Harry sighed, letting his head loll back, again looking at the ceiling rather than meeting anyone's eyes. He couldn't meet their eyes for this confession. He didn't even want to make this confession. He'd understood, in the basic sense of the word, that was not normal. This was far, far behind the realm of normal. "They spoke to me. Actually spoke to me. It was like a song —the way my magicks sing. But stronger, older, wiser. There was a power there I still can't shake. Told me there were people who would kill for their attention and I should be honoured. Told me I can't escape my destiny otherwise everyone just —dies. Told me Death chose me as his warrior and that he's trapped and I have free him. Told me only then I can have my happiness. Told me I'm blessed —with their song; their words; their gifts; their moon. The moon hates me by the way. Thinks I'm an insolent brat. Anyway, so yeah. Quirrell has to die." 