The forest was cold and wet; he'd wished he had worn the right shoes. Leaves crunched underneath him with each step and anxiety dipped itself into the pit of Harry's stomach. What would this all be for? he thought as his destination came ever closer.
He made his way through the clearing and faced his enemy. The area around them was wide, several Death Eaters bunched together closely around fires. They'd been camped in the Forbidden Forest for a while clearly, waiting for him, waiting for Harry.
"It's just like going to sleep," Sirius had told him moments ago, but death kicked him in the stomach. He was a Potter, they didn't give up. How had his father fought against Voldemort? Even without a wand. Here Harry comes with that sacrifice to give it over.
"I did not think Dumbledore would allow you to come." With a twitch of his finger, Voldemort magically subdued Harry's hands. His gleaming red eyes glowed with satisfaction, the slit-like pupils were almost disbelieving. He didn't think it would be this easy. "All your life you run from me, Harry—"
"No Arry'," Hagrid cried as he struggled against his chains.
Voldemort's Legillimency attempt was instantaneous, Harry had thwarted the telepathic attack just as instantaneously.
"You expect me to believe you'd die so easily?" Suddenly Voldemort began casting spells into the trees; blasts of power, curses and fire all lanced across the clearing. His Death Eaters began following suit, wildly casting spells, hitting each other in turn. "Where are they? Find them!"
Voldemort swiped his wand and levelled a good portion of the trees. Evidently, he must have realized the truth because he stopped casting and looked again at Harry. His followers scrambled, in turn, to stop casting.
"Hominem Revalio," a large dumb-looking Death Eater incanted. "There's nothing there my lord." All the other followers looked at him in what must have been disbelief. Harry could tell at least three of them had already cast their own spells without a wand movement.
"Crabbe I presume?" Harry asked and the oaf grabbed for his mask very fast. It was all Harry could do to not outright laugh. A large crack followed and the man fell limp on the ground. Clearly, Voldemort didn't find that very amusing.
The pale sorcerer's eyes grew wide enough that you could almost call him amused. Though without eye-brows it was rather hard to tell. He telekinetically sent the bound Harry to his knees. His feet skittering along with the leaves as he levitated above them.
A cold high laugh escaped his mouth.
"Can we get on with the theatrics?" Harry drawled in his best Draco impression.
"They've betrayed you," Voldemort hissed. "Speak!" In an instant, he was nose to nose with Harry. Or, well, nose to nose-slits. Placing his wand experimentally on Harry's chin.
"You don't scare me, Tom. I've come to die as you've asked," Harry whispered. "No one is going to get hurt because of me anymore."
"You dare!" A female voice screamed from somewhere behind him.
"Hush, Bellatrix," Voldemort called simply. "Crucio."
Pain coursed through Harry as he'd never known. It was as if the spell was designed to be worse every time you were subsequently hit with it, and his back was aching so badly with how he had drawn into himself on the clearing floor that he thought his spine was going to spring out like a chord.
The Dark Lord skidded along the ground again.
"Look at their chosen one!" He said to his followers. "At my mercy! Wandless and soon to be dead."
He sure knew how to draw something out. Fine, if he wanted a duel he would have one.
BANG
He was free from his restraints with his wand in hand. Voldemort's responded in slow motion his own wand coming out, the look on his face very clear that he had already tried to summon Harry's wand from him.
With a sharp jab, Lucius Malfoy was blown back into a nearby tree, the crunch was so late in Harry's perception that he had already apparated away.
Dolohov attempted to grab his arm with a whip spell of some sort, Harry moved out of the way of it easily and jabbed again, this time crushing the Wizard's larynx.
SNAP
He apparated again out of the way of one of Voldemort's lances of fire and Bellatrix's exploding curse, they were constantly moving together. Seemingly to avoid being picked off.
Battering away a few hexes back into their uses with his off-hand and wand he apparated again. It was starting to become very loud now each time he did it, he was losing control.
Sectumsempra, he thought with savage pleasure, the invisible sword only going through Voldemort's arm but going straight through Bellatrix's mid-section in turn.
He transfigured the ground around himself into a makeshift dome as he was continually pelted with daggers made of light. The dirt constructs held for a moment and were then annihilated in a near-instant at what Harry assumed was Voldemort's following rage at the death of his closest follower.
Apparating again out of the way of a gust of razor-sharp wind that would have bisected him he went deeper away from the clearing.
"Come, come so I can kill you!" Voldemort vaporized a tree angrily before holding his duelling stance in an off direction. All of his followers were either dead or incapacitated, Harry needed the Killing Curse. Using the debris of the splintered trees the young wizard flew several small chunks of wood with sharpening charms on them into Voldemort's midsection.
Apparating away again from a bolt of lightning he became aware of acute pain in his leg. He'd always known apparating between trees was risky, he had splinched himself with the last apparition, thankfully it wasn't the searing and burning equivalent to having your skin ripped off slowly with a hot iron because of the adrenaline coursing through his body. But he needed to end this quick, the sharp pain was building.
He slunk his way finally to the middle of the clearing again, dodging frantic spells from Voldemort who had turned to him immediately. If any one of his followers had been alive, Voldemort's spells had surely done them in. Hagrid had rolled away behind a nearby oak that had fallen, it was the size of three of him but the way he was currently struggling against his chains would have alerted anyone to his presence. Harry secretly prayed that he'd be okay after this.
A shield deflected Voldemort's last spell, he threw a stunner for good measure which was deflected.
"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort finally called.
Harry let go of his wand and stood to face it. Greenlight engulfed him and for a moment he was shining, the light illuminating his insides. Hagrid's faint cry of shock was the last thing he'd heard.
The rest was history. He woke up in a fluorescent white King's Cross station in some halfway spirit realm and standing there smiling was his father. Under the bench was the disgusting form of Voldemort in the afterlife. Largely they ignored it as they sat down and talked about everything Dumbledore never told him.
Towards the end of their talk, James Potter placed his hand on Harry's shoulder.
"You can stay here with me son, they don't need you," he said to the boy who looked so much like him save for his eyes. "Your mum is waiting for you, where we are, she saw how much you grew in that forest. She wants to know more about you."
It was the most selfish thing anyone had asked him to do. The entire interaction felt eery and unnatural, some part of Harry knew he was still alive, that somehow he'd survive. Somehow he always survived. Maybe his father was a selfish bastard? Or maybe it wasn't his father at all.
"Ron and Hermione still need me; Dumbledore still needs me," he said slowly as if explaining it to Dudley. "There are things I haven't even done in life yet dad; I want more than Hogwarts; than memories of dead parents and an old man with a white beard."
James smiled.
"I'm proud of you son."
What followed soon after that was him waking up groggily in a weeping Hagrid's arms, and he duelled Voldemort. Most would come to say that their duel in the sky above Hogwarts rivalled Dumbledore's duel with Gellert Grindelwald in the Battle of Bad Bentheim. Truthfully, Harry didn't remember much of it, as with most intense fights when you're in the thick of it you are doing and not thinking—you don't quite remember the finer details.
Though Albus said that Harry showed powers above Hogwarts that he'd never once shown an inclination for before. It was the most alive Harry had ever felt and it was in a fight to the death.
Now he sat at a desk. Quite nice; English Oak, sturdy and a golden plaque reading "Head Auror" ingrained in the front. His office wasn't quite as spacious as the Head of the DMLE's or the associate Minister's but it was a notable change from the cramped cubicles of the Auror's office.
Mounds of paperwork and books lined all of the wood furnishings and everything—including Harry, was washed in a dull orange glow from the oil lamps that hung above him to either side of his African Ebony bookshelves. He had really been shooting the bull with the specifics of what he wanted in his office furnishings but it seemed that Percy wasn't one to stand down from a challenge.
What was the difference between African Ebony and regular mundane Ebony? he thought as he took a drag from his cigarette. It was really an awful habit that didn't quite leave him after his youthful experimentation phase. He rubbed out the cigarette into the nearby ashtray and kicked his legs back.
Harry was an old dog now, a little less spry, twice as strong and far more downtrodden. Life, he found did not revolve around Hogwarts houses, nor even Magic, as much as he had come to expect when he first arrived in a small boat at the steps of Hogwarts.
There was an aspect of it, a soft inclination that Magic was harboured in the crooks of his world, as some sort of niche of the niche sub-category. Of course, many things floated to and fro as he walked around the ministry, animated notes screeched across the Ministry of Magic. And varying creatures would be waddling, trodding or occasionally sliding towards the Department of Magical Creatures.
He was currently the second most powerful Wizard in the world next to Albus Dumbledore. If he wanted to he could shatter the earth, go back in time to when Voldemort killed his parents and lop his head off, even maybe kill a god or two. But here he was, sitting at a desk, filing paperwork for misuse of Magical Force cases.
"Let's see, should Crumwell have used a stunner. Shit, another Wizengamot court case it looks like." He pressed his fingers to his temple.
Not everyone could be Albus Dumbledore, he found. It was a wonder he didn't use time turners because at the age of twenty-nine Harry Potter's job had widdled him down to the point where his hair was greying.
Eleven and using accidental Magic starts a fire in Diagon Alley while getting her wand, stunned by Auror Crumwell. Fifty Galleons in Damages to Ollivander's, another thirty for settlement with the parents. He repeated to himself inwardly. The report filed by Crumwell in barely legible English stated that he believed she was a Goblin.
He sighed, running his fingers through his hair and contemplating lighting another cigarette. His thirtieth birthday was in a week or so, he couldn't quite remember, and here he was likely to be drunk and alone for his birthday. He laughed.
It was a bit ironic that he couldn't tell when his birthday would be. After all, it was only the most important day in the Wizarding World for anyone that enjoys freedom. It was the reason he became the prophesied child, the reason he was so capable of killing Tom Riddle.
It was also the reason his life turned to shit.
"You're a mess Potter," he sighed as he produced a hand mirror from the air. Conjuration used to be hard. Lifting it upwards all he saw was green eyes and a scar, both faded in colour with time. He wasn't quite as grizzled as other Aurors, he didn't get hit by spells. "You're quite a handsome bloke, maybe Alice will finally take you up on that date, eh?"
A noise made him flinch. Sometimes he still felt like he was at war, waiting for the next surprise attack. In his younger days as an Auror, everyone fancied him an over-achiever. Someone that kissed arse and tried to do his best. He was no Hermione Granger, and he rarely kissed arse, it was just simply that there was a certain way of going about things. At least, that's what Dumbledore had taught him
Going from the green-horn boy-who-was-here-because-he-had-a-title to one of the most gruesome Aurors that the DMLE had seen since Mad-Eye Moody himself. People referred to him as "Curse-Scar Potter" because of his penchant for branding Dark Wizards with their own curse scars. It wasn't quite as good as "Mad-Eye" but it was his.
Of course, the tactics had eventually caught up with him, the Daily Prophet got wind and soon enough Dumbledore was loitering around Grimmauld Place to give Harry a 'straight-talking to'.
Ron sent owls, Hermione sent howlers. Kingsley even came to try to give his best approximation of a fatherly talk. None of them really understood though what it was like to be at war all the time, to never have a moment of quiet because you didn't want to die or much less saving people you cared about. Only Dumbledore understood, but Dumbledore was himself; pure will and pure talent, Harry didn't enjoy comparing himself to him.
It was a few years ago that they had stopped talking altogether. They had fought; Master and Apprentice one moment to tattered friends in another. Of course, both of them were far too prideful to admit they had been childish, but Harry maintained he wasn't one to be talked down to and Dumbledore maintained that Harry wasn't one to choose.
"Harry Potter," a deep voice bellowed from in front of him. There stood Kingsley Shacklebolt, now the Minister for Magic. For a moment Harry thought he was in deep shit, you always thought you were in deep shit when Kingsley said your name. Then the man smiled.
"Kingsley, bloody hell how long have you been standing there?" If Harry had aged frantically, Kinglsey had done it gracefully. Aside from a tad bit of weight that his desk job had added to him, he still looked exactly the same. Though, it helped that he was bald in the first place. Death Eaters had not been seen in a while either.
Sure, the occasional pixie-powder addict attempting to hug a Fiendfyre cat. Or the few muggle-borns with chips on their shoulders trying to conquer the wizarding world, wannabe Dark Lords as well, but nothing really had happened. Nothing serious.
"Dumbledore is dead." The words had no sooner left Kinglsey's mouth than Harry had attempted to probe the wizard's mind with Legillimency.
"Why didn't he tell me himself?" Harry joked, audibly swallowing back something that could've been a sob. Or could've been bile, he had been drinking a bit.
"I'm sorry," Kingsley to his monotone credit did sound sorry enough. "I know he meant a lot to you. And for what it's worth, even after the fight, he always asked about you."
"I-thank you Kinglsey, is that all?" Harry shook himself out of whatever he was going to do. He had heard worse news. Albus had lived to a ripe old age, he had died peacefully (hopefully). As was befitting of the man, he deserved it.
"No, he left you a note." Of course he did. "He knew his time was soon."
Kinglsey awkwardly handed him the slip of parchment and Harry looked at it. He visibly paled and his eyes went wide at what he saw.
"When is the funeral?"
"Abeforth said it is going to be on Sunday, apparently it was Albus' least favourite day of the week. It's going to be at Hogwarts, Minerva's insistence."
Harry smiled.
"He always told him that so that he'd bury him on his favourite day," Harry said absently.
Kinglsey barked out a laugh. Then Harry looked at him seriously again.
"I quit Kinglsey."
At this, he was knocked out of his laugh, and his face transformed to disbelieving.
"You can't be–"
"I am."
Harry got up from his seat and grabbed his jacket and went forward to that flighty temptress, adventure.