Disclaimer- I don't own Harry Potter.
AN: I changed the genre to Drama/Angst. I wrote ahead and it looks more dramatic and angsty than spiritual.
Chapter 2 Divine Madness
Pandemonium all around him. He feels his body running down a corridor. Words tumble out of his mouth, familiar yet foreign. "She killed Sirius! I'll kill her!"
Words echo back now. A new scene appears. He has a stick in his hand raised, and shouts another familiar yet foreign word, a word that seethes with hatred and bubbles with rage. "Crucio!"
A woman before him, gaunt, pale, with a hated visage despite the boy only seeing her for the first time in this dream, screams in agony as a jet of red light hits her.
He feels that he should feel guilt, but at the same time feels satisfied.
Madness.
Now the scene changed again. In front of him is an old man in robes, a stick raised in his hand, looking weary and alert. Pain erupts in every pore, every bone, every piece of him, a snake writhing through his insides and into his mind, wrapping itself around his very brain and squeezing it, strangling it.
He screams, yet no sound comes out of his mouth. He wants the pain to end, wants to stop hurting, wants to join someone in death.
The scene changes again, and now he's watched a man, gaunt as the woman before, with long, stringy black hair covering a visage familiar to him, this one heart-warming, as the man falls through a black veil, and disappears through.
He knows that the man is gone, and screams a heart rending scream, feeling part of his body, part of himself, part of his very essence leave too.
From this nightmare, the boy awakes in cold sweat, tired but alive. This time, strength is in him, and a carnal hunger for food, but more importantly, drink. His throat feels parched, a desert, and he feels that if he does not drink water soon, he must soon spontaneously combust.
Quickly, scrambling with numb and clumsy limbs, he stumbled over, searching for water, sweet, clear water, and finds nothing but dry sand.
He looked around desperately, feeling the burning sun searing him, feeling his throat scream for water. He tried to open his mouth and speak, to yell out for help, but nothing comes but a rattle, a slight escape of breath.
He looks around, and there is nothing.
He is surrounded by nothing, by a prison of nothing.
The greatest prison of all.
But then he spied it.
Just out of the corner of his eye, he turns and despite his agony, a grin spreads across his face.
Water. An oasis in this desert of water. It sparkles and glitters like sapphire gemstones, teasing him with its cool gaze.
He rushed towards it, moving with the same clumsy grace, and lands in front of it, eagerly putting his fingers in a cup shape and lifting it upwards, to drink.
Instead of cool, soothing water seeping into his hands, he feels gritty, hot sand burning into his flesh, stealing his own inner water. Sand slipped through his fingers as he opened them in shock, feeling hot air searing into his throat as his body screamed for water while his eyes only looked in shock as the oasis, that glittering savior, became dull, tan sand.
He sobbed angrily, and toppled to the ground in despair.
For an unknown amount of time the boy wallowed in despair and misery and sorrow, his flesh burning in the midday sun and his eyes crusted with sand and tears he had shed long ago, before he landed here, in this purgatory.
He lay there, sobbing desperately for salvation as he crawled more, but could not move. So he tried to stand, and found he could do little more than shake for a moment.
Trying twice more, he eventually managed to lift himself up and sit down, to keep his belly from being scratched into anymore.
The young man sat in despair, in a dementia of hunger and thirst, staring at the sand that had once been an oasis.
It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.
That was water.
It was.
It had to be.
It would be water.
Suddenly, the dementia parted and a clear though echoed within him. It would be water, if he willed it.
He willed it to. He willed it to become water, to be water, to not be sand, to have there be true water, truth in there, not this ugly lie.
Truth was beautiful, this was ugly. False, lies were ugly.
Lies were chains, Truth was freedom.
Lies were death. Truth was life.
Sand was a lie. Water was Truth.
It had to be a lie. The sand had to be a lie. Truth was beautiful. Truth was not this.
Hundreds of miles away, within the hidden depths of the Ministry of Magic, in the very deepest part of the most secret department, the aptly named Department of Mysteries, a room lay, tucked away in a hidden yet revealed corner.
Every day, hundreds of people milled by, unaware of the great power locked within.
A room that had been closely guarded and heavily warded against entry, ever since that day, fifteen years ago. Albus Dumbledore had came then, had come and left an object that held immense power, until the day it was needed.
A room kept locked at all times, for the power it holds is too great and terrible.
A room that held the salvation of the world. All it needed was a key.
Today, no key was needed. The power within was needed by its master, its master called for it.
And it answered. The sleeping might erupted outwards, demolishing the room within seconds and the object that held it as it were nothing more than a speck of dust.
As one, that power moved. A bright golden orb of potent power, of potential power flew out from the Department of Mysteries with inestimable speed, appearing as a flash to whoever was passing, before leaving the building, then gaining speed, and rapidly disappearing into the horizon, in the direction of its master.
At that moment, the young boy felt clearer, felt stronger than he'd ever been, regardless of his voracious hunger and thirst, regardless of the old wounds plaguing him, the nightmares battering his sanity.
It was Truth, shining down on him brighter than any light.
He felt it, warming him, making him feel peaceful, giving him renewed strength.
The land around him seemed reverent of what had happened, and the light shined down upon him, clear as day. Trees whispered like the whispers of awe at a miracle, the wind tickled his skin, a touch of one who wishes only to bask in the glory of a greater being, and the waves seemed to have gone silent, prayers to a new power.
The moment seemed to stretch into eternity, or lasted less than the blink of an eye.
The boy knew something had changed. In that one moment, something within him had changed drastically.
He didn't know whether it was his power, or his sanity. It was most likely both.
And it spoke, a whisper, a slight breeze in the wind but he heard, he heard and did as it asked.
Focusing on the land in front of him, he willed water to be there, told himself there was water, that water did exist and he just needed to bring it form.
There is water, he repeated in his mind, over and over, the mantra that kept him on the path of madness or sanity, damnation or salvation, hope or despair, he could not tell. But he continued regardless.
He stared hard, piercing and burning the sand with his eyes, forcing his will upon it, forcing and shaping violently, hoping against all sane things, against sanity itself, that the sand would become water.
And suddenly, without a whisper or an explosion, nor a bang or a whimper, without even the tiniest movement or the biggest, there was water.
An oasis of it, glittering and sparkling and really there, truly there. At least in his mind, in his sight, within the depths of his psyche.
And the young man stared at it, in absolute wonder.
Was that his doing?
His mind told him to find out, and his limbs obeyed, moving him uncertainly towards the oasis, one step, two steps, three steps, over and over, echoing in his mind as he watched in shock, a spirit watching his body move autonomously. Every step was slow and careful, as if the oasis was a beast that would take flight the second he moved too close, or too fast.
Finally, he reached the oasis and bent down slowly, moving with agonizing slowness, terrified the oasis would disappear, that it was all just a dream and he was just insane.
Reverently, slowly, he cupped his hands and dipped it in, pulling the sweet liquid, that life giving substance, up to his mouth. He felt the coolness, the wetness in his hands, that cold substance giving him chills that soothed his burning skin.
He paused. Was it a trick?
Was he going mad?
Was this actually water, or was he just crazy, seeing another mirage?
The answer came to him, or the question.
It wasn't a question of madness.
It was madness either way.
Either he was going mad, with an illusion of water before him, feeling the illusion, or he was insane, creating something out of nothing. Whether he was an insane mortal, or an insane creator. He was either the madman or the mad god.
The madness of gods or the madness of mortals.
Did any of it matter?
Did it matter if he was a creator or mortal, if he was a madman or a god?
This was all madness.
It was a question of whether or not it was divine madness.
He would answer that question now.
And so, reverently or cautiously, quickly or slowly, he lifted it to his lips and drank. Life or death, to live or to die. Either way, be merry.
And so he drank, expecting to feel burning sand down his throat, seeping into his blistered and cracked throat, killing him.
Whether he died or he lived, he would be free of his agony.
Either way, he was finished with the pain. Life or Death, both were escape from this Purgatory of suffering and agony.
And then it happened.
Water poured down his throat, a waterfall of sweet nectar, cooling his burned, parched throat and he drank greedily, hungrily.
He did not know how it came to pass, he did not care at the moment, that space in time. He had drink.
Quickly, moving with the speed born of greed, he gulped down more and more water, eager to see if he had only imagined or if he had truly done what he thought he did.
And more water poured down his throat, free and clear, refreshing him.
The young man felt a burning desire to keep drinking, demanding him to, and he could only comply whole-heartedly, wanting drink. And with every drink, the desire did not smolder and smoke, but burned brighter than any fire he had ever seen before, propelling him onwards to drink more.
This was true madness, propelling him to drink more and more as he continued to bask in what he had done. The madness settled into his stomach and allowed him to see truth, or perhaps the truth had turned him mad.
It didn't matter either way.
And when he was done, he laughed thankfully or insanely, he could not tell the difference anymore.
Divine madness.
Thanks to Lady of Masbolle, japanese-jew, Silver Butterfly04, Hunter101, ThePianoFiend, Black Padfoot, LongLiveHarry, Starfire Greenleaf, Pleione, Ciupacapra, Cathy-Ann, moonfyre, Cattatra, Treck, azntgr01, FroBoy, Tanydwr, Shaldana Blackwater, Egyptian Flame, stuffiness, mashimaromadness, and Wren Truesong for reviewing!
Q&A
japanese-jew- I remember how in Reap What You Sow you said Harry wasn't insane enough. Is he insane enough yet, or should I continue?
Hunter101- Wait, you're thinking this is going to be Dark Harry? Far from it. This is going to be INSANE Harry. I'm glad you think it's good. The title, Artificial Truth, actually makes sense deeper into the story. You've got a taste of it here.
Starfire Greenleaf- Don't cry! The scene with Ron was pretty intense.
Cathy-Ann- That's a question that won't be answered for a bit. As for how Harry is going to eat, the above chapter should have clued you in.
moonfyre- It's a gift, and a curse. I have so many ideas, they all want me to write them. I'm glad you like this and the rest of my stories.
Cattatra- True.
Treck- I love H/G, I just can't see it happening here. Not with what I've done. I tried to think of something. As for torturing Snape, that's the territory of Dark Rage. And believe me, Snape will get his there.
Tanydwr- Actually, maybe I could work H/G in here. But it would be wayyyy off into the story. And Harry is going insane, not fully there yet, but he could probably still recognize love. As for Ginny bringing Harry back, it's a bit clichéd, isn't it? Don't get me wrong, I love the idea, its just… more fun the way I'm going to do it. (My sense of fun is a bit… twisted)
stuffiness- I'm not changing my writing style completely. That's just how this story is going to go. If you want something different, with less of those one-liners, Dark Rage and my other stories aren't going to change.
Wren Truesong- Your imagination probably does it better than I can.
AN: Whoa… That was pretty heavy. Is Harry insane, or something else? You decide. Thanks for reading and please review! It makes me feel good, and feel-good writers write more!