You think you know someone

The air was thick, not with life, but with the sharp, metallic tang of something final. They made their way through the ruins of the Forbidden Forest, the army of Inferi followed obediently behind them as they crossed their path toward the castle. The mobile army of the dead turned whatever living creature that crossed their paths—from irrelevant animals to centaurs—into one of them. The number only grew the closer they got to their destination.

 With Dumbledore dead, overtaking Hogwarts should be no hard deed to accomplish. Once they have conquered Britain’s most sacred symbol of their magical world, the real work shall begin.

 Yet, the only body that contained souls amongst the Inferi was far from united. One soul sensed how the world felt muted, distant, like an overexposed photograph slowly fading to white. The moment he had feared for years—the moment he had unknowingly carried within him—had finally arrived. Whereas the other soul—though calling it that felt too generous, for it was only a shard of a whole—had a different attitude toward the whole ordeal.

 Tom Riddle’s voice rang clearly in their shared mind. Not the high-pitched shrill of the Dark lord, but the younger, polished tones of a boy who still believed he could charm the world into obedience.

 Their shared existence was torment, a constant struggle for control. But Harry was resolute. As long as he had any say, he would fight. Tom might be a part of him, but he wasn’t him. And he never would be.

 In the mind chamber, the fog coiled thickly around them, a blank and infinite greyness Harry drew a deep breath, trying to steady the tumult of emotions so as to appear more composed in the mental landscape where Tom’s presence had always lurked, waiting, whispering. The fragment of Voldemort’s soul that had latched onto him for years wasn’t going to relinquish its grip willingly. Harry knew this as surely as he knew his own name.

 Tom stood before him, dressed in Hogwarts robes, his handsome, angular face lit by a faint, eerie glow. He smiled faintly, almost apologetically.

 “You don’t have to do this,” Tom said softly, as though they were friends discussing something mundane. “There’s no need for us to be enemies. We can coexist. Think of all we could achieve together, Harry. All the power, all the—”

 “Stop.” Harry’s voice was sharp, cutting through Tom’s words like a blade. “I don’t want power, and you know that more than anyone. I’ve never wanted it.”

 Tom tilted his head, studying Harry with an unsettling intensity. “You don’t want power, but you’ve always wanted control. Don’t lie to yourself, Harry. Control over your life, over your own destiny—over everything Voldemort stole from you. And yet here you are, trying to throw it all away.”

 Harry’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond. He couldn’t deny that Tom was, in some twisted way, right. But that does not give the rest of his statement any merit, nor should it. Harry’s life had been one obstacle to overcome after another, and maybe it was the universe’s way of telling him that his living through the ambush of 1981 was a mistake. His constant survival was a plague to those around him. Unlike his other version, Harry’s life was a curse, and the sooner it ended, the better.

 Just as resolute overcame Harry, a sound rang sharply through the mindscape so unexpectedly that he had to stagger back:

 “Your parents gave their lives for you. A poor way to repay their sacrifice.”

 The words struck like a physical blow, and Harry paled as the voice of Professor Lupin echoed around them. It was his own memory, replayed with perfect clarity: the moment Lupin chastised a thirteen-year-old Harry for sneaking into Hogsmeade, rebuking him for not holding his own life to any value.

 Harry spun instinctively, searching for the source of the voice, but there was nothing to see beyond the fog.

 A quiet, mocking tsk drew his attention back to Tom.

 “Truly, a poor way to repay them,” Tom said sardonically. “You ought to listen to the half-breed, Harry.”

 He’s doing this. But how? Harry’s breath hitched. Speechless, he fixed Tom with a hard, contemplating look. How is he doing this?

 “Your parents died so you’d live.” Tom continued, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “Would they really want you to choose death after what they’ve sacrificed for you?” But try as he might, Harry could sense the desperation behind the other boy’s words as though he were the one feeling it.

 Tom couldn’t hide anything from Harry any more than he could hide things from Tom. Mixed blessings.

 “You should know better than to speak for the dead,” Harry said, his voice trembling with suppressed fury. “Especially for the ones you caused yourself.” He took a breath, steadying himself before continuing. “You have no right to speak for my parents when you grew to be the one who forced them into making that decision.”

 “You know that wasn’t me,” Tom replied earnestly, almost regretfully.

 Harry paused. The sincerity in Tom’s voice might have been convincing to anyone else, but Harry knew better. He knew Tom too well.

 “You can’t keep blaming me for things I haven’t done,” Tom added, his tone bordering on defensive. Even if Tom could act the part perfectly, he and Harry both knew that he was never remorseful. It was simply not who he was. “I only learned of what my central soul have done to you the same way you did. You can’t keep blaming me for things I haven’t done, Harry.”

 The yet was left unsaid, though it might as well have been uttered because that was all that Harry could hear in this shared mind.

 Harry had often been accused of lacking essential perceptiveness, mainly by Hermione, and she wasn’t usually incorrect. But in his honest defense, she was always insightful and knowledgeable in practically every subject. Harry genuinely believed anyone could appear to be clueless standing beside her. However, if there was one subject Harry knew thoroughly like no other, it was his own enemy.

 After all, Voldemort’s mind and intentions were a puzzle he’d been forced to unravel time and time again.

 Harry had an idea of why Tom was so very eager to turn him to his side. Sure, there was no denying that by Harry’s compliance, Voldemort’s fragment would have an easier time possessing Harry’s body, but there was also an urgent need to keep Harry from thinking he had any sort of power over Tom.

 Which wasn’t true at all. In the end, this was Harry’s body that his untainted soul was born into, whereas Tom’s was nothing but a tiny piece of a shattered one that leeched its way to the wound on Harry’s forehead. Tom was but a parasite, and parasites needed their hosts to survive. And someone who was as fearful of dying as Tom was would do anything to ensure their survival.

 This dependency could be a glaring vulnerability, Harry realized with bitter triumph.

 There had been hints of that revelation too, for instance, when Tom admitted having something to do with the demise of Harry’s first Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. No matter what Tom’s reasoning was to turn against his superior piece of soul, Harry couldn’t find the reasoning good enough to betray Voldemort like that.

 “I am not him.” He'd say with a sincerity in his eyes that could not be faked. But then again, he had always been a good actor.

 But you will be. Harry refrained from saying anything. Not that it would have made a difference.

 “Maybe,” Tom had responded as though the thought had been audible. “but remember, my mere existence is nothing but a memory. A memory tampered with your life, so who’s to say I’ll end up just like my main soul?”

 Harry remembered how convincing he sounded, or rather how convincing he tried to be. It did not matter what Tom could say, because even if his words were enough to be persuasive, Harry could always tell what the other’s true intent was.

 Voldemort’s soul shard, while distinct, still shared the same ambition and ruthlessness as the whole.

 Harry knew that Tom had no intention of betraying everything that Voldemort stood for. He knew that the only other times that Tom had willingly chosen to defy Voldemort was to keep Harry alive. Because his existence quite literally depended on that.

 If Harry chose to end his life, Tom would die too. It was the only way.

 “You need me alive.” Harry stated the obvious. “Your survival depends on it. Don’t deny it.”

 Tom’s carefully constructed facade cracked for the briefest of moments, revealing the raw, desperate fear he felt before he schooled his face. Harry caught sight of it, nonetheless. The short flash of avid fear was all the conformation Harry needed.

 “So what?” Tom muttered in a dangerously soft voice.

 As the never-ending confrontation escalated, Harry felt the weight of their shared existence pressing down on him.

 Tom’s voice was a cacophony of calculated manipulation, dredging up every fear, every doubt, every insecurity Harry had ever felt. The sound of Sirius’s laughter, Hermione’s voice admonishing him, even Dumbledore’s calm but disappointed tone—all of them echoed in the grey void.

 But amidst the chaos, Harry found clarity as he clung to the piece of evidence that can put an end to their cursed existence.

 Harry eventually took a steadying breath. This mind chamber, this confrontation, they were all in his head. Here, he was separated from Tom as much as he could be, and he had more control over his own essence.

 He knew what he had to do. The knowledge had been there all along, buried beneath layers of fear and doubt.

 Closing his eyes, he focused on the mental image of the Gryffindor sword, its ruby-encrusted hilt gleaming brightly. He willed it into existence within the mindscape, summoning every ounce of determination he possessed.

 When he opened his eyes, the sword was in his hand, its blade glowing with an otherworldly light.

 Tom’s eyes widened, and for the first time, true panic flashed across his face. “You don’t know what you’re doing!” he shouted, his voice rising in desperation.

 “I know exactly what I’m doing,” Harry replied, forcing his voice to remain steady as he lifted the tip of the sword toward his own lightning-shaped scar.

 With a single, fluid motion, he drove the sword into his own forehead.

 Both his and Tom’s screams blurred with one another, reverberating through the mind chamber that began to crumble. Though Harry could not see through the hot, white pain he inflected on himself, he felt Tom’s form dissolving into a swirling mass of black smoke. The smoke writhed and twisted before dissipating entirely, leaving behind an overwhelming silence.

When Harry opened his eyes, he was no longer in the mind chamber or even the forest for that matter. He was standing in King’s Cross Station, bathed in soft, golden light.

 Dumbledore was waiting for him, his blue eyes twinkling with a mixture of sadness and pride. He was dressed as Harry remembered: long robes of deep purple, half-moon spectacles perched on his crooked nose, and that same wise, weary expression that spoke of countless burdens carried over the years.

 “Harry,” Dumbledore said warmly, spreading his arms as though welcoming an old friend. “It is good to see you again.”

 Harry stared at him, the weight of what had just happened pressing heavily on his chest. He touched his own forehead, half-expecting to feel the hole he created or at least see blood, but his hand was clean. The memory of the sword piercing him was still fresh in his mind.

 “Am I dead?” Harry asked, his voice hoarse.

 Dumbledore smiled faintly. “Not quite.”

 Harry frowned. “Then what is this place?”

 “A curious thing, isn’t it?” Dumbledore gestured to their surroundings. “It can be many things, depending on the person. For you, it is this station—your subconscious’ way of representing the crossroads you now face. A choice, Harry. To move on or to return.”

 Harry’s gaze flickered toward the distant tracks, where the faint outline of a train shimmered. “So, that’s it? I can just. . . board on?”

 “You could,” Dumbledore said gently. “But I don’t think you should.”

 Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he sat heavily on one of the benches, burying his face in his hands. After a moment, he looked up at Dumbledore, his green eyes filled with a mixture of anger and pain.

“You should have told me.” He said quietly.

 Dumbledore tilted his head. “Told you what?”

 “Everything,” Harry said, his voice rising slightly. “About me, Voldemort, and the prophecy. About why you left me with. . . them.” He hated how he sounded so small.

 Dumbledore sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his past decisions. “Ah, yes. The Dursleys.” He lowered himself onto the bench beside Harry, clasping his hands in his lap. “That, Harry, was one of my greatest failing I fear.”

 Harry’s throat tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

 “I had hoped,” Dumbledore continued, “that Petunia, having lost her sister, would see you as a chance for redemption. I thought she would look upon you as an opportunity to mend the rift between her and Lily. After all, guilt can be a powerful motivator.”

 Harry’s eyes narrowed. “You thought guilt would make her love me?”

 “No,” Dumbledore said softly. “I thought it would make her care for you. Love, I knew, was too much to ask of her. But I believed she might provide you with safety. Shelter. I had seen how guilt drove my brother and I after we’ve lost Ariana. How I would have done anything to make up for what happened to her. I hoped Petunia might feel the same after losing Lily.”

 “But she didn’t,” Harry said bitterly.

 “No,” Dumbledore agreed, his voice heavy with regret. “She did not. And for that, I am truly sorry.”

 For a moment, neither of them spoke. The faint sound of the train whistle filled the silence, a soft, mournful call.

 “Deep down, I’ve hated you for it.” Harry admitted after a long pause.

 “I know.” Dumbledore said simply.

 “You knew how they treated me,” Harry said, his voice shaking. “And you left me there anyway. Why?”

 “Because I believed it was the only way to keep you alive.” Dumbledore turned to face Harry fully, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “The blood protection your mother gave you, Harry—it was tied to Petunia. As long as you lived under her roof, you were protected from Voldemort. But I underestimated the cost of that protection. I thought it was worth the pain you endured. And perhaps it was, but that does not pardon me of the choice I made.”

 Harry swallowed hard, his emotions warring within him. “You gambled with my life. With my happiness.”

 “Yes,” Dumbledore said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And it is a burden I will carry for the rest of my existence, however long that may be.”

 They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their conversation settling between them.

 “What about now?” Harry asked finally. “Why am I still here? Why didn’t I immediately die when I destroyed the horcrux?”

 Dumbledore’s expression softened, and a faint smile touched his lips. “Ah, Harry. You are remarkable in ways even Voldemort could never comprehend. When he took your blood into himself, he tethered you to life as surely as he tethered himself. It is his mistake—his arrogance—that keeps you alive now. As long as Voldemort lives, so do you.”

 Harry frowned. “But he’s dead, isn’t he? Someone lunged at him and they both fell through the veil.”

 “Same as how Sirius went through a veil that had someone else walk through it?” Dumbledore answered with a twinkle in his eyes. “I do not hold all the answers, but I am starting to suspect there is no such thing as a veil designated to act as a doorway to the afterlife.”

 Harry’s frown only deepened at the implication, the realization washing over him like a cold wave. “So, I have to go back. If there's even a chance of Voldemort returning, then. . . then I have to be there to finish him off for good.”

 Dumbledore placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do anything, Harry. Voldemort is as good as dead. He no longer poses as a threat to anyone as far as our world is concerned, but even if he did, the choice is yours, Harry. It has always been yours. And I believe you have more than earned the right to choose the path that brings you the most happiness, whatever it may be.”

 Harry looked toward the distant train, its outline shimmering in the golden light. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine stepping aboard, leaving behind the world that imposed on him many pain and guilt. He thought of his parents, taken from him. He longed to meet them for real. Would that bring him peace and make him happy?

 But then he thought of Ron and Hermione, of Sirius and the Weasleys. He thought of a life vacant from Voldemort’s presence surrounded by those he loved and felt loved by. Tom’s words about his parents’ sacrifice, while laced with intentions of manipulating Harry, stood correct. His parents would not have wanted him to join them in death when there was a world of opportunity available for him. And for once that truly was the case.

 “I’ll go back,” Harry said firmly. “I think. . . I have a chance of living a decent life.”

 Dumbledore nodded, his eyes shone warmly with something Harry could not quite place.

 As Harry stood, the golden light around him began to fade, and the faint hum of the train grew quieter.

 “Harry,” Dumbledore called after him, his voice gentle but urgent.

 Harry turned back.

 “Whatever happens, remember this: you are not defined by what has been done to you, but by the choices you make. And Harry. . .” Dumbledore’s voice trembled slightly. “You have always made me proud.”

Harry gasped awake in the forest, dead bodies surrounding him, but that was all that they were. The spell that bounded them as Inferi had broken; for every trace of Voldemort in this world was truly gone. Harry’s scar no longer burned, and for the first time in years, he felt truly free.