Okay, just a little drabble/one- shot on Harry's supposed destiny. It is a scene about the final battle.
DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING! (SOB SOB) IT IS ALL JKR'S.
ALL I OWN IS THE FAR SEER.
If there are grammar mistakes, just tell me. Believe me, I know their there somewhere
Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, one of the most powerful wizards of his time, had recently purchased a Far Seer. A Far Seer was a powerful magical device that allowed the buyer one glimpse of a single seen in the future. They only worked three times and were incredibly rare and expensive. Albus had been lucky to get this one. Carrying the precious object to his private quarters, he placed numerous obscure locking charms on his door. He then cleared a place and set the Far Seer on his desk; pulling out the directions. The directions called for him to take a magical blade, and while thinking extremely hard about what he wanted to see, cut the required rune into his wrist. Quickly he did so and, wincing at the pain, held the bleeding wound over this swirling mass in the glass bowl. One... Two... Three drops of ruby blood fell into the writhing silver liquid. Albus felt a mighty pull from in front of him and he was sucked into a nightmare.
The first impression Albus got as he landed on the rough dusty earth was heat. It was scorching, the kind of summer day that makes every breath painful. The second impression was of a god-awful stench that clawed at his eyes. Albus regained his bearings and stood up. He almost collapsed again. He was in the middle of a battle field, surrounded by reaching corpses. He was in front of Hogwarts; where was everyone?
"Hello? Anybody, Please where are you?" Albus cried. His words spiraled around him, echoing slightly in the desolation. A flash and he was standing in front of someone. The person was talking, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. He looked around and gasped he was practically standing on Severus's body. The man's lips were curled in a snarl and his head was thrown back in defiance. He had been killed by a killing curse. Next to him lay a spread eagled Bill Weasely who had met the same fate. Others weren't as fortunate. Alastor Moody, killed by an incendiary curse, Remus Lupin whose face and body showed the marks of silver poisoning, Peter Pettigrew with Remus's dagger imbedded in his heart, Lucius Malfoy with his throat cut, Nymphadora Tonks with a still snarling Bellatrix Lestrange's hands around her throat, Ginny Weasely with the clear marks of a cutting curse, Fred and George Weasely with their necks broken, Hermione Granger; wand still at the ready, stabbed from behind, and so many more. It looked like the whole school had gone to war against the forces of darkness. Deatheater and student alike lay intertwined and broken. Even, Albus sobbed, even his own brother, Aberforth, barely recognizable. He turned back to the talking figure. It was Harry! Harry Potter! Had he killed Voldemort. Albus stumbled over to him. The indistinct word became clear.
"... should have crueler. I grew up with cruel, it was a language I could understand! It would have pushed me to try harder, to be more, if only for a few seconds of praise. Instead you were kind, I could do no wrong. You tried to protect me and became blind to everything else! I could have saved them from Him!" Harry turned and spat at the corpse of Voldemort.
"Thank you Lord that at least the dead were avenged." Thought Albus
He turned back to Harry and watched as Harry sank weeping and screaming to his knees. As he did so, the corpse that Harry had been talking to became visible and...
Albus swallowed his throat suddenly parchment dry. It was, no Oh God, it was him self. He had been tortured, brutalized by the Deatheaters, he was almost torn in half. Albus heard someone screaming, jumbled curses and yells of horror, sorrow, hatred, and he thought hazily, "That's not me is it?" He felt the jerk from behind him and fell to the cold stone floor of his office. Albus reared up, his mouth a curling sneer of horror, his eyes streaming tears of rage, his throat horse with screams of pity. He turned and ran, weaving and stumbling away from the smoking bowl and back to the comfort of his unknowing and unassuming friends, and as he fled, he thought, "That wasn't me was it?"
Review please! Like, Hate, some where in the middle? Just no flames please.