Three Times Six, Chapter Two
By: myr_halcyon
Summary: Harry deals with Voldemort's latest attacks...firsthand. Is there any hope left?
Disclaimer: Any recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling, any originality is purely mine, including the embellishments on unforgivable curses. Not for profit, don't sue me. You won't get anything anyway.
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Harry held a book in his hand. Or rather, he held the charred remains of a book, so far gone he could barely make out the title: Il Nome Della Rosa. How this Muggle book had made its way into Diagon Alley he couldn't even begin to guess. He tried flipping through a few pages, but they crumbled in his hands and scattered onto the floor.
Harry watched them fall; a piece of page 279 finally coming to rest on the sunken cheekbone of a man Harry recognized as the Flourish and Blotts proprietor. Dead. They were all dead. It was almost impossible to walk in the shop without tripping over a decaying arm or nearly fainting from the stench of rot that permeated the air. It was disgusting, it was mind-boggling.
It was hopeless.
Harry dropped the empty book spine on the floor and tripped over to the shelf with the hidden room behind it. Maybe...but no. The trip book had been burnt with the rest of the books, the cave was half open and filled with more dead bodies.
Damn you, Voldemort, thought Harry. At first it had been only those in open resistance who had to fear for their lives -- McGonagall had been the first to go -- but then the resistance wore thin, went underground, and Voldemort was hungry. Harry suspected Voldemort's immortality was perpetuated by the energy of the souls of countless wizards being forced from their bodies.
For that was Avada Kedavra. It was the Dementor's Kiss of curses. The soul was not merely sucked out: it was ripped from the body -- torn into pieces. The shock of this violence was what killed the body so quickly and thoroughly, and yet left no discernable trace. Voldemort pulled pieces of those souls into himself and lived the lives that he did not deserve to have.
Harry had nearly died himself when Dumbledore had finally told him this. In some instinctual battle between good and evil, baby Harry, too little to even walk, had pulled his father's soul from Voldemort's grasp and guarded it within his tiny being. Infuriated, Voldemort had rounded on the baby. When Harry's mother was killed, the love she had exhibited for Harry had already bound her soul to his. In a fit of rage, Voldemort exploded at Harry, but the strength of his parents' souls combined with his created a barrier strong enough to stop any attack, magical or physical. The curse hit Voldemort, and the rest was well-recorded history.
But now Harry knew Voldemort too would be impossible to defeat, and that was what he feared Voldemort had been doing all along: stealing miniscule pieces of souls until he too was protected by the equivalent of three spiritual beings. After the massacre in Diagon Alley, he would be virtually unstoppable.
"I should have been here," muttered Harry. "I could have fought him, beaten him while he was weaker. I could have saved these people, I could have saved my Hermi--"
Harry's voice caught. Hermione. He knew she'd been in Diagon Alley that day -- Dumbledore had sent her on some trivial business. "Why her!?" Harry screamed, throwing a charred book at the wall. "Why did you have to rob me like that!? Why, dammit, why!?"
He knelt down next to the body of a nameless witch in purple robes. "Why..." he whispered, letting his tears fall on her shoulder. "Why were you here? Does someone miss you like I miss her? Or is everyone dead?" He swallowed. "Everyone..." he repeated, hearing the sound die echolessly amid the ranks of corpses. "Gone..."
"Come on, Potter." Harry heard Jim's voice call from the street. Even the Muggles were getting involved, it was so bad. True, the general populace didn't know yet, but it was almost as bad as Grindelwald in the '40s. Dumbledore had said that they'd had to convince the world leaders to start a war just to cover up for his destruction.
"Coming, Jim," Harry called back. He felt quickly for some identifying material in the witch's pockets, but came up empty-handed. He sighed, and made his way to the door. "You are absolutely positive you checked everywhere in here?"
Jim and Tom both looked uncomfortable. Tom scratched the back of his neck. "Yes, Potter. Now come on, do that little trick of yours and get us out of here. I'm getting the heebie jeebies."
Harry sighed and fumbled in his robes for his wand. Diagon Alley had been his only hope, and there was nothing. Nothing. He found his wand and stepped gingerly over the few bodies still sprawled across the street in front of Flourish and Blotts. Nothing...he had nothing...
He paused, noticing for the first time a window set into the ground underneath the bookstore. Curious, he thought, that he'd not noticed it in the seven years he'd spent walking every inch of the Alley. On a whim, he knelt down in the street. "Is someone there?" he called softly.
Behind him, Harry could almost hear Jim rolling his eyes. "Read my flapping lips, Potter. They are all dead."
"Jim, did you check down here?" If Harry hadn't noticed it before...
"Where, in the basement?" Apparently Jim had. "No, couldn't get in. Anyway, I smelled a little of the air coming out from down there. Smells like death. Decay. I didn't check, but there's nothing living down there besides maybe a rat."
Harry sighed. Of course, he was just being stupid. "You're probably right. Why should there be anything living down there, of all places..." He could break the window and jump down into the cellar, but his cursory glance revealed no movement. There weren't even any bodies -- just a jumble of boxes and a broken mirror. He shook his head and carefully wiped a cobweb from the corner of the windowpane with his sleeve.
"Look, Potter," said Tom, "if you really want to look there, bust the window or something."
Harry let his arm drop. "No, you're right, Tom." He straightened his legs and turned to look at the pair of Muggles waiting by the brick wall at the end of the Alley. "I'm being stupid. She's not alive. I'm..." Harry knew he'd have to say it, but that didn't make it any easier, "...alone."
Tom blinked. "Stop being so depressive, man. You're bringing me down." He brightened in that annoying way that most men seem to brighten when the subjects of women and alcohol cross their minds. "How about a beer at the Prancing Pony? Always helps me."
"I'd prefer a good mug of Madam Rosmerta's mead over any Muggle beer right now, thank you very much," Harry snapped. Damn Americans had no feelings at all. Harry glanced over the remains of his childhood fantasy world, now lying in decay at his feet. Just like his hopes. Just like his dreams. He realized an angry tear was creeping down his cheek. He had to get out of this horrible satire of his life. He had to leave. He jabbed the back of his hand at his face to take away any evidence of his tear and stumbled over to the Muggles.
"Potter, that hocus pocus bar wench is dead, just like all the rest of those people," said Tom. Then realizing he had touched a nerve, his voice softened. "Just open the arch so we can get out."
Harry nodded and closed his fingers around his wand again. As he brought the eleven inches of holly and phoenix feather out from under his robes, he realized that like all of his other old friends, his wand would have to die, too. With it would die all Harry's connections to the world of magic that lay in ruins at his feet. With it would die Harry's inner expectation to be able to wave his wand and make everything all right again. And with it would die his tangible connections to the evil being named Voldemort.
"Three up, two across..." muttered Harry, tapping the brick wall with the accursed piece of wood. As the wall melted into the courtyard behind the Leaky Cauldron, Harry heard a scream.
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A/N: You know, I hate cliffhangers, but I'm tired and I want to go to bed. So bite me. Coming up: what happened before, what happens after, maybe some more fun pov changes. Who's kid is Hermione pregnant with? I don't know yet!
Thank you! /^_^\ to Rachel, Rachel Potter, and AgiVega for reviewing! Ah, if only I were as bogged down in reviews as Agi...Please help me everyone! I love flames, they're hilarious. -MH
Summary: Harry deals with Voldemort's latest attacks...firsthand. Is there any hope left?
Disclaimer: Any recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling, any originality is purely mine, including the embellishments on unforgivable curses. Not for profit, don't sue me. You won't get anything anyway.
=====
Harry held a book in his hand. Or rather, he held the charred remains of a book, so far gone he could barely make out the title: Il Nome Della Rosa. How this Muggle book had made its way into Diagon Alley he couldn't even begin to guess. He tried flipping through a few pages, but they crumbled in his hands and scattered onto the floor.
Harry watched them fall; a piece of page 279 finally coming to rest on the sunken cheekbone of a man Harry recognized as the Flourish and Blotts proprietor. Dead. They were all dead. It was almost impossible to walk in the shop without tripping over a decaying arm or nearly fainting from the stench of rot that permeated the air. It was disgusting, it was mind-boggling.
It was hopeless.
Harry dropped the empty book spine on the floor and tripped over to the shelf with the hidden room behind it. Maybe...but no. The trip book had been burnt with the rest of the books, the cave was half open and filled with more dead bodies.
Damn you, Voldemort, thought Harry. At first it had been only those in open resistance who had to fear for their lives -- McGonagall had been the first to go -- but then the resistance wore thin, went underground, and Voldemort was hungry. Harry suspected Voldemort's immortality was perpetuated by the energy of the souls of countless wizards being forced from their bodies.
For that was Avada Kedavra. It was the Dementor's Kiss of curses. The soul was not merely sucked out: it was ripped from the body -- torn into pieces. The shock of this violence was what killed the body so quickly and thoroughly, and yet left no discernable trace. Voldemort pulled pieces of those souls into himself and lived the lives that he did not deserve to have.
Harry had nearly died himself when Dumbledore had finally told him this. In some instinctual battle between good and evil, baby Harry, too little to even walk, had pulled his father's soul from Voldemort's grasp and guarded it within his tiny being. Infuriated, Voldemort had rounded on the baby. When Harry's mother was killed, the love she had exhibited for Harry had already bound her soul to his. In a fit of rage, Voldemort exploded at Harry, but the strength of his parents' souls combined with his created a barrier strong enough to stop any attack, magical or physical. The curse hit Voldemort, and the rest was well-recorded history.
But now Harry knew Voldemort too would be impossible to defeat, and that was what he feared Voldemort had been doing all along: stealing miniscule pieces of souls until he too was protected by the equivalent of three spiritual beings. After the massacre in Diagon Alley, he would be virtually unstoppable.
"I should have been here," muttered Harry. "I could have fought him, beaten him while he was weaker. I could have saved these people, I could have saved my Hermi--"
Harry's voice caught. Hermione. He knew she'd been in Diagon Alley that day -- Dumbledore had sent her on some trivial business. "Why her!?" Harry screamed, throwing a charred book at the wall. "Why did you have to rob me like that!? Why, dammit, why!?"
He knelt down next to the body of a nameless witch in purple robes. "Why..." he whispered, letting his tears fall on her shoulder. "Why were you here? Does someone miss you like I miss her? Or is everyone dead?" He swallowed. "Everyone..." he repeated, hearing the sound die echolessly amid the ranks of corpses. "Gone..."
"Come on, Potter." Harry heard Jim's voice call from the street. Even the Muggles were getting involved, it was so bad. True, the general populace didn't know yet, but it was almost as bad as Grindelwald in the '40s. Dumbledore had said that they'd had to convince the world leaders to start a war just to cover up for his destruction.
"Coming, Jim," Harry called back. He felt quickly for some identifying material in the witch's pockets, but came up empty-handed. He sighed, and made his way to the door. "You are absolutely positive you checked everywhere in here?"
Jim and Tom both looked uncomfortable. Tom scratched the back of his neck. "Yes, Potter. Now come on, do that little trick of yours and get us out of here. I'm getting the heebie jeebies."
Harry sighed and fumbled in his robes for his wand. Diagon Alley had been his only hope, and there was nothing. Nothing. He found his wand and stepped gingerly over the few bodies still sprawled across the street in front of Flourish and Blotts. Nothing...he had nothing...
He paused, noticing for the first time a window set into the ground underneath the bookstore. Curious, he thought, that he'd not noticed it in the seven years he'd spent walking every inch of the Alley. On a whim, he knelt down in the street. "Is someone there?" he called softly.
Behind him, Harry could almost hear Jim rolling his eyes. "Read my flapping lips, Potter. They are all dead."
"Jim, did you check down here?" If Harry hadn't noticed it before...
"Where, in the basement?" Apparently Jim had. "No, couldn't get in. Anyway, I smelled a little of the air coming out from down there. Smells like death. Decay. I didn't check, but there's nothing living down there besides maybe a rat."
Harry sighed. Of course, he was just being stupid. "You're probably right. Why should there be anything living down there, of all places..." He could break the window and jump down into the cellar, but his cursory glance revealed no movement. There weren't even any bodies -- just a jumble of boxes and a broken mirror. He shook his head and carefully wiped a cobweb from the corner of the windowpane with his sleeve.
"Look, Potter," said Tom, "if you really want to look there, bust the window or something."
Harry let his arm drop. "No, you're right, Tom." He straightened his legs and turned to look at the pair of Muggles waiting by the brick wall at the end of the Alley. "I'm being stupid. She's not alive. I'm..." Harry knew he'd have to say it, but that didn't make it any easier, "...alone."
Tom blinked. "Stop being so depressive, man. You're bringing me down." He brightened in that annoying way that most men seem to brighten when the subjects of women and alcohol cross their minds. "How about a beer at the Prancing Pony? Always helps me."
"I'd prefer a good mug of Madam Rosmerta's mead over any Muggle beer right now, thank you very much," Harry snapped. Damn Americans had no feelings at all. Harry glanced over the remains of his childhood fantasy world, now lying in decay at his feet. Just like his hopes. Just like his dreams. He realized an angry tear was creeping down his cheek. He had to get out of this horrible satire of his life. He had to leave. He jabbed the back of his hand at his face to take away any evidence of his tear and stumbled over to the Muggles.
"Potter, that hocus pocus bar wench is dead, just like all the rest of those people," said Tom. Then realizing he had touched a nerve, his voice softened. "Just open the arch so we can get out."
Harry nodded and closed his fingers around his wand again. As he brought the eleven inches of holly and phoenix feather out from under his robes, he realized that like all of his other old friends, his wand would have to die, too. With it would die all Harry's connections to the world of magic that lay in ruins at his feet. With it would die Harry's inner expectation to be able to wave his wand and make everything all right again. And with it would die his tangible connections to the evil being named Voldemort.
"Three up, two across..." muttered Harry, tapping the brick wall with the accursed piece of wood. As the wall melted into the courtyard behind the Leaky Cauldron, Harry heard a scream.
=====
A/N: You know, I hate cliffhangers, but I'm tired and I want to go to bed. So bite me. Coming up: what happened before, what happens after, maybe some more fun pov changes. Who's kid is Hermione pregnant with? I don't know yet!
Thank you! /^_^\ to Rachel, Rachel Potter, and AgiVega for reviewing! Ah, if only I were as bogged down in reviews as Agi...Please help me everyone! I love flames, they're hilarious. -MH