Summary: When Draco's hatred for him drives Harry to a show of power, Harry unwittingly unleashes the last prophecy, an untold destiny that no one is prepared for.
Disclaimer: Sue me. I took a few lines here and there. OK, not really, if you happen to be anything related to HP or the Wizard of Earthsea. If you want to sue me for some other reason...well...I suppose that's another conversation.

I sing of warfare, and a man at war,

Who when born claimed his destiny, and when

Forced upon this path,

Willingly sought shadows.

-from The Second Great War

If there is any written account of those days, it has been lost. There are precious few books left from that time, for it has been several hundred years since the Prophecy was fulfilled. Those who practice sorcery must settle for soothsaying, illusion, and mere trickery. The Old Blood is gone.

What is left of that world is a small ruined area, home to wild beasts and the wandering, or those seeking adventure, and of this place it is rumoured that the greatest of all men was raised. Much of his tale has been lost or remade in the telling, but the last years of the War have been kept whole and pure, about which center he who in his life defeated the last Dark Lord and so brought peace to the world of both magick and commonfolk, and therefore is rightly called Prince of Light and Crossroads at the Veil in the old tongue...

It was not a swelteringly hot day, but it was not cool either, so Harry sat on his bed inside, rearranging shards of glass. It had been Sirius's once, a two-way mirror of sorts. Harry was working to piece out the puzzle before him, knowing that it was a useless task especially because of the missing portions. He had not thought much to carefully collect the broken mirror at that time. He had a dull, listless look about him now, his hands methodically moving the pieces around and around. Somehow the repetitiveness comforted him and banished his dark thoughts. It was strange to be at Privet Drive again. The previous year had been, well, eventful to say the least, and the rigidity of daily life in Little Whinging was driving him out of his mind. The Dursleys avoided him more than ever. Harry assumed this was only natural, considering that they had been tricked yet again into letting him escape last summer. The front door downstairs slammed and deep, slow footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. He quickly busied himself with rearranging his bed sheets, covering the mirror.

He hoped it was someone come to rescue him from his boredom, like last year. There was the sound of heavy breathing, someone listening at the door.

"We are leaving," a voice he recognized as his uncle's said. Harry did not care to respond. A shrill whine later and the Dursley's were off in a fine new piece of Muggle machinery, driving their way to some worthless event or another. He continued to play with the pieces, thinking many times to simply cut himself and to be done with it. It was a childish notion and he discarded it quickly, shamed. He would not leave his friends to their deaths. Hermione was right, he thought sardonically. He liked to play the hero.

"Hullo, hullo, hullo, hullo," Harry said aloud, to no one in particular. Just to break the silence. Those years in the cupboard, he had gotten used to simply sitting in the dark, doing nothing and thinking nothing. There his hands memorized the weave of his blanket and the grain of the shelves and the cut of the door...this room had been an entirely new sensation to him.

He lay down and traced the lines of the wall. Whoever had done this particular room had either not done a very good job or had used some strange paint that resulted in a lumpy texture. It looked like elephant skin, tough and wrinkled. He had invented amusements when he'd first lain here, alone and bored. He had once glimpsed a picture of a brachiosaurus in one of Dudley's books, a huge lumbering herbivore with a long neck. He'd place his handpalm down and pretend it was a dinosaur roaming a mountain of sheets, with the middle finger as the neck, slightly lifted, like a master pianist about to press the keys. Or he would trace a shape out of the formless lumps in the wall with his finger, naming it Bear or Cat or Flower. After a particularly hard one he would smile at his own cleverness, but it was an empty sort of cleverness, for what boy of fifteen played games such as these! And sometimes there was nothing to be made of the shape at all.

It was not until he rolled over that Harry felt the mirror shards press into his shoulder, pinching his skin painfully. He lifted the sheets and saw that the pieces had rearranged themselves into a mess again. It didn't matter; he knew no Binding spells, save reparo, which had failed to restore the broken mirror. He could redo it again tomorrow to pass the time. For now, he gathered the sheet-wrapped tangram of fragments to his chest, hugging them close, and fell asleep.

He was in the Corridor of the Department of Mysteries. He was walking toward the door slowly and carefully, his steps curiously silent. It seemed with each step that he was both nearer and farther, for as he reached for the door his vision seemed to narrow and he felt himself sliding backward past where he had started; yet he would look down his feet and know that he was at the same place. He knew then that he was dreaming, and accepted this with the strange trancelike complacency that all dreamers possess.

Harry glanced back over his shoulder at the lift. It zoomed out of his view until his stomach lurched (the feeling reminiscent of driving over railway tracks) and the lift was but a speck in the distance, and he had to look away.

Harry, Harry...

He froze. There was something, someone calling to him from behind the door in a low, pleading tone.

Harry, please...

Something was tapping.

Harry suddenly sat up in his bed in a sweat, leaned over the side, and vomited. He wiped his mouth, trying not to taste the bitterness. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood up as the tapping continued.

"Oh, stop it, Hedwig. I'm coming," he called softly.

How long had he slept? Four hours since midnight. It had seemed like forever. He stood up, avoiding the mess on the floor, and made his way to the window. It was unlike Hedwig to be back so early; he had only just let her out the day before. He snapped the latch open and thrust the window up. The smells of summer wafted in - a hint of gasoline from the mowing machine, sweet acacia and lilac. For a split second some memory flashed in his mind...His mother perhaps? He squinted into the darkness, blind as ever without his glasses.

"Here, girl," he cooed, holding out his arm to the night sky. Hedwig settled instead on the windowsill, balancing precariously on the thin ledge. "What's with you? Come on," Harry said angrily. He slipped his hand under her, cupping her belly with the palm of his hand and the talons between his fingers, and tried to draw her inside, but she would have none of it. She beat her wings against his touch in a white blur until he let go. Her fierce eye glared daggers at him.

He wrinkled his brow in confusion. Why would she not enter? Looking distinctly ruffled, she held out a talon, allowing him to untie the messages before she flew off.

He brought the papers to his face until they were only an inch away, and made out the words:

From the Offices of the Ministry of Magical Education

His OWLs! A sick feeling came over him; he had been dreading this moment all summer. It was nearly impossible to read the rest without more light, but he did not dare cast a spell nor switch on the lamp. He sidled up to the moonlight, guessing at the words.

Dear Mr. Potter,

Enclosed are your results from your Ordinary Wizarding Levels. Certain classes in your sixth year will require at least an Acceptable for you to enroll. An advisor from your school will attend to these matters. If you have any concerns regarding your grades, please owl the attached complaint form to the MME.

It was signed with a large illegible flourish. He turned the parchment over, expecting to see 'Troll' scrawled across it. Instead, there was a little slip of paper with "COMPLAINT FORM" on the top line. He read:

If you are merely unhappy with your results, it is advised that you speak to the appropriate professor in the subject matter before continuing. Due to the large number of letters we receive from students, please only complete this form if you feel the dire need and a valid reason to do so.

He wildly wondered if being number one on the Dark Lord's hitlist counted as a valid complaint. He slowly lifted the paper, revealing a long list of scores. His breath caught in his throat. Theory of Astronomy. Acceptable. Practical. Acceptable. Theory of Care of Magical Creatures. Outstanding. Practical. Outstanding. Theory of Charms...

There was such an insane glamour to his results that he nearly laughed out loud. He had even passed Potions! He and Snape would have to put up with each other for another year. What would Hermione say? That he had not studied enough, most likely, he thought, grinning. The last paper was printed in very fine font. A Mi...Ministry...Guide to...Elem...Elementary Home and...Personal Defense...?

He fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand, knocking the precious few items he owned clear off the surface. "Mmmph," mumbled a disgruntled voice from the master bedroom.

Harry swore under his breath. The fucking walls seemed thin as parchment, unforgiving. He silently gathered the photograph frames that had toppled over, feeling for irregularities - scratches, dents, chips - but there were none, the sign of honest wizarding craftsmanship. The likenesses of his parents flitted across the photographs, never straying beyond the border. Bound by their fate, he thought gravely. The boy knelt in front of them like at an altar. His dark face held all the solemnity of a worshipper, and with the pewter casings glinting like a thousand candles, it looked very much like a shrine indeed. His lips pressed together in a tight line, white with unconscious effort. He would not give life. It was not for him to give. He had been extremely lucky in his encounters with the Dark Lord; perhaps it would not...work out this time. Like the two sides of a coin, it was equally possible that one or the other would fall. He smiled grimly, shaking his head intently and hugging his knees to his chest, hugging the dark night eagerly. It whispered against his mind - familiar, a comfort. He would not give life. He would not give life. He would give only death, death, death, death, death.

A/N: I'm hoping someone from FA will beta me, and I'm usingFF as a testing ground. In the meantime any crits would be nice, telling me if it sucks or if it really, really sucks (those are probably my only two choices, sadly x.x;;;). I actually had written the first chapter a while back (completely diff plot, not that anyone remembers), but it was even worse. If you would like to beta this chapter (or fic), please write me at I will probably take like a year to finish one chapter, seriously, so I promise not to bug you too much. hands out cookies