Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other affiliated trademark. It is the property of J.K Rowling, Warner Bros. and whoever the hell else.

A/N: Yes I know, bad idea to start yet another story when I've already got four or so on the go already. But hey, it's better to write anything rather than nothing and I'm working on a system to try and rotate between stories. It's a BWL with a plotline that deviates from the books but includes hallows and horcruxes, although the latter will be wrapped up early on. Harry in this is badass and brilliant, but he has some glaring character flaws as well.

Summary: Harry Potter. The brother to the infamous Boy-Who-Lived. A desperate bid to step out of his brother's shadow will set in motion events that will determine the fate of the war and the world itself. But not all enemies can be fought and the demons and vices within Harry could be his undoing.

Harry Potter and the Relics of Merlin
Chapter One – Wannabe Hero

Maybe a real hero's the last one to hear about it
~ Wylie Burp

I have taken Rachel Fudge. I have taken her because I can. I have taken her to prove a point: that no matter where you hide, no matter how far you run, I will always find you. If you desire her safe return, Jack Potter or Harry Potter shall come to me. They shall come alone. Failure to do so will result in Rachel's demise.

You have two hours.

I was insane.

I had to be. Only a madman would answer the call of another madman. Only someone completely lacking in both sanity and basic common sense would embark on this ill-considered path. My compassionate heart had overruled my head and senses and forced me to embark on what would surely be a suicide mission. But why had I come?

Because I'm Harry bloody Potter, and that's what I do. A Hero complex, or to some a "saving people thing", a misguided sense of compassion and heroic naivety all came together to make me who I am: a wannabe hero, struggling needlessly against the dark and the shadows because I wanted to, because I could. Because maybe, just maybe, I could be the hero for once, and not my brother.

My twin brother, to be precise. Jack Potter, the esteemed Boy-Who-Lived, the destroyer of a Dark Lord at the incredible age of one year old on a chilly Halloween evening, so many years ago. Since Lord Voldemort's return a few years ago, Jack had once again become a beacon of hope in the dark times that followed, held aloft on a pedestal forged by those who believed him to be capable of the feat twice-over. The so-called Chosen One. And there was a modicum of truth in such almost-illogical fanaticism; He was the child of prophecy, a prophecy which decreed that one of three children would bring about Lord Voldemort's fall.

One had been Jack.

One had been Neville Longbottom.

The third had been myself.

And out of the three of us, Lord Voldemort had given the terrifying burden to Jack to shoulder, to struggle with, when he attacked our family that same Halloween night. Our parents had left us in the loving care of one Peter Pettigrew. He had been an agent of the Dark Lord; lacking the Gryffindor heart of his close friends, he offered us children to gain Voldemort's hopeful favour. But when the time eventually came for Voldemort to perform the deed, Peter refused, having finally found the courage a battered old wizard's hat had seen in him so long ago. He died to protect us, and found absolution for his sins in his final, heroic last act.

Voldemort had gone on to turn his wand of us, intending to end our lives, and end two of the three threats to him. But when he summoned up his Killing Curse, some force, be it ancient magic, a divine force or simply Lady Luck's treasured whim, his magic was reflected, turned against him and tore him from his body and doomed him to a state of life as little more than a mere shade for more than a decade. Jack was hailed a hero, an icon, a symbol that the dark days were over and an age of peace would reign. They forever cherished him as the Boy-Who-Lived, remembered by his amazing scar in the shape of a serpentine 'S', a lasting testament to his amazing feat.

No one remembered that I too bore a scar.

Years passed, and we grew up with our family and friends. Jack had fame, he was popular and loved by all. And no matter how hard they tried to be fair, no matter how much they tried to show love equally, James and Lily Potter ultimately couldn't help but favour Jack more. He was confident, his love of Quidditch and mischief allowed the fatherly bond to form with ease while I became engrossed with books and studying. Lily did the best she could to make me feel equal, but it was obvious to all with eyes that Jack was easier to bond with, to have fun with and so others gravitated towards him. I loved flying too, but I was too scared to speak up, too scared that I would be seen as a copycat, jealous of the brother's talent. Maybe I was.

Then the time came for us to leave the nest and go to school, to join our fellow students under the auspices of the great Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Jack of course went to Gryffindor, the ancestral house of Potters and the home of the brave and the bold. I went to the more restrained Ravenclaw, where wit and wisdom were the most desired traits. My first four years at the prestigious school alternated between bouts of contentment and tired adventuring; magical stones and hidden chambers and snakes and dragons and all sorts of monsters permeated those years.

When Voldemort returned, so did the fear and the uncertainty that had plagued the country during the last war. The governance machine struggled to retain control as attacks increased, and more and more were killed. In a bid to take the public's mind off the war against the enemy in the shadows, they resurrected an age-old tradition: the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Three schools would compete in a bid to win the illustrious Tri-Wizard cup. But Voldemort used even this to his advantage, and ensured my entry despite the restrictions and forced me to compete. It had been a devious ruse to lure me to him, to deliver me into his crutches as an ace card he could use against Dumbledore and Jack. However, I managed to escape –barely – and left his plot in tatters.

But now he's tried a similar trick, and on my fifteenth birthday no less. He sent his servants to the Minister for Magic's home and absconded with the daughter Rachel in the night, with the agreement of her safe return on the arrival of myself or my brother. But Dumbledore had been insistent that Jack couldn't go; Jack wasn't ready yet to face him in combat, he was needed alive, and it would be folly to send him to die at the Dark Lord's hand, a lamb to the proverbial slaughter.

It didn't occur to anyone to place the same restriction on me.

And so, I had answered his summons, without the Order's knowledge, and found a simple portkey waiting to whisk me away in a flash of blue and deposit me in Lord Voldemort's fortress keep. A small castle somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, if I had to venture a tentative guess. It was of course hidden under a vast multitude of protective wards and concealment canopies. No one would find it unless specifically invited. Which made coming here all the more insane, since it meant there was no hope of anyone coming to rescue me. If they weren't going to come for the Minister's own daughter, there wasn't a hope in hell of them coming for me.

But hey, Harry bloody Potter, remember? Wannabe hero and all that jazz.

Volemort's fortress, or lair, or castle or whatever the hell you wished to call it was a building of stone; a circular dome with three spires, surrounded by a twenty foot stone wall, rising and falling with the hills, save for a gap where the boundary was defined by a body of water – a lake. The wall of course was merely pretence; no one would ever find the blasted thing unless Voldemort desired it, much less manage to force entry.

Voldemort of course, had gone for dramatic flair. He sat in the highest room in the tallest tower – pretentious twat – and I stood outside said room, in a dank corridor steeped in shadows save for the pitiful light given off by wall-mounted torches. The door was ornate wood – yew, like his wand – and furnished into a shiny bronze. Despite their immense size, they were charmed to be light. If I had to guess why, it would so that Voldemort could gather his Death Eaters here and leave them to stew in their trepidation and uncertainly before swinging open the doors with commanding force. Keep 'em in line by making yourself seem bigger than you are. Although, it seemed for tonight that his minions had been blocked from seeing the show. Obviously didn't want me roughed up.

That told me two things.

One: Voldemort didn't want me dead outright. That was good.

Two: Voldemort wanted something in particular. That was never, ever good.

And so, with a resolve and confidence I didn't feel, I pressed my hands against the wood and applied force and sauntered in with a smirk and a swagger. The room was like an anti-dungeon, and it could have been mistaken for one had I not been on the top floor of a tower rather than the bottom. Like the rest of his fortress it was dark grey stone barely lit from torches burning with green fire.

Rachel herself lay bound and gagged in the corner. Terrified and alone, I could see the hope in her eyes, which turned to confusion as she wondered why the other twin had come to save the day. A quick glance told me she was unharmed save for cuts and bruises obtained in the struggle to kidnap her and reddening skin where the magical bonds pressed a little too deep into the skin.

Lord Voldemort made for a much more grandiose and impressive figure. Lounged on a throne of ivory marble that contrasted sharply with his flowing black robes that pooled around him like fluid. His long thin fingers played idly with his bone-white wand and blood red eyes in reptilian slits looked up sharply as I entered. A ghost of a smile curved his lips in silent recognition.

"Harry, Harry, Harry, I knew it would be you to come." Voldemort drawled, his voice barely above a whisper and laced with malice. "You have too much compassion in your heart."

"'Sup Tom?" I replied mildly, scrutinising the room in apparent boredom. "How's life since the graveyard?"

"It has been eventful." Voldemort admitted, lowering himself into the banter. "I hear the Ministry grows quite desperate to stop me."

"Yeah they are." I snorted in amusement. The damned fools. "Fudge has his head-"

I shut up when I remember who was in the room. My face tightened into a mask of seriousness, replacing the one of false bravado I had worn to conceal my fear.

Onto business.

"You wanted one, you got one." I paused. He had asked for one of us, and had gotten the rotten end of the deal. "Now let her go."

Now, people like it when things go to plan. When a terrorist says he's going to blow up a church, no one panics, because it's all part of the plan. No one panics when things go to plan. It's when they don't that the fear and confusion sets in. The same goes for people. When people act like they should, no one panics. When Lord Voldemort says he'll come to kill you, you don't panic (Okay, that's a bit of a stretch) and you accept it as part of the plan. So it was a rather large and disconcerting surprise when Voldemort's lips turned up in a monster's attempt at a smile and snapped his fingers. Rachel disappeared in a swirl of magic, to be deposited in the main atrium of the Ministry of Magic. Lucky her.

Lord Voldmort had kept his word. In the heartbeat of an instant, the world had been flipped upside down.

Lord Voldemort had kept his word.

Shit.

"Consider it a show of good faith." Voldemort said, "A token of goodwill."

Goodwill for what? I really didn't like where this was going. I had come here half expecting to die, but now I was starting to think I had gotten myself into something bigger than I could handle.

"For?"

Voldemort stood up from his throne and began to pace along the cold flagstone floor. Part of me wanted to pull out my wand, aim for the kill but I stayed my hand knowing it would be a fruitless endeavour. Wait for the moment. I'd have to keep him talking until then.

"Harry, you are far more interesting than your brother." Voldemort murmured, deep in thought. "He is a mere enemy, a weapon to be used against me. But you…you are an equal."

Equal? Bullshit. Jack had gotten all the good genes. I could barely manage a patronus charm. Every situation with Voldemort I've had I got out with a lucky throw of the dice or someone else coming in at the opportune moment. Another reason why Jack was more powerful than me. He usually managed to handle the situations himself.

"You've got me mistaken for someone else." I snort, all the while searching for a way out.

Voldemort merely inclined his head. "Have I?"

"Yes."

"Interesting. I was under the impression that you were the boy my spies told me snuck out of Hogwarts many a time last year to sneak away to other countries. That you were the one that fought me in the graveyard. That you were the one who thirsts for knowledge in Hogwarts yet hides it from his peers."

I blinked. How had he known that? His spies must've been good indeed. Dumbledore knew of all that too, of course he had to. Nothing got by him. Apparently the same could be said for Voldemort.

The dark lord turned towards me. "I alone see the truth, Harry. The truth of all things."

I raised an inquisitive eyebrow. I had always wondered what made Voldemort tick exactly. "What truth is that then?"

"Humans are weak." Voldemort hissed, a few green sparks exploding from the still-held wand, "They squabble and squander away such potential."

He paused, and began to pace towards me. "We need unity, stability to achieve our true potential. The world as we know it is fragmented, broken. I wish to fix it."

"Control it, you mean." I retort. "One leader, am I right?"

Of course I was. How could I not be? "A unified humanity!"

"With everyone at your feet." The goblins, the elves, the muggles and mudbloods; anyone and anyone cursed with the luck of not being part of his master race.

"A necessary sacrifice."

Something stirred within me. Defiance, hot and true. The smirk and swagger returned, and I turned my ire upon Voldemort. "But here's the kicker, Tommy-boy, you're not one of them. You're a half-blood; so why do you wish to see the purebloods rule?"

I didn't have to ask. Not really. I could see the simple truth of things, even if others wouldn't. Voldemort had been born of both worlds, and despised himself for it. Hated himself because he could never become what he aspired to be.

Surprisingly, Voldemort gave no heed to my ill-thought taunts and merely replied: "Because I see that they are the best way, the only way to ensure stability. The pure shall completely rule the weak."

"Doubt it." I snort. Voldemort would never have control, not the way he so envisioned. The world would become a lawless desolate land held in the infernal grip of eternal war as the defiant and the dead-to-be fools fought on, raging against the night. He wouldn't win, save for the sheer destruction he would inevitably cause. No empire would rise from the ashes of his deluded war.

"We could rule together, Harry." Ah, there it was. "Build the world into a true utopia."

I laughed and sat down onto Voldemort's hard marble throne. "Why the hell would I serve you?"

The bastard had tried to kill me enough times. The only trust I could place in Voldemort would be a knife in the back one day. Far from enough to build an empire on.

"You and I are not so different." Voldemort murmured. "We both thirst for knowledge, we both aspire to something greater." A pause. "You wish to step out of your brother's shadow, to be someone of import. Join me, and everything you desire can be yours."

"Hell no."

Voldemort turned, somehow managed to look regretful. "Will you not reconsider?"

Hmm… "Still no."

I am about to die.

The thought came with surprising ease. I was not afraid, not scared of the next to come. The thought was surprisingly pleasing. I stood up with lazy ease and looked Voldemort in the eye.

"Then I am truly sorry." Voldemort raised his wand. "Avada Kedavra."

And the world went to black.

We're just getting started…

Well the afterlife is…clean, if I had to call it anything. The simple white of the ethereal world around me made for a sharp contrast with the morbid castle I had left behind. It was just as deserted though. The place vaguely reminded me of a train station of sorts, of King's Cross station in old London town. No trains that I could see though.

Where the fuck was everyone? Maybe this wasn't the afterlife at all…

I realised there was a figure approaching from the white. Dumbledore? No, but close, so very close. A wizened old man with a flowing silvery beard and ancient eyes tinged with weariness. The long white robes he wore were indistinguishable from the world around him. Looks like someone had ripped Gandalf the White straight from Tolkien's Lord of the Rings.

"Er...hi?" I call towards the figure. There was a vague sense of recognition here, a notion that I should know him, but for my life I could not put name to face. Or the beard.

"Am I dead?" I try again.

The wizard, or warlock, or sorcerer or whatever he wished to be ignored me, opting simply to sit down on a bench of what could've been white plastic. Finally, he turned his attention towards me, appraising me. He patted the space beside him.

"Sit."

And I did.

"You are arrogant, deluded, consumed in notions of grandeur and heroism. A fool in the face of destiny."

Gee thanks. Asshole.

"And yet," the old man whispered, "Our only hope."

"I think you got the wrong Potter." I laugh hollowly. "Jack deals with all that prophecy stuff."

Also, I'm dead now. Kinda makes things a tad award.

"You are not dead." The old man replied, "Not yet. There is still much to be done, and circumstance demands your consideration of returning."

Huh? "I could go back?"

"If you so desire."

I considered. Really there was no choice at all. "What's the catch?"

The old man laughed, and stroked his magnificent beard. He'd be pulling out the pipe next. "No catch, but a warning."

"Oh?"

The wizard's face turned grave. "Voldemort seeks old relics, old objects of power. Should he succeed, your world will fall to darkness."

Oh great. "Didn't I just say Jack deals with all the prophecy crap?"

"There is no destiny, my son, save the one we make." The old man retorted, "Your delusions of inferiority will be your undoing. You cannot let them stay your hand."

Yeah. I'll get right on that…

"Who are you, anyway?" I probe, "Do I know you?"

"You should."

Right. I wasn't getting an answer, was I? "Okay. Those object things?"

"Fate will limit my ability to offer aid, but they are objects most powerful. They belonged to the most powerful wizard of ancient history."

I frown. Most powerful wizard? "You mean the relics of Merlin? No one even knows what they are."

I thought blossomed in my head. Wizened old man, relics of Merlin…no, it couldn't be. "Are you-?"

"Who I am matters not." The old man cut off tritely. "The question is: who are you?"

I'm Harry bloody Potter, mate. Kickass magical extraordinaire, pretty good on a broom, and Lord Voldemort's official pain in the ass. Give me my wand and a bottle of scotch and I'll paint the town red. Well, not really. Not too keen on scotch. Cola, maybe.

"I'm whoever I chose to be."

The old man chuckled at that – could it really be Merlin? "Perhaps. We shall see."

I look around, surveying the white expanse. "What happens now?"

Merlin looked thoughtful, if the way he scratched his beard was any indication. "You go back, or you go on."

"I'll wake up in Voldemort's fortress wont I?" That wouldn't end well.

"Yes."

Shit. Nothing to be done for it I suppose. Just had to reap the whirlwind and hope for the best. Not once did the thought of simply leaving, of simply going on cross my mind. I could've. After all, a train station has to have trains right? And I'd be willing to bet I'd find one, just one, waiting to carry me on. On to the next great adventure as a wise old man once put it.

"Fuck it." And I laughed. A shaky laugh, not of joy or humour but something akin to withered fear.

"Good luck, Harry Potter." The old man stood up and began to walk back into the white. "And happy birthday."

And the world slowly faded to back.

Again.

Stop the presses. I ain't quite dead yet.

Cold flagstone pressed into the right side of my face as I awoke in Voldemort's chamber. My glasses had been skewed from the fall to the floor and I could hear the whispers and shouts of Death Eaters as they tended to their master.

"I do not require aid, Bellatrix." came Voldemort irritated snarl from somewhere to my right – just out of sight. Somehow, his killing curse had knocked him on his ass as well. "Someone check if the boy is dead."

No one moved. No one dared. Then, finally, I could sense movement to my left as one Lucius Malfoy came to check for a pulse and an impossible heartbeat. Out of their line of sight, my hand crept towards my pocket in search of the ever faithful holly and phoenix feather wand that would be there, and for an item with which to create an opportunity for escape.

Lucius leaned over me. Time to roll. Literally. I rolled over and raised my wand, aimed at Lucius' heart. He barely had time to react before my yell of "Stupefy!" knocked him out cold.

All hell broke loose.

The assorted Death Eaters lunged for wand or weapon, but before they had a chance to strike I flung a coal-like rock at the floor. The Instant Darkness Powder reacted instantly, dousing the room in thick arid smog that could not be seen through. My the time they were able to clear it, I was gone.

And so it comes to this. I see the truth of you, Harry Potter.

I see your lust for adventure, your desire for glory.

Mostly I just see loneliness.

I sprinted through the dark corridors of the fortress, the Death Eaters in tow. They cast all manner of magic to halt my escape. Jets of green and red and sickly yellow whizzed and screamed past me, impacted on the wall and tore out chunks of stone. Occasionally I spun to return a curse of my own but mostly I ran. Ran for my life, oh yes.

Not the first time. Sure as hell wouldn't be the last.

I ducked left, into a side-corridor that I figured would take me towards the lakeside of the fortress. There was no hope for apparation or a portkey here; my egress would be of the slow, physical variety. Perhaps a boat.

A Reductor Curse missed my head by a scant few inches and blew a hole in the wall ahead. Below I could see the pier that fed into the lake. I did something foolish there, my latest in a long, long list of insane acts.

I jumped through the hole.

As I plummeted towards the hard ground, I spun my wand in complex patterns, whispering words of magic. "Arresto Momentum, Spongify."

My descent slowed, and while I still hit the ground hard, I took the blow and rolled to transfer the energy to the ground. The wind was knocked out of me, but the adrenaline and the potent cocktail of fear and determination kicked in and got me to my feet. Above, some Death Eaters stood at the hole in the tower, hurling what curses they could for all the good it would do them. They couldn't hit me so far away. A cheeky salute, and I was running again.

Always running, me.

I reached the water's edge and slid down the incline to where the boathouse stood, rackety and wooden. No boats inside, just a few mounds of thick rope, an anchor and a number of rusted old lockers. Typical. I could hear the approach of Death Eaters.

I knew there wasn't a chance for me to try swimming away, so I desperately began to tear apart the lockers in search of an escape method. The first two held nothing, but the third I managed to strike gold with. Inside were a number of broomsticks. They were old, the magic in them fading away to almost nothing but one would do. I took one – an old Sliver Arrow model, older than I was – and as an afterthought, set fire to the rest. It wouldn't do for them to follow.

I ran outside the boathouse to the open pier, and mounted the old broom just as the Death Eaters arrived. I smirked as waved as I took off into the sky, the broomstick baring me aloft to freedom.

When I moved through the wards, the magic rubbed raw against my skin, but the broom didn't falter and shot through like an arrow – heh. Get it? Sliver Arrow? – through a thin shield. I shot off away from the fortress as fast as I could. I didn't have a clue where I was going; once I was content with my distance from Voldemort I would orient myself with the Point Me Spell and try to make my way home.

Technically, I had some experience with apparition, but I wasn't particularly willing to try such a large distance without a license. Under-age magic laws and all that. Not that those laws had ever stopped me before, but I was always wary of splinching myself. I'd only try if Voldemort himself came after me.

Speak of the devil. A sharp splinter of pain tore into my scar and I looked frantically across the grey skyline for a sign of the snake-faced monster or his Death Eaters. I watched with fascinated horror as the clouds themselves shifted, reformed, contracting and flexing into the gigantic image of a human skull. The Dark Mark.

The mouth – the maw would be more appropriate – opened up wide and jet black trails of smoke lanced out of the mouth where the tongue should have been. Death Eaters using Wind Travel; Voldemort had developed it during the last war. Wizards borne about naught but the air and wind.

My scar stung, but the pain was not so severe as I had come to associate with Voldemort's physical proximity. He was angry without a doubt, but he had yet to join the hunt himself. For now I merely had to contend with his Death Eaters.

For now.

A/N: Just a couple points I want to raise, before you ask me in the reviews (of which there better be many…) Harry isn't reliable as a narrator, hence why some of what he says is contradictory.

1: First of all, the family situation; James and Lily were good parents, but Jack simply took up more of their time. Jack himself isn't one of those "asshole" Wrong-Boy-Who-Lived; He's got his head on straight, he's hardworking in the face of his destiny and is pretty good in a fight. Doesn't mean Harry's not jealous. Dumbledore isn't manipulative beyond what goes on in the books themselves.

2: I've actually tried to come up with a sensible reason why Jack would be chosen over Harry. Jack has detectable dark magic traces in him, which specialist wizards (Dumbledore wouldn't be stupid enough to make the choice himself) highlighted and speculated meant a part of Voldemort transferred to him. Harry has the Horcrux, but because he wasn't actually made into one and just a piece of Voldemort's soul latches onto Harry's, and the aforementioned specialists can't detect soul magic in play, so it slips them by. Therefore Harry looks like a normal kid while Jack looks like he's got some sort of magical transfer.

3: How school events play out: They both have the troll, Jack gets seeker in first-year, Harry gets the Stone and deals with the Chamber of Secrets. Voldemort returns in Third-Year instead of fourth, and in fourth-year the Tournament still happens and Harry is declared a Champion as part of a plan for Voldemort to get to Jack. Jack himself was specifically not allowed to enter on grounds of his additional training and therefore got rejected when Crouch Jr. tried to enter him. Harry and Voldemort fight in the Graveyard. Jack has several other adventures, including Death Eater attacks and the like.

4: Wind Travel is supposed to be the "cloud" apparation from the films.

As always, Read review and whatever else.

- The Last True Hero