D1isclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter either. It belongs to its creator J.K. Rowling and probably Warner Bros. too. I'm not too sure about that. This piece of literature is simply the work of a humble fan. I also credit Laurell K. Hamilton for various themes, subjects, or references that I may use. It won't be a crossover but certain elements from the series will be used.

:Author Notes:

This will be leaning more toward alternate reality. It will have the same characters just a different spin on things. If you're not a fan or strong cursing or maybe even violence and bloodshed then there is a good chance that this story isn't for you.

" Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power." Abraham Lincoln, Past President of the United States of America

Potter

Chapter Fifteen: Power is the Key

By: Water Mage

Harry felt his heart beat steady as he neared the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. This was it. There was no turning back now. He reached out and pushed the door open. With a low squeak, the heavy door swung open. Cautiously, Harry slowly stepped into the room. The window shutters were drawn, leaving the room blanketed in darkness, and only the dim glow of the floating candles in the corner gave the room light. Digging about inside of an old, wardrobe closest was Professor Quirrell with his back facing Harry. Perfect.

"Um hmm," Harry uttered, clearing his throat to get attention.

There was a bang and a cry of pain, then Quirrell spun around, eyes wide, and face startled. "Harry!" he cried, holding his heart. "How-how-nice of you-to-to-to visit."

Harry crossed his arms and gave a brief nod. His eyes flicked down to the large, open duffel bag filled to the brim with clothes and books, near Quirrell's feet. "Going somewhere?"

Quirrell gulped, shaking his head, he replied, "Heavens-heavens-no. I-I-I am merely tidying up!"

Harry raised an eyebrow, keeping his face carefully blank. "Oh?"

Professor Quirrell discreetly pushed the bag, behind his desk, out of eyesight with his shoe. Keeping his eyes on Harry, the Professor leaned against the edge of the desk, his face as blank as Harry's. But there was one difference. His eyes. Harry could read his eyes and his eyes gave him away. They always did. Right now, those brown eyes were showing nervousness, fear, determination, and rage. A rage hidden and masked so deep that Harry almost missed it, but there was no mistaken the rage that was directed solely toward him. All that rage was just for him. Goody. It made him feel all warm and… tingly inside.

"What-what-can I-I do for you?" asked Quirrell, regarding Harry with a shaky smile.

Harry slid his hands into his pockets. Feeling the cool handle of the Beretta 10mil fit comfortably into his grip, he sighed inaudibly. There, now he felt a little bit better. He bored his emerald eyes into Quirrell's, keeping his face unreadable and blank. This was one of the looks that never failed to creep people out. Keeping his eyes on the Professor, Harry ran his finger along the edge of the tabletop near him. He knew that Quirrell was waiting on his response. But hey, what could he say, he had a flair for dramatics.

"I've felt the dark power coming from you all year," said Harry, quietly.

"What are you—"

Harry continued talking as if he hadn't heard. "I didn't tell anyone, because frankly, no one would believe me. I was simply going to let it go. But now…" Harry's eyes narrowed, gazing at Quirrell, who was shaking. "Now, no more. You hurt one of mine and that doesn't go without a price. I'm giving you this chance now to confess to killing Michael. I know you did it. If you don't tell the truth they're going to trial and kill Kevin."

Quirrell shook his head quickly. "No, I didn't do it. It was that friend of yours, the vampire."

Harry eyes, if possible, narrowed further. Where in the hell did his stutter go? "Kevin would never kill I know this for a fact," argued Harry. "You did it, I know you did. You're not even normal—" he stopped. He gazed at Quirrell in a long stare and continued coldly. "You're something else. A darkness lies within you. A power so old and terrifying that even right now I can feel it consume you, eating away at your essence, your soul."

Professor Quirrell's demeanor changed, his body stiffened and his head tilted to one side. Harry took a startled breath. Did his eyes just flash red? What the hell, Harry thought, staring at the Professor, who was standing straighter and glaring at Harry. He seems like a different person, Harry noted, still staring in stupefaction.

"You and the rest of the spawn in this hive have no idea what power is," stated Quirrell, glaring.

Harry noticed that his voice had changed also. It sounded deeper, hollow, somehow as if someone else was speaking through him. Was this the source of the power that resided within Quirrell, Harry wondered. The power that he sensed was it some separate entity that slumbered, waiting, bidding its time for the right moment to rear its head and wake. Harry cleared his suddenly dry throat.

"Oh? Last time I checked I had the power here," said Harry. "All I have to do is tell everyone what you really are and entire wizarding world will come down on your ass for what you did to Michael."

Quirrell laughed, and then slowly like a predator, he stalked forward. Harry took a step back, keeping his hand inside his pocket. He could bet that his knuckles were white now, because he was holding the gun inside the pocket tightly in a death grip. Quirrell was really starting to unnerve him. This change or whatever the hell it was, seriously threw off his whole plan that he formed in his mind. No matter, if he had to adapt and think on the fly then he would adept. No way in hell was a teacher that couldn't even spell orange going to get the best of him.

Quirrell cocked his head, staring at Harry, curiously. "You really think that you hold the power," he said in his deep voice, which resonated through the empty classroom. A sneer twisted across his lips. "How amusing... An eleven year old half-blood. Is this all that challenges me now?"

"What do you mean, now? Who, or what, are you?" asked Harry, clapping mentally that he managed to keep his voice from shaking. He was scared but the hell if was going to let it show.

Professor Quirrell, no, he was someone else, Harry reminded himself, as the man took a step forward in Harry's direction. "You can't even imagine all that I am. And soon, I will be as I once was. Immortal. Idol of millions and God King of the magic realm."

"You aren't Professor Quirrell are you?" Harry asked in a tense voice.

'Quirrell' shook his head. "You speak of the vessel that is rotted through. He is nothing but the shell, I am all that remains."

"Whatever," said Harry, frowning. "Then I guess I won't feel bad for doing this." The Beretta was pulled out, safety off, and round chambered before 'Quirrell' could even blink. Harry had the gun out and pointed directly at his heart. Just in case he was a vampire, Harry doubted he was, at least the shot would slow him down.

'Quirrell' slowly let a mocking smile take over his face. "Has things changed so much since my absence that children are now the tools of the law." His head cocked questioningly. "Is this where I am told to freeze?"

"No," said Harry, and he shot him.

The bullet spun him around, so that he collapsed against the wall. Harry shot again as 'Quirrell' slid down the wall falling to the ground to land on his back. Harry creped closer, gun held in a two handed grip. The first shot had been rushed; not lethal, he had missed the heart, but the second one was a solid body shot. Blood gurgled up from 'Quirrell's' lips, falling down the sides of his face, and coating the front of the blue robes he wore. His turban, the mass of white wrap, had slipped from his head, landing on the puddle of rapidly spreading blood. Long, brown hair had spilled free from the confinement of the turban and surrounded 'Quirrell's' head like a halo. Harry circled wide, so he could get a clear head shot. He had no desire to get to close to the bleeding man. He didn't care how helpless he looked; Harry was not going to take any chances. 'Quirrell' first and foremost was an unknown variable. Right now he was at the top of Harry's list of people who was not to be taken lightly. Until 'Quirrell' was dead, Harry was going to be on his guard.

'Quirrell' lay on his back and bled. He managed to cough blood, and clear his throat enough to say, "I thought you pure mortals had to give warning first. Is that not how Law Sorcerers work?"

Harry went to that place in his mind. The place where there was nothing but white noise and no feelings. No regrets. No guilt. Calmly, hands steady, Harry sighted on his forehead just above the eyes. "I'm neither pure nor am I a Law Sorcerer, Professor; I'm the son of Death."

"What?" said 'Quirrell', face confused, blood covering the entire lower half of his face.

Harry pulled the trigger and didn't even wince when most of Quirrell's face exploded into a mess of bone and blood that left him unrecognizable. Slowly, Harry reached up with one hand and wiped at the speckles of blood that splattered against the right side of his face. All the while he stared at Quirrell, thinking, the whole time there hadn't been a trace of fear or true pain on his face. Harry looked around at the bloody mess. How in the hell was he going to explain this without incriminating himself. He had to get out of here. His father, he had to tell his dad. He would know what to do. Harry turned around and headed toward the door.

"No weapon of human creation shall ever beat me down," spoke a hollow, low voice.

Harry slowly turned around: "No fucking way."

He turned about just soon enough to stare into blazing red eyes, as fiery as the morning sun, before a backhanded blow struck him across the face, sending him clear across the room, and into unconsciousness.

Harry opened his eyes then immediately regretted the action as the world spun around him. He waited for the flashes of white behind his eyelids to disappear then he tried again. He took in his surroundings his vision blurring and dimming, but growing stronger every second his eyes stayed open. Harry quickly assessed the situation. He was tied, sitting down, to a pillar with heavy iron chains. He looked around the large chamber he was in. It was a huge, circular room with stone walls and tall, long pillars bordering the walls. In the middle of the chamber was a tall, grand mirror with a gold frame, containing a tiny inscription along the top. Harry squinted but even with contacts he couldn't make out the words. Struggling, Harry tried to wiggle free from the chains tying him to the pillar, but they were holding him tightly in place around his midsection.

"There is no use in struggling, boy," said the deep voice that was seriously starting to grate on his nerves. "You are bound to that pillar as I am bound to this carcass."

'Quirrell' rounded a pillar his face slack with a stoic expression. Harry's eyes ran up and down his form. 'Quirrell's' brown hair that looked healthy before was now rough and course. Red streaks went through his long, rough hair framing his face. Starting at his upper-forehead and rimming his face, going down to his neck, were stark red veins, dark like paint against his pale white skin. His eyes once a plain brown were now a fiery red like the depths of hell itself, even his lips looked redder. Instead of the bloodstained robes from earlier, 'Quirrell' now wore a long, flowing robe of dark green with an equally long, silver cape fastened at his collarbone.

"So," said Harry, wincing at the cut he could feel on his bottom lip. "You aren't Professor Quirrell, so who in the hell are you?"

"You would not remember would you…" spoke 'Quirrell' hollowly. "I am the one who did this realm favor by squashing out the mudblood-muck. Like Mayflies who die so soon after they're born, they might as well not live at all."

Harry shrugged. "I asked who you are..." he replied sarcastically. "What's with all the speechifying?"

"Can you not guess?" stated 'Quirrell' quietly. "…I am the one who gave you that scar."

"…Voldemort…" spoke Harry in an amazed whisper, staring up at the man who murdered his parents with new eyes. His heart stopped. He was sure it did. It was if he tried to spell two plus two in his mind and got eight, and got slapped for having the wrong answer.

Voldemort scowled down at him, red eyes boring into his being. "You would presume to speak my name without my proper title," he spat, angrily. "Because I have returned in the body of a mortal, you think that you can speak equally to me. It's disgusting, just the same as the filthy blood in your veins."

"This whole time," said Harry, mouth dry. "It was you… You were the one… This whole year it was you. The voice in my head. The one in my dreams. It was you all along."

Harry closed his eyes as the world spun on its axis. This was not right. Voldemort wasn't supposed to be alive. His parents did not sacrifice themselves in vain for this piece of shit bastard to still breathe. Anger clouded Harry's mind as he thought of his parents dying for nothing. Slowly his eyes opened and he stared icily up at Voldemort, no longer scared. He was pissed and he was feeling a little brave. A truly bad combination to have while trying to survive a psychotic wizard with a god complex.

"What the fuck are you still doing alive you muggle hating bastard," said Harry in a defiant, hard voice.

Voldemort gave him a mocking smile. Then he turned on his heel to stand near the mirror in the middle of the room. He stood on the side of the mirror, gazing at it, running his pale finger against the glass's flat surface. Slowly, he turned his red gaze back on Harry.

"Can your feeble mind process what a Sorcerers Stone is?" questioned Voldemort in that bland, deep voice.

Harry frowned, remembering the old tale. "That's just a myth. You don't honestly believe in magical stones that turn metal to gold and creates elixirs of immortality…" He stopped then fixed an incredulous stare at him. "You do, don't you! You honestly believe it's real."

"Believe? I know," replied Voldemort coldly. "Cant you feel it? Even with your droplets of magic surely you can feel the hum of power coming from the mirror."

Harry gasped. "I do feel something… I feel you're a fucking psycho!"

Suddenly, the Dark Lord blurred and Harry blinked as the wizard was directly in front of him. He braced himself seeing Voldemort's hand reach out at him. He twisted at the last moment trying to evade the hand and the front of his shirt slipped down revealing his mother's Celtic cross. There was a sound like the soft twinkling of ringing bells then suddenly the cross began to pulse with a white light. Both Harry and Voldemort stared at the cross, one in confusion the other in amazement, but both completely baffled as to what was happening. Voldemort, mesmerized, reached out to touch the glowing, pulsing cross. The sound of bells came again and then instantly the cross flared and a beam of intense white light shot out striking the Dark Lord in the chest with the force of meteor. The beam carried him across the room. Voldemort collided into a pillar, cracking it down the center. Harry's mouth dropped open. He looked to the cross that was no longer glowing and then at Voldemort who was lying on the ground, on his back, robes charred, and smoke rising up from his form.

Oh, hell yeah! Harry thought, sending mental prayers of thanks to his mother.

Slowly, Voldemort rose to his feet. His robes despite being a little singed were still in good shape. His eyes narrowed as he stalked toward Harry. This time he stopped a foot away from him. Good idea. Coolly, he ran his eyes up and down Harry as he sat there on the ground chained to the pillar.

"You are quite the puzzle, 'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord' I can nearly perceive," Voldemort muttered surveying Harry with a calculating look. "Maybe… Yes, I'm sure the mirror was designed for one of you spawn of this hive."

Harry stared at him, giving him an are you mental look. "What brand of crack do you smoke, really? I understand nothing you say."

Voldemort shook his head. "You really are an unusual vermin. First, you have magicless weapons made by muggles" he spat the last word out with a tone full of hate and disdain. "…An object of holy power, infused with magic of old… and a mouth of one years older than you. You are quite the enigma."

"Well what can I say," smiled Harry, showing teeth, just to annoy him. "A magician, like a prostitute, never reveals his tricks."

Voldemort made a slashing moment with his hand, muttering inaudible words under his breath. Harry was about to ask has he finally lost his mind, but he stopped as suddenly his chain with the cross broke free from his neck, fell to ground, then slid rapidly out of sight into the shadowed corners. Harry itched to reach his guns but his arms were bound to tightly for him to break free or even wiggle out. Voldemort slashed the air with his hand again. Harry cried out as invisible talons tore down his chest, ripping fabric and skin, leaving bloody, deep gashes. Harry blinked back the tears of pain, biting his tongue, doing everything he could to prevent the howl of agony from erupting free of his throat. No way would he give the demented asshole the pleasure of hearing him cry out. Voldemort snapped his fingers and Harry's weapons materialized near a pillar across the room, close to wear his cross slid to. He snapped again and the chains broke on their own accord. Harry was suddenly gripped by an invisible hand that lifted him up and dragged, toes scrapping the ground, blood dripping along the way, to Voldemort who stood near the mirror.

"You will do," said Voldemort shortly, staring him in critically.

Harry breathing heavily in pain, gasped out, "I'm not your bloody servant so kill me already."

"I need you first before I terminate your life," replied Voldemort coolly. "I require the stone so that I can return to my true form and leave this pitiful body that is incapable of sustaining my true glory. Now, look into the mirror and tell me what you see."

Harry looked into the mirror and almost choked on his tongue. He could see his father and a squad of Archangels storm into the room. Words were spoken, guns were drawn, and then as one every single angel, including his father, fired at will into Voldemort. They didn't stop till they emptied their clips, and he was nothing but a mass of bleeding unrecognizable flesh, guts, and parts upon the stone floor. His father turned to the mirror-Harry and enveloped him in a crushing hug. Dylan and Todd disengaged themselves from the firing squad, stood over mirror-Voldemort's body and fired five more times before going to the father and son. Harry shook his head, eyes wide, as he stared at the mirror.

"Well, what do you see?" snapped Voldemort, his impatience finally showing.

Harry turned to the Dark Lord. He was still trapped in the invisible grip that prevented him from moving from his place in front of the mirror. He gave a little careless shrug that he knew pissed off Voldemort a little more. Taking his time, Harry cleared his throat then smiled at Voldemort, his eyes glinting with an evil light.

"I saw my father. He's going to come," said Harry, his smile fading into a cold smirk. "And when he gets here he's going to kick your ass."

This time when the invisible strike came, tearing at his flesh, Harry did scream. He screamed so loudly that his lungs burned, as the invisible talons ripped open his abdomen, blood splattering to the floor. Harry sunk to his knees, as the invisible hand released him. Holding his stomach, tears of pain trailed down his cheeks. Blood spilled down his robes, pooling around him on the ground in a warm puddle of red mess. Breathing, more like gasping for air, Harry shivered as the room suddenly turned colder. The room wasn't getting colder but simply his body temperature was lowering from the loss of so much blood. Lightning quick, Voldemort reached out his hand and grabbed Harry's throat in a death grip. That's when things went to hell. At once, Harry felt a blinding, searing pain in his scar. Harry screamed and struggled, and to his surprise Voldemort let him go. Tired, gasping, vision blurring; as stars danced behind his eyelids, Harry looked at Voldemort— who was looking at his hand, which was burned beyond recognition. Patches of skin was burned completely off, revealing raw muscle tissue.

Grimacing in pain, the Dark Lord gazed at Harry with pure and utter rage.

If Harry was coherent enough at the moment he would have smiled and given him the finger. But the blood loss and the pain from his scar had caused him to feel lightheaded. Wondering what the hell just happened was his last thought before his eyes closed and he tilted backward fainting away.

He was floating.

Was he dead, Harry wondered, as he groggily opened his eyes.

He was indeed floating in a sea of water or was it outer space. He couldn't tell. Light came from nowhere and yet everywhere at the same time not illuminating yet illuminating this unknown place. Harry looked down and he realized that he was naked. Not a stripe of cloth covered him anywhere. Normally, this would have bothered him, of course, but here and now it didn't matter. Nothing mattered here. Here in this place in this time he felt serene, loved. Nothing bad could happen to him here. He was safe here.

"Harold…"

"Harold…"

Harry opened his eyes again at the sound of his name. He squinted at the bright light that manifested in the middle of space in front of him. The light was white and almost blinding but yet it carried power with it, which made a shiver run down his spine. The light flared suddenly, and in its wake was a person. A man. A man who had a golden aura surrounding him. He was neither old nor young, his was face timeless. His eyes held a knowledge that spoke of lifetimes passed, ages walked, and time long gone by. His long white hair and golden robes fluttered softly in some unfelt breeze. What startled Harry the most was his brow. On his forehead was a lightning bolt shaped mark that was glowing a soft golden color. The glowing mark was the exact replica of the scar that marred Harry's own brow. A sense of familiarity struck Harry suddenly from inside his very core. He knew this man. He did, but somehow he couldn't remember where from…

"Hello, Harold," smiled the man. "Do you know who I am?"

Harry shook his head. He would have replied verbally but words seemed to fail him at the moment.

The man, still smiling, replied, "I am the chief god of your mother's people."

"Dagda?" questioned Harry, eyes widening. "You're Dagda."

Dagda nodded with that ever-present serene smile still on his face. "Yes, I am Dagda. The dark one you are fighting against cannot be beaten using normal means. In his past search for power he made a pact with an ancient demon, an Old One. Now they are joined. The power that he channels is old, powerful, and unlike any other in the world." Dagda's smile had slipped during his tale, replaced now with a frown. "That is why you must also use an ancient power to contest his dark power."

"I don't have any power," Harry protested. "Not counting that whole See the Unseen thing, the glowing cross and the skin burning factor."

Dagda smiled again, a smile that was really starting to get on Harry's nerves. "However you do. Inside of you is a link to the ancient magic of the Tuatha Dé Danann."

"Why would I have a link to the magic of the Tuatha Dé Danann inside of me?" asked Harry. He was starting to feel very confused. First of all was he dead? If he was then this was a cheap ass version of Heaven. Or maybe he was in the other place and this guy was Lucifer.

"The link comes from your mother," answered Dagda. Harry opened his mouth to ask what he was talking about. He longed for answers about his mother's past. He needed answers to explain the power inside of him that allowed him to see what others couldn't. Dagda held up a hand stopping Harry from asking. "I will not answer your question now, little one. That is one best suited for a time when you are ready. What I can tell you is this. Lily, too, had a link to the Tuatha Dé Danann. She was aware of it but she knew not its origins."

"So…" said Harry slowly. He had to make sure he was hearing this right. All of it sounded too implausible to believe. "Because of my mother, some part of me can access the powers of the Tuatha Dé Danann, also known as the Faerie Gods, your people."

Harry opened his mouth to ask a plethora of other questions but Dagda just graced him with that smile again that made him stop. Gracefully the tall being bent down and gently kissed the scar adorning Harry's brow. Like Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer's nose, the scar lit up, glowing with the same golden glow as Dagda's identical mark. Suddenly, a ring of white light came down from above. It traveled down Harry's body vertically, like a scanner or something, leaving visible differences where it touched. Harry closed his eyes as the feeling of being caught in a summer breeze swept over him.

As the light left his face, he now sported long triangular markings, going from ear to cheek bone, two on either cheek. The light continued traveling down his body still making changes. When it finished, which was less than a minute later. Harry wore white pants, with a baggy white shirt that didn't move all about thanks to the brown forearm bracers he wore. Over this went a long, beige sleeveless tunic with a high collar, the edges trimmed in brown. A long length of red cloth went over his shoulders, with the end hanging down to his brown belt. On the front of the hanging end was a symbol of a squiggly line with a short vertical line underneath that. Harry didn't recognize it but he guessed it stood for something.

Dagda nodded at Harry. Something akin to prideshined in his eyes. "Now you look like one of my people. Do you feel the power?"

Harry scrunched up his face. He honestly didn't feel that didn't different. A little energized sure, but he got that same kick after drinking five cans of Jolt. Although, there seemed to be some kind of music playing just beyond his hearing range. If he tried hard enough he could make out a note or two but still the actual song eluded him. Looking at Dagda apologetically, he shook his head.

"Everything is connected, Harold," said Dagda. Harry was really amazed at his patience. "We live on the Earth and it holds a tie with all of us. The trees, the flowers, the building that you learn in, the molecules, the energy… everything is connected by the Earth. Everything is connected and you too are connected to a great power, whether you feel it or not."

Harry grumbled, crossing his arms across his chest. "Lets underline the not part."

Dagda laughed a low, rumbling laugh. "You truly are the product of the Flower and Stag. Close your eyes and open yourself up. Listen."

Nodding, Harry sighed as he gave it another go. His eyes closed and he listened. Nothing. He couldn't feel or hear a damn thing. Except there was that annoying song, that he could barely hear still playing beyond his senses. Trying harder, Harry listened with every fiber of his being. Suddenly, the song bust into being in his ears. Flutes, harps, lyres, ocarinas, he could hear them all playing in symphony the song of the universe. He could suddenly feel his tie to the Earth. A chord of golden light that was attached to a large ball of light, as big and brighter than the sun itself. Harry touched it then went beyond that. He went deeper down that cord tying him to the Earth. There was something else tying him to even greater power. Hesitantly, Harry embraced that unknown link. With a gasp he opened his eyes, and he didn't know how he knew, but he could feel that his eyes were glowing. Indeed they were. A glowing green from edge to edge, he looked otherworldly, adding in to the fact that his body was glowing with an aura of green light.

"Well fuck me," whispered Harry, shuddering at the power pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

"You feel it now, don't you?" Dagda stated more than asked. "The power of the Tuatha Dé Danann flows within you. Listen to the song of the green and let it guide you as it guides the destinies of ones on this planet."

"I don't understand," said Harry quickly, he was afraid Dagda would pull a vanishing act. "Why? How?" Harry let out a breath of frustration. "I have so many questions. I need answers. How is this even possible?"

Dagda shook his head and replied, "That answer is not for now. Trust me, Harold. In time you will know everything." His eyes grew said as he continued. "Some things you will wish that you never hoped to ever find out."

"What do—"

"Goodbye, Harold, my little champion," Dagda whispered, his form disappearing from sight.

Harry felt his body jerk and the scenery of the never ending space was gone. Voldemort cocked his head as Harry reappeared before him, glowing, eyes closed, and face serene. He took in the new clothes with narrowed eyes. The design was very familiar. His eyes roved up and down Harry's body till they locked on the symbol adorning the cloth hanging from his shoulders. Voldemort began to smile a chilling cold smile. This child, this boy was a servant of one the gods. Did those meddling Powers think that they could stop himby sending an agent of destiny that was barely old enough to do pre algebra? Things looked like they were about to get very interesting. He would enjoy ripping out this child's spine and wearing it as a trophy.

"You've gotten on my last nerve," said Harry, eyes opening, revealing their glowing green depths. "You can either get on your knees and beg for mercy or just let me kill you here and now. Your choice."

Voldemort shrugged carelessly. "I decline."

He raised his hands and concussive beams of ruby red light burst from his palms speeding toward Harry. Calmly, without even batting an eye, Harry raised his hands and a foot away from his body a blue translucent shield of light materialized, blocking the ruby red beams, making them splatter against its surface. Harry narrowed his eyes and concentrated with all his might on maintaining the outpour of power. There was so much of it just begging to be used, but it took concentration and mental energy to give it cause and direct it. Voldemort pushed his arms forward and the beam of ruby red light strengthened. Harry grunted at the effect it had on his shield. Through all of this, he could hear it. The song of the green, playing its glorious music, gave him hope and directions on how to use the foreign power. More by instinct than anything else, Harry began to chant under his breath. The words uttered from his lips were as foreign as the power he was wielding. As his chanting got louder and faster, pinpricks of tiny blue light began to coalesce in the center of his palms, forming into a softball sized shape.

"Diiieeeee!" Harry screamed, throwing the energy he collected.

It launched forward at Voldemort in the form of the most beautifully pure and intense beam of light Hogwarts had ever seen. It met the red beam head on; the room shook from the forceful collision. The ground rumbled and shook as the fighting beams scorched and tore up the stones. Shaking with effort, Harry poured my power into his beam, making it redouble and refocus, becoming even brighter. Voldemort was slowly being pushed back by the force of Harry's attack. His feet literally couldn't stay on the ground, as little by little he slid back toward the wall.

"This is for my parents, bastard!" yelled Harry, sweat dribbling down his brow, falling into his eyes.

His beam beat Voldemort's, completely swallowing it up. Light splattered against his body burning his robes completely from his body, and tearing into his hardened skin, flakes flying off into the air. His screams of pain were like music to Harry's ears. He reveled in it, the sweet pain filled notes urged him to pour even more of his power into the blast.

His scar was glowing with a frightening intensity, an outward sign of how much energy he was channeling and the effort he was putting into the ongoing beam. He wasn't listening to the song of the green anymore. Fuck that silly song and Dagda. He would do things his way, he had the power now, and this muggle hating fucker would pay for what he did to his parents. Harry if he would have listened, he would have noticed that the song had started to change to play notes that spoke of warning and danger, caution and forbidding. Harry was right, he did have the power. But he didn't have the experience with the amount of power he was wielding. To wield the power of the gods is not some easy feat, especially for one young and untrained. The amount of power Harry was channeling was never meant for mortals. Mortal bodies are not evolved enough to handle the strain mentally as well as physically. Harry was born with the ability to access the power of the Tuatha Dé Danann, but he was being rash and unthinking, too much at one time is never a good thing…

Harry could see the pool of magic he was channeling in his mind eye. Mentally, with cupped palms he was gathering the magic and using it to his will. But after using it in such a way he was exhausted. Now it was like his hands were splayed open and the magic kept escaping through his fingers. Slowly, the most powerful magic ever produced in Hogwarts began to flicker and go out. A half second later, Harry fell to his knees exhausted. Sweat covered his face, his eyes were still glowing but less bright, and his scar was golden, but no longer glowing. Dizzy, Harry looked to Voldemort, his vision blurring and dimming, as unconsciousness threatened to swallow him up again for the third damn time in the same day. He was becoming a real wuss.

"You thought to revel in my defeat?" said Voldemort, slowly coming to his feet. He looked like he had been to Hell and back. His robes were completely gone revealing, burned, charred, blackened body armor that covered his entire body. His face was blackened in some places and patches of skin was completely gone revealing the under layers beneath. Limping, Voldemort made his way toward Harry. His heavy boots scrapped loudly against the ground. "Thought you could wield powers of the gods? I will teach you to try and rise above your station, muck. I will shred you. Rip your eyes out and feed it to you through your mutilated face."

"Hey, wanna see a trick," Harry grinned.

Eyes half-lidded, Harry gave Voldemort a tired, goofy smile. Summoning the last dredges of power he could gather and use to his will, Harry concentrated, listening intently to that damn song of the green. Honestly, the flutes were cute, but they were getting annoying.

"By the power of three times three, so mote it be. I gather the elements to do my bidding…" Sparks jumped between Harry's fingers, as he glared at Voldemort from his position on the ground on his knees. He knew what this spell did, but what he was saying was completely instinctive. He knew but didn't know.

Volemort laughed softly. "Your droplets of magic for this spell will not be enough to harm me."

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." Harry gave a cry as Voldemort rushed toward him slapping him to the ground. He was not going to give up just yet. He still had some fight in him yet. "Here the voice of my song…" Voldemort pinned him down with his massive hand, dislocating his shoulder in the process. "REVENGE OF THE FEY!"

Voldemort laughed softly as he backhanded Harry. He flew across the floor body tumbling and rolling across the ground. A sickening crack was heard as his right arm broke then finally a low thud resounded through the room, as his head collided against the stone floor, the pain knocking him out. Laughing, Voldemort walked over to Harry's body. He had just enough time to see Harry's palm, still alit with dancing sparks, fall to the ground completing his last spell. Suddenly, a loud explosion was heard, and the ground began to splinter and crack quickly at his feet. In a long line the cracking ground, raced past Voldemort.

Voldemort screamed as he realized what was happening.

The fissure reached the Mirror of Erised. There was silence, and then in a deafening boom it exploded shattering into pieces of glass and wood. Somewhere deep within Harry's coma like state his inner self was smiling. His last thought he had before blacking out cycled through his mind…

Immortality my ass.