Forgotten Moments
The Needle
Harry Potter has arrived at Hogwarts, proving he is indeed a wizard. The scar on his forehead proclaims him the Boy Who Lived. The Sorting Hat has placed him in Gryffindor House, showing him honourable and true of heart. But there is one more test, more important than any he has faced, or will ever face.
"Thank you for coming so promptly, Mr Potter." Minerva McGonagall considered the skinny boy before her and felt a slight stir of pity. What must be, must be, she consoled herself.
"if this is about being late for class..." Potter began, but she cut him short with a raised hand.
"This is not a disciplinary matter, Mr Potter," she said in a soothing tone of Voice, "I merely wished to speak with you in private."
Voice had rarely failed her, but this boy was something else. He reacted almost unconsciously, his lime-green eyes locking on hers. There was a blaze of power behind them that frightened her. Quickly, silently, she recited the Litany Against Fear, regaining her poise.
"Would you come here, please?" She gestured to a spot just in front of her. Potter complied, and she moved with a blurred speed incredible for a woman her age. The tiny needle was at Potter's neck before he could react.
"Don't move!" She snapped. "I may be old, but I can drive this into your neck faster than you can move away! This needle is poisoned, Mr Potter. Now Professor Snape will teach you about poisons in due course, but this one is very special. You see, it only kills animals."
"Are you calling me an animal?" There was anger in his tone.
"That temper will get you killed if you don't learn to curb it." Minerva warned him. "Now there is only one rule, Mr Potter. If you move, you die."
"You're working for Voldemort!" He accused.
"Bless me, no!" Minerva gave a short laugh. "Being a double agent is Severus' job. Now, then..."
She touched his neck gently with her little finger. She saw the twitch in his eyes, but his body never moved.
"Good, you may be human – truly human – yet. But that was only the first test. Now here is the next. Whatever happens next, you will not move. If you move, then you die."
"What's going to happen?" He asked hoarsely.
"Pain." She told him.
There is an art to the cruciatus curse. Any thug can just throw one and make somebody hurt, of course. The art lies in wordlessly building the curse from a mild cramp to burning, unbearable suffering.
Potter bit his lip to shreds. His nails dug bloody marks in his palms. The sweat drenched him from top to toe. But he never moved. Minerva finally released the curse and took away the needle.
"Enough, young human. You pass the test. More than pass it." She flicked her wand across him, cleaning him up and healing his self-inflicted wounds.
"What were you testing me for?" His voice was weak, but his will unbroken.
"The future." She told him. "Oblivius!"
He blinked, then gave her a shy smile. "That will be all, Mr Potter." She dismissed him.
Go, find your future, and in doing so, make everyones', Harry James Potter Atreides.
Then Reverend Mother Sextus Minerva McGonagall went back to marking homework.
Harry Dreams (I)
The pain in his head was growing steadily worse, despite what Hermione had done to hold the power back. But this was the last battle, and if he could only win this one, then it didn't matter if he died.
His friends, though, they shouldn't have to die, but they were. He'd already found Bill's body, hacked to pieces by axes.
He had tried to find Ron, and had finally spotted his brass armour and shining mirror helm. Ron's horse had been killed, and now three Grand Constables were riding down on him: Fenrir Greyback, of the Order of the Hound, Antonin Dolohov, Order of the Goat, and Walden MacNair who led the Order of the Bull.
Ron met their charge with consummate skill, sweeping his great broadsword in one cut that severed the forelegs of their horses and spilled them all to the ground. Ron proceeded to despatch Greyback in a very undignified position in the rear. Dolohov had ripped off his ornate goat-mask and was pleading for mercy even as Ron severed his head. MacNair had scrambled to his feet and taken a decent fighting stance, but the light from Ron's mirror helm dazzled him, making him shake his head and stay rooted to the spot. Ron ripped off the helm, tossing it aside.
"I don't need that kind of advantage to deal with the likes of you!" He growled. "Now let's see one of you make a fight of it!"
MacNair charged like the fierce bull of his Order. Ron side-stepped deftly, and let MacNair run himself through on the blade of his broadsword.
Harry tried to shout a warning, but the noise of the battle drowned his voice. He watched, helplessly, as a Goat cavalryman drove his spear through Rons' neck from behind. Ron turned and flung his sword point-first into the rider's face, giving as good as he got, then fell to the ground and died.
Harry turned away to see Neville leaping and charging his horse recklessly through the press. Harry realised he was desperate to reach his lover, Queen Luna. Harry also knew, without knowing how he knew, that Neville would win through to the palace, only to fall under the flamelance of a zealous guard.
Harry drove his horse on, the Legion of the Dawn around him, the pain in his head increasing. Ahead of him he saw a slender, mirror-helmed figure struggling madly as Dark Empire infantry pulled it from its mount. For a moment, he thought it might be Ginny, but then he saw her mirror-helm, with its distinctive white crest, as she charged into the crowd, hacking about her. But it was too late, and Hermione disappeared. The axes and swords of the Pigs and Vultures and Wolves rose and fell over her for several seconds, then someone held aloft a bloody, brown-haired head for a moment, before Ginny slashed the arm off.
Harrys' forces were thinning, but the Dark Empire soldiers were in disarray. The Orders were becoming mixed, and the warriors were uneasy when not fighting beside their battle-brothers. Still, it was only a matter of time before discipline was restored.
Then Kingsley Shacklebolt was at his side, his great double-axe clotted with blood and brains.
"It's time, Harry!" He shouted, "Show them our standard!"
Harry shook his head, confused.
"The Runestaff, man! Show them the Runestaff!" Kingsley grabbed at the cloth-wrapped bundle behind Harry's saddle and handed it to him. Finally comprehending, Harry ripped away the wrappings, revealing the short, black rod. Immediately the brightly-coloured geometric patterns of light began to play from the Runestaff. At the same time, a sensation of warmth ran down Harrys' arm. Some of his strength came back, and the pain of the Black Jewel receded.
"The Runestaff!" Kingsley bellowed. "We fight for the Runestaff!"
The effect on the enemy was immediate. They quailed, and many turned to flee. Then Harry saw Voldemort, directly ahead, in his snarling wolf-helm. Harry gripped the Runestaff in one hand, and the Sword of the Dawn in the other, guiding his horse forward to the last confrontation.
The Stranger
Dumbledore always maintained it was love that saved little Harrys' life. But even love needs a little help from an expert. A Doctor, perhaps?
The green flash faded, and Lily Potter slumped to the bedroom floor. Lord Voldemort shrugged. He had given the woman a choice, as he had promised Severus, but she had persisted in her folly. So be it. Now for the boy.
Harry was standing upright in his cot staring with bright-eyed curiosity. Not at Voldemort, but past him, at the bedroom door. A flat, harsh voice with a Northern accent said; "Leave the boy alone."
Voldemort spun. A tall man stood in the doorway, a muggle, by his jeans, sweater and leather jacket. His face was thin but strong, with a prominent nose and unflinching eyes. He spoke again, not pleading, but ordering. "Leave him alone, Tom, and get out of here. You've done enough. Do any more, and the consequences will be worse than you can dream of."
"How dare you address me so!" Voldemort hissed. "I am Lord Voldemort to such as you, muggle!"
"I'm not a muggle." The man said matter-of-factly. "I'm the Doctor. You are Tom Riddle, or Lord Voldemort. Which you are depends on you."
He moved into the room. "You came here because of a prophecy, right? Now, you see, the future is something I know about. Some things are always going to happen, you can't stop them or change them. But other things, they depend on choices, choices made by people.
"This is one of those things, Tom. You can walk away from this house now, and something will happen that changes everything. You can mend your life, become the man you should have been, and die honoured and beloved. Or you can do what you came here to do, and die humiliated and hated at the hands of that very boy. Your choice."
Voldemort laughed harshly. "The Doctor? The meddler? The righter of wrongs and meter out of justice? Here to save this child?"
No, Tom," the Doctor shook his head wearily, "I'm here to try and save you. But I won't let you kill that boy."
"Then I'll kill you first!" Voldemort screeched. "Avada Kedavra!"
When Sirius Black reached the ruins of the Potter house, his first and only concern was to get Harry clear of the rubble and see that he was all right. So he never heard the odd roaring, whooshing sound in the nearby woods.
In the TARDIS, the Doctor shook his head sadly. Casting the Killing Curse at a TimeLord was bound to have unforeseen consequences. It was a shame that the boy had been scarred, but that was part of his destiny. As to Voldemort, his horcruxes would stop him dying, but they wouldn't bring him back to life either, not for a while. The stage was set, and the tragedy would play out. Tragedy, after all, is about the fall of great men, and evil as he might be, Tom Riddle had greatness in him.
Harry Dreams (II)
Harry was weeping as he tugged the black blade out of Ron's body. Stormbringer had always coveted the souls of those Harry loved; first Cho Chang, then Ginny, now Ron. And like Ginny, Ron had sacrificed himself to the hellblade, to give Harry the strength he needed.
Harry flung the sword away. It did not clatter on the rocky ground, but landed as a body might land. Then it slid a few feet toward him and stopped, as if watching.
But Harry had no time to wonder at Stormbringers' behaviour. Nor did he greatly care. With Ron's strength coursing through his deficient veins, he raised the Horn of Fate and blew the third and final blast. The note was long, soaring, triumphant, though Harry himself felt no triumph.
Then as the note faded, something appeared in the sky. A gigantic hand, holding a pair of silver balances. As Harry watched, the balances swung up and down for a moment, before settling in perfect equilibrium.
"Well, that is something, at least. If it's an illusion, then it's a reassuring one." Harry mused.
Then the Black Sword rose from the ground and swooped down on Harry.
"Stormbringer!" He yelled. Then the sword plunged into his chest, his blood sprang out and covered the blade. He felt himself, his whole personality, being drawn into the sword, and knew that part of him at least would never die, but would remain forever trapped in the blade, along with all the others, friends and foes alike, that he had slain.
Harry Potter, last of the Bright Emperors, cried out, then crumpled to the ground. For a moment, all was still, then something like a thick, black smoke began to curl out of the sword. It rose, and curled and writhed until it formed a manlike figure that stood over Harry's body. Tall and slender, with hairless head and a noseless, ophidian face, it glared at Harrys' body with mad red eyes and spoke in a high, cold voice.
"Farewell, friend. I was a thousand times more evil than thou!"
Then it launched itself upwards, into the sky like a spear, laughing mockingly at the Cosmic Balance. The last, necessary manifestation of Chaos in this new world.