The pain, the pain, the pain the pain thepainthepainthePAINTHEPA—
Voldemort viciously wrenched himself from most of his host's senses and nerves, and the agony vanished as abruptly as it had begun…for him, at least. Quirrell, on the other hand, was still screaming; the small room echoed with the sound. It was becoming rather annoying, actually, but Voldemort didn't feel like cutting himself off from the man's sense of hearing just yet.
"Master!" the annoyance screeched. How pathetic. "I cannot hold him – my hands – my hands!"
Could he not think under pressure? Voldemort roused enough strength to give himself a voice.
"Then kill him, fool, and be done with it!"
He needed that stone, and if Potter died by a hand not his own, so be it. He was only an infant, after all, when the curse had rebounded on Voldemort; there was little reason to kill the boy himself other than a small, petty grudge easily ignored.
Quirrell's hand rose, the man almost mindlessly obeying his master, and Voldemort looked on through his eyes, gleefully awaiting the shock of death to enter the young face of the boy pinned beneath them.
What happened instead rather shocked Voldemort.
The boy – the reckless, foolish, precocious boy – lunged upwards, grasping desperately at Quirrell's face. Black spots flashed across the useless man's vision; Voldemort partially withdrew in disgust. He was screaming again. The Dark Lord felt his patience, tenuous under the best of circumstances, snap.
"KILL HIM!" he raged as Quirrell reeled back, arms windmilling frantically. "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!"
Sobbing, Quirrell raised his arm yet again. Potter leapt forward and latched onto it, clinging desperately as the much larger man screamed and flailed about in an attempt to shake him off. Voldemort, though he was no longer quite as aware of Quirrell's nervous system, suddenly realized that the man's entire body was beginning to shut down from the pain of the severe burns. He also suddenly realized that a frighteningly familiar presence was drawing close…too close.
He couldn't fight Dumbledore in this state.
He needed that stone now. A way to get past the old wizard safely would also be helpful.
Voldemort cast his senses quickly about the room, and quickly he found the perfect solution. If he had the time or energy, he might have laughed.
The boy.
There was a smudge of darkness inside the boy's mind and soul – a smudge quite safe from this burning power of his. It would be a perfect sanctuary; the child's mind was open and unguarded, and since he was so young it would be easily malleable, should Voldemort choose to keep him around even after attaining the stone from him.
Without a second thought, Voldemort's tattered spirit tore itself from Quirrell's dying body and rushed through the air. It struck Harry's scar and it was gone.
Quirrell fell to the ground and didn't move again. Dumbledore burst into the room, shouting out Harry's name. Harry himself was hardly aware of any of this, for at that moment, he himself experienced a blinding pain about his scar and he fell into darkness.
Ten and a half years.
It had been ten and a half years, give or take a month or two. He knew this, though he couldn't say exactly how or why. He couldn't even see where he was. There were no sounds, no tastes, no smells. Nothing but a steadily flowing knowledge of someone else's life.
He had been drifting in pitch darkness for ten and a half years.
Was he asleep? Was he awake? Was there a difference?
Strangely enough, he couldn't bring himself to care. He couldn't bring himself to care about a lot of things. It was as though knowledge had become disconnected from feelings, as though he couldn't bring the two together.
Plus, most of what he felt these days didn't belong to him, and he knew it.
The someone else – a boy – was brave. He was determined. He was scared.
He was absolutely petrified.
The darkness stirred a little, and for the first time he experienced something like touch; a current against his skin, like wind or water or licking flame.
Was he waking at last?
He was. He had to be.
Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, his sense of touch returned. He could feel his limbs, his fingers and toes, his hair brushing his forehead. Folds of cloth enveloped his legs and left arm; strips of it bound his chest and right arm. The current he felt was, indeed, a stiff wind, and something solid and rough and vaguely curved was under his back.
Then he heard. The chain around his waist was clinking as the wind swayed it; it was dangling over the edge of whatever he lay on. Something rustled all around him – above, below, to the sides – and the wind itself was a steady roar.
With his senses, the knowledge became sharper, clearer, and more defined. It connected to his emotions at last, and he felt his brow furrow in a familiar motion.
His shinigami – human, wizard – was fighting his parents' murderer – definitely not human, Voldemort? – and though the host of that spirit was falling at last, the spirit itself was tearing out of that body and rushing towards…towards…
His eyes snapped open, burning golden, and he sat up on what he now knew was a thick tree limb. He looked upward quickly, his gaze locking onto a portion of sky through the dancing leaves around him.
A black line in three angled segments, shaped vaguely like a lightning bolt, tore the sky apart. A human form dressed in black fell from it, followed quickly by something slightly translucent, tattered like an old cloak, and smelling of something that was Hollow, but not.
The zanpakuto tensed and launched himself from the tree limb, crossing the distance in a flash of something between shunpo and sonido, something all his own. He caught the falling boy in midair and lowered him carefully to the tall, dry grass that covered the otherwise empty plain. The young wizard was unconscious, even here in his own inner world. The zanpakuto looked at his shinigami curiously, appraising him. Smaller and scrawnier than he had expected…oh, he knew what the boy looked like, but simply knowing wasn't the same as seeing for himself. His black hair was messy, his skin pale, his eyes – as the zanpakuto knew but couldn't see just yet – would be bright green, and those glasses were bound to get on his nerves, especially if the kid ever managed to pick up the habit of pushing them up his nose like that blasted Quincy…
Suddenly, the hollow-that-was-not made a slightly uncharacteristic noise of confusion, drawing the zanpakuto's gaze away from the unconscious boy at last.
"What…what are you?"
The zanpakuto turned his full attention to the spirit, regarding the snake-like face and torn-up form with a scowl.
"Not your business," he replied tersely, his voice echoing just slightly around the edges, "and you don't belong here, so hurry up and get out before I make you."
The spirit tensed stubbornly, arrogantly, but before it could open its flat-lipped, gash-in-the-face mouth with some cheesy comeback or superior one-liner, the zanpakuto flared his reiatsu and leapt forward, wreathed in black flames and grinning like a demon.
Voldemort barely managed to dodge that first punch; the heat of it alone incinerated the edge of his spiritual form, driving a wedge of pain and fear straight through him.
The zanpakuto laughed shortly and whirled into an impossibly fast kick. Voldemort flew back again and, realizing he had almost no other choice and very little opportunity left, spun about and fled from Harry's inner world, vanishing through the crack in the sky and barely escaping Dumbledore on the outside.
The zanpakuto, however, didn't particularly care about that. The moment the intruder had vanished, he let his reiatsu fall away. Turning around, he looked again at the unconscious wizard lying in the dry, rustling grass.
A small, weary smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, even though his eyebrows remained furrowed in their usual glare.
Ten and a half years, and he was finally awake.
"Hey, there…Harry."
"—rry, Harry, OI!"
The twelve-year old boy grit his teeth and tried his best to ignore the echoing voice. He instead focused all of his concentration on the pounding of his shoes on the stone floor, on the heavy sword in his right hand, and on the soft rustles and loud hissing of the recently-blinded, fifty-foot snake slithering after him.
He glanced over his shoulder, then quickly dove to one side. The basilisk's jaws crashed shut where he had been running a moment before. Harry scrambled to his feet and heaved Gryffindor's blade upward, slamming it across the snake's neck.
"Ha—listen to—Harr—ld you just—"
The scales parted and red blood burst out, but the wound seemed to do little more than enrage the giant serpent. With a hiss that Harry's mind registered as a mere animal scream, the basilisk's long coils jerked and flailed, forcing the young wizard to focus completely on dodging and keeping his grip on the sword he was borrowing.
"—on't ignore m--!"
Harry couldn't stop a shudder of fear from passing over him. That voice, whatever it was, definitely wasn't helping his concentration.
It had started…he wasn't sure when, exactly. Last summer? Perhaps even earlier? Sometime after he met Voldemort face-to-face for the first time, anyhow. At first it had just been the odd feeling of hearing someone call his name, then turning around to find no one there. Everyone experienced that occasionally; it had been nothing to worry about. Then the feeling grew over the summer, until Harry began to wonder if being locked up in his room was affecting his sanity somehow (by that time, the calls had been accompanied by flashes of anger and a strange urge to punch something, usually one of his relatives).
By the time term started again, it wasn't so much a vague feeling that someone across the hall had spoken his name, but a definite voice, low, distorted, quiet, with an unsettling echo that had nothing to do with space or distance. Sometimes it spoke his name, sometimes it shouted, but the volume itself never varied, nor did the words. Harry…Harry…Harry…Harry…It made him nervous. Why could he hear it, but no one else? How did it know his name?
He couldn't tell Ron or Hermione. He couldn't tell anyone; his assumption that hearing voices was not a good thing even in the wizarding world was pretty well confirmed with the revelation that he could speak to snakes. At one point, Harry wondered if whatever was doing the petrifying around the school was speaking to him, and therefore wondered if he might not be the Heir of Slytherin after all, attacking students without knowing it.
The moment he thought that, the voice had said its first (technically) complete sentence: Don't be stupid.
Of course, the knowledge that whatever it was could apparently read his thoughts only made Harry worry more.
By this point, the boy was so concerned with what might or might not have been happening that he was fully prepared to speak to Dumbledore about it, even if it got him locked up in a wizarding mental hospital for the rest of his life. The day he decided this, however, was the day that the Headmaster was suspended from his post, leaving Harry with the echoing voice speaking in faint, half-heard sentences and no one older and wiser to rely on.
Then things started to roll downhill, and an echoing voice that faded in and out of his hearing like a badly tuned radio, complete with static bursts, didn't seem so bad anymore. The petrifications got more frequent, they lost Hermione, they discovered the identity of the monster, they lost Ginny, Lockhart had proven himself an incompetent coward after all, and the next thing Harry really knew, he was facing off against a younger Voldemort and a giant snake whose gaze alone could kill.
Needless to say, by this point the mysterious voice wasn't much more than an annoyance.
"Harry, just—isten! You—listen to—aaaagh! Do you—EARS?"
The snake thrashed about, and Riddle was shouting something in Parseltongue about smelling him, but Harry was a bit too occupied inside his own mind to catch what was being said.
Go away, go away, go away! Get out of my head!
"Idiot, I—away! If you just—me, then…LOOK OUT!"
Harry looked up instinctively at the shout, though it had sounded only through his own head, and jumped to the side as the snake lunged. It hit the wall behind him. Harry began to shuffle along said wall, trying to avoid the still-writhing coils of the basilisk.
The vibrant green snake reared back and shot forward again, this time striking the wall to Harry's other side. With a frantic cry, the boy jumped in the other direction. The basilisk recovered faster this time, weaving its head quickly through the air before stopping with its nose pointed directly at Harry. The young wizard raised the heavy sword again.
"My name! Call—it's zzzrrrrgzzzzzznnnn! Why can't—hear me? HARRY!"
The snake struck, and this time, it was dead on. Propelled forward by its own power, and then by its own weight, the basilisk impaled itself on Gryffindor's sword.
Harry felt an aching pain suddenly appear in his arm, just about the elbow. The burning sensation spread up his arm as the sword slid from his grasp and the basilisk toppled over, the fang that had struck Harry splintering at the base until it was more attached to the boy than to the snake it had come from.
Harry thought he heard the voice curse – it had to be the voice, since he never used words like that, even in his own mind – but he also wasn't very sure whether he could have heard anything at all. The world was reeling and going all muddle-colored, and sounds had become oddly muffled. He thought he saw the Chamber suddenly move around him, tipping back and up until he suddenly found himself lying limply against the ancient stone wall.
"You seem to have killed my basilisk…no matter, really," Riddle was saying as he wandered across the Chamber, twirling Harry's wand in his pale fingers, "since you're dying anyhow."
There was a soft rustle and a flash of gold and red, and Harry realized that Dumbledore's phoenix had landed beside him. His vision wavered; he almost thought he saw worry in the bird's eyes.
"Fawkes," he said, trying to smile a little as he remembered the phoenix attacking the basilisk's eyes and blinding it, "you were brilliant…"
Fawkes looked at Harry carefully, sensing him on a level beyond mere sight and smell, and for a moment he wondered what to do.
As a phoenix, Fawkes was far more intelligent than most would realize, and he had a very long memory to boot. He had sensed something like this before, a strange power hidden in a soul which could be released from a body. In addition, this power felt oddly like himself, though darker in appearance and a bit in temperament. It needed to come out. Harry needed to come out.
But for that to happen, he needed to let the boy die.
His instinct demanded he heal. His intellect demanded he do nothing.
Tears gathered at the corners of the phoenix's dark eyes. He shuffled his claws and looked away from the bloody wound in Harry's arm and the dark poison he could practically see flying through the boy's body.
Then, finally, just as the phoenix thought he would break, just as he began to bend his head to cry in earnest over the hole the fang had made, Harry's green eyes dimmed and slowly closed and his body slumped further down the wall, sliding to the floor…
Leaving a copy of himself behind.
When Harry first felt himself slipping into darkness, he wasn't quite sure what he expected to happen. Did wizards get an afterlife? What was it like? Would he just become another ghost and get stuck haunting the Chamber of Secrets forever?
He really hoped not.
The dark swallowed him whole, and he let his eyes close. Might as well…nothing else to see, after all…
WHUMPH!
"GAAH!"
In a matter of moments, Harry's eyes flew open again and he was gasping for air, having landed flat on his back on something very solid and very hard. From the feel of dirt under his spread-eagle arms and the sight of tall grass above him, that something was the ground, and he was somewhere outdoors.
Upon finally regaining his breath, Harry sat up and took a good look around.
The grass, yellow and dry, stretched as far as he could see in every direction, entirely uninterrupted. The only truly unique feature on the ground was a single tree, an oak perhaps, which rose tall and was thickly crowned with green leaves. There was a sun above him, not directly as though it was midday, but a little lower in the sky, like afternoon or morning. Not a single cloud was in sight.
Aside from a slight wind that swept across the grass and rustled the leaves on the tree, nothing stirred. It was oddly peaceful. On this basis, Harry made a fairly reasonable assumption.
"Heaven?"
"Che. Hardly."
Had he not already been seated, Harry might have toppled to the ground in surprised fright. As he stared at the tree, from which the vaguely-echoing voice had issued, he rediscovered the ability to speak…
"Who – how – what – uh - ?"
…sort of.
A short laugh answered him, and suddenly a figure dressed in something that was mostly black and totally foreign dropped to the ground from the shaded limbs. It strode forward, and Harry quickly realized that it was an older teenage boy with shockingly red hair, a horned skull mask strapped to his left shoulder, and an angry scowl twisted into his feral, red-striped face.
It made for a very frightening picture.
The other teen stopped abruptly in front of him, and Harry quickly scrambled to his feet to face him properly – as much as he could, at any rate, seeing as the orange-haired stranger stood at least two feet taller than he did.
They stared at each other for a long moment. Harry began to feel uncomfortable. Then he noticed the stranger's intensely yellow eyes, and he began to feel a bit beyond uncomfortable. Then the stranger shot forward, fisting a hand in the front of Harry's robes and yanking him up so that their faces were only inches apart, and the young wizard nearly jumped out of his socks.
"Do you have any idea how aggravating it is to yell yourself hoarse for one whole year and just get ignored?!"
Harry gaped.
"That was--?"
"Damn right, it was me! I swear I was never this thick with Zangetsu – a little bit, yes, but nowhere near this level. One year, Harry, one year, and you still can't hear my name?!"
Harry honestly wasn't sure what to say to this.
"Er…sorry?"
The violent youth stared at him as though vaguely surprised. The hand holding Harry's robes loosened, and the boy slid down from the tips of his toes to stand firmly on his own two feet again. He took a shaky breath and rubbed at the back of his neck cautiously, trying to ease the discomfort in the spot where his collar had dug into his skin.
"Sorry?" the stranger repeated, almost disbelieving. "One year of cold shoulders, silence, and orders to 'go away,' and all you have to say…is sorry?"
"Er, well, in my defense, I really have no idea what's going on or what you're talking about. And what is your name?"
"My name is the whole point of this issue we're having – and it's dzzzzzrrrgzzzznnn."
Harry gave the stranger a blank look, and the teen sighed and slapped a hand across his forehead, muttering something that sounded like 'how damn long is this gonna take.'
"Well," Harry said casually, "maybe you could just tell me why you're name's so important, and why I can't hear it, and what you're doing in my head…or what you were doing, anyhow. And I'm pretty sure I've got plenty of time now, seeing as I'm…"
"Oh, no you aren't," the teenager replied grimly. "Not really, at any rate. Seriously, it figures I'd get stuck with the one shinigami who's as abnormal as I ever was…maybe even more so."
Harry didn't know what to ask about first. He settled for an eloquent "huh?"
"Okay…God, I hate explaining things…okay, long story short: you're dead, but you're not. Sort of. It gets more complicated than that, but I never really understood it myself and we don't have time to hammer out the details. You'll get used to the idea eventually. The point of that is that you've now got a spirit form as well as a living body. You go about life in the body, and sometimes you get to ditch the body to fight hollows in your spirit form. That's not too important now, so I'll explain it later as well. You following so far?"
He nodded numbly. The stranger went on.
"Right, so I think…I think that what happened out there is the basilisk's poison was supposed to kill you, but because you've got this spirit form – since you're a shinigami – instead of knocking a normal soul out of a dead body it just knocked your living spirit out. By the way, if you want to use that body again we'd better find a way to get the poison out quick. I don't know much healing kido, but maybe we can make that work…"
Harry waited a moment to allow the stranger to go on, but when he remained silent, the young wizard coughed and fought down an urge to raise his hand.
"So…I'm a…sheena-what-me? What's that?"
"Hmm? Oh. Shinigami. I'm pretty sure it translates to 'death god.'"
Harry was rather shocked.
"Which brings us to me. Death gods protect souls, and to do that they sometimes have to fight off bad souls, called hollows. It's a little hard to fight hollows without a weapon, so death gods carry swords. And these swords are a little…well, special."
As surprised as Harry still was, as much information as he had absorbed in such a short amount of time, and as young as he was, the wizard wasn't a complete idiot. He thought he had an inkling of where this was going.
"Special, as in they have names? And…maybe voices?"
The stranger looked rather more pleased than angry now. Somehow, he managed to do it while maintaining the furrow between his eyebrows.
"You got it. I'm something called a soul-cutter. I'm sort of…meshed with your soul, enough that you could technically say that I'm part of you. If you learn my name, you can fight with my strength. If you don't, you're pretty much stuck with a normal chunk of metal that can be sliced apart like it's made of butter if it crosses with a named soulcutter. That's the difference in strength that I'm trying to get you to jump. That's why you've got to clean your ears out and listen for once. Understand?"
"Well, yes, I suppose…"
"Good. 'Cause we're pretty much out of time here. I think your soul is just about to come out of your body…yep, there it goes."
The world shook slightly, and Harry felt a curious sensation in the core of his chest, as though something was trying to draw him upwards from that point. Suddenly a (comparatively) large hand encircled his upper arm. The boy looked up and back to see the bottom of the stranger's chin and his throat; the older teen was looking up at the sky.
"I'll help you get back up there this time," the stranger said. "and I'll be guiding you and talking to you once you're out there. But the next time I tell you my name," and he lowered his head to lock eyes with Harry, the glare back in place, "you'd better hear me."
Before Harry could do much more than nod, the soulcutter had tucked him under one arm and was leaping up from the ground, practically flying through the sky with Harry clutching at his glasses and trying very hard not to scream.
The next thing the boy was aware of was darkness, followed suddenly by a sort of dim light as he opened his eyes, blinked, and recognized the Chamber of Secrets again, all full of dead snake and dying Ginny and very, very shocked Riddle.
"How…how is this possible?"
Harry shrugged and looked down at himself, just a little more interested in the weight at his side and the different feel of his attire than in explaining much of anything to Riddle.
He didn't take the time to thoroughly examine his clothing, not deeming it too important, but at first glance he seemed to be wearing a light grey shirt with dark grey trousers, some sort of black sneaker, and a long-sleeved, heel-length black coat over it all. A belt held the coat in at his waist, and hanging from the left side of the belt was a sheathed sword of simple steel. Harry reached across and drew it, surprised to find that rather than feeling vaguely heavy and uncomfortable as Gryffindor's sword had, it fit nicely in his grip and had a sort of reassuring weight to it.
"My sealed form," the stranger's voice murmured in his head, now free of static bursts and pockets of silence. "it'll change when you call my name. Get stronger. For now, though, focus on the enemy. He's still a spirit, and like a hollow in a way; if we can take him down, chances are he'll be purified and that girl'll get her soul energy back."
Harry nodded, looking up at Riddle again. The younger Voldemort had regained his composure and now regarded Harry with a sort of cool calculating.
"Well, that's no matter either. I suppose I like it better this way myself. My basilisk killed the first you, and now I get to have a bit of fun as well. Just you and me, now, Potter…"
"Get ready, Harry. Make sure you listen, and follow your instincts. I'm about to tell you again."
Harry lifted his sword and nodded again. Something he didn't recognize stirred within him, something strong and powerful. His heart started beating faster, and he fought not to smile. Whatever it was, it felt…rather good.
Fawkes trilled behind him, raising his emotions higher. Harry looked back over his shoulder briefly to see the beautiful bird crouching beside his body, tears sliding down its cheeks and dripping onto the bloody wound. Their eyes met, and then the firebird took off, vanishing into the shadows of the Chamber's high ceiling.
"Let your spirit force rise…like that, yeah. Now, release it."
Acting on instinct, Harry did.
Brilliant ruby light burst into the air around him, encircling him completely and bearing down on the floor so hard that the stone began to crack. Riddle's eyes widened in shock, and he brought his arm forward, hurling a curse toward Harry. Somehow, though, it seemed to be travelling rather slowly; the boy wizard simply stepped to the side and watched it pass.
"Now, Harry! Rise from death's shadow. My name is—"
Harry grinned and thrust his blade to one side, holding it at an angle toward the ground.
"Dark Sun!"
The red light around him flared, exploding through the chamber and throwing everything into sharp relief. A burst of flame crackled across the sword in Harry's fist, utterly changing it. Now, instead of a silvery steel western-style blade, he held a single-edged katana made of a strange black metal that glinted with an almost golden sheen in the light. The crossguard was of an odd shape – a single long block of black metal which connected hilt and blade and from which branched three shorter blocks at even distances apart, the longest of which was perpendicular to the cutting edge of the katana and the shortest of which extended on either side of the point where blade and hilt met. The far end of the hilt was capped in the same black-gold metal, from which sprouted some sort of red-dyed tuft of hair or fur and a short, slender chain that ended in a slightly larger, circular hoop of metal.
Harry swung the sword upwards experimentally. It cut through the air smoothly, and though it was a bit longer and was shaped differently from the first sword it still felt comfortable.
"Flashy parlor tricks," Riddle suddenly announced, drawing Harry's attention back to himself again, "won't save you, Potter. If there was any real power in that show, hurry up and use it. I'm getting bored, and I just might have to kill you and be done with it if this takes much longer."
"Get ready, Riddle," Harry responded, dropping into what he hoped might have been a fighting stance. "We're coming."
He felt a small surge of surprise and pride from Darksun in his mind, but he had little time to fathom the reason, for at that moment, several different things happened.
Riddle swung his wand about, calling out a curse. Harry let his spirit force rise again until it manifested as a red glow about his entire body. Fawkes appeared just before Harry in a burst of flame and a trill of music that made Riddle cut off his incantation and flinch and Harry's red glow spike in sudden joy.
A black book fell from the phoenix's claws to land, spread open, on the stone floor.
For a moment, both Harry and Riddle stared at it.
Then, purely on instinct and almost faster than the thought which prompted the action, Harry switched his grip on the katana and plunged it through the middle of the pages.
Riddle screamed. Golden light erupted from his body and pieces of his form seemed to be flying away and vanishing. Black ink spurted from the book. Harry withdrew the sword and thrust it through the other half of the diary. The scream rose, echoing through the Chamber, before abruptly cutting off with a burst of light.
Harry's wand clattered to the floor.
Across the room, Ginny moaned and opened her eyes. Harry hurried to her side and dropped to his knees there, placing Darksun carefully on the ground beside him.
The young girl stared at him, then looked around the Chamber, noticing the snake's body and the diary on the floor most of all and the rubble of smashed statues and pillars lying against the dim walls least. She looked at Harry again, and abruptly, startlingly, burst into tears.
"…hate it when they cry…"
Harry himself had no idea what to do, and as Ginny began to stammer an explanation mixed with confession through her tears, he decided to treat her as he might Ron or Hermione when one of them was feeling down; he laid a hand on her shoulder and spoke to reassure her as soon as she gave him a chance.
"It's okay, Ginny, calm down. Riddle's finished, and the basilisk. Nothing to worry about. Just…just calm down, okay? I need to go get something, so stay right here and…take deep breaths, yeah?"
The distraught girl nodded, tears still streaming down her face, and she lay back down and followed his instructions, trying to calm her sobs. Harry waited a moment to make sure she wouldn't jump back up the instant he moved, then picked up Darksun and hurried over to where his body lay.
It was bizarre, seeing himself crumpled across the ground in bloody robes. He bent down to examine his arm, finding it completely whole and unmarked, though there was a hole in the sleeve where the fang had pierced it. Harry looked up for an answer, and his gaze met Fawkes'.
Phoenix tears. Dumbledore said that they had healing properties
He had to find a way to thank the bird later, as well as the Headmaster.
But at the moment…
Darksun, how do I…
"Just touch it, and…I don't know how to explain it. It just sort of happens."
Not feeling that this was very helpful at all, Harry nonetheless laid his hands on his body's shoulder. Something suddenly tugged at him, and before he knew it, he was blinking his eyes open behind blood-spattered glasses and Darksun was no longer in his hand or at his side.
Where did you go?
"Still here, Harry. I'm part of your soul, remember? I'll be there next time you leave your body. You'll see."
Funny, Harry suddenly realized as he stood up, brushed off his robes, and picked up Gryffindor's sword and the Sorting Hat. He had entered the Chamber thoroughly afraid of and disturbed by the strange voice in his head, wishing it would go away and leave him alone. Now, though, he was almost glad that it hadn't gone.
Harry picked up the diary on his way back to Ginny, who was no longer quite sobbing but was still very obviously distressed. He helped her awkwardly to her feet and they followed Fawkes out of the chamber and back along the passage until they finally heard the sound of rocks being shifted.
"Ron!" Harry sped up slightly, grabbing Ginny by the wrist and dragging her after him. "Ron, Ginny's okay – I've got her!"
They heard an excited shout, and Ron poked his head through the hole he had made in the rubble from the tunnel's earlier collapse.
"Ginny! You're alive! I don't believe it! What happened?"
He drew his sister through and tried to hug her, though she held him off, still crying. Harry clambered through himself and looked around; someone was missing.
"Where did that bird come from?"
"That's Fawkes. He's Dumbledore's."
"And why've you got a sword?"
"Later. Where's Lockhart?"
Ron hooked a thumb over his shoulder with a massive grin.
"Back that way a bit. He's in a bad way. Come see."
Sure enough, Lockhart was sitting at the pipe entrance, humming distractedly to himself and peering about in the gloom like it was the most interesting place he had ever been in.
"Why, hello!" he greeted them as they appeared. "What an odd place this is. Do you live here?"
"Er, no," Harry replied, not quite sure what to think or say. He looked at Ron in question, and the other boy shrugged, still grinning. Harry crossed over to the pipe and peered up it, noting that the sides were rather smooth and steep.
"How d'you suppose we'll get back out?" Ron wondered. Harry shrugged in reply and looked around for an answer.
"The bird's acting weird."
Harry directed his attention at Fawkes, who was flying in slow loops around them. The firebird met his gaze and fluttered to a stop in front of him, gently waving his tailfeathers before Harry's face. Understanding, Harry reached forward and grasped them.
"He'll take us," Harry said, "so everybody grab on to each other."
"No way," Ron protested, "We're way too heavy for a bird to carry like that!"
"Fawkes isn't an ordinary bird."
Ron stared for a moment at the phoenix. Then he nodded and, without further protest, set about stringing them all together. He tried to leave Lockhart behind, but Harry made the memory-less man grab hold of Ginny's free hand before he told Fawkes they were ready. Then a wonderful feeling of weightlessness spread through them, and Fawkes took off, shooting up the pipe with the string of humans in tow, Gilderoy Lockhart at the very end exclaiming in delight that it was "just like magic!"
Then, they were back in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and the entrance to the Chamber closed with a soft hiss.
"You didn't die," the little ghost said.
"Don't need to sound so disappointed," Harry muttered, not bothering to correct her statement. Technically, he had died. He just didn't feel like explaining it to Ginny or Ron or…well, anyone, really.
"Oh. I'd just been thinking…if you had, you would've been welcome to share my toilet."
Harry winced at the sudden laughter in his head.
Knock it off!
The laughter subsided into chuckles, but didn't die away completely.
"Ugh," Ron said as they left the bathroom at long last, "I think Myrtle's gotten fond of you! You've got competition, Ginny."
"Oh, just be quiet," Harry retorted, stuffing his fists into his pockets.
"So…where now?"
Harry removed one hand to point at Fawkes, who was gliding down the corridor, lighting their way with a soft golden light. They followed the firebird all the way to the door of McGonagall's office, where he stopped. Harry and Ron glanced at each other, then at Lockhart (who was still humming absently and examining the moving paintings on the walls with childlike glee) and Ginny (who was crying more-or-less silently now and gripping Ron's hand so tightly it was turning red) and then at the door again.
Raising his hand, Harry knocked twice, then he pushed the door open.
For a moment, there was silence. And then…
"GINNY!"
Harry moved aside just in time to avoid Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who rushed by and practically threw themselves on their daughter. He looked further into the room to see McGonagall, breathing deeply with her hand on her chest, and Fawkes, who was now perched on Dumbledore's shoulder.
Then he couldn't see much of anything other than curly red hair, as Mrs. Weasley had swept him into a hug along with Ron.
"You saved her! You saved her! How did you do it?"
"I think," McGonagall said, just a bit faintly, "we'd all like to know."
Harry hesitated. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to tell them the truth about being a death god and the sword who was a voice in his mind and dying. It didn't really seem like the sort of thing you…shared…with the living. Without thinking, without planning on it, his eyes sought out Dumbledore's. Their gazes met, and a knowing twinkle flashed above the Headmaster's half-moon spectacles. Harry felt Darksun stir in his mind, then abruptly settle again.
What?
"…Nothing. Tell the story however you like."
Harry reached a decision at last. He strode over to McGonagall's desk and placed the sword, the hat, and the diary on it. Then he began to tell everyone about hearing the monster in the walls, about discovering it was a basilisk, about finding out where the Chamber's entrance was, and about fighting the monster there. Anything about dying, Darksun, or death gods he omitted. He also avoided telling anything about Riddle or Ginny, but soon found that he couldn't go on with his explanation without doing so, and he looked to Dumbledore for help.
"What interests me," said the Headmaster, "is how Lord Voldemort was able to enchant Ginny when my sources tell me he is currently hiding in Albania."
Relief swept through Harry, and he snatched the diary up from the desk.
"It was this diary," he said, "Riddle wrote in it when he was sixteen."
"Brilliant," Dumbledore said, taking the little book and peering at it closely. "Of course, he may well have been one of the most brilliant students Hogwarts has seen."
Harry then slumped against the desk, content to allow Dumbledore to finish out the explanation of Riddle and the diary's origins. The Headmaster sent Ginny out with her parents for hot chocolate and McGonagall to alert the kitchens for a celebratory feast. Harry stuck around , wanting to talk to Dumbledore – if anyone might be able to understand his suddenly realized powers, the wise old wizard would. Thankfully, Dumbledore seemed to understand this, and he sent Ron out with Lockhart, saying he wanted to talk to Harry briefly.
Relieved, Harry sagged into a chair.
"First of all, Harry," Dumbledore said, also taking a seat, "I want to thank you. You must have shown me real loyalty down there in the Chamber, for that is the only thing that might have called Fawkes to you."
"I really owe Fawkes for being there," Harry said sincerely. "I would've died…and stayed dead…if he hadn't been there."
"Indeed," Dumbledore replied. "Which reminds me: I have something to give you after the feast…but, oh, I have a meeting…no matter. It shall find its way to you by one means or another."
"Sir? How did you know?"
"I have met Reapers before. In fact, I know several, and some of them quite well. While interactions between the living and the dead are generally frowned upon, they found some of my services quite useful in the past, as well as my friendship."
"They? You mean…there's more?"
"Well of course, Harry! The realms of death are just as expansive as those of life, and quite thickly populated as well. It only stands to reason."
"…oh."
"Mm-hmm. Now, as interesting as this train of conversation is, there is also something else I wanted to talk to you about…Tom Riddle. I suppose he was most interested in you."
"He…said that I was like him, sir. Strange likenesses or something…"
"Did he now? What do you think, Harry?"
"I don't think I'm like him! I'm – I'm in Gryffindor – so I –"
He stopped abruptly in doubt.
"Harry…"
The boy shifted away from the soft voice and shook his head. "Professor? The sorting hat…it told me I'd – do well in Slytherin. And I can speak parseltongue…"
"You speak parseltongue because Voldemort can speak parseltongue. Unless I'm mistaken, he transferred some of his powers to you the night he gave you that scar. Not his intention, I'm sure…"
"Some of him is in me?"
"Uh-oh."
What? …What?
"Don't know. That's what's troubling me. I just don't know if there's something…else in here."
Harry began to feel very, very nervous. It wasn't a nice feeling, especially on top of his previous doubt.
"That's not a good thing, is it?" he said aloud, "And I should've been in Slytherin. The hat could see it, and—"
"It put you in Gryffindor anyhow."
"Only because I asked it to!"
"Exactly! Harry, that is what makes you so very different from Riddle. You may share certain qualities that Slytherin values – resourcefulness, determination, a certain…disregard for the rules…" his moustache twitched, "but you made a choice. It is our choices, Harry, far more than our abilities, that make us who we are. In addition, Harry, did you ever take a good look at that sword?"
"Er, yeah, a bit. It's got Gryffindor's name on it, doesn't it?"
"That is another point of proof – only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that from the hat."
Harry regarded it silently for a long moment, thinking hard. Darksun nudged him for attention, and he turned it inward briefly.
"You're a brave kid, Harry," the sword said with brash sincerity, "and I know you're too strong to let something this stupid get you down. So quit doubting. What House you belong to doesn't matter – your friends are where you belong. Got that?"
Harry thought of them. He felt his spirits lift and swell.
"Better…much better."
"Now," Dumbledore said at last, pulling out parchment and writing utensils, "I daresay that food and a good night's rest should make you feel better. I suggest you go down to the feast now, Harry – I have a letter to write to Azkaban. We need our gamekeeper back. I suppose I should also draft an advertisement for the Daily Prophet for a new Defense teacher…we do seem to run through those, don't we?"
Harry stood and walked to the door. Before he could reach the knob, however, it burst open and a furious Lucius Malfoy swept inside. To Harry's shock, Dobby followed close on his heels.
"Good evening, Lucius," Dumbledore said, very pleasantly.
Harry tuned out their conversation, his eyes fixed on Dobby. The strange little elf was looking at him with great meaning in his tennis-ball eyes, pointing at the diary, then at Malfoy, then beaning himself across the head…rather hard.
"Make him stop that!"
Won't work, Harry replied distractedly, looking between Lucius and the diary as a suspicion flared in his mind. Abruptly, he nodded at Dobby, who retreated to a corner to wring his ears.
"Don't you want to know how Ginny got hold of that diary, Mr. Malfoy?" Harry said loudly, not particularly caring if he interrupted the man or not.
"How should I know?"
"Because you gave it to her," Harry said quickly, more and more pieces falling into place. "In Flourish and Blotts. You picked up that old book of hers and slipped the diary inside, didn't you?"
"…kid, you're brilliant."
"Prove it," Malfoy hissed, clenching his hands.
"Oh, no one will be able to do that now," Dumbledore said, quite cheerfully. "Not now that Riddle's spirit is gone from the book. However, I would advise you to avoid giving out any more of Voldemort's old school things. If any more find their way into innocent hands, I dare say that Arthur Weasley, for instance, would make sure they are traced back to you…"
Malfoy's right hand twitched. A flare of instinct in Harry had him longing for Darksun's reassuring hilt, but as soon as the sensation appeared, it vanished. Rather than drawing his wand, Malfoy whirled around and marched out of the room.
"We're going, Dobby!"
The elf came hurrying up and the man kicked him out of the room. Dobby's pained squeal echoed down the long corridor outside.
The murderous rage in Harry's mind was all Darksun's, and the boy ignored it in favor of a more prudent plan than tear soul from body and cut that…Harry mentally censored the word Darksun used…down!
"Professor Dumbledore? Could I have the diary? I want to give it back to Malfoy."
"Certainly," the headmaster replied, "but do hurry. The feast, remember."
Harry snatched the diary up and hurried out into the corridor, pausing just long enough to tear a sock from his foot and stuff the little book inside of it. He could still hear Dobby's squeals when he caught up to them at the top of the stairs.
"Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Malfoy! I've got something for you."
The man turned around. Harry skidded to a halt and thrust the sock-wrapped diary into Malfoy's hand. He tore the sock from the book and flung it to the side in disgust, then looked from the book to Harry and back again, rage coloring his pale face.
"You'll meet the same sticky end as your parents one of these days, Harry Potter," he hissed, "They were meddlesome fools, too. Come, Dobby."
He turned about abruptly and strode down the stairs, stopping halfway when he realized that the elf wasn't responding.
"I said come!"
Dobby didn't move, but instead held up Harry's sock like it was the greatest treasure in the world.
"Master gave Dobby a sock," he said in reverent joy, "Master threw it…and Dobby caught it…and Dobby…Dobby is free!"
Malfoy froze, then he suddenly charged up the stairs, leaping at Harry in anger. The boy froze, and Darksun's presence suddenly swelled in his mind, pressing him to the side –
"Let me--!"
Harry couldn't control his body; he could only watch and feel as it suddenly shifted into a grounded stance, turned half to the side, picking up a leg to kick as Malfoy drew closer…
"You shall not harm Harry Potter!"
With a snap and a flash of light, Malfoy was sent bouncing down the stairs to land in a crumpled heap of limbs and dark robes on the landing. Harry's body was still frozen in preparation for a kick, and the wizard struggled suddenly, feeling horribly vulnerable and out-of-sorts not being in control of himself.
Let go!
A realization of something seemed to flash through Darksun, and he retreated abruptly, placing Harry back at the helm of his mind. The boy stumbled, easily losing the balance that Darksun had been maintaining for him.
Please, he gasped in his mind, propping himself against the wall, don't do that again!
Darksun didn't answer.
"Harry Potter freed Dobby!"
Suddenly, there was an elf wrapped around his middle, sobbing its too-big eyes out.
"Least I could do, Dobby. Just promise you won't try to save my life again."
Dobby grinned.
"I'd better go," Harry said. "There's a feast, and my friend should be awake by now…"
"Harry Potter is greater than Dobby ever knew!" the elf sobbed, squeezing tighter. "Farewell, Harry Potter!"
With a crack, the elf finally vanished.
The feast lasted all night, and in all the rush and noise it was easy to forget, for a time, the discomfort of his last encounter with Darksun. When everybody finally stumbled to bed at seven in the morning, however, Harry's mind was forcibly returned to his predicament by the sight of a small package wrapped in brown paper and set on his pillow.
-- For convenience — said the loopy handwriting, and Harry drew the curtains around his bed to open it in peace.
Inside there was a small, round pendant made of something like bronze. It was simple in design, with a skull motif raised in relief in its center and a hole at the top that connected it to a long black cord, rather like a necklace. Harry fingered the pendant and thought he felt a faint stirring of deadly power inside.
…Darksun? Are you there?
Silence answered. Harry flopped back onto his pillow with a sigh. He was still dressed in his torn and stained clothing, having been too tired to do much more than tug his shoes and one remaining sock off before clambering onto the bed.
I…guess I didn't like it when you did that. Sorry I snapped at you, it was just…
"…Really uncomfortable."
Harry shut his eyes and nodded, knowing that even though Darksun probably couldn't see him, he would sense the gesture the same way Harry sensed his soulcutter's movements and emotions from time to time.
"I understand…and that's why I'm so disgusted with myself."
Harry couldn't think of anything to say, so he didn't. Instead, the two of them simply sat in each other's mental presence for a long time, communicating without words and without clear feelings, even. When Harry finally opened his eyes again, he thought he understood a bit more.
You can't promise never again…
"Because if it could save a life I'd do anything in an instant…"
…but you'll at least give warning…
"…ask you first…"
…and I'll seriously consider it…
"…and I'll teach you, train you, so that I won't have to put you through that…"
It's a deal.
"Yeah."
Harry ran his thumb over the pendant's edge, feeling the power in it, but not touching that power just yet.
"Careful. That's dangerous in the hands of normal humans; you'll want to keep it away from everyone else."
What is it?
"A device that separates a soul from a body. In your case, it'll force you out into your spirit form."
Does it do anything else?
"If it's anything like the one I've seen, it might light up and make noise if a hollow appears."
…Hollow?
"Bad soul. A monster that eats good spirits. I'll see if we can't fight a few this summer for training."
Sounds like fun.
Harry drew the pendant's loop over his head, yawned, and took his glasses off. Utterly exhausted, he turned over on his side without bothering with the blankets and began to drift off to sleep.
The last thing he heard was his soulcutter's echoing voice giving him a cheerful promise.
"Oh, it will be…"
To be continued…
A/N: First of all, regarding the appearance of Ichisword's shikai release, specifically the crossguard – the guard is in the shape of a rather simple kanji for the word 'king,' or 'ou.' The kanji is simple when you see it drawn out, but it is very hard to describe. In addition, since it was from Harry's point of view, I couldn't call it a kanji. To him, it's a bunch of bars crossing each other at perfect right angles. If you want to see the actual appearance of this crossguard, I suggest google images. Type in 'Kanji – king' and you'll see it pretty quickly. It's just three parallel lines of differing lengths crossing over a fourth.
Just so you know, the idea of using this kanji as the crossguard was not originally mine. This belongs to Dark Sun Upon An Icy Sky, who I mentioned last chapter – I quite liked this aspect of her idea and so I asked if I could copy it directly. I did get permission first.
Some of you might be wondering now…why is Darksun's sealed form a western sword and his shikai a katana? What gives?
First off, I figure that each culture will prefer sealing their weapons in a form most easily related to that culture. Therefore Japanese shinigami will start out with a katana simply because a katana is Japanese, whereas an English reaper will start out with a dual-edged blade of some kind simply because it relates to the English culture. It has more to do with the society which the shinigami is part of than the shinigami or the zanpakuto itself.
For the shikai and bankai releases, I must admit to having a bit of fun here. I'm implementing an idea that the shikai is the sword form most appreciated by the zanpakuto, while the bankai is the sword form most appreciated by the shinigami, albeit exploded in size or effect five or ten times by the sheer power of it. These forms can be radically different (Zangetsu's cleaver vs. Ichigo's daito) or very much the same (Senbonzakura's sword shards vs. Byakuya's sword shards). Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't; I just wanted to explain my reasoning for the cultural changes you'll see in blade shapes here.
Much of this – especially certain bits of dialogue – may look very, very familiar. I did try to vary the words as much as I could, but at this point so little has changed that I figure the characters' interactions will be much the same as they were in the books. As such, yes, certain quotes come almost directly from Rowling's work. I did, however, refrain from copying loads of description and narration – it's limited to dialogue here.
Last off, but certainly not the least, I want to send out a mass THANK YOU to everyone who added my story to their Alerts or Favorites list. I responded to reviews individually, but if I tried that with everything else I might've spent more time sending out thanks than writing this chapter. I appreciate the responses, everyone…