Chapter Text
Betrayal.
Friends, family, mentors─ they all betrayed him. When they wanted him to fight, he did. When they wanted him to endure yearly torture at the hands of his so called 'relatives', he did. When they wanted him to walk to his death, he did. He had been terrified, utterly and completely, but he went anyway; stood in front of a monster, allowed himself to die, then came back and fought him again, all because they wanted him to. And what did he get?
Betrayal.
After fighting, literally dying for wixen kind, all he wanted was peace, a chance to lick his wounds in private, to heal. He'd planned to rest and recuperate in Grimmauld Place, had hoped to be close to his departed godfather─ but no. As soon as Voldemort had turned to ashes, Harry found himself slapped in magic binding cuffs and portkeyed into a ministry holding cell, the chill of Dementors biting deep into his bones. The first time he'd seen Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, sweet Ginny who he'd been intending to marry as soon as he'd rested, he'd thought he was saved, that they were there to release him. But then he saw their faces, the sneers, the disgust.
If that weren't bad enough, they explained he'd been dosed on potions since starting school; ones to mould him, ones to keep him complacent, ones to compress his magic so he couldn't use too much. And love potions. Love potions to make him fall for Ginny, loyalty potions to keep him from thinking about anyone else, suppressant potions to both stunt his maturity and puberty despite looking like he'd gone through it.
At that point, they didn't even need the cuffs.
Harry didn't notice when they left. Nor when he gained a new guest, and said guest pushed something discreetly into his pockets, then vanished. He only noticed when he suddenly felt clear headed, because that was also when he found himself back at the nightmare inducing Veil.
"Sirius..."
His voice was hoarse from disuse but the word was clear, ringing in the sudden silence of the cavernous room. Only then did he realize he had an audience, and that he'd interrupted Kingsley Shacklebolt. The man had been reading off his supposed 'crimes', shooting him wary looks.
"... -ow we condemn this prisoner to execution by Veil. If you would, please, have your wands ready while I remove the cuffs?" Kingsley's voice preceded a rustling of cloth, the static feeling of hostile magic in the air prickling along his skin, and Harry didn't fight, didn't react past a couple slow blinks.
The last thing he heard was a soft, sweet voice, dreamy and yet filled with power, tainted with regret, saying, "I'm sorry, Harry".
Then everything went black.