Chapter Two
The Road to Ruin, pt. I

Nothing remained.

The white light that had sought him out soon fled him, moving back towards the west. It teased him to follow; enticed him with white shores under a swift-rising sun and all things good in the world. He refused.

He did not understand what he had just done by refusing the call, for his knowledge, his memories and his own language fled him in his fall and all of it seemed to be just out of reach for him. But fear and doubt had remained and it stayed him from hearkening the call.

Where he was now he had not the means to comprehend – it seemed without time and nothing changed. He was also without sight and therefore nothing entered him for what seemed ages. When vague knowledge did eventually enter him, madness occurred. In the madness, he attempted to find answers but everything slipped from him and eluded him. It was futile for a time – how long, he too was incapable of knowing. But eventually, enough knowledge crept back into him and in his first moments of true sanity he entertained following the beckon into the west.

Once more however, fear stayed his hand and soon he stayed where none like him should stay.

Who was he? What was he? Where was he?

The questions filtered through him and he realized in the darkness he was formless, without touch and smell and without the means to move. All of these things he could ascertain but for however long it was (for he still could not understand time and its movement), he could not come to figure out who he was and what he was. The memories and experiences were still very far out of reach.

Finally sight returned to him and it moved him, for memories of once seeing did not belong to him yet. It caused confusion and in this confusion he experienced movement and with movement there came more confusion. Still he did not know what he was, for the knowledge he possessed gave him no feasible answer. He came to agree he was formless, for when he moved, he moved through all and over all and could not be blocked by anything he encountered.

What this might mean was lost as he traversed the lands he once knew. The places caused stirrings in him, which led to more confusion. He was used to confusion however, and let it pass over him. And eventually his sight grew and grew; his movement quickened and his knowledge aided him in understanding simplicity and then complexity. He was still without memory until it was per chance… or perhaps fate… that he saw something that stirred him greatly.

"It's all gone to hell, hasn't it Hermione," asked a red haired boy, standing beside a Great Tomb. He was tall, gangly and had blue eyes.

Ron.

The word entered him and it sat within him for awhile and he stayed perplexed until he finally gave up and searched the room.

It was a great room – greater than the ones he had ever seen but he did not fully comprehend the meaning of this. It was square in shape and possessed a tomb placed at each corner and one directly in the middle; the one 'Ron' stood next to was the middle one and it seemed to have no connection with the ones that lay in the corners. It was made differently and looked different but the confusion this caused him was overlooked as all confusion to him eventually was.

He caught sight of what stood in one of the corners and moved toward it, a new interest found.

Unlike the other three corners, this one held a grand statue. Beauty is what he felt. The feeling entered him for the first time and swept over him like fire – this was beautiful; this was what beauty was and he understood all at once. Or so he believed.

The statue was large and depicted a woman smiling, head bowed partially, with arms open in reception for those who visited her.

Rowena Ravenclaw.

It was Rowena Ravenclaw! The realization of this caused great excitement within him. It stirred more memories to come to him. With the new memories, knowledge began going hand in hand and soon… soon… he was understanding. Understanding things!

Her tomb and the other tombs… they were made of marble and were ornately carved and still looked new.

More memories came to him but nothing new came of them – this put him out. Trying to think upon them led him nowhere, much as all ponderings had since his fall. He did not let this question pass as he had let the others pass, however – he retained this and the thoughts that went with it as he moved to the center.

It was there that the red-haired boy stood, along with a brown-haired girl – Hermione.

It – the tomb – was made of obsidian. It was beautiful and he realized that beauty was not just that statue but many things; upon the obsidian stone lay a pure white stone statue. It depicted a young man, perhaps no older…. No older? Time. Age. They entered him and he understood. No older than sixty. No, that was wrong. Wrong. Things can be wrong. Beautiful is a statue – that was wrong. The meanings of all this flooded him; more memories and more ideas came to him like a torrential downpour.

No older than fifteen – this boy was no older than fifteen!

And then he looked upon the pure white statue, truly. The person slept peacefully upon a pillow. In his right hand there was a stick. Wrong. It wasn't a… stick. His arms were folded and the right one was holding a wand. He was satisfied with this but was soon troubled – where were the glasses? This statue possessed no glasses. And this troubled him some more. What were glasses? Where did the thought come from? He looked upon the face once more and something stirred within him again: familiarity.

It frightened him.

What was this place? He looked at Ron, into his eyes and all at once he knew and did not know for new concepts floored him as he ripped the knowledge from the boy. It was then, too, that he understood how he gained knowledge: by wanting it and taking it from the world around him.

This was the final resting place of the Founders of Hogwarts. It was a place of great reverence to the people who inhabited this land. It was called the Heart of Hogwarts. It was directly below the Great Hall and the Kitchens, a place where people ate. The room earned such a name because it held all the magic that made Hogwarts seem alive.

Rowena Ravenclaw. Salazar Slytherin. Godric Gryffindor. Helga Hufflepuff. They were the Founders. They created Hogwarts.

It was debated for centuries where the magic of Hogwarts was kept or how. Hogwarts had defenses; idiosyncrasies that couldn't be explained - sentience. It was not discovered that the resting place of the Founders was where all the magic of the castle was held until the 14th century. It was in that time that the thirteenth Headmaster, Alexavier Ravenclaw, stumbled upon it. He found the magic and in fear, hid the entire room through clever lies and well placed secret passageways. The resting place fell into obscurity and its existence became myth.

Albus Dumbledore found it. Re-opened it. Used it for the final resting place of Harry Potter.

Harry Potter. Harry Potter. He looked at the statue – Harry Potter. This was Harry Potter and it was familiar. More knowledge, more memories and more understanding floored him.

The brown-haired girl moved and she stared at the peaceful countenance the statue held – he knew this, for he looked at her and wished to know what she was doing. Thoughts entered him – "Harry never looked this peaceful in his life," and "It's a lie."

There was sadness but no sadness in her thoughts for the lie, however. There should be sadness, he reasoned – lying is bad for it was being untruthful and being truthful was good. And if untruthful is the opposite of truthful and the opposite of good is bad, then untruthful things were bad things and caused sadness. It was how he understood it and reasoned it to be.

A sob echoed through the room and Ron fell forward unto the statue, crying. Hermione paid no attention however and ran her hand along the polished obsidian stone and read to herself the small, gold plaque at the middle:

None shall come as he has come;
None shall defend as he has defended;
His one true home and amongst the Four
Thus shall he rest for all eternity.

Harry James Potter
July 31st, 1980 – July 31st, 1995

Ron looked up at Hermione with doleful eyes, shaking his head slowly. Pain was in his voice and great sadness made his speaking difficult, "It's not supposed to end this way – it's not," he said, wiping furiously at the tears, "He could've… he could've been something! Anything - anything under the bloody sun! That was Harry Potter," he exclaimed, each word getting louder than the previous, "What you see here isn't how it was drawn up… no. No it can't be," and he coughed roughly, tears still coming, "He hasn't even… he hasn't even… he hasn't," and he trailed off, mumbling incoherently as he sank to the floor, burying his head into his interlocked hands.

He entered Hermione's thoughts again, troubled. "It was a beautiful funeral... Dumbledore delivered a moving eulogy... It would rally many..." And he understood – this Harry Potter died recently. He also understood that Harry Potter was revered and that his death had rallied many – but not Hermione's. He felt this for her countenance was broken. It was then that he began to understand feelings.

"Harry Potter made me who I am."

He pondered upon this thought for awhile, until he understood it to be metaphorical. Harry Potter was not a builder, literally. No, he had helped this girl become who she was, metaphorically.

"He breathed emotion into me… someone who cared for very little outside of school… and with him gone… I am but a hollow shell again. I have failed him..."

He did not understand this, at all. Had she killed Harry Potter? Wasn't that bad? Probably, he concluded before searching again.

"There's no point… the Mudbloods and Muggles are being rounded up… one by one for the slaughter. And the only person who has shown me any bit of friendship is gone... I have failed him... The world is changing because of his passing… and I am too… more studying – I'll find a way… less talking – no one to talk too… I'm getting sick with thoughts… but then again, there is no desirable end in sight… a new government has been heralded in – good on you Dumbledore... The people now aware of the Dark Lord's existence cower in fear, neither pledging to the Dark Lord, nor to the new Government..."

Harry Potter. Familiarity. They came again. He understood now that the funeral had just ended moments ago and that the world was in trouble. Bad things were happening to it – like lying, he presumed.

He wanted to know more and moved around the area. He had trouble at first as he usually just moved erratically but with a little practice and his new want to comprehend things, he finally moved out of the room and into the emerald hall that led unto the Heart of Hogwarts. It was there that he came upon another pair of persons. He searched them and thus knew them as Headmistress Minerva McGonagall and Minister of Magic Albus Dumbledore.

They talked, privately and away from others – this was done, Harry learned, so that it was kept secret and in confidence.

"Pardon me for doing so, Albus… especially during a time of mourning. But I must. I must know: what are we going to do," McGonagall inquired, her lightly-wrinkled face set with worry. She turned and faced away from Albus, pausing a moment before continuing, "It has only been little over a decade, Albus – most of us remember what happened; most of us know what it is like to be without hope… without even a fool's hope …," and she shuddered, turning and staring into Dumbledore's eyes, "This is not a second war to this world, Albus. It is just a continuation of his first wrath. Hope is already gone from us because of that – and what little hope there could have been now lays broken in an obsidian stone tomb that may not even last the ravages of You-Know-Who…"

"We were counting the days then, Albus – and now that Mr. Potter… and now that Harry-," and here she covered her mouth with her hand as the grief of Harry Potter's death took her again; her eyes watered and she looked down, removing her hand and finishing, "Now that he is gone, we are starting the counting right where we left off," she breathed, her mouth quavering a bit in the process.

Albus Dumbledore closed the distance and laid a hand on Minerva's shoulder and peered down at her, "It's a very good question, Minerva… and you are right of course," he conceded, looking as if he remembered it all, "You will find little hope in this world."

Minerva's hopes looked dashed in that instant but Dumbledore continued.

"Those Purebloods who fear Tom Riddle and who are not of strong countenance will join him or eventually be broken by him, when found, that is for certain. But one would think the Muggleborns and Half-Bloods of our world would be enough to give Tom Riddle a run for his money. We must not entertain such a thought however – they will not join the Ministry in this fight. They too will cower in their homes. Riddle knows this. He probably hasn't stopped smiling since the night he took Harry's life; now all that lays between him and victory is the government."

"And what of this government," he asked rhetorically, "It is weak; it always was," he answered, smiling at the irony of it all. "We will not be even able to persuade those who abide its laws to help us."

"Even with me at its helm, it is very weak," he said answering Minerva's thoughts and beginning to move around her, "But there is the Order of the Phoenix. There are the Hit-Wizards who are strong and plentiful. And we must not forget the Aurors who are comprised of many dauntless individuals who would lay all on the line for England," he said, facing her directly, a dark look coming upon him, "And there are the secrets that lay hidden within the depths of the Department of Mysteries. Dangerous things they are; forces we mortals have no business deal with, I believe. They are there, however… and if the situation is dire enough, I will call upon their aid."

Moving from what seemed like such a dark thought to him he began pacing again, "They will all be combined and restructured – all of the forces, that is," he corrected, acting as if his mention of the Department of Mysteries never occurred. Minerva took this to mean 'Never Speak of it. Ever.'

"And of course! I couldn't possibly forget that," he exclaimed, "It's very special, you see," he continued, smiling largely and giving a small wink, "Something quite genius, if I will allow myself a compliment; something that will be done when the time is right."

They lapsed into silence for awhile before Dumbledore realized Minerva was still quite distressed. "Do not lose hope, Minerva," he chided in a fatherly manner, "We will not give up. Not until Tom and the last of his forces are gone."

"It was prophecy after all, that said only Harry's hand would be capable of vanquishing Tom," he shared with Minerva, "And I whole-heartedly agree."

Before Minerva could speak her mind, Dumbledore continued, "But that would count us out then, wouldn't it," he said with a smile, saying what she had been about to ask, "Throwing in the towel, one Muggle might put it? I say no to that, Minerva."

"Prophecies are a delicate thing, you see. At first glance all seems clear – that they could not be more straightforward. But then you look at it again. And again. And with each new look, you begin seeing things that weren't there. This is why I still have hope, Minerva."

"Don't you see," he asked, grabbing Minerva by the shoulders and peering down at her, smiling all the while, "Don't you? Harry's hand is still with us. It is because of him that we still move against Tom Riddle, daring never to bow out until he is vanquished. There are far more who stand against Tom this time around, Minerva. Harry has planted the seeds of change, watered them and given them his own light," he said with much eloquence, a wizened smile on his lips, "And not in a thousand years will the light he has brought us be put out."

"So I say 'no' Minerva," he whispered, "No to giving up. Not will these old bones give up when a child stood strong through the greatest horrors of our time."

Minerva shared a smile as well and said, "Perhaps I won't be counting the days then, Albus."

He mused for awhile on all of this – he understood the situation more clearly now. Or so he thought. He was in a time of great trouble. There was a Dark Lord. A Dark Lord was bad and caused pain. This Dark Lord's name was Tom Riddle and the pain he caused had started recent and yet he had caused much grief already. This was because he had tried once before to take over. That was his goal; to take over. Many people did not have hope for they had lived through the first struggle; others had had hope and had lost it when Harry Potter died. Death. Death made sense to him now – the grieving and the pain and he believed he understood it.

Still he wanted to know more. He wanted to experience this trouble. He wanted to… help.

The thought shocked him. Help? And then he pondered upon it. He could not help. He was formless. And as he moved around, weaving in and out and through and above and below the people who were in Hogwarts, he realized none saw him. He was invisible. This distressed him for a time and all thoughts of helping were soon doused.

But there was persistence in him. He still wanted to know. What had made Tom Riddle cause all this trouble? Why did he cause all this trouble? Was there a reason? Were people born this way? The whole situation had caused great confusion to him. And there was the thing he had been searching for from the beginning.

What he was. He was formless, true – but everything had a name, it seemed – some even had two or three or even more. Did he have a name? And who was he? Was he magical? And still there was the biggest question…

Harry Potter. Familiarity. What did it mean?

It was then, in that moment that he wished to understand what was happening around him.

And in turn, the world around him faded….