Chapter Text
Harry James Potter walked through the Forbidden Forest with the resigned calm of a man who had already died a thousand times in his mind. The Resurrection Stone sat heavy in his palm, and around him, the spectral forms of his parents, Sirius, and Remus walked in silent vigil.
"I'm ready," he whispered, though his hands trembled.
His mother's ghost smiled sadly. "You've always been so brave."
But Harry didn't feel brave. He felt seventeen and tired and so, so angry that this was how it had to end. That Dumbledore had raised him like a pig for slaughter, that he'd never get to live, never get to be free of the destiny that had chained him since before he could walk.
The clearing opened before him. Voldemort stood surrounded by Death Eaters, Nagini coiled at his feet. Red eyes gleamed with triumph.
"Harry Potter," Voldemort hissed. "The Boy Who Lived. Come to die."
"Yes," Harry said simply, and let the Stone fall from his fingers.
He closed his eyes.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Green light consumed the world—
—and Harry felt his soul rip free from his body, felt the Horcrux tear away like a parasite finally excised. He was dying, he was dead, he was—
WRONG!!!!!!
The word reverberated through his very existence, shaking him to his core. It wasn't a sound. It was a knowing, vast, and ancient and utterly furious.
THIS WAS NOT YOUR DESTINY, CHILD OF MAGIC.
Harry's soul, untethered and drifting, suddenly snapped back like a rubber band. Pain exploded through him—not physical pain, but the agony of being denied death itself.
YOU WERE MEANT FOR SO MUCH MORE THAN THIS WASTE.
The world twisted, reality bending like melted glass, and Harry screamed—
When Harry opened his eyes, he was lying on cold stone floor. The ceiling above him was familiar—the enchanted sky of the Great Hall, currently showing a grey, overcast day.
He bolted upright, gasping, his hand flying to his chest. His heart beat steadily beneath his fingers. He was alive. He was whole.
"What—"
"Mr. Potter, I would advise you to remain calm."
Harry's head snapped toward the voice. Professor McGonagall stood nearby, her face pale and drawn, tartan robes pristine as always. But she wasn't looking at him—she was staring at the Hall itself.
Harry followed her gaze and froze.
The Great Hall was full. Every seat at every table was occupied, but not by students. He recognized faces from across decades—his friends, his enemies, the living and the—
"Sirius?" Harry choked out.
His godfather sat at what was once the Gryffindor table, looking just as bewildered as Harry felt. Next to him, Remus Lupin gripped the table's edge, knuckles white. On Sirius's other side sat a man Harry had only ever seen in photographs—Orion Black, looking aristocratic and severe and impossibly alive.
"Prongslet?" Sirius called, half-rising. "What the bloody hell is going on?"
Before Harry could answer, a voice—a presence—filled the Hall. It resonated from the very stones, from the air itself, feminine and ageless and carrying the weight of millennia.
I HAVE GATHERED YOU HERE BECAUSE YOU HAVE ALL FAILED.
The temperature dropped ten degrees. Every person in the Hall went rigid with instinctive terror.
I AM MAGIC HERSELF, THE FORCE THAT FLOWS THROUGH YOUR VEINS, THE POWER THAT BUILT THESE VERY WALLS. AND I AM DEEPLY, DEEPLY DISAPPOINTED.
Harry's eyes darted around the Hall. He saw Dumbledore, looking older than he'd ever seen him, eyes wide behind half-moon spectacles. Voldemort—Tom Riddle, looking almost human—sat rigid at the Slytherin table, flanked by Death Eaters who'd gone corpse-pale. The Weasleys clustered together, Molly gripping Arthur's arm. Hermione sat with her arms wrapped around herself, and Ron looked green.
At another table, Draco Malfoy sat between his parents, Lucius's hand on his shoulder in a protective gesture that seemed almost foreign on the proud man.
HARRY JAMES POTTER.
Harry jerked as Magic's attention focused on him like a physical weight.
YOU WALKED TO YOUR DEATH BELIEVING IT WAS YOUR DESTINY. YOU BELIEVED THE LIES OF OLD MEN AND THE MANIPULATIONS OF THOSE WHO CLAIMED TO LOVE YOU. YOU DIED AT SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD, HAVING LIVED NO LIFE AT ALL.
"I—I saved everyone," Harry said, his voice cracking. "I destroyed the Horcrux. I won."
YOU WON NOTHING. Magic's voice was cold. YOU WERE MY CHAMPION, MY CHOSEN, DESTINED TO UNITE A FRACTURED WORLD. YOU WERE TO BE LORD OF FIVE HOUSES, MASTER OF DEATH, THE BRIDGE BETWEEN LIGHT AND DARK. AND INSTEAD, YOU THREW YOURSELF ON A SWORD BECAUSE AN OLD MAN TOLD YOU IT WAS NOBLE.
Dumbledore flinched. Around the Hall, whispers erupted before Magic silenced them with a pulse of power.
SO I HAVE BROUGHT YOU ALL HERE—THOSE WHO FAILED HIM, THOSE WHO WERE FAILED, THOSE WHO MIGHT HAVE SAVED HIM—TO LEARN THE TRUTH.
Seven books appeared on a table in the center of the Hall, floating in mid-air, glowing with an otherworldly light.
YOU WILL READ THESE BOOKS. YOU WILL LEARN EVERY MOMENT OF HARRY POTTER'S LIFE—THE ABUSE, THE MANIPULATION, THE SACRIFICES NO CHILD SHOULD HAVE MADE. YOU WILL SIT IN THIS HALL UNTIL YOU UNDERSTAND THE DEPTH OF YOUR FAILURES.
"No," Harry whispered, horror dawning. "Please, no—"
AND WHEN YOU ARE FINISHED, WE WILL BEGIN AGAIN. PROPERLY THIS TIME.
Magic's presence withdrew slightly, though Harry could still feel her watching, waiting, judging.
THE FIRST BOOK IS TITLED 'HARRY POTTER AND THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE.' I SUGGEST YOU BEGIN.
In the terrible silence that followed, Harry met the eyes of Orion Black across the Hall. The older man was staring at him with an expression Harry couldn't decipher—shock, recognition, something that made Harry's magic sing in his veins in a way it never had before.
Then Molly Weasley's voice cut through the quiet. "Harry, dear, what does she mean, abuse?"
And Harry wanted to die all over again.