Pursuant to the Berne Convention Implementation Act of 1988 and the Digital Millennium Copywrite Act of 1998, this work is copywrited 2007 with all rights expressly reserved by its author unless explicitly granted. No portion may be reproduced in any fashion without the express written and notarized permission of the author.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Harry Potter characters. All characters are creations of Joanne K Rowling, 2007, to whom I am deeply indebted.
Standard Disclaimer: This story may contain sexually graphic and explicit material and it is not suitable for minors. If you are a minor, please leave now, as it is illegal for you to be here. If it is illegal for you to read or view sexually explicit material in the community you view such material, please leave now. This story and characters are purely fictional and any resemblance to events or persons (living or dead) is purely coincidental. If you are offended by sexually explicit stories, please read no further. These stories are just that, stories, and may or may not reflect the opinions of the author.
Right, now my own words, not the legalese I've shamelessly copied and pasted above. There are only so many situations and new ideas one could dream within the H.P. universe; almost everything has been written about in fan-fiction, and I couldn't possibly hope to read and know all fan-fics posted on the web.
Therefore, I claim no property over these ideas and adventures, nor have I intentionally copied or appropriated material from other writers. Some concepts incorporated in this story might be property of better writers, and I apologize for not crediting them because I truly couldn't track all of them down...
Kindred Rivers
Chapter 1: Call of the Forest
They are gone. They aren't gone. They are there. They aren't there. He could summon them, he could talk with them. He couldn't summon or talk to them. Not any longer, not without the stone. He's here. He isn't here. Has he ever been here?
Flowing, unbidden images, clear as a nurturing Summer day and terrible as a devastating Autumn storm invaded his mind. The dead heroes, the living villains. The losers. He lost. He won. He didn't really know.
Blood. Dried, washed or caked upon the walls and the floors. Shards of metal, flesh and spirit lay everywhere Harry Potter looked. It vindicated him. It oppressed him. He was going mad.
Was he bred for a purpose? Chosen by destiny? Where does freedom fit in all this? He never knew freedom. He always knew freedom. It was that which he couldn't have, that which he longed for and ultimately blamed Voldemort for denying it to him.
Tom Riddle. He sought freedom from death, yet never freed himself from the world itself. Only death sets you free.
"Death," the raven-haired man repeated as he wandered the halls of Hogwarts. The castle denied him rest. It denied him choice and freedom.
He kept searching for it. The perfect spot. He kept roaming the halls, visiting the classrooms, haunting the secret passages and traipsing the stairs up and down. Harry couldn't find peace.
"Death," he whispered again. And again. And again when his fingers ran over a blood stained tapestry.
People eventually stopped paying attention to him. Ginny had left along with Ron. Luna and Neville had left as well. Hermione had left. They had once dragged and apparated him somewhere, telling him about his need to be there. Somewhere he didn't remember, for something he didn't understand.
Harry had apparated back to the gates of the school at once. Though the gates hadn't granted him peace.
People stopped trying to speak to him, to make his naked, glassy eyes focus on their faces. He didn't need his spectacles any longer either. The blurs had no faces. He didn't want to see faces. The faces couldn't understand why, how or when. "Harry was fine," the anonymous whispering voices said, "but then, all of the sudden, he's gone mad!"
It wasn't sudden. It was deliberate, a conscious choice, a glimpse of freedom. Harry craved for more of it.
Perhaps the centaurs could do it for him. Mars had risen and fallen, after all. Yes, they might do it for him. Unless the castle agreed and granted him a better place to rest. He found a shoelace on the floor, lonely, orphaned of both shoe and twin. Just like George. Just like Teddy. Just like himself. He found a scrap of parchment on the floor, torn from a book that was now forever incomplete, just like Hogwarts. Just like himself.
Harry couldn't sleep, he needed to find the perfect spot. It was there somewhere. Only death sets you free.
He recognized Headmistress McGonagall's anguished cry. He'd heard her scream for him from Hagrid's arms weeks ago. He never told her how much he loved her too.
"Love," he thought, "such a wonderful and terrible thing."
A tug of magic interrupted his contact against the cold marble floor. He missed the floor. How did she find him? It was impossible to be found by chance; someone ratted him out. Kreacher perhaps. He'd need a word with the senile house-elf.
His perfect spot was ruined. Violated, desecrated, ruthlessly invaded. Freedom was denied to him again.
The bed he was soon levitated to was much too comfortable, the bedsheets much too clean and the pillow much too soft. He didn't like it. The cold marble floor was better. He was forced to drink, and to lay on his back, and relieved of his clothes. He was told to rest and to feel better; he'd missed being told what to do. Harry could always find a perfect spot later anyway.
As he drank one vile potion after another, Harry recognized blood-replenishing and dreamless sleep draughts, among other foul-tasting concoctions worthy of Snape himself. Him, he didn't look forward to seeing so much.
"Sleep well, Mr Potter," someone said and his world faded to black.
It could have been hours, days or weeks later. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that the sun was in his eyes and he didn't like it one bit, so he tossed and turned, annoyed at the golden chariot for reminding him he was here, when he had no right to be. Harry grunted "go away!" and pulled a pillow to his face, attracting the attention of the Hogwarts Healer, Madame Pomfrey.
"Up Mr Potter, up I say!" she commanded and pulled the covers out of him.
A conditioned reflex to protect his dignity made him snap both arms forward and either hide his private bits or pull the cover up again. He had to settle for covering himself with both hands.
"Nothing there I haven't already seen, Mr Potter. Now get up and get dressed, the Headmistress awaits you in her office."
Grumbling about this being the first time Madame Pomfrey ever rushed him out of the Hospital Wing instead of fussing for him to stay, Harry obeyed and groped for his glasses. They were repaired and folded neatly next to his wand, both resting over the bundle of glistening, silvery fabric that is his Cloak of Invisibility. A Deathly Hallow.
A knot in his throat made it hard to breathe for a moment, until he turned his face away and walked to a chair to retrieve his washed, pressed and folded clothes and cloak. He donned them in no time and then extended a wary arm to grab his magical items from the bedside table.
"Do you need an escort or can we trust you to your devices, Mr Potter?"
Harry scowled at the healer and bit down his tongue to stem the flow of choice words he wanted to tell her. "No madam, I can find the way by myself," he stated instead.
Hogwarts was emptier and renewed. "How much time did I spend in the infirmary?" he wondered, scowling at the nosey portraits and extending his senses to find some sign of life. Not that he really wanted to find any. The corridor in front of him displayed shiny new suits of armour and cleaned tapestries, a polished floor that would have Filch the caretaker grinning like a fool, and new wooden benches lining the hallway for pupils to sit and relax.
He wanted to be with them, the ones that would never see the new benches. The ones who would miss their son cramming last minute information on the goblin wars from the twelfth century, or share his first kiss under the mistletoe, or find a loo by accident in the seventh floor across from Barnabas the Barmy and his trolls.
The knot in his throat returned, and fog blurred his eyes and the invisible fist squeezing his heart tightened its grip. Suddenly he wasn't here any longer. He wasn't there either, he was lacking, incomplete, longing for a world that couldn't be and swimming against the current in the river of fate. He wanted to taste freedom again.
"I've gotta ask him. It's the right thing to do..." Harry spoke to no one, before turning on his heel and running out of the castle. Hogwarts was accommodating for the first time in weeks, aligning marble stairs and opening hallway doors for him.
He rushed out the front steps, ignoring the glossy new double door leading to the Great Hall, and headed for the Forbidden Forest. Harry ran around the lake, picking up speed he didn't knew he had on the way, jumped over Dumbledore's white tomb and fell swiftly on the other side, bouncing once to regain his step and pick up speed again.
He jumped into the forest as if it were the safest place in the world, ignoring the branches cutting his face and the roots tripping his feet. He had to find it. He needed to ask him.
Hooves followed his enhanced strides, multiple arachnid eyes watched over his fluid motion, beasts of all kinds ran away from Harry out of fear or ran closer to him out of curiosity. He paid them no mind, he had to ask him.
"Accio Gaunt's ring!" he yelled, instinctively knowing the Resurrection Stone wouldn't answer his magical summon.
Standing in the clearing of his death, he snatched the shining ring out the air with one hand as if it were a simple snitch. The forest grew weary, agitated for what it would witness again. Harry needed to ask him.
Summer at the Burrow became a time to reflect and to come to terms with life as they knew it. They fought for their lives little more than a month ago and yet they couldn't truly remember everything they did. Their individual experience was made complete only by learning of what others had witnessed them doing during those horrible days leading to the end of an era. Weasleys stood together and helped one another, be them Weasleys by blood or honorary.
Molly kept herself always busy preparing breakfast, lunch and dinner. Otherwise she was busy cleaning dishes and doing manual house chores. Her wand, however, remained untouched deep inside a drawer in her bedside table.
Watching his wife punish herself was heartbreaking for Arthur; he didn't understand, or didn't want to understand. He wanted to put his family back together but only Molly could do it. And she needed to be put back together herself first.
"Molly dear?" he called from the tattered couch where he sat reading the Daily Prophet, gently running a hand over his daughter Ginny's hair, while she leaned back sitting on the floor playing with Arnold, her pygmy puff.
"Yes Arthur? Do you need something, another cup of tea and biscuits? I'm baking a few--"
"Why don't you join us for a minute, dear? I-- We miss you..." he said in a tearful voice, and patted the couch next to him.
Molly sighed and wiped her hands over her apron, looking torn between acquiescing to her husband and tending to the many chores and baking she still had to do. She didn't want to fall, she needed to be strong and be an example for her family. She had cried so much, of course she had, but the time to cry was over, it was time to go on and she devoted herself to doing what she did best: Tending to her family home and feeding her husband, sons and daughter.
All her sons except one. Fred was dead.
Fred was dead and she killed for it. Her daughter was threatened and she killed for it. Her family was torn apart and she killed for it. Thinking too much was dangerous, that was why Molly kept herself busy, she couldn't deal with personal guilt when her own son had died. It was insulting to his memory.
"Mollywobbles, please?" Arthur pleaded softly, dropping the newspaper and extending his hand to her.
Arthur had already dealt with his rage, the scorched crater where his shed and muggle collection once stood was proof of it. He'd asked for indefinite leave from the Ministry as well, which was granted but he knew the government wouldn't hold his position vacant for much longer. Arthur didn't care, he could beg for work later, his family was more important right now.
"I... I feel so... Why do I feel so wretched for it?" the matronly Weasley woman sobbed and sat next to her husband, who promptly hugged her and kissed her forehead.
"Because you're a good witch, and a wonderful woman," Arthur told her while rocking her back and forth. "Because even a justified killing took a little piece of your soul away... Don't dwell on it Mollywobbles, because Fred knows... Fred knows you can feel guilt for it and still honour his memory."
"Dad's right, mum... We all understand," Ginny added, and then cocked her head to face her mother. "She deserved it, you know?"
Molly shook her head affirmatively and wrapped her daughter in a hug, thankful for her wonderful family. She rested for some fifteen minutes on the couch and then extricated herself from Arthur's embrace, smiling at him lovingly. Climbing the stairs to their bedroom, she sighed and reached for her wand. Soon after, the abandoned knitting needles downstairs sprung back to life.
Meanwhile, outside the Burrow, a lonely man walked the edge of an unkempt garden, kicking loose stones and foolish garden gnomes. His long red hair flowed back and forth with every shake of his head, and his lips moved silently in synchrony with his thoughts.
He did his best and gave his all to avenge his friends and family. Hermione said so. Mum said so. Yet his best wasn't enough for Harry. Ron felt betrayed by his friend; he was perfectly fine one day and then, out of the blue, he looked into his eyes and saw he was gone. Why did he leave?
"What the bloody hell's wrong with you?" he repeated the question out loud, as he did every day since Fred's funeral. Harry was gone. And Ron had known right then how Hermione and Harry had felt when he abandoned them in the middle of nowhere.
Three times had they apparated to bring Harry back from Hogwarts, and he almost splinched himself again at the last effort. Yet he wasn't there, they'd bring his body but not Harry himself. And then he'd apparate away again. Ron had shook him and screamed at him and pleaded with him, but he wasn't there.
"He stood up the whole ceremony, staring at nothing," he yelled and another unfortunate gnome was thrown a hundred yards away with a swift kick. "Why did you leave us?"
Ron hadn't felt this sickness in his chest when Hagrid brought his friend from the forest, proclaimed dead by You-Know-Who. This time Harry's choice was intentional, he was fine and he chose to go away, betraying Ginny, Hermione and him. And yet, no matter how much Ron wished to focus on Harry's betrayal, he couldn't help but dwell on how much pain he must have caused his friends during the horcrux hunt; if this was how they felt, he wouldn't have forgiven himself nor taken himself back.
With another swift motion, two more gnomes were relocated to the other side of the road.
Over the hills, a few miles north of Ottery St Catchpole, father wizard and daughter witch spent time together rebuilding the quaint house they once lived in. That they survived to meet again was something the Lovegoods would forever cherish, home or no home.
"Daddy, why can't you be free?"
Xenophilius stopped playing with the furniture around their new pyramidal kitchen and turned to face his precious Luna. "How do you mean, dearest?"
Luna pointed at the golden medallion on his chest, and then turned dreamy eyes up to the swinging trees. She didn't like the whispers brought forth by the wind. The medallion consisted of a triangle held by one point to a chain, the geometrical shape encased a perfect circle and a vertical line ran through its middle from top to bottom.
"The quests you carry on, the burdens you chain yourself to... Why can't you shed them?"
The eccentric wizard paused to consider his daughter's words. He was still weary of the horrors Luna must have suffered but wouldn't share, and it killed him inside to see her unable to trust him like she once did. Before the Dark Lord returned; before she met one Harry Potter. "Seeking the Hallows is an honourable quest, as is looking for still undiscovered and undocumented magical creatures. I couldn't abandon these goals, dearest..."
Wind swept the trees again, and Luna left father talking alone inside their new kitchen to watch them swinging back and forth. He betrayed her friends because he wasn't free. Because he chose the wrong path. Because mother's death locked him inside his obsessions and threw away the key.
"Only death sets you free," she kept hearing again and again. Luna didn't agree; she didn't like the whispers in the wind.
Potting, pruning, planting. Pleasant activities that distracted the Longbottom scion from his new-found hero status. "Hero for nothing," he ruefully whispered, "for surviving Voldemort and his megalomania..."
"Neville!" rang the enhanced voice belonging to the elder Longbottom, formidable Augusta.
Neville was startled and dropped his wand. Old habits die hard. He sighed and walked briskly out of the greenhouse and into the manor, looking for the source of the sonorus spelled throat. "She's probably in the tea room," he mused and turned swiftly around.
Augusta was sipping on a warm cup and had the Daily Prophet open on a spindly desk next to her. The fire in the hearth was still fading from green to orange, a clear sign of an active floo connection. Because she was the only occupant of the room, Neville concluded it was merely a floo-call.
"Come here my boy," she commanded, leaving no room for negotiation.
He approached and grandmother Augusta grabbed his face with both hands, using a pair of long, wrinkled fingers to pry his left eyelids open and peer intently into his startled eyes.
"What-- What are you doing?" he managed to ask while she did the same to his right eye.
"Headmistress McGonagall called me about Mr Potter. It seems he's missing, again, and she confided to some rather ... troubling symptoms he began displaying these past weeks."
Neville relaxed and took a seat across his grandmother. He'd seen Harry for the Lupins funeral, and he'd noticed that he wasn't there. That husk standing there was not Harry Potter. Had Potterwatch continued to broadcast, they'd have issued a missing bulletin right then and there.
He did his part in the resistance, undermining the Death Eaters running Hogwarts as much as he could, and then, blind-sided by fate, he was put in position to destroy what Hermione would later explain to him as being a part of Voldemort's soul! He just wanted to live, and the sword appeared and that ugly snake was threatening him. Neville was no hero, he only wanted to live.
The Longbottoms continued to sip their tea in silence, wishing for the war to be over at last.
On the other side of the world, in Queensland, Australia, an anxious woman leaned on the wooden railing of a porch facing the dense tropical jungle. She cradled her head between her hands and then drank the last contents of her wine stem glass, only to refill it with more sweet late harvest Muscat.
Hermione had come to find the Grangers, her memory-modified parents who were safe and happy away from the horrible world magical Britain had become. They weren't happy to know they were happy. They came to themselves after an exhausting session of spell casting, and their former memories mingled with the new memories of life in Australia.
Both parents were horrified. They yelled and demanded explanations Hermione couldn't in good conscience give them, for it would mean revealing and reliving all that happened. She didn't want to remember all that happened.
The schism between them was almost complete by the time she returned home at the end of her sixth year, yet she still loved her muggle parents and wished only for them to be safe. If she were truthful to herself, she'd admit they were a burden she didn't need in the upcoming war. That schism was complete now.
"I miss my wizards," she told the moonless night and transfigured a log on the ground into a comfortable recliner. Hermione turned her eyes to the dense jungle and wondered if she could find a crumple-horned snorkack in there and bring it back to England. Luna would be proud of her.
She shook her head and thought "it must be the wine," before tilting the bottle and spilling its contents on the ground, and then hurling it at the nearest tree where it shattered into a thousand shards. She would not retreat into herself. She would not do what's easy and leave like Harry did.
Apparating him back and forth from Hogwarts and then petrifying him for Fred's burial was bad enough, but when he stood in a catatonic state for Remus and Tonk's service, she wanted to hex him so badly it hurt. Hermione fought the tears and the screams then; the same anguish that had ripped her heart apart when Ron left them alone in the Forest of Dean had gripped her soul when she looked into Harry's eyes and saw he wasn't there.
Ron abandoned her, and she forgave him. Her parents abandoned her, and she's forgiving them. Harry abandoned her, and she knows she'll forgive him.
Hermione was used to accept and forgive whatever people gave her in matters of human relationships, she was raised that way and despite everything she always acted the same. "Well then, not any longer... No more passivity. No more hoping blindly and putting myself out there... Damn bloody wine," she complained and stood up, stumbling a little and then walking resolutely into the jungle. She had a snorkack to find.