Enough to not return again

"I... have no idea," his mother said, frowning slightly. Her eyebrows scrunched together, and a look at his father showed a shared confusion. Harry looked around again. The mist was changing around them, solidifying and taking shape, until the three of them were standing in a large, open space. There were benches behind and in front of them, and further on Harry could see more platforms. More, because looking down– yes, they were on a platform too.

"I think," he told his parents, "We're in King's Cross Station." He frowned. "If it was whiter, and cleaner, I guess." His parents looked around. A small smile crossed his mother's face. His father had his head tilted back to see the roof, and Harry looked up as well.

Then out of the corner of his eye, Harry spotted another splash of colour, standing out in the blankness of the rest of the station. He started towards it when a hand landed on his arm. When he flinched his mother quickly pulled her hand back. Her eyes were pained when she looked at him. "We'll go together," she said, and a warmth bloomed in Harry's chest as they moved to stand on either side of him.

The three of them walked quietly towards the thing. His parents palmed their wands, and for a moment Harry regretted not having his own wand with him.

It was a baby. But the ugliest baby he'd ever seen: pale and spindly, its face was squashed flat, and its eyes were a blood red that, when he looked at them, had Harry certain he'd seen them before.

"What–" Harry swallowed, both repulsed by the baby, and disgusted he was trying to avoid such a pitiful thing. He tried again, "What is it?"

His father turned to him, and crouched so he was Harry's height. "There are a lot of things you learn when you're dead, Harry," he told him. His eyes were clear hazel, and fixed intently on him. "Some people don't want to die, and will do anything to avoid it," his father said. "They'll use elixirs and rituals to stay alive, but at a great cost to themselves."

"James," his mother sighed, and Harry turned to her. "You're avoiding the point." His father sputtered for a moment before deflating. She also crouched to his height and met Harry's eyes.

"Voldemort's tried to escape death," she told him, serious. "He's used Horcruxes, a foul magic that involves splitting your soul through murder and sealing it away." Harry shuddered at the thought, and his mother nodded. "It is terrible," she agreed, "But he did it anyway. On the night he died, he wanted to use your death to make a Horcrux."

"But he didn't?"

"No," she sighed, "No, he did, but it didn't go as planned." Her eyes flickered to his forehead, and Harry self-consciously brushed his hair over his scar– his scar. He felt sick.

"What– there's part of his soul in me?"

His parents looked at each other, and chuckled weakly. "I always knew you were a quick one," his mother said. His father looked fondly at him. He reached, making sure to telegraph his movements, to ruffle his hair. It was something familiar, even though he couldn't remember it happening before. Harry leant into the touch.

"Not quite," his father said, and moved his hand to point at the baby under the seat. "That was the horcrux in your scar. It's not part of you anymore."

Harry took a moment to let that sink in, shoulders easing. He looked back at the baby Voldemort; it weakly tried to wave a fist, but didn't have the strength. "Is there anything we can do?" he asked, because there was nothing scary about this baby. It was only something to pity.

his mother gasped wetly, and he looked at her, alarmed. Her eyes were wet, and she drew him into her arms. "You're so good, Harry," she said thickly, "So good."

His father's hand was a comfort on his back, and they stood there for more than a moment, taking comfort. When he shifted back minutely, both let him go without protest. All three of them had wet eyes as they looked back at the baby.

"No." his father's voice was solemn, but held a note of finality,. "There's nothing we can do."

They stood watching the baby for a little while longer, before continuing to walk down the platform. The surroundings remained the same blank white, the benches placed at regular intervals. They never came to the end of the platform, even though there surely must be one.

After a long while walking in silence, Harry asked another question. "What now?"

His parents looked at each other, and they led him to a bench nearby. Sat between them, he spared a moment to wonder if this was something they would have done often, had they all lived. His parents seemed to have the same thought.

"I'm dead right?" he asked his parents, as the silence stretched.

"Yeah, you are."

"So this is what happens after death?"

His mother sighed. "No, it's not. You're different than most, Harry," she said. "Because of Voldemort's Horcrux, you've got a choice."

Green eyes met green eyes. "You can go on... or you can go back."

Harry kept her stare, then turned to look at his father. He tried to drink in as many details as he could: the shape if his glasses, the curve of his jaw, the way his hair fell in a messy halo around his head. Then he looked back at his mother, taking in the length of her nose, the crease her eyebrows made as she thought, the gap in her teeth when she smiled, catching him looking.

He swallowed, and prepared to give them up. Somehow it was harder than he thought it would be. "Well I've– I've got to go back, haven't I?"

"No!"

His father seemed as shocked as the rest of them by how loud he was. He visibly controlled his volume when he spoke again, but the intensity was undiminished, "No, Harry. You don't have to, if you don't want. It's your choice."

Thoughts he'd suppressed, of staying with his parents, whatever might be waiting for them, burst to the front of his mind. Harry couldn't bring himself to ignore them again. He didn't want to.

"What if– what if I wanted to go on?" he said quietly.

His mother smiled sadly and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Well," she said wetly, "We're in King's Cross. I think we could get on a train."

"And where would go?"

"On," she said simply.

After a moment, his father also wrapped an arm around him, and they sat together, not speaking, for a long while.

It wasn't a surprise when a train pulled up to the platform. Not really. King's Cross was already beginning to fade around its sleek black engine as they stood. His mother and father stood next to him, not pushing him on, or holding him back. Harry reached out and took his parents' hands, and together, they walked onto the train.