Harry Potter and the Soul of the Hero
Chapter 27 – The Last Creation
And we're glowing like the metal
on the edge of a knife!
~~Meatloaf
"You are sure of this, Severus?" Dumbledore asked the potions master, seated as he was in his old familiar chair at Hogwarts. As always, the portraits of old headmasters dozed in their frames, and the myriad of weird and wonderful silver instruments did whatever they were supposed to do.
Snape scowled and sipped at the glass of amber coloured liquid he held between his shaking hands. That shaking was a betrayal – the pain hadn't
been that bad, only a little worse than usual. The firewhiskey burnt on the way down but it was a relief to the fire already burning in his throat – a sign of cruciatus abuse
"I am certain, Headmaster. The Dark Lord plans to bring these… these demons, that Potter spoke of, through into our world."
Snape suppressed a shiver as he recalled the first meeting of all of the Dark Lord's human servants in many weeks. Some thousands had crowded into the burning remnants of the muggle city Manchester, and some thousands had heard their Lord speak about the coming months.
Snape did not doubt that he wasn't the only spy in the Dark Lord's ranks, but – contrary to the past – the Dark Lord no longer seemed to care if his plans were known or not. As a member of the inner circle, Snape knew more than most, and more than he ever had.
That Voldemort was no longer human, he was certain. Just what he was defied belief, explanation. He was… less, ill. And supremely powerful. He had ordered the Death Eaters to stand guard soon, against the armies that would rise against him in the time it would take to bring through the millions of demons that would serve as the Dark Lord's fodder for war.
"He wants to use the central plains of North America," Snape continued, and then downed his remaining whiskey in one gulp, relishing the burn. "Soon – by the end of August. Again, he told everyone this, and again I believe it was the truth."
Dumbledore sighed. "I do not know what concerns me more," he said, eyes dwindling. "That which he intends to do, or that he no longer cares who knows of his plans."
"He has also rescinded a previous order, Headmaster, concerning Potter."
"Harry?"
"He is to be killed on sight – by any servant, and the same all those known to be close to him. No quarter – no mercy – is to be given. Granger and
Weasley follow close on his list behind yourself and Potter."
Dumbledore nodded. "I can no longer provide extra protection for any of us, Severus," he said. "We have reached the limit of protection wards through conventional magic."
"And unconventional?"
"We are moving our command behind shields Harry has implanted in the Australian desert, and that Ronald is going to have installed beneath the wards here at Hogwarts. The new school year will begin on September 1st, as always."
"And what of the demons?"
Dumbledore hesitated before speaking, casting his mind over information Severus was not privy to. Knowledge concerning the true identity of Godric
Gryffindor, who had acquiesced to be known simply as 'Ric' – a member of the Order and nothing more. Ron, Hermione and Dumbledore were the only three people on the planet who knew who he truly was.
And for now, it would stay that way.
"If they are truly as numerous as Tom believes they are, then our best hope lies with Harry. But he may not return in time…" If at all. "Harry's army, the Legion of the Darkslayer, will be ready to move on North America come the time." Here Dumbledore paused once again. "It may soon be time to choose one side forever, Severus. I trust you know where you belong."
Snape barked bitter laughter. "I belong at Hogwarts, Headmaster."
"As do I, my friend, as do I."
At Hogwarts, where the war that now threatens the entire world first began, and perhaps where it will end. If end it will....
*~*~*~*
Lord Voldemort sat alone in the ramshackle old manor house once owned by his father – Riddle. It was here, going on two years ago, he had been reborn into something more than human, into something more.
At the time, he had been no stronger than before his downfall. But he had been alive again, and then all that changed when Potter once again survived the dreaded Avada Kedavra, once more defied death, and imparted some of his ethereal power into Voldemort.
The Dark Lord smiled; his eyes dim like fiery coals. Although he sat upon this world, in the velvet armchair by the old fireplace on the second floor of the Riddle House; although he was there, his mind stretched beyond such perceptions of reality and space time.
He was looking back at the Beginning, and at what Potter had done in another reality, across a different path and on all the worlds he and the mighty
Darkslayer had existed. Frost, and dark roses, had sprung up out of the cracked floorboards around the Dark Lord – black roses plagued his footsteps now, and they were oddly comforting.
The roses were real, and that was enough.
The connection to Potter was still dead, as if the boy himself – no, man. Potter was old, a century old, and a man – as if the man himself had ceased to exist. As if he were dead.
But Potter wasn't dead.
Less than an hour ago the scar link had flared with emotion – Potter's emotion. Anger strong enough to break through whatever barrier separated the two of them now – Life and Death – had rippled into Voldemort's mind. Anger, shock, and more than a little fear.
And his power had grown.
Voldemort had felt it in himself, and for a few moments after the rush of emotion he had seen the wraith-like form of a black rose appearing and then fading on his left arm. Wrapped around the skeletal limb had been a tattoo, a Mark, of a black rose. It had been there, and then faded.
It still felt as if it were there.
Whatever it was, Voldemort knew without a doubt that Potter was at the heart of it.
Half glimpsed beyond time, Voldemort caught sight of the mighty Destroyer, of the Enemy, and saw himself in such a being of menace and pain. It made him smile. He was the Enemy, the Annihilator. Did that make Potter, who was undeniably his opposite, the Creator.
Perhaps it did, after a fashion….
Not that it mattered. Entropy had claimed the world, the universe, Existence itself. Whether Voldemort helped or not Creation was annihilating itself, and all that would be left would be a clean slate, where those beyond such mercies as life and death could recreate.
First this world, Voldemort thought. Then every world.
He had all the time of eternity to conquer Creation. For he stood outside of Life and Death now. He was the Enemy, the apotheosis of all destruction.
And there was an awful lot of existence to destroy, and with only one true foe in the whole burning mess of it, Voldemort could already taste victory.
*~*~*~*
Hellfire, Voldemort, Harry cursed, swiping a hand across his forehead. By all that is holy, what are you?
Harry's arm burnt with pain so pure, so righteous and clear that it almost went beyond pain – and into bliss. But the burning couldn't be ignored, and it was that which drew Harry's mind back towards his new power, his new role, and his new title.
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Darkslayer and the Rightful Heir to Creation.
In his mind there was a tight and irresistible pulling sensation. He could feel Creation, feel Existence and the unbelievable pain and misery that it was in. And all those feelings, all those aches and wounds, could be traced back to one source.
Harry followed the threads and strings – the webs – that were now linked across all of eternity and infinity in his mind. His anger grew as he followed the trail of evil and destruction to its source. Many worlds and many miles flickered across his inner eye. He felt life bloom and end on all of these worlds – not end, really, so much as change.
And he felt the Design. The Creator's Legacy, His plan for Creation, the overall goal for Existence. He felt it… but as for comprehending and understanding it… Perhaps he wasn't meant to, not yet – maybe not ever.
Harry followed the lines through his mind and his anger reached its peak when he reached the other side of the coin, the evil that festered in the heart of his Creation, and found that he knew it. The Enemy… was his enemy.
He saw Voldemort, seated before a dead fireplace in a room where black roses grew like weeds through the cracks in the floorboards. All the threads of desecration were spawned from him, and the thick black cords of that poison were strengthening with each passing second.
Strengthening as… as it ate away Creation.
"Enough…." Harry rasped, and shut off the powers that surged through him, closed his mind to existence. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and looked around the 'room' he stood in with a frown creasing his forehead. It was almost a permanent feature of his face these days.
You can no doubt feel the decay and loss spreading with every beat of your heart, Death whispered, standing on his right. Feel the sorrow of—
"I don't care…." Harry sighed. "Not as I should, Death, not as I should… You chose a poor heir for the hope of the future."
You care… you care so much it hurts.
Harry thought he heard uncertainty veiled under Death's otherwise neutral tone.
The 'room' that they both stood in could have been any room in any normal world across all of the mortal universes. There were several windows, of
which sunlight poured through, panelled walls with floral wallpaper and an array of wooden furniture. A long bookcase stretched across one wall, around the corner along another, and broke only for the windows.
There were no doors.
A chair and a table were sitting in the centre of the room – wooden chair, wooden table – of a beech colour and upon it, floating above it, was a globe of the world. It spun slowly, as if it had all the time in the world, and a faint glow spilled out onto the table. Swirls of murky cloud stretched across its calm surface.
Harry rubbed his tired eyes. Those sparkling emeralds were dull and dross, sore and bloodshot.
"Where is this world?" he asked, absently rubbing the stem of the rose tattoo down his forearm. "It's not quite home."
No, not your birth-world, but one of the many worlds that it could have been.
"The continents are all misshapen… and dark. What happened here?"
Don't you know?
Harry stared at the spinning orb, and before he could stop it his mind opened once again through the rose tattoo – the Mark – and he knew without a doubt what had happened to this world. It was polluted, and dead, and barren. The force of the Enemy, of evil and dark, had claimed this world, like so many others before it, and this time its form had been nuclear war.
"Isn't it enough," he began, holding his hand over his eyes. Images of lives exploding and ending, civilisations obliterated, and the sky itself aflame with poisonous clouds of manmade destruction. "Isn't it enough that I live every day in the shadow of this chaos, do I now have to see where it has destroyed beyond my sight?"
You are no stranger to the Enemy. More so now will you be on his mind. As the Rightful Heir, you stand to purge the taint of the Enemy from
Creation, and send it back into the abyss of nothing. It is of no greater importance to the Lord of Darkness that you be destroyed. It, he, will be throwing all the might of his power against you.
"And that will be different from the rest of my life… how?"
Death fell silent and the dead orb upon the table disappeared. Although it didn't seem like it, the room was moving – moving at a rate an infinite time faster than the speed of light, and moving not at all.
Such rules as those of physics ceased to matter beyond the realities of mortal comprehension.
Harry and Death were moving across the border between the end of life and the realm of True Death, where the Dead Legion waited to be called into service, to battle the marshalled forces of the Destroyers – Voldemort's (the Enemy's) arm of war.
"Are we in the afterlife yet?" Harry asked.
Death's scythe, coated in stardust, cut through the air in the room and revealed a sparkling silver bridge as clear as crystal. The 'room' faded into night, and then was gone entirely. One by one, foreign stars winked into existence overhead, and a mist of silver light swept across Harry's shins.
"Now this… looks familiar."
Death nodded… at least, Harry felt him nod. You have stood on this bridge once before, Commander Darkslayer, the High Lord of Crea—
"Call me Harry or nothing."
….You nearly died, many years ago in the other reality. Your spine was snapped, your soul torn from your body by a surge of strength sent down the scar link by Voldemort. L—Harry… this is the Last Bridge between life and death. There is no turning back to the mortal realms after this.
Harry nodded. He remembered it the way we sometimes remember dreams years after we dream them. A half-glimpsed thought, a half-forgotten memory buried in past persuasions of a sight gazed through the relativity of a unique mind.
"Sirius Black… my godfather. He stood here with me and…."
Yes?
Harry let out a long, tormented sigh. "He told me that nothing was impossible. He convinced me to keep on living, although he knew it was going to be hard." Harry laughed. "How's that for understatement?"
You are still alive.
"Am I?"
Ghostly imprints of Harry's boots faded in the glass as he stepped across the bridge. He didn't feel entirely at ease, and as such kept his hand ready on the hilt of his sword above his shoulder. Years of sneaking and training made his movements soundless. Death was merely his shadow.
There were no enemies here.
After a time Harry became sure of that, and let go his sword.
"Tell me more about where the Enemy and the Creator… and you, come from, Death," Harry whispered. His voice echoed across non-existent voids and walls, reverberated through the crystal bridge and disappeared.
A place of nothing… Harry. Another failed creation and the last battleground for the Eternal War. It no longer exists, and never did, never will. Time ended there, so light failed, and all was washed away.
Harry paused. "You said another failed creation?"
I did… your creation, Harry, was not the first made by the Creator, but it may be the last….
Harry tried to wrap his mind around that and found it hard, in contrary to everything he already knew. "There was something before nothing? A creation before Creation?"
The memories are dull to me, Lord D—Harry. It was so very long ago… but I remember the Design well, if not its purpose, if not why. This
Creation, didn't always exist, and yet it did. It had to, or nothing would have been everything, and time and space wouldn't have merged….
"But there was a creation with other poor bastards, other worlds, other universes and a myriad of other weird and wonderful things before this one?"
There was – there have been many.
"How is that possible?"
Death stopped Harry then, and did something that would have killed him for sure before the transformation and the Mark. Death clapped an invisible hand on his shoulder, held his scythe in the crook of his arm and said:
You do not yet grasp the scale of the war that has been fought since the Beginning – the Dawn of the Creator and of the First Time, Harry. You are now leader of the resistance against an Enemy that has corrupted and destroyed every creation the Creator, your God, has built since He came into being.
"And how many is that….?"
Death turned away and the two of them continued walking across the silvery bridge, towards the true end of life. Infinity is too short a time to count the number of creations lost in the Eternal War. I, Death, have claimed far too many souls….
Harry's thought followed the inevitable path towards the end he now knew was all too possible. "But this time," he said. "This time, there won't be another creation if the Enemy wins – if Voldemort beats me. Because there's no Creator… He was struck down and…."
And gave His last creation the Darkslayer, Death finished. Understand, Harry; you have been given a legacy that reaches far back into the beginning of the First Creation, and now here you are, all but alone before the might of the Enemy so many creations later. After infinity, and eternal battle, the last war against the Enemy will be fought soon, and this time it counts for all.
Harry chuckled mirthlessly. "No pressure, huh?"
I am the last, Harry, the last of the First. In the Beginning, there were others. Fate, Destiny, Time, Life… there were many more and they were all conscious beings like myself, all forces of power in the next creation, but now I am the last. A feeling of time so stretched across forever gripped
Harry and he saw how small he really was. In the end, only Death survives… even Hope was destroyed by the Enemy. She was a kind soul, in her way. Without the Creator's might we have dwindled to nothing and now all I can offer in the Last Battle is an army of souls, of my Dead.
Harry saw that the stars were gone, and that a shadow of darkness had reached out over the mist to block away all light and life. They were finally entering True Death, and all that lay beyond.
"I'm not going to lose, Death," Harry said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I don't have faith in the Creator, and rightly so… but…."
But?
Across Harry's eyes, through his hair, jumping over his skin and through his fingers, blue sparks of power sparked in and out of existence. A small display of the still completely untapped power that rested inside of him.
"But," Harry smiled. "But the Creator has faith in me. That's why I was chosen as the Darkslayer, because the Creator's Design saw in me what it would take. I don't claim to be a hero, or much of anything, but His hand – God's Hand – has been more present in this, His last creation, than you think."
How can that be?
Harry winked and tapped his nose, then pointed his finger at Death. "Because I think He's alive, buddy." He laughed. "Our Creator is alive – somehow, in someway I haven't yet figured out He still exists… but just wait 'til I tell Hermione about this. She'll have an answer within five minutes, and if not then I owe you a beer."
Only you would speak to Death himself like that, Ethan chuckled. God love you, Harry. Don't ever change.
You ready to see everyone again? We're about to. The you from my world is in here, you know.
In a way, I am the me from your world – if that makes any sense. And I am the me from my world.
Harry thought about that. Are you anything more, Ethan?
I know what you're thinking, and no, Ethan smiled. I'm not that – you're just too paranoid.
Its not paranoia if they're really out to get you....
*~*~*~*
British
Ministry of Magic
Twilight Technology Department
August 26th
Hermione walked briskly down the modern corridor that had been designed in stark contrast to the more ornate and grand stone hallways of the other departments in the Ministry.
Clear unmarked white walls stretched down out of sight and branched off around corners. Steel furniture had been placed against the walls and every so often a clear glass window looked out upon the false weather created by magic to help convince workers that they were not working several hundred feet underground.
And again in stark contrast to the ultra-modern, almost muggle, design, all of the personnel – the wizards and witches – were dressed in dark blue trousers and jackets; with a row of silver metal buttons secured right up to the throat. On the left breast the symbol of this new department cut down in a familiar jagged form.
An azure lightning bolt.
Not dressed in the standard uniform for the Department of Twilight Technology, Hermione wore a simple black skirt and white blouse. Her hair was tied back as best she could keep it and tucked under one arm, as always, was a file of papers and reports. And following her, again as always, were a series of aides and advisors from the Order, the Twilight Guardians, the Australian Ministry, the Believers of Twilight… and that was about it.
Gazing left and right as she passed rooms with busy magical technicians pouring over dozens of different devices, all formed and utilised from the rolls upon rolls of parchment of advanced technology Harry had stored into his head at the Ways of Twilight. Hermione still felt slight awe at the speed that this operation had been assembled, and that she had been a part of it.
Just under two weeks ago now she had spoken to Dumbledore about fully utilising the awesome array of advanced weaponry and technology sitting almost uselessly in Harry's trunk, in the back room of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. It hadn't taken much to convince Fred and George that this department was where their talents could be of most use.
"Miss Granger! Miss Granger!"
Hermione turned on the spot and came face to face with the Engines Officer – the man in charge of what could be the most delicate project – and offered him a rare smile. These days there was less and less time to smile. Working eighteen hours a day, keeping an army afloat and a war running was a fulltime job – almost to the point of stupidity.
"Mr Richardson," Hermione nodded at the befuddled man.
He was short and fat, was Richardson; with a curling moustache that he had a habit of twirling like a 1930s villain who had just tied a damsel to the train tracks.
He just needs a cane and top hat, Hermione thought, and this kept the smile on her face a moment longer.
Strands of white hair slicked down with gel and combed over his balding head, and sparkling brown eyes hidden behind thin lenses made Richardson appear less intelligent that he was – made him seem permanently befuddled, lost. A muggle born wizard, Richardson was the leading authority in legally integrating magic into muggle appliances. He'd worked for many Ministries around the world in experimental technology.
"If you'll excuse me, Mr Richardson," Hermione said, with as much patience as she could. Time was always short these days – and every moment
that swept by further convinced her that Harry may not be coming back, that he had failed. "If you'll excuse me, I must speak with the Weasley—"
"We've finished the first phase," Richardson said, unable to suppress his excitement long enough for her to finish. "The incantations were sound, the metals perfect and the integration seamless. The first prototypes are so far performing magnificently."
Hermione blinked and only allowed a second to pass in which she displayed her shock. "You've had only six days!" she exclaimed. "Mastering the magic alone should have taken…."
"We estimated the incantations would take us three weeks to understand and control," Richardson said, waddling off down an adjacent hall with
Hermione right alongside. "We thought it would take us a month to complete the first prototype, and that was with round the clock shifts and more than a little luck. To tell you the truth, Miss Granger, until two days ago I thought we wouldn't finish the phase one prototype for seven weeks – at best."
Almost rushing down the halls buried deep within the Ministry, Hermione felt a flare of hope and excitement rush through her. This was progress, progress Harry would be proud of, and that would save lives.
"Then what changed?" Hermione asked. "From seven weeks to six days."
Richardson was grinning but he looked unnerved, and more than a little scared. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead, and he absently dabbed at them with his jacket sleeve.
"Mr Richardson?"
"The magic wasn't nearly as complex as it should have been," he said, quietly and without much conviction. "It… well, it defies all laws of magical theory. It… it… the magic or… or something, wanted us to be able to do the spells. We didn't work the magic, the magic worked through us."
That Hermione didn't have time to think about. She was simply too busy to think about it. A few months ago she would have devoted hours to solving this, but finding even five minutes to think about it these days would be next to impossible.
"I must ask again, Miss Granger, on behalf of everyone working here on all of the devices… where did the plans for this technology come from?"
Hermione jumped out of her thoughts and replayed the last few seconds in her mind. She shook her head. "Where do you think they came from, Mr Richardson?"
"Honestly?" Hermione nodded. "I believe they came from the future."
"Magic can only manipulate time through the present and into the past, Mr. Richardson. That is one of the basic laws of magical theory."
"Perhaps they were sent to us from the future, into the future's past. The plans are far beyond anything we could have hoped to achieve, anything the muggles could achieve, within the next… five hundred years. And the complexity of the designs are explained in terms we can understand… they're almost too perfect."
Hermione sighed. "Yours is not to reason why, Mr Richardson. Perhaps one day, when we're not at war, I'll have Harry Potter explain to you where he happened upon this technology."
"I more than suspected that man was involved in this," Richardson smiled, and then didn't speak again until they reached a glass door complete with chrome handle. "Very well, Miss Granger. We're here… let me show you the future."
Hermione knew what she was about to see, but it still sent a rush of exhilaration through her when Richardson opened the door and she stepped through into a large, open space with a ceiling only visible against the white paint of the walls by deep halogen lights that hung parallel to each other in a dozen long rows.
Rows of steel framed desks surrounded the perimeter and seated and standing around them were half a dozen technicians, dressed in their blue uniforms, and working on big metal circular structures and scores of open boxes of glowing power crystals – shining with a white radiance that was pure against even the blemish free walls.
And in the centre of the room, on a launch pad that stretched for thirty feet in every direction, was a large rectangle of welded titanium that hung, seemingly without aid, a few inches above the floor.
"It works," Hermione said simply.
Moving across the room to the rectangle of metal, her gaggle of aids following close behind, Hermione smiled softly and then stepped up onto the levitating object.
"We've tested it up to one thousand metric tonnes. There was no give in the structure. The engine itself is on the underside and is roughly four feet in diameter."
Hermione nodded. "Four feet," she whispered. "That is extraordinary."
Richardson beamed. "The next step is to attach a control column to the device, but it should be a simple matter to engineer that in. The technology already exists, it just means integrating it with the new equipment. Another week and we'll be able to move this platform across any axis and to a height of… well, any height. These engines are space-worthy."
That made Hermione gasp. "You're serious? The twilight engine can be used for… for space travel?"
Richardson smiled. "I've taken it upon myself to design a space vehicle, a ship, worthy of these engines – as a side project. As it stands now, the main project of integrated airships is, in my professional opinion, complete in theory. As soon as we purchase a few design frames from Boeing we can begin customising our technology onto their hulls. Within a month you'll have the first aircraft of the next generation."
And it'll be a warship, Hermione thought, with a sigh. Why can't it just ever be about human advancement, about science – why do we have to excel when it's for war?
To that there was no answer.
*~*~*~*
The London Times
ROYAL AIR FORCE ATTACKS ROYAL NAVY!
In the
early hours of yesterday morning, before the
dawn of the day and
the light of the sun, the sky
above the ship building town of
Barrow-in-Furness,
Cumbria in the North was set ablaze with a
surprise bombing by several dozen RAF fighter jets.
Authorities
are at a loss to explain why over thirty
of our jets were called
to bomb seven of our largest
warships. The Prime Minister, who
hasn't been seen
in public for some weeks, was unavailable for
comment.
This
attack comes on the heels of a worsening economic
slump, of
failing international relations, the nuclear explosion
in
Manchester, and of the surprise withdrawal of the United
Kingdom
from several of our most respected treaties
and aid programs –
including the United Nations.
The
fleet was docked in Barrow for standard maintenance
repairs over
the month, and six of the seven HMS vessels
now lie at the bottom
of the sea, along with an estimated
three thousand brave souls.
The skeleton crew aboard the
vessels.
At a
time when the country needs him the most, the
Prime Minister's
continued absence is a cut too
deep into the heart of the United
Kingdom. Who will
end the sorrow if not the elected government?
There
are no more heroes in the world, and chaos runs
rampant through
even our armed forces. Is this the end of
our civilisation? For if
this isn't checked, and checked
soon, everything would have been
for nothing.
*~*~*~*
The Daily Prophet International
POTTER'S ARMY DESTROYING INFERI
Known
in certain circles as the 'Twilight Army',
Harry Potter has
once again shown he is the only power
in this world with enough
strength of character to destroy
that which is evil, in spite of
international laws prohibiting
foreign armies from entering
foreign nations.
Photos
and witness reports supplied to the Prophet reveal
the
devastating truth behind the wave of grave robberies
across all of
Europe and even into Russia and China. The
Dark Lord Voldemort has
been raising the dead on a scale
never before known – calling
thousands of Inferi into his
service, and the only force that has
engaged this
desecrated army has been Potter's soldiers.
Shunned
and feared throughout the world, Potter's
ten thousand strong
force has been deployed to the
darkest corners of many lands, in
which evil thrives and the
light dares not tread. The Prophet
does not think it an
exaggeration to say that Potter has stopped
the coming
surge of dark creatures into the very heart of
our
communities.
Without
Potter, the war would have been lost many
years ago.
Knowing
that there are those still willing to resist the pull
of the Dark
is reason enough to clear Potter of all
'apparent' wrongdoing.
The International Confederation
has labelled Harry Potter a war
criminal, and more
than one nation would see him dead.
That
Potter still has the resolve to fight that which threatens
us all,
even though the world has turned against him, is a
display of
what it truly means to be human.
And
with reports from Africa about basilisk attacks along
their
coastlands, and other such dark incidents around the globe,
hope
in Potter may be all that the blind of this world can trust in.
*~*~*~*
You once believed you despised the Creator, Harry, Death whispered. Until very recently you believed He was your enemy.
Harry shrugged. "My opinions may have changed, but not the fact that I am always right. I hated a God, just the wrong one."
A sprawling field of white roses spread across the horizon under a twilight sky ahead of Harry and Death. The roses weren't there, neither was the sky, but they were – and a winding yellow brick road cut through the field, and it was on this road that wasn't really there that Harry continued on, now submerged in the realms of the departed.
He was close to his end now – to Ginny. That much he could feel.
"You know," he spoke to Death. "The real trouble with this reality, with all realities, is that there's no background music."
Background music? Ethan said.
Background music? I did not think things could get much worse.
Harry laughed. "If you think things can't get worse it's probably only because you lack sufficient imagination, Death."
Honestly, Harry, how did you survive this far?
Harry grinned and stared down at the passing yellow bricks, and the odd rose petal that was blown across his path. How did I survive it all? Haven't given that much thought.
"There's one golden rule that I've lived by for most of my life, Death, and it's because of this rule that most of Hell is filled with demons and worse – my enemies."
What rule?
"Never interrupt your enemy while they're making a mistake. Never. They all do it; you just have to keep your eyes open. Its how I'm going to get
Voldemort… and now I have a question for you."
The sky was becoming darker once again with every advancing step Harry took towards the horizon. Contrary to what he knew reality could do, the horizon was getting closer. He felt that twilight would have blanketed the sky by the time he reached it.
Only one?
Harry shrugged. "I think it's an important one… but we'll see."
Go ahead, Lord Darkslayer.
Harry inclined his head as he walked, and a ghost of a smile played around the corners of his mouth. "Where do souls come from?" he asked.
*~*~*~*
"The lycanthropy cure is being mass-produced now, and the waiting list is falling dramatically."
Hermione nodded, seated across from the Ministry's leading potions expert in one of the three labs on this floor of the Twilight Department, she stifled a yawn and blinked around at the vials of purple liquid boiling over white hot flames. There were also several vials of a blue potion that she couldn't identify.
"How many on the list?" Hermione asked.
"Some hundreds," the potions master said, scratching his stubbly beard. "But not every werewolf on the register – not those who are suspected to be serving the Dark Lord."
Hermione sighed. "So there are some who don't want the cure."
"That's what we've theorized, and as such we've found a solution to the problem itself – transmission of the disease."
"Oh?"
"The blue potions are a vaccine against the disease – not a cure. We can immunise the population against the bite, and with government backing market it through many mediums – food, water, injections and so forth – which will, given a few years, eradicate the disease."
Hermione smiled her approval, and behind her standing arrayed around the room one or two of her aids made a note of the cure for future reference.
"I assume you worked backwards from the cure provided by Harry Potter to create a vaccine."
"We did – the groundbreaking work Potter has done is way ahead of our time, but the avenues he's opened look set to change the way potion brewing is perceived through the new century. Potions that seemed impossible, like a cure for lycanthropy, are now very possible."
Hermione smiled sadly at that and the thoughts of Harry that it brought into her mind. Harry's the kind of person who frowns at the impossible, and then shows you how it can be done.
Across the complex and two floors up, Ron Weasley sat in a similar meeting with Godric Gryffindor and the defence expert in the Twilight Technology offices. He had no idea that Hermione was in the same building and so close – for all he knew, she was once again at the compound in Australia, overseeing the production of food crops grown in the heart of the desert.
Ron was tired – almost to the point of exhaustion. He now knew how Harry felt every minute of every day, for he felt it himself, and had found new feelings of pity and anger for his best friend. Anger at a universe where these jobs were dumped on the young.
"Who must do the hard things, Ron?" Harry said, and moved his Knight to intercept Ron's Bishop.
Ron shrugged. "You?
Harry smiled and shook his head. "He who can, Ron – remember that. If you have the power to destroy the world, then you have to take responsibility for that power – remember that."
"When did you get so wise, Harry?" Ron smirked.
"I've been taking lessons from Dumbledore."
Ron fell out of his thoughts as Gryffindor, or Ric as he was known in public, spoke to the defence team working on the next generation of shields from Harry's designs.
"Please explain it again," Gryffindor said, gesturing to the long silver tubes sitting on the table before them. There were two, each about six foot long, and with glowing lights on either end.
The woman before Ron inclined her head and absently pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. For a moment Ron struggled to recall her name – she had only given it a minute or two ago – but his sleep deprived mind had been unable to hold onto it.
"These are only prototypes of the final design," the woman said, smiling excitedly. Gryffindor had a twinkle in his eye, gazing at the sticks, and Ron wished he had paid more attention to what they were.
Something to do with defence, in battle, and that was why he was here after all – so he and Gryffindor could plan strategies for full-scale war based on the best equipment and devices they had available. And with the resources of two powerful countries, not to mention Harry's wealth and knowledge, they weren't too bad off.
"One pole is placed, buried in the earth, on one side of a field, and the other is placed no more than two miles away on the other side." The woman had a scrap of parchment and she illustrated this, and then joined the two poles with a curving line of black ink. "This activates the shield, which is forty feet high and a quarter of an inch thick."
"We already have plenty of shield devices," Ron said, a little harsher than he had intended. He didn't want to insult or upset the woman, but his time was short, and he had been called down for this?
"I understand that, Mr. Weasley," she replied, a tad curtly. "But, I also understand, that you have nothing that can block the Killing Curse. This has the potential to do that."
"Potential how?" Gryffindor asked, eyeing the sticks once again. "I have lost many a friend to the Avada Kedavra."
"Who hasn't these days…?" Ron mumbled, thinking once again of Ginny. Her body was still encased within that white light before the fireplace at Grimmauld Place, as Harry had left her, but where was her soul – with Harry? It seemed impossible that it could be, but then Harry was the impossible.
"All known shields break, shatter, under the power of the Killing Curse," the woman explained. "Whether it be magical or physical, like a brick wall, nothing can withstand the green light – and that is what makes this shield so important."
"How does it work?" Ron asked.
The woman shrugged. "Well… it doesn't – yet. But given another week or so and we'll have a fully operational pair of rods. You see, the shield that is raised between the two rods, is a shield of the same green light of the Avada Kedavra. That is, a wall of the Killing Curse is spread out in a thin line across a radius of anything up to two miles."
Ron was suddenly intrigued by the idea, as well as other possibilities utilising the same technology. He envisioned a wall of Killing Curses falling on an army of Death Eaters, and was ashamed to feel more than a little satisfaction at that. He pushed it away.
"You use the curse itself as a shield," Gryffindor said. "That is genius." The old wizard, the Guardian, smiled. The long scar across his cheek stretched against his face.
"The crystal sockets here and here." The woman opened latches on the rods and pointed into empty clear space. "A crystal can be charged with a certain spell, such as the Avada Kedavra, and placed in these sockets. It could be any spell, but as I said when you arrived this is still all just theoretical. The hard part is going to be charging a crystal with the Killing Curse without destroying it."
If it can be done… Ron mused. A lot of lives will be saved. And a lot of enemies destroyed.
"This should be your number one priority from now on," he said. "I also want you to send the design over to the Weapons Lab. Unfortunately, you've laid the groundwork for a very powerful weapon."
*~*~*~*
August 28th
Despite their age difference – and the fact that Gryffindor wasn't entirely human – he and Ron had become fast friends. As his role as a Guardian,
Gryffindor had lived a very long time. His soul had never entered True Death, and wouldn't for some time. Of course, Guardians could be killed like anything else, and the mysteries of death were just that to Gryffindor.
Still, a thousand years was a long time to live, and Gryffindor knew that recently his thoughts had been turning more and more often towards dying, and the adventures that lay beyond such a journey. But if Potter didn't win this war in life, then there would be no death to die in – no nothing, as Ronald had put it.
Thoughts of Ron made Gryffindor think of his life before mortal death, and his transcendence into Guardianship. Of that final battle with Salazar Slytherin at Stonehenge, and the death of his lifetime friend – William Artson. Although there had been many generations and branches of diverging family since that day, Gryffindor believed that Ron carried some of the blood of William.
Coincidences didn't exist, after all, and it made too much sense not to be true. Ron was Harry's best friend, Harry of the line of Gryffindor, and a thousand years after the first war of Slytherin had ravaged the world the last was shaping up to mirror the first – but on a much larger scale.
Would Ron die for some cruel poetic fate, at the hands of Slytherin – Voldemort?
By all that remained light, Gryffindor would not see it so.
The young shouldn't have to die for the mistakes of the old… but then, history has shown that the young usually do. No politician ever ordered himself into the trenches.
Seated next to Gryffindor around a round table in the Headmaster's study at Hogwarts, Ron yawned and looked around the room as the last few to
arrive sat themselves down at the table. From his left sat Hermione, and next to her was his father the British Minister, then Dumbledore, a scattering of Order members including Tonks and Remus, Snape, an advisor to Maggie Thorn, the acting-Minister of Australia, and a handful of other figures who acted as liaisons between the few Ministries that had secretly sided with Harry.
"Now that we are all here," Dumbledore began, "let us cut straight to the heart of the matter." Fawkes sat on the back of Dumbledore's chair, surveying the room with his peaceful gaze and humming softly under his breath. His eyes were drawn particularly to Gryffindor. "One of our spies in
Voldemort's ranks has informed me that Voldemort intends to move against us sooner than we anticipated."
"How so?" Arthur Weasley asked.
"By the end of the month, before Hogwarts is reopened for the new school year, I have it on good information that Voldemort plans to summon an army of… demons, of dark magical creatures, from within a void between universes. A prison of sorts, for these demons."
"You cannot be serious," sneered one of the Ministry aides. "Tales of pretend to disguise the Dark Lord's real aim – this castle. Our own spy reports that Hogwarts is under serious threat from a Death Eater attack."
Dumbledore shook his head. "Hogwarts is as protected as it can be, given the circumstances. But I assure you, Mr Gray, that these demons are not make-believe. They are real, and Voldemort can command them. We need to decide what to do about them, and fast. One million dark creatures erupting onto the earth will see the death of countless innocents, and to dismiss it as pretend will be the greatest mistake anyone has ever made."
Mr Gray scowled and said nothing, for which Ron was very thankful.
"Do we know where these… demons are coming through?" Hermione asked, ever practical. "Or when? The end of the month is only a few short days away. We are almost out of time."
"Our spy," Dumbledore said, not having to point a finger at Snape, "believes that the central plains of North America will be the beachhead for these demons. All Death Eaters are apparently being summoned there tomorrow, to protect Voldemort and his inner circle when he opens the world onto the void. A feat which will, thankfully, take some time to complete"
"And how long will that take?"
Dumbledore shook his head at Remus's question. "It does not matter. We shan't allow him to reach that stage of his goal. Arthur, the Aurors must be ready to portkey to the United States within an hour of the end of this meeting. Mr Gray, Miss Walsh, can we expect any aid from your Ministries?"
The two aides shook their heads. None had openly declared for Harry yet, and to do so would bring down the wrath of the entire world.
"No matter," Dumbledore continued. "Australia will provide some hundreds of Aurors, and we have Harry Potter's army. Eight thousand of those soldiers have enough training to fight and destroy these creatures. In fact, they have been trained specifically for it. The Twilight Guardians will also play a pivotal role over the next few days."
"As will the technologies recently developed in the Ministry," Gryffindor spoke up for the first time. "I have… a personal desire to see these demons thrown back into the abyss. But should they overrun our forces, then this war will end before August does."
"What about Harry Potter?" Miss Walsh, aide to the Norwegian Ministry, asked. "If any of the reports about him are to be believed, then his power could considerably increase our chance of winning any battle – against demons or whatever."
There was silence at that from those who knew about Harry, and those who didn't but were very curious. Ron cleared his throat and said just a few short words. "Harry Potter won't be fighting this battle. He has other commitments, elsewhere… that are just as, if not more, important than this."
"Have the Americans been informed about this attack?" Mr Gray asked, directing his question towards Dumbledore, Ron, Hermione, Gryffindor and
Arthur. They were clearly the most informed of the group. "An invasion onto their soil would mean three to four thousand of their Aurors mobilised to fight with us."
Dumbledore wanted to sigh but he didn't. "The American Ministry cannot be trusted at the moment," he said delicately. "Sorcerer Rafter has been actively working against our involvement with Harry Potter for many months. If we let the Americans know we mean to move over ten thousand of our soldiers onto their soil, then we may just find three to four thousand American Aurors allied with the Death Eaters against us."
"Then what is the plan?" Tonks asked. "Hit 'em hard and hit 'em fast?"
Dumbledore waved his hand towards Ron and Gryffindor. "Our attack, or perhaps our defence, has been formulated by Ron and Ric. I will leave it to them to explain our offensive, should the worst happen and we find ourselves facing an army of furious demons."
Gryffindor began to outline the plan to the group, but Ron was once again lost in his thoughts.
If the worst should happen, he thought, then Merlin save us because nothing but total destruction of Central America could stop the flood of demons. And there are millions of innocent lives hanging in the balance there… God, Harry, how did you make these choices alone for so long?
*~*~*~*