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Twas a silent night across the tall trees and soft shadows that stretched the entirety of the Forbidden Forest. Silence usually spelled a much more dangerous predator—the top of the food chain, present and hungry.
A dirt path cut through the thick trunks and low-hanging foliage. On this path, Harry Potter pushed his glasses up his nose while walking to his destiny. "Neither can live while the other survives."
Harry Potter knew he was a horcrux. Heavy, deep, and somber but accepting his path, Harry's grass-stained shoes carried him forward.
Red hair flashed in his mind. Ginny, beautiful and innocent. Innocent no longer, her brother was dead, and she had seen the horror of war firsthand.
"She's why I do this. Even if I don't live, I can make sure she and the others have a chance."
The path Harry was on came to an abrupt, poetic end. Worn dirt harshly tapering to uncut overgrown grass. Harry moved off the track and onto the grass, walking forward into a clearing circled by tall trees.
On the other end, there stood Tom Riddle. Pale like snow, white as moonlight reflecting off his skin. The nose of what was once a man was reptilian and didn't extend from his head. Black robes contrasted harshly against pale skin, which made the Dark Lord standing across from Harry more ominous.
"Tom."
Voldemort's black eyes turned sharp, and his grin cruel. Tom didn't answer with words; instead, red intent loomed on the tip of his wand.
"Crucio."
A red beam of noxious light, smoking slightly, zoomed forward and hit Harry in the chest.
The Boy Who Lived fell to the ground and screamed. Unbearable pain assaulted each and every nerve in his body but he would not give up until he died. Defiant to the last, even when in acceptance, Harry Potter was a special breed.
Minutes could have passed, or hours. It was impossible to tell with the pain. Piece by piece shattered under the beam of red light.
Voldemort didn't want Harry Potter dead. Voldemort wanted Harry broken, then killed.
As his throat turned hoarse from desperate screams, one thought formed through the pain.
"The end is near. I'll die soon, and Tom will be mortal again when I do."
Harry smiled at the abstract thought, which only made Voldemort more furious.
Long, spindly fingers twitched in agitation at the Boy Who Lived, who simply refused to break. Voldemort clenched the wand in his hand tightly one last time, pouring more anger into the spell. The Boy Who Squirmed fidgeted on the ground, gasping for air.
Voldemort released the spell with a flick, and with another flick of his wrist, green death built on the tip of his wand.
"Avada Kedavra."
The Boy Who Lived watched the green beam fly towards him. It almost flew in slow motion. Harry's life flashed before his eyes.
Harry was left forgotten in Privet Drive, House Number 4, under the stairs in a clean little cupboard with a worn-out mattress.
Many years later, he found magic, a wondrous thing. A common occurrence followed this discovery. Death. It chased on his heels like his shadow under the sun, always present, always intangible.
Harry found what laughs he could and found family and home.
For those things, he would die with a smile on his face.
And so he did, as a green death beam impacted his chest.
Like puppets with cut strings, the Dark Lord fell and died, along with Harry.
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The transmigration of souls was an oft under-researched field. For a good reason; when souls left their mortal coils, that was called death. Most who were interested in this field held reasons for doing so that were less than noble.
Maybe there was some obscure text that only Hermione had read. She would be able to explain Harry's surroundings. Oh, how Harry wished she was with him.
Luminous white, almost golden, wisps made a square room. The energy looked like the consistency of smoke, but as Harry's feet met the solid ground, he could tell not all was as it seemed.
He looked down to his feet and his body made of the same shining, ethereal light only confirmed his suspicions.
"Am I dead?" Harry's voice echoed out, light and airy, similar to the walls of the construct.
In front of Harry, pieces of the wall's light seemed to gather together in the center, carried by invisible currents. The coalescence of light formed a body nearly identical to Harry's, except taller by a couple of inches.
"You are not dead, Harry Potter. In this place, a station of souls between worlds, one world on the edge of ruin calls for help."
Harry stared at the figure of light before laughing heartily. His hands dropped to his knees at the smoky constructs words. Eventually, his hands came off his knees, and he stood straight again.
"Why does that matter to me? I've already saved one world, as far as I can tell. Harry Potter is done fulfilling prophecies," Harry promised.
Though the being's face didn't change, Harry could sense disappointment rolling off in waves.
"Death comes for all in this world. Ice. Cold and wicked," the spirit turned serious once more. "The world you saved was small. Voldemort would have done much damage, but he would have been stopped."
"It was prophesied. I would kill Tom, or he would kill me," Harry answered. "If I didn't kill him, no one would. Who are you, anyway?"
"I am no one and everyone. One and all. All and none. The cold wind at night and the fever during the day. The blessed gaze of the abyss, eternal sleep after a life of hardship," the spirit stated before continuing, "By your own words, you must help this world."
"Stop speaking riddles."
"When you died, the Dark Lord did too. Yet he was offered a similar choice. One he accepted. Your prophecy is not finished. Your world is saved, the people you love safe. Will you turn your back on your duty, Harry Potter? Will you let a world die because you couldn't step up to the plate?" The spirit thundered, golden walls shaking from the force of the voice.
"I said stop speaking in riddles! Tell me what you mean!" Harry ordered. He was sick of skirting around the issue, getting half-answers meant to bait him.
"Very well, Harry Potter," the spirit said, crossing its legs and sitting on the ground. "In this Great War, I am on the side of life. Of sunshine, bright mornings, birds chirping in the winter air, children playing in the snow," ethereal shapes accompanied the light words.
"My enemy is death. Eternal night," golden mots that made up the walls and floors shifted to a dark gray, then to obsidian. "The Great Other and his Champion the Night King seek to end all life." A circle of light formed in front of the spirit, about the size of its head. The golden mots shifted to green. "Complete eradication of the planet, leaving only snow and ice," ice, like glass, slowly encroached on the green of the world before snow enveloped the entirety.
"So you, some sort of God, need me to be a champion? I'm done with prophecies and the like," Harry dismissed the notion easily.
The walls turned back golden once more and the spirit smiled lightly.
"There are many champions that could fulfill my prophecy. After all, it doesn't matter who does what, or when, as long as the Night King is finished."
"Ends justify the means. Of course a God would do that," Harry retorted.
"When the balance of the scales tips, and all human life ends as a result, drastic measures must be taken. You know sacrifice better than most, it is why we are drawn together, I believe," the spirit smirked before standing tall once more. "And you will soon discover that not only Gods play by those rules in this world."
"Nevertheless, in my world, Champions of the Gods are not controlled like puppets with strings. The right man or woman steps up at the right time is all. It is preordained. You and your final battle have broken this. Fate is no longer what it was. The river has diverged, multiple new channels dug."
"And why is that," Harry answered drolly.
"Lord Voldemort died. You did as well. But the prophecy is not fulfilled. Neither can live while the other survives," the spirit quoted. "The Great Other approached Voldemort, and the man accepted his proposal. That, Harry Potter, is why you must accept my proposal. Your prophecy and your duty is not finished. If you do not step up, as they say in your world, my world will die due to your inaction. That can't happen. You may fail, but you know Voldemort better than any other."
Word by terrible word, the pit in Harry's stomach grew. "Voldemort is alive? He'll butcher the world," Harry thought.
"Yes, Harry Potter," the spirit said, evidently reading Harry Potter's mind. "The magic in my world is different but still strong. The world of Planetos and the continents of Essos, Westeros, and beyond demand you step up. Finish what you started, and then rest, once and for all."
That news gutted Harry, but he knew what he must do. Tom Marvolo Riddle was his duty. Only Harry could truly end him, once and for all. Two times, Voldemort had dodged death. The Dark Lord would not survive another.
That didn't mean he wasn't going to ask questions.
"Who is this Great Other, and why will Tom work with him? I know Voldemort," Harry scoffed, "he would gladly rule over ashes and death but would much rather lord his power over the masses."
"As I said, we Gods do not control our champions with strings. Whatever the Great Other sees in your Dark Lord must draw interest. A quality of his character that makes him dangerous. Instability is just as deadly as another weapon in The Great Other's armory. I do not doubt that both will renege on their words."
"You said the magic in this world is different. Will I still be able to use a wand?"
The spirit simply smiled before shrugging. "As I said, you have changed fate. The road in front of you is one no one knows. Not even a God."
"Will I get a new body? Same with Tom?"
"You are a divergence, and I will bring new light into existence. Rebirth," the spirit explained. "The Great Other is one of possession. Corruption. I would assume the vessel chosen was already in the world. New paint over an old canvas."
"Any clue of the identity?"
"Such answers would make things too easy, even if I did indeed have them."
"So no. When I die in this world, will my soul still pass back to my world? Where my family and friends will be?"
"Yes, that is easy enough," the spirit answered easily.
Harry answered with a resolute sigh that left his spine slumped, "Very well. Send me to this world."
"Before you go, I shall show you the channels of fate routed out. What may have been, but will never be. Perhaps you will learn a valuable lesson, for my words have been unheeded thus far," the spirit said, swirling its essence around Harry.
The wall in front of Harry changed to a dark black, while the rest of the walls remained golden. Like a large projector in a movie theater, a series of shapes formed and played out a series of events.
A group of riders made up of children, an older man, and a group of guards ambled through a forest on horseback. They came upon a sizeable dead wolf, the size of a pony. The riders dismounted and crowded about from a distance, staring morbidly at the corpse.
Five pups were on their mother's teats, lapping desperately for milk that wouldn't come.
A red-haired young man picked up a wolf with a grey coat by the scruff of the neck.
Words spoken went unheard as the projector was silent. A young man stepped forward with a knife, but the auburn-haired boy protected the small wolf.
Harry watched as an older man, likely the children's father, frowned and said something. It must have been good news because all the children smiled brightly. They soon rushed forward, and each child picked out a wolf.
The group turned to move away, but a sound caught the attention of a young man with black, shoulder-length curly hair, who turned around and stepped over the wolf's body. In the underbrush, a quiet white wolf curled in on itself and slept soundly, not making a hint of noise.
Its eyes widened in surprise when the young man picked it up by the scruff of the neck.
"Who were they?" Harry questioned as the wall faded to black.
"You will know soon enough."
"Nice non-answer," Harry grumbled as the screen began gaining color again.
This time, the images came fast and stayed no longer than a second before shifting. Harry watched as the older man with brown hair went south, and then moments later, his head on the stone ground while his neck was on a block. Over his body, a boy wreathed in gold stood with a vindictive smile with a beautiful sword in hand, a crowd of dirty civilians screaming their approval at the actions—a white dome with a 7-pointed star towered above.
A slaughter ensued as the vision shifted. Men are dragged off to war to die. Images flashed of a battle in the woods, one man with hair matching his shining golden armor flowed through men like a disease, leaving dead and dying bodies in his wake. Women were dragged from their houses to dirt streets while an inferno consumed the town. One woman with dark hair was raped by a massive man over a bloodstained little body. Children were cut down by armored men with sharp swords or arrows, catching them in the back as they tried to run. Harry watched it all, reminded of Death Eaters and Blood Purists. They were using those with less power like expendable tools. The world he'd found himself in was a disgusting place.
The slaughter slipped from the screen like blood in the town's streets, fading to black.
"You have questions," the spirit stated.
"Why?"
One word, but the spirit knew.
"Offering kindness or dealing brutality. The one true gift is death in a world where no one offers kindness. A cycle of hate is born. Dawn brings a blank slate."
"The only thing this world knows is destruction and war," Harry said with a humorless smile.
A joyous wedding shimmered into view, and the auburn-haired young man looked older in this scene. Harder, but a genuine smile graced the young man's lips as a beautiful woman with dark skin whispered into his ear, her hand rubbing absent circles on her stomach.
The picture-perfect scene shifted and cracked in the center, then put itself back together. A joyous occasion turned into a slaughter. Men with crossbows on the upper decks of the hall rained death on the unsuspecting guests. Soon after, everyone in the hall was dead, except weasel-faced fuckers who reminded Harry of Wormtail's actions and looks. Except it was an entire family of them instead of one man. Great.
Snow fell from the top of the screen, and white blanketed the entire wall. Slowly, like a camera pointing downwards, the world came into view.
Blue waters flecked with ice rocked a small boat. Inside the dingy was the young man who had found the white wolf. Much like the auburn-haired man, the curly-haired man looked older and tough. Corpses lined the entire docks. Some laid on the ground, dead, while others stood on two feet, blue eyes shining with a soft icy glow. A whole army of the dead stood.
In the front of the corpse army, something in the shape of a man stood. Blue skin looked like ice, and horns from the tops of its head made it look like a demon.
Slowly, it raised its arms.
All the corpses on the ground rose with the arms of the demon, eyes now glowing icy blue.
The screen faded to black.
"That's the Night King?" Harry questioned, concern written clearly on his ethereal face.
"Indeed. The Night King is quite powerful and has an endless well of hate. A more dangerous enemy, there is not."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you. Don't underestimate Tom."
"Indeed, I will heed your words," the spirit acknowledged, nodding. "You have seen what you will face and the route some lives may take. Interfere or don't; lives are now in your hands. Kill to protect them, or they will slip through your fingers like water. I can see your heart and your desires."
"Noted," Harry said, more severely than intended.
"I doubt you will learn a lesson until something is lost. Humans are like that," the spirit said sagely.
"Everything has been taken from me already," Harry replied grimly. "It won't happen again."
"We have wasted enough time. Ready yourself."
"For what?"
The spirit didn't deign to answer, merely snapping its fingers. Harry's golden body melted away like smoke through an open window.
The spirit smiled, and its faceless visage transformed into a maw of teeth, red and bloody. The room's walls flashed to a black of the darkest night before it, and the spirit faded away.
/-/
Gasping for air Harry awoke with wide eyes, tired from sleep and general synthesis between body and soul. His hands went to his throat, gently cupping it, while he relished the feeling of being alive.
Everything was magnificent, from the blood pumping through his veins to the smell of his body odor. Rebirth might not be the best thing in the world, but going from having the senses and nerve endings of a dead fish to a human felt like sex. Not that Harry would know, but he'd guess it felt pretty damn similar.
A few minutes passed with Harry just sitting on a wooden bed. It creaked under his weight whenever he shifted, but the frame layered with thick furs beneath him was comfortable, if sweaty, contrasted nicely with the chilly air blowing through the open window.
Harry crossed his arms over his chest, rubbing his hands from bicep to elbow, simply relishing the skin feeling.
"You don't know what you have until it's gone," Harry announced, feeling that more than ever.
"What..?" Came the mumble of a sleep-induced brain fart.
Harry turned to his right and saw the same auburn-haired boy from his visions, but much younger. He looked around eight and sat up with furs around his waist, rubbing his eyes.
"Harry? What are you doing?" The boy questioned more alert than before.
"Couldn't sleep," Harry lied. "I had some bizarre dreams," he stated more truthfully.
"I'm up now. Tell me about it," the boy said, voice holding tones of authority.
Harry thought about it for a second. He had no clue what was going on. People knew who he was and would think he was acting weird if his behavior differed, which it likely would.
Harry nodded and explained his visions, well, the parts that didn't seem too crazy. He told them of wolves and meaningless war. He told him of a brown-haired man getting beheaded by a golden twat.
At that, the boy started, eyes widening in alarm.
"Father! Are you talking about father?"
Harry grimaced.
"I do not know. I don't even know your name." The redhead gasped at Harry's admission. "My mind is muddled. I can't tell up from down or left from right," Harry admitted, shrinking in on himself for effect.
"I'm your brother! Robb! How can you not remember me?" Robb asked, stricken.
"I do not know," Harry answered honestly. Internally, the spirits' words rebounded in his head, and the visions of Robb dying at a wedding made sense, along with the brown-haired man being his father. Harry would need to get bloody, like this world, if he wanted to spare his newfound family.
During Harry's internal musing, Robb had slipped from the bed and ran to another bed, this one to the right of Robb's.
"Jon! Wake up!" Robb shouted, shaking the curly-haired boy from Harry's visions awake. Like Robb, the boy looked young, around 7 to 8.
Jon shifted in bed until the covers were pooled around his waist and squinted at Robb. "I'm trying to sleep, Robb," Jon stated matter of factly.
"Sleep later! Harry doesn't remember anything, not father, not me! Nothing! Do you remember Jon?" Robb asked frantically, summer sky blue eyes fixated on Harry, who shook his head side to side in response.
If possible, Robb became more horrified at that response. "You don't remember Jon?" Robb whispered in disbelief.
"I don't even know our last name," Harry replied tonelessly.
"We have to get father," Jon said, evidently now seeing how serious this situation was.
"I'll go. You stay with Harry," Robb said, looking utterly shook up. The auburn-haired boy all but ran from the room.
A brief lull of uneasy silence settled, which Harry used to observe the room. Dark gray walls free of decoration or adornment felt both imposing and comforting-must be the body's memories subconsciously reacting. Ostentatious was the last word that came to mind.
The room the three of them shared was relatively spacious. Three queen-sized beds sat next to each other with a decent distance between them, enough space to fit a wooden chest. There was still a large open area in front of a stone hearth, crackling softly with small flames.
"Harry…"
Harry looked out the window, spying a small village made of wooden huts beneath the great stone walls of the castle. Harry was surprised but not upset. Ever since Hogwarts, he'd been a fan of castles, magical or otherwise. He'd have to leave it up to good luck to live in another.
"Lady Catelyn is going to be wroth with you," Jon said worriedly.
"Lady Catelyn?"
"Brother, you are in for a rude awakening. Lady Catelyn is our stepmother. We're bastards, and staying in Winterfell is a stain on her honor. She doesn't say a word, but she despises us."
"Great…" Harry muttered. The description of his stepmother mightily reminded him of his aunt in his home world.
"We both normally keep our heads down, us bastards, so this must be bad. Are you okay?" Jon asked, moving over to sit on the bed with him. Jon put a hand on his shoulder when Harry didn't answer.
"I don't know," Harry eventually said. "I will learn to adapt, but I am a blank slate."
"This is all odd. None of it seems right," Jon pushed himself off the bed and paced the empty room. "It makes no sense. You have visions and then lose all memory? Whatever you've seen must be important."
Harry simply shrugged in response. His brothers seemed to love him, but he wasn't taking any chances. Ron loved him like a brother, but that didn't stop him from switching sides due to the Goblet of Fire incident. Harry learned from his mistakes.
Jon continued pacing until four people walked in through the door without knocking. In the front was a man with stress lines embedded deep into his face. Straight, long, brown hair tumbled past his shoulders, a few locks hanging over his worried gaze.
The second person was a red-headed lady. Lady Catelyn. Her gaze was frigid as the air blowing through the window, but she was otherwise beautiful. She wore a dark blue dress and a thick coat over it, not complimenting her womanly curves.
Robb trailed behind Lady Catelyn and his father.
The last person through the door was an older man clad in black robes. The old man's hair was turning silver, but he looked anything but frail.
Harry's father, whom he didn't remember, slid into bed next to him, wrapping an arm around his body. "Tell me. What happened?" The man questioned.
"I had a vision. Visions. They were vivid like I was living them myself. I woke up, and I remember nothing but the vision. Not you, or her," Harry pointed at Lady Stark, "or my brothers, or even our last name. I don't even know what we had for breakfast."
"You remember nothing?" Ned said, ignoring the odd word.
"Only the vision."
"I am your father, Lord Eddard Stark," Eddard said, rather kindly for such a gruff-looking man.
"I saw your head cut off by a boy in golden armor, a white dome towering above it. The crowd roared their approval as your head hit the ground. I saw us, but older and with more children, finding wolves in the forest. I dreamt of Robb… " Harry paused and took a breath, "murdered in a hall filled with weasels for men." Silence followed Harry's words.
"Do not even dream about my son dying in such a manner," Lady Catelyn hissed.
"I apologize, Lady Catelyn, but these visions, coupled with my memory loss, must mean something, even if they are simply a warning. I woke up and didn't even know the red-haired man was my brother until Robb broke me out of a trance and told me himself," Harry explained.
To Harry's side, both Ned's and Jon's eyebrows were raised high, surprised at the lack of fear Harry had shown in the face of his stepmothers wroth.
"The boy's dreams are no reason to speak about Robb and Lord Stark's deaths. In the past, I put up with it, Harrion Snow, but I'll no longer listen to such nonsense. And next time, remember your place. Address me properly as Lady Stark,"
Harry's father held him closer. Lord Eddard was almost shielding Harry from Lady Stark.
"Enough, Catelyn. Can't you see the boy is struggling? Go."
"But Ned-"
"I'll hear no more. Harry needs Maester Luwin to take a look at him, not you to disparage him," Ned retorted icily.
Catelyn's eyes narrowed, and her glare pierced holes in Harry.
"As my Lord husband commands," Lady Stark curtsied and affixed a mask, showing none of the displeasure she felt. "Am I free to leave?"
"Yes, Lady Catelyn," Ned sighed.
Lady Catelyn left the room with the anger of a lazy river, slowly simmering underneath her fragile mask.
Yeah, she was pretty similar to Petunia. A lot more subtle, but still the same tones underneath.
"I've never seen her that angry at you, Harry," Robb joked.
"A good first memory," Harry replied with a smile.
Harry caught a slight frown on his father's face at his words before it vanished.
"Maester Luwin, you've been listening. What are your thoughts?"
"Normally, a memory loss is due to a knock on the head. If Harry is telling the truth, I have no idea," Maester Luwin explained.
"Harry has never been a liar," Ned stated. Harry didn't quite like the look in his father's gaze, but he was telling the truth.
Only leaving out a lot of details.
Luwin moved over to Harry and took his head in hand, faintly pressing around the entirety of the skull. Once finished, Luwin stepped back and looked perplexed.
"No bumps were on his head, so he didn't hit it. I know of no sickness that would erase memory and only last a night. Truly, Lord Stark, I'm perplexed," Maester Luwin wrestled with himself for a minute before speaking slowly. "If Harry is not lying, it could be greensight."
"Starks of old carried that gift," Ned claimed. "None have in a long time."
"True, but all legends have a kernel of truth. I simply see no other explanation," Maester Luwin shrugged but said no more.
"You've given me much to think about, Maester Luwin."
Maester Luwin acknowledged the silent dismissal and left the room, leaving the three boys and Lord Stark.
"We will figure this out, Harry," Ned promised.
Harry just shrugged. What could he do about it? Nothing.
"Are you scared?" Robb asked, red eyebrows pulled together in worry.
"Not really. What I forgot, I can relearn," Harry explained, seeing Robb's shocked expression.
"Still. You forgot your own family…"
"And I can learn to love them again," Harry softly replied while staring at the floor. That statement wasn't even really a lie. Harry had always wanted a family.
Robb and Jon smiled lightly, Harry's words easing their worries. Ned's mouth was set in a firm line.
"I'll be back tomorrow morning. The three of you, go to bed. You especially, Harry. I won't have you gallivanting in the night after this," Ned said, his voice full and powerful. The way he spoke made it clear it wasn't a request.
Harry just nodded and pulled himself under the covers once more. No way in hell was he going to be able to sleep, but he could enjoy the warmth provided. Once he was nestled in a little cocoon, he closed his eyes.
Soft 'plops' of fur shoes against the stone floor shuffled towards and through the door, which closed quietly with nary a click. The same soft padding noise shuffled towards both beds on the right of Harry. He heard furs rustling as both boys climbed in bed.
"Night Jon. Harry," Robb called out.
"Night," Harry and Jon responded at the time. Both had soft smiles on their faces.
/~/
A/N: Harry will be strong, but how will a Game of Thrones be fought with a Dark Lord moving men like pieces? Stay tuned to find out.