All Dumbledore told us last year was that Cedric Diggory got killed by You-Know-Who and that you brought Diggory's body back to Hogwarts. He didn't give us details; he didn't tell us exactly how Diggory was murdered. I think we'd all like to know-"

Zachariah Smith, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Page 436

"- what happened in the Third Task? I, for one, don't believe…"

Harry drowned out the irritating boy's insulting and accusing voice and observed the faces of other 'few' students Hermione gathered together for what his gut rightfully felt was a waste of time. The hunger obvious their eyes left no doubt in his mind that nearly all were there to listen to him recount the second worst day of his short life. Only a handful of them, if that many, were interested in what he had to teach.

"How do we know it wasn't you who…"

Harry chuckled and took a long sip of butterbeer, not finding it in himself to care about the silence that descended upon his reaction. He drank, and drank, until, from the weight of the bottle, he knew it was empty. No sense in wasting good beverage. He took his time to inspect it, reading the label and finding no ground-breaking information on it, and no solace.

Harry Potter was not and had never been a violent person. Yes, lately, he was on a short fuse and louder in his anger. He was faster to give up on the pretence of civility but never in his life, he threw the first punch.

Or the first beer bottle, he thought as the beer bottle drew an arch in the air and smacked the blonde Hufflepuff in the face. Harry was looming over the boy before the stool he was on a moment earlier hit the ground, the sound of its fall not distinguishable from the fall of the other boy. He saw and heard the students around him jump to their feet, but none of them did so to help their fallen friend. No, all they did was jump away from Harry in fright.

Harry bent down and fisted the fallen boy's bloody shirt and in a show of strength that surprised even himself, lifted him up. He pushed back the momentary guilt he felt at the unnatural angle the boy's nose took and the blood dripping from it and scoffed at the boy, contempt dripping from him. "So, you think you have a right to hear what happened that night? Whether I killed Cedric Diggory?"

Smith didn't move, and the small whimper of pain was the only sound he made.

With a smile that belied the anger coursing through him and that solidified his unhinged status to those around him, he shook the boy, earning a soft cry. "Riddle me this then: if you think me capable of murdering Cedric — supposedly best Hogwarts had to offer according to that damnable goblet — in cold blood and then lie my way out like a sociopath the ministry is accusing me of being, how can you be so brave as to antagonise me?"

Harry shook his head, his eyes wide in faux wonder. "Aren't you even a little afraid I might kill you in your sleep? I remember you being mighty afraid to even walk on the same corridor as me when you announced me the Heir of Slytherin." He waited a moment before shaking the boy again and let the smile drop from his face, a sneer taking its place. "Answer me!"

Again, no answer came. Harry spent another moment taking in the absolute terror colouring Smith's face before dropping him like a sack of potatoes. "Fine, I'll tell you what happened," he snarled before shaking his head in contempt. He walked back to his stool, refusing to look at Hermione and Ron's eyes. He took a shaky breath that was far too audible in the tense silence and sat down. Somehow, the glare he aimed indiscriminately on the crowd of students had them returning to their seats, the only sound that of stools scraping the floorboards.

"How about another beer before we have ourselves a story?" Harry called out to the glaring bartender, ignoring how odd it was to see such expression in such a familiar face. He turned his gaze back on the students sitting frozen still in front of him and allowed for the tense silence to stretch as he waited for his beer.

He counted thirty-five faces. It hurt that less than a dozen of them held anything other than fear, but he pushed the hurt back. He was good at that, you see. He learnt early on in his second year in Wizarding World to ignore his peers' scorn for and fear of him that tend to turn around faster than a drop of a hat.

Harry learned this year that anger helped to push the hurt away, and man, was he angry. Angry at Voldemort and his merry band of psychopaths. Angry at the Ministry and the public that were always so quick to accuse him of things, good or bad. Angry at Dumbledore and all the teachers that had no support in them to offer. Angry at his friends for dragging him to the wretched pub.

Angry at himself for caring.

He ignored the bartender's loud glare and took the butterbeer. He took a large gulp to wash the dirty taste the situation left in his mouth and sighed. "Alright, you want a story," he began. "I'll tell you a story but listen close and listen well because I will tell you what happened only once."

"The task started out fine: I faced some creatures but nothing taxing. A blast-ended skrewt, a boggart in the shape of a dementor. There were few traps but again, nothing truly bad. I was pleased, you know. Even if I was in that damned tournament against my wishes, I was doing well and had a real chance at victory. For a moment there, I thought things would be alright." He let out a dark chuckle that had a girl at the front of the audience jump.

He rolled his eyes at the dramatic reaction and continued, his voice tired and soft. "As is often the case with me, fate said, 'screw that,' and threw a wrench in things. You have no idea how fast a smile can disappear when you hear a girl, Fleur Delacour in this case, scream like she was being tortured. By the time I got there, she was reduced to twitching on the ground like a dying animal, whimpering. She couldn't move. She couldn't talk."

"Before the task began, our wise and talented teachers told us to send out red sparks in the air if something bad happens and I deemed Fleur's state 'fucked up' on the scale of bad," he said with a twitch of the corner of his mouth.

"I continued on. No sense in waiting around for nothing, I told myself, perhaps foolishly. Some time and a few simple creatures later, I heard Cedric's yells. He was asking Victor what he was doing. That's when Victor used the torture curse once again, on Cedric this time. I stunned Victor. Compared to Fleur, Cedric was right as rain, still able to walk and talk and what not. We sent up red sparks, for Victor this time, and went on our separate ways."

"We ran into each other again near where the Triwizard Cup was sitting in its golden glory. I ran but Cedric was closer. There was just one glitch. An acromantula. I warned Cedric in time and we dispatched the spider together with relative ease. Just a bite or two."

"Cedric was ten feet away from the cup, if that, but he refused to take it. We decided to grab it at the same time. 'A Hogwarts victory', we said." Harry let out a wet chuckle, causing a few people to start at the unexpectedly gentle sound. "Cup was a portkey. It transported us to a creepy-ass graveyard. Voldemort and Peter Pettigrew were waiting for us there. Well, they were waiting for me. Cedric was unlucky enough to accompany me. 'Kill the spare.' That's what Voldemort said, and Pettigrew did just that."

His eyes were unseeing at that point, reliving the horrors, getting angrier and angrier. So, he ignored those tiny warning signs before a bout of accidental magic, like his boiling, cold beer. "I was in shock at this point. I was tired, I was bitten by an acromantula, injured, burned, I had a fracture on my feet; and just when I thought it was over, I watched Cedric die. So, I didn't even respond when Pettigrew stunned me."

He heard sniffling, the first sound to make it past his distracted mind and looked up to see Cho Chang holding on to another girl like she was her lifeline. He grimaced but soldiered on. "When I woke up, I was tied to a gravestone. Pettigrew used an obscure ritual to create Voldemort a body. Used my blood to do it too. 'Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken. You will resurrect your foe.'"

Harry let out a sigh. "What followed was unoriginal. Voldemort called his servants and gave a classic villain monologue, torturing me in between just for shits and giggles. Believe me when I say the arsehole's 'Cruciatus' packs a punch. Basilisk venom has nothing on it. It was, by far, the most painful experience of my existence and believe me, pain and I go way back."

"Voldemort insisted we duel, because apparently, why not. He wanted to prove himself capable of defeating me, of killing me with a wand in my hand. Lucky for me; he failed. In a burst of brilliance, I summoned the cup, hugged the corpse of a friend and returned to Hogwarts. And, well, you know the rest."

He let the group and a few patrons of the dingy little establishment ponder the story with an impotent shrug. His anger was long gone, in its place a tired boy that badly needed to sleep.

No one spoke and the silence stretch to the point of awkwardness before Harry spoke again. He looked at the contemplating faces around him, fear still evident in the visages. "It's funny, you know. In my third year, during the Black scare, whenever dementors came near me, I would hear my mother beg Voldemort to spare me before dying. This summer, when dementors attacked me in the middle of fucking Muggle world, I only heard Voldemort. 'Kill the spare.' So, I thank all of you for pushing me to relive those delightful, dementor-worthy moments. So, and I say this from the bottom of my heart, screw you. And screw Umbridge and screw Fudge, and screw all those mindless idiots who would think it is alright for a government to demonise a fifteen-year-old boy.

"Apparently, you came here to learn how to defend yourselves. Do you want to know my answer?" He waited for the answer he knew wouldn't come, his beer bottle cracking under the pressure of his leaking magic. "No thanks, fuck you, and have a nice day." His voice was soft and angry. So was his magic, and while Harry had control over his voice, the same couldn't be said about his magic. Nor was he surprised when the table on the corner creaked and imploded under pressure. The door to the pub followed suit and his peers took the message, filling out in a hurry. "You asked," Harry reminded to their backs.

Only a couple minutes later, the pub was blissfully empty, adding to Aberforth Dumbledore's ire, who stilled had not said anything but glared everything. One is a respected Chief Warlock and a whacky Headmaster, the other is a sour-faced, angry pub owner, Harry thought, yet I like this one better. Thankfully, it only took a few galleons to win back the younger Dumbledore though he was no kinder nor less grouchy for it.

"Just a couple people, she says," Harry chuckled, now alone with Hermione on the way back to the castle.

Hermione huffed, her cheeks reddening slightly, and said, "Okay, I may have understated how many wanted to learn from you."

"Overstated, you mean," Harry said. "I only saw a handful of people that was actually interested in what I can teach them."

Hermione sighed and nodded. "I guess." She stayed silent for a few moments as they trekked the muddy road that connected Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. "You shouldn't have attacked Smith like that," she admonished, her voice gentle, almost afraid.

Harry hated himself for it.

He shrugged, not uncaringly but unsurely. "Probably not," he agreed. "But what should I have done? He did everything but outright claim I am a murderer."

"You could have explained yourself," she pointed out. "The violence and sarcasm didn't help your case."

"My case?" Harry stopped his friend with a hand on her upper arm, his voice low and tense. "Was I in a trial? Did I ask and beg people to let me teach them?"

Hermione shook her head vehemently. "No, of course not! But don't you understand? They don't know — well, didn't know — what happened at the graveyard. From an outsider's view, everything must be terribly confusing. They lost a friend and no one's telling them anything."

"So what? I have to bend over backwards and beg them to believe me?" Harry asked, his volume increasing in tandem with his anger.

"No, no! But you must remember what Headmaster Dumbledore said. We must choose between what is easy and what is right. And it is our duty to help convince as many people as we can of V- Voldemort's return. And we must prepare for what's coming," Hermione explained, waving her hand animatedly. "I know it's unfair, but you are our best chance at learning how to defend ourselves."

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath, counting to seventeen before opening them again with no less heat to his glare. Hermione stood her ground and showed no sign of her nerves other than an involuntary wince. "Do you want to know what's unfair, Hermione? It's unfair that a fifteen-year-old boy has a murdering psychopath after him. It's unfair that this fifteen-years-old boy is being prosecuted in the public's eye with no thought given to what it does to his psyche. I am tortured by the teachers, insulted by the papers. I am suffering from PTSD. I can't sleep. I can barely eat. I'm dealing with all that with only two friends — two children, and a wanted man standing by me, supporting me."

This time, Hermione stepped back as if slapped, her eyes wide in shock and not a little bit of fear, but not of him. "Don't be ridiculous, Harry! You have many people supporting you."

"Who are these many people, Hermione? Minerva 'Keep your head down and go to your detentions' McGonagall? Albus 'can't even look me in the eye' Dumbledore. Remus 'can't be bothered to check up on the only son of his dead, close friends' Lupin?"

He shook his head and laughed with no mirth. "No. I have three people standing by me: you, who heals me when I'm tortured; Ron, who makes me smile somehow; and Sirius, who risks his life every time he contacts me. The rest are content just sitting back and doing nothing. Fucking Dumbledore!"

Hermione, eyes no less wide, couldn't help whispering, "Language, Harry." Neither said anything for a moment, standing awkwardly, wondering if they should laugh or cry. "I'm sure Headmaster is doing his best," Hermione said a moment later. "There must be so much on his plate. The Prophet is vilifying him too, you know."

"Right, and whose fault is that?" Harry asked with a shake of his head. "You realise that until this summer, Dumbledore held three of the most powerful and prestigious positions on the magical side of the world, right? Chief Warlock Dumbledore. He had so much authority, you must wonder why he didn't stop Fudge from sending Hagrid to Azkaban. Why, when we, three school children, proved Hagrid's innocence, Dumbledore didn't use his position to bring Fudge on charges for sending an innocent man to hell without trial."

"No, Dumbledore was, and I bet still is, content with letting Fudge hold the most powerful position in the country even though it is certifiable he is unfit. Dumbledore doesn't want to oust Fudge. Because he knows if someone competent takes the office, Voldemort's return will be announced, and the war will begin in its earnest. Dumbledore doesn't want that."

He let out an explosive breath and turned away from his friend, his eyes tracking the mountain tops across the valley. "Don't get me wrong, I don't blame Dumbledore for wanting to keep the world sane for a while longer. A year of uneasy peace and shadow wars is a year innocent people will continue living. But I blame him for his inability to protect his students, protect me. I blame him for hiring Snape and keeping that bastard even though he is a spiteful man who loves the fear he invokes in his students. I blame him for making me go back to those hateful Muggles he calls my family, alone, scared and with no idea what's really going on in a war that has me in its centre."

He pinched his nose and forced back his irritation and anger and took a deep breath. Dumbledore is no god, Hermione. He is the further thing from that. He is a calculating man who believes having students tortured is a viable alternative than asking one of his friends — a group that includes aurors — to take on a teaching job for a year or whatever." He chuckled as he turned back to continue their trek, not wanting to continue the tiring conversation for long nor wanting to give Umbridge an excuse to torture him by returning late. "And he sure as hell doesn't care about me none."

"Harry," Hermione began but Harry didn't let her speak.

"Hermione, let's not discuss this anymore, please. I know my lot in life. I accepted there is no end to my pain and torture. I can barely see what's ahead of me, and what I see makes me want to go back, not forward." He exhaled a long breath and shrugged, refusing to look at his friend. "I am tired, Hermione. I am tired and in pain, and I just want to sleep. But when I do, I wake up sweating and screaming. There is no solace."

"Please, don't talk like that," Hermione pleaded in a small voice, the fear in her feeling like a thousand needles pricking his heart.

"This is not living, Hermione. This is surviving, and frankly, it is hard. I don't know how much I can keep at it. Something has to give at some point, and a betting man would scoff at my odds. I'm tired. Tired of the insults, of the pain, of the expectations. When there is no bright light in your future, you live in the present. Well, my present is filled with suffering and pain. I'm not sure I want to live in it."

Hermione didn't say anything, couldn't find anything to say. They walked in silence, Harry wondering if he was a serial killer in a past life to deserve this one while Hermione racked her brains for something to help her friend.

They were past the iron gates and almost at the grand entrance of the castle when the bushy-haired friend of the broken child spoke in a barely audible whisper, "Live for me?"

It was such a sweet sentiment that Harry couldn't help but smile. He placed a gentle kiss to her friend's forehead and whispered, "Who, do you think, keeps me going?"