"In the old days, wizards often took up surnames. These names were their
label, used to characterize the nature of their works and specialties. When
the time came for Thomas Riddle to take one, he chose Voldemort."
"I see that some of you recognize that name. Like many of you, my mother
also used 'Voldemort' to scare me to sleep whenever I was stubborn. But to
the 20th century wizards, it rang no alarm bells. Indeed, there were many
in those days that studied the Dark Arts. It was just unfortunate for the
world that He-Who-Must-Not-be-Named was among the few that succeeded."
-Professor Alastor Pruett's History Lecture
Hogwarts, Slytherin 7th-years, 5th Period
Ultimate Harry Potter
By Oirams
Chapter 1 The Beginning
The moon rose slowly upwards, casting its revealing light over the entire of Hogsmeade Cemetery Hill. The silvery glow spilled from leaf to branch until, at last, it illuminated the grounds below. The shadows yawned, and stretched their darkish legs. Now was the time for their descent. The cemetery became more looming, and the dark, more sinister. In the shadows lay the source for the unholy: for monsters, for thieves, and for unseen death.
He stepped into the cemetery afraid of neither monster, thief, nor death. He had seen too much to be frightened by mere imagination. Reality was far harsher. The light of the moon slid gently into contact with the man, and, for an instant, his whole face was revealed. He bore sickly, white skin, and a lightning-shaped scar primped prominently on his forehead. It was a lengthy scar, and was indescribably grotesque. His hand touched it almost without thinking. It was a physical reminder of the things he had witnessed.
The dead that rested here had been classmates of his. Their murders had been gruesome, and tragic. But, at least, they had died together. Harry felt suddenly jealous of that. As if being massacred was something to be desired. They had not wanted to die, and Harry chided himself for his own death wish. He could imagine what they must have felt...Burned until their bones melted, and their lifeblood turned to vapor; there had not been enough of them to fit a matchbox. Their remains could not be sorted, or identified. There was nothing to show that they had even existed.
They had all died before they were nineteen.
A lifetime, my friends, he thought sadly. He was trite, but he did not know what else to think. He felt stupid. He felt out of place. In the left reaches of his mind, he half-expected their ghosts to arise from their empty coffins, and start berating him, asking him when it would be HIS turn to die. Soon, he thought as he strolled past each row of graves. Soon. His hand danced on top of the gravestones. The touch was dusty, and abrasive. His hand passed by names like Terry Boot, Susan Bones, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, and many, albeit less familiar, others...Sadly, he knew only a handful of these people. He had not been a social person. In fact, he had only needed or wanted two friends. Friends, whose graves lay uncomfortably before him. The gravestone on his left read: '
Hermione Granger.
B. September 16, 1980
D. July 13, 1997 On his right:
Ronald C. Weasley
B. March 20, 1980,
D. July 13, 1997 His hands shook as his eyes scanned the typography. His mouth began to water for a soothing Pall Mall. He hurried to oblige his addiction. "Bah!" he cried. Empty. He threw the empty pack away in disgust. After a few bounces, the pack landed awkwardly in front of Ron's grave. The man who had thrown the litter only stood there, eyeing it dumbly. And then he began to laugh. A violent and unnatural laugh that would disturb even the most insane of psychotics. "Sorry, buddy," he giggled, fishing the crumpled litter back into his pockets. "I forgot you didn't smoke." The man had smoked his last deathstick at the airport, waiting for the blasted luggage conveyor belt. There was something about American cigarettes that were different from British fags. Maybe it was the tobacco or the packaging that made the difference. He didn't know nor care. But he knew that his fingers were trembling because of it. Nicotine shock was a bitch with no master.
"Hey, Hermione. Hey, Ron," he muttered, walking up to their gravestones. He laid his hyacinths down. The flowers were damp, and ugly. He felt foolish to bring them. They were meaningless, but the girl at the airport boutique had been so sincere that he had bought them just to be kind. After he had placed his flowers, he was at a loss as to what to do. He didn't feel like he belonged here. He didn't feel wanted. His depression deepened, and he began to doubt if it had been a wise move to return, to England, to the place where his troubles had first begun. His girlfriend back in the States had warned him not, saying that he had 'self-destructive tendencies'.
No shit, Sherlock, he thought, pulling a flask of whiskey out from his inner pockets. He unfastened it, and poured some generously onto Ron's grave. The man winked at Ron's headstone. There was something oddly innocent about the way he held the bottle...and, at the same time, depressing. Drink up, Ron. We're going to get plastered tonight, you and I. He giggled foolishly, and then inhaled the brown liquor. He had never been a good drinker, and after a few small gulps, his face became a flowery red. He continued to drink regardless.
He slumped down, sliding off Ron's gravestone, and onto the ground with a resounding thump. The bottle was still attached to his hand, and he eyed the mouth of it, coaxing it to produce a few more drops of sweet oblivion. Even though the night chill had set, the top mounds of the two graves were surprisingly warm-Or was it just the whiskey that made everything burn?-and he laid his body to rest on top of them. His eyes fluttered open and shut as he struggled to keep awake. He feared sleep for his dreams were usually the nightmarish variety. He dreamt of the dead, mostly. They would claw at him, and ask when it would be his turn. He would reply 'Soon, Cedric. Soon, Uncle Sirius', but they always called him a liar. And then they would begin their clawing again. Their dead hands felt unbelievably real...Yes, He feared sleep, if one could even call it that. No such dreams, however, came this time. He slept peacefully and free from all nightmares. No monsters here, he dreamed happily. Not with Ron and Hermione standing guard. It was the rain that finally forced him to rise. He had been content to lie there interminably but the fear of catching a fever made him change his mind. He was already suffering from the effects of a prolonged Killing Curse, and there was no need to include pneumonia to his already long list of ailments. He arose from the ground slowly. The whiskey was still churning in his stomach, and it took nearly his all to even stand. Driving back to Hogsmeade Inn was out of the question. Again, the rain spat at his forehead, trickling down from his cheek to his lips. His tongue caught the rogue, and he tasted it. Foul. Bitter. Absentmindedly, he began to incant a simple shelter spell, one that he had learned as a schoolboy. The rain came harder, mocking him, reminding him that he hadn't enough magic in him to ride a broom much less perform a basic Umbrella Charm. "Goddammit!" he yelled at the sky, cursing whatever God it was who was responsible for his life.
He threw a steady stream of curses. He beat the ground. He was mad. He was loud. He was drunk. He didn't care if he made a scene. There was nobody here except him...and his dead friends.
But there was someone there.
"Do not swear in a cemetery, Harree,"said a familiar voice. "In my country, it is disrespectful to the dead. The taboo is the same here, no?"
Harry turned and saw a tall, darkish man limping slowly toward him. The man had wrapped himself behind the shadows, and even had Harry been clearheaded, he would have found him hard to detect. The other man moved closer, and as the moonlight hit the stranger, more details were revealed. Harry recognized the dragonhide armors to be Auror-issue, and the badge gave the rest away. The phoenix burning brightly alongside a flaming torch was the symbol for a full ranked Auror Commissioner. An office that, in a better world, Harry felt should have been his.
"Krum," said Harry angrily. Krum had aged remarkably but that Quidditch-broken nose of his was unmistakable.
Krum returned a smile, and his behaviorisms were strange, almost amicable. This wasn't the Krum Harry knew at all. The Krum he knew had been brash, quick to anger, and slow to forgive. Age may have mellowed the man but Harry doubted it. After the demise of the Dark Lord, many other copycat Lords had appeared all over the world, aping the monster of a man by reenacting his worst murders. He could not begin to fathom the horrors Krum had cased over the years. But it did not fully explain the man's tentative behaviors. However, Harry's head was still reeling from the whiskey, and his head hurt too much to think on it any further.
"What do you want, Krum?" Harry asked impatiently.
Viktor shifted uneasily, using the silence to place his own flowers onto Hermione's grave.
"How vos the plane trip? I do not understand vy you had to use those unsafe metal houses," said Viktor, ignoring the nasty looks Harry was giving him. "Our offices in America is only a few miles away frum you. I am sure they vould lend you their Portals..."
Idle talk? Harry thought drunkenly. He's chitchatting?
"Back off, you Auror lapdog," spat Harry, stepping away from Viktor as the Auror approached. "Did the Ministry send you? Bloody hell; if they want something from me then come straight out with it! Stop pretending to be some long lost fucking 'buddy'..." And then Harry added, almost whispering entirely to himself. "...because all mine died a long time ago..." Harry nearly tripped from walking backwards but Krum was there to steady him. Harry pushed him away. "Leave. Me. Alone," Harry slurred, and then muttered to himself, "No one messes with me today, you ken? Not today." Krum frowned. He did not drink liquor himself, and he could not imagine why anyone else would. The lack of self-control was not only stupid; it was dangerous. Harry, ignoring Krum's disapproving stare, waved a fist menacingly. "I'm not afraid of you, you hear me? I'll still fight you! Even without bloody fucking magic!"
"Calm down, Harree!" placated Viktor. "It just is that the Ministry has be vonting to ask you a very few simple questions about your health...I mean, if you are with nothing to hide..."
"They want to know why I haven't died yet, is that it?" Harry walked closer to Viktor, going under the cover of the Umbrella Charm Viktor had erected.
"Spell me," Harry said, through clenched teeth. His head was hurting like a bitch again.
"Vot?"
"Ennervate or whatever," replied Harry. "I'm 'bout to pass out."
"For Merlin's sake, Harree," said Viktor drawing, spelling and sheathing his wand in a smooth motion, "You've must be stopping-Ennervate!- with the drink. It vill be the death of you someday."
The spell came over Harry in waves, pulsing him with new life.
I used to be able to do that, he thought sadly.
"Death? Every morning, the curse Voldemort gifted me as a baby makes me cough enough blood to leave me crawling on the floor," said a lucid Harry. "Liver cancer's the least of my worries." Harry looked carefully at Viktor, who stood imposing and tall in his standard-issue armor and strapped broadsword. There was a deep sadness about him, and Harry realized that the man hadn't heard a word he had just uttered. The Auror was staring off into space and somehow, Harry knew what the older man was thinking. There were few things that could penetrate through Krum's emotional façade, and Harry knew of only one. Harry's voice became gentler, almost forgiving. "You're thinking about Hermione, aren't you?" Viktor remained silent.
"She liked you, you know," Harry admitted. "A lot."
"I know."
Smug bugger, Harry thought to himself. Hermione and Krum had been...She was dead now so there was no use in predicting what their relationship could have meant. But Hermione had trusted Krum...Harry wondered whether or not to he should do the same. Hermione had always been a good judge of character. The worst that could happen to Harry, if he told his secret, was execution—but then again, Harry was dying anyways. He really had nothing to lose. Then again, he had nothing to gain either. "Fine. I'll tell you why I'm not lying in bed, puking my brains out," Harry said, finally deciding. He took up a small hand knife, and presented the blade solemnly. Although Harry's movements were purposefully slow, it still startled Viktor, so much so that the other man went into defensive mode immediately, dematerializing his wand from its holster and unto his hand in an instant. Harry laughed. "Trust me. You're in no danger," Harry snorted derisively. "The only person I'm aiming to hurt...is me." He began to press the knife gently against his palm. "Look closely. I'm only going to perform this once."
Harry winced in agony as the blade dug into his flesh. The blood welled up...but then a tongue of purple energy erupted from the wound, lapping up the blood so that when it was all over...It was as if the wound had not existed at all.
The spell forged from Ancient Magic that had protected Harry from Voldemort had returned. It had been gone for nearly ten years, vanished right after Harry had defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort. The power was a reactive type, created by Harry's mother to specifically guard him against Voldemort's machinations. There was no possible reason for its return unless... Krum grasped the significance almost immediately. His voice, usually calm, betrayed his worries. It shook and trembled, "V-Vould you come with me to-"
"Yes. I'll come with you, and help you give your 'report' to the Ministry..." Harry trailed without emotion. He muttered inaudibly to himself, "...Came back to England... to die...any place'll do, I guess..." He eyed Krum contemptuously. "I swear, if I hear anyone dare claim that I'm the new embodiment of Voldemort-That ends my cooperation, you understand. Magic or no magic, I'll beat them bloody."
Viktor nodded assuringly but Harry noticed how uncomfortable the man was. Tense shoulders, wary glance—It was as if the Auror half-expected demons to leap out of Harry at any second. This was rather alarming. He had hoped his long years in exile would have swept most the suspicions away. Clearly, by Victor's reaction, this was not the case. The wizarding world had reacted the same way when Harry had explained exactly how he had defeated the Dark Lord. They had not heaped praises for his sacrifice but instead had done everything but level their wands at him. Harry fervently hoped that the Ministry was filled with fewer disbelievers this time around. But that was foolish optimism. How could anyone ever trust a person that had melded with Voldemort? Why would they believe Harry's story about what had happened during that Final Battle? It was far more believable that it was Voldemort who had overpowered Harry's mind, not the other way around-After all, how could a teenage boy, no matter how special, defeat the Dark Lord when so many greater wizards had submitted? But Harry knew, vehemently, that he had. He had chased the Dark Lord through every plane of existence until the self-styled 'Thief of Death' could run no more. Even had Voldemort begged for his life, Harry would still have killed him. It was only fair. But it had also been...unreal. Voldemort had been unrepentant. "You think you've won, haven't you, Potter?" asked Voldemort between dying gasps. "You think they'll treat you like a hero again after they've seen you wield those superpowers against me? One look at you and they'll not think of how you saved them. They'll think, what will he do with those powers now that he has them? They will FEAR you far more than they have FEARED me! They will force you to submit to their rules, and then they will conspire to kill you. They will give you no choice. THAT is the language of the real world. Don't turn away from me, Potter. You need to hear this as much as I need to say it..." Harry remembered how strange it was that the most powerful Dark Warlock in the world had been so calm about death, daring to lecture Harry about life even as his own slipped away.
"Normal people only understand FEAR! One day, you'll awaken to this wisdom and you'll know why you must continue the legacy of Salazar Slytherin. There is no choice. There has never been! You either obey or are the one who is obeyed. Which will you choose? Will you follow laws set by those such as Cornelius Fudge? Or would you take the harder road, the path of Kings and Conquerors? I wonder..." Harry felt the truth of Voldemort's dying statements resonate within him, but denied it with all his will. Harry wanted nothing to do with that mass murderer. He did not want to empathize. He would carry loathing for that monster until the day he died. Voldemort had killed his parents, his two best friends, nearly his whole class...Harry clenched his fists angrily. But there were no more enemies to defeat. No more battles to fight. Just the future to expect. However bleak it was.
Harry noticed that Krum had still not holstered his wand. People only understand fear, he quoted to himself.
"You can put away your wand now, Viktor." Krum reluctantly sheathed his wand, as if he was afraid to be defenseless in front of him. Harry grit his teeth. Would everyone treat him like this? Why? Krum? Didn't we fight together? Doesn't my word count for anything anymore? They headed up the steep Hogsmeade Cemetery Hill, where Krum's car waited. When they arrived to the apex, Harry was panting like a dog. Krum only stood relaxed, breathing as shallowly as if he had been strolling through a park. Harry had had enough. When they got to the car doors, Harry slammed his fist onto the hood, denting the black sheen of the vehicle. He exploded at Viktor's face, questioning him, cursing him, and doing whatever he could to get back the friend Krum had once been to him. "What are you afraid of? Look at me!" Harry held out his wrists. " I am NOTHING. No powers. No magic. I am nothing. Why won't you people believe me!"
Krum shrugged innocently, ducking his head so he could enter into his small car. Harry stood there, fuming. He leapt into the car and grabbed Krum by his neckguards. "Answer me!" Krum brushed Harry aside, buckling Harry's seatbelt as he did so. He paused for a moment, and then spoke. It was a measured tone, as if Krum expected Harry to already know what he was going to say. "My subordinates haff a running bet on you back at Auror Central on ven those powers vill return to you. I haff not yet betted but I am thinking that it is stupid."
"Oh really," said Harry, disgusted that they would gamble over how crippled he was. "Why's that?" "It falsely assumes that you haff lost them in the first place," spoke Krum with conviction. He had an accusing look on him, as if he half-expected Harry to confess immediately. "You better hope they don't return during the trip back to London," Harry grumbled. "Because, right now..." Harry delivered the last sentence with a spit into Krum's cup holders. "...I'm liable to slit your throat."
"You are most certainly velcomed to try, Potter."
Krum's face was straight and emotionless. But then again, he was like that all the time. God, I need a fag badly, Harry thought. Talking to Krum made his head hurt.
Harry slumped resignedly into the passenger seat and closed his eyes. There was little else to do but wait.
Viktor started up the car. He tried three times but at the fourth, the car moaned a little, and gave way, powering up with a bang. It chugged away dutifully on the road, rolling normally along, until Krum pulled the silver 'GO' button. The ground lurched away and soon, the car was soaring over the air, passing over the Forbidden Forest, and out of sight. Below them, the cloaked man who had been spying on them emerged from the shadows. He was a short man, but his green cloak was even shorter. He stood there, unsure of whether to follow his targets or to investigate Hogsmeade further. He stood quietly for nary a minute before...His left ear tingled sharply as if someone had yanked it with great might. The Cloaked Man cocked his head, listening intently to the seeming silence.
"Yes, sir. They've taken him to London, sir," said the Cloaked Man out loud.
The Cloaked Man cocked his head again, straining to hear over the patter of the rain.
"I understand." With that, the cloaked man vanished, hurrying to follow the orders he had just received.
Please REVIEW ME!
Special Thanks: Jenny Harris, and Katy Costa. Although, Katy was the most helpful. After all this time, I think I've finally finalized my chapters. I really liked the alternate version where my Trio was born in 1960. And I wanted to make Hogwarts Hogwart's. That way, I can have a character called Hogwart. You guy's don't like it so those ideas are off. It makes me hate you guys a bit but that's okay. I can live with that.
-Professor Alastor Pruett's History Lecture
Hogwarts, Slytherin 7th-years, 5th Period
Ultimate Harry Potter
By Oirams
Chapter 1 The Beginning
The moon rose slowly upwards, casting its revealing light over the entire of Hogsmeade Cemetery Hill. The silvery glow spilled from leaf to branch until, at last, it illuminated the grounds below. The shadows yawned, and stretched their darkish legs. Now was the time for their descent. The cemetery became more looming, and the dark, more sinister. In the shadows lay the source for the unholy: for monsters, for thieves, and for unseen death.
He stepped into the cemetery afraid of neither monster, thief, nor death. He had seen too much to be frightened by mere imagination. Reality was far harsher. The light of the moon slid gently into contact with the man, and, for an instant, his whole face was revealed. He bore sickly, white skin, and a lightning-shaped scar primped prominently on his forehead. It was a lengthy scar, and was indescribably grotesque. His hand touched it almost without thinking. It was a physical reminder of the things he had witnessed.
The dead that rested here had been classmates of his. Their murders had been gruesome, and tragic. But, at least, they had died together. Harry felt suddenly jealous of that. As if being massacred was something to be desired. They had not wanted to die, and Harry chided himself for his own death wish. He could imagine what they must have felt...Burned until their bones melted, and their lifeblood turned to vapor; there had not been enough of them to fit a matchbox. Their remains could not be sorted, or identified. There was nothing to show that they had even existed.
They had all died before they were nineteen.
A lifetime, my friends, he thought sadly. He was trite, but he did not know what else to think. He felt stupid. He felt out of place. In the left reaches of his mind, he half-expected their ghosts to arise from their empty coffins, and start berating him, asking him when it would be HIS turn to die. Soon, he thought as he strolled past each row of graves. Soon. His hand danced on top of the gravestones. The touch was dusty, and abrasive. His hand passed by names like Terry Boot, Susan Bones, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, and many, albeit less familiar, others...Sadly, he knew only a handful of these people. He had not been a social person. In fact, he had only needed or wanted two friends. Friends, whose graves lay uncomfortably before him. The gravestone on his left read: '
Hermione Granger.
B. September 16, 1980
D. July 13, 1997 On his right:
Ronald C. Weasley
B. March 20, 1980,
D. July 13, 1997 His hands shook as his eyes scanned the typography. His mouth began to water for a soothing Pall Mall. He hurried to oblige his addiction. "Bah!" he cried. Empty. He threw the empty pack away in disgust. After a few bounces, the pack landed awkwardly in front of Ron's grave. The man who had thrown the litter only stood there, eyeing it dumbly. And then he began to laugh. A violent and unnatural laugh that would disturb even the most insane of psychotics. "Sorry, buddy," he giggled, fishing the crumpled litter back into his pockets. "I forgot you didn't smoke." The man had smoked his last deathstick at the airport, waiting for the blasted luggage conveyor belt. There was something about American cigarettes that were different from British fags. Maybe it was the tobacco or the packaging that made the difference. He didn't know nor care. But he knew that his fingers were trembling because of it. Nicotine shock was a bitch with no master.
"Hey, Hermione. Hey, Ron," he muttered, walking up to their gravestones. He laid his hyacinths down. The flowers were damp, and ugly. He felt foolish to bring them. They were meaningless, but the girl at the airport boutique had been so sincere that he had bought them just to be kind. After he had placed his flowers, he was at a loss as to what to do. He didn't feel like he belonged here. He didn't feel wanted. His depression deepened, and he began to doubt if it had been a wise move to return, to England, to the place where his troubles had first begun. His girlfriend back in the States had warned him not, saying that he had 'self-destructive tendencies'.
No shit, Sherlock, he thought, pulling a flask of whiskey out from his inner pockets. He unfastened it, and poured some generously onto Ron's grave. The man winked at Ron's headstone. There was something oddly innocent about the way he held the bottle...and, at the same time, depressing. Drink up, Ron. We're going to get plastered tonight, you and I. He giggled foolishly, and then inhaled the brown liquor. He had never been a good drinker, and after a few small gulps, his face became a flowery red. He continued to drink regardless.
He slumped down, sliding off Ron's gravestone, and onto the ground with a resounding thump. The bottle was still attached to his hand, and he eyed the mouth of it, coaxing it to produce a few more drops of sweet oblivion. Even though the night chill had set, the top mounds of the two graves were surprisingly warm-Or was it just the whiskey that made everything burn?-and he laid his body to rest on top of them. His eyes fluttered open and shut as he struggled to keep awake. He feared sleep for his dreams were usually the nightmarish variety. He dreamt of the dead, mostly. They would claw at him, and ask when it would be his turn. He would reply 'Soon, Cedric. Soon, Uncle Sirius', but they always called him a liar. And then they would begin their clawing again. Their dead hands felt unbelievably real...Yes, He feared sleep, if one could even call it that. No such dreams, however, came this time. He slept peacefully and free from all nightmares. No monsters here, he dreamed happily. Not with Ron and Hermione standing guard. It was the rain that finally forced him to rise. He had been content to lie there interminably but the fear of catching a fever made him change his mind. He was already suffering from the effects of a prolonged Killing Curse, and there was no need to include pneumonia to his already long list of ailments. He arose from the ground slowly. The whiskey was still churning in his stomach, and it took nearly his all to even stand. Driving back to Hogsmeade Inn was out of the question. Again, the rain spat at his forehead, trickling down from his cheek to his lips. His tongue caught the rogue, and he tasted it. Foul. Bitter. Absentmindedly, he began to incant a simple shelter spell, one that he had learned as a schoolboy. The rain came harder, mocking him, reminding him that he hadn't enough magic in him to ride a broom much less perform a basic Umbrella Charm. "Goddammit!" he yelled at the sky, cursing whatever God it was who was responsible for his life.
He threw a steady stream of curses. He beat the ground. He was mad. He was loud. He was drunk. He didn't care if he made a scene. There was nobody here except him...and his dead friends.
But there was someone there.
"Do not swear in a cemetery, Harree,"said a familiar voice. "In my country, it is disrespectful to the dead. The taboo is the same here, no?"
Harry turned and saw a tall, darkish man limping slowly toward him. The man had wrapped himself behind the shadows, and even had Harry been clearheaded, he would have found him hard to detect. The other man moved closer, and as the moonlight hit the stranger, more details were revealed. Harry recognized the dragonhide armors to be Auror-issue, and the badge gave the rest away. The phoenix burning brightly alongside a flaming torch was the symbol for a full ranked Auror Commissioner. An office that, in a better world, Harry felt should have been his.
"Krum," said Harry angrily. Krum had aged remarkably but that Quidditch-broken nose of his was unmistakable.
Krum returned a smile, and his behaviorisms were strange, almost amicable. This wasn't the Krum Harry knew at all. The Krum he knew had been brash, quick to anger, and slow to forgive. Age may have mellowed the man but Harry doubted it. After the demise of the Dark Lord, many other copycat Lords had appeared all over the world, aping the monster of a man by reenacting his worst murders. He could not begin to fathom the horrors Krum had cased over the years. But it did not fully explain the man's tentative behaviors. However, Harry's head was still reeling from the whiskey, and his head hurt too much to think on it any further.
"What do you want, Krum?" Harry asked impatiently.
Viktor shifted uneasily, using the silence to place his own flowers onto Hermione's grave.
"How vos the plane trip? I do not understand vy you had to use those unsafe metal houses," said Viktor, ignoring the nasty looks Harry was giving him. "Our offices in America is only a few miles away frum you. I am sure they vould lend you their Portals..."
Idle talk? Harry thought drunkenly. He's chitchatting?
"Back off, you Auror lapdog," spat Harry, stepping away from Viktor as the Auror approached. "Did the Ministry send you? Bloody hell; if they want something from me then come straight out with it! Stop pretending to be some long lost fucking 'buddy'..." And then Harry added, almost whispering entirely to himself. "...because all mine died a long time ago..." Harry nearly tripped from walking backwards but Krum was there to steady him. Harry pushed him away. "Leave. Me. Alone," Harry slurred, and then muttered to himself, "No one messes with me today, you ken? Not today." Krum frowned. He did not drink liquor himself, and he could not imagine why anyone else would. The lack of self-control was not only stupid; it was dangerous. Harry, ignoring Krum's disapproving stare, waved a fist menacingly. "I'm not afraid of you, you hear me? I'll still fight you! Even without bloody fucking magic!"
"Calm down, Harree!" placated Viktor. "It just is that the Ministry has be vonting to ask you a very few simple questions about your health...I mean, if you are with nothing to hide..."
"They want to know why I haven't died yet, is that it?" Harry walked closer to Viktor, going under the cover of the Umbrella Charm Viktor had erected.
"Spell me," Harry said, through clenched teeth. His head was hurting like a bitch again.
"Vot?"
"Ennervate or whatever," replied Harry. "I'm 'bout to pass out."
"For Merlin's sake, Harree," said Viktor drawing, spelling and sheathing his wand in a smooth motion, "You've must be stopping-Ennervate!- with the drink. It vill be the death of you someday."
The spell came over Harry in waves, pulsing him with new life.
I used to be able to do that, he thought sadly.
"Death? Every morning, the curse Voldemort gifted me as a baby makes me cough enough blood to leave me crawling on the floor," said a lucid Harry. "Liver cancer's the least of my worries." Harry looked carefully at Viktor, who stood imposing and tall in his standard-issue armor and strapped broadsword. There was a deep sadness about him, and Harry realized that the man hadn't heard a word he had just uttered. The Auror was staring off into space and somehow, Harry knew what the older man was thinking. There were few things that could penetrate through Krum's emotional façade, and Harry knew of only one. Harry's voice became gentler, almost forgiving. "You're thinking about Hermione, aren't you?" Viktor remained silent.
"She liked you, you know," Harry admitted. "A lot."
"I know."
Smug bugger, Harry thought to himself. Hermione and Krum had been...She was dead now so there was no use in predicting what their relationship could have meant. But Hermione had trusted Krum...Harry wondered whether or not to he should do the same. Hermione had always been a good judge of character. The worst that could happen to Harry, if he told his secret, was execution—but then again, Harry was dying anyways. He really had nothing to lose. Then again, he had nothing to gain either. "Fine. I'll tell you why I'm not lying in bed, puking my brains out," Harry said, finally deciding. He took up a small hand knife, and presented the blade solemnly. Although Harry's movements were purposefully slow, it still startled Viktor, so much so that the other man went into defensive mode immediately, dematerializing his wand from its holster and unto his hand in an instant. Harry laughed. "Trust me. You're in no danger," Harry snorted derisively. "The only person I'm aiming to hurt...is me." He began to press the knife gently against his palm. "Look closely. I'm only going to perform this once."
Harry winced in agony as the blade dug into his flesh. The blood welled up...but then a tongue of purple energy erupted from the wound, lapping up the blood so that when it was all over...It was as if the wound had not existed at all.
The spell forged from Ancient Magic that had protected Harry from Voldemort had returned. It had been gone for nearly ten years, vanished right after Harry had defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort. The power was a reactive type, created by Harry's mother to specifically guard him against Voldemort's machinations. There was no possible reason for its return unless... Krum grasped the significance almost immediately. His voice, usually calm, betrayed his worries. It shook and trembled, "V-Vould you come with me to-"
"Yes. I'll come with you, and help you give your 'report' to the Ministry..." Harry trailed without emotion. He muttered inaudibly to himself, "...Came back to England... to die...any place'll do, I guess..." He eyed Krum contemptuously. "I swear, if I hear anyone dare claim that I'm the new embodiment of Voldemort-That ends my cooperation, you understand. Magic or no magic, I'll beat them bloody."
Viktor nodded assuringly but Harry noticed how uncomfortable the man was. Tense shoulders, wary glance—It was as if the Auror half-expected demons to leap out of Harry at any second. This was rather alarming. He had hoped his long years in exile would have swept most the suspicions away. Clearly, by Victor's reaction, this was not the case. The wizarding world had reacted the same way when Harry had explained exactly how he had defeated the Dark Lord. They had not heaped praises for his sacrifice but instead had done everything but level their wands at him. Harry fervently hoped that the Ministry was filled with fewer disbelievers this time around. But that was foolish optimism. How could anyone ever trust a person that had melded with Voldemort? Why would they believe Harry's story about what had happened during that Final Battle? It was far more believable that it was Voldemort who had overpowered Harry's mind, not the other way around-After all, how could a teenage boy, no matter how special, defeat the Dark Lord when so many greater wizards had submitted? But Harry knew, vehemently, that he had. He had chased the Dark Lord through every plane of existence until the self-styled 'Thief of Death' could run no more. Even had Voldemort begged for his life, Harry would still have killed him. It was only fair. But it had also been...unreal. Voldemort had been unrepentant. "You think you've won, haven't you, Potter?" asked Voldemort between dying gasps. "You think they'll treat you like a hero again after they've seen you wield those superpowers against me? One look at you and they'll not think of how you saved them. They'll think, what will he do with those powers now that he has them? They will FEAR you far more than they have FEARED me! They will force you to submit to their rules, and then they will conspire to kill you. They will give you no choice. THAT is the language of the real world. Don't turn away from me, Potter. You need to hear this as much as I need to say it..." Harry remembered how strange it was that the most powerful Dark Warlock in the world had been so calm about death, daring to lecture Harry about life even as his own slipped away.
"Normal people only understand FEAR! One day, you'll awaken to this wisdom and you'll know why you must continue the legacy of Salazar Slytherin. There is no choice. There has never been! You either obey or are the one who is obeyed. Which will you choose? Will you follow laws set by those such as Cornelius Fudge? Or would you take the harder road, the path of Kings and Conquerors? I wonder..." Harry felt the truth of Voldemort's dying statements resonate within him, but denied it with all his will. Harry wanted nothing to do with that mass murderer. He did not want to empathize. He would carry loathing for that monster until the day he died. Voldemort had killed his parents, his two best friends, nearly his whole class...Harry clenched his fists angrily. But there were no more enemies to defeat. No more battles to fight. Just the future to expect. However bleak it was.
Harry noticed that Krum had still not holstered his wand. People only understand fear, he quoted to himself.
"You can put away your wand now, Viktor." Krum reluctantly sheathed his wand, as if he was afraid to be defenseless in front of him. Harry grit his teeth. Would everyone treat him like this? Why? Krum? Didn't we fight together? Doesn't my word count for anything anymore? They headed up the steep Hogsmeade Cemetery Hill, where Krum's car waited. When they arrived to the apex, Harry was panting like a dog. Krum only stood relaxed, breathing as shallowly as if he had been strolling through a park. Harry had had enough. When they got to the car doors, Harry slammed his fist onto the hood, denting the black sheen of the vehicle. He exploded at Viktor's face, questioning him, cursing him, and doing whatever he could to get back the friend Krum had once been to him. "What are you afraid of? Look at me!" Harry held out his wrists. " I am NOTHING. No powers. No magic. I am nothing. Why won't you people believe me!"
Krum shrugged innocently, ducking his head so he could enter into his small car. Harry stood there, fuming. He leapt into the car and grabbed Krum by his neckguards. "Answer me!" Krum brushed Harry aside, buckling Harry's seatbelt as he did so. He paused for a moment, and then spoke. It was a measured tone, as if Krum expected Harry to already know what he was going to say. "My subordinates haff a running bet on you back at Auror Central on ven those powers vill return to you. I haff not yet betted but I am thinking that it is stupid."
"Oh really," said Harry, disgusted that they would gamble over how crippled he was. "Why's that?" "It falsely assumes that you haff lost them in the first place," spoke Krum with conviction. He had an accusing look on him, as if he half-expected Harry to confess immediately. "You better hope they don't return during the trip back to London," Harry grumbled. "Because, right now..." Harry delivered the last sentence with a spit into Krum's cup holders. "...I'm liable to slit your throat."
"You are most certainly velcomed to try, Potter."
Krum's face was straight and emotionless. But then again, he was like that all the time. God, I need a fag badly, Harry thought. Talking to Krum made his head hurt.
Harry slumped resignedly into the passenger seat and closed his eyes. There was little else to do but wait.
Viktor started up the car. He tried three times but at the fourth, the car moaned a little, and gave way, powering up with a bang. It chugged away dutifully on the road, rolling normally along, until Krum pulled the silver 'GO' button. The ground lurched away and soon, the car was soaring over the air, passing over the Forbidden Forest, and out of sight. Below them, the cloaked man who had been spying on them emerged from the shadows. He was a short man, but his green cloak was even shorter. He stood there, unsure of whether to follow his targets or to investigate Hogsmeade further. He stood quietly for nary a minute before...His left ear tingled sharply as if someone had yanked it with great might. The Cloaked Man cocked his head, listening intently to the seeming silence.
"Yes, sir. They've taken him to London, sir," said the Cloaked Man out loud.
The Cloaked Man cocked his head again, straining to hear over the patter of the rain.
"I understand." With that, the cloaked man vanished, hurrying to follow the orders he had just received.
Please REVIEW ME!
Special Thanks: Jenny Harris, and Katy Costa. Although, Katy was the most helpful. After all this time, I think I've finally finalized my chapters. I really liked the alternate version where my Trio was born in 1960. And I wanted to make Hogwarts Hogwart's. That way, I can have a character called Hogwart. You guy's don't like it so those ideas are off. It makes me hate you guys a bit but that's okay. I can live with that.
