sooner take her than Ron or Hermione.

If he had been bolder, if it had all been different, he might've embraced her, given her assurances he didn't have and held her close.

"Thank you." He said instead.

"I promised I'd help you. I intend to keep it." She vowed. "I'll always keep it."

Harry stood up and released his hand from hers. His legs had regained their strength though he was reluctant to test such strength against any further bad news.

"Where are you going?" Fleur questioned, her soft palms now her own once again.

"I need to see Professor Dumbledore." He explained, "If anyone knows the next move in all this, it'll be him."

"Do you want me to wait for you?" She offered.

"No." He responded gratefully, "It'd be better if one of us got some sleep tonight. We can talk more after I get back."

She nodded and remained on the floor as he headed for the door. He shot her one final glance and hoped she might find the slumber he wished he could fall to, an escape from the night around them.

Harry soon found himself at the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's Office. The sentinel held a weary look on its visage - as was carved deep into the stone. It's large and ugly eyes lingered upon him as he stepped into the alcove for the stairwell.

Even it knows I've got bad news.

"Toffee Eclairs." Harry requested softly.

The wings of the gargoyle spread and revolved on its axis, allowing Harry entrance to the office. Harry ascended the stairs, and surprisingly, Albus Dumbledore was awake and seated at his desk. Although not musing on his various missives or sifting through pieces of parchments as he usually was, this time, his eyes were locked solely on the entrance, on Harry.

Wordlessly, Harry approached his desk and took a seat.

"Is it done?" The man asked simply, any pretences of civil conversation had been long forgotten.

Harry nodded to the ageing man.

"Was it done cleanly?" Dumbledore asked gently.

"I got the memory perfectly fine. It wasn't what I would call clean though, sir."

"As long as you retrieved the memory, the means can be absolved for the moment." The Headmaster congratulated him, "I trust Horace told you much?"

"He told me some things, sir." Harry confessed, "I'm not sure what to make of most of it."

"I do imagine he had some interesting tales to tell." The older man mused.

"Interesting is one way to put it."

"Some of his words were likely true, Harry, if that is your concern. But an equal amount were no doubt falsities. The best deception is often shrouded in truth."

Perhaps I've been overthinking it. Harry thought, I'll ask him, but not tonight.

"They had wanted to use him, sir," Harry said his mind on a memory that wasn't his own. "They tried to get him to attend their meetings. They had wanted him as a pawn."

As they wanted me.

"I imagine they would; they needed someone to fly their colours - to be their martial might. Tom was an attractive prospect for them, a chance to wield him and change the world to suit their vision."

"He said as much." Harry confirmed, "They wanted to change the world, and yet you let him back, knowing he was going to try and do it again. Why? Why not just take the memory from him?"

"Here, he was under my supervision." Dumbledore explained, "Here, I could curb his influence and ensure nothing too egregious happened in his attempts. Had I not taken such an action, he would've continued his path unchecked and unopposed. He needed access to Hogwarts, and we needed to remain vigilant of his workings - a détente that worked in our favour as much as his."

"Did it work, though?" Harry asked, "You let a wicked man into Hogwarts to ensure he didn't do any more harm, yet he still did."

"Do not mistake his intentions, Harry." Dumbledore lectured, "Not being kind is not synonymous with being evil. The world is not polar - it is not clear or easily defined even for one as old as myself. Horace is not terrible, nor is he good. Yet, he is both. A trait that makes a man far more dangerous than any who cling to one side of the coin."

"How so?"

"It is a lesson you shall learn in the near future, though not in this office." Dumbledore replied, his voice and words cryptic, "But we have deviated from our original topic."

Harry nodded, "He told him about Horcruxes, Voldemort already knew, but he still told him. He said he found the book in the Hogwarts library, but how could he have?"

"The library of Hogwarts is truly a wondrous place, Harry." The man said pridefully, a welcome interim for the news that was sure to come, "He who asks for assistance shall be sure to receive such. Some areas within Hogwarts are just so, merely pieces of a castle long since forged. But mistake me not, Harry, some are truly quite beautiful."

"So he asked for Horcruxes?" Harry reiterated.

"My predecessors often had a more liberal approach to knowledge within this school. Many tomes and dissertation lay where they ought not no." Dumbledore explained, "But while I could no doubt explain the wonders of this castle, I fear we have more gruesome business to attend to."

"How many?" Dumbledore asked simply.

"Seven," Harry said sorrowfully.

" Seven?" The Professor echoed. "It is higher than I would have estimated initially, but not so far outside my assumptions.

"Your estimations?" Harry asked aghast, " You knew? "

"I had assumed." Dumbledore corrected gently, "My research in the matter has been extensive, enough so that I could leave no single possibility to chance."

"How are we supposed to find them?" Harry urged desperately, "They could be anything, could be anywhere ."

He had assured Fleur on the matter, but he was yet to reassure himself.

"After all you've learned, do you genuinely believe this to be such an instance?

"No." Harry shook his head, "He's obsessed with his magical legacy, he's sentimental."

"Precisely." Dumbledore nodded and procured a piece of parchment and a quill. He began to gently outline rudimentary images, stopping every so often to wet the quill with ink.

"The diary of Tom Riddle." He gestured towards a simple diagram, "The Ring of Marvolo Gaunt.", he pointed to another. "And his familiar, Nagini ."

"That's three." Harry pointed out, "That leaves four left."

"It is my belief that in this quest to prolong his legacy, he sought to corrupt any who dared outshine him. Could you hazard such a guess at who he would dare pursue?"

"The founders," Harry answered after a brief moment.

"Indeed." Dumbledore said, pointing to the rest of his drawings, "Godric Gryffindor died in the Anarchy before wizards and muggles signed the Treaty of Wallingford. With his death, his breastplate and staff wound up destroyed, his sword returned to Hogwarts and the Sorting Hat remained here. He left no legacy to taint. It is my theory that Tom did not tamper with any of Gryffindor's artefacts."

He pointed to an ornate snake, "Of Salazar Slytherin, he left behind a portrait, a cloak and dagger and a locket. All of which have changed hands over the centuries, all of which have been lost to time."

This time, a raven. "Rowena Ravenclaw left behind the Room of Requirement, a Diadem and a wedding band."

Finally, a badger. "Helga Hufflepuff forged her goblet and crafted a book of lineage for the Wizengamot."

Each item described had a crude counterpart scribbled onto the parchment, Dumbledore began to scratch out his drawings in a seemingly arbitrary fashion. Soon, he was left with only a few remaining.

"For Slytherin, the dagger or the locket. For Ravenclaw, the Diadem and for Hufflepuff, the Goblet." Dumbledore explained, "They are all that remains of their legacies, the only things left to corrupt."

"If it's the dagger or the locket, that's six." Harry said, "Where's the seventh?"

"The seventh remains unknown for the moment." Dumbledore said lightly, "It shall be revealed in time, I'm sure of it."

"So we need to track down artefacts lost to time?" Harry asked, " Great. "

It was never going to be easy.

"It appears we do." The man confirmed grimly, "However, I do know the location of one, inside this very castle no less."

"A Horcrux, here? "

"Indeed, but to find it, we must first find another. A spectre long since passed."

"A ghost?"

"The one remaining descendant of Rowena Ravenclaw still lingers here, Harry." The man said, "And tonight we must find her."

Those words had brought the pair to Ravenclaw Tower. The full moon shone a bright light into the antiquated windows of the turret, bathing the interior in an odd, grey glow. It was reminiscent of Gryffindor Tower but more austere, darker even.

The moon fell progressively lower as they searched for the spectre. It seemed a fool's quest, chasing around a figure that could shift through walls at will. If Harry had the sense of mind, he might've retrieved the Marauder's Map. But in the flurry, it had been left in his dorm and now they were relegated to scouring the gothic castle for any signs of a relative long dead.

And eventually, they had found her.

She had floated past the grey-shrouded windows of the tower and settled just outside, haunting the battlements on the adjacent. They approached her carefully; Dumbledore led their journey out into the cold, open air of winter.

She seemed a widow in that moment, levelling the expanse of the forbidden forest with her forlorn gaze. A woman staring into the dark waves for a lover lost at sea - the trees below seemed to draw her eye and anger her.

Harry shifted from behind the Headmaster and caught a look at her features. She truly was different from the other ghosts of Hogwarts- she possessed none of the joviality of Sir Nicholas nor any of the intimidation of the Bloody Baron.

She simply looked a woman. Her face decorated with aristocratic features - her face seemed inoffensive. High cheekbones, yet soft, a long nose and sharper features. She might've once been beautiful. It was impossible to decipher through her expression, one that seemed to flicker through rage and sorrow at irregular intervals.

This won't be as simple as I hoped.

Her dress was long and white, though the midsection was stained brown. A garish sight that tore away from whatever elegance it might've possessed.

Not brown, he amended, red.

A mortal wound decorated her gut, tearing at seams and skin alike with a single stroke - a masterful blow that seemed to have sapped the life around her alongside the pattern of palms and fingers that decorated her throat.

"Miss Ravenclaw, A lovely night." Dumbledore offered to the ghost.

"I would not be knowledgeable about such." She replied offhandedly, not turning to face them. "It has been an age since I enjoyed such a night."

"May I introduce Harry Potter, Helena?" Finally, she tore her gaze from the dark trees to meet his eyes.

Harry cleared his throat, unsure of how the Professor wanted him to proceed. "It's nice to meet you." He tried, though the ghost levelled him with an oddly furious glare.

"It was cruel of you to bring one cursed with such features to me, Headmaster." She said, disdain lacing her voice. "He looks very much like he did at that age."

She began to drift off. Dumbledore said nothing as her floating figure travelled down the battlements.

"Wait!" Harry called to her retreating form, "We need your help!"

She stilled on her journey away from them, the rage on her face might've betrayed her reaction, he was more than prepared for a wave of hostilities to follow. Though she did not launch into a rage, there was no wrath in her voice.

Just a simple, hollow chuckle that seemed out of place on the woman.

"It was never my assistance you required, Harry Potter." She turned again to face them, levelling them with a neutral look, "It was cruel indeed for you to seek me out for such a trivial matter. You covet an artefact of my mother's design, as they all have over the years. One I swore never to speak or look upon again. Not for the mighty Albus Dumbledore, nor you, Harry Potter, of whom I've heard is very akin to those he detests."

Her hostile demeanour initially, now her responses devoid of emotion led to a common conclusion. It took perhaps a tad longer than it usually would've.

Fleur would've already had it out of her, he mused, despite himself.

She must have known him, somewhere along the way she met Tom Riddle and she clearly doesn't care for him.

Her insinuation wasn't lost on him either.

"I'm not like him. " He echoed her previous words.

"No?" Her lifeless voice turned mocking, "You've not dashed across the castle nor shivered on the battlements for any reason different than his own. You seek to beguile me with sweet nothings, attempt to seduce me into giving you my Mother's artefacts. Is it her wedding band you pursue or perhaps the diadem?"

Harry could not find the words to answer her probing; instead, she continued uninterrupted.

"You are forever vultures circling the work of my mother, even now she holds that above me. Your end goals, however different they may be, are still laced with the same sickly sweet poison that lies under the facade of civility and good-doing."

She continued her retreat down the battlements as he continued his pursuit, Professor Dumbledore walked behind him softly.

"What if I told you we didn't want to use it?" Harry called out. "What if I told you we needed to destroy it?"

"I'd tell you something in turn, that any such information could be found within a history book." She countered. "My scorn for my mother's success is not a guarded secret. I'd say you were an incompetent liar for trying such an approach."

"But it's the truth." Harry declared firmly. "It's the diadem, isn't it? He did something to it, something that you don't want to tell anyone about."

This time, a retort didn't shoot out of her mouth immediately. She did, however, stop moving forward and remained still, slowly turning on the spot.

"Your words might be truthful." She spat, a volatile tone in her voice. "Such a shame you do not know the weight carried in them."

He had pushed where it had hurt and she had pushed back.

I've pushed in the right spot.

He'd have to push all the harder before the night was over.

She could have fled through the walls, escaped him with ease had she not wanted to talk any further.

Maybe she enjoys being chased, he thought, Or perhaps this is all a test .

"He did do something, didn't he?" Harry probed again although softer, this time around.

"Save your empty platitudes. They're woefully misplaced. I neither want nor need your pity." She said, offended.

"You do know what he did, don't you?" Harry tried again, although in a much gentler tone.

"Do you take me for a fool?" She shifted her head to the side, eyeing him with newfound scrutiny. "Of course, I knew precisely what he was doing. However, I find myself curious as to how you came upon such knowledge.

"What did he do?" Harry probed again, ignoring her own question. His voice even softer than before. Treating her as if she were one of the sparrows that occupied the battlements, scared to raise his voice for fear of her losing confidence.

"Why do you really want it, Harry Potter?" She asked plainly, and for the first time since the conversation began, Harry felt like he was making genuine progress.

"I truly wish to destroy it." He reiterated, "You can watch me if you need to, but it needs to go, he needs to go."

He heard Dumbledore's footsteps approach behind him. For all his waning power, he still exerted a presence of tranquillity that wasn't drained with the rest of his magic. Even long dead, the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw seemed to feel it too.

She returned to the position she had assumed when they had found her - merely peering out into the lightening darkness.

It felt like an age before she spoke, to someone who had lived as long as she had it likely passed in an instance. To Harry, minutes flew by while he remained content to let the ghost reminisce or collect her thoughts - whatever she needed to do.

"Do you perhaps know exactly how I died?" She asked, her tone odd. It was not the wrath nor lifelessness she had wielded before; it was almost wistful.

"No, I don't."

"I'm surprised the tale hasn't been shared as it once was." She turned to Harry and parted her dress and wound that decorated her gut, if she had been alive blood would've spilt and emptied her quickly.

But she was far from alive.

"Truth be told, I cannot remember my exact death either. That is the nature of spirits, to be forever haunted by final moments they can't remember. Was it the hands that wrapped around my throat? Or perhaps the sword through my navel?"

"I-" Harry tried, for all his newfound skills in conversation, few things could prepare him for this.

"The Bloody Baron, they call him - a name well deserved. I knew him by a different name, as did my mother but one long forgotten. A lover I once scorned, so she felt him best to seek me out when I fled to the Continent. His temper ran hot, as did his blood when I refused to return with him and accept his hand in marriage. So, he ran me through with his sword. A man in full plate against I, a woman. He near tore me in two and wrapped his hands around my neck. He killed me and covered himself in my blood. When that failed to fill the void, the villages and hamlets of Albania were next. Until he fell upon his own sword."

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered.

"So imagine my surprise when I was set upon by a mere boy, who sought friendship in place of treasure, camaraderie in place of glory. A breath of air into the stale perpetuity of death, an admirer that cared for the daughter - not the broodmare of Ravenclaw.

Harry hadn't thought it possible but her eyes seemed to glisten in the moonlight, tears that would never fall but still manifested themselves.

"He was infectious, his confidence, his smile, his intelligence. Magic was his dominion, and together, we were equals. He whispered in my ears of how he loved me, how I was worthy of my own legacy. He promised to give me everything the Baron could not. And I, ever the fool, prayed for such."

"During his last year, I gifted him my mother's diadem. It would serve him far better than I, the one who was little but an affront to the legacy of Ravenclaw. I knew what he planned to do with it, knew the implications of such. But what was the diadem against a boy that cherished me where the Baron couldn't? What were sacrifice and immortality if we could linger together forever?"

Her voice suddenly cracked and the wrath that had decorated her face spewed forth.

"Then he brought me to that damned chamber of Salazar's and showed me the spoils of such a boon - an Albanian peasant, a whore . He snuck her through an inlet in the forest and decorated the chamber with her body. He perverted the diadem and had the audacity to flaunt whatever malevolence he imbued it with to my face."

"What happened to the Diadem, Helena?" Harry moved a bit closer, though not enough to disturb her sorrow.

"Afterwards, it was broken. The enchantments were torn asunder and the beauty lost. A conduit of knowledge turned to one of the foulest pieces of magic known to Wizardkind. I tossed it away in my mother's room. Content to let such a historical piece die the death it deserved.

"It's not your fault Helena." He consoled quietly. "You couldn't have known what he was, none of us did."

She let out a soft chuckle. "It very much is, but your attempts to convince me otherwise is sweet."

"How do we get to it?" Harry asked.

"The room will give what you ask. He checked it before he left. You need only wish to see it." She told him.

"Thank you, Helena, you've done a lot of good tonight." Harry offered gratefully.

"You needn't thank me." She said, "Just hold true to your word."

She went to float away, but Harry stopped her with his question.

"Do you regret it? Falling in love with him, that is."

"Regret it?" She shook her head, "I had lived without love and suffered for such, I found it in death, even if it wasn't reciprocated. I'd do it again if I had to. My only regret was letting a boy who could've been so much more fester in his hatred."

With his question answered, she began to float away. This time, he didn't need to catch her.

Words to think on, he mused.

"Very well done Harry." Dumbledore offered from behind him, the first time the older man had spoken since the conversation began. "I daresay I couldn't have done a better job myself."

Maybe it was all one big test.

"Have we got all we needed?" Harry asked and the Headmaster nodded.

Dawn was nigh, about an hour away.

But their night was not yet over.

They made their way to their destination with the same haste they used to reach Ravenclaw Tower. Despite Dumbledore's debilitation, he moved with an expeditiousness that looked out of place on a man over his first century.

Soon enough, they stood outside the corridor that held the room they had spoken about.

Barnabas the Barmy and his ensemble of trolls were in a fitful slumber with snores that echoed down the hallway.

"If you'd like to do the honours, Harry?" Dumbledore prompted, nodding his head towards the door.

Harry paced past the stone wall thrice.

I need to see the Horcrux. His thought passed once, twice and then for a final third time. His last pass granted results, the stone parted and a wooden door formed from the stone.

Harry made for the door but was stopped by Dumbledore, his unblemished hand grasping his shoulder.

"Remain vigilant, Harry. Horcruxes are magic without equal. The same can be said about the room you're about to enter. The makings of a volatile mixture - tread carefully ."

He relieved his wand from the confines of his robes and gripped it tightly in his palm. He shed his outer robe, tossing it to the ground and steeled himself for what might lay beyond.

Deciding there was little more to prepare for he grasped the handle in his hand, turned and pulled.

Then, they peered inside.

Beyond them was a spartan room, nothing decorated its walls but old stone. The only thing that decorated the room was a single, marble pedestal. Even from the entrance, he could make out the ornate silver and glittering sapphires.

It's the diadem.

The distance to cross and grasp it had to be less than ten metres. The lack of obstacles emboldened him, but he remembered the Headmaster's words.

Tread carefully, he repeated.

He took a tentative step into the room and soon found what the Professor had cautioned against. As if it was all a mirage, the pedestal shot backwards at speeds rivalling even the most extraordinary racing broom. The three walls expanded at a similar speed, enough so that Harry couldn't see any of the old stone he observed, save the one the door was against. It gave him an odd sense of something akin to vertigo at seeing the surroundings change so dramatically.

The familiar nipping at the nape of his neck alerted him that there was something yet to come.

He stepped backwards in shock as hundreds of objects fell from the roof, the ground shaking with the force of what Harry soon surmised was closer to thousands of items. Though, upon closer inspection, they appeared to be just junk, haphazardly discarded items and little else.

Despite the hazardous and surprising landing, the objects had all fallen into neat piles, or at the very least, neat enough to create a winding path through the sudden summits.

Harry took a large step into the room proper to survey the piles. Broken furniture, rusted armour skewered with swords and myriad other odds and ends. Glass littered the floor, Harry was unsure if it was from the impact or if it was shattered already. He gingerly stepped over it and the Headmaster followed suit.

"It'll be almost impossible to find the Diadem in all this." Harry frowned.

"On the contrary." Dumbledore interjected, "I imagine such a task as locating the Horcrux will be the easiest of all you've faced tonight. For all its power, it is still a piece of Tom's soul. One not content to be discarded in the corner as little more than scrap."

"Shall we go in sir?" Harry turned to the man who to his surprise shook his head.

"I shall not participate any further than I already have. Without magic at my disposal, I cannot amply defend my own person. I won't dampen your own ability with worries for my safety."

"Is that wise?"

"I have not set you upon this path with a haphazard plan. Everything I have ever done was to better you, Harry, to give you the tools necessary to dismantle such evil."

Harry simply nodded in response and the man began to walk away.

"Good luck, my boy." He bid, then disappeared from sight.

There was no decorum, no final wisdom that would see him through the night.

He had hoped for more - more assurances, more assistance, especially with a task such as this. Yet, he had walked away, leaving the room to Harry alone.

With Dumbledore's presence, he felt he could accomplish anything. Now, he was on his own.

I am Harry Potter and I have faced far worse.

His first step into the room was done without a backwards glance, not even as the door slammed behind him nor as he began his trek into the room.

The room felt strangely tranquil, a stark departure from what he had felt mere moments ago. His shoes creaked against the worn floorboards that decorated the room as he weaved through the peaks of forgotten items.

He didn't venture too far into the room before the first challenge leapt up eagerly to make itself apparent.

He passed a rusted suit of armour, it waited until his back had long passed him until it leapt at him. It held no weapon save for a rusted longsword pierced through the plate covering its stomach. It freed its blade with the hideous nose of metal grating upon metal. It approached slowly as if time had fused its joints together.

Then, it flourished its rusted sword with practised ease that spoke of its superior enchantments.

The headless suit continued its slow and daunting advance, waving it's broken sword in unpredictable, volatile arcs. Harry weaved his wand in a quick pattern and sent off a silent bludgeoner that hit the chest plate of his foe with all the force of a mounted knight of old. But instead of falling as its wearer likely did, the chest plate creaked and caved. It rocked on its heels but continued the approach.

" Flagrate Flagellum ." Harry incanted quietly, the thin tail of deadly fire spun from his wand like a spider weaving a web, it spooled on the ground, scorching the stone floor.

He tossed his hand clear of himself like a chaser throwing a quaffle, the flame followed suit, crackling viciously in the air. The whip wrapped its way around the midsection of the armour ensnaring the medieval adversary in its fiery grasp. Harry pulled his wand back hard and cancelled the charm before the whip could strike his own body, he twisted out of the way from any counterattack and failed to see the immediate results.

The two pieces of weakened armour separated under the intense heat of the flames, its gauntlets groped around aimlessly on the floor before falling still.

That was deceptively easy, he frowned.

The room seemed to be filled with these same suits of armour, in all forms of disrepair. His encounter with the attacker had begotten a sense of great vigilance. He adopted a sedate pace, each suit of armour receiving the same treatment whether it moved or not.

Then the second challenge had arisen.

The torchlight of the chandeliers and floating candles overhead seemed to dissipate as he continued further into the room. Evaporated by some unknown force that seemed to fill the gap with eager alacrity. Darkness slinked around the corners and seemed to hide from his scrutinizing gaze.

It seemed almost tangible; as if he could catch the fleeting shadows that he swore he could almost feel them.

Lumos Solem, he incanted internally, as if the room would sense his intentions if he spoke aloud.

The spell crossed the air between him and the furthest pile of rubbish. Its blinding white flared briefly and died a quick death, striking a barrier he hadn't seen.

Then the dark rose around him with all the fervour of a predator hunting cornered prey. He cycled through the variants of all the light-producing charms he knew, though none seemed to dent the sudden dusk.

Instead, each spell closed the maw of the surrounding shadows.

In that moment, more than any, he had thought to flee. The air around him felt oppressive; each step he took was laden with lethargy and forced more breath from his lungs. He fought for each inch to move forward, hoping to escape the cloud. Each millimetre gained was more daunting than its predecessor.

Soon, the room was filled. He could feel the shaft of his wand; warm wood turned cold in the room; he could feel his hand but could not see it.

One more step .

It was a hopeful plea. Every step brought him closer to the fringes of the suppressive smog. But soon, even that hope waned as the air became thinner and the steps got more laborious.

His throat was on fire, his airways contracting, a desperate plea to regain oxygen.

I'm going to die.

It was a moment of finality that he had experienced more than once. But this was akin to none of those.

There was no foe to defeat, no battle to win or room for retreat.

Only the crushing of his lungs and fleeting hope he once had.

He clawed at his throat, trying to remove the ironclad grasp that wasn't present. He was desperate for oxygen, and for the briefest moment, he received a breath.

Gasping in the sweet life-giving element in long, loud gulps. Though it was quickly cut short as the choking darkness returned, merely teasing his final moments.

Though, it had brought something else other than blackened vision.

A cacophony of cries echoed in his eardrums like eruptions. He fell to his knees, his hands stopping the struggle for air in favour of eliminating the incessant cries that echoed in his skull.

" Failure." The voice spoke; he recognised it with relative ease; it was Uncle Vernon.

" Failure." This time, Sirius.

" Failure." His parents joined the fray.

" Failure." The Headmaster added his voice into the plethora that rang in his ears.

" Failure." This time, it was Fleur.

A voice above them all, the same melody that urged him to action.

I won't die here tonight. A recess of his mind resolved, For me. For her.

There were conversations yet to be had, days yet to be shared.

It sounded like there were thousands of voices surrounding him. He was blinded, yet he could clearly see them all surrounding him, taunting him and spewing obscenities.

Expecto Patronum.

Suddenly, nothing.

His wand was a brief blur of angelic beauty, a concussive wave that left his wand and tore away voices and smoke alike and left sweet air behind.

He looked up as he gasped desperately to fill his deprived lungs.

Ahead of him was the same spartan room - the same pedestal that held the diadem. Harry shakily got to his feet and stumbled towards the horcrux.

He was within reaching grasp of the object, he conjured a silk bag and grasped for it. His hands hovered ever so briefly above the silver circlet.

A creaking noise broke Harry from his action, a chair had fallen from the height of the mountainous debris piles.

But this time it was different from the first when he had initially entered the room.

Then, the third challenge rose to meet him.

The objects began to fall en masse as if starting an exodus from their static positions in the heaps, littering the ground with freshly broken wood and glass that blocked his retreat once again.

Though the piles did not remain as simple piles.

The debris began to take shape into some far more wicked.

Pieces of furniture, old swords and weapons, broken potion vials and cracked bricks flung towards the growing pile. Misshapen and malformed, a creature took to its feet where little more than ruins of furniture had once lain.

It towered well over Harry; two heads roared ferociously, one of a stag the other of an eagle. Even in their monstrous forms, their attempts to imitate life were recognisable.

It shot a deformed claw at Harry, made mostly out of an old book cupboard. He stumbled back onto his rear to escape the fiend's swing. It took another swipe, and a prone Harry could not manoeuvre enough to escape its grasp. It grasped him in its ill-proportioned fist and tossed him aside like a ragdoll.

Harry was winded as soon as he made contact with the hard cobblestones of a nearby wall, surprisingly his wand remained in his grasp. He rolled out of the way as the Stag's head tried to gore him with its antlers, crashing into the stones with a deafening cry of rage.

It hit the wall and ricocheted off, leaving its imprint in the wall. It stepped back from Harry in what he initially thought was an attempt to plan it's next attack.

Instead, it shifted, morphing into a serpent, its mouth full of rusted and broken blades. It reared its head back and struck, missing a fatal blow by mere feet. Though one of the protruding edges sliced into Harry's arm, the rusted steel biting dangerously into soft flesh and tearing into his chest.

He snapped off a multitude of spells to slow the beast down. His conjured lion was dwarfed by the serpent and found its home within it's gaping maw. His fire whip created a small partition that was met with another startlingly fast strike from the massive beast. His water spells did nothing to slow its advance on Harry, and the winding serpent soon found Harry in a corner.

He dodged a further strike and flicked his wand, the floor rising up to assist him. His options dwindled and his foe advanced.

There was one, single spell that lingered in his mind at that moment. By fortune, skill or luck, he wasn't entirely sure.

It was one of the few that had been written in Dumbledore's journal with any great detail, and even then it was fleeting.

Beware the toll . It had warned.

It was the antithesis of fiendfyre. It spoke of a spell wrought from the heavens themselves, wherever they may be. Born to beat back the darkness as the Patronus did, forged to bring forth a white-hot tempest.

If only one could pay the price.

All he needed was a memory.

" Caelesti Perfuro. "

His thoughts bounced around in his head; he grappled with fleeting memories of Sirius and his parents as he did with his Patronus.

But there was only ever going to be one person that summoned the heavenly inferno.

He thought of Fleur, of their meetings, of drinks and blood shared, of detailed plots and wars to be won.

He felt the strength sap from his body in one, sudden wave. His palm blackened and blistered under the heat. But the flames soon came, silver as her hair and possessed all of the same grace and poised.

The serpent reared backwards, morphing into various amalgamations and creatures in a desperate bid to escape the white-hot confines. It played its final card. It barrelled forward to strike, to land the final blow.

It went into the flames a beast and exited them nought but cinders and ash.

The sweltering heat bit at Harry's face and exposed skin, the exertion became too much, and his arm began to quake with pain. The power intensified, and Harry lost control of the blazing inferno.

The fire instead sought out the Horcrux as the diadem began to shake. The pedestal was lost to the flames but soon abated without his power to fuel them.

The silver of the diadem was blackened, it teetered on the edge of the crumbling marble before it fell, separating into two pieces.

A tendril of darkness crept from the diadem like a writhing viper. It reminded Harry of the wraith that fled Quirrel. It slithered along the floor to Harry, who under the spell of exhaustion was relegated to attempting to recuperate on the hard, wooden floor.

It reached him and struck, curling around his neck like a noose and disappeared into a dark mist.

But there was nothing, no pain.

Nothing.

Harry assumed the worst was over.

There was a lull in his guard, a brief moment to ponder something else as he regained his breath. His mind remained full of memories he had used to summon the flames.

Maybe I should do something about those feelings. He thought, seeking out the rafters.

Helena had said it best herself, if only he dared to take her words.

Today, maybe. He decided, Today I might have the courage.

Being in her presence might sap his bravado. He didn't know if he would ever have the bravery to do it.

But it was a nice thought.

Suddenly, the black smoke took form once again and struck him. Even his paralysed state reacted to its volatile embrace, throwing his arms back in defence of himself as his vision was obscured.

He saw again like he had that day, of eyes not his own.

A mountain of gold stood before him, then darkness, then he found himself pinned to the ground with a silver stake - a demon tearing through white mists.

Harry was tossed unceremoniously when the smoke exited his body. A window had emerged in the stone wall. The first swords of dawn's light shot through the pane glass window. However, Harry couldn't celebrate the emergence of the light.

For he gave a final gasp and collapsed.