Consciousness floated as if submerged in icy water—numb, stiff, wrapped in a suffocating darkness so thick he couldn't even see his own hand.
Harry had no idea how long he drifted. He remembered only the final moment: lying atop Draco, his blood staining the fallen leaves a grim black-red—
and then, nothing.
Hadn't he died?
He tried to speak, but his throat felt sanded raw—dry, burning, unable to force out even a whisper.
There was no light. No sound. Even the air was cold, pricking at his skin like a thousand needles.
Suddenly, a faint sizzling noise crackled through the darkness—something burning.
Harry's nerves tensed. He tried to move, but couldn't lift even a finger. His body wasn't his. Only his consciousness remained, suspended alone in this endless void.
"Awake?"
A voice burst into existence—
not heard with his ears, but drilled straight into his mind. Hoarse, grating, tinged with mocking laughter.
Harry's heart tightened. The voice was unfamiliar, yet it filled him with a primal dread—like something dangerous was crawling toward him from the dark.
"Don't bother looking. You can't see me."
The voice crept closer. "This is hell. There's no 'form' here. Only darkness.
And pain."
Hell?
Harry froze. Then his heart clenched—
He was dead.
He'd died in the Forbidden Forest, together with Draco.
But what about Draco? Was Draco here too?
"Looking for that blond boy?"
The voice chuckled, clearly reading his thoughts.
"Forget it. He's not here. Hell only takes those with hatred in their hearts. And him… his heart's too 'soft.' He can't get in."
Too soft?
Harry remembered Draco kneeling, bleeding, still smiling as he asked, "Are you hurt?" Tears surged up—but in this absolute blackness, they didn't fall. They only burned behind his eyes.
"He died. For me."
Harry forced out the words, each one scraping his throat.
"Them… the Order… they killed him. And Dumbledore—his order…"
"Dumbledore? Ah, the old man with the spectacles."
The voice sneered.
"I know him. A lifetime preaching 'for the greater good,' while throwing others in front of his crosshairs. And the Order—shouting justice with blood on their hands all the same."
Each sentence struck Harry like needles.
He saw again Kingsley's solemn "we cannot defy the Headmaster," Evans raising his wand to cast the Bone-Shattering Curse, and Draco collapsing in his arms, blood staining his lips.
And from somewhere deep inside—
hate.
A scorching, unfamiliar hate burst up like fire, racing through every corner of him.
"Hate them?"
The voice curled around him, coaxing, taunting.
"Hate how they used you as a Horcrux? Hate how they killed the one who protected you? Hate how their 'righteousness' is nothing but selfishness?"
"Yes!"
Harry's roar tore free at last, echoing in the dark.
"I hate them! I hate Dumbledore! I hate Kingsley! I hate the ones who killed Draco! I hate all of them—every last betrayer!"
"Hahahahaha—"
The voice erupted into manic laughter.
"Good! Good! Hate is perfect!"
Harry panted, chest heaving.
Hatred coiled around his heart like vines, squeezing tighter, making even breathing hurt.
He saw Draco's final look again.
Heard I don't want you to die.
The hate sank deeper. If not for Dumbledore's order—if not for the Order's hunt—Draco would still be alive.
"But what's the point of hating?"
Harry's voice fell to a whisper, brittle with despair.
"I'm dead. I can't do anything. They're still alive, still calling themselves heroes…"
"Who said you can't do anything?"
The voice abruptly turned solemn.
"This is hell, yes. Many who fall in never leave. We old ones have been stuck here for ages."
Harry blinked, confused.
"But you—"
The voice stretched the word out, amused, teasing—
"are different. Your hatred is too thick. Thick enough to scorch through hell itself. I can feel it.
You can crawl out."
Crawl out?
Harry jerked upright, though his body didn't move.
He could see it in his mind—
the white walls of Malfoy Manor, Hogwarts rising under the moon, and the faces of those who had killed Draco, still living their peaceful lives.
"How do I get out?"
Harry asked instantly, a trembling spark of hope in his voice.
"What do I need to do?"
"Simple."
The voice chuckled again, dripping temptation.
"Hate, Harry Potter.
Let the hatred grow. Make it deeper. Sharper. Burn it into your bones. Carve it into your soul.
Remember how he died.
Remember how they hunted you.
Remember every betrayal."
"And then?" Harry asked.
"And then—"
The voice rose, wild and feverish.
"Then, when you crawl out, use your hatred to destroy everything! Drag down every last one who hurt you! Make them taste your suffering—taste Draco's suffering! Let them learn that betrayal and murder demand a blood-price!"
"Destroy…"
Harry echoed faintly.
The hatred surged, igniting like gasoline.
He saw Draco's cold body, his own collapse in the forest, the merciless faces of those who called themselves righteous—
and suddenly something in him turned sharp, vicious.
Yes.
Destroy everything.
Those who hurt him—hurt Draco—
none of them should walk free.
Dumbledore's order. The Order's hunt.
All of it must be repaid.
"Hahaha—yes! Exactly!"
The voice shrieked with joy.
"Make hatred your weapon! Your backbone! It will give you strength. I'll teach you—teach you curses that shatter bone and tear souls apart. Teach you to make your enemies beg for death!"
Suddenly—
A violent pain tore through his soul, as if a thousand blades sliced him all at once.
Harry wanted to scream but clenched his teeth instead, cold sweat flooding over him.
"This is lesson one."
The voice grew calm—cruelly calm.
"Pain is the price. If you want out—if you want revenge—you must endure. Hell gives nothing for free."
Harry said nothing.
The agony was monstrous, enough to make him faint, but every time he pictured Draco falling, pictured those cold faces—he pushed the pain down, crushed it under will alone.
He could bear it.
No matter how bad it hurt—
If enduring this meant leaving…
If it meant avenging Draco—
then the pain was nothing.
"Good."
The voice sounded pleased.
"Better than I expected. There's plenty of pain waiting for you—don't worry. The more it hurts, the stronger your hate becomes. And the stronger your hate—the harder your fist will fall when you escape."
Harry closed his eyes and let the pain surge through his soul.
In the darkness, he saw Draco again—
pale face, blond hair, blood at his lips, still smiling at him.
"Draco," Harry whispered, voice steadier than ever.
"Wait for me.
I'll get out.
I'll avenge you.
I'll make every one of them pay."
"Hahaha—yes!"
The laughter echoed wildly.
"Hate! Hate with everything you have!
When you crawl out, that day will be the day the wizarding world ends its good fortune!"
The pain continued.
The hatred burned hotter.
In that endless darkness, Harry was like an ember buried under ash—
smothered in agony, but gathering strength, waiting for the moment he would ignite and burn through the void, through everyone he hated—
through the wizarding world that owed him and Draco a life.
He didn't know how long he would remain here.
Didn't know how much pain awaited him.
But he wasn't afraid.
As long as he could get out—
as long as he could take revenge—
no amount of darkness, no depth of pain, could stop him.