Harry Potter :Diamond Heart

The pine trees melted into nothing, the sound of their needles, the whisper and touch of the breeze, the smell of the resin, all faded from thought.

A thousand inky black fragments screamed within him.

Their screams were not a sound. They whispered, howled, gibbered and cried without ever making a noise.

It was deafening.

One of them is not me.

He concentrated on each individual fragment, listening to the sounds within each shard of the broken mirror that was his soul. There were more different, distorted, reflections of himself than he could have ever dreamt. Voldemort had wondered if they were all the possible outcomes from the event of fracturing the soul, every in between from fully recovering, to never healing.

Harry sought desperately for one that was not a reflection of him, but something else.

They were all of him.

No.

He refused to accept that. The horcrux was here and he would find it.

Harry listened again, more intently, embracing each image of himself as they came, until, eventually, there was an image of himself that came with an echo. It was a cold-eyed, brightly smiling Harry, with tousled, messy hair, no different from a hundred others, but underneath it there was a susurration of something else, someone else. Red eyes gleamed behind green.

The horcrux had been a part of him so long that it was intertwined with his own soul, and even now, fractured and screaming as Harry's essence was, the horcrux clung to him rather than breaking free.

Out, he hissed at it. Get out.

He set himself and tore.

The creature of ice shattered, melting away before the torrent of agony his action had unleashed. Nothing had ever felt half so wrong as what he had just attempted, but it had to happen. The piece of Voldemort had to go. Harry steeled himself and ripped again.

Something gave, and the pieces screamed louder. Harry screamed too.

There was nothing outside of the terrible, unnatural torment. He could hear the pieces screaming, hear himself, vaguely, distantly crying out for anyone or anything. His wand had grown hot, so much so that that he knew it must be burning his hand, but he couldn't feel any pain but that of the tearing.

He could physically feel himself coming apart, splitting and lessening.

Something thick and sticky rolled down his face and he opened his eyes in shock.

In the reflection of Pettigrew's dead eyes he watched tears of ebony slowly crawling to his chin. They left inky trails down his cheeks and dripped heavily to the floor, spattering in poisonous hisses and then rising as a thick, swirling, black smoke.

For every tear the agony increased, bypassing what was bearable, what was not, and annihilating all coherent thoughts save one.

It has to come out.

The pain climbed higher still. Its shadow blotted out everything, obliterating any focus Harry might have hoped for. The writhing, ebony substance scattered and disappeared behind an explosion of white sparks that filled his vision.

It might have been better to die.

Suddenly the pain was gone and Harry was left on the ground, curled up into a ball, covered in dirt and surrounded by clawed, disrupted ground. He could smell the resin again, hear something that wasn't screaming.

For an instant it was bliss.

Then the pain returned, searing waves of it, all emanating from the cracked, blackened flesh of his wand-hand.

The slender piece of ebony was unmarred, but the entire inside of his palm and fingers were charred away. Harry glimpsed bone when he flexed his hand the crack stretched. He knew no healing charms, but hoped, rather desperately that Madam Pomfrey did.

It has to be fixable.

Madam Pomfrey had regrown his bones.

Cedric, he remembered, relieved, despite the pain. The dragon had hit hard enough that his landing had given him friction burns strong enough to strip the skin and muscle from his arm and side. Harry's hand was nothing compared to that.

Staggering to his feet he tugged his wand out of the ruin of his right hand. It came away easily, but the centre of Harry's palm came with it and a new wave of pain washed across the site.

Gripping it loosely in his other hand he transfigured Peter Pettigrew's body back into the rat he had spent thirteen years pretending to be. A weakly powered incendio set it on fire and Harry sent it flying far into the Forbidden Forest with a blasting curse. It would turn back to a body eventually, but Harry doubted there would be anything left to implicate him, if there was anything left at all. There were plenty of creatures in the Forbidden Forest that were unlikely to pass up an easy, free meal. He would have done more, but his magic was all but spent.

He swayed, instinctively putting out a hand to catch himself, but habit led to him extending his dominant hand and pain exploded from the charred flesh. He'd never really felt all that much remorse for Quirrell until now.

The hospital wing was too far to walk. Harry knew he would never make it in his condition, so he focused as hard as he could on the very top stair of the steps from the Chamber of Secrets, mustering what little of his magic he could find.

The world twisted back past him and he collapsed out of the stairs onto the still soaking floor of Myrtle's bathroom. The water stung, but Harry was grateful for it. The new edge to the pain was keeping him focused enough to walk and think.

He disillusioned himself with his left hand. The charm was nowhere near as effective as it normally was, tiredness, pain and poor wand movement with his weaker hand all reducing his prowess, but it would have to do.

It took him over a thousand steps to reach the doors to the infirmary and by the time he did the edges of his vision were darkening.

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