Stop. I know who you are. I know what you’ve done. You took my boy away from me! You left him in that place to die! You faked his death! We had a funeral. We buried him. And now you’re asking for my help? Go to hell.
They weren’t meant to be put together again. They were meant to remain in the silent shadows, keeping their secrets. Now, they’re exposed to the glare, reflecting my darkness like some grotesque carnival mirror. Harry was right. Nothing stays buried. Perhaps, not even me.