How do you describe what it feels like to stand before something that is forgot? To have a creature so ghastly that it's true visage is stricken from all form of memory, utterly twisted and reshaped until any trace left behind resembles nothing in so much as that what it truly is?

Cthulhu as it is properly seen is nothing alike the wary depictions H.P. Lovecraft once wrote about, for he sought only fleetingly along the edges of a dreams dream to encounter his truth.

Exhilaration surged through my veins and sent my heartbeat pounding more firmly than before, and sweat swirled among the wild tendrils of black hair surrounding my face, but my piercing green gaze was unaffected and remained firm and steady.

The cloak upon my shoulders whispered and fluttered heavily in an unseen and unnoticed wind, and in my left hand the blood-soaked elder wood wand pulsed in time to my hearts rapid pace. The alien stonework beneath my feet rumbled as Cthulhu stirred into awareness for the first time since it had been forcefully abandoned from memory.

The eyes alone flared burning with purple light, multifaceted so that eight different angles looked down upon me from within each pupil. A note unlike a voice, more akin to the sound of water dripping off of battered gutters in a hurricane, filled the air between it and I.

Magic translated the note into words that I could understand, both within my mind and with my ears, "I have dreamed a thousand dreams in the span of reality, and each dream has splintered into a hundred visions of to-come," Cthulhu spoke, and another note filled the air.

"And I have seen what is to-come in any variety known to living things. But you are not among them, and toward the end no more am I among them. Why do you disturb the to-come that I have known and savored for a thousand thousand aeons?" if curiosity could have been known to such a figure, than perhaps it was the emotion most focused among its speech toward me.

For the first time I spoke up in response, "Your aeon has truly passed, and your time among even the forgotten realms has come toward a close. Be embraced now by that which walks all planes, and that which has no proper place among the living nor unliving. I am to you as you are to a man, Youngest of the Old Ones; the Ancientest of even They commands my will now. It is time to return beyond the stars and abandon your dreams."

Time passed, then. Cthulhu had expired all power to remain within the waken realms, or the dreamt realms, or any realm to which humanity had ever passed through or would. I had come to remove it and return the order to the forgot that had been unbalanced for some time of late on behalf of a greater force.

It did not go quietly back into that which it must. In the fury of It's struggles many more things of the forgot were stirred into remembrance, and I knew that it would be my duty to undue or subdue them the same. But It's work was well placed, for they fled beyond my grasp, focused as I must upon but one figure at a time to endure, and I knew then that it would be beyond me to regather them alone before the chaos was sown beyond proper time.

Others, then, would be required.


Blood rained down in a shower of mayhem and gore, the reaping of the Giants and the Acromantula hordes among the Fiendfyre carving up the land of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

I watched it unfold from my perch upon the Astronomy Tower, keen vision gazing down and measuring the worth of each tiny spec hustling and soaring around in a nigh-madness induced panic, seeking out two among them all- or three, if I were truly to be honest.

Voldemort dwelt somewhere far below, but whether it was in command and mastery of the wicked flames consuming everything almost out of control or hidden somewhere else in thought or strife, I did not yet know.

This realms Harry Potter may likewise be engaged in the combat streaming forth in brilliant resolution, and again I knew not what his fate herein was or would be.

And I perused what should be the last battle for Neville Longbottom; after-all, the Prophecy gave rite toward two children with the potential to eradicate Voldemort's regime. If it were he instead of another form of me, than I would be wise not to overlook the lesser boy- or man, given the date, in my search for one worthy to combat the hordes of the forgot.

A wayward spell crashed against the Tower and shook it violently, and I slipped down into open air after a moment and fell toward another patch of open wall after a few seconds, landing lightly on my toes and rolling forward into another battle and cacophony of screaming spells.

I found myself facing James Potter, locked in combat with Severus Snape as well as Flitwick and Pomona Sprout. It seemed that this realm belonged to Neville after-all, then, or else Voldemort had been more careless than could be expected given that night.

My pseudo-father worked in well tandem with Flitwick and Sprout as Snape ducked and weaved with his great black cape billowing out behind him like the wings of an obscure bat, and he gathered statues and suits of armor toward himself in defense as the vicious hues of Sectumsempra spread along the crumbling hallway.

No one seemed to have taken note of me, and I had no intention of revealing my presence toward anyone else just yet, watching the match of Transfiguration, Charms, and Alchemy unfold in a masterful conduction between three obvious masters and one above-average man.

Whatever had happened in the past, James Potter was not the expert he once had been to duel his way out of Voldemort's talons thrice prior to 1981. He had obviously suffered some disillusionary encounter at some point, and it showed as his work was only ever enough to match Snapes, rather than surpass it.

At last Snape was backed up against a window, and he tore through it without a backward glance rather than be captured or defeated at the hands of his old school and love-rival.

He did not escape. My father followed him out of the window despite the protests of Flitwick and Sprout, and a chain of stone wrapped around Snape's throat and James Potter's left wrist. In a sort-of-fascination, I watched them crash into the body of a giant and still.

It was a fascinating observation, watching the two struggle on the way to an inevitable collision with the unforgiving surfaces below, but my attention soon faded after the faint thump trailed up toward the hole and I looked instead upon the glistening flash of silver in the twilight reflections of the open Great Hall.

As expected, Neville wrecked war upon the Death Eaters in near reach as he cut through physical shields with the goblin hued steel, reflecting back what spells he could, and flashing his teeth in a violent display of deep-rooted anger more so than the terror others might have displayed when so strongly outnumbered.

His maneuver, alas, was not great enough. Luck and determination will only take one so far when faced down by overwhelming odds and higher skills, if only just above ones own, in such a degree of figures.

The first spell took him by the knee, and he spun in place to dodge several others even as the blood spewed out among the fragmented shards of stark white jutting from the ruined cap.

His breath exploded past mangled lips as the sword was knocked from elbow-less hands back into his face, cleaving a narrow trench from eyebrow to chin and shaving away his nose all in the same motion, and he sank to his good knee in half-blinded fury and howled out his pain.

His hands and head rolled free from the rest of the body a moment later, taking his last defiant note with him into a black ditch gouged into the stone.

Voldemort himself appeared, then, from the mass of shadows and masks surrounding the lost Chosen child, and even from a distance his red gaze seemed to glow with the power of a destiny conquered from both sides.

I knew, with grim satisfaction, that it was neither a fellow Harry Potter or wayward Neville Longbottom that I could recruit to my aide, but one Voldemort, instead. Unhappiness soaked into my resolve, and even as I Apparated to his side I half regretted not lending my guide toward the now dead wizard behind me.

Voldemort did not flinch, though his troops all but spun inward upon themselves in concern and outrage, and a dozen trained wands fell upon my form as I looked over the alabaster form.

"This... should not be." He spoke softly, examining me in turn. I agreed with him.

"No, it should not." And with that I ripped his spirit from the flesh, reached out and grasped the empty suit of meat and bone that had once housed him, and vanished to the next world nearest.


We appeared in a cavern this time, the eerie were-light cast out by a central green pedestal among a narrow island of cold and slime coated rock the focus for the time.

I dropped Voldemort's body to the ground carelessly and allowed his mangled and maligned spirit to float down into it slowly and painfully.

"I am not the boy you knew and no doubt slew, Voldemort. I have lived a far greater life than that boy, and I serve a greater cause than merely the human species at this era... I offer you the hand of friendship in place of your worlds Harry Potter or Neville Longbottom, as you are the one whom has conquered." I told him with the same note of displeasure apparent.

When he had finally returned to his body with a terrible, racking cough, his pale red gaze flared into violent rage, but his fingers clenched uselessly and he slowly rose to his feet on his own.


An Eldergod!Slave!Harry concept that never got any further along.