WEAPONIZING KNOWLEDGE

"Apparently, letting the ones from Canon Potterverse handle this war isn't playing out well." I stated to myself.

"On the fly!" Quoth Raven. Well, mostly to myself.

Beyond the immediate applications of my most recent frat into the magic of the soul, and besides the fascinating theoretical concept and ideas it could introduce in the magic community worldwide, I was left with two options, since none of my plans to prepare the magical world for the failing of the Statute of Secrecy was ready: retire myself and my assets into Wonderland to wait out the incoming storm, hoping that Plot Armor would force the events once more to follow the extremely improbable plan of Albus Dumbledore, or I could enter the fray myself.

Now, I knew my limits: I was the one who understood magic better than anybody else on the planet, and capable of feats that common wizards and witches wouldn't even be capable of dreaming of, or at least I felt that way. Having said that, while my enchantments were truly masterpieces, my transmutations works of art, and my will overall quite spectacular, Tom Marvolo Riddle, our friendly neighbourly Dark Lord, was the peak of the school of magic I dubbed: "KILL IT! KILL IT HORRIBLY WITH PAIN AND ROT!" which left me in a position where an eventual duel wouldn't be an easy thing to win.

I wasn't a warrior, simple as that, against your common, or even against your better than average mage, I was pretty much untouchable, understanding and practice granted me as much: Voldemort was as far from the common wizard as I was, but where I could witness the dance of the stars in the void simply with a wave of my hand, or turn a tree into a living house, with all the magic that there was between the two, the Dark Lord knew how to kill, maim, torture, terrorize, terrify, enslave, murder, etcetera etcetera.

Since the very beginning of my second lease at life in the Potter-Verse, my long term plan orbited around the idea of me staying alive. It sounds obvious, but I could imagine that a random person chunked in my position would be more than willing to join forces with the Chosen One to preserve all that was rightful and beautiful and butterflies and rainbows, even at the cost of his own life. I did not.

It was quite simple in the end: I wanted Voldemort busy enough to not threaten the Statute of Secrecy, or preferably dead, while I could carry on with my immortal life to understand and master everything (magic related) that I could. So, surrendering my ongoing projects and going into hiding was a viable option in my mind, albeit one that annoyed me greatly.

Removing dear old Tommy by myself would be extremely rewarding in both the short and long time. So, at the core of my motivation, there was a simple, undeniable concept: I was proud of what I was building and of what I was able to build, I wanted to keep going as I had been, but I couldn't because a freak succession of events turned Fleur into a living flame, and because if left unchecked Tom would also, sooner or later, cause disasters I couldn't simply fix.

Killing the dark lord it is. I thought tiredly as plans started to whirl in my head about how to gain for myself a secure win. I wanted to squash him, to be so beyond his reach that my victory would be not only the only possible outcome, but also easy, and possibly discreet enough to not tear asunder the Statute, since its preservation was one of the reasons behind my choice.

To win against Voldemort, I would do what mankind had always did when confronted with a beast clearly superior in the art of killing: build some weapon that would allow me to strike either more previous wounds, like a spear used against wolves instead of bare hands, or that would keep me in a position where said beast couldn't retaliate, like bow and arrows. Now, since both I and Tom had access to magic, (sadly), and a pretty deep connection given the kind of bullshit Tom had been able to pull in the books, so a ward to smother his ability to affect changes of reality through simple will would be unlikely to work, if only because of his having his soul shredded and tossed around would more than likely not allow me to isolate him completely from his other parts, and thusly the World-Soul.

So, a weapon to wound grievously, without hope of recovery. I started to list in my head, my hand lazily twirling the spruce wand. Something that can't be used against me. I added, noting how ironic would be building a magical weapon only for Voldemort to use it. "So... something to wound him no matter what he has done to protect himself... something that interacts openly with his soul..." and as I spoke, I could imagine what kind of side effects wielding such a tool would impose on my own soul: after all, steeping myself in the intent of destroying souls, or at least tearing them to the point that they were no longer recognizable, would be quite detrimental.

As I had discovered years before, constant use of magic with the only purpose of destruction would at some point turn my mind into something capable mostly of doing harm, damaging the neutral state of mind I intended to keep. And yet, I needed such a weapon tied to my very self, since I couldn't conceive the idea of it being available to anybody else.

"Perhaps I can cheat." I mused, thinking of all the ways through which I created something by all rights impossible: "Not a weapon, but a tool to interact with the World-Soul on a deeper level than Tom Riddle. Something that would grant my will something akin to 'Superior Hierarchy' over Tom's will... I would create an instrument that would allow me to truly act upon the soul, through the World-Voice itself, a ritual of sorts, tied to the tool I was going to build... Yes. I thought, as possible ways to follow this lastest bout of unadulterated genius started to take root in my mind.

But in which form? I briefly paused, pondering about the materials that I would need to actually build such a conduit to the World-Soul. The form should follow the function, and yet the form symbolizes the 'Truth' of the function, one cannot be without the other.

I'll need something... truly extraordinary. And the ritual that started taking form into my head was shattering itself and recomposing in patterns that I found less fixated in details, but that would allow me a greater range to apport modifications on the fly that could potentially save me. I needed to access the conceptual realm from where I had previously manipulated the souls of the two rapists I had kidnapped, and from there expand the "depth" of my grasp upon it.

Sadly, that had been the point where Fleur had unravelled, losing herself amongst the flows of the World-Soul. I needed to force myself to return to being myself immediately after I completed the building-forging-crafting of the Soul-Channel.

For that, I would need some kind of leverage upon my own soul, something that could reach me through every level of being, something so uniquely mine and yet so deeply rooted into the shards that made my core that could not be denied by myself, consciously or unconsciously, even though whatever means and superior understanding I would conquer during the crafting of what was likely to become the permanent avatar of the World-Soul, directed and shaped by my own intent.

Every living being is based upon a single instinct: to live. The simplest being, nothing more than warm water and little stuff inside a capsule of lipid of some kind, reacted positively to everything not-nocive, and run away (as best as it could) from all that was nocive, the second reaction, nothing more than a chemical reaction in monocellular beings, evolved with time into what more complex beings would recognize as "flee-or-fight" reaction: all based on another chemical reaction, which released the full width of that first instinct, the one at the core of living. The primal push, the undeniable pull: "survive".

So, when confronted with a possible nocive situation, a living being reacts following the pattern of fleeing or fighting in answer to a single, universal signal: pain.

I had a lot of thinking to do, a lot of simulations to run, and a lot of luck to collect.

Finding a certified professional willing to sell Felix Felicis had been a nightmare and half since clearly, it was a restricted potion that no government wanted available to the masses, but through the admittedly few friends I made among the people interested in reshaping the world through Great Works of Magic, I had managed it. For quite the exorbitant price, I had a vial that would grant me seven hours of luck. Not that I would need it, but I would take every possible help, after all, the ritual/procedure/plan I was going to follow would leverage an everything I was and held a minor probability of failing catastrophically and killing me horribly.

My wand was going to be a focus, the cornerstone of not a weapon, but of the staff/tool/channel-for-the-soul that was going to accompany me for the rest of my immortal life, but it would need the ability to change and adapt. The final form of my masterpiece would end up being a cross between a sceptre and a spear, symbolizing my 'Authority' over the World-Soul, that in the great scheme of things would turn my will into a simple pebble capable of deviating the flow of the World-Soul's flow.

Why not a crown or a ring? Because I needed a tool through which direct the events, through which I could Enforce the changes I willed upon reality itself, something that I could point at a target, granting me the focus I would otherwise lack.

I cut my wrists at the edge of a vast basin of stone that I had dug out of the deepest past of Wonderland, it had been drowned in my magic, my will, and would be the "birthing chamber" of the Soul-Channel. With a careful application of the Elixir of Life, I kept bleeding, imposing my will to make the red liquid flow faster than it should. After three hours, I had filled the basin I would be working with. Blood was fundamental, since, for the weapon to be able to grow with me, it had to become alive. At least in the same way Runes used to be alive before growing quiescent.

I laid my wand inside the blood, and three straight branches of wood found their way into the viscous mix. I couldn't see beneath the blood that I was stopping from coagulating, but I didn't need to. On each one of the unpruned 2 meters tall branches, there were written the 28 Elder Futhark Runes, and they called to each other orienting the wood like I hoped. Without wasting time, my free hand rose to my face, and with a squelching sound, the spherical philosopher stone left my eye socket in order to be placed at the base of my wand. Like the Old Tjikko it came from, and encouraged by my will, the wood from the handle cracked and split, sprouting roots that encased the red stone before they went on and met each of the branches I had submerged in my blood.

The first branch had been taken from the same Spruce tree my wand was born from, the second one had belonged to the Desert Ironwood tree I had snatched from Arizona, and the last had been more recently acquired from the tallest Redwood tree that had grown in Wonderland.

The stone sword I had fashioned myself for my battle against the sphinx soon found its way into the blood, the branches climbing over it and breaking apart the handle, recognizing it along with the cross handguard' purposes as meaningless for the direction I wanted the soul-channel to grow.

With a twitch of will, the vial of Felix Felicis levitated towards me, and I took a single, short sip before letting the seven remaining drops fall into the basin.

"Luck" was a subjective term, and the extremely complex potion managed to grant a limited form of precognition on the user, who subconsciously picked the Path which held the better results for the "self". I doubted that wizards truly understood what that had managed to craft, but then again, it wouldn't be the first time. At the end of the day the innocent-looking potion took the connection the drinker had with the "time" silver of the world soul, and settled on the "brightest" pattern it could find in the immediate future. Greater doses had obviously a multiplying effect, since the drinker in the said path had access to that 'sixth sense' that would undoubtedly lead him to the best of results.

When I felt the direction the potion was pushing me towards, it didn't manifest as the "instinct" that had lead Harry Potter in the Half-Blood Prince, I was far too aware of my "self" for it to be the case, but surely I could pick up better on that sixth sense that had allowed me to create Raven as she was, on that instinct that led every living being capable of complex thought processes to secure the safety of the "self". Survival is deeply rooted in the biological heritage of every living being, and for a single moment, I consciously applied said instinct.

The cavemen had warded viciously their caverns, viruses existed only in two states: one to search recognize the conditions of the surrounding environment, and one that was the one they were in when said conditions were met. So, when my instinct told me to add the Resurrection Stone to the sone blade that already was being turned into something more, taking Iron from the blood in the basin, hardening and changing in manners that followed flows of souls' whispers I couldn't truly perceive, I understood how to go about it, and the following path that such a modification would require to become the best it could.

The same distinct that had led me to add the Resurrection Stone blazed in alarm then, and I realized that if I didn't manage to complete my creation in less than a few minutes, I would be too drained to survive: my blood had kept flowing for hours, while my own soul was stretched thin all over the metaphysical place, coaxing together the strands that didn't wish to belong with those that simply worked as a weight to avoid being blown away from the metaphorical current of the flow of the World-Soul's flow.

Slowly, but still as quick as I could, I plunged once more into myself, my awareness never leaving the area, my "self" pressed and intertwined together with my creation, not leaving me any other choice but to go forward or simply surrendering to the flow and dying.

And it was vast, beyond the scope of the understanding that a mortal soul should have been capable of, and there, the loophole I found saved the day: I didn't need to understand the flow of the Universe-Soul, I could not, no more than a goldfish in a pond could understand the idea of quantum foam having fins as its only tool.

Yet, the fish could swim in said pond, and every wizard had been able to change the world following the effects of rules created as a side effect of the Forces at the origins of reality itself. So I ignored the multiple, multiplying, infinite and everchanging threads spinning around me, taunting me, promising to be understood if only I were to follow a single one.

But very much like it had happened when I had learned parseltongue, I forced myself to clamp down on myself, denying everything that wasn't compatible with the Eternal Flame of my true "self". And still, the usually plain world that I could see when threading the realm of souls (read: metaphysical plane where I could witness the World-Soul in its overbearing vastness and complexity) rippled, turning from a vast tapestry that extended beyond me and with mechanics and colours and twists and nooks and whys into an ever-shifting desert. Yet the dunes that moved as waves without following any rhythm I could discern were composed by grains of multicoloured sand, each shining as the only Truth possible amongst the falsehoods, which were perhaps even more convincing as reality folded itself around knots I could somehow see as I was far away despite being one of such grains myself.

The "instinct" of survival, the "sixth sense" for the better decision possible, enhanced to beyond what was possible by the Felix Felicis, the same one I applied to my almost completely living creation in tandem with myself, burned. Its own nature contrasting with the impossibly wide array of possibilities and impossibilities shifting around me, and as pain is the same instinct every last amoeba associates with the beginning of not-being, my being refused the Evershifting Desert.

An existential pain vaster than what mere words could express washed over me, all-encompassing, sharp and gargantuan, oceanic and searing. The grain of sand that I was/had-been/never-will-be shattered into a lower level of existence, and I found my self torn amongst the flowing threads, each an idea, each a river intersecting countless others.

And I was a falling leaf, I was the vibrant green that stole a smile with its brightness, I was a resounding echo, I was a memory, I was shade and rock, wood and wind, chalk and sadness, moon and rage. I was greed and shattered, tall and aflame, swinging and steam.

Again, pain.

Once more, the level of awareness that I was roaming through started to adjust, becoming brittle as my connection to the place was disturbed by the painful effects of the Felix Felicis interacting with the endless possibilities to the 'perfect path' that was open to me.

As I fell behind and within, my metaphorical eyes started to loose sight of the threads around me, I recognized the three passive woods that where the branches out of which I had crafted my spear, the flowing umbilical cord that was my wand, the spark within, the silver of future shaped around it, the constant conversion between heat and kinetic energy twirling at its base, the blood drinking stone blade that had swallowed the Resurrection Stone being held at the top, three tendrils of gray stone that flowed like hairs along the spear that was taking form.

And in my heightened awareness, I could see and understand each of the components, and I saw and understood that they were merely that: components, the spear formed in the blood lacked identity, even with my blood flowing through and within it. It was a collection of powerful components, even on the verge of being alive ones, but I needed them to be One.

And so, Intent shaped reality once more, the branches had belonged to different trees in different parts of the world. But every tree breathed the same air, was rooted in the same earth, had been chosen by the same hand. The philosopher's Stone fell within the other components without any need on my part of encouraging the process, matter had always been nothing more than frozen energy, and what had been the heat of the sun had become a swirling wind. What had been my wand I perceived only as a connection to the World-Soul, and it was bridge and tool through which the distance between me and change could be crossed. It had once been a separate piece of wood, a single thunderbird's feather, and a single demiguise's eyestring. It had been coaxed into becoming one, but I had always been able to pick up on the nuances of the small differences among its components. The wood of the wand immediately recognized the branch that came from the same tree, and the connection was forged immediately, like a single flower transplanted into a different plot of land. But the branch from the Old Tjikko had already been made One with the other two, and so, the only elements that lacked [UNITY] with the rest of my masterpiece were the cores of the wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Stone Blade that had once been the most important part of a sword.

My intent travelled through the tethers that made reality, it sung to the soul of rock and wood, it coaxed the silver of future that got reflected in the demiguise's eyestring and echoed the rumbling of thunder, slowly, or in just a single instant, like a glacier melting or a knot coming undone, my wand became part of the One. Without stopping to marvel at my accomplishment, I pushed forward, the Stone Blade remembering my touch, the battles faced together and the purpose had instilled into it originally. To cut and never break, to tear through protection and to drink the blood of those that felled.

Like it was liquid, the stone blurred in an amorphous shape, it was mercurial and yet didn't surrender an inch of its sturdiness. The runes I had inscribed into it became alive once more, with me renewing their purpose and confirming it for the times yet to come. The first to briefly shine golden against the grey of the stone was URUZ, which represented a Bull. It was Strength, Tenacity, Courage, Untamed Potential, Freedom. On the opposite side of the blade, mirroring the first, came THURISAZ, which represented a Thorn. It was Reaction, Defense, Conflict, Catharsis, Regeneration. At the middle of its height, again on the opposite sides of the blade, there was RAIDO, representing a Wagon. It was Travel, Rhythm, Spontaneity, Evolution, Decisions. To give a direction to the travel had been etched KENNAZ: which represented a Torch. It was Vision, Creativity, Inspiration, Improvement, Vitality. While at the end of the blade, completing the chain of runes that imprinted my intent against the sphinx in the stone back during the Triwizard, there were EIHWAZ and Halagaz. The first represented a Yew Tree, symbolizing Balance, Enlightenment, Death, The World Tree. While the latter stood for Hail. It symbolized Nature, Wrath, Being Tested, Overcoming Obstacles.

As each of the runes was renewed and tied its meaning to the purpose of the blade, the runes etched onto the three branches that once were not-One flashed as an echo, their purpose recalling connections through the shaft of the spear and restoring the balance, giving form to the shapeless channel to the World-soul, giving it width, freedom and depth, so that I could direct the change not limited by the purposes etched on the blade.

As the stone blade flowed in the shaft of the spear, reforming at its top in an almond-like shape, the Resurrection stone remained unchanged at its base, dead to the senses of men. And yet, while my sight was flagging and my strength waning, as who I was collapsed on itself to seek refuge from the too much awareness, my soul found the purpose of the Resurrection Stone. With a final ripple of Change that would have escaped any men, my shape took form through the stone, and the One, which was the identity of what I had shaped my masterpiece to be, filled it.

My heightened perception of a higher state of awareness crumbled with my strength, and I fell into the basin, no empty of blood, where the result of my work began to Live.

And it was there, like having a second heartbeat, a second set of senses, only that instead of being smell, touch, hearing and eyesight, it was sensing that went deeper, echoing constantly, almost but not quite like a sonar that made it possible for me to witness the connection between what was around me and the World-Soul.

With a faint smile that I couldn't avoid sporting, I felt the effects of the Philosopher Stone kicking in inside the spear, running along my veins as there was no difference between its being and mine. It was an extension of my self, instead of sinew bones and ligaments to keep us together, there was only my soul, within and around the both of us, acting as nerves and skin, marrow and thought.

Without even realizing it, I fell into unconsciousness.

I awakened only to recognize the dissonance echoing through my senses, while my eyes couldn't pick up on any presence in the air around me, I knew that the air itself was connected with me, it knew me as the creator of Wonderland, and it answered to y thoughts without a truly conscious input on my part.

I eyed critically the spear in my hands, rolling it between my fingers and testing its weight, before actually trying to do magic with it. As I willed it, a tree at the edge of the clearing turned into a seven meters long snake, which immediately looked around confused for the sudden change, before being returned to its original form with a negligent flex of my thoughts.

In the end, my masterpiece had become an eight feet tall spear, with a dark grey almond-shaped blade at the top, the wood of the shaft was like gnarled roots around of its base, and the dark gleam of the Resurrection Stone made itself known from time to time between the vines of wood. The shaft itself looked like an intertwined sequence of the three branches, each wood with its own colouration, with runes that could be faintly seen if I angled the One in the correct way under the artificial moonlight of Wonderland. At the bottom of the spear, the same stone that made the tip formed a flat end, and I could feel the filaments of impossibly strong stone running inside the shaft, like they were made of hair. Equally distributed along the shaft, I could feel the 'heartbeat' of the Philosopher Stone, which had apparently remained in a liquid state even after the completion of the ritual.

Even so, to my new Sense of What Was and Could Be, the spear was a single being, and I knew that it was me.

The name of my creation rose to my lips without my consent, following few words to introduce it: "Gǫrr van ríkr fjölkyngi, Saðr Fróðleikr!". The sounds came freely out of my mouth, Ancient Norse echoing in the small clearing as runes on the wood gleamed of golden light. And while I spoke those words, the meaning resonated in my mind without leaving a single strand of doubt regarding the success or failure of my ritual. Those words meant: Made of magnificent sorcery, True Knowledge. And considering the processes that went into its creation, and what it allowed me to do, ti was appropriate.

Besides, the last part of its name meant also Lore and Magic. The meaning of what I had just said was clear in my mind, words in Old Norse that fell through my lips like I had spoken them thousands of times before.

Inside of Wonderland, I laughed as I felt the threads that were the Souls of everything around me twirl and breathe and sing just beyond the corner of my eye.

This war has already ended. I thought, and I knew that I was something beyond the common or extraordinary wizard alike. If Voldemort and Dumbledore had been bonfires to the candles that were Filius and Minerva, I was akin to a neutron star.

AN

I know that everybody was expecting an epic last stand against Voldemort, with important declarations and whatnot. For those people, let me remind you that the MC is a SI who has dedicated his whole life to be able to say 'fuck you' to reality. He is a common human chunked into a muggleborn baby body, is someone that had difficulties into considering real anything but the magic that set this life of his apart from the one he lived before.

So, the reasons for which he didn't simply choose to retire from the world and do his own thing was that he had projects all around that he didn't whish to interrupt in case the Statute got broken with Voldemort wildly butchering humans all around.

As for the method... if I could or had any intention of publishing this book, I would have been forced to put an adequate final battle here, but this is fanfiction, so there are literally no expectations to be respected, no fans that I have to respect the dreams of.

Besides, going for a duel against Voldemort simply isn't the MC style. He acted as he did in the Ministry because he believes in respecting his duties, because the only thing that has kept him relatively sane in his otherwise crippling loneliness and lack of human interaction had been his dedication to a purpose, and said purpose had been learning magic.

Learning Occlumency at the cost of looking like the resident looney? he did it.

Giving up an eye in order to not mess up whatever the ritual to bring Raven into her on had cost? he accepted it.

Wasting precious time with coaching Fleur in order to observe how she took to magic and thusly having a wall against which bounce some of his ideas? He did it.

Having access to the professors' library in Hogwarts at the cost of teaching to the best of his ability and protect his students? he fucking did it.

So when he has to go on an LSD-like trip that threatens his own soul in order to gain access to what is basically a Trump Card against any other wizard? He took precautions and formulated an exact plan that nonetheless allowed for improvisation following the hunches he got from the Felix Felicis. Not only that, but he reconducted the workings of said potion to his Greater Theory of Magic, which is all-encompassing of what happened into the books.

So, we're getting closer and closer to the end gents, I hope that despite the subjective POV I managed to convey effectively how the MC applied the Magical Theory that I've been building up to this point.