Chapter One Hundred Forty: The Senseless Sacrifice
The others were safe, but the same could not be said for him. No one knew that he'd set this Trial by Combat up, save for him and Riddle. And, anyone Riddle might have told. But, no, he would not want a repeat of last year—to be shown up by Harry Potter, again.
The same Harry Potter, for once. It was not good, that that idea struck him as strange. But, he took from it what assurance it offered: that perhaps his spirit (or whatever you might want to call it), had at last settled upon a fixed form.
He shrouded himself in a different sort of invisibility, as he made his way to the atrium, with its rather condescending and ethnocentric statue of wizarding superiority, and hid himself in calm as he waited.
He realised, with that protective anger gone, just how foolish an idea this had been. At the time, he'd thought that the confrontation with Riddle was a traditional ending for his school years, (with the odd exception of third year). He'd known the supreme import of dragging Riddle out of hiding, splitting his focus amongst his goals, making an ally of the Ministry (or at least arranging a ceasefire, which would also rid them of Umbridge, necessarily).
But, leading him to the Ministry with a counter-call? To the extent that he came by choice, and not because of a misattribution of Harry's anger, he came because he had backup, in the form of his Death Eaters, and did not yet know about Dumbledore and the Order. But, if he have any means of keeping in touch with them, or if he scout the area first….
And, the most foolish matter—the one that made him realise that Hermione was right, that Umbridge's curse had made him a bit scatterbrained, or even just…off—was when he realised that he'd assumed that his ability to endure Umbridge's Cruciatus Curse perforce translated into a resistance toward whatever curses as Riddle might use. And, there was even less cause, on those grounds, for thinking that it would help him through the pain that came of Riddle's mere proximity. He wasn't thinking quite right.
He was thinking right enough to take off his invisibility as he waited, and plan. He did not want Riddle to surprise him. He kept his seventh sense open, as if it were the only one to matter. But, all of his plans were scattered upon Riddle's arrival.
Well, he was not the best at making plans, regardless. He had a few ideas—that was more important. He had the Sword of Gryffindor. Riddle could not possibly know what to do with that. And, he rather suspected that the Sword had secrets that remained hidden…for now. Even Dumbledore might be surprised by some of the things it could do. Whatever those were.
For now, Harry would stick with it, because he knew that Riddle had little regard for "muggle" weapons, and thus far more experience with wand-waving than either real magic, or close combat.
"I see that you possess the prophecy," he heard Riddle say in a sibilant whisper, through the excruciating pain caused by his mere presence. Why did his mother's love not neutralise—defang—the pain that came of proximity, now that they shared blood, after a fashion? "Hand it over, now, and I will let you and your little friends retreat unharmed."
Harry was pretty sure that he didn't believe this in the slightest.
Mother? he asked, reaching for her familiar presence, calling through another of the doors than he'd used to bring Professor Snape to the cottage in the woods. He knew now that he'd been calling through those doors when he'd addressed his mother, all along. It was in how he could almost, but not quite, hear her response.
Did he need the armour for this, or was it superfluous? What good would it do against magic? Not much, he didn't suppose. It hadn't saved him from the Killing Curse. It probably would do just as little against the Cruciatus or Imperius Curses.
At least he'd had the sense to wait before attempting to make another of those familiar bucklers. Maybe, he should try a different kind of shield?
For the moment, he was defenceless, and unarmed. But, Riddle knew about the prophecy, even knew where it was. And, he could not retrieve it without Harry. Harry gave Riddle a cold smile. He knew that fact.
"Get it yourself," he snapped. That was a test.
Riddle was smart enough to realise that there was something more to it than he saw, and knew that Harry would never willingly give him what he wanted. But, the opportunity to grab the prophecy and leave before more could be involved in their fight was too good to pass up, of course.
"Accio prophecy!" Riddle cried, pointing at Harry's pocket, which he must have known contained the real prophecy, and not some manner of fake.
It did not, of course, so much as budge. Harry reached into his pocket and pulled it out, wincing and putting his left hand to his head as Riddle's rage increased the pain tenfold.
"I have terms," he said.
Riddle was not listening. He was instead chanting the same words over and over. Those words, of course, were "accio prophecy!".
"That is a fake," he accused.
Harry just smiled. He'd contemplated the idea of breaking the prophecy several times, but for all he knew, that would activate it. If you wanted to get something out of a glass jar, breaking that jar was an option, however ill-advised. He did not want to risk someone coming across him whilst the prophecy was being released, or some such, and having another witness. He would give the prophecy to Dumbledore, perhaps, when all was said and done. For now, it served as a bargaining chip.
Riddle didn't know how to react to Harry's smiles. But, he seemed to understand that Harry had one over him, and he seethed. A sort of mad wrath poured off him in waves. It stung something fierce, but Harry had been under the Cruciatus before. Even with Riddle much more powerful than he'd been at the end of first year, the mere presence of Riddle would not be enough to drive Harry over the edge.
Or, that was what he told himself.
He recalled that his friends were counting on him, and that was when he realised another foolish thing that he'd done: he'd left them out of his sight, below somewhere. He was considering what to do, whether he ought to use his coins to call them up (and ask them to face Riddle with him? Was that not the most selfish idea he'd ever had? This situation, like so many of the choices he had had to make, the sacrifices, was one without a good or right choice), when Dumbledore emerged from the grille barring off the lift.
Of course. Things could never be that simple, now could they?
Dumbledore was near the very top of his list of people who must not know about Mother—particularly following his behaviour all this year. If Dumbledore would not trust Harry, then Harry definitely had insufficient cause to trust Dumbledore. Petty? Perhaps. But self-preservation. Dumbledore had some very big secrets. Harry was sure of it. He made his effort to belay that request, offering Mother a sense of changed circumstance. She knew his emotions and state of mind, didn't she?
"Do not give him that prophecy," Dumbledore said, with an imperious glance over his shoulder at Harry. Now, he was treating him as if he were about five years old. Well, perhaps he shouldn't have broken into the Department of Mysteries….
No. There had been a purpose to this—to all of it. Perhaps, more purpose than he was consciously aware of. A glimmer of understanding, a fragment of memory, pierced through the bating, more intermittent, pain brought by the proximity of a wary, distracted Riddle. His focus was on Dumbledore, now, and his anger had been smothered in fear. Dumbledore, "the only one he'd ever feared". Hmm.
But, Harry remembered something, even through the remaining, clearer, haze. He ignored Dumbledore's command that he "stay put, and hide", but made no attempt to remove the animate statue guarding him. Such an open space! Perhaps, he should have picked somewhere more contained, or perhaps….
He took the opportunity to think through the barest threads and glimmers of a plan. The most important matter at hand—the one that had caused him to issue that wordless challenge to Riddle, to stoke his anger and draw him out—was a need to ensure that Riddle derive no benefit from Mother's blood.
He'd had to wait an entire year to address that issue, an entire year rife with the risk of Riddle indeed becoming more powerful than the wizarding world could handle. "Greater and more terrible than ever he was", as Trelawney had said.
And he'd tapped into some of that, to breach Harry's defences, to lull him into a sleep, unawares, in the middle of an exam, when sleep should be furthest from his mind. Sleep was not in Harry's spheres. It might be in Mother's.
He opened his seventh sense to its fullest extent. He didn't bother forming a shield. There was no need to see or hear. Dumbledore could be counted upon to have everything well in hand—just as long as Riddle didn't somehow tap into the other magic. Perhaps, he couldn't learn to use it. But, it wasn't worth the risk, to Harry's mind.
Mother? he asked, that part of him that gave voice to thoughts stationed in a between place—in a doorway between mind and soul. Not a door to memory—he thought it led into the familiar living room, somehow. He knew that he couldn't hear any response she might give, but that she was nonetheless listening. What do I do? Magic can be bound. Our manner of magic can be bound. Give me a pattern.
A pause. If possible. Please.
He had never had cause to research bindings before he'd gone into exile. He knew that they must exist—those handcuffs!—but he needed a more permanent seal.
He was faintly aware of closing his eyes, but then a series of squiggles and lines appeared before his mind's eye. As with all patterns (or anything involving his seventh sense), it required a bit of work to try to make sense of it in terms of the physical world.
Riddle was in a circle in the centre. He had the sense that that was straightforward. It either meant to circle Riddle as he tried to work the binding, or that the magic would be self-sustaining (infinite, he thought in something of despair). It was a forever binding, made of magic. It seemed to glow white. That probably meant that it fed off any of the other sort of magic Riddle might try to use, before it could even be used.
What were the squiggles and lines doing? Squiggles, he thought, were a shorthand for magical energy. What were lines, again? Connections. They were all in different colours—all the colours of the rainbow. He frowned. That had better not mean what he thought it did. One infinity was more than enough for him, as he thought towards his mother with some asperity.
But, it made sense. To keep someone from using magic, bind it round with all the sorts of magic there were. Let nothing through a shield of the other magic, and repulse any magic that tried to come close. He hoped that that was the pattern.
But, he'd have to change it, somewhat—Riddle would notice before he'd finished, if he tried to bind all of his magic. Then, perhaps, he'd become aware of the other sort of magic when he would otherwise have remained ignorant of it. That was the most obvious way for this to backfire.
Afterwards, he would wish that he'd had the opportunity to watch the battle, which from what he saw of flaming serpents and tsunami, was nothing short of spectacular.
For now, he shut off his seventh sense as he thought through how to change the pattern he'd been given to fit the circumstances. Bind him subtly round with magic of the same sort as that which he'd stolen, to which he had no right. Seal it so that it fed off all magic (only as much as it needed), but hid from all eyes. How did you make such a bond?
Circles were ridiculously all-encompassing shapes, for being two-dimensional. They encompassed literally everything. He probably wanted a triangle, instead. (Afterwards, he wondered why his mind leapt to that conclusion, whether he might not have heard the old legend of the Three Brothers, after all, but that was much later.) Those were much harder to work with. He had to focus particularly hard for that shape, but it least it was stabler than a square. Since this was his mother's sphere, he'd have to attempt to use her style of magic, which was thrice hard.
He was helped by the fact that the Ministry of Magic was built where it was—in a place of power, with lots of ambient magical energy to draw on. He needn't drain himself. (But, he would have to ensure that he cut Riddle off from such power sources, if he could; the graveyard had been bad enough.)
He'd quite forgot that he'd never tried to channel such magical energy in this life. He swiftly discovered that human bodies were not meant to work with so much power at once. He was fairly swamped by it. But, he had quite a bit of recent experience with being swamped by circumstances around him. You wanted the wind at your back (most things, you wanted at your back) to speed a journey. He shielded the area in front of him with the ambient magic of the Ministry.
He did not realise until much later that it was full of death. He was drawing on the Veil to bind Riddle's magic. To cut him off from any off-world magic he might be able to train himself to use, before he became aware of it. And, the Veil was, likewise, not of this world. To the extent that magic had emotions or personality, it was offended by Riddle's existence, by the steps he'd taken to avoid his passage through it. When it understood Harry's purpose, it did the magical equivalent of bending over backwards to help.
But, Harry was too distracted by the muted pain of Riddle's presence, his scattering mind, and too focused with what remained of his attention, to pay much heed to the origins of the magic he was using. It was untainted, and that was as much as he cared about.
He caught glimpses of Riddle and Dumbledore's battle, but he kept his seventh sense closed, and thus learnt nothing of how to replicate them. He needed all of his mind bent towards his current task. It was why he'd brought Riddle here to begin with. He could not do this from afar.
At some point, he noticed a shaggy black dog sitting at his feet, serving as a second guard, keeping an eye on the battle, ready to leap between any attack and Harry.
"Stay behind me," Harry ordered. "I am about to attempt some difficult and unfamiliar magic, outside of my experience, and you must not become worked into it. Stay, for once."
He hoped his glare sufficiently conveyed his thoughts of how foolish Sirius had been, coming after being ordered to stay. He also hoped that Stephen was still here, watching.
"Stephen, stay out of my way, and don't let Sirius do anything stupid."
Harry stood from his hiding place, and spread his hands wide. He paused, scowling, as he heard the loud report of lighting striking, somewhere not far off. When had the storm rolled in? Here, in the atrium, they were closer to the surface….
Bring up energy from the earth. And then, narrow its focus to Riddle himself. At the end, tie the ends together—like a knot, or the famed ouroboros. Infinity, hmm?
Somehow, perhaps only because the Veil was helping him, he narrowed down the focus of his spell to only Riddle, fixing him in a triangle-crosshair, outlined in black with an interior of green. There are two weak points in a finger-triangle. But, he managed to tie those halves together into a coherent whole, and then to draw it out into a true triangle. Just in time, too, as the sudden shift in atmosphere recalled him to Riddle's mind. Riddle felt the shift, the change in atmosphere, a change in his own awareness, and while he continued to watch Dumbledore for a split second, his focus was all on Harry. Riddle could tell, although he didn't know how.
He vanished.
"Stay where you are, Harry," said Dumbledore, and he sounded…afraid. That did not bode well in any world.
The Veil of Death was almost sentient. It seemed to know what was about to happen, and cast Harry out, but, in effect, three things happened at once.
That was the first. The second was a pain beyond anything Harry'd felt outside his dreams, which gave him no opportunity to erect new barriers, and crashed through the ones he'd erected back when Umbridge had captured them. He had no chance to even attempt to fight it off, before something attempted to weave itself through what he thought of as himself. There was nothing to brace himself against. He felt the corrupted corner of his mind awaken, keen and vicious as ever.
How disgusting! All that planning and debate to protect Harry from Umbridge's torture (Ron had knocked him unconscious; if only he were here to do the same now; was that thunder overhead?), but beating that Toad wasn't enough. It would have to turn out this way, wouldn't it?
Had he had the awareness for it, he might have taken the moment to appreciate the innate incompatibility of that corrupted corner of his mind, and the part of his soul that was tainted by Riddle. One sought for dominion and selective slaughter (genocide, of course) of those whom he felt unworthy. The other thought that restoring order to the world (saving the world) entailed indiscriminate slaughter, with no (little) discrimination amongst targets.
Between the battering, the shaking of the bars keeping that corrupted corner docile and contained, and Riddle oozing his way into Harry's soul (and the agony that accompanied it), there was no room for such thoughts. They came after.
For now, there was room for only one (some part of him, small and overlooked, noted that Riddle was fascinated by the process he was unwittingly bound up in), thinking: The only way not to break, is not to care!
Perhaps, it would have been different had his friends been there with him, but Stephen and Sirius both were, and that hadn't stopped the triumph of habit and brainwashing.
Harry was too weak-willed. He'd been stronger, once, long ago, but, as he would reflect, upon returning to his senses, this was proof, if Stephen still needed it, that the mantra, and the corruption, would not be denied. Dumbledore was wrong. Stephen was wrong. Love was not the most powerful force in the universe.
For now, there were fireworks somewhere in the vicinity of his brain as Riddle and Thanos's mind-control fought it out. They were never going to get on. That did not mean that Harry-in-between appreciated having a battle fought inside him. For one thing, it was excruciating.
That, in turn, dredged up the sort of bad memories that fed the corrupted corner of his mind. He felt it win out, before the strain was too much for him, and he lost awareness. He hoped that Riddle was enjoying the mess he'd just dug himself into.