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A Journey Through the Past
The man grasped through the dust that lay about the forest clearing and held a handful before his mouth. "Lapidem inveniat," he exhaled. On his breath, the dust spiraled into the clearing, landing in a neat pile a few yards from him. He looked about and walked forward, holding out his hand. A light tremor was felt beneath his feet as a cloud of dirt plumed outward from the small mound. From it, a black stone flew into his hand and was quickly deposited in the pocket of his voluminous robe.
The clearing was familiar to old and weary eyes, though they had only caught a glimpse of it once, long ago, in his youth. There was no time to reminisce now, though, as he walked swiftly into the forest. In the distance, set upon an outcrop, was a castle, hazy now through a shimmering bubble, a shield of light and magic, that wobbled and distorted the dim sunlight like smoking oil. As he drew closer, his cloak whipped about in the turbulent air surrounding the barrier.
He murmured a name into the wind and drew back his hood, kneeling in the dirt. A small creature, a house elf, appeared to him, dressed in a tattered pillowcase and wearing a golden amulet far too large for his frail body. He spoke quietly with the elven being who, at the man's bidding, disappeared with a sharp crack. Up to this point the commotion made by the elf's disapparating would have sent the man fleeing back into the forest; but now he simply turned to the barrier and drew a wand from his cloak sleeves.
With a deliberate and steady hand, he hovered the tip of his wand above the shield. Swiftly, he drew back and slammed the wand forward like a hammer, intoning a spell. The barrier broke with a surprising suddenness and exuded energy outward with a loud bang like a massive popped balloon.
A clarion call sounded from the castle as the man rearranged his cloak about him, shrouding his face beneath the hood. The man started forward, ascending a hill as multitudes of black robed men appeared near him. He did not react beyond a quickening of his breath; for he knew that his cloak would conceal him far beyond the ability of any being or spell to detect. To the men investigating, they saw only a pair of bootprints an inch into the ground near the edge of their shattered ward.
The man continued upward towards the crest of the hill, a gleaming tomb made of marble before him. He murmured to himself, quietly dispelling protections he had placed himself upon the tomb. He paced around, placing an illusion upon the place. Confident his spell work would save him from detection, he surged forward upon the heavy lid of the gleaming sarcophagus, splitting it neatly and casting the pieces aside. His heart skipped as he reached towards the colorfully robed skeleton lying within, grabbing the ornate wand clutched in its hands. He stowed away both wands and turned.
Only a crack heralded his departure, sight unseen, from the grounds of Hogwarts. With him, he carried three objects. A cloak, a stone, a wand. All of them familiar; all of them worth a lifetime of consideration.
He reappeared in an apparently unused office, though the heaviness of the furniture and the height of the richly upholstered desk chair belied status. In front of him was a startled elf and three portraits set upon easels. He removed the cloak, revealing a broad-shouldered old man, stiffly postured, with long waves of gray hair falling on robes made of deep purple velvet.
"Potter," said a dark haired man occupying one of the portraits.
"Professors," said the man, Potter. He glanced at each of them in turn, all of them headmasters of Hogwarts past: Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, and Albus Dumbledore, who looked at him over the glint of his spectacles. Potter turned towards his desk, pulling out several papers, peering at them through round glasses of his own.
"Harry," interjected Dumbledore, "perhaps you might explain why we are here?"
"Ah, well," said Harry, "that is quite a long explanation. I apologize for any ill effect you might have experienced during transit. Hogwarts' wards are quite powerful, and your removal took some effort on my part."
"We are well, Mr. Potter," said McGonagall, "but what is the meaning of this?"
Harry sighed. "A miscalculation on all our parts. Or I should say on the part of Professor Dumbledore and I. However, yourself and Professor Snape are involved as well. You see, despite the destruction of his horcruxes and his destruction at the behest of the Elder Wand, Voldemort has, once again, returned."
"Impossible," Snape said.
"I thought so as well," said Harry, "if not for one element Professor Dumbledore and I had not overlooked regarding horcruxes and their destruction."
"They should have all been destroyed, Harry. The effect of basilisk venom is absolute," said Dumbledore.
Harry turned to the elf. "Kreacher, bring me the sword." The elf disappeared.
"Kreacher, Harry?" asked Dumbledore.
"The very same. Not long after the Battle of Hogwarts, I gifted Kreacher with the original locket his master had sought. It was stupidity on my part. Dark magic itself is hard to combat and I am afraid that the residual magic from the horcrux contained in the locket has given Kreacher unnatural long life. He has served me well, however," Harry said, gesturing at the portraits as an example.
Kreacher popped back into the office and placed a silver sword inlaid with jewels upon the desk.
"The Sword of Gryffindor," said Harry, "has many unusual properties. Being goblin-made, it imbibes substances that make it stronger. It also, however, imbibes magic and, as I have recently found, souls." Dumbledore's eyes fluttered closed. "When Professor Dumbledore used the sword to destroy the horcrux contained in the Gaunt's ring, the matter was simple enough: the enchantments upon the ring were absorbed, allowing it to become a receptacle in the same fashion Voldemort had intended for the ring.
"I'm sorry to say, Professor, that the piece of Voldemort's soul in the ring entered the sword."
"So you are saying, Potter," said Snape, "that sword is a horcrux of the Dark Lord's?"
"Was," Harry said, "was a horcrux. Any given horcrux is meant to contain only a piece of the creator's soul. It is unfortunate that three of Voldemort's horcruxes were destroyed using this sword; and, upon the destruction of his body, I believe the piece of soul housed within Voldemort entered the sword as well.
"The effect was not immediate. You see, whilst there were four slivers of Voldemort's soul within the sword, they were powerless and weak. The dark magic that allows horcruxes to exist at all was more powerful. For over a century, Voldemort has been stuck in limbo, contained within this sword. The protective magic that underlies the original enchantments on the weapon are an anathema to his own dark brand, so I imagine the experience was quite hellish.
"It is my belief that some time ago, Voldemort's mortal soul, the piece that departed his body all those years ago, felt remorse at having ever created the horcruxes. The horcruxes merged, restoring his power."
"So his spirit escaped the sword?" asked McGonagall.
"It would have, were it not for the enchantments you had placed upon the sword's casing, Professor. He was bound, unable to break the imperturbable charm that surrounded him. That is, until the sword's natural magic did it for him. The sword appeared to a Gryffindor in need a year ago."
"Probably another Potter," Snape said. "Why don't we already know about this?"
"A Weasley, actually," Harry said with a wan smile. "The reason you are all ignorant of this is because when the sword broke the enchantments that trapped it, Voldemort's soul, for lack of a better word, possessed Hogwarts. He inactivated all portraits within the school and began a series of defensive charms that have denied me access.
"It is by sheer dumb luck that no one was harmed. Though, as you can imagine, and as Professor McGonagall knows, the staff are infinitely more adept at evacuating the students since the War."
"And the faculty?" asked McGonagall.
"Were all present at the Battle of Hogwarts or children of the participants. The magic of my quasi-sacrifice was never broken, since Voldemort's death was incomplete, and still protects those who fought against him and their immediate descendants from his magic. Though..." Harry caught sight of blurred figures roaming across the foe-glass hanging on his door.
"Though, what, Potter?" asked Snape.
"The effect of power on dark wizards has always been understood as being attractive. So, you can imagine, as the most powerful wizard to ever have lived, Voldemort is attracting many skilled and deadly followers.
"We, my contemporaries and I, are old now, Professor. I say this with all modesty intended, but my friends and colleagues have never been able to match my power. I remain the only wizard capable of defeating Voldemort; and his followers remain capable of defeating those protected from him.
"We are being hunted even as I speak. The sword you see before you was retrieved at great risk to myself and others."
"Our retrieval?" asked Dumbledore.
"Relatively without danger. My spies report that just today, Voldemort conducted a ritual to grant himself a corporeal form. He is currently weak from his exertion. It is why I was able to break his charms, why Kreacher was able to retrieve you, and why I am currently in possession of the Deathly Hallows.
"It is my hope that your portraits and your wand, Professor, will be of assistance in finally eradicating Voldemort's soul from the Earth."
Snape sneered at Harry. "Very grand; but with what force do you intend to oppose the Dark Lord?"
"My own power, of course," said Harry, "and the power I wield. You are in an office adjoining the newly relocated Wizengamot chambers. I am the Minister in exile, Professor."
"Politics, Harry?" Asked Dumbledore, a wide smile on his face. "If you'll excuse me, you never seemed particularly adept."
"If it were politics that placed me here, old tutor, I'd more likely be the custodian of Voldemort's privy. I am the only office holder in the Wizengamot left alive."
In the next chapter: 90 Years Prior
"He entered to a great archway and a central rotunda through it. Arrayed around and stacked well into the dark above him were nameless, nondescript cells. Numerous torches bathed Harry in light; and it was then, through the chill in his bones, he realized that the great shadow that obscured the domed roof was, instead, a thousand dementors floating in solemn procession."