Sirius Black stares at the wailing baby at his feet. It has black, unruly hair and its mother's eyes, gleamed with tears. A lightning bolt stains his forehead. He cries and cries and babbles gibberish to people who can no longer hear it. And Sirius yearns, unexpectedly and overwhelmingly, for a future that will never come.

How will this baby grow up? Alone and misunderstood? Raised by people who will never understand his displacement, no matter how hard they try. Cheeks forever haunted by the events of this night, the death of his mother and father in the dead of a foggy October evening...

He deserves better than this. He deserves his mother's arms, wrapped around him. His father should teach him to fly. Teach him how to cast a spell, gift him his cloak; an heirloom.

Harry Potter deserves his parents' love. Because of Peter Pettigrew, because of Voldemort, he will not get it.

Sirius bends at the knees, arms held out to scoop the child up, to hold him close to his chest and cradle him. He will not get his parents' love, so Sirius' will have to do. He will gift him his own heirlooms. His own home.

And then he spots Peter Pettigrew, his anger drowns out his love, and instead, he follows him into the Muggle street, shouting.

And then...

Well.

You know the rest.

...

Harry is eight years old when he promises that he will never let anyone he loves be hurt like he is being hurt. Fists pummel his back and Harry wants to smash their faces into the pavement, show them they cannot hurt him without pushback, have them spitting their own teeth before the end of it.

Harry Potter wants to be a powerful, intimidating adversary. Immune to bullies. Able to protect himself and others. A threat.

He wishes to stand and fight, but hunger tires your bones and fear stiffens you. His arms are too weak; his will not strong enough.

Harry Potter curls up closer in on himself. Anger fills the hollow of his heart but he does nothing. He is in no condition to do anything else. And when you are Harry Potter, eight years old, there is no one to fight in your place. There is not a soul around to fight for you.

...

The night before exams, it happens quick. The dream must've lasted minutes, but it flashes through Harry's mind in seconds. A slideshow and not a movie. It is not any less heartwrenching. He gets bits and pieces and clips of audio, fading in and out: Sirius Black's sick, sweat-streaked face. Screaming. Voldemort's cold laughter, loud and booming; haunting. Orbs and orbs of prophecies clattering. A whispered challenge. Come and find me, Harry Potter, if you dare.

The fun thing about Harry Potter is that he's not one to back down from a challenge. His years of the ever incessant task of survival have hardened him. Turned his scrawny, battered build into something strong and tough; broad shoulders and bravery replacing baggy clothes and fear.

Harry Potter will not be beat. In Quidditch; in any fight; whether he picks it or not; any race to the finish. And this, Harry gets, is a race. He gets to Sirius Black fast enough to save him... or he is too slow, too weak, and Sirius Black dies. Sirius Black dies, and Harry Potter loses.

He wakes Ron first. "Get up," he tells him, harshly, his grip strong but not enough to hurt him. "We've got to save Sirius."

"Urgh... Sirius? What?" Harry stands to the side while Ron begins the all too long process of waking himself.

"Wish Dumbledore was here," he mutters, holding his chin in his hand. The most powerful wizard of his time would be a powerful ally, but fate has never favored him. "We'll have to figure it out on our own, though. The younger generation."

"Uh," says Ron, still not completely understanding the situation, slipping on his robe. "Are you sure we shouldn't bring some adult into this, mate?"

Harry snaps his arms to his side. "Not an option," he says, curt. "Any one of them could be under Umbridge's wing and I won't think for a second-- "

"Alright, mate," says Ron, rolling his eyes. "I get it."

I don't think you do, Harry thinks. But he loves Ron like he loves Sirius so instead he says, "Wake any of the boys you think are good fighters. Trustworthy, too. If they're not able to hold their own, then I will not risk their lives or their failure."

"Who are we fighting?"

"Voldemort." Harry's scar aches dully.

"Oh my fucking Merlin," says Ron, grabbing his wand from the nightstand. "I can't believe we're going James Formation against You-Know-Who. With stakes this high, we're doing the same old shit. Unbelievable." He laughs to himself, incredulous.

"This is the same old shit. Not just what we're doing." Harry understands the stakes all too well. He's fought like this before; toe to toe with someone much more powerful than him to protect Ron or Hermione or Luna, or anyone he loves. Toe to toe with strategy and a bold refusal to lose. Ron will act like this is all new, all different, but if you switch the names and places, they've done this a thousand times before. "So you gotta trust me," says Harry.

Although he has his doubts, Ron loves Harry like Harry loves Ron, so he says, "Of course," and heads off to wake up the other boys.

Harry poses himself at the end of the stairs to the girl's dorms. He bends his knees and jumps. The stairs fall to a slant the moment he steps foot on them, so he flings his body onto the wall, using momentum and just a bit of magic to make it to the top. He wobbles just a bit on his feet, then straightens his robes.

Hermione had tutted her head at him when, second year, he announced he was going to find a way to bypass the girls' wards. "It's impossible," she stated, not even looking up from her book.

"And gross, mate," said Ron. "What do you need easy assess to WOMEN for?"

Harry laughed, waving a hand. "Oh, you know. Shenanigans."

"I'm not into shenanigans, " snapped Hermione. "Honestly, Harry, it's a wonder you haven't gotten expelled."

"If you say so, Mione."

Harry had spent a week and a half slamming himself into walls and applying sticking charms to his shoes before he made it to the top of the staircase; a wide and unhinged smile painting his face, sweat dripping down his neck. "Look at me," he shouted. "I did it. Said I couldn't, didn't you Mione? Look at me now." I've won. Look at me, Mione; always rising to the challenge.

Hermione was not impressed. "Just don't abuse it."

"Of course," he'd said. "Who do you think I am?"

Now, rising to another challenge, he moves to involve Hermione in something she said she'd never do; Harry Potter's fucking shenanigans. He speed walks to where he knows Hermione sleeps and kicks her bed frame. "Up," he hisses. "We're going on a rescue mission and we need the Brain." The Brain -- the strategy; the smarts of any plan Harry makes -- is an essential constant of the James Formation.

Hermione, with a grumpy frown on her face, flings open her bed's curtains. "Do you know, " she whisper yells, "how late it is?"

"Not really," says Harry. "And to be honest, I really don't care."

Hermione's face contorts more. " Harry, you --"

"Yell at me later," says Harry, knowing she will. "We've got shit to do."

Hermione buries her head in her hands, sighing deeply. "You," she says at last, "have thirty seconds to convince me to come along, or I'm going back to bed."

"Deal," says Harry. "Not that I'll need that long, though. Voldemort's torturing Sirius."

Hermione blinks at him. "How do..." she stammers, "How do you know this?"

"One of my fucked up dream visions," he explains, shrugging.

"What if it's a trap?"

Harry admittedly hadn't considered that. "That's what we need the Brains of this operation for," says Harry. "We'll through ourselves head first into Voldey-trap territory if we don't have you. What do you say? Do you trust me?"

Hermione looks like she is going through all the stages of grief, but Hermione loves Harry like Harry loves Hermione, so he knows she won't say no. "Fine," she says, begrudgingly. "But only because you'll literally die without me."

"Wouldn't even doubt it," says Harry and he's not lying. "I'll get some of the girls that could be of use. I need you to figure out a way to get to the Department of Ministries."

"And to determine whether or not this is a trap, I presume?"

"You know me so well," says Harry, already walking away and scanning the beds of the girls, trying to remember who sleeps where. "And Mione?"

"What is it?"

"Remember," he says. "We don't lose."

...

Harry Potter does not like, appreciate, or tolerate being psychoanalyzed openly. Say what you will about him privately, or act upon your assumptions to his face -- well, Harry's not smart enough to tell and not suspicious enough to guess. But if you say the words "trauma" or "PTSD" or "abandonment issues," he is all, as they might put, defensive to outright aggressive. What do you know about him? You're not in his head; not a mind fucking READER. The fuck do you know?

But although Harry Potter does not want people psychoanalyzing him, and no one does it to his face... everyone does it. He is Harry Potter; the boy everyone has heard of and everyone knows and everyone cannot resist talking about. He's interesting. He's a fighter and a lover and his legacy as the Boy Who Lived is merely a building block.

So everyone talks about him. Makes their assumptions about the actions he takes; the fights he starts and why; his motivations; his posture and wording. Some are outrageous. Most are.

But some? Some are spot on.

Harry Potter, for example, says often he is not obsessed with family. "I am my blood line," he says. "Who would I be obsessed with ?" For someone not obsessed with family, he sure talks about family a lot.

There's a number of dynamics, constantly in play and constantly warping and changing. He is the eldest brother of some of his friends. The youngest of others. To most, he frames himself as a father.

(The James Formation fight style is named like it is for a reason.)

He is the older brother Hermione never had. He is the father to Ron, spouting the praise he never gets but does deserve. He is like Neville's dad, but different; compassionate.

And maybe that is why Harry Potter needs Sirius Black alive. Why he has latched himself so harshly to him. Because to everyone else, he is a cousin, a sibling, a parent.

To Sirius Black, he is closer to a son.

...

Hermione tells him that all the Floos in the common rooms are down, but that certainly can't all be. "Headmaster privileges," Hermione surmises. "She's got to want visitors -- even if she won't allow us them. That's our way out."

Ron frowns tightly. "That's not, uh, really a viable option, though, is it? It's not like we can just pop in there, say, Oh, hope you don't mind, can we use this? Thanks!" Ron shakes his head. "It won't work."

"What we don't ask for," Harry says, not in the slightest disheartened, "we take. "

Hermione picks up what he is putting down quickly. "We'll need a diversion."

Harry snaps his fingers. "I have just the person."

They have, in total, just over fifty Gryffindors, all ready to kick Voldemort's ass or assist in doing so. In them, there is Neville Longbottom. Neville Longbottom, who he greets like he has known him for a lifetime and not just a few years. He is not related to him, but he would be lying if he said that he does not look like it. "We need Umbridge distracted," he says, after explaining the rest of the situation. "And I know that you'd be good at that. Think you could grab some students and whip something up?"

Neville shines like a child on Christmas day; soaking up his praise like those plants he oh so adores. "Yes -- I mean, absolutely."

Harry pats him on the back -- a hard but endearing slap -- and starts splitting the students -- his troops, his army, his James Formation in action -- into two groups; diversion and assault. Neville will be leading the former the bulk of the students, rallying them by call of Fuck Umbridge and Fuck Voldemort, which is something that everyone seems to get behind.

"I'll tell some of the other Houses--" Neville begins saying, standing in front of the groups alongside Harry, Hermione, and Ron. Like he is one of them, and he is. He speaks on equal footing; like he is a war general among peers.

To this, Ron speaks for Harry: "Are you fucking crazy?"

Hermione glares at Ron -- the unspoken 'language, Ron!' hanging in the air -- but sighs. "Ron's right," she says. Her hair has been successfully tamed and there is no trace of tiredness in her stance or her voice. She's like Harry; ready always for whatever's to come. "Not everyone will be so prepared to turn against Voldemort."

"But they'll all be happy to do so against Umbridge, " says Neville. Her crimes are unbiased in at least some ways and he is no stranger to this fact.

Hermione blinks at him, blanking.

Harry grins, wide and feral. He catches the gleam in Neville's eyes and knows that even if he does not act like it, Neville is no coward. Neville is his blood. Neville is just like him. "Come on, guys. We'll be able to keep a secret. Just say we're trying to fuck with Umbridge and omit the Voldemort part."

To Hermione's continued silence, he asks Harry, " Come on, Harry. Do you trust me?"

And Harry loves Neville like Neville loves him, so he says, "Just don't fuck it up." We do not lose. We can't. Not here and not now.

And I trust you not to, Neville. Of course I trust you.

Neville cheers and takes to talking to the diversion-assigned students. He is ready for battle. "I hope," says Hermione, watching him, gnawing her lip between her teeth, "you know what you're doing."

I'm doing what I need to do. "Of course," he says. "Now let's win this."

...

Sirius Black's house is empty. Kreacher throws a shoe at him just as Harry pulls his head out of the Floo. "Told you," says Harry. Hermione does not look impressed.

"I'm still wary," she insists, arms crossed. "What if he's where Dumbledore is?"

"Then we'd have no way of knowing," says Harry, wiping the soot off his face. "Ergo, I have no fucks to give." He turns to his assault group; nine students, consisting of Hermione, Ron, Fred, George, Dean, Seamus, and a handful of buff seventh years good with wands. "You agreed, Mione; if Sirius isn't here, we go my way."

Hermione looks completely done with his shit. "Let it be known I oppose this completely," she says, but still hands over the Floor powder.

"I'll make note of it," says Harry, eyes locked on the Floo powder bag and not on Hermione's likely furious features. Though he can't see her face and she doesn't curse, Harry can tell she really fucking wants to.

He throws a handful of powder into the fire, taking a deep breath. "Alright," he says, quiet. "Let's do this."

Sirius.

I'm coming.

"Department of Mysteries; the Ministry!"

...

Sirius Black is not in his house. But he is not in the Ministry, either. "I am seriously this close to losing my shit," Harry states.

Ron, bless his heart, cannot help himself: "You mean, Siriusly?"

"Go fuck yourself," says Harry, but even he can admit it is a little funny.

Hermione scans the shelves of prophesies absently. She asks, "Are you sure this is the place in your vision?"

"Yes, I'm fuckin--"

"Wait," says Hermione.

Harry is just a little bit closer to losing his shit but asks, patiently, because this is Hermione and he loves Hermione, goddamnit, "What is it?"

She scoops the prophecy from its place gently. "It..." he says, holding it out. "It has your name on it."

Harry takes it, studying the faint yellow glow. The words secret weapon come to mind. He thinks of Dumbledore avoiding his eyes, avoiding him, and how the Order left him to his own devices for far too long. Now, Harry has his own Order. Surrounded by it, he thinks, viciously, Good job not telling me anything, Phoenixes. Good job on failing.

And then Lucius Malfoy and his merry gang of Death Eaters show up, and Harry thinks that for the Brain of this operation, Hermione was not very good at avoiding traps . No , Harry supposed, taunting Bellatrix with this apparently valuable, apparently desirable orb of KNOWLEDGE. Neither of us is any good at that, are we now?

...

Harry fights to fight and aims to kill. These people are people. They are Death Eaters for one reason or another, and that reason is not always vile -- is something forceful or coercive; a mistake in their youth they are unable to take back -- but that reason is not his problem. Sympathy towards these people trying to kill him, trying to kill his friends, is not his problem. Is not his role.

He fights to fight and fights to win. He also fights to protect. He casts a shield, providing cover to Hermione, as he runs, trying to get back to the fireplace. Huddled close to his chest is the prophecy.

It is valuable. It's probably why these enemies are here at all. His goals now include protecting it, protecting his loved ones, and figuring out what the fuck actually happened to Sirius.

He is tripped and hits the ground with a grunt. "Bellatrix," he hisses. He holds his wand out with his free hand, calculating the distance between them.

"Harry Potter! Harry Potter!" she cackles, jumping up and down. "My Lord will love that I've captured his other one and only!"

"I know you don't mean it like that," says Harry, "But that's really fucking weird, bro."

" Silence !" she snaps, sending a curse his way. Harry sidesteps it.

"Rude," he says. "But alright." He sends a curse her way, rolling to avoid the one she sends in response.

She suddenly falls to the ground with an oomph. Harry turns toward the entrance to the hall, where Dumbledore and his men have entered and have started fighting.

Among them is Sirius Black.

A fine, perfectly healthy, Sirius Black.

"Mione was right," muttered Harry. "She's never gunna let me live it down."

Sirius Black jerks his thumb behind him. "Get out of here, Harry! I'll take care of the psycho here, don't you worry."

Like hell. Harry Potter does not back away from a fight. "But--"

"Now!" He grabs Harry's shoulders and shoves him behind him, leaving Harry stumbling. "I've got a bone to pick with her. Have for a while. You get grudges, Harry, don't you? You understand them?"

Harry glances at Bellatrix. "Yes," he says tensely.

"Then let me deal with her. And get to safety. Alright, Harry?"

Harry holds the prophecy tighter. "Alright," he says. "But you've got to kill her, okay?"

Sirius laughs. He thinks Harry is joking. "Happily, Harry!"

Harry grunts, knowing it is Sirius, out of both of them, that is laughing. That thinks anything Harry's said is something to laugh at. But Harry makes his way toward the exit regardless; like a son directed by his father.

...

Harry watches with wide, bloodthirsty, angry eyes as Dumbledore stands in front of Voldemort. He curls around the corner, unable to move further into the corridor. Kill him, thinks Harry. He killed Cedric. He killed my parents.

If you don't kill him, I will.

"To think, Tom," says Dumbledore. He sounds sad. "To think you were so bright, so smart. And this," he gestures to the destroyed hall surrounding, "This is what became of you."

"I am nothing to be ashamed of, Dumbledore," snarls Voldemort. Harry happens to disagree. "I am the most powerful wizard to ever be... and the Ministry, the prophecy soon to be located. All of it will be mine, Dumbledore. To think this is what became of me? I am everything. I will have anything. "

"And yet," Dumbledore says, voice light, almost mocking, "You had to kill and maim to get it. I thought you were smart, Tom."

"I am smart!"

"I am sure," says Dumbledore, tipping his head. "If you say so."

" ENOUGH!"

Spells start flying. The skill -- the swiftness, the tact, the pure power in the room -- of both parties is hypnotizing. Dumbledore's hand moves so fast, it is a blur. Harry's wand sits in his hand, his stance ready to jump in if he needs to, if an opportunity presents himself.

He doubts he would do anything other than get in the way. Still, he hates Voldemort too much for Dumbledore to get his death all to himself.

But Harry Potter does not get to watch Voldemort die. Does not get to help kill him. Not only because Voldemort is not killed here, and right now, cannot die, and not because Harry Potter is a child who is strong -- who makes sure he is strong -- and angry, but that is not enough.

No. Harry Potter does not get to watch Voldemort die because he hears, from where he left his godfather fighting, the insane and cackled laughter of Bellatrix Black and the cries of pain from Sirius Black. He knows what it sounds like when you are losing ground.

He said he would leave Sirius to his fight, but Sirius is on Harry's team, and he refuses to let his side lose.

He leaves so quickly, he misses Dumbledore's head turning toward him, with pleading eyes and mouthed words; a silent plea to stay. To, just this once, let himself lose the battle. Because otherwise, it is a sure thing he will lose the war.

...

It happens in a few seconds, but, to Harry, it happens slowly. Sirius Black's pained, panicked face. A push; a shove; a spell cast too fast for the already tired Sirius to dodge.

A gleeful laugh.

A scream.

Sirius Black, passing through the Veil. His arm outstretched, fingers grasping desperately for something, someone, to save him. Harry's own outstretched arm; horrified face; a foot too far away.

A beat of silence.

Then, "I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!"

I killed Sirius Black.

And Harry, you see, is a natural leader. His friends followed his orders -- both the order to distract Umbridge and the order to kill Voldemort; to help him save Sirius. He has an army. People trust him because he is naturally trustworthy; follow him because why wouldn't they? He wears his heart on his sleeve and in his throat.

Harry Potter is a hero. He is a Gryffindor. He will do whatever it takes to save the day, to save his friends.

Harry Potter is a natural leader and his friends would follow him to the ends of the Earth. They, in a way, already have.

Truthfully, that is all fine. It's ideal. This is the Harry Potter this situation, and all situations to come, needs. It's how you end up with a world in which Voldemort is vanquished, in which a boy in love will die and live and everyone lives happily ever after. But Harry Potter is not just a leader. Not just a father or an older brother.

Harry Potter is a leader and a friend. He is a son.

His friends would follow him until the end of the Earth. And the only regrettable part is that he would follow them back.

Harry -- in that one moment before action, in that beat of silence and terror -- thinks that Hermione would tell him he has three, very simple choices.

He could follow Sirius Black through the Veil.

He could fight, kill, or maim Bellatrix Black.

Or. Or he could just leave. Leave Sirius Black to whatever the Veil entails. Leave Bellatrix Black to her victory.

But Harry Potter would tell Hermione, to that, that that's stupid as fuck.

Harry Potter sends a killing curse at Bellatrix Black, running through the Veil as he does.

...

Harry falls through the other side with a yelp. It was not a fall but a throw. He catches his breath, sitting on his hands and knees. Dirt rises in puffs around him, dusting his robes with the sickly yellowish color.

Harry raises his hands off the ground. He looks at them. They are bleeding.

He gulps and rises, slowly and carefully, trying his best to not let the pain distract him. Where's Sirius?

... Where am I?

... Where did that Veil lead?

There's men in suits of rosey velvet. Armed. But not paying attention to him. They look...

Harry raises his eyebrows, confused. And these uniforms -- and they must be uniforms; only Aurors hold themselves like that. They aren't like any uniform Harry's ever seen.

They're, these men, looking at one small group. Two guards are holding a man between them. Another man -- dressed differently than the rest; a suit of deep black... and, somehow, oddly familiar -- stands in front of them.

"-- Let go of me, you ghost-faced son of a bitch --" the captured man rants, his black, ratty hair bouncing around his face.

Harry's breath catches in his throat. "Sirius," Harry says, quietly. Sirius!

He's...

Captured. I have to save him--

But...

But who would I be saving him from?

"Um, Mr. President, sir," says one of the guards, pointing towards Harry. Harry curses. Fuck. They noticed me. "There's another one."

"Mr. President," the man in the suit, twirls on his heel. Harry squares his shoulders, wand gripped in his hands, ready, always, for a fight.

But then he stops in his tracks because he knows that face. "V..." Harry sputters. " Voldemort!"

A young Voldemort, from the looks of it. Slightly older than the Voldemort from the diary, but not much.

And another difference, between that Voldemort and this one, is that Voldemort is in the Ministry, fighting Dumbledore, and Tom from the diary is dead.

But the dead. The dead now walk.

He gifts a slightly confused expression. "Voldemort, Harry?" he says. "You must have hit your head hard in there, calling me by my father's name. Are you well?"

My father's name.

Why, Harry certainly feels like he's hit his head.

Why is Voldemort -- and it is Voldemort, it must be, it can't be anything otherwise -- being nice to him?

"I..." says Harry. Voldemort walks toward him. Harry's eyes glide over to Sirius. "What are you doing with him?"

"Oh," says Voldemort, so conversationally, like he knows Harry and knows Harry is not his enemy. "Your partner fell through the Veil with you. This man fell out; looking like him, but not acting like it. The suspicion is Polyjuice, but there's no way of knowing for sure until proper investigation is underway."

Voldemort stops in front of him. "But, don't worry about that. I'm sure Sirius is fine, I assure you. Are you, again, Harry, alright?"

Harry stands, frozen, staring at Sirius. Sirius has stopped yelling. He, too, has noticed Harry. "Harry?" he says. "What are you..."

Voldemort waves a hand behind him and, suddenly, though Sirius' mouth is still moving, no sound is coming out. "Ignore him," says Tom, smiling.

And that smile knocks Harry out of his shock. He raises his wand, quick, and shouts, " Avada Kevadra! "

But Voldemort does not die, even here. The spell does not even cast. The wand splinters and explodes in his hand. Harry's mouth drops.

No... No, no, no!

And Voldemort just looks confused. A little bemused. Unhappy, but not angry. Why isn't he angry? "Did you just try and use a wand to cast a spell?" asks Voldemort, laughing. "Like the movies?"

"I didn't-- I mean--" Harry's bleedings hands are now shaking. Wood splinters impale them. No. I can't... My wand... But he can't lose. He can't. Harry Potter doesn't. He just doesn't.

He scans the distance between them. Makes his hands into fists and takes a large, deep breath.

"Then again," says Voldemort, suspension leaking into his voice, "You do look different. Your robes are atrocious. And that hair... And you look... fatter."

Harry grits his teeth. "It's muscle !" he snaps, then lunges toward him, mouth open and wide, teeth bared.

But Voldemort grabs him.

He grabs his face. Harry, with his cheeks squished between Voldemort's fingers, just blinks.

Voldemort stares at him, wide eyes and a slightly open mouth. "Did you..." he says, confusion evident, "just... try to bite me ?"

Harry stares. And stares. And thinks, Fuck.

And then Tom sets his free hand on Harry's shoulders and says, blankly, " Crucio. "

Harry screams. He has no room for thought. No room for regret, or disappointment, or the realization that this is not victory. He does not think about Sirius's reaction. Does not see his face.

He doesn't know how long he was under for. It takes a few moments for him to realize he is out. His throat is raw and sore and his breathing comes in pants.

He's on the ground.

When did he get on the ground?

He glances beside him. Voldemort crouches, smiling slightly. His arms set so laxly on his thighs; his fingers dangling freely. His posture is so casual. So free.

Unlike, thinks Harry, me. It is mocking. It is meant to be mocking.

"So childish," says Voldemort, tilting his head. "You do look younger, too, on second glance. Now, Harry -- if that's your name -- are you ready to act civilized?"

Harry says nothing. Then he looks at Voldemort's dangling fingers and, in the moment Voldemort's eyes widen slightly in surprise, Harry lunges up, clamping his teeth around an appendage, biting off the front tip of his finger.