That Color Scarlet
Chapter I:
He knew his time was coming.
He could not precisely say how he knew. He just knew the last few dregs of sand were now beginning to drain from the hourglass of his life.
Yet, he ended his day just like he did every other, with a shower.
One might think that he should be frantically trying to make the most of his final days, visiting as many places as he could, while at the same time eating as many foods as his stomach would allow. But he had made his peace with death some time ago, and saw no point in stressing himself over trivial things such as those.
For all intents and purposes, he had lived a full life. And against all odds, it had been a good one. A longer life than anyone in his circumstance had any right to live.
He had survived everything that had been thrown at him; blood-thirsty professors, basilisks, dementors, just to name a few. He had accomplished everything he could have possibly imagined himself doing; graduating, becoming an auror, and most recently, finding himself as the professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts.
But if there was one facet, one door he had never unlocked, it was that of love.
It was ironic, really. The boy who had been shielded by another's love, had never managed to find some of his own. Whether it had been a product of the war, or something else entirely, was up to anybody's interpretation.
Sure, years ago it had bothered him tremendously, as was the case with most of his friends, who had constantly pestered him and in some instances interrogated him about the issue. But now, the most it could do was elicit a slight frown as he stood underneath the lukewarm spray coming from the showerhead.
It was not so much a regret as it was a slight annoyance, but after all he had gone through, he surmised that this was simply his spoil of the war he had never wished to be a part of. And to all appearances, a war that nobody won.
After that fateful day on the grounds of Hogwarts, it had taken many years afterwards for the Wizarding world to return to what most would consider normalcy. There were injuries to be mended, buildings in dire need of repair, and relationships that would take more than a mere apology to rekindle.
Of course, none of these could ever bring back those that had been lost. Those that were gone, were gone for good.
Harry paused, his weathered hands filled with shampoo as an epiphany arrived at the forefront of his mind.
Perhaps that had been it, the grief fueled anger and guilt that he had shouldered, was what had stranded him on his lonely island, unable to foster the amorousness for somebody else.
Resuming the ritual scrubbing of his scalp, his frown deepened at the thought.
Despite what many believed, killing Voldemort had been the farthest thing from satisfying.
While it may have granted him relief then, the emotion over time revealed itself to have been only a temporary respite. Knowing that he was equally responsible for the innocent lives that had been taken had resulted in countless sleepless nights. And when reflecting now, all these years later, Harry supposed that maybe it had been more about him, then it was about those he had courted, when it came to his inability to love.
Snorting, he released himself from these flitting thoughts as he turned off the shower and stepped into the bathroom. Drying himself off with his wand, he then observed his appearance in the mirror.
For as old as he was, he physically did not look much different from what he had been in his mid-to-late thirties, if you ignored the inevitable change in hair color and slight wrinkling of his skin.
His eyes were still the same shade of green. His lips still curled the same way. His scar was still the same shape it had always been.
He liked to think that this had come from his mother, who would have surely aged beautifully alongside his father, if it had not been for the betrayal that had started all of this. A costly act that sent him down the path to where he was standing today.
The boy-who-lived. The chosen one. And now, an old man.
Setting his wand to rest at the edge of the sink, his eyes trailed to a small trinket that lay beside his toothbrush, one that had adorned the aforementioned edge for as long as he could remember.
The many years since its acquisition had seen what had once been a shiny metal finishing turn to rust, leaving the time-turner looking more like a loose screw, than an object of unquantifiable ability.
For the life of him, he was not certain of when and where he had managed to stumble upon such a device. His best guess had remained that it had somehow fallen into the pockets of his robes during his skirmish in the Department of Mysteries, as its discovery occurred not long after.
He still remembered staring wide-eyed at the turnstile while he lay in his bed in Gryffindor tower, and the feelings that had come with it.
In his hands was the potential to reverse the events that had just occurred, the chance to save Sirius as he had done so before, and maybe, just maybe, put an end to the entire thing. Yet he had somehow managed to not cave into the temptations of using its magic, and through the whole of the events leading up to his fight with Voldemort as well.
Why?
He was not quite sure.
It would have been to nobody's surprise if he had used the time-turner right then and there. In fact, there were probably many that would have chastised him if they had found out that he did not. But there was just something about the idea of time traveling again that had him on a knife's edge.
More than likely, it was his fear of failure that had kept him from spinning the device.
Hermione's words regarding the consequences of time travel spoke to him that night, and the many that followed whenever he was tempted to take the time-turner out of its hiding place.
"Awful things happen to wizards who meddle with time…"
Was he willing to tempt fate more than once? To make a bargain with the higher powers? To push his luck one more time?
Back then and up until now, his answer had been a resounding no. But tonight, as he stood here in what had become the final days of his life, Harry found himself for the first time thinking otherwise.
Was he really going to live out the rest of his days and never once use it?
There was nothing that could stop him from doing so now. Not like he was planning on doing anything drastic either. If anything, he would only go back an hour or so, just to feel the rush of excitement that he so often craved when reminiscing about his earlier years.
He laughed out loud, the amusement coming out gravely, at how easily his resolve had crumbled in the span of a few minutes. Funny how insignificant things begin to seem, when you know exactly when you are going to die.
With his mind now set, he figured that he might as well get dressed for the occasion. Throwing on his old Hogwarts robes just for that added bit of nostalgia, Harry palmed the device as he sat himself down at the foot of his bed.
He still felt woefully unprepared for what he was about to do, but when had he ever been prepared?
Never, he imagined.
Using a nearby handkerchief, he did his best to clean it, before bringing it up to his face for closer examination. While he remembered that the first time-turner he had used sent the user back an hour per revolution, he had no idea if this one worked the same way.
Time travel, he was aware, was not an exact science, but he guessed that how far he traveled would not matter too much at this point, given that he would end up back here on his bed regardless. And if the time-turner so happened to send him two-hundred years into the past, well, Harry honestly would not have minded. He had always been curious of what might have been going on during 1700s magical Britain.
"How about we try one, first," he suggested to himself out loud as he carefully turned the centerpiece onceover.
He waited expectedly, butterflies in his stomach creating a sensation that he had not felt in forever, yet nothing happened.
"Blimey."
Thinking that it might be the leftover rust affecting it, he used a simple scouring charm to fully clean the metal, before turning it again once more.
This time, it happened almost immediately, and Harry felt the wind leave his lungs as he was ensconced in total darkness. He had forgotten how disorienting an experience traveling time was, and felt his insides mercilessly churn while he spiraled down what felt like a never-ending chute.
And then it stopped.
The very first thing he noticed when his eyes fluttered open was that he felt… younger, more rejuvenated.
Looking down at himself, Harry's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline when he realized that yes, he had somehow arrived in a younger version of himself.
"Well, that was certainly unexpected," he huffed, his younger voice sounding much stronger than he remembered. "Why didn't I do this before?"
In fact, his present and older consciousness felt as if it had been pushed off to the side, making way for the maverick that he had been, in what he assumed was a late-twenties rendition of himself.
His gaze then shifted away from his body to his immediate surroundings, which was when he was administered the second big surprise of what was surely to be an eventful night.
In some such way, he was no longer situated within the confines of his bedroom. In fact, where he was standing was not inside a building at all.
Much to the chagrin of Harry, he was now standing idly beside what looked to be a deserted car road. There was nothing here, besides him, and the faded asphalt whose markings were almost indiscernible in the dim lighting. A biting wind began blowing, making him shiver slightly as he was still only dressed in his Gryffindor robes, which were not the ones that had been issued for the fall and winter months.
"Where am I?" He postulated out loud as he produced his wand, taking another look around as he did so.
There had not been anything on his feet when he had left, leaving him standing barefoot on the rough patch of grass he had appeared on. To remedy this, he used an old transfiguration spell taught by his late Professor McGonagall, to transform a nearby tumbleweed into a pair of sandals. They were not the most comfortable by any means, but were certainly better than nothing.
Then suddenly, much to Harry's relief, the headlights of an approaching car appeared in the distance.
At the very least, the muggle operating the vehicle could tell him where he was, and maybe give him a ride to the nearest town, as he had not thought to bring his broomstick along with him. But as the car continued to approach, Harry began to notice that it was driving down the wrong side of the road.
He frowned confusedly.
It should have been on the right, but it was coming towards him on the left hand side.
The car began to slow down when whoever was behind the wheel finally noticed him, and came to a complete stop right next to where he stood. Rolling down the window, Harry came face-to-face with the driver, who was revealed to be a woman donning a witch's hat, which only added to his confusion.
In what place in time had he arrived, where wizards and witches used muggle forms of transportation?
"Hey honey bunches," the woman greeted him, with an accent that was definitely not British. "Are you lost?"
Going along with it, Harry simply said, "Yes."
"On Halloween silly?" The woman laughed obnoxiously. "My oh my, you must've had a lot to drink tonight. But hey! At least you're dressed for the occasion!"
Harry looked down at his robes, and then again back at the woman.
Her robes were certainly not authentic by any means. No, they looked to have been woven out of cheap material, instead of the carefully hand-crafted silk that his had manifested from. The same could also be said for her hat, which up close was clearly made from fake leather.
This woman was just pretending to be a witch. Did that have something to do with Halloween?
Harry paused for another moment, allowing his brain to catch up to what he was seeing in front of him.
Yes, that would make sense. Halloween. He knew better than most about the holiday, especially when it came to strange and rather unfortunate occurrences.
"What are you waiting for?" She questioned, reaching over to open the passenger side door for him. "Hop in, I'll drive you back to town!"
Harry bit the inside of his cheek as he considered the proposal.
"How far away is it?" He asked.
The woman squeezed her bushy eyebrows together, and Harry could not help but think that she was not the sharpest tool in the shed.
"About a mile or two away, it's just down this road and to the right!" She answered, her smile returning with even more enthusiasm.
Harry sighed and took a step towards the open door. The wind had already gotten more brisk, enticing him to make this decision to enter the heated cabin.
He guessed that he could stomach a handful of minutes in the car with this certainly… interesting individual.
"My name's Agnes," the woman said as she started the car back up.
"Harry," he felt obligated to respond with, as he settled into the awkwardly cushioned seat.
He did not recall being this tall before. Had he really shrunken that much as he aged?
"Your accent, it's so… sexy." Agnes growled, making him feel very uncomfortable. "Where are you from?"
"Surrey, just outside London," he answered, briefly recalling his old childhood home on Number 4 Privet Drive.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her turn her head towards him.
"Ooooo, you're a pretty boy, huh? Do you have some more of that British booze?"
In spite of himself, his cheeks reddened. Harry had already forgotten that he was supposed to be playing the role of a drunkard.
"Err… no?" He faked being slurred.
Having never been one to drink often, his impression came out expectedly terrible. But luckily, it seemed as though Agnes was none the wiser. Which begged the question, what was this foreigner doing as a cab driver in England?
"Honey, you're about to be the most interesting thing that's ever happened to Westview," she slapped the top of her steering wheel with authority. "I can't wait to show you off to my friends!"
Harry's chest constricted.
"West View?" He asked with weakening hope. "Near Hartlepool?"
Agnes took her eyes off the road to look at him again.
"No, silly! Westview, New Jersey." She answered.
Harry blinked.
"I'm sorry, New Jersey?" He asked again.
Agnes' smile impossibly grew wider.
"Man you must have really hit your head on something," she exclaimed. "New Jersey? The state? You're in America, baby!"
Harry's eyes ogled out of their sockets as a green sign appeared in front of them, confirming what the crazy woman had just spoken.
There, printed for him in big white capital letters, was a sign welcoming him to the town of Westview, New Jersey.
"Bloody hell," he let out. "What year is it?"
"1990," Agnes responded heartfully. "We are living in the golden years, I tell ya. What a time to be alive, am I right?"
Harry swallowed down hard.
He would admit that he had been reckless in the past, impulsive when he should have perhaps exercised caution, but how could he have ever expected this? To end up in an entirely different country, half a century in the past, as a younger version of himself.
"Not that much of a talker, are ya?" Agnes assumed, casting him a wink. "That's okay. I still like ya."
He could only shake his head in disbelief.
When they finally entered the town, Harry was greeted by the sight of what seemed like the entire township milling about, most of them dressed in various costumes that would have made him chuckle, if he was not in the midst of a silent panic attack.
Coming to a stop in front of an unassuming half-brick house, Agnes twisted her key out of the ignition and patted him on the shoulder.
"Come on! I want you to meet my friend," she insisted.
"I think I'm good," Harry whispered hoarsely, his body stiff from his startling realization.
"Nah, don't say that!" Agnes gave him an unwanted poke in the ribs. "Look, she's already waving at us!"
Harry's eyes turned towards where Agnes was pointing, and when they landed on the friend in question, he knew he was screwed.
"Bloody hell," he cursed again.
-Ω-
She does not look right standing off to the side; not too close that she would be noticed, but not too far away that she would not.
She should have been having fun, socializing with her neighbors as they all came together to enjoy the annual end-of-October festivities, but she was not.
In years past, she had done so. In fact, this year marked the very first time that she had not dressed up for Halloween, or purchased candy to distribute to the children that came by. Tonight instead, she was wearing just a plain leather jacket, and jeans that had nothing special about them.
Why?
Because Wanda Maximoff knew it would not matter if she participated or not, as the entire town, state, country, and world, were a ruse. The people, cars, houses, the very ground that they all stood upon, were all a figment of her imagination.
Ten years had passed since the Battle for Earth, the day the Avengers had defeated Thanos. And coincidentally, almost the same amount of time had elapsed since she had created the Hex, a term that she coined herself for this hyper-realistic alternate reality, where she could choose to exist and create whatever she wanted.
In the real world, the world in which she had become an Avenger, she knew that she was more than likely being kept in a comatose state in some hospital bed, while she stayed here in her land of milk and honey, her pie in the sky, where she would never have to feel the pain of loss ever again.
It was the pain from that day on the battlefield, and Vision's death, that had evoked her to create the Hex, to try and simulate a world in the space of her mind, in which they would have lived together.
She had not been aware that she could even do it until it happened; creating an entire fabricate universe was something that she had thought was beyond the scope of her powers. Then again, she had not realized then that she had a piece of an Infinity stone stuck inside of her.
Truthfully, it had scared her at first, being that her consciousness was here in this lucid dream of sorts, until she realized that she could create anything. And so she had chosen to create the place where Vision had promised her that they would build a home.
Right here, in this town of Westview, New Jersey, they were free from any form of strife, hidden safely inside the confines of her mind.
For all intents and purposes, it was supposed to be their 'Happily Ever After.' And for a time, it really was.
Vision and her had married, had kids, and done everything else a couple could do together. But at the end of the day, she knew that he was not real. None of it was.
Everything here existed only to fulfill her wishes and nothing else. And the realization left her feeling increasingly empty, every time she slipped underneath the sheets of her fake bed.
Desperately she tried to remedy this, whether it was by having more kids, or creating themselves a bigger house. But out of all the tangible things that she could blink into existence, there was one that she could not ever hope to replicate: true love.
The love one felt from another. The soul-to-soul connection that was impossible to break.
Wanda had hoped that her piece of the Soul stone could recreate the real Vision, but she was wrong. The love from the alternate Vision she had constructed felt hollow by no fault of his own. By every marcation, he was Vision. But it just… was not the same.
This version of Vision loved her with every fiber of his body, but that was because he had been made to do so, just like everything else in this fabricated universe. In this way, it became increasingly hard for her to show emotion back.
She began to lash out randomly, mad at nothing in particular, and the fake Vision would immediately arrive at her side to comfort her, which only made her feel worse. She could not help but think that the real Vision would have reacted differently.
Over time, it got to the point where she could not stand it anymore. She could not bear to lay her eyes upon him and pretend that she loved him back. It was not fair to him nor her.
So, almost a year ago to this current date, she said one last final goodbye to the man that she once loved. By the laws of the Hex, Wanda could create, and thus she could also destroy.
Everything that they had done together, she simply deleted from existence; Vision himself, the family they had raised, the house they had lived in, was gone with a delicate snap of her fingers.
Now and again, she was alone. And for now, all she wanted was to merely exist.
Wanda was unsure if time moved the same way here in the Hex as it did in the real world. Perhaps she had only been absent for a couple minutes, or maybe she had been gone for entire centuries.
It was this particular thought that made certain she was never going to return. What if she woke up, and things were even worse than when she had left?
There was no guarantee, but at least here, she could control everything that happened, ensuring that at the very least these people—her creations—could enjoy life to its fullest extent.
Call it a God-complex, call it whatever you want, to her it was a form of therapy, her coping mechanism against a world that had robbed her of everything. A world, where she had lived her entire life trapped in a web of lies, surrounded by people she could never hope to trust.
From people such as Strucker who had experimented on her, to Ultron, and everyone in between. All she had been told were dirty, rotten lies. Lies that had created irrational childhood fears, and tricked her into fighting for causes that she did not believe in.
At least here, nobody could tell her such fiction. She was the end all be all, and nothing could escape her intelligent green eyes.
The flashing headlights of an approaching car appeared on the street closest to her, and Wanda watched from afar as the car of her neighbor, Agnes, pulled into the adjacent driveway.
Feeling obligated to do so, she allowed herself to wave, but stopped when noticing that Agnes was not alone.
"Hey, Wanda dear!" Her neighbor greeted while stumbling out of the driver's seat.
A fake smile appeared on Wanda's face. "Agnes, how are you?"
"I'm doing more than fine, darling! Forgive me for being late, I had to pick up this dashing, handsome man that was just standing on the side of the road."
And with that, Wanda was redirected to the man in question, who had appeared from the passenger's side. What caught her attention first when she took him in was not any physical feature, rather, it was his voice.
"Uh, hello." He acknowledged unsurely.
Wanda's eyes widened at the sound, and she accosted him accordingly.
"Agnes, where did you find him?" She brusquely asked, uncaring for her first impression.
His accent, one that she had not heard in a long time, was distinctively British. Nobody in Westview had an accent other than American. Even Wanda's own accent had disappeared, so what made this man so special?
Agnes took him by the arm, which seemed to make him hellaciously uncomfortable.
"Just on the road right before town. You know, the one right by the big sign?"
Wanda frowned in response, her eyes centered still on the man, who seemed like he wanted to be anywhere but there.
"Oh my!" Agnes then exclaimed, hands flying to cover her wide mouth. "I've forgotten to introduce you two. Harry, this is Wanda. Wanda, this is Harry."
Agnes gave Harry a more than friendly nudge in Wanda's direction, but neither of them were interested in exchanging even basic pleasantries.
Wanda specifically, balked at the notion, still in shock at the man's appearance.
Why? You might ask again.
Because nothing else existed outside the boundaries of Westview.
While the people of Westview had knowledge of the rest of the world, Wanda herself had never created anything else outside the town's boundaries. Yet this man, Harry, was standing right in front of her, hailing presumably from England.
How? How could that be possible?
He tilted his head to the side at her lack of response, exposing a long neck that led up to his sharp features. Objectively speaking, he was quite handsome, but Wanda could not care less.
Their trio stood in silence for a little while longer as the Halloween festivities continued around them, before Agnes saved them by interjecting.
"Oh Wanda, why aren't you dressed up for tonight? Your costume last year was absolutely adorable!"
"I…didn't feel like it." Wanda responded curtly, unmoving from where she was leaning against the side of her house, eyes still trained on Harry.
His own eyes were flitting wildly, as he seemed to stuff something shiny down the pocket of the robe he was wearing.
"Where are you from?" She then asked, speaking directly to him for the first time.
She saw his eyes briefly dart up to take her appearance in one more time, the confusion on his face palpable as he seemingly tried and failed to recall.
Evidently not knowing what to say, he mumbled cryptically, "Not from here? England, I meant, sorry. I've had a rather mad last couple of minutes to say the least."
Wanda let out a cynical laugh, "Clearly, if you found yourself on the side of a road."
She watched as he pushed his circular glasses up his nose, and could not help but feel like he seemed uncomfortable just being in his own skin. It was frankly impossible to get a read on him.
"I guess so, yeah." He answered, scratching the back of his neck as he did so. "My first time in America."
Agnes huffed petulantly, irked that she was no longer the focal point of the conversation.
"Well, dear Harry. You have certainly chosen the right night to visit!" Agnes declared, retaking Harry by the arm, making Wanda feel almost sorry for him. "How about we go inside and freshen up? Is that okay with you?"
Instead of looking at Agnes, Harry instead kept his gaze directed at Wanda, the latter silently trying to peer inside his mind, but finding herself unable to do so, making the bags underneath her eyes twitch accordingly.
Despite not being able to access what lay behind his skull, by nature of her powers, she could still sense an overwhelming fetor of death radiating from him, congealing above his head in the form of a miniature storm cloud. While it was not unusual for her to come across people with similar afflictions in the real world, no such affliction should be existing here in the Hex.
Adding to her increasing wariness, there was something else besides that of death hovering around him, that she could not put a finger on just yet. Something that verged on the realm of… familiarity.
Harry became the first to break away from what had been a clear and obvious staring contest, realizing that Agnes was waiting for confirmation.
"Uh sure? I guess." He said briskly. "Sounds good."
"More than good!" Agnes exclaimed with a smile. "Wanda, would you like to joi—"
Harry's eyes trailed curiously towards Agnes, seemingly in wonder at why she had stopped mid-sentence, only to come to the startling realization that she had been… frozen in place; her mouth wide open, tongue languishing on the last syllable, eyes unmoving.
The chatter that had been humming around them had gone silent. The nearby children were paused mid step, their parents equally frozen in place. The codgy lady that had been handing out candy from across the street was now still, standing on the asphalt, her arms full with delicious sweets. Two boys of about ten, in the middle of a game of football, were currently suspended mid-jump and mid-kick, their laughter petrified in the air. And lastly, flying just above their trio, was a pigeon, wings raised high and feet held straight, close to landing on the closest roof.
Everyone—everything, was frozen.
A deafening silence permeated.
"Who. Are. You." Wanda questioned forebodingly, slicing through the reticence, eyes ablaze with a brilliant shade of scarlet, similarly colored tendrils seeping from out her back in waves.
Harry took a quick stumble backwards, face full of surprise.
"What do you mean? What the bloody hell is going on here?" He demanded while frantically reaching for something inside the pockets of his robes.
"Stop!" Wanda ordered, her voice sounding like it had been amplified tenfold, echoing impossibly around them. "Do not move!"
"Okay, okay," Harry said cautiously, arms slowly extending back up.
Alarm bells and sirens were screaming inside Wanda's head, and it was taking every fiber in her living body not to smite him where he stood. When it came to those that intruded on her life, her reality, her world, she spared no expense.
"Did you do this?" He then asked, motioning to the frozen mass around them.
Wanda stiffened at his conjecture, thinning her lips as she offered him no clear response,
"Who are you?" She repeated.
"I already told you who I am!" The man exclaimed. "Harry! Harry Potter!"
Wanda's already creased brow furrowed more, her glowing tendrils of energy increased in brightness and length. "You should not be here. How did you do it?"
Harry's mouth moved, yet no coherent words escaped, and Wanda could tell he was quickly trying to weave a lie.
"I… I don't know, okay?" He finally sputtered, his right arm nervously tapping at his side. "Who are you? How are you doing this?"
"I ask the questions." Wanda asserted, taking steps forward, but before she could take another, Harry raised his hand.
"Wait." He insisted.
In spite of herself, Wanda paused her stride, a natural reaction to hearing the word, no matter the situation.
"What?" She growled.
Almost instantaneously, a slender piece of wood that resembled little more than a twig appeared in his fingers, and along with it a semblance of a crooked smile.
Realizing that she had been tricked, Wanda reacted quickly, sending her scarlet energy outwards like a shot towards him.
There was a bright flash of blue light, followed by another flash of even brighter red, the two colors battling for dominance, alighting the air with the tingle of electricity.
When the flashing lights finally dissipated, Wanda was left standing, arms extended and hands still burning with energy.
The deafening silence remained.
The man, however, was gone.
Author's Note:
A concept-one shot of a story idea that I may revisit in the future.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything.