Till Death Do Us Part

“Any news?”

“No, I’m sorry. Nothing to report.”

“Thank you.”



“Has she woken up yet?”

“No Harry, I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”



“Anything new today?”

“No, Harry.”

“Okay, thank you.”



She wasn’t waking up. After being transported to what was left of the magical hospital, it took hours to convince the Healers to heal her. They had refused after seeing the mark on her left arm and it took a few shouting matches with the Harry Potter to convince them otherwise.

They had said the damage done to her body and brain from years of being tortured took quite the toll on her. They had never seen anything like it before. She might not wake up. If she woke up, she might be confused, brain dead, useless. She might not remember anything. They didn’t know how to treat her. They just had to wait.

To say Harry was completely distraught was an understatement. The Boy Who Lived was mourning the loss of so many great wizards and witches, celebrating because Voldemort was finally dead, visiting friends in the hospital, putting up with interviews from what was left of the Ministry of Magic all while dealing with the fact that Fidelity with was stuck in a bed with the possibility of dying.

The first time Harry went to visit the girl, it was a disaster. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going or what he was doing, he just took off with the words “I’ll be back” floating behind him. When he arrived at St. Mungo’s, he silently made his way to her room. No one questioned him, he was Harry Potter after all. No one knew he was going to visit her.

While making his way up to her room, Harry felt himself get sick. Fidelity was on the fourth floor, the floor for unliftable jinxes and incorrectly applied charms. Which meant she might never be fixed. Which meant she might stay like that forever. Or die. Or wake up a Death Eater. No one knew.

By the time he had made it to her door, he had given himself a headache and a large lump presented itself in his throat. He clenched the door handle, ready to face his fears and sort himself out. After a minute of wrestling with his thoughts, Harry’s hand fell off the door knob and he placed his forehead against the closed door. A clenched jaw signified held back tears and clenched fists signified his anger. Feelings of shame (for believing her lies), rage (because she betrayed him), sadness (she might die), regret (he should have known and helped her), and frustration (why couldn’t they fix her) bombarded his head.

Harry turned on his heel and all but ran from her room. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t face her. Because after all she did, after all that had happened, after all the lies, after everything -





Since then, he refused to enter her room. He’d find her nurses and demand answers from them, only to find that there were never any changes. She was still sleeping. It was terribly frustrating and he was sure he was going to bald from running his hands through his hair so many times. He’d always ask himself why do you care? and answer back with I love her. That question and that answer tumbled through his mind hourly and it made him agitated. He loved her. He absolutely loved her and hated himself for it. He hated her because he loved her. It was one big ball of confusion and it made him dizzy.

There was one day when a spark of hope lit itself in the back of his mind. A nurse had informed him that Fidelity had woken for a few seconds before falling back into her seemingly endless slumber. That wasn’t what gave Harry hope, no, it was what she said before going back under.

She had said his name. His. Harry Potter’s name left the chapped, pale lips of Fidelity Sariah. Which meant there was hope she would wake up normal. Not a Death Eater. From what the Healers had told him, the Death Eaters had trapped Fidelity’s “human” side deep within herself and hid it away, leaving an emotionless weapon behind. For years Fidelity had struggled with her inner self, and the Battle of Hogwarts finally broke her. Harry wasn’t sure how much of that was true, but, for a moment, it didn’t matter.

Because she said his name.



When Professor McGonagall approached him a few days later, Harry was stunned. She handed him something and wordlessly left, not without giving him a stern look. He wasn’t quite sure what her look meant and simply looked down in his hand, only to freeze in confusion and surprise.

It took him a moment, but it eventually clicked and Harry blinked.

Her memories.

He had her memories.

He had Fidelity’s memories.

He had her memories in a tiny glass vial.

He had her memories in a tiny glass vial, in the palm of his hand.

Harry ran his thumb across the smooth glass and stared at the white substance inside. His heart beat abnormally fast and he was finding it rather difficult to breathe. He felt dizzy, nausea, hurt, angry, scared. He closed his eyes and tightened his fist. He had to look, didn’t he? Is that why she wanted him to have them? This meant Fidelity was awake and actually gave Professor McGonagall permission to give them to him. Fidelity wanted him to look at them. That had to be the reason.

Would they explain why she did it? What would he see? What were they memories of? His mind spun round and round, if only to keep itself from asking the most important question. The one question he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to answer.





He slowly poured the contents of the vial into the pensive. Grabbing either side, Harry looked into it and took a deep breath. This was it. He was going to see Fidelity’s memories. He was sweating profusely and had the urge to turn back and forget the whole thing and just-

Harry closed his eyes and plunged in head first.