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Harry stared up at Dumbledore’s portrait. He felt numb, like he’d never breathe again. Did he actually need to breathe?
He was dead or he had been dead. Was he even a person any more? He felt more like a ghost.
There were voices in his head; they whispered some many things — so many realities.
Green eyes moved to fixate on his hands. There was a slight tremble to his fingers, red staining the tip where he’d torn a fingernail. Why did he feel so cold? Would he ever feel warm again?
He wished he could cry; he wanted to cry.
Harry Potter had won the war but at expense of his soul. He was broken — not by Voldemort but by the man staring down at him frozen by time. Dumbledore had carved him up and spat him out. The man might be dead but he still haunted him.
“Everyone keeps telling my how much you loved me; how proud you would be. But they don’t know do they? How you raised me as a lamb for slaughter, how I begged for a home and for salvation? Nobody knows — only you and me.”
There was a rage building inside him. It was dark and filthy, craving for release. He had a taste of war and he was desperate for me.
“You thought you were raising a monster-killer, but instead you made a monster.”
Magic was pouring out of him now, rampant and free. It billowed in waves, slamming into the walls and causing them to tremble. Paintings screamed as they tumbled to the ground. The desk shattered under the onslaught and the fire inside him solidified. It slid from his fingers like a lover’s caress and coated the room. It spiraled over the walls with merciless glee.
Harry turned around and laughed, “Go ahead. Tell them how you much you loved me. Maybe I’ll just show them the marks you left instead.” His footsteps drowned by the roar of the fire he left behind to wage his private war.
Soon Hogwarts would be but dust, as Dumbledore’s savior was no more.