I hope our story has a happier ending

darling everything's on fire

The first memory, one taken from a man dying, just barely out of prison—of his youth, his father.

His sister—and the muggle she adored, a prat called Tom Riddle with the kind of wealth that made his entitlement clear.

(The pieces are beginning to fit together, Harry knows, meets Hermione's grim eyes beside him.)

It's—using a love potion on someone, forcing them to be with you, is completely unforgivable. It's a kind of violation, an overreach of agency that's unacceptable and wrong in so, so many ways.

But this is before that—she's not that person, yet.

She's just a lonely girl in an abusive household, a girl who's known nothing but darkness and pain and waiting for it all to end.

(They've been there, too. They can't help but feel for her, just as they had Tom.)

Morfin, the insane and cruel son, speaks only in Parsletongue, Harry's whispered translation meeting Hermione's ear. It's all just heartbreaking to see; everyone in this home became a monster, did such horrible things, but even before they went bad—

(She never stood a chance.)

And it's—terrifying, Harry thinks, how much he can understand the way Voldemort became the person he did. Knowing himself, trying to imagine who he would've been without Hermione and Ron, without his dads, without Tonks and Andy and Sofia—he can't even picture it.

(He'd like to think he would've stayed on the same course regardless, but the truth is...it's easy to become so, so bitter when life just keeps fucking you over.)

And then Marvolo is thrusting his ring in Odgen's face, talking about some family called the Peverells, and it's the same ring that was on Dumbledore's desk, the one they'd decided must be a horcrux, the one that had destroyed Dumbledore's hand—

And then he's reaching for his daughter's throat, and if they hadn't been sure already they would be now, because he's tugging forward the very same locket from Grimmauld Place, the one Regulus Black had given his life to take, the one they know was a horcrux—

And Hermione's clutching at his hand as they both suck in shocked breaths, trying not to react so as to not give anything away, and it's—

(All of the pieces are finally coming together, everything they've learned over the years beginning to fit together as it all comes full circle.)

It's honestly insane, that they've made it this far, that the years of chaos and bloodshed have brought them to this point; that these moments and life-changing objects have such ordinary roots that are appearing in every aspect of their lives.

They're inside the small, dilapidated Gaunt home, and Marvolo is getting in Ogden's face, and Harry is—cornered.

(Trapped.)

The walls are closing in, and his breathing grows shallow, and he drops to the ground, curling in the fetal position and squeezing his eyes shut and imagining he's somewhere else.

Mia's at his side, of course, rubbing his back and telling him to breathe, whispering "it's not real, Harry, you're okay, we're not here"; she turns to a surprised Dumbledore and barks, "Get us out! Now!"

Dumbledore, to his credit, is so confused and shocked that he doesn't argue, or reprimand her for having an attitude or commanding him. He waves his wand, and then they're emerging from the pensive.

Harry's gasping, hyperventilating as they land on the hard tile of Dumbledore's office; as he takes in the open space and his sister's reminders that he's out, that he's okay, his heart rate begins to slow.