ANNOUNCEMENT: Seeing 'Announcement' is never a good thing, isn't it? But it has to be done. In the plainest terms, I'm no longer writing fanfiction. I decided this at the end of 2014 more or less, after making some minor edits to chapters 4-6, and that was that.

But I suppose this is the power your first real story holds over you as a writer. :) and rather than leaving it in limbo, I've been thinking 'One more chapter to end it. I can do it.'

So let's do it.

Whatever Begins in Anger...

To Define Treachery

Chapter VIII / Ends in Sorrow

The rush of air stung his eyes, but he didn't blink. Either his salvation awaited him at the end of the long fall, or a humiliating death. He had nothing to lose. For a long agonizing second watching the ground rush past then two, and three, it seemed apparent that the latter possibility was coming to pass. He could see his reflection keep abreast of his falling form, arcing down the glass. Then, the feeling of his body contorting and being squeezed that had been the prelude to finding himself on the roof of St. Grogory's Primary School bore down on him, and his mouth opened to let loose a pained cry -

And just like that, he was sprawled somewhere that wasn't the pavement of the streets below. The diary lay under his stomach, unharmed.

Shakily, he drew his arms beneath him and pushed himself to his knees. He hadn't gone far. The steady neon glow of an emergency exit sign was the only thing lighting up the emergency stairwell of the Birmingham Central Library. His heart thumped in his chest too violently for him to do much, so he dragged himself to the wall before collapsing. He rolled over onto his back, panting softly as he quietly regained his breath. It wasn't so much a conscious motion as gravity that dragged his head to the side, and he saw his face reflected over the city skyline in the long windowpane.

It had only been a day since he had first seen this view.

Less than twenty four hours ago, he had thought himself free. He had persevered through a long summer under Tom's heel. He had bid his time, been docile except when he could get a word in edgewise to voice his displeasure. All for the sake of baiting that one moment of carelessness, only to find out it was all one cruel joke. He stared at his reflection, seeing the naked tiredness in the expression of the boy who stared back. The shame in those eyes made him turn away, unable to bear the sight any longer.

His hand moved to his pocket, feeling the weight of the backup wallet Albert had given him. .

He let out a strangled scream as he struck his head against the glass, but the sound of it died in his throat. Instead, a low, wavering groan left him.

Why didn't I just pick that stranger's pocket instead of listening to the drunk fool? he thought. God, why did I involve Albert in this? The first grown up to take pity on me and this is how I repay him.

All this because of what he'd done in the Chamber of Secrets.

He still wondered, after all this time. Turned over every facet of that encounter in his mind, obsessively, desperately. Could he have done anything different? He had been a twelve year-old, alone against the shade of Voldemort and Slytherin's monster. Lockhart was a fraud, Dumbledore had been dismissed from his seat as Headmaster, Ron had been hurt in the tunnel and had to stay behind. He'd had only one card to play. He had to do it or die, only for Ginny to die anyway, and leaving no witness to reveal what had happened. What if he'd just died? At least he would've died heroically, his hand untainted by an innocent's blood. The wizarding world would have canonized him as a saint, succumbing to impossible odds.

He wiped at his eyes, then dragged himself to his feet.

I have to keep moving.

He entered the fourth floor. It was the very picture of leisure, people browsing the bookshelves and seated at the study desks with their selections. They were in no hurry. He cringed as he caught a glimpse of a tall man with dark hair standing in one of the aisles, ducking his head and hurrying past.

Riddle must have been tracking me somehow, Harry thought. There's no other explanation.

It all rang futile to him, but he still had to see this through to the bitter end. Like before, he had no choice but to take his chances and hope his outburst of accidental magic had helped him in some way. If Riddle was tracking him somehow, then he had Harry dead to rights. Simple as that. He could be monitoring his movements at this very moment, waiting until he felt he had the perfect timing to crush Harry's spirits.

The oppressive fear gradually melted away as he went down the stairs.

Third floor.

Second floor.

From a purely rational standpoint, he was in no hurry, wasn't he? He had time to do this.

He idly strolled to the 'S' section, and found The Tempest. A way to spend time on the road, as it were. He took it, and after discretely checking over his shoulder to see that he was alone, carefully peeled the laminated processing tag from its spine. He doubled back to the study desks parallel to the stairs, and spotted an open knapsack lying unattended, its owner off to the bathroom or somewhere. Without messing a step, he strode past it and bent down a little, hooking his fingers around the knapsack straps and turning the corner around the bookcases. He dumped the contents carelessly, then loaded it with Riddle's diary and The Tempest.

Slinging the straps over his shoulders, he returned to the stairs and went to the ground floor. He almost went to the entrance doors by memory alone, avoiding eye contact with everyone that crossed his path. Soon, he found himself breathing in cool air and descending the steps leading to the library's entrance. He slowed down, barely moving his feet as he took the steps one at a time, gazing skyward as he did so. There was a gentle beauty in the sunset's haze of orange entwined with rosette and purple. He marveled at the sheer motion involved, the way the clouds drifted by so languidly in the same direction, as though they were all part of the same great migration.

Follow us, Harry Potter. One way or the other, you're almost done.

He wiped at his mouth, taking a moment to put his thoughts in order.

Then he went on his way. Numbly, he retraced the steps he'd taken in Riddle's forced march to New Street Station the day prior. The streets were half-empty, and everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion. He didn't begrudge them their ignorance. Did he expect them to run around in circles like beheaded roosters, even if they were aware of the psychopathic murderer that had taken residence in their backyard? He did not. If Riddle wanted them dead, these milling crowds would be reduced to red smears on the pavement, and their liquefied innards would ruin the sleek finish of the fancy cars he passed parked along the street. No, he preferred Muggles like this - Placid, unhurried, and unknowing. Needless panic would be of no use to anyone.

He crossed the wide promenade in front of the station, and entered. He stared blankly at the live departure boards and the scrolling text. The last outbound train on the Birmingham - London - North Wales line was leaving in less than twenty minutes. Hand moving to double check that Albert's wallet was still there in his pocket, he walked up to the ticket counter. The clerk looked up at the boy on the other side of the glass and took the wad of notes.

How can I help you? A ticket to London, please.

Would you like to book a return trip? No, I would not like to book a return trip.

Are you the only one in your party? Yes, one child aged five through fifteen.

Alrighty. Traffic is off peak, you've got a good sense of timing, kid. I have a horrible sense of timing, but thank you.

Harry took his change and took the escalator down to the platforms. Seeing that most of the waiting people were standing, he sat down on an unoccupied bench. No one questioned the motionless boy with the ticket clutched in his hand as a few minutes passed in silence.

He looked at the ticket to double-check that the destination was London, and noticed the time-stamp.

18:33 - 8/21/93

He stared at it, feeling as though he was missing something. It was a niggling thing, a sidewinder jutting from a gear in his mind. He frowned, staring down at the innocent slip of paper in his hands.

A mass of numbers. What possible meaning could they have?

Then it him.

"I'm thirteen?" he said aloud, frowning.

Thirteen years old and twenty one days.

He looked back up, lost in a daze, and watched the other trains as they came and went. The word itself seemed so foreign. None of his friends even knew where he was, or whether he was now on his way to reunite with them or rotting in a ditch somewhere. His summer had come and gone, just like that. Lost to time. Drowned in the undecipherable depths of a dark well.

The train to London pulled in, and he quietly boarded it with the other passengers.

Sirius made his move in broad daylight.

Night or day, the Dementors didn't care. They fed at all hours, leeching warmth and the essence of happy memories from the inmates.

Whatever he'd lost in Azkaban - his strength in body, his wholeness of mind - one yhing still remained. When you learned the Animagus transformation, you never forgot it. His joints creak and groan, but Padfoot answers his call. His form was emaciated, his fur coat lacked its normal luster, but he felt stronger. The heavy, omnipresent weight of the Dementors' presence was greatly diminished. In fact, it became almost bearable.

He squeezed past the bars of his cell. They'd seemed impassable to him when it first dawned on him that this was the cell he was meant to waste away the rest of his days in, but now it was like wriggling a hand through the neck of a cookie jar. A trivial thing given his state.

He padded down the hallways, wary as he rounded the corners. Nothing but designation numbers he couldn't make sense of marked the walls. They were all as drab and claustrophobic as the next.

A slight drop in temperature caused him to come to a halt, and he backed away against the wall. He quelled the growl before it could begin to build in his throat as the first Dementor glided past silently. Narrowed grey eyes followed the dark sentinel as it floated down the corridor, then turned sideways and vanished from sight.

Reluctantly, he forced himself to begin moving again. The halls bled into one another, forming one long labyrinth. At one point, he was relatively certain he'd found one of the far boundaries of the prison given the lack of cells built into that wall, then he turned back into the heart of Azkaban. The prisoners were insensate, but Sirius's nerves were wound up nonetheless. Pitiful whimpers and long, warbling groans drifted from the dank cells he passed and he couldn't help but peer inside. He recognized no one, of course, had no conception of what crimes they'd be sentenced here for. But he couldn't help the pity that arose when he saw their prone, curled up forms, or their stupefied expressions as they sat on their bunks, tapping their heads backwards senselessly against the walls.

Not many looked like they'd preserved their sanity to the extent he had. He'd never really thought about how they'd be doing, having had too much to preoccupy his own thoughts. Being an Animagus had been his saving grace, but no one else's. He supposed this was what he'd look like if he'd never met James and Remus.

And Peter, he thought darkly.

All in good time.

He stopped again as the sound of a sneeze. He was ready to dismiss it as a product of his imagination, but then it was followed by an irritated curse. He crept up to the edge of the wall, and hesitantly peeked around the corner. He saw that the adjoining corridor terminated at a lift beyond an empty doorway, guarded by a wizard standing in front of it. Pulling back, he considered his options.

There weren't too many. He was wandless, and in his condition he didn't think he could close the distance in either his human or Animagus form fast enough to avoid getting Stunned, or worse. He did not want his escape attempt to end like this.

Thinking, he paced back and forth, then stopped abruptly.

He barked, then laid down, resting his head on his front paws and watching the corner intently.

"Eh?"

The confusion in the wizard's voice was evident. Sirius couldn't blame him. The Azkaban guards likely had short shifts, but any amount of time around the Dementors would turn any sane man a little crazy.

He waited a little, then barked again.

"What in Merlin's name..."

He tensed up at the sound of the footsteps as the guard came to investigate, hind legs coiling up as he bent low. When the man rounded the corner, he had scarcely a second before he heard the snarl, and a blur of fangs and claws closed on him. Blood splattered the stone floor of the corridor. So too did the wand as it clattered from the man's loosened hand several feet down the hall.

He trotted off after it, but froze at the gravely sound of the lift moving. He couldn't tell if it was on the way up or down.

Transforming back to his human form, he snatched the fallen wand. He stole a glance behind him and saw that the body lay in plain view, along with the blood trails.

Gritting his teeth, he hurriedly vanished the blood stains as he rushed back to transfigure the body into something smaller. But then the gravely sound stopped.

"Oi Alfie, where -" the man's eyes widened as he registered the scene in front of him.

"Stupefy!" Sirius snapped, causing the man to fumble for his wand.

Alfie's replacement threw himself out of the space in front of the doorway, letting the spell fly harmlessly past and splash against the stone of the far wall.

"BREAKOUT!" the other warden screamed.

Cursing, Sirius turned and ran the way he came.

Oh fuck, why me?!

He had years' worth of rust to work off, there was no way he was going to fight his way out of here.

He retraced the path he'd taken, wracking his brain for a solution. The only way in or out was lift and now it would be swarmed with guards now that the alarm had been sounded. He'd simply been too far from the lift for his spell to connect, and now he was well and truly fucked. There were no dead ends, but the outer wall he found earlier sure felt like it as he slowed to a halt in front of it.

It's over.

They would surround him and it would all be over in moments.

He looked at the wall, then grimaced as a spectacularly bad ideatook shape.

He took a deep breath, and stepped back. Raising his left arm to shield his eyes, he raised his right to point his wand at the wall.

"Confringo," he said forcefully.

A cobalt blast of light left his wand and rocketed forward, colliding into the stretch of the wall with the sound of a cannon going off. Destroyed stonework flew in all directions, and as the ringing in his ears dimly faded, he heard the sounds of voices clamoring and of prisoners stirring. He inched closer to the opening he'd created. It was a dizzying height, the roiling waves of the Black Sea stretched as far as the eye could see, and the rush of briny air made him sway. He knew they would be converging on him now. And the bloody Dementors as well, against whom he stood even less of a chance than the human guards.

It'd be safer to do down to the lower levels and find a real exit there. But his memories were frayed, unreliable, like the rags he wore. He was not going to find a place off the island the easy way even if he could fight his way down there. He had to take his chances.

Clutching the wand he'd taken, he stepped forward into the breach, and his terrifying fall into the sea began.

You're fucking dead, Wormtail, he thought fiercely, folding his arms across his chest and bracing himself as the dark waters loomed closer and closer.

He was a free man at last.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A flash of green light, and the body crumpled. The terrified screams of the rest of the family rose to a fever pitch. Now they were completely inarticulate and gibbering like squealing pigs. Before, they'd begged and pleaded and cursed, but now they were reduced to this. Such was the way of Muggles. No dignity whatsoever.

"Hm," Tom said with a frown, tapping his chin.

It hadn't felt right. It was a credit to Lucifia's skill as a wandsmith that it could channel his intent at all and cast as potent a spell as the Killing Curse in the first place. But he placed a high premium on the feel and sense of connection to his wand. The weight and the rest of the physical aspects had been nigh perfect, but the actual feel of magic coalescing at the wandpoint and effortlessness was lacking. But the wand was functional and he supposed that was important enough.

Harry's wand was closer to the feel of his yew wand, but it was subtly different. He didn't want to face more than one Auror or unaligned Dark wizard at a time, not until he had gotten some decent practice. A pity that things had ended the way they did with Harry's benefactor at the train station. If the wizard had been the person Tom suspected he was, he would have been a great help in sharpening his dueling skills, but he supposed it couldn't be helped.

It was a greater pity that things with Harry had turned out this way. Or maybe pity wasn't the right wrong. Surprise wasn't it either. He was used to this. Testing his hypotheses, finetuning his theories. He'd undertaken this project out of a belief that there was simply lurking in Harry. Something greater than an accident of his birth. In a way, he supposed he'd be proven right on that account.

Still, he had hoped Harry would have turned around. He'd gotten used to having the Potter boy around, miserable and completely out of his depth, but still brimming with resentment and unafraid to take a stand against someone who could end his life any time he wished.

Shaking his head, he cleared his mind and recited the sister curses to the Killing Curse the Cruciatus and Imperius. Again, he was unsatisfied. But his evaluation of the wand was more or less complete. He disposed of the mother and her children cleanly. Humanely.

He sighed as he kicked at the father's lifeless corpse on his way to the window of the living room. He hadn't bothered occluding it. Anyone looking in would have simply seen a family of four seated on a long sofa with him standing in front of them holding a harmless-looking, slender stick, then seen them fall over onto the floor one by one. No guns, no knives, no blood - just a teenage boy knocking them dead with dazzling magic tricks.

Moodily, he stared out at the gardenias and roses that beautified the flowerbeds outside.

Tom had seen no body or splattered blood on the streets below. That left only one explanation - the boy had gambled, and had won. Disapparation was one of the rarest cases of Accidental magic. For Harry to count on performing it was... mindboggling. But in Harry's place, he wouldn't have been content to stay trapped and leave things up to fate. The tracking spell had winked out of existence as well.

Tom nodded to himself, tapping his hand on the windowsill restlessly. The boy had a shadow of greatness in him. He knew it when he saw it. From that moment when he'd been sitting on his bed in the orphanage and an auburn-haired Albus Dumbledore set his wardrobe aflame, he'd learned a hatred of things that held power over him. His inner being had revolted against it, because weakness was anathema to him. Harry was the same way. He hadn't known that the seed of disgust lurked within him at first, but Tom had taught it to him, when he'd driven Harry to drive that basilisk fang into an innocent girl's heart, when he'd made Albert walk onto those tracks.

Where did this leave him, the last heir of Slytherin? His own hands were handcuffed. He'd known that Dumbledore would learn of his return before the end of summer, he had little choice but to let things play out.

He had enlightened Harry in the ways the world worked, while Harry had defied him and slipped free of his grasp.

He had Harry's wand, while Harry had his diary.

A stalemate, for now, he decided. Try and enjoy life, Harry. We'll speak soon.

In the meantime, he had other things on his busy schedule to attend to.

He hummed a cheerful tune as he walked back to the front door where he'd came, and Disapparated.

The first act was set on a ship, struggling to maintain its course at sea. The Shipmaster called for the Boatswain to rally the mariners. Chaos threatened to drown them all as much as the thundering waters that threatened to run the ship aground. A group of nameless lords join them. The Boatswain and his crew man the topsail and topmast, and he shouts for the lords to wait below-decks.

The lords obeyed, but three of them return in short order, terrified by the sound of the sea raging and battering the hull. They curse the Boatswain in their fear. The King's adviser, Gonzalo, ordered the mariners to pray for the King. Then he is interrupted by the devastating sound of thunder, or wood splintering, or the sea howling its fury. The mariners wailed, knowing that the end drew near, and the noblemen grimly went in search of the king.

GONZALO
Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an
acre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, any
thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain
die a dry death.

Exit.

Harry quietly closed the book and slid it back into the knapsack. The man who'd sat down next to him had discreetly sneaked a glance at what he'd been reading, then looked away in disinterest.

Did wizards have playwrights? Did they have theather and opera houses? There was so much he didn't know about his own kind. For the first time, he finally understood Hermione's insatiable desire to learn more about their world. He wanted to learn all that there was when he got back.

He leaned back, trying to find comfort in the black vinyl material of the seat. He wanted to rest, but his mind was too restless.

Subtly, treacherously, his thoughts turned to the other book in his possession.

He didn't understand why he did it, but he sat back up, and slowly drew Riddle's diary and a pen. He delicately opened it, to be greeted by the first immaculate, blank page.

He uncapped the pen, and stared down at the page, gnawing his lip.

He brought the tip of the tip down.

Hi, he wrote.

For a long while, the diary didn't respond. Then:

Hello Harry.

He stared at it. It was a civil greeting, but seeing it made him apprehensive. For the longest while, he merely watched and the two short lines were all on the page. Then more came.

In need of friendly advice?

He frowned.

Yours wouldn't qualify as friendly, in any case.

On the contrary, I'm the only one whose advice matters.

I'm the only one that knows what it's like.

He had to smile at that.

Knows what?

What it's like to bear the burden of destiny, of course.

His eyes narrowed.

You're delusional.

You killed my parents and tried to kill me, because you felt like it.

That's all this burden ever was.

Another short pause, almost as though the diary were mulling his response over.

Then:

Oh Harry, you don't know how your own story began...

Taken off guard, Harry read the words again, then once more. They unnerved him.

He could just ask the diary what it meant. It was the obvious thing to do.

But did he really want to hear what it had to say?

You should tell someone the things on your mind...

The guilt will eat you alive if you don't.

He swallowed, before shutting the diary and stowing it away quietly.

He tried to clear his mind, but it was futile.

Horace had a theory that the River Avon's calmness contributed to his own sense of inner balance. He had developed the habit of taking evening walks alongside it, taking a route along its banks, then moving onto the roads, and looping back over the Town Bridge where he'd walk back home. At first, his joints had creaked and his body had protested, unused to such physical exertion. But he'd kept at it, and it was clear that it had done him a world of good. He reckoned he had lost a good five stone. An optimist's estimate, to be sure, but he felt better than he had in years.

He crossed the bridge, enjoying the cool breeze that blew from the east.

His house lay on the outskirts of the town. He loved the rural character of it. It was secluded and peaceful, not like the endless high-energy bustle of London or Leeds, and still large enough to have a liquor store.

He unlocked the front door and hummed happily to himself as he stepped inside and closed it behind him. Shuffling to the living room, he removed his wool mittens and tossed them onto one of the armchairs along with his wand as he walked over to his prized wine cabinet. He browsed its contents. Arbeg Lord of the Isles was a little too special of a spirit for what passed for any other ordinary day, but he could settle for a glass of Glennfidich 19. It was a shame that none of the great wizards and witches that had lived had invented a charm to age wine perfectly.

Then he saw the dim reflection in the glass panel of the cabinet. The color drained from his face, and he slowly put the glass down.

"Good evening, Professor."

Swallowing, he mustered up a shaky smile as he turned around and faced his uninvited guest.

His eyes widened as he saw the young man's face.

"Y-you..." he stammered.

The man's lips quirked in a small, amused smile.

"It's rude to not return a friendly greeting."

"Of course!" Horace jumped. "I was, ah, just surprised to see you here."

The man stared at him coolly, and he felt like he was being picked apart under his gaze. Those eyes had always been perceptive, he'd thought so when he'd first addressed the new class of Slytherins and seen the boy meeting his stare coldly.

"How surprised could you be? You knew this day would come."

With those words, the atmosphere abruptly switched from cordial to something harsher.

"What do you want?" Horace croaked.

Tom Riddle simply studied him more, then smiled, clapping his hands together.

"I simply wish to give you a gift."

He produced two slender wands and laid them across his knees.

"One of these is mine," Riddle explained, indicating it with a tap," or close enough to it. The other is, I suppose, a spare."

"Please! Mercy!"

Riddle raised that wand, smirking in amusement.

Horace's wand lay there on the armchair to his right. It was so close, yet in his heart he knew it was utterly out of reach. But he lunged for it wildly nonetheless. Riddle's arm moved as he smoothly tracked his movement, and Horace heard one last word.

"Imperio."

It was dark when the train pulled into London Euston. Disembarking, he followed the flow of passengers out of the station and hailed a taxi to take him to Charing Cross Street. He shelled out more of the money Albert had left him, and quietly sat there in the back seat, clutching the knapsack.

When he got out, and made the short walk to the broken-down old shop that served as the guise of the Leaky Cauldron, he finally felt a sense of relief. This was it.

The pub was half full, and it wasn't long until he was recognized.

"Is that - it is! It's Harry Potter!"

"He's back! Merlin's beard..."

"Thank goodness he's still alive."

More wizards and witches came in from the connected parlor rooms, but Harry kept his eyes downcast as he brushed past the well-wishers. Reaching the counter, he looked up at Tom the innkeeper. The elder wizard looked astonished and could only stare slack-jawed in disbelief.

"Hi Tom. Could you get word to Dumbledore that I'm here?" he asked politely.

"Er, yes," Tom managed, still looking dumbfounded.

"Could I also have a room here? Until Dumbledore arrives to pick me up? I don't have any wizarding money, though."

This request roused the innkeeper, who snapped to attention and shook his head furiously.

"Of course, I'll show you to your room. I'll Floo him as soon as you're settled in, come on."

The crowd parted to let the two head upstairs, but the murmuring never stopped. Harry found himself quite unbothered by the stares. Some were thrilled at seeing him apparently alive and well, but others were staring at him speculatively. He caught snippets of the conversations - equally split between marveling at his survival, and suspicions of the circumstances under which he'd vanished. His mouth tightened, feeling a surge of resentment that they reminded their peers that he'd last been seen in the Chamber of Secrets.

The voices receded to background noise as they scaled the stairs and Tom stopped in front of a vacant room. He fumbled with his ring of keys, before detaching the right one and handing it to Harry.

"Feel free to make yourself at home. I'm sure Dumbledore will be along soon."

"Thank you."

Harry unslung the knapsack from his shoulders and heaved a sigh as he sat down on the bed. The room was furnished quite sparsely - a nightstand, windows with dark curtains drawn shut, a desk and chair with an everlasting candle providing light, and nothing more.

He fell backward bonelessly onto the bed.

I've done it, he thought, exhausted. I've found my acre of barren ground.

He realized there was a clock here, ticking away. Relentless and precise.

He counted each tick, trying to keep the thoughts at bay. But nothing could stop his mind from turning restless again, and old doubts resurfaced.

The diary was now in his possession. At this point Riddle must have assimilated its essence almost fully. Now that he couldn't be killed by destroying the diary, Harry felt it had been devalued. But he had left his wand behind to make good on his escape, and he wanted it back. It was his wand. Maybe the diary could still serve as a bargaining chip, with Riddle, or...

His thoughts turned to Dumbledore.

... What would he tell him?

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, grinding his teeth together.

The truth?

That he, the boy Dumbledore had such belief in, who'd never hesitated to put himself in danger when he thought he was doing the right thing, had murdered Ginny Weasley in cold blood?

He could see the expression of disbelief on the elderly Headmaster's face. There would be a moment of genuine and raw shock that even a man of his advanced years could not hide. Then, he would carefully school his features into a calm, collected expression as he decided Harry's fate, and that would be worse. He couldn't bear to see the merry twinkle disappear from Dumbledore's eyes as he distanced himself mentally and emotionally from him.

He'd thought about this before, when he'd first made a break for it and had lost himself in downtown Birmingham, but he had no idea what to do then. It terrified him he had no predictive power over this. What knowledge did he have of how Dumbledore's mind worked? Would he understand why he'd done it?

The cold hard logic had been clear, and he had taken action. Surely Dumbledore could understand?

But... there was only other person he knew of that was capable of acting that coldly, that emotionlessly?

What did the wizarding world do to murderers? Did they go to prison? Were they executed? He had no idea if there was a death penalty or not.

Harry stared numbly at the ceiling.

He grunted as he pushed himself upright, then looked blankly at his hands. Slowly, he drew Albert's wallet from his pocket and unfolded it. He looked at the false IDs. In some of the headshots Albert was clean-shaven, in others his hair was shaggy. He had the same neutral expression most did in these kinds of pictures, but in one or two, he wore a slight smile. Dimly, Harry wondered what kind of life he really led. Harry let the ID cards fall from his hands. The names were all lies, and the money too was in all likelihood stolen, or gained by illicit means. He still thought Albert was a good person.

I'm sorry about all this, he thought sadly. I wish I could have just ignored you and been stronger. Then none of this would have happened.

Even now at the end of the road, nothing was set in stone.

There was nothing stopping him from simply getting up, and leaving. He'd tell Tom he was going outside to get some fresh air, and he'd disappear into London. No one would ever find him. He could make his own way through life. He was Harry Potter and more than just a scar and a legend steeped in death.

But this was Albus Dumbledore. The man was like a grandfather to him. He'd been the only adult in his life, besides Hagrid, to treat him with unreserved graciousness. He saw the best in people. But by the same token, he was a nurturer and protector of the students under his charge. If Harry stayed, what would his approach be? Could he win Dumbledore's trust if the old wizard turned against him, by offering the diary?

He made a noise of discontent.

The idea had some appeal, but it didn't address something fundamental in the way Dumbledore would see him.

What if Dumbledore decided that someone like him, someone capable of shutting everything off and being ruthless when he had to be, was a threat? He had let Riddle go untroubled under his watch at Hogwarts despite seeing the same warning signs, and so many people had paid the price.

What if Dumbledore decided he needed to be put away, or ... killed?

Harry wiped the back of his hand across his eyes.

And if Dumbledore did, would he be wrong?

The day Harry Potter returned to the wizarding world, Ollivander died. The master wandsmith had finished the choosing ceremony for a young witch, smiling at the little girl's delight and the emotion in her parents' eyes. Then, a wizard in fine robes and a cheerful disposition that suited his corpulence walked inside, and spoke two peculiar words: Avada Kedavra. After that, the fat wizard proceeded to murder the family that had just witnessed his death, starting with the puzzled parents. The girl held the tool to prevent this in her hands, but not the knowledge. She could only scream and cry as her mother and father fell lifelessly to the floor with each utterance of those horrible words, then get hit by the same green light. Then, the wizard who'd just finished killing them blinked. Seeing the newly made corpses surrounding him, this murderer let out an anguished cry, and a final flash of light lit up the interior of Ollivanders, Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC.

But Harry didn't know this.

Dumbledore had made all haste, leaving his summer estate after telling his House Elf head of staff to mind tings while he was gone. It was like surfacing from underwater - a breath of life-giving air. Hope sprung from the ashes of tragedy. But Dumbledore had lived too long, and so it was a cautious hope that brought him to the Leaky Cauldron.

"He's right upstairs, sir, door 104. Safe and sound."

"Thank you, Tom."

A nervous energy coiled up within him, but he kept his composure, smiling calmly as he met the numerous patrons who excitedly greeted him. He excused him as politely as he could, and climbed the stairs. Nothing had really gone to plan this year. From the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, the petrifications, his own dismissal from his post, and the disastrous ending culminating in Harry's disappearance, and the murder of Ginny Weasley. The shockwaves it had caused had rippled throughout the wizarding world. The hysteria and panic had lasted for months until things quieted down. There had been no sign of the basilisk save for the single fang that had ended the Weasley daughter's life, and the school had been evacuated and locked down, the entire piping system scoured then flooded. The centaurs of the Forbidden Forest were warned that the basilisk was possible at large. Roosters had been brought to sweep every crevasse and hidden place in the castle with their calls. A massive manhunt had been launched, to no avail, and a family mourned the death of their youngest.

They'd all been lost, blindly groping their way forward in the darkest of tunnels, but here was a chance that a light waited at the end of it.

Dumbledore found his hand stayed by hesitance as he reached for the doorknob. He realized he was holding his breath, and something approaching fear had its claws in him.

But like he had done so often in his lifetime, he braced himself for the worst, while hoping for the best. Harry needed him right now.

Please be alright, he prayed.

He breathed out, then entered the room.

He saw Harry seated on the edge of the bed, his hands folded in his lap. A dark grey knapsack lay near his feet. There was nothing else of note. The boy looked thin as he always did, but he seemed unhurt, at least physically. For a moment, they stared at each other, each of them uncertain of what to say.

"Professor?"

That was all it took. The sound of Harry's voice, as unsure and shy as it was, saying that one word made him smile warmly. All of his fears disappeared like dust scattered before the wind.

"I'm afraid my suspension from my position at Hogwarts still stands," Dumbledore said lightly. "Although it is close to being cleared up."

It appeared that the sound of him talking had much the same effect on Harry as it did for him. The boy couldn't help but smile.

"It doesn't matter what they say, sir."

Dumbledore walked over to the chair at the desk and turned it to face Harry before sitting down.

"How are you feeling, Harry?"

"I'm feeling okay."

Harry looked like he was mulling over something in his mind, but wasn't sure how to phrase it. Dumbledore was not going to rush him, and merely waited patiently.

"He has my wand," Harry said suddenly.

The guilt in his voice coupled with the way he looked away made Dumbledore quiet. The words made him feel uneasy and despite himself, the muscles in his right hand twitched for want of his wand. Someone had hurt Harry, in some way.

"Who?"

Harry looked down.

"Not to mess around with the pronouns... but it's a really, really long story."

"Harry," Dumbledore said, "For months now, I have worried about you for months, as have many of your friends and classmates. If you would prefer to tell me at a later date, I promise you all the time you need."

Harry absorbed this silently, but shook his head.

"You have to know. Let me tell you now."

"Take your time," Dumbledore reassured him.

He listened intently as the boy told his story. Right away, Harry told him that Tom Riddle, the true identity of Lord Voldemort, had returned, driving him to unconsciousness and leaving the Chamber of Secrets with him as his prisoner. From the day he disappeared onward, he had struggled to find a way to break free, but without his wand and at the hands of one of the most talented wizards who had ever lived, had little luck. First, Harry had been imprisoned and kept isolated, in a maddeningly looping section of a house that he couldn't escape. A seer had visited Riddle, and told him that Dumbledore would learn of Riddle's return. Harry had overheard this, and clung to this hope. Riddle, for his part, never repeated his mistake of letting Harry witness his meetings with his contacts, old or new.

"I had no idea until today how much time had passed," Harry spoke quietly, "I still don't know how long I was out due to the basilisk venom. Riddle never told me."

Dumbledore carefully pieced together the progression of events from Harry's narrative while puzzling over the nature of the diary, and the shade of Tom Riddle that had manifested a physical form.

One day, it seemed like Harry had an opportunity to escape. He'd seized it, and fled into the heart of Birmingham to try and lose Riddle. All seemed to have gone his way, and it came down to finding a way to London. He'd met a Muggle criminal - a drunkard, who'd helped Harry and put together a plan to get to London. All they had to was rendezvous in the morning once he'd gathered his funds and documents, and board their train.

It was with a grim acceptance that Dumbledore learned the nature of Riddle's trap. He'd locked him in, this time without the diary.

"I just... completely lost it. I hated him so much, I was so angry... Before I knew it the apartment was ruined. The glass was broken, I'd never been able to break it before. I went up to the edge... I jumped."

Dumbledore's heart skipped several beats at this revelation. This was consistent with a report of a particularly violent outburst of Accidental magic he had heard from one of his sources within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement a few hours ago. He'd tapped into his informant network at the Underage Use of Magic as well as Accidental offices, and stayed updated on all incidents, but none were caused by Harry. Except for the last.

This suicidal gamble by Harry had paid off. Dumbledore's mind was still reeling as Harry continued talking.

"I'd done it before, running from my cousin and his friends. It was my only chance. I figured there was nothing to lose."

He'd boarded his train, and made the journey to London alone.

The boy was distraught, despite how collected he seemed on the surface to be able to recount his story at all. It was a good sign, in the sense that Dumbledore saw Harry wasn't Confounded or Imperiused. Some of the most proficient casters could hide the signs better than the layman, but no one could really fool the trained eye. They were always dazed, or a little too slow, and all of the little emotions were wrong. But his heart broke listening to Harry's story. The despair and brokenness in his voice, the flashes of self-loathing and indescribable fury in his eyes. His pain was all too real.

He did not speak up or interrupt Harry once. It was until Harry had finished, falling silent with his head bowed forward, that he finally spoke.

"Harry," he said gently, rising and crossing the room to lay his hand on Harry's shoulder and shake him lightly.

The boy looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

"Your friend didn't die in vain," Dumbledore said quietly. "You are here now, safe and sound. And now that I know that Tom is back, I will ensure that he's brought to justice. This is my promise to you."

Not trusting himself to speak, Harry simply nodded.

Dumbledore smiled reassuringly, but remembered something. The issue of the wand was worrisome, and it was a great priority to replace it. Fawkes could supply another feather willingly to serve as the wand core once he explained the need for it, but Ollivanders was so far ahead of the curve when it came to wandmaking. Not for nothing was he preeminent in all of Europe in his craft. But that wasn't the only thing. He hadn't interrupted Harry on principle, but in his distraught state, Harry had missed one detail.

"Harry," Dumbledore said again.

Harry looked up guardedly.

"What is it, Professor?"

"It was Riddle who murdered Ginny Weasley, was it not?"

And on the perfect edge of that moment, one side of which the pause would feel natural, and the other of which it would feel suspicious - or something equally fanciful - Harry met Dumbledore's kindly eyes, smiled back, and said one simple word.

"Yes."

Exit

And thus the story ends. I wanted to write more, but that's all I have left to give to this amazing fandom. The more I worked on this chapter, the more fitting it seemed to me. The driving force for this story has always been the theme of broken faith. The rest of the story would've been Tom rebuilding his power and influence, while a rift grows between Harry and those he cares about, driving them apart, with Sirius Black being the wild card. (Harry, at some point, takes hostages.) Thematically, the story reached its natural conclusion and with my motivation to write fanfiction done, it was the logical choice, rather than leaving it at the no-man's-land that was the end of Chapter 7.

Last order of business: I've given permission to Greenseer Tethlis to continue my stories. His original fiction is great, and he wrote a 10k writing style demo for Harry Potter at my request that I liked, so consider him vetted. I'm happy to have found a capable writer in his own right willing to do this.

Right now the priority is Harry Potter and the Time of Green Angel Vespers. I'm incredibly pleased with his continuation so far, and the final product will be like nothing you've read. The rest of my stories will be left to his discretion, but writing what is essentially a novel for free is a huge commitment on someone else's time, and I'll consider my wildest dreams to have come true if Green Angel is completed.

Enough rambling. Thank you thank you for reading my stories, flaws and all, and I hope you support Greenseer's continuations of my work. (Do it as a favor to me!) The best is yet to come.

Sincerely,

en