Harry Potter and the Dawn of Eternity
CHAPTER 1: EYE OF THE STORM
A deep, dense flatness descended upon the forest, settling like some great hornback come home to rest. It was as though everything was beginning to squeeze itself out, pressuring matter into a situation it was not designed to be in.
At the end of a clearing, a signal. Dark. Quiet. Nearly imperceptible.
In no time at all, the response comes. And like shadows in the night, they move forward.
Their job is to "assist." But they know that it is unnecessary. When the last time assistance was needed with these people? They were beyond human...it seemed, to many, that made mere humans irrelevant.
It is with this knowledge that small chuckles are exchanged, along with bets of twenty sickles or more, knowing glances revealing the obvious truth.
These Death Eaters they're chasing are toast. There's no reason for them to even fight...because whom they fight against dictates automatic failure.
But these chuckles carry an aura of nervousness with them. This is no ordinary mission. Because, for all they know, the fate of all rests on its outcome.
And just like that, the jovial atmosphere fades away. Death and darkness are the new ways of life, now. And in the end, they pray that their heroes will be able to stop what is to come.
Everything rests upon their shoulders.
A part of what makes battle so horrific, so terrifying, is the anxious determination with which its occupants operate. Every kind of warrior throughout the expanse of time has come to realize this. Regardless of the ages it takes to refine technique, develop, plan, and scheme one's way through that fight, there is one cold, very inescapable certainty.
War scares the hell out of you. No two ways about it.
Unfortunately, this was a fact that Ron Weasley had never fully come to grips with.
He expects otherwise. Who wouldn't? Having been with his companions for such a long time, he'd assumed that their bravado, their pure, blinding strength and force of character would have rubbed off on him.
Guess not.
"Diffindo!" The force of the spell causes his hair to swirl and singe from its passing, tearing a giant hole in the tree that's across from the spot he's currently entrenched in.
Ron swore to himself. Why was he always in these positions? Stuck behind the expanse of a boulder that, frankly, was not a comfort in its ability to protect him, he realized that his "plan" to work as a diversion wasn't going so well, and that he'd like to get out of here right now, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, have a nice day.
A well placed blast shook rock into his face, reminding him that no, he was rather comfortable where he was, but thank you very much for asking.
He glanced to his right. Through the smoky blackness of the forest, he watched a shadow detach itself from similar shadows and spring forward, dodging jets of red and green light as it made a direct beeline towards him. Left, right, jump, dive, barely missing spells created to disintegrate all living tissue...
With a sliding dive that kicked up swarms of inky dust, the shadow came to a stop. And in the time it took Ron's subconscious mind to process the necessary chemical instructions designed to initiate pure panic, the shadow threw back the charred hood of its cloak.
"Any time you'd like to pitch in, here, would be most appreciated."
Breath caught in the throat finally released. Ron knew that voice like the back of his hand. Better, in fact.
"Bloody hell, Harry. Do you have to do that?"
A wicked smile formed from the shadow that crossed Harry's face. Flashes of passing spellwork reflected in the lenses of the black frames.
Another crack of splitting wood sent Ron scrambling to flatten himself to the ground. Harry lurched upwards, flinging his wand forward. Fierce fury met their enemy, teeth to teeth, as spells launched from both sides.
It was terrifying, in a way. Or, at least, it should have been. But Ron fought on the right side. For him, there was always the truth that the most powerful wizard in this world fought at his side.
It was the greatest truth he knew.
This is what it means to be Ronald Weasley.
You've been waiting for these days your whole life, crazy as it sounds. The fear of what's coming, the realization that you, yourself, are facing the enemy generations before you faced, is daunting. Regardless, this is what you were meant to do...where you were meant to be.
This is your way to finally prove that you are worth something.
It still surprises you, some days, that you became an Auror. Everyone told you that you were crazy – even your own family, falsely reassuring, were nonchalant when you told them your dreams.
Dreams to be what your best friend was becoming.
You admit...it still stings, sometimes. To know that his power far outstrips your own...that the atmosphere around him, the indisputable glory that he simply carries, is something you can barely fathom.
But, in the instant it takes you to even realize the sting is there, it fades...gone, like the passing winds.
Because, in the end, it's been your greatest honor to fight alongside The Boy Who Lived.
And then, of course...there's Hermione. So often you've found yourself distracted from the fight by the glow in the woman she's become.
It's still enough to make you shy.
But, if you were pressed to come down to it, to speak the truth of how you really feel, it'd be easy. No question.
You fight with the two best friends you've ever had. Through the tragedies, the horrors, the pain that has consumed your lives, you've never had to battle alone. And, in your mind, there's not a single reason to believe you will ever have to.
You will be three parts of a whole. Forever.
A scream rang out in the distance. Ron knew that Harry had hit his target, directly. He always did.
Crouching back to the ground, breathing slightly heavier than usual, Harry stowed his wand inside his robes. Leaning back, he turned to acknowledge his friend.
"I think you owe me," Harry taunted, smirking smile playing across his face. This kind of banter was what he knew best.
"Doesn't make up for all the times I've saved your skin, sir," came the retort, a small smile crossing Ron's lips.
Gentle chuckling between old friends floated in the darkness of the woods. And as silence began to settle, Harry's eyes grew dark. He looked out quickly, then back at Ron, sudden concern rising in his eyes.
"Where's Hermione?"
A simple question, like any other. Even so, Ron couldn't fail to notice the way it evoked a sudden tension in Harry's shoulders, the way it brought from him a cold dread.
"I thought she was with you," said Ron, shrugging. A weak answer, but the best he had to offer – it only served to further intensify Harry's frustration.
Harry made a motion to speak again, but stopped. He looked down, realizing something was different. Ron looked down, and noticed it, too.
The moonlight had gone out. The ground had grown dark.
Slowly, their gazes turned upwards. And there, standing astride the giant piece of stone was the spectral form of a Death Eater. Pure malice floated through the air – dark, deathly eyes stared out from a darkened hood.
Three wands were lifted simultaneously, and in a split second, the same thought ran concurrent through the minds of both Harry and Ron.
They weren't going to make it.
"Locomotor Mortis!"
A blaze of greenish light streaked from somewhere to the north, rushing to hit the Death Eater squarely between the shoulders. Without a word, a wand fell from a hand, and a body hit the ground with a resounding crash.
Time seemed to start again. Two pairs of eyes gazed into the distance, beyond the body of the fallen...searching. That voice had sounded so familiar.
And with good reason.
Stepping from a patch of trees, Hermione appeared, carefully treading forward, wand at the ready. It never failed to amuse the men how her strict adherence to the rules of the Auror would not be shaken, how she could not only rattle off procedural tasks, but perform them to the letter.
Harry and Ron stood, catching Hermione's eye. She smiled, devilishly.
"No, actually," she said, pseudo grandeur coming from her grinning lips, "I believe you two are the ones who owe me. Big time."
Sheepish looks. They know she's right. Over the years, they've come to realize that she has a nearly annoying knack for being right.
And they love it.
This is what it means to be Hermione Granger.
In truth, you've been waiting for these days all your life, too. But in the end, for wholly different reasons. Because, while you share similar ambitions, the roots that create your ambition are completely different.
You can vaguely remember the time before you came to Hogwarts, before your life was brought to wizarding. You remember the kind of goodie-goodie you were, how all the other children laughed at the way you stuck to the rules incessantly. You remember feeling like no friends would come your way. Ever.
You remember, most of all, the day that changed your life, eleven years ago.
The look your parents had tattooed across their faces when they read the letter – on parchment, no less! – from some school of wizarding-what, claiming that you had been on their lists even before your birth. You'd stuck to the rules of life for so long that when you heard the explanation (if it could even be called that), it might as well have been reduced to dog barks.
Nevertheless, over the next seven years, you came into you own. Some Muggle-born you turned out to be. Left and right, you proved that you were the best witch around, simply because you could be. And while that contained a certain grim satisfaction for you, there was still the lingering fear that you were too different from others...that even then, no one would dare look your way.
Every time it entered your mind these days, you pushed it out with two simple words.
Harry. Ron.
Who'd have thought that your two best friends would be men? For you, that didn't fit in with the idea of life's rules. But as time wore on, they began to teach you that your life, that your very existence, wasn't just about the rules. Not by a long shot.
And then...this awful war started. And you had been thrust into it, because after all, you were Hermione Granger. Never mind the carnage that haunted your every waking moment - there was nothing you couldn't do. You were expected to save the world.
It's been a terrible burden. But not an unbearable one. Bearable, because you've always had two teammates with you. And though your power dictated it unnecessary, your heart radiates for the fact that they care enough to try and stop what's coming...that they would drop their lives to save yours.
The gazes you let fix upon them are very different in nature. Harry is your older brother, a twin of a kind that only true families experience; he is your other half, the one on whom everything you are and believe in depends. He is your existence.
Ron is the one you've wanted for so long, but cannot seem to make it clear enough. And with this battle raging on, it's become all the more difficult. And yet, he remains the carefully guarded secret in your heart, the one part of you that sheds light into an ever-expanding darkness. He, too, is your existence.
Those two things are all that really matter right now. In the heat of war, they are what you cling to. You are them, and they are you. That's all you need. And as you walk away from the latest battleground, feeling safe and comforted, you realize that this – right here, right now – is all you'll ever need.
You will be three parts of a whole. Forever.
Light began to once again burn its way through the forest top. All around, tiny pops revealed the Cleansing Teams, apparating from distant corners of the command posts. With flicks of their wands, bodies disappeared, foliage and landscape returned to normal, and none were made any the wiser.
And, on some distant chart, a mark was made, noting that HHR had once again saved the day.
But to the trio, saving the day was hardly a fitting description.
They entered the side of a tent in the middle of the Ministry camp. Almost immediately, Hermione began pacing, worry furrowing her brow.
" This makes absolutely no sense," she commented as she compulsively began to stack papers on a desk. Fear played in her eyes. "That info on Dumbledore was complete rubbish."
"Well, he might still be here somewhere - "
"Oh Ronald, think. They lured us here to kill us. We were fed information from someone who didn't know a damn thing..."
The conversation continued, back and forth. But Harry wasn't listening. The thought of Dumbledore, out there, in the hands of those murderers, sent cold venom into his blood.
"...how someone could have known…"
"...careful on whom we trust with reconi..."
In Harry's mind, the facts ran through, stitching themselves into a hideous simulacrum of the worst case scenario. They had been fed bad recon. It had led them straight into an ambush...an ambush that, most likely, would have killed anyone else. There was a leak in the Ministry – a mole, planted to drive out the only people who could stop Voldemort...
Harry shook his head. It was useless to automatically think like this. They had merely been unlucky.
But to what end?
Harry ran it over and over in his mind...and though he thought of all possible scenarios, the worst continued to invade. He couldn't shake it.
And as he leaned back against the wall of the tent, he blew out a breath, realizing that he had to save Dumbledore. Nothing else mattered.
Failure was no option.
This is what it means to be Harry Potter.
Hero. The Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived. Eight trillion ridiculous labels describing a gallant vision that you do not approve of. You never have.
The public does not understand what goes into your victories. In reality, it has very little to do with your efforts.
They are the real heroes.
These two, standing not three feet in front of you. They've been your lifeblood for what seems like centuries. Everything that transpires in your war against Voldemort does so because they are there to instigate it. Period.
It's fearsome, the way they fight. So powerful, so adept at the need to be victorious. All because you trained them to be, so long ago.
They give you incredible strength. And yet, there is a dark place in your heart that whispers uncertainty to you, constantly.
And it causes your strength to fade.
Power cannot last forever, Harry Potter. All things pass, in this life or the next.
That beast in your heart preys on you when you aren't careful. Late at night, when the walls you've built begin to crack slightly, it pokes out, ready to explain how quickly death is riding to your doorstep.
You fear for Ron and Hermione. You fear that someday, the time will come where you will have to make a choice. A choice that will ultimately save them...or destroy them. And it terrifies you; you, who are called The Boy Who Lived, have no ability to fathom that decision.
The idea of not being in the same time, the same moment, as your friends is maddening. They are all you've ever known, all you've ever lived for. They are the force that's guided you since the beginning of time.
And still, in the end, you worry...a fear that eats you up inside, and no one out there has any clue.
That's the simple truth. You, Harry Potter, are afraid.
Afraid to be a third of the whole. Afraid that, when the end of times comes, "forever" will be a distant memory.
It is fear that will be your undoing. Because, in the final cruelty of these days, fear is all you will ever have.