HP: Monochrome

"Harry Potter," came the whisper, soft as a feather. "They have taught you how to duel, have you not?"

Harry stood his ground, in defiance of the Dark Lord, his sleeves torn and blood dripping down his arm. Circling around him like hounds were nineteen of the man's sycophants, all dressed up in their Death Eater regalia. Further still stood Peter Pettigrew, lovingly caressing his new silver arm — a so-called gift, from the master who took away his original.

It was disgusting.

From the corner of his eye, Harry cast a sideward glance at Cedric Diggory. The boy lay fallen on the ground, unmoving thanks to a timely stunner. And then Pettigrew petrified him from behind.

Again.

His fingers clenched around his wand. It was all he had. His ever-faithful companion that had saved him on one too many occasions since coming into this magical world at eleven. Despite the anxiety from the impending mortal peril gnawing at his mind, the soft thrum of his wand provided a welcome relief.

Voldemort chuckled in amusement, his burning crimson eyes shining through the murky darkness of the cemetery. Harry could feel the magic rolling off of the man in waves. Every inch of his instincts were screaming at him to get away.

Fear.

Helplessness.

Frustration.

Rage.

Emotions sandblasted against his psyche. This was the monster who had killed his parents. Made him an orphan. Destroyed his childhood.

"I asked you a question."

The Dark Lord's tone came across as surprisingly polite. Pleasant even. A strange dichotomy.

"Dumbledore's protégé, parselmouth, slayer of Slytherin's basilisk, vanquisher of the greatest Dark Lord in history… Surely you're aware of how to duel?"

"...Yes." The word left his mouth, sounding strangely serpentine to his ears.

"How wonderful!" Voldemort's lips twisted into a cruel smile. "Ready yourself, Harry! Rest assured, none of them," he gestured to the rest of the Death Eaters, "will interfere. I will give you your fair chance at… vanquishing me once more."

Harry narrowed his eyes. What the hell was going on? He was alone. Wounded. Exhausted. Overwhelmed by both power and numbers. There was nowhere he could run.

So… why? Why all this melodrama?

"Is this just a game to you?" He had unconsciously used Parseltongue. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see the Death Eaters losing their composure. One of them had even taken a step back, dropping his wand in surprise.

Oh right. Parseltongue, he'd learned, had a trait muggles referred to as 'infrasound'. Much like a tiger's roar, it did weird things to your nervous system. It enhanced your fears and vulnerabilities, and raised a fight-or-flight instinct in others. Only in case of witches and wizards, it dialled the response to eleven, and removed 'fight' from the options.

Given how shamelessly Voldemort had used it to his advantage, it was no surprise how half the school had turned against him in his second year.

Taking a deep breath, he raised his wand and met the Dark Lord's gaze.

"I see you are finally tapping into your potential," Voldemort smirked, speaking like a connoisseur acknowledging a fine whiskey. "Truly unfortunate that we must be at odds."

Harry clenched his wand tighter. "And whose fault is that?"

Much to his surprise, the Dark Lord paused, giving his question a fair amount of thought. "Tell me, Harry Potter," he began, his tone genuinely curious. "If I granted you immunity, would you come over to my side?"

Harry blinked.

"..."

"... Are you… are you insane?"

"HOW DARE YOU—" Someone from the crowd raised his wand to hex him.

"Now, now," Voldemort lazily flicked his wand at the sudden interruption, flinging the other man away. "Let us not get so angry. Young Harry is still at Hogwarts. Untrained. Unhoned. A son of the illustrious Potter family. A parselmouth, much like myself. I wouldn't be surprised if we had a shared ancestry somewhere."

Harry could help but stare at how surreal it felt. Was this really happening?

No. This was a game. This monster was playing with him. Nothing else.

"You killed my parents," he snarled.

"It was a war," the Dark Lord shrugged. "People die. But I was merciful. I told them to stand aside, Thrice. They chose death."

"You tried to kill me."

"I did."

"… Why?"

The Dark Lord chuckled. He didn't know why, but it sent shivers down his spine and made his heart beat out of his ribcage. Would he finally get an answer? He'd asked the Headmaster the same question every year, and every time, he was forced to settle for non-answers and empty promises. Maybe Voldemort would be less frustrating?

"Because you could become a potential liability in the future. My attempt at killing you was… how do the muggles say it? Nipping the problem in the bud?" The man slightly tilted his head. "I offer you one more chance. Join me and be spared."

Spared. Spared from what? Being killed? This monster would kill everyone that stood on his path. Dumbledore, Sirius, everyone. What was the point of life then?

"No."

Something terrible shone in the man's eyes. "You see me as your enemy, boy. But you have no idea what my wrath is capable of. Thrice I ask. Join me or be killed."

Harry clenched his teeth. The man was playing with his emotions. Egging him on. Testing him.

Allowing his rage to take over, he spat at the cause of his misery. He raised his wand and—

—Was sent tumbling backwards.

The Death Eaters laughed.

"We must follow etiquette," Voldemort drawled, flicking his wand again. Harry lost all control of his body. It wasn't like the petrification hex. It was more like — like he had lost his sense of touch. Of weight. Of movement.

He stood there, encircled by his enemies, with absolutely no control over himself.

"First, we bow," Voldemort chastised him.,"The formalities must be observed," the man mocked. "Such a lack of manners, Dumbledore would be disappointed."

The Death Eaters were openly laughing now. Jeering at him, deriding him, taunting him. Toying with him, as if he were their plaything. Their source of entertainment for the night.

"Bow, Harry Potter. Bow to Death."

He wouldn't.

He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. He was not—

"I said, BOW!" Voldemort flicked his wand once more, and Harry screamed.

A heavy, invisible hand pressed down on his shoulders, with a weight he could not hope to bear. He bit his lip, trying his best to resist, but it was a futile gesture as his spine bent unwillingly until his knees hit the grassy floor.

In response, Voldemort inclined his head slightly towards him, a pale mockery of a bow.

"That wasn't very difficult, now was it?" he asked, a soft smile gracing his lips.

Harry looked up, his glare unyielding even in the face of his demise.

It only made Voldemort smile wider as he raised his wand. "And now, we duel!"

Harry barely had enough time to gather his bearings before he found himself flung across the graveyard. The gesture was crude, but the distance thrown was careful, measured, even. It was enough force to rough him up, but not enough to cause him harm.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort breathed. "Is this truly all you amount to?"

He flicked his wand, interrupting Harry as he tried to chant his first spell of the night and bodily tossing him like before.

"There is no Dumbledore to save you," he said. "No mother to die for you. No friend to take your place."

Voldemort wasn't even trying to kill him, and he knew it. This was… this was a show. Proof of the man's dominance, proof that his defeat fourteen years ago was nothing more than a fluke.

"You are alone now, Harry Potter. And you. Are. Nothing."

The anger that had been churning inside of him burned hotter and hotter. And somewhere in his mind, a memory surfaced. A completely ordinary memory.

An observation.

A spell.

One that Alastor Moody had once showed in front of his entire class. A spell buried deep within his memories, but one he had never seen cause to use, nor did he ever fathom wanting to.

Until now.

"Crucio!"

Pain immediately interrupted Harry's thoughts.

Pain beyond anything he could ever imagine.

And in that moment, the thought of that single spell overtook his mind once more. He couldn't find it in himself to use anything but that spell.

Powerful spells often had their own unique requirements, the Patronus had taught him that. This spell had its own as well. And now, as he kneeled upon the cemetery floor, he knew he'd be able to cast it.

He would cast it.

"Farewell, Harry Potter!" Voldemort raised his wand again. "Avada—"

Harry didn't wait for the man to finish. He levelled his wand, pointing it forward as he called forth the ball that welled deep within him, ballooning to immense proportions as he fed it all the hate and wrath and fury that he could summon before yelling as loudly as he could—

"AVADA—"

"— KEDAVRA!"

Harry gripped his temples, trying to force the memory back into the deep recesses of his mind. The sight of the dusty shelves with even dustier tomes on them didn't help. Whoever thought having an interrogation inside the Headmaster's office was a good idea had probably drunk some of Neville's potions.

After nearly a week of being in coma, Harry had opened his eyes to a nigh empty Hogwarts. Turns out everyone had been in a mad rush to leave the school after the Third Task. The details weren't very clear to him, but McGonagall had asked him to report to Dumbledore's office as soon as Pomfrey had given him the green signal.

Knowing Poppy, Harry had escaped the Hospital Room within an hour.

Now though, he wished Madam Pomfrey would come and rescue him. At least that way, he wouldn't have to stare at Percy's pathetic attempt at sneering. No hard feelings Perce, he wanted to say. There's only one Severus Snape, and he doesn't have red hair.

So that was how he found himself seated on one of the overly squishy chairs, while the wise man, and the woman, and no Percy didn't count— grilled him about the events of that night.

That was all right. Expected, even.

Every year, Draco Malfoy would hound him on the Hogwarts Express.

Every year, Snape would be an arse to him.

Every year, the Defense professor would try to fuck him over.

Every year, he'd have to survive mortal peril in some manner.

And at the end of every year, he would have a heart-to-heart with Albus Dumbledore in the Hospital Wing, just after said peril had passed. A discussion in which Dumbledore would promise him answers, offer vague bits of advice, and send him packing to Privet Drive.

See? Practically a ritual.

But this year was different, what with the variety. Maybe it was the Triwizard effect? The grey-haired, square-jawed lady in her early-forties, with a monocle over her right eye, was Amelia Bones, the Director of the DMLE, and Susan Bones' aunt. Who that was, Harry had no clue, but maybe one of those girls that sat around Ernie Macmillian on the Hufflepuff table.

The second was, of course, Albus Dumbledore. And finally, the third, Percy Weasley, bootlicker extraordinaire and the current Junior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic. What even was an Undersecretary again?

"To rephrase," Percy said, trying to appear snooty and failing miserably, "You admit casting an Unforgivable against another wizard, knowing full well that the action carries the penalty of a life sentence in Azkaban?"

That he could reconstruct his statements with his own unique brand of snobbishness, while still managing to dot down his statement in beautiful calligraphic script, was genuinely impressive. If he turned his nose up any higher, he'd turn into Lucius Malfoy.

A red-haired Lucius Malfoy.

He snorted.

"Potter!" Percy barked. "Stop laughing and answer the question. Did you, knowingly, and with full intention, cast the killing curse?"

Harry noticed Dumbledore had gone completely stiff. Apparently they had given him two drops of truth serum, and a mild calming drought. But guess what? The potions weren't working.

Like, at all.

It was the first among the three weird things happening to him ever since he had woken up. But by Merlin, he'd be a fool to not take advantage of this.

"I tried to cast the curse. The next thing I know, I woke up with Pomfrey fawning all over me."

"Did you cast the curse, or not?" Bones demanded.

"No clue. The last thing I remember was the green from Voldemort's wand. And then this…"

Arming oneself in others' doubt and suspicion. It was a neat trick he had learnt from observing Dumbledore over the years. Add in a little bit of bitterness, and it was a quick sell. Not very difficult, given who was sitting in front of him. Some people simply had the natural talent of making him want to slap them without even saying a word. And Percy was speaking a lot.

He perked in Dumbledore's direction. "Was his body there?"

Dumbledore shook his head.

"There you have it."

"For someone under veritaserum," Bones observed, "Mr. Potter is quite… spirited. Are you certain he was dosed properly?"

"Blame Percy," Harry drawled. "He's the one that fed me."

"The suspect admits attempting a killing curse. Given his penchant for causing mayhem…" Percy began, his dicta-quill authoring his words on a parchment "Suspect shows no remorse over the act."

"Suspect also thinks you're a buffoon."

Percy spluttered, while Amelia Bones arched an eyebrow. Harry was baffled by how she showed more grace in that tiny movement than he possessed in his entire body. "I concur. Despite being under the calming drought, Mr. Potter is rather uninhibited."

She wasn't wrong. Harry didn't exactly know what had happened to him, but he was feeling strangely light. Like being hit by a cheering charm. Weren't calming draughts supposed to neutralise his negative emotions, or make him more focused or something? Whoever prepared this particular draught must've been a less-than-stellar potioneer.

Snape would probably give it a Dreadful.

"Mr. Potter," said the woman, "the use of the killing curse is absolutely forbidden by the law. The use of that curse, along with its sister curses is termed 'Unforgivable', even under self-defence. Had your curse hit anyone, expulsion from Hogwarts would have been the last of your worries."

"But Madam Bones, he's—" Percy began hotly.

The DMLE Director raised a hand, and cut him off.

Harry reflexibly gulped at her no-nonsense tone. The truth was that he had cast the curse successfully, but he wasn't stupid enough to admit that. Which brought him to the second weird thing.

He had to admit. Casting the curse had felt nice.

The knowledge of what he was casting, the presence of death lingering in the magic all around him— they sang to him, as if cherishing his presence. And his soul sang back to them in response. It was addicting and frightening at the same time. But he was not the person that sought pleasure from the death of others. Was he?

He hated it. He hated the fact that his soul loved it.

"Let me get this straight," Harry replied, straightening his back and looking the woman in the eye. "Cedric petrifies and kidnaps me. Pettigrew ties me up, gets my blood, throws an ugly-mug baby Voldemort into a cauldron and resurrects him with a snake-face, who tries to kill me. And somehow, I'm the bad guy?"

He looked at Dumbledore, expecting some support.

There was none.

Typical.

"The issue is not about you fighting back, Mr. Potter," Bones clarified. "It is about using the killing curse in order to do so."

"Any spell can be used to kill," he shot back.

"And yet, there are only three unforgivables."

"Doesn't stop you from forgiving Death Eaters."

"Potter!" Percy puffed up. "Your fame has clearly gotten to your head."

"Oi shut up Weatherby! The adults are speaking."

It was only for a split second, but he could've sworn he saw a smirk on the stern woman's face.

And that was the third on the list of 'weird things happening to Harry Potter'. For some reason, he would not, could not, shut up. Like his mouth had decided to ignore his brain filter and run off without consulting the rest of him. Whether that was because of the veritaserum or not was anybody's guess.

"Perhaps I can shed some light on this confusion," Dumbledore began, his eyes twinkling merrily. "You see, Harry, the Unforgivables require a very specific mindset to cast them successfully. One that's so dangerous that Aurors and Hit-wizards capable of casting them are immediately forced to retire."

"Wow," Harry drawled. "Moody must have been sleeping when that lesson was taught."

Amelia Bones made a throaty noise that Harry translated as suppressed laughter.

Dumbledore looked amused. "Alastor is a retired Auror, Harry. He was dropped from the Auror force after he gained that particular mindset."

"Didn't stop him from demonstrating in front of children."

"On animals," Dumbledore stressed, "Casting an Unforgivable on an animal is not the same as casting it on a witch or wizard. Alastor must have mentioned it during class. Just knowing the incantation and wand movement isn't enough to cast the curse."

"Yeah, that proves it," Harry's mouth ran. "I said the incantation, did the movement. Nothing happened. No curse. What's next?"

Albus Dumbledore, defeater of Gellert Grindelwald, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and Grand Sorcerer of the International Confederation of Wizards, owlishly blinked.

"Are you certain he wasn't hit by a cheering charm?" Bones inquired.

"I'm… certain?" Dumbledore replied with uncertainty. "Perhaps his magical coma had some sort of side effect on the draught's effectiveness."

"Whatever the case, let's get back on track without the wisecracks, gentlemen." The stern woman pinned Harry with a heavy gaze. "Allow me to confirm your testimony once more, Mr. Potter. You found Fleur Delacour in the maze suffering from the aftereffects of a Cruciatus, at which point you left a corporeal patronus, a stag, to keep her safe. You also found Victor Krum attacking Cedric Diggory, and in your own words, he was outraged and used the Cruciatus curse."

Nod.

"You then disarmed Krum, at which point Cedric attacked you from behind. He managed to petrify you, and then portkeyed both himself and you to the forbidden forest. Then, he dragged you further and portkeyed to a different location."

Another nod.

"And what do you infer from all this?"

"That Diggory is a sonofabitch?"

Amelia choked on her own spit, as Dumbledore's eyes twinkled madly. Percy, on the other hand, remained silent, busy imitating one of Neville's cauldrons in Potions.

"Look, I don't know, alright? Diggory and I… we weren't besties, but he isn't Malfoy either. I told him about the dragons, and he shared the secret to unlocking the golden egg."

"You knew about the dragons before the task?" Percy inquired, pointing at him with the feather of the quill. "How?"

"My owl told me."

Madam Bones cleared her throat. "As I was saying, you broke free of the petrification hex and attacked Diggory, stunning him. And then Peter Pettigrew hit you from behind with yet another hex."

"Bloody wankers, hitting me from behind," Harry growled. He was still mightily pissed at how he'd gotten hit from behind. With that kind of attitude, how the hell did Pettigrew even get sorted into Gryffindor in the first place?

He had a few choice words for the Sorting Hat when this was all said and done.

"Just to confirm, we are talking about the same Peter Pettigrew who received a posthumous Order of Merlin, Second Class, for his contributions to the war? The one presumed dead for the past thirteen years?"

"No clue about the Order of Merlin business, but yes to the rest."

Harry snuck a peek at the quill taking note of every word Madam Bones said on a small notepad. Thankfully, it didn't look like one of Rita Skeeter's. At least she had more sense than Bigheadboy Percy.

"He then proceeded to incapacitate you, and then performed a ritual to resurrect Voldemort," she continued without the slightest flinch, "a dark wizard who was also presumed dead, ironically by your own hand on Halloween 1981."

"Yeah," he confirmed aloud, before another thought struck him. "Hey, if the Ministry thinks I offed Voldemort—" he ignored Percy's flinch, "then why didn't I get an Order of Merlin myself?"

The DMLE Director muttered something about Hogwarts switching their calming draughts for firewhiskey, before answering. "You did, actually. Order of Merlin, First Class, as well as a twenty thousand galleon award. It should be in your Gringotts vault."

Harry's eyes widened like saucers. That was big money. Fuck the Triwizard nonsense, killing Dark Lords was the real way to make money. Was that why his vault had all that gold while the Weasleys were dirt poor?

"Wait," He mumbled, "now that Voldemort is back, does that mean you'll take my money away?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled madly.

"I also have another report here," Bones carried on, despite the slight twitch on her lips, "It says here… you claimed Professor Quirinus Quirrel was possessed by the Dark Lord?"

"He was on the back of his head, like a bad pimple."

"Madam Bones," Percy began pompously, "clearly Potter's delusions have no limits. And it is worth pointing out, Professor Dumbledore is notorious for being biassed towards Potter and his—"

"Mr. Weasley," the woman spat, turning towards him. "Last I checked, I was the Director of the DMLE and you are merely a scribe. Allow me to fulfil my duties, and take care of your own."

"Junior Undersecretary to the Office of Minister," Percy corrected. Harry could feel his indignation at being called a scribe. "And Minister Fudge was adamant that I make sure—"

"Minister Fudge is not here," Bones challenged. "And if he has anything to contribute to the matter, he can discuss it with me in person. Please limit yourself to your scribe duties or I'll have you removed from my presence at once."

"Good job!" Harry praised.

"Now then," Madam Bones turned her dry stare back towards Harry. "Let us continue where we left off."

"Voldemort…" His expression grew darker, "He gave me an offer. To join his side." Harry met Dumbledore's eyes. "He told me he'd grant me immunity if I did."

"Did he now?" Dumbledore asked, suddenly interested. "And what did you reply?"

"I denied him. Thrice. And then we duelled."

"Preposterous!" Percy claimed.

Harry ignored him. "He cruciated me. It hurt like a bitch, but I fought back. And then he used it on me."

"The killing curse?" Dumbledore probed.

For some reason, Harry got this strange feeling that the old man was expecting… no, wishing for an affirmation.

He nodded.

The woman scrutinised him with her hawk-like stare, but said nothing.

"Harry's retelling fits with the scene I stumbled upon," Dumbledore interjected. "When I reached the graveyard, I found him lying on the ground. Unconscious."

"Surrounded by bodies?" the woman probed.

"Bodies?" Harry broke in, genuinely startled. The last thing he remembered was the Death Eaters laughing all around him. Had something happened after that?

The Headmaster's expression looked doleful. "When I appeared at the site, I found you unconscious on the ground. You were surrounded by several bodies clad in Death Eater robes and masks."

Dumbledore paused.

"All of them were dead."

"…All?"

"Twelve," the headmaster specified.

"And rotting," Madam Bones added. Harry could feel her watching his expressions like a hawk. "Do you remember anything like that happening that night, Mr. Potter?"

"Uh, no?" he half-asked, half-replied, hoping it sounded a lot less dumb out loud than it did in his head.

Still… dead? What the hell happened that night? Had the killing curse backfired again? That was what happened the first time, wasn't it? Maybe he should've asked Voldemort when he had the chance?

Harry frowned. Did that mean he had another lightning-scar now?

He resolved to check himself over as soon as he could get back to the dorms.

Dumbledore took that as a cue to continue. "Twelve bodies, each of which had decayed significantly. My initial impression was that it was from some obscure dark curse." His gaze strayed towards Harry fleetingly. "Then we found the thirteenth body. One of his hands was a stump—"

"Pettigrew," Harry growled. Even thinking about the rat filled him with indescribable rage, along with an entirely reasonable wish to snap his wand in half for hexing him in the back.

"Yes," Madam Bones interrupted right then. "Interestingly, we have records of you, Mr. Weasley, and Miss Granger giving the Minister testimony on this very fact." She deftly opened one of the documents in her hand. "In your third year, you asserted that Peter Pettigrew was actually alive, and that Sirius Black, the notorious right-hand man of Dark Lord Voldemort, was innocent., but your testimony was disregarded and classified as delusional on account of… trauma from seeing a werewolf?"

Harry felt anger take hold of him again.

"I will have words with the people in charge of that investigation. Fortunately, the bodies have been examined by our forensics division, and new facts have come to light. The body is indubitably Peter Pettigrew, though the rotting suggests that it's north of a decade old."

"Are you telling me that—"

"I'm not telling you anything, Mr. Potter," the woman countered frostily. "If it was just Pettigrew, one might argue that someone somehow managed to obtain and preserve his body. But the other bodies showed the same signs, and they belong to several… high-profile individuals of our society, all of whom have been confirmed to be alive as recently as the previous week. That alone suggests the rotting is magical in origin, not natural."

That made him feel elated. And confused. And angry.

"And then there is the matter of the fourteenth body."

He didn't know why, but he was sure that a bomb was going to drop.

"Cedric Diggory."

Harry closed his eyes. He knew it! He knew it! He fucking knew it! This— thisthisthisTHIS ALWAYS HAPPENED!

"... how?" He croaked, barely able to suppress the urge to break something.

"You tell me, Potter?" Percy said snidely. "After all, you're the expert with the killing curse."

"Mr. Weasley, stop aggravating Potter or I'll have you thrown out," Bones snapped. Percy looked conflicted between wilting before authority and being angry at being treated like a kid. "Look, I have no idea who or what killed Diggory," Harry repeated stubbornly. "Last I checked, I hit him with a stunner. Blame Pettigrew. Or even better, Voldemort himself."

Percy squeaked.

"Both Mr. Diggory and Mr. Pettigrew's corpses were found rotting, just like everyone else's," Bones continued, after the commotion had stopped. "It's safe to say that whatever magic hit the others were responsible for the two of them as well. And the only person left untouched from that night was—"

"Me," Harry muttered, not liking the way this was heading. "So… what? That doesn't make me the killer, does it?"

"No, but it does make you a suspect."

The woman's stern glance faltered for a brief moment. "I'm not outright saying you were responsible. In fact," she glanced at her file, "there is no tangible proof. The rotting, despite all evidence to the contrary, has left zero magical residue, even though it can't be anything but. Bodies don't naturally rot that quickly."

"Yeah?" Harry challenged. "It wasn't me."

"I'd like to add something that may add to the context," Dumbledore offered. "When I entered the area, I felt something incredibly dangerous. Just trying to neuter it exhausted me."

Both Harry and Madam Bones looked at the man, shocked. Albus Dumbledore's name had always been associated with power. With victory. To hear him say that he was nearly overwhelmed by the remnants of this mysterious magic— whatever it was —was shocking, to say the least.

"Allow me to rephrase myself then," Madam Bones muttered. "There was no magical residue on the bodies themselves, though clearly something magical transpired in the area."

Harry narrowed his eyes. Had the world stopped making sense when he was asleep? "So… the curse was both magical and… not?"

"Yes," Madam Bones replied, rubbing her temples. "That's exactly what I'm saying. Their robes. Their wands. Even their own bodies. Not a trace of magic in any of it. One could even argue that this so-called rotting curse turned them all into muggles."

"What about my wand?"

Dumbledore let out a long-suffering sigh, and just like that, Harry knew it was going to be a long night.

"It too, did not escape this plight."

"..."

Harry felt his knees weaken. A pit of despair was beginning to form in his stomach. "My— my wand… what happened to my wand?"

"It is dead," Dumbledore spoke, "the phoenix feather inside it was reduced to ashes. The wood was charred."

"My wand…" Harry repeated. His wand was dead? His beloved holly and phoenix wand was … gone? Aside from Hedwig, it was the one thing that had always been a constant companion. Something he could blindly trust. And now it was—

Dead?

He stood up.

"... how?"

"Sit down, Mr. Potter!" Bones snapped at him. "We don't know how such a thing happened. Hopefully your side of the story will help us correct that."

Harry didn't give two shits about it. His wand was dead.

"Mr. Potter," she continued, "you are a parselmouth, which is an established trait of the Gaunt family. Have you undertaken an ancestry test?"

Harry looked at Dumbledore for clarification, who shook his head. "No, he hasn't."

Bones frowned and carried on. "Professor Dumbledore has vouched that you've also entered Slytherin's fabled Chamber of Secrets."

Harry didn't know what was so secretive about the Chamber, unless keeping a genocidal basilisk counted as one.

"Yes, I did."

"And did you come across any ancient mysteries, spells or rituals that might have aided you in the cemetery?"

"No."

"Any tricks or techniques that could have explained what happened at the site?"

"No."

"And are you certain you got hit by the killing curse?"

Harry was getting tired of this constant repetition. "I told you," he exhaled, annoyed. "I remember the flash of green. No, I don't know if I've got matching lightning-scars. Didn't get the time to check yet."

He paused, before a dreary thought appeared to him.

"Erm…" Harry pushed himself further into his chair, "you're not going to test it on me or anything, are you?"

After surviving the curse twice from the Dark Lord, it would be embarrassing if he died this time around in the Headmaster's office as part of a test.

"I have a theory," Bones began.

"About?" Dumbledore asked.

"Please bear with me," said the woman, before turning to Harry, "Imagine this, Mr. Potter. A one-year-old gets hit by the killing curse but doesn't die. The dark wizard who cast the curse, someone powerful enough to threaten the entirety of Magical Britain, is destroyed, likely from the results of an extremely powerful exploding curse. Presumably killed. And now, thirteen years later, you are hit by another killing curse, from the same man. And once again you don't die, and once again everyone who meant you harm is dead. Do you sense a pattern?"

"It seems the mystery of the Boy-Who-Lived is back once more," Dumbledore muttered. Rather exuberantly, much to his chagrin. "It is my belief that Lily Potter had something to do with it."

Harry gaped.

Belief?

Since the end of his first year, the old man waxed lyrical about the power of love, and how it was his mother's protection that flowed through his veins and protected him against Voldemort. And it was just that? A theory?

"Well of course she had something to do with it," Madam Bones snapped. "The idea that a one-year-old baby performed something that could best a Dark Lord is absurd."

It was at that moment that Harry came to a particular conclusion.

He liked this woman.

"I believe that whatever Lily did that night had more ramifications than merely destroying Voldemort," Dumbledore explained, glancing at Harry. "Perhaps the same protection was triggered once more, causing all of those deaths?"

"And yet Voldemort wasn't in the list of dead bodies accounted for?"

"With due reason. Harry has admitted that Voldemort took his blood to resurrect himself. Any ritual or protection conferred upon Harry through blood would recognize him too. That could be what allowed him to escape."

"All of this spins a wonderful tale, but I believe in proofs. Solid, tangible evidence."

She opened a particular page in her folder. "The DOM report from 1981. It says that only two spells were registered in the nursery room back in 1981, where the event happened."

Harry sat up straighter, hanging on to her every word.

"The first was the killing curse, cast upon the baby himself."

She glanced at Harry's scar.

"And the second, an Episkey, by Sirius Black. Lily Potter showed the signs of being hit by the killing curse, but there was no magical residue on her person."

Just like now. The thought was left unsaid, but the implication was clear to everybody in the room.

"There's something you're not considering, Madam Bones," said Percy.

"Which is?"

Percy met Harry's gaze, a sinister smile on his lips. "Since Lily Potter didn't have any magical residue over her, it is possible that she wasn't killed by the Dark Lord at all. Instead, it was the backlash that killed her."

"Weasley!" Bones snapped, but the damage was done.

…

…

Something in Harry broke.

He had always known it. Known that his parents had sacrificed their lives to save him. First his dad had faced Voldemort, and then his mum— she had begged him. Begged him to let him go. To let Harry live. To kill her instead. But Voldemort had not listened. He had cast the curse.

That was the memory that played in his ears every single time he came near a dementor. And he had gotten used to that. The pain was terrible, but he had come to terms with it. But—

But he had never known if Voldemort had cast the curse at her or not. He had thought that to be the case. But what if…. What if it wasn't?

What if it was the backlash that had killed her?

He—

He had killed his—

"HARRY!"

"..." Harry looked up, shaken and stirred. Madam Bones was staring at him, transfixed and unblinking, her fingers tightening around her wand. Percy… Percy was looking around wildly, as if something dreadful and terrifying was going to crawl through the walls, his sense of unease already given way to a mounting horror as he stared at Harry, open-jawed. Even Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard in Wizarding Britain, the defeater of Grindelwald, was rigid with terror!

Were they afraid… of something? What was going on?

Harry looked down, at his trembling hands. The world around him seemed to flicker from grayscale to normal, and then back again. His own hands, the room, even Dumbledore himself— everything seemed so transitory. Like they were all there, but they weren't. Like they were—

Ephemeral.

"What…" Harry croaked, his throat feeling like rubble and broken glass. "What's happening to me?"

Dumbledore was the first to regain his composure. "Breathe…" he whispered. "Breathe, Harry. You need to get calm."

Calm. Harry thought Yes. I killed my mother and he wants me to stay calm.

The next ten seconds were spent in silence, only intermittently broken by deep breaths.

"Are— are you alright, Mr. Potter?" asked Amelia Bones.

"Alright? ALRIGHT?" bellowed Percy Weasley, his voice shrill. "Are you freaking crazy? He's a murderer! He's psychotic! He's some kind of freak, a dark wizard! Look at him!" He snapped his hand to point at Harry's face. "Who survives the killing curse? Who speaks to snakes? That freak! You saw what he did just now, that was— that was—"

Percy's eyes were wide, so wide that Harry could see his whites from a distance. Spittle was flying off his lips, and his tone was getting higher and higher with hysteria. "This is our chance! He's killed those purebloods! He's killed Diggory! He's the monster we just saw. He needs to be sent to Azkaban before he can kill us all—"

Harry was getting angrier and angrier. He had never liked Percy's pompous attitude and it had only grown worse with time. And the words he was saying were striking a raw nerve. All he needed to do was to simply touch—

Even as the thought crossed his mind, a new voice interrupted Percy's rant.

"PERCIVAL WEASLEY!"

The room suddenly became noticeably colder. At first, Harry didn't realise it, but somewhere between Percy's hysteria and accusations, something changed. Almost instinctively, he glanced towards Dumbledore, who was staring at Percy.

A heavy aura had descended into the office. An atmosphere so powerful, so thick that he was sure he could even touch it. Gone was the dotty old headmaster, the affable old man who liked to offer his visitors lemon drops. In his place, Harry saw someone else. Someone entirely different. Someone powerful. Someone that even Voldemort would hesitate to challenge to a battle.

The real Albus Dumbledore.

"I think," Dumbledore spoke, his tone deathly calm, "it would be best if Mr. Weasley vacated the room."

Harry wasn't sure why or how, but that stare— if it could be reduced to something like that —was judging Percy.

Measuring him.

Even though it wasn't directed towards him, he could still feel its residual strength pressing down on him.

It was monstrous.

Percy was quivering as he rose up from his chair, his wide eyes never leaving the Headmaster's gaze as he slowly inched towards the door.

"The apple, it seems," Dumbledore went on, the disappointment apparent in his tone, "has indeed fallen far from the tree."

"But— I am—" Percy bumbled, "Minister Fudge— he—"

"I'm quite certain Cornelius can get his report from Amelia."

"But—" Percy squeaked, making a last-ditch attempt at gaining control as he was subconsciously shepherded out of the room. "The Minister will hear about this!"

"I'm sure he will."

The doors slammed on Percy's face as the nuisance deserted the room for good. Finally, Harry exhaled.

"What an unpleasant individual," Dumbledore grimaced. The temperature slowly began to rise to normal levels again. "I admit, I didn't see him growing this repugnant during his school days."

Madam Bones closed the folder in front of her with a snap, a slightly relieved expression on her face. "Rest assured, I'll keep him from spreading around any conjecture and gossip. I imagine Mr. Potter has enough on his plate as it is."

Harry felt her gaze upon him again.

"Mr. Potter… Do you think you can continue this session? We can… postpone it if you like."

Harry shook his head. After everything that had happened, he might as well get it done.

He exhaled. "I can continue."

Madam Bones turned over the page. "It can well be argued that the person you faced, might not have even been Voldemort that Potter faced. The mantle of the Dark Lord is an appealing cloak to those who aspire to be like him. And what better way to establish authenticity than to face Harry Potter?"

"Codswallop," Harry snorted. "You know any other wizards that can resurrect from blood, bone and a baby?"

"It's not what I think, Mr. Potter. It's about legal evidence."

"He is under veritaserum," Dumbledore pointed out.

"And that's only as legitimate as long as the person knows it to be the truth."

Harry felt the stirrings of annoyance again. "So what are you saying? My words cannot be trusted because whatever happened is a fantasy of my mind? Did Cedric drop dead because of this fantasy too?"

Madam Bones gave him a dry stare. "Control yourself, Potter. Had this been the Wizengamot, you'd have faced hundreds of such questions. I'm trying to help you, so stop fighting me at every step."

That shut him up.

The woman turned to Dumbledore. "We both know that half the Wizengamot will simply deny the Dark Lord's return because of their affiliations. The other half will want proof. Thirteen purebloods are dead. The Wizengamot will want a head on the splatter. And the boy's history with unexplained, unidentifiable magic doesn't help it."

Harry squinted at her.

She opened another folder that lay on her desk, and began to recite its contents. "Harry James Potter. First year, Professor Quirinus Quirrell was burnt to ash upon contact with your skin. No evidence of any magic being performed was able to be gathered, despite the clear magical nature of the phenomenon."

Harry stared at her warily. Was he going to be accused of killing Quirrell too?

"Year two," she continued, ignorant of his thoughts. "Killed a basilisk with a single stab using the sword of Godric Gryffindor." Taking a moment to pause, she looked up at his expression.

"Well yeah," Harry answered, taking the silence as his cue to speak. "I stabbed it right through the roof of its mouth."

"Mr. Potter," Madam Bones sighed, "a basilisk is upwards of seventy feet long, with powers of regeneration comparable to a troll. The sword, for all its grandeur and rich history, is minuscule in comparison. Killing it with a single pinprick— even through its mouth —is as absurd as me slaying you with a needle."

"You can, if the needle is poisonous."

"And a basilisk is the deadliest poisoner in history," Bones shot back. "Even being in contact with its blood is considered fatal."

Harry wisely shut up at that.

"Year three. At the tender age of thirteen, nearing fourteen, you were able to conjure a corporeal Patronus."

"Professor Lupin taught me how to do that."

"Did he also somehow teach you how to modify the spell to kill the dementors?"

"What?" This time, both he and the Headmaster leaned forward in shock.

"A normal Patronus repels dementors. A powerful Patronus can repel even several dozen of them. Despite it being your first successful casting, you were able to terrify an entire swarm of dementors at the end of your third year. As per the Ministry count, twenty-three of the dementor herd had perished that very night."

"Amelia," Dumbledore started, a note of warning in his voice.

"I'm not accusing him of anything, Headmaster," Madam Bones went on, her steely gaze fixed on Harry's face. "And no, the Wizengamot Penal Code has no listed punishment for killing a 'dementor'. But it is undeniable that there is a clear pattern here."

Harry felt a vice settle around his heart.

"And now, he was hit by the killing curse, and it's safe to presume that a backlash happened, which killed Peter Pettigrew as well as the other… victims."

"And Cedric," Harry scowled. He really wasn't liking this. At all.

"And all of this," Dumbledore interrupted her, "is purely conjecture. It has never been clear how or why Harry survived the Dark Lord's attack in Halloween 1981, nor is it clear why he survived now. This entire accidental magical backlash hypothesis is essentially an armchair conspiracy theory."

"A theory that most people would likely agree on," Amelia Bones shot back. "Incidents of unprecedented accidental magic are splattered throughout the pages of history. Admittedly nothing on this scale or effect, but it's still within the realms of possibility. Besides…" her lips twitched upwards, "from everything I have here," she patted the folder in front of her, "Mr. Potter has a history of surviving dangerous situations despite his grades painting him as mostly Acceptable in class."

Harry goggled at the two of them. He couldn't help it. Seriously, how did a conversation about the resurrection of a Dark Lord who'd terrorized Wizarding Britain, turn into one about his not-so-Acceptable school grades?

For the second time that day, he found himself lacking the proper words to respond.

Madam Bones sniffed. "With that in place, let's move on to the next order of business. With Peter Pettigrew's body found, it is clear that the entire Sirius Black case has holes in it. Black was accused of killing thirteen muggles as well as Pettigrew with a single blasting curse. If it was anyone but Sirius Black, that statement alone would have been preposterous."

"Sirius is innocent," Harry defended. "He didn't kill anyone."

"That's for the Ministry to decide," she shot back. "Sirius Black was a Hit-Wizard captain, one whose track record showed him to be both powerful and skilled enough to perform such a feat. Regardless of your personal beliefs, DMLE records show that Sirius Black did, in fact, have a trial. Though…" she paused, pursing her lips. "Considering the nature of the situation, I'm not averse to the idea that some wrongdoing may have been committed back then."

"What? But Sirius said he didn't get a—"

"The Ministry," Amelia Bones stressed, "has issued a public statement, offering Sirius Black a new trial in light of all the new evidence that has turned up. The statement has been broadcasted throughout Britain, asking Sirius Black to present himself to DMLE custody for a fair trial. I can only hope the message reaches him well."

Sirius will be overjoyed, Harry rejoiced mentally, before schooling his features at the predatory glint in the woman's eyes. Who knew what she could read from his expressions?

Madam Bones stood up. "I believe I've gotten all that I need from this interrogation." She stared at Harry. "Your testimony has been noted and witnessed by two members of the governing body, excluding myself, and as such will be presented to the Wizengamot. Do you understand what I'm saying, Mr. Potter?"

Harry swallowed. "I do."

"Good," she curtly nodded. "The results of this interrogation will be submitted to the Wizengamot. Normally this would be enough, but thirteen purebloods have been killed, Potter. This won't get settled so easily. You'll be summoned to a formal trial to prove your innocence."

"I am innocent."

Bones pursed her lips. "I… believe you. But sadly, it isn't enough. The Wizengamot might think differently."

"Harry is a student, Amelia," Dumbledore began. "A juvenile cannot be judged in open court."

"Age is irrelevant in such cases, Chief Warlock. Fourteen people have died, and many of them are main and branch members of Ancient Houses. Amos Diggory has charged him with murder of his child. The Wizengamot will be out for blood, and someone will have to pay." She glanced at Harry, "Mr. Potter was the Triwizard Champion, and is thus,legally an adult. It is why we had the veritaserum administered, if you remember."

Dumbledore looked suitably chastised.

Harry blinked. "You're telling me they declared me an adult just so they could punish me?"

Amelia matched his gaze. "I'm saying being an adult allows you opportunities that you wouldn't have otherwise, Potter. Find it. Learn it. Use it. If that's all gentlemen…" She stood up, and pushed the chair back, and walked off to the Floo.

As Harry watched her exit, his mind parsed through everything he had just learned. Finally, his brain condensed all of that information into a single sentence that he was completely unable to stop from escaping his lips.

"Well… fuck."