Harry Potter and the Soul of the Hero
Chapter 23 – The Beginning of the End Story
Heroic? Human? Those are just things people say after the
fact.
Why try to give meaning to what the main character chose?
~~Zidane
August
1st
A
late birthday present
Lord Voldemort's footsteps left harsh frost on the concrete walkway in the heart of the city of Manchester. The air around him shimmered, like water, and on some level screamed in wrenching pain as the presence of the Dark Lord threatened to destroy the fabric that it hung upon.
The city centre, at this late hour, was empty. Although it shouldn't have been – there should have been a few people, magical or not, or a few cars – anything, but it was as if some... deep survival instinct inside of the people of the city had awoken that night, and was warning them clear of the area Voldemort currently occupied.
He was alone – the monster that was once Tom Riddle had little use for his servants anymore. Cannon fodder they would be, alongside the
Destroyers and the demons to throw at Potter and finally, after long last, destroy the boy who had fought against him for so long.
"Potter," Voldemort hissed, and his voice carried well across the silent night. A few streets over a dog whimpered in fear, and everything seemed to fade that much darker.
A star of crimson light jumped between the fingertips on Voldemort's skeletal hand – a pinprick of unnatural light, with enough devastating force to conquer nations, level mountains... reduce a city to its foundations and nothing but ash. Not quite enough power to melt a continent... but liquefying the
British Isles was not part of the Dark Lord's plans, at the moment.
No, tonight was only a test – a message for his only worthy adversary – a message written in the blood of a million lives.
A terrible, seething mass of murky brown light surrounded the Dark Lord, obeying his thoughts, and all around him the lights of the muggle city began to flicker out and fail – magic had always had an adverse affect on muggle electronics, and there was no greater magic than this. The spark jumping between Voldemort's bony fingers, rolling across his knuckles, began to hum and vibrate with barely suppressed rage.
It wanted to be used.
A true beginning tonight... Voldemort mused. All of the old rules lay forgotten, as Potter and I play our game with increasing ferocity.
The spark of power trembled and then jumped from Voldemort's hand on his whim, cut through the brown shield of unmatched strength, save in
Potter, and – like a twisted flake of snow – swayed to the ground back and forth on the light wind.
Such a small thing to cause so much fear, pain – the sufferings of madness.
The drop of concentrated raw power struck the ground, and Manchester exploded.
Akin to a muggle nuclear device, only that much more devastating, Voldemort stood in the centre of the maelstrom he had created – a sea of fire and bellowing plumes of acrid smoke and harsh, unforgiving magic. He was laughing as the shockwave spread out in a fifty mile radius, wiping away buildings and life alike.
Rivers nearby in the city and the surrounding countryside were flash boiled, evaporating and leaving parched beds aside flaming, dusty and ash strewn plains of a once thriving urban area. In the space of a single heartbeat, millions of lives were extinguished and a portion of England, in a fifty mile radius, became uninhabitable... forever.
Voldemort laughed.
The earth twisted and heaved beneath his feet and the sky above howled with an unholy wind. His shield was swimming before his sight as it deflected the bursts of flame, the scorching winds and the rain of liquid fire.
A message indeed, Potter – you cannot stop me.
Voldemort, once a man, now something much, much less – and also something more. A God, he thought of himself, and mayhap someone with such power could be seen as a god. Especially if he was immortal... and the power inside the Dark Lord had twisted his soul so that he was immune to such mortal follies as death.
Yes, death was beyond him.
Lord Voldemort lowered his shield with a flick of his wrist, and tendrils of white hot flame ripped through him, searing hot air assaulted him, and blinding flashes of poisonous magical residue seeped into his being. None of it harmed him – none of it could.
From beneath the ground came steam, gushing out in high pressure vents with enough strength to strip flesh from bones, but it did not harm the Dark Lord. Black storm clouds overhead sent down bolts of awesome strength, but Voldemort absorbed them. It was as if the Earth itself was throwing all of the elements against him, in hopes of ridding him from its surface.
Not a chance. There was only one who may be able to do that, and he may only succeed if he destroys the world too. Such power, such beliefs and intents... a terrible battle would follow.
Empty husks were all that remained of some of the buildings on the outer edge of the city, and every pane of glass up to one hundred miles away had been smashed and, in the closer cases, obliterated into dust.
Lord Voldemort laughed, cackled into the heated, wailing air. From his fists green light now shone and he pointed one skeletal finger towards the sky.
"Morsmordre!"
The Dark Mark, something the entire world was learning to fear, flew up into the sky on a ribbon of sparkling green light. A hundred times its normal size, the flaming skull and snake was fused onto the horizon itself, a monumental blight over the burning plains of England. Voldemort mused that even
Potter might not be able to remove it, such was his strength whilst casting it.
His work almost done, Voldemort regretted only not hearing the screams of the millions he had sent into the void that night. Moving slowly through the ash and flames, he cleared a patch of the smog and dirt covered sky with a thought and left his message in two hundred foot high letters of purple flame.
Happy Birthday, Harry
Casting a final look at the maelstrom of destruction still rending this part of the world apart, Voldemort smiled and laughed once again – a final time. In all the years the human race had feared Hell, and the Devil, no artist had ever created such an accurate image of the inferno as the one the Dark Lord had that night.
The land groaned with relief as Voldemort disappeared, as it could now die in peace.
*~*~*~*
Fifty two minutes later
As soon as Harry apparated into the acrid, smoky air shrouding the remains of the city of Manchester he fell to his knees from the unexpected heat and flames. A century of learning how to survive had prepared him for anything however, and no sooner had his knees hit the ground than a shield of crystal blue light sprang into existence around him.
He purified the air in the shield and regained his footing, looking around in growing horror as the howling wind pushed the smoke around, revealing here and there half-glimpses of the chaos and destruction that had been done here so recently.
The most terrifying sight a moment later, however, was Harry Potter himself. His eyes were sparkling dangerously and his jaw, broken a lost number of times, hardened until it seemed every small strand of his stubble stood to attention. He had to unclench his fists, but not before his fingernails had drawn blood in his calloused palms.
A warning, Ethan said, a message.
The smoke cleared overhead for a few seconds and then Harry saw the words wrought in flame hanging in the sky, beyond which the Dark Mark burned ever brighter and mocked him from above.
Harry screamed – roared. Defiance, his will to resist, raged with uncontrollable fury. His anger was like a stone cast into a wasp's nest, worse.
The Darkslayer, beyond tired, raised his hand to the sky. The clouds bowed out before him and the wind cleared his path for him. The mocking words, the evil mark – unnatural atrocities on the health of the world – would not resist him.
"VOLDEMORT!" Harry screamed. "VOLDEMORT!"
No incantations – no Latin – not anymore and never again. Pure emotion powered the beam of light that rocketed up into the sky and blasted through the words, shattering them into sparks before continuing on to the Dark Mark. When the light struck that, the malevolent creation simply disappeared.
Still in a rage strong enough to pull down the heavens, Harry apparated away – there was nothing more he could do here. He had failed, in a small way, once more.
Failed... and his defences, that staved off the madness he had once been smothered in, were weakening because off it. What would happen to this world, to all worlds, should Harry's rage be truly unleashed....?
*~*~*~*
August 5th
Following the explosion of a nuclear weapon in the United Kingdom, an emergency session of the United Nations had been called in order to offer aid to the nation that had suffered a spate of terrorist attacks over the last few months, each of increasing ferocity.
The last, on August 1st, had carried none of the characteristics of a conventional weapon of mass destruction, save the destruction it had caused. No one knew what had happened, why it had happened, or who was to blame. Anarchy had gripped the United Kingdom and civil unrest was the least of the government's problems.
The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom had been unreachable for the last week, and many had begun to suspect that he had gone into hiding.
Which, again, was uncharacteristic of the man who had led the UK these last few years. The man they knew would be hitting back hard with all the fury of his armed forces.
So the ambassador for England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland had little to say at the meeting, for he had no one to report to, had no information on the disaster, but accepted the aid on behalf of his country. It was needed, desperately.
And all over the world the Muggle governments prepared themselves for similar attacks, as their magical counterparts informed them of the terrible truth – that this was an act of war by the Dark Lord Voldemort, and that none of them were safe anymore.
Thoughts of the magical community turned to Harry Potter, the rebellious boy they had all condemned for his acts, but were beginning to realise was their only hope of salvation. Slowly, but surely, they were seeing the light.
It was too late, however, and they could do nothing.
Potter and Voldemort would do whatever they did, and the survivors would be left to pick up the pieces afterwards.
*~*~*~*
August
7th
The
Fate of the Earth
It had taken Harry more than a few days for his rage to subside over the massacre in the north of England. He had disappeared for some time, gone to calm down, and had emerged possessing such a cold calm that it was impossible to tell that he had ever been enraged.
He returned to a world of chaos – the muggles in uproar, the magical folk frightened beyond their wits – and learning that vast scores of people were disappearing from the towns and smaller cities in Scotland. No bodies had been found, but entire townships were empty – completely deserted.
Harry feared the worst there.
Two days ago he had met with the hierarchy of the Believers of Twilight, the secret society of dreamers who had seen him walking across time and space in the quest for the Ways, and who had long held their belief in the Darkslayer a secret from the world, extending invitations to those, like Luna Lovegood, who were more in touch with the world around them than others.
The level of reverence that the men and women of that society showed him annoyed Harry to no end – they treated him like some sort of god, which was a title Harry did not want to claim, ever. The leadership of the society was very impressive, as Dumbledore had promised. A few Ministers and directors of the world's intelligence organisations, wealthy individuals and those with vast resources scattered around the globe.
In secret, Finland, Holland and Sweden had all pledged their allegiance in the coming war. Harry knew he had to make some ambassadors for his interests to all his growing allies. Remus Lupin, Dumbledore, and a few others like Tonks and Dermas would probably make good ambassadors, but they would have to be let in on more of the plan than anyone else.
Even his closest friends.
That had to change, he knew, and soon. Ron, Hermione... and Ginny, they all had their parts to play, whether for good or ill remained unseen.
The Believers were a cult, of sorts, but one of impressive influence. It would help a lot to already have some factions in the American government supporting him, when he made his bid for control there.
Those were Harry's thoughts as he sat alone, in one of the darkest rooms of his manor house on the southern coast of Australia. Alone that was, save for Ethan – always save Ethan. His conscience that could think for itself....
There was scarcely any light save from the pale torches flickering on the wall, and the glow of the tiny power crystals that scattered the desk before him almost haphazardly. Harry sat at a long workbench and around him wires, pieces of metal – some glowing red hot – were littered with sparse care.
Tools – pliers and tweezers, a hammer and tongs – lay on the bench before him which, in turn, was burnt and scorched in numerous places. The smell of electricity, magic and heat was heavy in the air.
"We're almost there," Harry whispered.
One step closer to the edge, Ethan sighed.
A scroll of parchment was unfurled nearby, stained with ink drops and burnt around the edges from the experiments Harry had been doing all day. It was a parchment Harry had only shown to two others, and they had refused to have anything to do with it.
For written upon the parchment was knowledge Harry had gained at the Ways of Twilight, knowledge of tremendous implications.....
Harry was building a bomb.
No, not a bomb. The Final Bomb.
His failsafe device, the last straw, when all the shit had indeed hit the fan and the fan has broken away from the ceiling and crashed into the ground.
"Almost, almost, almost...." he chanted, madness burning his very soul. One could not be sane and create such a thing as what sat before him on the bench.
A small device, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, and round like a dome – black as the night – and cut open at the top, revealing several dozen ultra small power crystals, fuelled with enough raw power to end the war utterly. Wiring, copper tubing laced with liquid titanium for extra strength, and a series of small flutes that, when activated, would shake at such frequencies as to unleash a wave of destruction unparalleled in this, or any, universe.
The Final Bomb, Harry called it, and the name was apt. Oh God, was it apt.
Harry had been constructing it for hours now – and he had lost all track of the time. His right leg was numb, cramped, but things were still too unstable for him to move and have a break. Soon, maybe, soon....
He had been proceeding with the utmost care ever since he began, as he was very, very tired. His eyes looked haunted, shrunken back into his skull, and his scarred skin was pale and his hands were prone to bouts of shaking.
And Harry saw the Bomb as something beautiful, whilst respecting its devastating power. What it did... how it did it... would be magnificent, should the time come when all else was lost and he simply had to push the button.
"As deadly as it is beautiful," he mumbled, slipping another tiny crystal into place and only remembering to breathe after that was done.
It connected life force – that was where the Bomb got its strength.
The frequencies it sent out, fuelled by the power crystals, would tie each and every human being on this planet together with invisible cords, and in that moment – as six billion lives became one, the human race would truly be one race upon one planet. Borders and skin colour, religion and belief would
be washed away as humanity understood itself.
For one brief moment, in the history of the world, no one would want to harm anyone – could not even conceive of such a thing.
Then the Bomb really got to work, and used the raw energy in each and every one of the life forces it connected – split ever atom in every body in a single instant.
Game over, Ethan smiled.
The explosion would be magnificent, lighting up the heavens for years, and it would annihilate the earth and everything in it.
It would stop the war, but at a cost that was unbearable.
Only, and if he was near death himself, if all was lost... would Harry use it.
"And I would," he said. "I could push the button without hesitating...."
But how does one know if all is lost...?
What are the signs...?
Some time later, Harry finished his weapon and sealed the fate of his world. It was lighter than he thought it would be, and he slipped it into his pocket without giving it a second glance – having only waited for it to cool. There was no way to test if it was operational, that it would work, but Harry felt
that it would.
It was insane enough to work.
*~*~*~*
August
10th
Grimmauld
Place
It had been nearly eleven full days since Harry was last attacked by anything, and he was beginning to feel extremely nervous. Since he had been back in this world, going on four months, he had been attacked at least once a week by something, and the week leading up to his birthday about every five minutes, but nothing really since the battle he had lost his leg in.
Harry wasn't about to fall into a trap, however, and because he hadn't been attacked, was expecting it all the more. He pitied the next creature, whatever it was, that attacked him – for he was wound up and almost anxious for a fight.
He was sitting in the old kitchen, cradling a cup of tea with his shaking hands that Hermione had just made him. She sat opposite him, picking absently at a salad and searching for a topic of conversation. Ron and Ginny – the entire Weasley clan – were at the Ministry, meeting and greeting the foreign aid ministers.
Harry had arrived at Grimmauld Place about ten minutes ago to find only Hermione and a few members of the Order. Of all his old friends he had met since returning, Harry felt as if he and Hermione had not really bonded, as he had to a greater extent with the others.
Ron and Ginny.
This awkward silence was proof enough of that, and he did want to change the situation, if he could.
"How's Creation holding up?" Hermione asked, her eyes alight and a small smile on her lips. "I hear reality collapsed a few days ago...."
Harry smiled sadly. "Just a part of it – nothing overly important. How are you holding up?"
His question seemed to catch her off guard. "I'm... I'm fine, Harry."
"No you're not," he said, staring at her hard. "Spill it, Hermione, what's up?"
Hermione glared at him but couldn't hold his gaze for long. She sighed. "I'm afraid, Harry, okay? I'm terrified... I mean, look where you have brought us! You have answers to life, to the meaning of the universe... but it's all going to be destroyed for reasons I can't understand, no matter how hard I try. I fear not understanding and—"
Harry held up his hand and grinned. "You're rambling on a bit there," he said. "What don't you understand?"
Hermione just shook her head. "Everything... Twilight, the white roses Ginny mentioned – black roses – Good and Evil, Light and Dark, God and the
Devil... where is the sense in all that madness?"
Harry knew that Hermione relied perhaps too much on her books, had always done – it was built into her character, a part of who she was and what made her that much more unique in a world of six billion. She hadn't changed whilst he had been gone, not much, not that he could remember anyway.
All of this, everything he had brought back from that other reality, was way out of her depth... it wasn't in any book.
"I don't think it is supposed to make sense," Harry frowned. "I gave up trying to fit the sane into the insane a long time ago, Hermione. But there's no need to be afraid... if it all ends, it ends – we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." For some reason, that made Harry laugh.
Hermione shook her head. "I'm sorry, Harry," she said, "but I can't face this with the same calm indifference you do. I'm so afraid I feel sick."
"Afraid of what you don't understand...." he nodded. "I don't understand it either – not in the least – all I know is that all of this..." He waved his hand around in the air, as if to say reality. "All of this isn't something to fear – ever. It's something to be conquered, overcome, defeated."
"How about something to be appreciated?" Hermione shrugged. "It doesn't all have to be about war. God, if there is a god, didn't make it to be all bad...."
Harry's sharp eyes flared with... anger. "You see the mind of the ever-absent Creator now?" he asked, clenching his tea cup a little too hard as it almost buckled under the pressure. His anger faded. "Perhaps you're right," he conceded. "And I emphasise perhaps. But know this, Hermione, if there is a Creator, out there somewhere... I would not be able to show Him mercy."
Hermione gasped. "You must have faith, Harry, surely?" she asked. "In more to life after death?"
Harry sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. "I'd like to think there was nothing but blissful forgetfulness after death, Hermione, I really would – but I know better. No, we exist forever in some form – and always will – I have to carry the memory of everything I've ever done, the millions I've killed, the worlds I've burned... forever. Do you think I'm being punished?"
Hermione's face seemed to fall and she looked at him with such pity that Harry wanted to leave, but he stayed. "'It will never be over, not for you,'" she whispered. "You don't believe that, do you?"
Harry laughed, with an edge of bitterness. "It is the only thing that has ever remained constant in my life," he said.
"I don't think you're being punished, Harry, not that. You're doing the best you can for what is right, beyond right – what is good."
"But who decided that I had to do that? The Creator? The Darkslayer was foreseen at the Beginning of Time, Hermione...." Harry's voice trailed away to almost nothing. "Is this... is this only a test?" he asked, almost desperately. "Is that all life is, because I won't accept that! I don't want an afterlife, if we're judged by what we do in this reality, that is simply wrong."
"Well, you'd know better than I...." Hermione whispered, more than a little intimidated by Harry at that moment.
Harry seemed to realise he was coming on a bit strong and fell back, shrinking slightly in his chair and draining his tea cup. "How'd we end up talking about all of this?" he asked softly. "Philosophy... right and wrong... life and death – let's talk about normal things. How are you and Ron?"
Hermione smiled. "We're surviving, Harry, like you. Our relationship is getting rather serious, actually."
Harry arched his eyebrow and smirked until Hermione grinned and rolled her eyes. "I'm happy for you," he said.
"And you and Ginny?" Hermione asked, tapping her chin. "She couldn't stop gushing about that morning you spent in Italy – I think she was worried you weren't human enough to manage it."
"It surprised us both," Harry chuckled, but then that faded away to nothing. "To tell you the truth about Ginny and I... I'm afraid, Hermione, of our relationship."
Hermione frowned and then smiled bemusedly. "You? The Darkslayer afraid of Ginny Weasley?"
"I know!" Harry exclaimed, with forced humour. "If this gets out my reputation will be ruined."
"We can't have that! Tell me what's up, kid?"
Harry stared down at the tabletop in thought, both good and bad, and after a few moments whispered the words that had been haunting him for weeks, "I... I don't think we'll make it, she and I," he said, and a shiver passed through his body. "Maybe... before Twilight, a hundred years ago... four months, whatever, we could have had a chance. But now, now there's too big of a gap that we can't fill, if you follow me. And as reality fails it is only getting bigger.
"I mean, at times there's a hundred year gap between us, but most of the time I feel seventeen again – as I should – because this body never went through the gateway into other worlds. The memories are clearer of life before all the universe hopping on March 21st. That's just a small part of it though...."
Hermione nodded, listening and understanding. This was something she could deal with, as the repercussions would probably not shake the foundations of Time and Space.... well, this was Harry, so they might. No matter.
"You've been making an effort, haven't you?" Hermione asked. "Trying to make it work...."
"Some think the effort hasn't been good enough," Harry replied, tapping the side of his head.
"How is Ethan?"
Tired, like Harry.
"We've been arguing quite a bit," Harry shrugged. "Not the first time, won't be the last."
Hermione nodded and they fell into a not quite comfortable silence, broken only by the wind which was howling through the trees outside. It was a cloudy day, which threatened rain – odd, for summer, but then nothing could be relied upon anymore.
"You do know its Ginny's birthday tomorrow, don't you, Harry?" Hermione asked.
Harry blinked and then sighed. He had forgotten – he could scarcely recall what he had had for breakfast, if it had been anything at all – he was just so damn tired. Not all of his scars were physically visible, some ran deep rifts through his tattered soul and mind. Perhaps he would never sleep again....
"I'd forgotten," he said, the weight of it all heavy in his voice. "I'd forgotten...."
"What are we going to do with you...?" Hermione tsked. "You have to do something special...."
Harry seemed not to have heard her, as his eyes were glazed over and he had to shake himself awake. "I've missed talking to you, Hermione," he
said, distant. "And you're right... you were always right... we do survive." Harry stood up.
"Where are you going then? Ron and Ginny will want to see you, you know."
"Tell them I'm sorry, but I have business to take care of."
"Saving the world?" Hermione asked.
Harry snorted. "God no! Nothing as boring as that. See you later."
He was about to leave but something gave him pause – the fear still present in Hermione's eyes and the way her face had paled in parts of their conversation. There was a strength in Harry that she didn't have, that he was born with and that she would have to earn... He paused and met her eyes.
"Some advice, Hermione, about the world and reality," he began. "Do not be restricted by your knowledge and experience – we're all caught up in the same flow, a few of us are just swimming against it. Abandon logic, and you'll abandon the fear."
*~*~*~*
August 11th
What was once Manchester still burnt ten days after the destruction, and would be uninhabitable for centuries yet to come – if they came. Nothing and no one could get closer to the city centre than half a mile, and even there one was gambling with one's life.
There seemed to be nightmares in the chaos.
It was a raging, toxic inferno, and it would be the perfect place to bring the demons through into this world, Voldemort knew. They could survive quite happily on this waste land... The Dark Lord had ten thousand of his Inferi wandering the desolate plains already, and more would soon follow – the
United Kingdom would become his beachhead unto which the rest of the world would fall, as he unleashed his legions.
*~*~*~*
It was early in the morning and Harry was sleeping, dreaming, but not resting, alone on the sofa in the sitting room of his manor house in Australia. He was fully clothed, right down to his steel capped boots and flowing cloak that he had wrapped around himself for warmth the night before.
It had been a long day, yesterday, with meetings to make, people to see, and weapons to deliver. He needed more weapons, and the British Prime Minister couldn't be found – the man had fled, apparently, but Harry suspected foul play. The man Harry had met was not the type to flee. Nothing he could do about it however.
Harry dreamed.
He was sitting in a deck chair on a shining silver beach – a deserted beach with calm, gently crashing waves that made not a sound and seemed so immaterial as not to exist at all.
Perhaps they did and perhaps they didn't.
Harry blinked, the sky faded to twilight, and he was no longer alone. Another chair appeared alongside him and sitting upon it, smoking a cigarette, was a familiar figure from his dreams.
From the centaur drug trip.
"Shit, Potter," Ralph the pot plant said, "your dreams are seriously fuc—"
"Is this a dream then?"
"It's a choice," Ralph coughed and wheezed, tossing his cigarette away. "You like to make choices, don't you, Harry?"
Harry laughed. "Not through choice, buddy, not through choice."
"Well, then we'll take a chance – one in six with my widowmaker here."
Ralph, somehow, was holding a six-shooter, a long silver revolver with a spinning chamber that was flashing, giving off sparks.
"We're gonna play a little Russian Roulette, Potter – put the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger."
Without hesitating Ralph did so, and the gun clicked once, without any preamble.
The gun was in Harry's hand. It was a dream, he was sure, but dreams could be real – his dreams could be, anyway.
With that in mind, Harry pointed the gun at the side of his head and pulled the trigger to a dry click. He handed it back to Ralph who did the same, again receiving nothing but a dry click.
"Ho, ho," Ralph laughed. "A one in three chance of smearing your brains across this picturesque nightmare."
Harry shrugged, looked straight down the barrel of the gun and pulled the trigger – then laughed. A novelty flag, sporting the word BANG! in bold red letters shot out of the barrel and hit him in the forehead.
"You're dead," Ralph said. "I hope this is not a sign of things to come...."
Harry paused, sighed and turned to gaze out at the sparkling horizon. "Is it wrong to hope it is....?" he whispered.
Harry awoke; at least he thought he did, as he couldn't tell. The barrier between reality and dreams was merging at that moment, falling together like salt and pepper – both opposites, yet they go well together.
There was music, and he realised he had awoken between reality and nothing, on the edge of the canvas of creation. He yawned – this really got old fast. Standing upon a silver walkway with parallel white lights running up its length, Harry heard the dull thud of wood striking metal in the darkness ahead, over the music.
'It doesn't matter who was right, there's no justice in a dream. Never thought a heart could break without making any sound. Is nothing sacred anymore? Is forever just another word? Is a promise something people used to keep, when love was worth fighting for?'
"Meatloaf, that is," said an eerily familiar voice in the darkness, emanating from the direction of the wooden thuds.
"Oh... shit," Harry said, sighed, and then laughed. "Is that you Beelzebub? What're you doing outside of my head?"
Beelzebub, the little midget of a man, barely thigh high and sporting a long silver beard, appeared on the walkway against the darkness in the background, smiling and his eyes sparkling with the hint of memory.
And he was green – a little green man, carrying a walking stick.
"Dreams are reality, so they are," Beelzebub said, grinning and frowning – seemingly an impossible thing to do, but his face did it. "Hate and suffering, this place is."
"Why are you talking like that?"
Beelzebub raised a silver eyebrow. "See Star Wars, you have not. No matter, it is."
Harry chuckled, laughed, and wasn't aware he did so. He threw up his arms and watched as streaks of light seemed to flow out of his fingers and smear across the air. They faded slowly. Reality really was thin here.
"Seal the fracture, you must," Beelzebub continued, stumbling over to Harry and whacking him hard in the shin with his cane. "Your duty, it is."
Harry didn't feel any pain in his shin, as it was metal, and this seemed to surprise the little devil, Beelzebub. "Sorry, dude," Harry grinned. "I'm not the man I used to be."
"Fuck with a Jedi Master, you will not!" Beelzebub exclaimed, and suddenly a wind howled across the void and Harry felt himself sliding back. "The balance, you must restore. Or die, we all."
The last came from the little man as a wail, and everything else was lost in a flash of the brightest light.
Harry awoke again, in reality this time, alone on his leather sofa within his manor house. Sunlight streamed in onto his face through the large window that stretched across the eastern wall and he rolled over with a sigh, already flexing his shoulder to work out the stiffness.
Today was August 11th, he knew, Ginny's birthday. Depending on the time here, it might still be August 10th, just before midnight, in the United Kingdom – at Grimmauld Place, where he had last seen his friends. That gave him at least ten hours to deal with the day's business before going to see her, and making the effort.
But he was tired. It seemed like only an hour ago he had laid down to rest, and it almost had been. Two hours ago he had fallen asleep here, after a day much like any other – save for the fact that he hadn't been attacked. It was becoming a real concern now, that things were progressing faster than he could manage and that maybe...
Maybe all of your enemies have united, under Voldemort, for a single attack... Ethan mused. If that is the case then you won't be able to save this world, although you may still win the war.
Harry yawned and shook his head to clear it. He needed some coffee – coffee would wake him up. "I won't count it a win if I have to sacrifice that which I fought so hard for before...."
Do you ever wonder what the Guardians are up to?
"Fighting the Destroyers if we're lucky, but we're not, so I'd say they've been wiped out." Harry rolled his head in circles until his neck cracked satisfyingly. "I could have used them... actually, so that sucks."
No matter, aye....
"I won't make it a problem," Harry shrugged. "Just something that would've helped."
Harry stood up fast, and as he did streaks of colour washed around him in a swirly mess of blue and yellow, black and green – red and silver. He swayed, knocked off balance by the colour and then slowly raised his hand. Streaks of grey trailed after his fingers, like jagged claw marks, through the air.
Harry just shook his head.
He ran his hands in circles and smudged the colour, which smudged the reality beyond it. Harry laughed then, and streams of green colour fell from his
mouth. He knew what this was.
Reality had entered the next stage of its destruction. As Harry knew, reality could be likened to a canvas – upon which an artist, the Artist, had painted the world and everything in it. This colour he was seeing now was the paint of that creation, melting and smudging together at his hand.
Harry blinked and the smudges in the air faded, as if they'd never been. An old failsafe built into the matrix of creation, of the reality governing the mortal worlds, had sealed over this fracture against the system, but it was only temporary – there was only so much that could be done, and soon nothing would help.
Harry forgot about it almost immediately as other pressing concerns entered his mind, with Ginny at the forefront. He walked away through, relatively speaking, clean reality and went and made some toast.
*~*~*~*
Hell, for what it's worth
Lord Voldemort stood alone in the inferno of Manchester, the ash covered plains upon which stood husks of buildings, dry river beds and patches of roaring flame that, at times, grew white hot. The Dark Lord revelled in this waste land he had created, as did his Inferi.
He could sense them, wandering the burning plains, in their thousands. Soon to be hundreds of thousands. Millions, in the coming months. One could never have enough servants. Voldemort knew he would need them if he was going to conquer other worlds.
And only one obstacle stood in the way of that goal.
Potter, of course. It was always Potter.
The ground quivered, wept, with Voldemort's anger.
Between his hands a dark storm cloud was brewing, on a small scale now but it would grow. It roared with all the fury of the Dark Lord, reaching up
towards the sky like a slithering snake. The storm demon he had conjured so many weeks ago would be a pale shadow against the enormity of this storm.
Voldemort knew now, that no power could match his – or Potter's, save their own. He did not need spells, or enchantments – hexes and curses – he was magic, in its purest, but sadly twisted, form. He and Potter, two halves of a whole, destined to fight to the death.
And to the winner went Creation... what was left of it.
*~*~*~*
Number Twelve Grimmauld Place held a lot of memories for Harry, those he could remember, and the majority of them were not happy. This was where Dumbledore had insisted Sirius Black, his godfather, remain for almost the entirety of his fifth year – a mistake that cost the man his life.
That was a lifetime ago, but death meant nothing to time, and vice versa. If this life Harry had lived, was living, was just a game – merely a game – of chess, say, then Sirius had been a pawn. One with free will to make the choices he made, but still just a pawn.
Cannon fodder in any game.
Does that make you the King? Or perhaps you're a Knight? Ethan's laughter bounced off the inside of Harry's head. You were a pawn once, back in time, maybe you still are...?
"Whether I'm a pawn or a king doesn't matter," Harry sighed. "At the end of the day they're all still playing pieces."
Where are your friends in this game?
"Behind me, but still on the front lines."
Harry tested the top stair in the house carefully with the tip of his boot before stepping down on to it. He wouldn't put it past the twins to leave their enchantment upon it. It was safe.... yes, it was safe. Harry glided down the stairs.
He found Ginny, Ron, Hermione and a group of Order members all enjoying lunch in the kitchen. Ginny jumped up out of her seat when she saw him and Harry caught her in a quick embrace, whispering happy birthday into her ear before they both squeezed into the same chair.
"How's your day been so far?" he asked, conscious that the Order members, whoever they were for he recognised none, were slowly leaving the room.
"We spent the morning back at the Burrow," Ginny said, and began to put together a sandwich of ham and mustard for Harry. From the look of him she thought he hadn't been eating and sleeping well the last few days. "Mum's there now, making the twins clean up the mess they made."
Harry smiled. "Oh?"
"Don't ask," Hermione shuddered. "It involved a lot of bubbles, foam, and garden gnomes."
"You had a good morning then? I'm sorry I wasn't there for it...."
Ginny nodded, her face emotionless. "What kept you?"
Harry took a bite of his sandwich and chewed it thoughtfully, not really tasting it. He wasn't that hungry – never was these days, just tired.
"Politics," he said eventually. "There's a rebellion in the Australian Ministry, an underground movement to overthrow me. I think it's the Americans,
John Rafter... if I had the time I'd deal with it, but there are more pressing matters."
"Such as?" Hermione asked.
Harry's eyes flashed, powerful – a glimpse of the madness and the steel inside of him that he had tempered down over the decades – and then they faded and died. The sunken pools brought on, wrought into his face by a lack of, inability, to sleep.
"I can't...." Harry said. "I can't put out the fires of Manchester."
"What?"
Harry just shook his head and then held up his hands. They were pale, calloused and burnt. Shaking uncontrollably, his fingers were covered with cuts and scratches.
"I've tried, but there's a... a will, resisting me. It's Voldemort – Voldemort doesn't want the flames out and I can't overcome that."
A shudder ran around the table and the room seemed to darken. Perhaps it did darken; such things were possible around Harry. Anything was possible for nothing was impossible. Nothing!
"He's... he's stronger than you?" Ron asked, unable to mask the fear in his voice. If Harry couldn't beat him then they were dead – the only real truth.
"I don't know," Harry said, and his voice was clear and calm. He wasn't afraid, anxious or... or anything. "I just couldn't do it – my magic only scarred the ground further."
"Maybe it's because you're tired," Ginny suggested. "Not getting enough sleep."
Can't get enough sleep, Ethan whispered.
Harry thought about that for a moment and then his mind jumped to the next problem, pushing the previous one to the back. "There's something big building up as well." He looked directly into the eyes of all his friends. "Soon – perhaps a few minutes or perhaps a few days – but soon."
"What do you mean big?" Hermione asked, her brow crinkling as Ron draped his arm across her shoulders, unconsciously pulling her closer.
Harry grinned his insane grin and linked his fingers together. "Hand of God type stuff, if you believe in all that crap. Everything's going to change, again, and a lot of people are going to die, again."
"Same old, same old," Ginny sighed. "What are we going to do?"
"Harden ourselves against the storm," Harry replied, and then his face began to fade. It was the closest Harry had come to showing the strain in a long, long time. "I... I fear...."
Ginny held him close, concern once again flashing in her eyes and in her every movement. Whatever could unnerve Harry... he was always so strong, always survived. What could break him....?
Harry took a deep breath and forced himself to take control of the situation, as he had always done and would so long as he drew breath. "This is going to stretch beyond our world soon," he said, calm as ever once again. A ripple of the eleven year old Harry that once lived under the stairs had almost broken to the surface then, but who he was now reasserted itself. "A lot of bad things are about to happen, and whether or not we can or will accept it we are all this poorly written story has for heroes."
"Well..." Ron swallowed audibly. "Thanks for the fair warning, mate."
"What next?" Hermione asked.
Harry raised an eyebrow and then smiled wryly. "Now? Now, now, now..." He stood up and took Ginny's hand. "It's your birthday, Gin. Let's go get some birthday cake in Paris. I seem to recall promising you that once upon a time."
Ginny laughed and spun into his arms. "You were almost unconscious and the white rose you gave me had just blown apart the foyer of the Ministry in Australia."
Harry blinked. "I'd forgotten it was then... but that reminds me." He raised his right hand and flicked it once, twice, three times and it shone briefly, the light fading to reveal three glowing white roses, thornless green storks and dew covered buds that were blossoming to their fullest. "One for each of you...."
Ron and Hermione took them without comment, the confusion and curiosity evident on their faces. Ginny held hers to her nose briefly and looked over at Harry across it.
"These were quite powerful in the Ministry," she said, a hint of a question in her voice. "Especially when mixed with blood...."
"Powerful," Harry agreed with a nod. "But also unpredictable... some of the things I've seen a white rose do. They've stopped wars, ended battles, rained across a field of demons. A storm of them. For all that, I have no idea why they exist or why they do what they do."
"You have any thoughts?" Hermione asked, gazing in wonder at the flower she held.
Harry shook his head, but then looked pensive. "Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, I reckon it may have something to do with opposites. A great truth that everything has an opposite... but I'm not sure."
"It's a mystery then," Ron shrugged.
Harry nodded. "To solve the mystery of the white rose would be to understand why we exist at all, that I believe. And why creation is worth saving, worth going to all this trouble for."
It may even hold the secret to redemption, Ethan mused. For both of us....
If we deserve it, Harry replied. And with what we're planning I doubt we ever will.
"Surely it is worth saving anyway," Hermione said carefully, gauging Harry's response. "Anything is preferable to total destruction."
Harry laughed and took Ginny's hand again, staring down at it as if gripped by an odd thought. Then he looked up, and once again his eyes flashed with barely suppressed rage. Rage he fought against every minute of every day. It was his anger at his role in life, what he had to do, who he had to drag in to it....
"I would prefer total destruction to an existence where Allarius, or Voldemort, assumes the command of Twilight... should that happen, I'll destroy it myself."
*~*~*~*
It was a warm, sunny day in Paris when Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione arrived in the early afternoon, having all apparated here under Harry's power. It was summer in the Northern Hemisphere, quite a hot one this year, but there was a cool wind blowing in from the north off the channel. An odd wind, for the current climate, but there none the less.
The streets of Paris were busy and clean and the Eiffel Tower rose to its height above the city in the distance, atop of terraced houses and buildings – shops and businesses. Dressed in his black jeans, shirt and cloak, with his headband hiding his always burning scar, Harry attracted more than one or two odd looks.
After Harry 'borrowed' some money from the muggle cash machine, they found a restaurant on the river, overlooking the city and sporting a menu of fine French cuisine – including a wide variety of most excellent cake.
The four friends, and Ethan – not quite a friend, not quite much of anything – spent the next few hours under the warm sun talking about mundane things, and rarely broaching the serious, creation-devastating problems that so plagued them.
Hermione told Harry that they were planning to reopen Hogwarts on September 1st, as they had always done and that Dumbledore wanted to see him about extra security. He made a mental note of that – added it to his list. He didn't have high hopes for the old school, but he'd do his best to see it remained standing with the time he had.
There was talk of the top-secret base all the papers were saying that Harry was constructing in the heart of Australia, and what he planned to do there. Oppose Voldemort, was his answer – and that was true but told them nothing. Harry wanted to tell them more, but couldn't yet. It was just too early, some things still too delicate.
"We understand, Harry," Ginny had said. She wasn't happy with it, but she understood.
And, of course, what birthday lunch could be complete without a cake? Harry ordered a full, rich chocolate cake and conjured some candles for it.
Ginny beamed – she was enjoying the day, which made Harry smile. These days it was a rare thing for him to smile without a glimpse of insanity in his eyes, but seeing Ginny happy did that.
All good things had to come to an end, however, and late afternoon found the four of them walking slowly, Harry and Ginny with their arms linked,
Ron and Hermione the same, along the promenade before the giant metal construct that was the Eiffel Tower. It was a quiet, calm day – almost deceivingly so, and it was here before the tower that it was time to leave.
"I wonder if you could drop me off at my home, Harry," Hermione said, and Ron nodded slowly.
Harry recalled that Hermione's parents had insisted on going home a week or two ago – perhaps a month, he couldn't remember – to pack up their belongings into storage. They would abide by Hermione's wishes to stay at the manor house in Australia, but they were not leaving their life behind just the same.
"I'd like to see my parents," Hermione continued. "See how packing is going."
Harry nodded, thinking about something else – what, he forgot a moment later. Probably wasn't important. "Here," he said, and removed one of the unused French banknotes from his pocket. It shone blue for an instant and then faded. "Portkey – double portkey – it'll take you to your home and then to Grimmauld Place afterwards, if you want to go back there. Just tap it with your wand – should work in a loop like that for, well, for as long as the paper lasts."
A feat beyond any normal magical person, and Harry had done it without any real thought. Hermione really thought she should be used to his power by now, but she was not.
"Thank you," she said, taking the note and Ron's hand. With a final goodbye shared between the four friends, whose choices would soon shake the universe, Hermione and Ron disappeared silently, hiding in plain sight from the muggles who failed to notice a thing.
Another gust of cold wind blew in from the north just as they disappeared, and it had an ominous feeling to Harry. His instincts told him something was amiss, that there was trouble. He had learnt to trust those instincts implicitly over the years. Trouble, and heading his way.
Forcing a smile onto his face, which became genuine when Ginny returned it, he grasped her hand and they quickly kissed – nothing grand, but of love
just the same. It seemed to fit.
And that, the afternoon of August 11th, was the last time that Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione were together as one, this side of death, for some time.
*~*~*~*
Rage Awoken
After Paris, Harry and Ginny apparated to the twilight evening on the southern coast of Australia, and spent the remaining hour or so of light strolling hand in hand down the beach, as small waves crashed gently and the tide rushed up against their ankles.
They sat in the sand and kissed, a little more lustfully than usual, but Harry wasn't complaining. In all of his long years he had never been this close to anyone, and the fact that it was Ginny – whom he had fought Fate and Destiny for – made his heart race. In those moments, when their tongues danced, he could almost believe that things would turn out for the best.
They laughed together and, with unspoken consent, their hands dared into previously untouched territory across their bodies – gently, curiously, with great care. The light was failing fast as twilight descended into full night and as the stars began to appear, one by one, Harry and Ginny walked back up to the house – both a little flushed but... eager... to continue their previous explorations.
Now, a lot of factors had hardened Harry into who he was. The Darkslayer, the Last Hero, Lord of Twilight... and so on, but love had never been one of them. He had lost everyone he had ever cared about once, almost twice, and had to do some pretty damn distasteful things to stay alive.
But not anymore, for he had love now – one life, Ginny, in all the countless life across creation, she loved him. An emotional connection stronger than hate, anger, pain... death.
They went to bed together.
Slowly now, carefully, as neither had any experience in this area, they started with a kiss. Both of their hearts were racing, Harry's skin was tingling and he was sure all of his hair was standing on end from the nerves he was feeling. That made him laugh, and Ginny did too. Of all the things he had done.... this was making him the most nervous.
"I love you," they whispered, one after the other. Ginny, surprised by her own boldness, began to gently unbutton Harry's shirt to reveal his chest. He shivered as her fingers ran across the old scars and one or two burns. She kissed his neck and he returned the favour.
There was a point, Harry knew, where there would be no turning back. He felt it inside of himself and was sure Ginny did as well, if the look in her eyes was anything to go by. But neither wanted to stop – they wanted to love.
Harry felt something then – something that wasn't love – and he could have wept.
He had undone a few of the buttons on Ginny's blouse, revealing a glimpse of the pale skin beneath, and she was quite calmly undoing the button on his jeans, when his stomach wrenched so hard that he was almost sick.
"No...." he whispered, and Ginny glanced up sharply.
"No....?" she said, rejection in her eyes. "You don't want...."
Harry screamed as his scar exploded. Blood sprayed forth from it like a fountain and splattered across Ginny's face. She screamed as Harry rolled beneath her and she almost fell off the bed. Confused, scared, Ginny held her hands to her ears as an unholy screeching filled the room and the drapes on the bed, and the curtains, erupted into flame.
Harry's Darkslayer sense, that sensed evil – the Destroyers and the demons, tore at him painfully and Voldemort's laughter echoed in his mind – it was coming out of his own mouth as well, but he didn't hear that.
She's mine, Potter, a voice in his head said and Harry laughed again.
The room was on fire, somewhere across the face of the world a gateway into the Boundary had been opened and Voldemort was now exerting all of his will against him, his power, to incapacitate him.
He wouldn't allow it – couldn't allow it.
Ginny screamed and tried to hold Harry down as he tossed and turned. His face was smeared with blood, as were the sheets and an arc of it had splattered against the headboard and wall, too. She had to get him out of here, as the bed frame was quickly burning under the unnatural flames, as was the far wall – the heat was extraordinary, but there was no smoke.
The screaming, which reminded Ginny of Dementors, stopped then but Harry continued to writhe. A great slashing sound filled the air and Ginny turned to the source of it, her scream of terror caught in her throat as she saw the space above the floor and before the door tear open as if with a scythe and dark light pour into the room from some terrifying source.
Then Ginny was truly afraid, for there were nightmares in that abomination of a gateway.
Tendrils of dark light, shining black, shot out of the void and latched themselves onto Harry's arms. Ginny was thrown aside, onto the floor, and a tentacle of the same substance wrapped itself around her ankle and began to pull her towards the hissing gateway of darkness. She struggled to grasp onto anything, but it was hopeless.
Harry's flesh burnt as the tendrils of dark light wrapped around his chest and arms, and his metal leg. He pulled against them, he could hear Ginny screaming, and it was that more than anything else that gave him the strength to blast through the evil that was seeping in the room.
"Out... of my... head...." he moaned, and forced Voldemort's presence from his mind with thoughts of Ginny, of loving Ginny. Something the Dark Lord detested and could not abide. Power he knew not.
All at once Harry's vision cleared and he saw flames enveloping the ceiling, burning flames that were smokeless. Ginny screamed again, and Harry turned to behold the gateway in his room. He roared when he saw it, saw the thing dragging Ginny through it, and without another thought leapt from the bed – cut and burnt – clawing desperately across the floor towards her.
"HARRY!" she screamed, and in her eyes was fear.
In Harry's eyes was determination, and anger. He hurled himself across the floor, which was burning now, and flung his arm forward towards Ginny's outstretched fingers. He fell short by less than half an inch.
His eyes did widen in fear then and he cried, "NO!" a moment before she was sucked into the gateway, itself writhed in flame. Harry stood up in a heartbeat and ran at the hole in space, but it was closing. He leapt, knowing he was too late, and fell through nothing but air, hitting the door hard and splintering it against his back. Dazed, Harry swore and a cold fury descended upon him.
So cold... that the temperature in the room dropped to below zero, and the flames burning everything spluttered and died. He clenched his fists, biting back the fear for Ginny's life, and then apparated across the planet to Scotland.
He was going after her, of course, and there was only one place she could be.
He wasn't wearing any shoes, his shirt was a tattered ruin from the flames and his eyes were wide and large with fury. His face was smeared with blood from the scar and it gave him a crazed, insane, almost suicidal look. Heads were about to roll.
It was raining in Scotland, in the mountain range of Glencoe. Heavily, unnaturally – this storm had been conjured by Voldemort; he sensed the Dark Lord's taint immediately. Red lightning rippled across striated, black streaked clouds that rumbled with thunder and rain.
And he didn't sense any life at all, for dozens of miles in any direction – but there were dark creatures, dark creatures in their thousands. Inferi, he sensed, having fought them before and knowing their evil – scattered all across the countryside.
Don't die for her, Ethan said, in a voice surprisingly unlike his usual calm tones. Just remember what you're trying to save....
Harry ignored him – didn't ever hear him.
He was at Kinlochleven – the mining town that bordered the Loch Leven, and upon which – on the side of the nearby mountain – Slytherin Fortress existed one thousand years in the past, buried in a time bubble but accessible from a portal stone on the other side of the Loch, which was turbulent, unruly – high waves from the gale force winds crashing against the shore.
Harry sensed that magic now, at work on the side of the mountain. Already his clothes hung to his body from the rain and all the blood had been washed away – a steady trickle still ran down from his scar, however, but it was washed clean almost as soon as it appeared.
"I'm coming, you bastards," Harry whispered, utterly alone save for his enemies at that moment. There were dark shadows ahead in the sheets of rain, and Harry knew that the walking dead had felt his life, and were coming for it. He had no time for such trivialities.
His palms blazed with the power of eternity, of Twilight, and he grasped at the air – scarcely aware of what he was doing, he sought out the fold in reality that hid the fortress away and found it straight away.
Harry pulled and the air groaned as he untwisted the magic Salazar Slytherin had wrought a millennium ago. It didn't take much, and with a sound alike that of shattering glass, Slytherin Fortress was brought into the present, growing harshly out of the mountainside as a black spike.
It was here, Harry knew, that Ginny had died once before. Not his Ginny, a Ginny of another world, but one he had not been able to save all the same.
There was green light on the roof, above the parapets, upon the cut-off platform that he had killed a weaker Voldemort upon, and where he and Ethan had been merged into one as the Killing Curse, mixed with raw strength, split his soul from his body and imprisoned it in Harry. Voldemort was up there, Harry knew, as were old friends.
And Ginny – she had to be. They would know he was here, as well. He had not been overly subtle in wrenching the fortress a thousand years into the future.
Harry apparated up there without a second thought.
And so began... the greatest test of his life.
*~*~*~*