The pressure on his scalp vanished as Lilith wedged her foot underneath his shoulder and flipped him over with unearthly strength. The back of his head smashed against the floor, and the impact knocked his glasses askew. Pushing with his hands, he clambered away, his heart thumping furiously in his ears.
"Go ahead and struggle as much as you can," Lilith said in a sing-song voice. "It will make this more enjoyable."
He bolted to his feet and ran as fast as his legs would carry him, casting his gaze around. When it landed on his wand, which lay in a shadowy corner, he lunged toward it.
The demoness blew past him at a speed that shouldn't have been possible. She leisurely picked up the wand, her tail wagging side to side, and with a toothy grin, spun it in her fingers. "Looking for this trinket?"
He recoiled, panting. Too fast, too strong—never mind putting up a fight, there was no way he could even escape her. He slunk backward, eyeing Lilith warily and expecting her to attack any second.
Something else caught her attention, however, and her cat-like eyes turned toward the entrance into the chamber. A scowl marred her pretty face, and black wings sprouted from her back, growing rapidly until they returned to their former size. She beat them several times, her crimson hair billowing out.
"Something powerful approaches," she said in a tone that wasn't quite as self-assured as before. Her eyes sought him out again. "You're in luck, little one. I'll give you seven years; to someone like me, it will be but a moment, but that's a long time for mortals, is it not?"
She tossed Harry his wand, then stalked over to the pile of ash that remained of Quirrel, craning her neck and sniffing at the air. Suddenly, she raked her nails downward, and the portal into a blazing desert reappeared before her, filling the chamber with the stench of sulfur. When she stepped in and the rift began to close, her voice drifted through.
"Wallow in fear and desperation... Suffering stains a soul in such exquisite colors."
The rift disappeared and the chamber fell silent. He braced against the wall, hardly believing he had escaped with his life.
A faint echo of hurried footsteps came, growing louder by the second, and his head pivoted toward the entrance. His mouth stretched into a relieved smile when Dumbledore appeared in the doorway, towering and furious. The headmaster paused at the threshold, then waved his pale wand to conjure a cool breeze. The keen eyes behind the half-moon glasses shifted from the Mirror of Erised to the scattered pile of ash to Harry himself.
Harry inhaled the now-fresh air and swayed on his feet; the relief was so overwhelming it was making him lightheaded. He stumbled forward and collapsed into Dumbledore's arms, the august wizard somehow having crossed the vast chamber in time to catch him. Dumbledore said something, but Harry's head was spinning and there was a whooshing sound in his ears. Darkness crept across his vision, and he welcomed it gladly.
****
Harry lay in bed, feeling groggy and sluggish. The Mirror of Erised, the Philosopher's Stone, Voldemort... Lilith. Here, in the airy, sunlight-filled hospital wing, it all seemed like a dream.
How he wished it were only that.
He lifted his trembling left fist, lowered it to the blanket, then lifted it again. Slowly, reluctantly, he unclenched it. There, in the middle of his palm, was the cursed mark the demoness had given him. Pale, faded, but undeniable.
His breath quickened. Leaning over to the bedside table, he scrabbled for his wand and aimed it at his palm.
"Scourgify. Scourgify. Please, go away, please. Scourgify. Scourgify. Scourgify."
Soapsuds moistened the bedsheets as he scrubbed his palm raw, yet still the mark persisted.
"Scourgify! Scourgify! Scourgify..."
Splotches of red dyed the soapsuds. His voice cracked, and he furiously wiped his teary eyes with the back of his hand. Tossing his wand aside, he fumbled for his mother's necklace, and with shaking hands, he ripped it off his neck and flung it as far as he could. It clattered to the floor, but as distant laughter rang in his ears, he knew that it wasn't enough.
Seven years. His days were numbered.
****
Harry dithered, his gaze darting around the hazy King's Cross station. A small distance away, the raw-skinned creature—the thing he instinctively knew to be a part of Voldemort—continued to thump and wail. At his side sat Dumbledore: silent, content. Perhaps even proud. He had said all he wanted to say and was now waiting patiently for Harry to make his choice.
And still Harry wavered. As he gritted his teeth, telling himself that he had to go back and—and finish the job, something rumbled in the distance. He turned his head and beheld a familiar steam train pull into the station, decelerate with a squeak of brakes and clangs of steel, and come to a graceful stop before the platform.
Harry gaped at the scarlet carriages, oddly sharp against the ethereal surroundings, then faced Dumbledore. "If I board it, will I be... free?"
"Free of all earthly burdens and concerns—but also pleasures and delights that only the living may revel in." Dumbledore looked upon him kindly. "Are you certain that is what you want, my young friend? Think of those you would be leaving behind."
"I am," he said curtly.
Emboldened by his decision, he rose to his feet and strode toward the train. Behind him, Dumbledore spoke urgently, trying to talk him out of it, but he didn't listen. He hardly dared to believe it, but here was a ticket out of the existence he had condemned himself to.
He marched up to the sliding doors and stared expectantly. When nothing happened, he wedged his fingers between them and attempted to pry them open. "C'mon!"
"How peculiar," Dumbledore mused, coming up from behind. "I would have thought, with your soul no longer corrupted by Voldemort's horcrux—"
"Open them!" He scratched his left palm. Was it just his imagination, or was there a whiff of brimstone in the air?
Dumbledore raised his bushy eyebrows but approached obediently. The doors slid open for him, and with a curious look at Harry, he stepped into the carriage.
"Was it waiting for me, I wonder?" the headmaster murmured. "Well, no matter. I urge you to reconsider, Harry. As long as you remain on the platform, you may return to your friends. Build a family and live a life free of madmen and prophecies that drive them."
It was tempting, but he knew better: as long as he carried the mark, his life, his very soul, was forfeit. He shook his head. "You don't understand. I have to—I have to go."
Bracing himself, he stepped over the threshold, then exhaled slowly. Just when he began to relax, a deep hum resonated in his bones, and pain lanced up his left arm. Crying out, he sank to the floor before an invisible force hurled him out through the ajar doors.
Skidding to a halt on his back, he squinted at the train. A whistle sounded, and the doors closed slowly, Dumbledore staring at him with shock and dismay on his lined face.
"No," Harry moaned, feebly extending his left hand. The mark on it was pulsing with angry red light, and he fancied he could hear gleeful laughter. Her laughter.
A blinding light bathed him, the pain in his palm growing unbearable—then, abruptly, he was lying facedown on the loamy forest floor, back in the real world, in the company of Death Eaters and their master. As he breathed in the crisp air, Dumbledore's last words echoed in his mind.
"My dear boy, what have you done?"