Bonds of Affection

When Harry emerged at Hog\'s Head, the hostess looked at him in disbelief.



“Harry Potter,” she said incredulously. “What brings you here?”



He gave her a crooked smile and flashed his Gringotts card at her.



“Private Room, hypnotic gin, pumpkin juice, and don\'t bother me,” he demanded. His money spoke for itself, and she nodded in acquiescence.



In a dark, grungy room, Harry mixed a drink, leaned back in his chair, and put his legs up on the table. He felt oddly calm, given all that had happened. He had spat in his Master\'s face, he had defied the strongest slave-bond in the wizarding world... the slave-bond that would likely kill him within a few days – but he could not care less. He drank quietly. His stomach was virtually empty – he had barely eaten anything during his dinner with Lucius and Severus – and alcohol hit him hard, setting his innards on fire. His mind was in a daze, but he welcomed the feeling of vague disorientation. Better that, than...



He sniffled a little, and cursed under his breath.



He had promised Dumbledore he\'d come to him in case something went wrong – but he had no intention of doing so. Dumbledore had known the truth... the reason for Harry being drawn to Severus ... and he still let him drink the bloody potion. Dumbledore was the last person Harry would go to.



Harry opened his trunk and surveyed his belongings. His Invisibility Cloak, the Hyppogriff Feather, the Marauders Map, and his family photos. He pulled out a parchment and a quill, and jotted down a note. He was leaving everything he had to Ron and Hermione. Hopefully the Invisibility Cloak would come handy in battle...a battle he would never live to see.



He opened the photo album then, and stared at the pictures of his parents. In those pictures, their arms were holding them, and they were smiling kindly, at each other, and at him.



“I betrayed you,” he said to his mother. Ache gripped him as he stared at her serene, kind face. She died to save him... He wished she had just moved aside and let Voldemort take him then. He loathed himself, utterly and completely, for giving himself to the man who had used her death to preserve the soul of her murderer. The memory of sex and intimacy with the man made him physically nauseous, and wistfully nostalgic at once. “Sorry, mom,” he murmured contritely.



He had nothing to say to his father. Severus had called James Potter a swine once. Harry smirked unhappily. Severus Snape had a point there, he thought with grim amusement. His father had taunted and bullied Severus back in school... and most likely it was because of him that Severus Snape became so embittered and angry, and joined Voldemort, finally bringing death to the Potter household. Still, James Potter was his father, and Harry was not about to curse his memory.



Harry finished his drink in a quick gulp, feeling slightly dizzy, and mixed another one, putting more gin than juice in it this time. He sipped again, shut his eyes, and sighed tiredly. He wasn\'t sure how long he sat nursing his drink; but suddenly, he felt a movement across the table from him, and opened his eyes. A woman who looked vaguely familiar sat across from him, sipping firewiskey right out of a large bottle.



“I asked for a private room!” they blurted out at the same time – and then, they both laughed drunkenly together.



“Professor Trelawney,” Harry giggled.



“Harry Potter,” she said with a hesitant smile. “My favorite student ...”



He glanced at her briefly and snickered. “Aww, I\'m only your favorite, cuz you get to predict my death every year,” he laughed and hiccuped.



She snorted at that and sipped from the bottle.



“You know, you shouldn\'t drink to improve your self-esteem,” Harry said seriously, as if lecturing a first-year student on dangers of underage Apparating. “If you drink yourself stupid, you are just letting the likes of Umbridge get to you ...”



“She doesn\'t need to get to me,” Sybill Trelawney said suddenly and belched loudly. “I\'m a fraud. No better than a squib, really. I know the theory, but .... Divination just doesn\'t agree with me. Three hundred and nineteen prophecies I uttered, Harry Potter... Three hundred and seventeen of them were utter gibberish and nonsense.”



“Meh,” Harry shrugged. Two out of three hundred and nineteen isn\'t bad.” He sipped his drink slowly and luxuriously, feeling his disorientation increase every moment. He gazed into his teacher\'s face, and her dark eyes stared back at him, appearing to be absolutely enormous behind the huge glasses she was wearing.



Holding his gaze, she spoke suddenly. Her voice sounded deep and unfamiliar, as she uttered the words with agonizing slowness:



The bonds of affection are patiently wrought,

Through them, he draws the twin he had fought.



Through them, he ensnares the traitor\'s groom;

Immortal hope he seals in a tomb.



Yet, life eternal, for flesh, is a lie.

Seven times born, once he shall die.



Whilst just above the heart of gloom,

Lies trace of fire, in wood entombed.





He stared at her in disbelief.



“Professor,” he said quietly. “Are you.. alright?”



She sat up with an abrupt jolt, as if snapping out of a trance.



“Did I just... say... something?” she asked hesitantly. She sounded almost sober.



“A mouthful,” Harry confirmed gravely. He reached for a parchment and a quill, and jotted down the words while they were still fresh in his memory. She was watching him with dread.



“I am quite certain I didn\'t say anything,” she said with a tremor in her voice. “Maybe I should stop drinking...”



“Maybe,” Harry agreed easily. “But don\'t give up on Divination. You have a gift.”



She picked up the bottle and fled the room quickly, without looking back. For a moment, Harry wondered if he had really seen her, of she was just an alcohol-induced hallucination; but the lines of poetry he had scribbled on the parchment stood as a testament to the reality of their encounter.



This last prophecy was easy enough to understand, he thought. Harry was the “twin” that Voldemort was seeking, and Snape\'s lover, “the traitor\'s groom”. He was drawn by Voldemort through the bond that he had created between him and Severus. “Seven times born” was Voldemort, who had attempted to ensure his immortality through his seven Horcruxes. However, Voldemort would not live forever, because his Horcruxes would be destroyed. All of them. Harry would die, and be “sealed in a tomb”.



He grinned sadly. He\'d come full circle, he thought. The first prophecy of Sybill Trelawney did say, “either must die by the hand of the other.” Him being a Horcrux, he knew he had to die in order for Voldemort to be defeated. Somehow, he had envisioned dying in battle, or perhaps facing Voldemort one-on-one, in a proper wizard duel... not drinking himself into oblivion while the imperceptible, unrecognizable, intangible, insidious slave-bond, established by Voldemort, killed him for defying his Master. But then again, perhaps that was a fitting end for the “savior of the wizarding world” – to die as a runaway slave, alone, in a grungy bar, taking the piece of Voldemort\'s soul to the grave with him.



Harry finished his drink, slid off the chair, sprawled on the floor, and reached out to the bottle with his hand. He drank the rest of the gin straight from the bottle, setting his entire body aflame, and then, shut his eyes, allowing darkness to claim him at last. With his last waking thought, he welcomed death. Sybill was right, he thought bitterly. He would die, and be just “a trace of fire, in wood entombed”, but fortunately for everyone, in order to ensure the salvation of the wizarding world, he wasn\'t required to be more than that.