Disclaimer: the canon belongs to J. K. Rowling, of course.
Summary: Draco has another mission in his 6th year. He finds a convoluted way of succeeding, and now Harry is dying. Before his death, he decides to find a better way to fight – and what can teach him better than a school in the Other Realm, where creatures rule and study magic that Harry's very being finds abhorrent? Well, beggars can't be choosers. If he wants to win, he has to deal with it. Along the way, he doesn't notice that he has plunged into this other world neck-deep, and that returning to the hostile and flighty ways of wizards to live away the meagre time he has doesn't appeal to him anymore...
Pairings: Harry/some creature hottie. Although I can hook him up with a canon character, too, no? If you ask for it really-really-really- nicely :p
Notes: Yay for an another-school story that doesn't involve Dumbles/Ron/Hermione-bashin'!
The Other Realm is intertwined with humans, so I hope to keep a nice balance between two worlds, without forgetting all about canon. Also, Harry going to Arianrhod doesn't mean he's so awesome that he'll beat all Des in a pulp after a week of attendance. Let's be realistic here, people!
Also, I don't have any set-in-stone plans for this story, only the brief outlines, some characters' personalities, the description of how some cool magicks work, and some other stuff.
But worry not, I know the ending!
Half of the credit for this story goes to my lovely friend and neighbour Vallory Russups. It's her starting story that inspired me (and I've seen the whole version, beyond what she's posted for now), so I asked her for some props... She gave me a bunch of sheets and notebooks with an alternative story, some descriptions of colourful chars and small things that don't really fit in her own fic. And that's how this story came to be!
H
Prologue. Sick Doesn't Equal Shattered.
When Harry woke up, it was to a floating scent of tears and to the drawn curtains of the infirmary, uncommonly dark and heavy. An invisible weight pressed on his chest; he couldn't rise. His glasses lay discarded somewhere, so the usual smudges prevented him from deciphering the hunched figure at his bedside, which stifled its quiet whimpers and sobs by biting the back of its hand.
Yet, the voice was familiar. Hermione.
Harry made an effort to get up, only to have his hand grabbed by another one, and to feel a gentle push on his shoulder that prompted him to lie down again. A shove of familiar glasses on his nose – and the world clicked into place.
The first thing Harry witnessed was the lovely face of his best friend distorted by emotional agony and muddled by trails of tears.
"I'm so happy you are awake now," she whispered. However soft it was, the hushed sound pierced through the ominous silence of the infirmary.
Harry tried for a smile. It came out twisted.
"Hey, can't laze around forever, can I now? The Dursleys would have a hissy fit if they found out how much time I actually spend every year resting after some hare-brained adventure instead of making myself useful. They'd probably think it blasphemous."
The smile slid off when Hermione cuffed the back of his head. His vision swam again at the blow, and however much Harry attempted to avoid showing the impact, Hermione noticed his discomfort. She always noticed uncomfortable things.
"Sorry," the mutter fell from her lips. "I didn't mean to- It's just so hard, you know, after everything that has happened- We didn't know if you would awaken."
"Oh." He scratched the back of his head. He was feeling perfect. Just swell. Dumbledore, on the other hand... His eyes burned. "Where is Ron?"
"Doing what he's always doing, I guess! Moping about, where else?" Hermione huffed, taking Harry aback, before she deflated and shook her head in a grief-stricken manner. "At least now he has a reason to. It hit him the hardest, Harry, you know? When Madame Pomfrey notified us of your condition, you should have seen his face! Never before had I witnessed so much sorrow-"
She gulped down her tears. Seeing Ron like that, blaming himself for his friend's condition, because they could have prevented it, could have supported Harry's "insane" Malfoy's-a-Death-Eater idea, could have noticed the signs of it earlier and acted on it...
They hadn't.
Too centred on themselves and delving into that insecure, fragile bond between them, too unwilling to believe the obvious, they had allowed their best friend to fall to that vile magic-induced sickness.
Hermione blamed herself no less than Ron did.
Harry was still clueless.
"Why such reaction? Both of you must be used by now to all my stunts in the infirmary, nothing new here-"
To Harry horror, Hermione broke out into sobs and lunged at him, grabbing him and clutching him closer, so close it was stifling, and her shoulders trembled in that vibrating fashion that was so hesitant, so insecure that Harry didn't spare a second thought about wrapping his arms around her and cradling her. He was still confused. Still didn't know what he was comforting her for. But the urge was there, and as she opened her mouth to speak, a shudder speared through his heart.
An imaginary voice urged him to seal her mouth shut. He didn't want to hear whatever she was about to say. He had to shut her up. Had to cast Silencio. Had to up and go. Had to leave that place.
He stifled that little voice.
The atmosphere around them tightened with the renewed tears and the tears still unshed.
Finally, fumbling with her fingers, Hermione whispered, "Malfoy had another goal to fulfil that night. Professor's d- dea-" She hiccoughed, unable to utter the ominous word. Harry rubbed her hand gently. "-It wasn't the only task Voldemort gave him. The other was to dispose of you."
Harry blinked. The weight on his chest evaporated with those words and he burst out laughing.
"Oh, Hermione! You should be used to those failed murder attempts by now. Hey, I'm still alive here, no? Obviously, something has gone wrong. Something other than Malfoy's existence in this world, of course."
Strangely, the air was still heavy with unspoken grief and smelled with woe.
Hermione stilled. Uncertain, Harry grabbed her by the shoulder.
"He succeeded."
"Don't be stupid. I feel great, physically." His mood darkened as tears strangled his throat once more. "It's Professor Dumbledore-"
"Malfoy cast a spell in the hustle," Hermione cut in, sick with dragging it out. She wrangled out of his hold, raising her head to pierce him with her eyes. "It burns your magical core."
"Can't Madame Pomfrey fix it? Plenty of students exhaust their cores, especially the newbies, then she forces a bunch of potions down their throats – and they're good again," Harry retorted. Was Hermione acting stupid? Harry could understand it – the death of the man important in both their lives, and Harry's own severe injury could have temporarily addled any brain. Even Hermione's, obviously.
"Exhaust, not burn!" Hermione exclaimed furiously. She clenched her hands into tight fists. "What Malfoy has done is despicable. No one knows what spell exactly he used, because there are several that have alike effects, so no one can administer the right cure." She paused. "If it exists at all. Madame Pomfrey says the only possible answer might lie in the ancient magicks, and that would be our best bet..."
Here she hesitated. Harry, pale, with slight tremors running down his spine at the implications, urged her to continue. She complied.
"But they are mostly Dark Arts."
Harry recoiled in shock. When he regained his voice, now laced with disgust and mild horror, he asked hesitantly, "Surely it can't be that bad? So, if the core's burning, the amount of my magic is decreasing... I can live with it. If I have a bit less power, I mean. It should be enough to last me until Voldemort is defeated, and from then on I can leave as a-" It felt difficult to say. Hard to think. "-as a muggle. Or a squib."
Hermione laughed – a broken, dry laugh that didn't resemble her at all, but made Harry flinch. Bitterness, suppressed rage, hurt... The laugh embraced it all.
"Wizards are different from muggles, Harry," she told him gently, for once foregoing to nagging about him not being studious enough. Just as gently, she took his hands in hers.
"You see, in many ways our cores determine our lifespan. The magic in our system generally does. Haven't you wondered why wizards usually live much longer than muggles?" Waiting for him to nod, she continued, "And creatures, whose whole bodies are imbued with magic, even more so. It's all because of magic...
"But just as magic gives a longer life-" Here her voice pitched lower into an ill-omened whisper that thundered in the room despite its softness. "-it can as easily take this time away. When a wizard's core is torn away completely from him, even though his heart is still beating, even though the soul still flutters in his body... He will die."
"You lie!" Harry's yell of accusation rang through the room. Curt, sharp, it wasn't his way, and Hermione didn't deserve the tone- But she was lying, Harry was convinced of it. She had to, because otherwise...
Otherwise, he had to bury all his unfulfilled dreams, had to bid farewell to all those people he was yet to meet as well as to those he had met and loved or hated, had to end his romance with Ginny (oh, Ginny! How she would react?) and forget all about a house for the two of them and a bunch of children. Myriads of hopes and visions for his future sped by and, all one by one, shattered in his mind.
He swallowed and swallowed and swallowed.
The guilt and sorrow intertwined on Hermione's face sharpened his grief and broke his delusions. He wanted to scamper and hide in a safe cocoon of ignorance, but the veil of comfortable lies had been lifted, and now he couldn't glance away from the truth.
Because it was true. Deep in himself, Harry's magic sadly hummed to prove Hermione's words.
"How long?"
The voice was a scratchy sound of death and despair, as ugly as Harry's reality of life suddenly seemed.
Hermione turned away. The sound affected her, too.
"If nothing accelerates the process, about five-six years."
"Enough for Voldemort to die," Harry promised himself in a deadly tone. That made Hermione's attention return to him as she stared at him, wide-eyed.
"You can't!" she exclaimed. Her hold on his hands tightened, as if she wanted to tie him to the bed and leave him there, denying him the satisfaction of his bloodlust. "We must find the cure first, we must preserve the time you have-"
"People are dying out there, Hermione!" Harry shouted, finally losing his composure. It had overwhelmed him. Dumbledore's death, Snape's final betrayal, his own impending death... Nothing but darkness existed in his world now. "I'm a lost case; I have always been if you think about it!"
Those words hurt to say. Hurt to think. But they silenced Hermione nicely.
"You can't mean it-"
"Yes I bloody do! I am fated to fight with him and to win or die trying. No one else can. Dumbledore tried, but look where it left him! He couldn't do it in the end." Breathless from his outburst, Harry softened his tone. "So, it's my turn to try, no? Maybe the results will be the same. Maybe I'll win, and if I do, we can research to find the cure together. After the war. In peace. Would you like that, Hermione?"
She pursed her lips with that stubborn spark in her chocolate-coloured eyes that Harry usually admired but now wanted to curse to hell and back. It told her clearly that she wasn't convinced.
"I will call Ron," she told him instead of replying. As she stood up, wiping the tear tracks and smoothing out her school robe, she continued, somewhat coolly, "He will be delighted to know you've woken up now, but awkward because he thinks he should have listened to you when you accused Malfoy. So, be prepared for his gloomy mood. Madame Pomfrey is catching on some sleep right now, because she exhausted herself browsing her healing magic tomes in search of something to help you, so let's leave her to it for a bit."
She whirled around and strode out of the infirmary, regardless of Harry's cries to wait.
Unbeknownst to him, her brilliant mind was working full blast. Possibilities raced by and were dismissed. Ideas spun and rushed and pinged. Suggestions and plans all tangled together to create outlines of the next possible course of action, where everything, even the most outlandish details like time-travel or forbidden magic, were taken into consideration.
She would not see her best friend die on her all because it was his "fate" or some other utter balderdash.
She would save him. Like she always did.
{ERASING DEATH}
Inside the infirmary, Harry crumbled into a foetal position.
What were five-six years on the scale of life wizards usually led? He would die without ever living, in an endless fight that had begun before his awareness, without ever experiencing the joys of family or freedom.
Hermione had provided little information, and there had been little time to research, but Harry still trusted her word. If she was so sure no cure existed for him...
He needed to hurry.
Harry had never been a child, understanding the notion of responsibility from an early age, so he put defeating Voldemort before his unwanted ailment. After all, if Dumbledore could stare in the face of death with so much calm and even amiability, Harry would step into the man's shoes and sacrifice himself for the loved ones. It hurt, yes, but it would spare the hurt of so many others...
Besides, Dumbledore had given Harry all the tools and all the knowledge needed.
Horcruxes. Well, destroying a few objects surely couldn't be that hard, right?
The door creaked open, the sound breaking through Harry's intense ponderings. He schooled his features into a small smile when he met Ron's eyes, and prepared himself to console his friend and to relay his Grand Plan, which he had been to stunned to do with Hermione. Probably, they would at least point him to the right direction as to what the artefacts Voldemort had put his soul in were.
Harry didn't have the time to be afraid of dying when he had an entire world to fix.
Notes: 'tis only a prologue, but the next chappie's going to be bigger.