AN ANTICLIMATIC END
Once that I was done giving birth to what was, under every point of view, a living conduit for my soul to the World-Soul, I only had to familiarize myself a bit with the tangible effects my thoughts had upon the strands of reality while I held True Knowledge in my hands.
In any case, the only remaining point to address before being actually able to put down Voldemort once for all, was the prophecy itself. And like I had done for every magical obstacle, topic, or challenge that I met in this life, I dedicated my considerable experience and understanding of the world to unravel the mystery that was the concept of 'prophecy'.
At its base, either a prophecy was false, and thusly below my radar, or it was true, and so deserving an appropriate understanding.
Time, like I had proven with altering its flow both in the last chamber of my Iron Trunk and in Wonderland, wasn't set in stone, and more than that, it wasn't linear, nor truly explainable with only mathematics.
Time however, intended as the very concept embodying a succession of changes, was a part of the World -Soul, or better yet, the World-Soul existed as a succession of states that one could see as beads on a string. Said beads, which represented the infinitesimal changes of each finite event that took part in the flow of what could be called 'History', were sometimes clustered together, sometimes separated one from another by a long section of the string.
Sometimes the string was twisted on itself, sometimes it hung loosely, describing a U of sorts that brought beads of events close one to another even without being close on the string itself.
That was because some events, or succession of events, held a 'weight', they held within themselves an important chance of affecting the Whole of the Events that defined the World-Soul. Thusly, always following the metaphor of beads on a string, extremely relevant cluster of events weighted down on the string, causing a dip on an otherwise straight string.
Sibil, back when she uttered the prophecy, and like every other true prophet before her, belonged to a succession of events, or a cluster of beads, which ended up being near the series of events that she spoke of in her prophecy.
Clearly, the sensibility of the prophets to the flows of the World-Soul was such that an important change echoed through the distance between the beads representing said Events.
It works well enough for me. With a shrug, I accepted my theory as sound. I wasn't like there was a better one to rely upon in any case.
2000 June 24
Time had become wobbly during my research frenzy, but with my spear ready, I knew that a better moment to properly attack Voldemort would never come. I had long known that despite my, frankly outstanding, understanding of and connection to the World-Soul, I wasn't a fighter. Not at my core. Sure, I enjoyed proving myself capable of this and that, and fighting, either against the Sphinx or the Dragon, allowed me to learn a lot and to stress my abilities in unexpected directions.
With a thunderous crack, I apparated again at the edges of Hogwarts boundaries, sending out a flare of light and waiting for a good half an hour before the barrage of spells designed to identify me failed again and again until the ones in charge managed to realize that poking out their noses to look would be much faster and effective.
The Trio themselves were walking toward me from Hogwart's gates, wands prudently ready to fire, and deep bags under their eyes. Once they had reached a reasonable distance from me, I let them start: "Prove that you're who you appear to be!" Weasley shouted.
I sighed, falling briefly into myself and bringing out safeness-joy-strenght from within, and when I slammed the bottom of my spear to the ground, a white shape coalesced out of thin air, my Albatross patronus flapped its far too large wings, dispelling itself once it had confirmed that there were no threats for him to face.
"It's him." Hermione confirmed, "Professor Flitwick told us a while ago, do you remember?"
The two males hesitantly lowered their wands: "You disappeared just before an enemy's raid, and appear again only now, it's awfully convenient is it not?" the redhead spoke slowly. Causing me to sigh exasperatedly. "I had to prepare." I shrugged raising the spear of a couple of inches, letting them now what I had been doing.
"And I still have to find a way to bring Fleur back, despite my study on the Soul..." I stopped myself from speaking further, it wasn't like they either cared or could actually understand what I had learned, or still yearned to learn.
Without waiting for more explanations, I plunged myself outside and beyond my [Self].
The world shifted and lurched, its colours and shapes falling apart and recombining in mind shattering concepts that had far to many and far too few dimensions to be properly perceived through human senses, [purpose]s and [shape]s becoming one another, shifting and churning in a veritable maelstrom of chaotic order that I couldn't escape...
A firm tug of myself on [Self] immediately anchored me and remembered me of [purpose].
In the material plane, I pointed True Knowledge at Harry Potter, and with a whisper of intent, reality twisted to accommodate me.
Inside the flowing rock at the core of my spear, an empty dodecahedron formed itself while runes lit themselves in golden light over the shaft.
Hagalaz: hailstorm, destruction, change, loss. I would violently rip away his soul, bending it to a purpose different from what the will of its actual holder could fathom.
Mannaz, which stood for self, friendship and mankind, but upside down, so that it meant suicide, manipulation, and mortality. His soul would be mine to manipulate.
Raido, which stood for journey, and Raido upside down, which instead stood for injustice and death. While he would be completing a journey, it would end with a death he couldn't hope to oppose, robbing him of the just right to defend himself.
Pertho, which would give the purpose to the soul after its holder's death, it meant pawn. I needed it as putty in my hands.
Fehu, written like the reflection in a mirror, so that it stood for travel, relocation, dance of life. It bound together with the previous five runes, bringing the total to a stable six, which was twice the number of elements inside of the circle and half the number of faces on the dodecahedron.
So, Harry Potter's soul left his body and came into a void section of my spear, carrying with itself the Voldemort's shard that Dumbledore had clearly failed to erase.
Before Either of my ex-students could realize what was going on, I willed [Self] in another material manifestation of the World-Soul, following an instinct more than a calculated expression of will, and I was gone.
Back home, deep inside of Wonderland, I had managed to isolate a hill that didn't follow the flow of time that characterized the area. The meadow that I had to grow around the hill was circular and covered in lush green grass, and was under one of the areas of Wonderland where the sky followed a regular cycle of Day and Night, allowing for a somewhat regular behaviour for the trees I had taken from all around the world and planted again in my home. There were seventeen trees from which I could craft wands, gently swaying in a circle at the top of the hill.
At some point or another, I had used the wood from each one to craft something, and I knew each nook and scratch of their barks, just as I knew how conductive of my will they would be.
The desert ironwood tree I was sitting under was about 10 meters high, and its trunk had a diameter of about 60cm. It wasn't in bloom, but that was not the interesting part. The bark was split open. The tree had been split in two, probably by a strike of lightning, and had kept growing. So from the roots of one single tree, two trunks were still very much alive, with leaves of a bluish-green. It was the three I had taken from Arizona after my meeting with the Thunderbird.
It's curious how much I resemble Odin. I mused by myself as I completed my preparations. I breathed slowly, erasing the presence of the occasional goosebumps on my skin, ignoring the light rustling of my clothes against my moving chest, perceiving and discarding the almost inaudible breeze and smells that came with it.
One day I would be able to act though the World-Soul without need for a stabilizing ritual, but I would need years of experience stil.
Soon, everything outside of the absence of action and empty void that was my mind ceased to exist, leaving only myself.
In that moment, I felt the sharp stab of pain between my ribs, recognizing the tip of Saðr Fróðleikr piercing me, eager for my soul and blood. And as I fell forward, the vines I had arranged tightened around my neck.
I felt almost cold in the beginning, but slowly, my bodily sense stopped perceiving, there was only the silence, and I closed my eyes, letting the surrounding darkness swallow me. Even more slowly, my thoughts about the purpose of my meditation faded into the background of my mind, my general worries and ambitions no longer existed. Along with those thoughts, time stopped having any significance.
When my entire being was floating in nothing, my senses slowly falling asleep, I turned my attention inwards, and with the last thump, my heart stopped beating. I opened my eyes and observed the reality around me, I saw and I was, and what I perceived couldn't be forgotten nor described, for the words to capture the experience didn't exist yet.
Instead of reaching outward, like I did to manipulate other souls, I kept going inwards. Not with my will, mind, magic or intent since none of the parts that made me existed on their own. I simply was, and with my whole being, I fell deep into myself, I felt every organ, every muscle, every electrical impulse running along my nerves. And yet I needed to go deeper.
At some point, I realized that the changes around me were always following a pattern, I had reached the level where what I was was an infinite collection of quirks, thoughts, likes, dislikes, instincts, memories, beliefs, sensations, dreams and fears. And the pattern created by the more or less swift circling of those countless details, I realized, was the 'song' of my soul. My identity. Me.
I was at the bottom of my soul, so to speak, near to the beginning of the two way connection that united me to the World-Soul. There where two thin threads that left the confusing amalgamation of thoughts and impressions that defied definition. One resonated with the warmth f my blood, of bones grinding and nerves flashing, the other... I followed it with a strong 'metaphysical hand' to hold the first tether, afraid of losing myself, and watched and didn't understand, and felt awed and afraid.
Before the senses of my soul, a liquid tapestry of concepts and ideas beyond my understanding, a galaxy of irregular geometrical shapes, a well at the bottom of which I could see everything, a song rushing through the blood that my soul did not possess, the crashing of thunder described as the gentle swaying of another thread. And the colors where at once empty and full, because the tapestry made of flowing colours was intersected by holes that were the fulcrum to hold it together. I strayed out of thought and time. I felt myself becoming a realm of stars, ending in white light, stars wheeled overhead, and every day was as long as the life age of the earth.
And yet, I could feel my body through a single string, a part of me that didn't allow itself to be discarded. I could feel my stilled heart and blood, I could remember the gentle swaying, and pressure on my neck.
Turning my attention to the twins held together in Saðr Fróðleikr, I acted.
Tom Marvolo Riddle had been many things during his life, orphan, child, intelligent, student, teacher (of sorts), revolutionary (not really), and most of all, wizard. In his mind, he had been a wizard since the first time something moved when he willed it. He had been more and the best since the first whisper of snakes.
He had been mistreated as a mudblood in his first years in Slytherin, but he had known, and he had persevered through the filth that was the rest of them. thy who called themselves wizards, them who were nothing but sheep, waiting for someone who was their better to tell them what to do, to give purpose to their bland lives, to...
That and more I knew as my mind sifted through Voldemort's soul shard, before distractedly shaping what was the heavier and cleaner soul that was Harry Potter. I didn't look in detail at it, there was no need.
Resurrection Stone for the win. I thought with a grin, thinking about all the loopholes that I had to cross and find in order to manipulate safely my first soul back wile Fleur was turning herself into [Fire].
I couldn't have acted on Voldemort's soul leveraging a single shard, the connection, with so many of his horcruxes already torn and broken, was less than paper thin. Luckily enough, I now had my hands over Harry Potter too. Now his connection to Voldemort was vast and basically indestructible. There were similarities that resonated through their souls, there was prophecy that tied them together, there was Lily's Sacrifice, which Voldemort had willed onto himself stealing Harry's blood, there were their multiple encounters...
I had all that was needed to act.
And so, Tom Marvolo Riddle, born the 31st December of 1926, and all of his manifestations across the World-Soul, unraveled like water spilling through the fingers that were the obsessions keeping him alive.
Distance did not, could not, matter in this instance.
I willed it, and so I scattered him across the Whole.
Without hesitation, Without remorse, Without any chance for him to fight back.
Some part of the real him likely felt it when I started the process, because I felt a twinge echoing in the shard that I held using Harry's soul as a glove to manipulate it.
Not a problem.
Through Saðr Fróðleikr I willed the vines that I was hung to to drop me while the spear's tip left my ribcage that immediately started healing.
Another brief instant of focus saw me return to the side fo the soul I recognized belonged to Hermione Granger, who was at the side of a bed along with dozens of people despairing and shouting.
In the bed, under a blank sheet that covered him, rested the soulless body of Harry Potter.
As everyone freaked out, I pointed once more at his body with Saðr Fróðleikr, manipulating for one last time the soul of the Chosen One to make sure it would be safely tucked back into his owner's flesh.
"Voldemort is dead, clean up the rest." I said somberly and completely ignoring everyone. A flex of will later and I was already gone.
AN
I kind of wrote the epilogue a month ago, and I've been waiting for a proper 21st chapter to fall in my hands until now... needless to say I really wasn't feeling like writing it, but I brute-forced the process anyway.
In any case, in all of the books (and not only the HP ones) there is a lot of implied importance ascribed to the blood of a person (if one thinks about what polijuice can do with only hairs and what Dumbledore manages by shedding some blood on a rock), and I have expanded on that in this ff.
And like I have already explained, I see no need to nerf the MC at this point. He has access to the World-Soul itself, and has in his hands a part of Voldemort's soul: there is really no comparison.
With my other works going on, I have realized that this story was basically completed when the MC managed to completely harness the power of [change] through the creation of his spear. So this chapter is admittedly half-assed, and more for completion's sake than for any need on my part to write it.
That is why I have already published the next!
Yahoo!