Disclaimer: This is a response to Reptilia28's challenge. Please see my profile for the full details! I have also posted any links I've stumbled across to others who have taken up the gauntlet. The world of Harry Potter isn't mine. Book 7 would never have happened otherwise. ;)
Warning: This will not be a story about an omniscient, omnipotent super-rich character. They're boring. Harry will be a flawed, very human young man. He is also not in love with Hermione Granger at this point.
Being told your soul mate's name doesn't induce love. Hermione has a crush on Ron at this point, and Harry likes Ginny.
They're going to do it the old-fashioned way – i.e. falling in love without sudden love potions being removed (thus allowing them to see the one they've always adored), and no soul bond that happens when he touches her hair. :) Sarcasm aside, love is often about the quiet tender things that happen almost without you noticing, rather than grand flashy statements.
Chapter One
Spidery, pale fingers cradled the ring of Keys gently, unhitching one that looked as though it was made of glass. The woman before him placed it silently on the desk, and settled back. A moment later she gestured to it.
"Do you know why it's made of glass?" Her voice was silky, soft, and dangerous. Harry shuddered slightly at a voice that was a mirror of Severus Snape's. She seemed to physically radiate fury in that special way the professor had, as well. The mature woman on the other side of the desk was angry, and she was barely keeping it under control.
"N-no." He swallowed. "No, I don't."
"Allow me to tell you, Mr Potter. Brass -" and here she jingled the rest of the Keys, allowing them to make a pleasant bell-like sound, "is expensive. A Key, whether your client is to go Beyond, or Back, can only be used once. We have had to forge you six Keys in the past five years, Mr Potter." Hooded eyes surveyed him, sparking with irritation. "Six. It's unheard of. Hephaestus vowed on your fifth visit that he would never make you another, but has since deigned to provide a glass Key for you. I am currently in disgrace for a client who seems to be not only ungrateful for new Chances, but determined to thwart Destiny."
"What do you mean?" Harry was not unintelligent, but her quiet, angry speech was going right over his head. "Have I – I'm not – I haven't died before, have I? I don't remember it." He glanced helplessly around the room with its heavy, grey furniture. "I'm sure I'd remember this..."
"Please credit me with some discretion, Mr Potter. Your visits here are erased from your memory when you return to the physical realm." The woman was beginning to remind him of an ageless Minerva McGonagall, although he had yet to see his Professor adopt the thick heavy braids that hung down the woman's back. Her face was lined, her eyes were sharp, and she was paler than Snape.
"Professor Snape, Mr Potter." Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. She even sounded like the woman. Her ability to voice his thoughts (and correct them) did not surprise him. He wondered briefly if anything held the capacity to surprise him at this particular moment.
"How did I die, those other times?" he asked, shifting to look at her.
"Your predictability never ceases to astonish me," the woman said wryly, reaching for a book that she'd obviously placed close to hand in preparation. She thumbed to the first page, and turned it around so that he could read the entry. He blinked.
It was in his own handwriting! The words scrolled across the page.
I will not fight mountain trolls.
I will not fight mountain trolls.
Again and again the phrase had been written, spanning the next few pages.
"Perhaps too brief, but I was hoping its pithiness would embed itself in your brain." She sniffed. He turned another leaf over, and blinked at the new phrase.
I will never again engage a parastic soul clutching to the back of an inadequate professor's head without sufficient knowledge or battle techniques.
"After the first time you tried to battle him, you walked back into the Chamber and ignored all of my advice. This was written fifteen minutes later, when you were killed by Riddle's puppet again. I decided that perhaps detailing what you weren't to do would help." Her voice was distinctly bitter.
He thumbed to the next entry.
I will not splinch myself, nor try to transfer my idiot self through time and space without proper preparation.
"You were in a hurry to get away from your cousin. You escaped from Harry Hunting, only to join me here." An accidental apparition that had led to lethal splinching? Harry's hands ached in sympathy with his younger self. The words had been written at least five hundred times. He closed it, stunned.
"You made me write lines!" Harry said, somewhat incredulously. His gaze flickered to the woman's face, which seemed tight.
"Indeed. I had hoped that writing them would embed these gems of advice into your subconsious, but it seems that the infamous Gryffindor foolhardiness has ingrained itself into every fibre of your being." He eyed her suspiciously. She seemed to be a mixture of Snape and McGonagall, he decided. The former's vocabulary, with his special brand of bitter disapproval, and McGonagall's dry humour and sharpness.
"Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall, Mr Potter-"
"Stop doing that!" Harry took a deep breath. And then another. "What happens next, then?"
"You will go back to fulfil your Destiny, of course." She sounded matter-of-fact, as though supremely unaware of how successful that had been in the past.
"Which is?" he asked flatly.
"To live to one hundred and twelve (although how you're to manage that when you've yet to pass the age of twenty, I don't know). To have a large number of grandchildren. To finally peel your eyes off that sappy redhead and find a quality woman to settle down with – some Granger girl, I believe – and most importantly, to ensure that Tom Riddle meets his very timely death. On time. Unlike you," she hissed. Harry ignored the dig, as he was trying to wrap his mind around her revelations.
Hermione. Yes, unlike Ron, he had noticed that their best friend was a girl before - it had been difficult not to, when sharing a tent with her - but it hadn't occurred to him to date her. Or marry her, as that woman seemed to be insisting he should. She wasn't Ginny, at any rate.
"Do I have a choice in this?" he asked, with a passable imitation of her acerbic tone. Her lips curled ever so slightly in recognition of it.
"Mr Potter, it's Destiny. Of course you don't. The manner of your arrival at it is, of course, up to you." Her eyes gleamed. "For a young man who's just been told of his soul mate, you don't seem to be thrilled."
"A bloke likes to have the choice, you know?" he muttered darkly.
"Don't mumble. And I don't think it will be a hardship," she replied. "But you need not return and – ah, snog her face off. As she appears to harbour a crush for your friend Ronald Weasley, I wouldn't think it advisable."
Harry's eyes flashed. He hadn't missed the heavy way in which she had handled the word 'friend'. "Don't talk about Ron like that – he's been with me through thick and thin!"
The woman stilled, but her mobile expression was distinctly annoyed. "He has frequently allowed his jealousy to get the better of him, Mr Potter, and left you when you needed him most this year. He has never put you first, is jealous of an inheritance that you could not possibly avoid (little though it is) – and you have remained in those disgusting rags because of it, don't think I'm not aware."
He opened his mouth to deliver an angry retort, and then stopped, his frown puzzled. "I'm not rich?" It had been a fact that was secure and known, although the money didn't matter to him. After all, his trust vault was full of galleons.
"Your trust vault would have barely supported you for the next two years." She paused. "Surely you noticed how your vault was dwindling in resources last time you visited, or were you too distracted by how shiny it was? Have you never even thought to ask for a statement of your assets? Looked at your financial resources? Taken responsibility for yourself?"
Harry's temper flared.
"I've hardly had the time to simply stroll into Gringotts and do any of that! Not that they'd let me seeing as I've stolen from them! And take responsibility for myself? I've done nothing else my entire life! No adult has ever looked out for me!"
His breath came in ragged, harsh pants, and the injustice of it suddenly forced tears of frustration to sting his eyes. He blinked them back, taking refuge in a heavy black scowl instead.
"I know." Her words were ground out, and the palpable fury on her face was carved deeply in the lines around her mouth. She muttered something under her breath, which sounded rude, although Harry sensed her words - whichever language they were uttered in - were not aimed at him. She took a deep breath, and straightened. The words were softer this time. "I know, Harry Potter. Many have failed you."
She winced, and reluctantly said, "I, too, have failed you."
"But you are more than the sum of your past - more than the oafs who neglected you when they were supposed to be raising you. More than the headmaster who coaxes each and every move from you with the expert touch of a master. And more than the future you have chosen for yourself without ever entertaining another."
She sounded disappointed, and though he tried vainly to decide he didn't give a flying monkey's what she thought, he knew he did. The woman's face flickered to a more impassive cast, and she sniffed.
"If truth be told, you are mimicking Ronald Weasley rather excellently at present. He cannot think things through logically either." She tapped her fingers impatiently. "My advice is to abandon the ginger. And to do significantly better from now on."
"I haven't been allowed to remember your gems of wisdom in the past," Harry snarled. "It hasn't been on purpose!" She had begun to pace, but stopped to regard him with a pleased gleam in her eye.
"Precisely. I believe that to be the crux of the matter, Mr Potter." The woman grasped a muggle fountain pen in those long, pale fingers and tapped the air in front of her. A scroll carved itself out of seemingly nowhere, and obligingly floated to the stone desk. She smiled, albeit sardonically. "This is not strictly allowed, so read this, and then sign it." Harry regarded her suspiciously.
"What is it?"
"For Merlin's sake, Potter!" She recovered herself. "It's a contract. Read it, don't gape at it." Harry scowled, but gingerly took it in his hands. His eyes ran over the elegant script, so unlike his own, and the furrow between his eyebrows lessened slightly as he got further down the page.
"I can keep my memories?" He didn't bother looking up when she delivered a crisp, sarcastic 'Indeed'. He continued reading. And finally, he signed his name on it, gasping as the words 'Harry James Potter' carved themselves into the back of his hand. He scowled at the innocent-looking fountain pen, and then transferred his gaze to words on his skin. They gleamed, bloody, for a moment, and then disappeared as the parchment removed itself from the space in front of him with a smug crack.
"I have a few stipulations, of course."
He rolled his eyes. "Of course," he echoed flatly.
"I am going to deposit you at the beginning of the Yule holidays in your fourth year. You will pack your belongings and return to the Dursleys."
Go through the tournament again? "Like hell I will." But then - Cedric -
She ignored him as though he hadn't spoken. "I also have a gift for you."
His eyes brightened. Some sort of magical weapon? Magic-resistant clothing? An unbeatable wand? A cloak that -
"No, Mr Potter," she interrupted, almost boredly. "You will most likely be disappointed; this gift is no flashy gizmo to be waved around or added to a collection." She paused. "I'm going to give you a dash of maturity."
"Excuse me?" Harry's voice echoed his disbelief. She said a gift, right?
"I am giving you the ability to think before you jump feet first into whichever mad scheme you happen to cook up first. You should be delighted." There was a curve to her lips, though, which showed her amusement. When he said nothing, she continued. "You are wondering why it cannot be any of those items?"
Harry nodded, still irritated.
"I have reviewed the possibilities. Giving you an item of that kind would encourage you to become dependent on it, instead of getting your scrawny arse in gear and gaining power through your own efforts." She pursed her lips. "The problem, Mr Potter, is that you are lazy, and as you are by no means deficient in intelligence, you have no excuse."
Harry was fairly simmering by this stage. "I haven't exactly had time to concentrate on schoolwork!" he snapped, green eyes glittering.
"The likelihood is that your remaining years at Hogwarts will be even more stressful than than those previous. You cannot imagine that you'll get a job after all this is over without some sort of qualification, do you?"
"Who says this will ever be over?" he groused, half-serious. The woman stiffened, and rounded on him.
"The outcome of this is that you will either be dead, or alive, and it will occur in the next eighteen months, Potter! And if you die this time, you will remain dead. There will be no more chances, no more opportunities to correct your terrible timing. The wizarding world will cease to fight without you as their poster boy. You are key to this battle, prophecy or not."
He found himself speechless at that.
She tapped the air again, and produced a List. "I have two pieces of advice for you." Harry glanced at it, but couldn't stop himself from retorting.
"Only three?"
Alter that monkey scrawl you call a script and learn to write properly with a quill. He rolled his eyes. How very... typical.
"Study basic Goblin etiquette. When you are able to write a decent letter, send to Gringotts and request a meeting to discuss your inheritance. Find another means to send it, not your owl."
"So it can't be traced?" he mused out loud. "Who would be reading my letters?"
"Your Headmaster filters your mail." She frowned suddenly. "Albus Dumbledore has been at war for the Light too long. He has lost sight of what he considers minor details, such as your health and happiness, in his quest for his former protégé's demise. His failure with Riddle has caused him to monitor you even more closely. I suggest that you practice some subtlety." She paused. "Please be careful, Mr Potter. The Headmaster is as dangerous and formidable an adversary as Tom Riddle, and you must not cross him unless necessary."
"How am I supposed to get there – to the bank, I mean?"
"The Knight Bus, of course. You needn't use your wand to summon it." She jerked her head to the last item on the List.
Apologise to your father.
"What for? And how the hell am I supposed to do that?" His face suddenly glowed as hope lit it. "Can I see them? Are they here?"
"Hush, Mr Potter." Her gaze was not dispassionate. "You cannot see Lily or James Potter. They moved Beyond a long time ago."
"Then what do you mean?"
"I cannot reply at this stage."
"Can't or won't?" he said fiercely. "And why can't I go Beyond, then? Aren't I already dead? Then I could see them, and Sirius, and I wouldn't have to fight anymore -"
"You are no longer dead, as you have already signed the contract." She gave a wicked grin, which subsided as his shoulders slumped. She hesitated, as though for the first time the words did not rise so readily to her lips. "I do not wish for you to fail, Mr Potter." The phrase, although awkward, surprised him in its sincerity.
"What's your name?" he asked, realising that he didn't know. Her lips quirked.
"Persephone. You may know of my husband." He gaped at her, and seemed to notice several things all at once.
Her robes, although woollen, had evidently been made for a queen, for the weave was close and utterly flawless. She was at once magnificent and yet her features escaped him if he turned. There was a mark in the hollow of her slender throat that depicted a silver tree - and her eyes, deep and fathomless, ageless as her face and figure, had seen Death.
"But that would mean -"
"That I'm a goddess? What an astute observation, Mr Potter."
"You're a myth. Isn't Tartarus supposed to be dark with hellfire and three-headed dogs?"
"That pit is reserved for the souls of the damned, and irritating though you are, you are not quite that. We have moved with the times, Mr Potter." She cast a tempus, and seemed to understand the figures that shimmered onto the air, although they were unlike any that Harry had ever seen. "Time for your return to the land of the living."
She moved to the centre of the room and swiftly knelt, the fingers not grasping his Key seeming to try and find purchase on something. A moment later, she tugged sharply upwards, and the air tore. The Goddess continued to sketch the outline of a door until she was holding a sheet of reality in her hand - and this she crumpled and threw into the shadows. A moment later, her mouth curved into something approaching a smile, evidently amused that he felt this careless disposal of reality was irreverent.
A Door had appeared. She inserted the Key, and gracefully turned it in the lock. He couldn't have said what colour the Door was - whether it was pale or dark, wooden or some time of metal, clear or opaque. Harry glanced at her.
"I'm scared," he said, with brutal honesty. The Goddess turned to him, and suddenly there was very real emotion in her gaze.
"As am I, Harry Potter." Her arms suddenly caught him in an iron embrace, and burning lips branded his temple. "Be safe, o gios mou."
Before he could ask what she meant, she had hurled him through the door.
Oblivion.
A Note from the Author
You could well be stifling a sigh of frustration at this point. To be honest, I'm not surprised - it is, after all, a well-worn thread. I hope, however, that there is something that makes you want to return. If you could leave a review with a comment on your favourite line, a guess as to any of the hints I've dropped, or things you'd like to see improve, I'd appreciate it.
Cassop