Summary: (AU) The final battle has been won, but was it worth the cost? Harry, alone and determined, sets out to rewrite history for a better world. Pity the bloody time-turner isn't working right…
Disclaimer: All belongs to the one and only J.K.Rowling
…Chapter Seven…
The Department of Mysteries and Miseries
Harry's old scar twinged painfully, his stomach tossing, his vision a blur.
They'd arrived at the Atrium.
And Voldemort was there nearby, Harry knew, a shiver cutting down his spine.
Harry stood to the right of the golden fountain, the gentle rush of water sprouting above him the only sound to reach his ears. Alastar Moody clicked his fingers once, drawing Harry's attention. Following the aged Auror's commanding gestures, the group sprinted off down the desolate corridor, Harry trailing somewhere in the middle of the line. They reached the shiny, golden gates that marked the lifts and clambered in, grilles closing behind them with a loud bang. They began to descend. There, waiting for level nine to be reached, Harry had to fight the urge to fidget, feeling the tenseness of a foreboding disaster await. He spun his faithful wand between long, quivering fingers. A chilling female voice rang through the air, voicing their destination. The lift jerked back, clanking gears, slowing to a rattled stop.
Harry could smell the spilt blood, the murder, the ominous Dark.
His scar began to tingle and itch.
Thirteen witches and wizards hurried out to the corridor and along the winding passage. They passed through the dull, plain black door, over the unguarded threshold, entering into the Department of Mysteries. In the circular room a larger group of Death Eater's awaited them, standing knee deep in a massacre. Already many bodies were spread about the floor, limbs detached and insides torn out, splattered and grated onto the black door-spanned walls, the black marble floor, the high black ceiling. Blood had drained from the corpses, dribbled and ran, swimming in large slippery pools.
Blue flames held in bunches on the walls flickered brightly and booted feet squelched.
Everywhere Harry looked he saw wet, glistening dark blood-red.
He faltered, revolted at the sight, and the door they had entered from slammed shut with a bang.
Then a series of brilliant lights, spell-fire, began to shower over them without pause, and cries of outrage littered the air. Battle-lines were drawn, jaws clenched firmly, knuckles cracked. The room began to spin, rotating, and with only the dim blue torch light and what was reflected in the pools of blood on the floor, all were hard placed to tell friends for foes.
Harry did what he knew he did best, gliding gracefully into old ways, old talents; he killed the damn fuckers.
Dementors were harder on Harry, more difficult to crush - Harry loathed the Keepers with passion. But these spineless cretins - these bloody Death Eaters - they were nothing to his memories, to what he'd been through, what he'd endured.
Spells never reached his lips, weaved from his mind without a thought, without hesitation.
Crucio and one was down.
Diffindo.
Engorgio.
Incendio.
Sectusempra - this one he aimed specifically at the tallest, most greasy hooded figure.
Moody shot him an odd side-ways look - Harry pretended he didn't notice.
Harry laughed, his voice ringing about the depth of the room, bitter and malicious - if this was all the Great Lord Voldemort had to offer, he'd be done with the minions by morn. The others, the twelve member's of Dumbledore's highly acclaimed Order, fought along side him, spanning a rough line across the circle of the room, lost in the array of countless doors, their backs to each other, picking off the adversary one by one.
A small brunette fell heavily to the floor beside Harry, dead on impact.
The gathering of Death Eaters was otherwise disposed of, the remaining two turning tail to flee before Sirus and Tonks hit their retreating backs, merciless. They stayed but a moment longer in that room, quickly tending to the wounded, covering their lost ones in transfigured sheets of white, binding the struggles of not-quite-dead captives. Through the doors Harry could hear other sounds of attack, of raging fights. There the team, the former dinner party, was split - diving into groups of two or three, moving each to a room that drew further skirmish. They'd close in on the attacks, meet again at the centre - where You-Know-Who was sure to lurk.
Harry averted his eyes as James gave Lily a quick peck on the cheek, as Sirius clapped a hand to Remus' shoulder and Peter saluted them good evening, farewell - Harry thought he wouldn't mind at all if Peter never came back.
Harry didn't protest when Moody shoved him towards his father and another rounded woman in her early fifties he couldn't name, making their smaller group a trio - ironically, the number Harry was used to working with, counting himself, Ron and Hermione.
"The name's Margaret, lad," the robust woman said, turning to Harry and holding out her hand. Harry shook it, her palm damp and slick.
There were no smiles, no cheer - not a touch of warmth in her voice.
"Hadi," Harry replied, nodding to her.
James cracked a grin his way and pushed on their assigned door, which creaking on its rusted hinges.
They entered uncertainly, wands raised high, and the door cracked shut behind them.
Harry, recognizing the room in an instant, felt a flush of fury, of loss, of terrible despair, creep up tantalizingly behind him.
It was large and dimly lit, sinking to the middle in which stood an ancient crumbling stone archway.
Whispers sang about the room, mesmerizing and lethal.
Harry had a lot of pent up grudge to this room - this damned room, and that damned veil. Harry had never been back here, to the Department of Mysteries and Miseries, had never had a chance, not since that night his Godfather had fallen. Harry wanted to rip that bloody ever-fluttering curtain, smash the fucking archway to oblivion and stomp on the dust - he would have, too, if there had of been time.
It was too late that the shadows grew larger, and they saw that Death Eaters' - four, six, eight - had been in the room all along, hidden in the dark falls of light. Harry drew up a shield around himself immediately, as did James, but Margaret was too old, too tired, too bloody slow -
"Avada Kedavra."
And Margaret was dead.
James reacted in venom, pelting an unforgivable green at the one to have taken her down, dodging away to the side. Harry followed suit without a moments hold. They closed off, back to back, picking the ammeter Death Eater's away slowly, dissipating the numbers against them.
And then there were four, a larger facing Harry, three to James.
His father stumbled, and Harry cast a brittle shield over them, though it wouldn't last - three simultaneous disarming spells aimed at Harry and his wand came flying out of his reach.
Leaving Harry wandless, the three resumed a reverent attack solely on James, and unbeknown father and son were separated, Harry left to the mercy of the largest, rounded Death Eater. He shot a series of curses and jinxes towards Harry, who expertly jumped and rolled, but then the Death Eater was closer, and Harry was still on the ground, stretching an arm towards his fallen wand, not quite quick enough to stand.
The larger foe, who Harry thought might be the elder Goyle, snatched up Harry's wand from his feet. Whether it was Goyle or not the larger man towered over Harry then, kicking him hard in the stomach, and Harry heard the sickening crunch of a rib being pushed, bent, snapped. Harry lashed out viciously and the Death Eater backed away a bit, limping, giving Harry time enough to push himself up off the ground, his arms practically trembling, heaving. Harry wished he'd thought to bring a knife, a dagger - something else.
And then the larger wizard was at him again - seeming to have forgotten his own wand entirely, swinging his huge fist towards Harry's face. Harry ducked, stepping to the side, out of range. But Goyle, or whoever it was, had recovered quickly - far too fucking quickly - and Harry was pushed against the wall, hard, and the Death Eater was kicking him again, harder, in the shin - and then another punch was leveled at Harry's head, and this time he definitely couldn't miss.
Harry thought his face was on fire, his left cheekbone welting, his eye swelling fast.
He couldn't see then, he could hardly breathe - and Harry hissed, outraged, and brought both hands up to wrap around the larger man's neck - squeezing, tighter, tighter, tighter …
And the Death Eater, the wizard, the man - he pulled Harry up from the wall, slamming him back into it, once, twice, thrice - and then, in utter desperation and lack of air, he went about doing as much damage to Harry's chest as he could, punching again and again, snapping and crushing several more ribs - but Harry didn't, wouldn't let go, and continued to squeeze, tighter and tighter, forgetting his own pain and holding on, tighter … tighter … tighter …
The Death Eater's face was a purple to rival that of Harry's Uncle Vernon.
And, though Harry struggled in his own flight to gain air, the terrible, revolting stench of urine crafted its way into his lungs, through the room, the fumes gravitating about the struggle, and Harry thought he'd have to let go, he couldn't bare it any longer -
But suddenly, and it took a long minute for Harry to realize what exactly had happened, the Death Eater was rigid, out cold and collapsed on the ground.
James towered over him, a large shard of a plaster raised high in the air - he'd hit the other wizard over the head.
Harry panted, moaning, resting his weight against the damn wall, blood on his skin, in his mouth - trembling, intoxicated with adrenaline. James warily looked upon him, choosing tactfully not to say a word, and reached a hand down, helping him up.
A hasty replenishing spell was cast, Harry grabbed his wand and they spared a last sorrowful look at the elderly witch to have accompanied them so forth, covering her too in the honorary transfigured white sheet. Then they were on their way again, Harry leading the way, picking doors at random, happy for the time to get as far away from that damned room as he could.
"What do they want?" Harry called over his shoulder. He didn't need to explain who 'they' were. "Why are they here?"
"Does there have to be a reason?" James asked him, panting, his tone making it perfectly clear that he did not want to discuss it.
Harry knew an aversion when he heard one - but it mattered little, anyhow - because then his father was pushing gently ahead of him, relief on his sweat beaded features, heading straight for the entrance to the Hall of Prophecies. And so Harry followed him, a hand clamped, grasping on his side, limping slightly. Through another swinging door and then they had found the last, the Hall.
They were one of the final few to reach it.
Harry let his gaze sink into the Hall; as high as a church, filled with nothing but tower-like shelves, cluttered with the dirty, dull orbs that were prophecies. Fights had broken out everywhere; Harry could hear Remus howling, he could see Moody take on five cloaked figures at once, and his mother, Lily, pouncing on any unsuspecting fools to wander too close to Sirius' back. Harry steadied himself, leaping into the fight on instinct. James mirrored the action.
Harry took no notice of his counterpart father after that, flinging death curses at anyone in stealthy black attire. Few escaped the murderous shots of lovely, tantalizing green.
Spell-fire flew over his head and Harry dived behind a row of shelves, jets of blue, red and green trailing his movement.
He allowed himself a brief, shaky rest to catch his breath, kneeling on the dusty floor, his gaze unfocused on the rows upon rows of small shiny globes … of prophecies. And a name caught his eye - but it couldn't be, Harry thought. And then he was standing, leaning, reaching a hand out to snatch the globe-like-sphere from the shelf.
He held it out precariously on the tips of his fingers, the etched words glaring at him, taunting, the battle momentarily forgotten.
M.G.T to R.A.B
Dark Lord
and (?) Harry Potter
Was it meant for him or his counterpart, though? Surely not me, Harry thought, hoped - prayed fruitlessly to any who might have been listening. He seriously considered smashing the damned thing right then and there.
Not another fucking prophecy.
But then someone screamed, the sound loud and grating and Harry, deftly grounding his molars together, was brought back from the thought, back to the endless rows of shelves - back to the wand pointed at his heart. He started, catching his own wand from its holster.
"Bellatrix," Harry greeted politely.
Her white mask hung swinging about her neck. He stuffed the dusty sphere, the prophecy, gruffly into the pocket of his robes.
She hadn't missed a beat.
"Give it to me," she spat, her voice as cruel, as cold as always. Her arm stretched up, palm out. She waited.
"Make me, then," Harry snarled. "If you dare."
Bellatrix growled deep in her throat, and the duo engaged in a steadfast duel, stepping from the rows back into the foray of fire.
She was good, Harry knew - he'd fought her countless times before in his own world and she'd always proved to be a worthy opponent, but perhaps not quite in his league, his calobah. But there was something different about this Bellatrix from what Harry recognized, definitely less mad, more sexually enticing. Harry, lost in his own memory, didn't realize that he had her backed against a shelf, that they were pressed dangerously close together, nor that he had paused in his attack, and the two had made stilted eye contact, Harry's wand folded neatly into the base of her throat.
Harry held his breath, and she reached a hand out to touch his throbbing eye, dark with bluish-purple bruising.
"Do I know you?" she asked him, perplexed.
Harry shook his head negatively, and then she was leaning forward, lost as he was, as though she might -
The exchange would have only lasted a minute, if that, before an explosion and further screams resonated through the chamber. Harry felt he'd wasted his time enough with Bella, and finished the match with an irritably grounding curse, throwing her into unconsciousness.
He didn't want to kill her - not yet.
Harry wanted Bellatrix Lestrange, his Godfather's murderer, to suffer much more, much worse fate than that.
Bellatrix was on the floor then, motionless, and Harry had already half turned away to find another obstacle, or distraction, but -
He could hear the cackle, the high pitched laugh, before any sight ever greeted him.
Lord Voldemort was there, in all his dire, hideous glory.
Harry felt bile rise in his throat, smothering, overpowering his taste, his hearing, his vision.
Crucio.
Love had conquered Tom Riddle in the end - but it was hatred that had driven Harry, that had given him the means, the skill, the encouragement to do what he had done. Pure, unhindered, vehement hatred. And Harry felt it grow in him again then, as the vision that befell him leveled, balanced.
His mother, among many others, sprawled on the floor - crying, screaming in agony.
And Harry had no control over what happened then - he never even realized it was he that had done it till precious moments too late, and he chaotically reined in the leash of magic that had escaped him. Uncontrolled magic threaded the air, shelves that made up the hundreds of rows split, cracked, broke under the tenuous pressure. And every last sphere, every prophecy in the hall, sang of silver light and cracked, hissed and exploded.
Suddenly the Hall of Prophecies was no more.
Harry struggled again to breathe, to hold himself upright -
All around the hall the fighting had stopped, witches and wizards paused to hold shields against the heavy downpour of sharp glass, curved shards sinking deep into anything they breached. Harry gently prodded the warm globe in his pocket - the only remaining prophecy in the now ruined, utterly useless department.
Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, was beyond livid.
"And who might you be?" his voice was a deadly purr, a poisonous hiss, echoing across the hall.
Harry glared. "What's it to you, Riddle?"
There was no need, no purpose for any answer. No more words were wasted - the Dark Lord wanted one thing only, now - to see Harry dead. And quickly.
No-one dared to interfere as the Dark Lord glided off a podium to come within better range of Harry, who squared off where he stood, a bitter grin stretched across his face - oh, he'd enjoy this, killing the bastard again.
Before he had done it for Light, for vengeance of loved ones, for the better grace of the world.
Now it was all for himself.
They started slow, a pass here and a parry there. Spells were thrown and caught too quickly for any to follow, fast becoming a blur, a haze. Harry blocked and shielded, locked to defensive, allowing Riddle to become misguided, misjudged, overconfident - to underestimate him. And then he struck.
Crucio. Crucio.
Crucio.
Voldemort had to pause, had to shield the overwhelming, relentless onslaught.
Harry knew he'd block it, but he couldn't help himself then, couldn't hold back from the look of outrage that was sure to purge that ghastly face if he ripped out -
Avada Kedavra.
Voldemort stepped to the side, as Harry had known he would have, but he looked back at Harry then with renewed, consuming loath -
No-one - no-one, not Dumbledore, not anyone - had got that far, that close, in a long, long while.
Harry laughed, stumbling back, reveling in the sound, and continued his unspoken attack. He drove Voldemort back, pelting the killing curse again and again, vigor never resting.
And then the impossible happened - Tom Riddle faltered.
Harry leapt closer, closing the distance between them.
He could have reached out an arms length and snapped the disgusting split-nostril nose, he was that near - near enough to throttle.
Voldemort glowered over him, and the spell-fire flew once again.
A burning hex, a testicle sting, an acid reflux, a disembowelment charm - Harry's imagination knew no bounds.
Together they danced, the world's best, stepping the line and teasing the edge.
At the same moment both took a tethering step forward, and found each other an inch apart.
Harry brought up a shield to block the killing curse hurtled his way, and feigned one of his own, preparing for one more torturous, more painful in retaliation.
Harry was aware of revived noise about the Hall, but he paid it no heed - he was closer now, so close he could taste it.
But then magic rippled the air again, throwing them back. It was over as fast as it had begun. Harry hit a pile of rubbled wood, jagged spikes piercing through the skin of his back, cutting through a good amount of tight, baring muscle. Harry cried out in pain, his body heaving, protesting to any more ill use. His exhausted limbs refused to give him any leeway, stubbornly forcing him to stay where he was.
"Halt!" a voice called out over the mayhem, as if Harry could have even moved then anyway, and both Harry and Voldemort held still at the stalemate, looking about angrily to find the one who had yelled, who had interrupted and thrown them so violently opposite ways.
Albus Dumbledore had arrived at last, a fresh group of Auror's in his wake.
Voldemort spared Harry one last look of unhindered outrage before calling the retreat, and the array of Death Eater's popped away concurrently.
A sigh of relief escaped the Ministry.
The Order gathered, looked completely disheveled, half unbelieving that any of them were alive at all. The mess was left to Albus and the Ministry to clean, thankfully; Healers, Aurors, and other important looking Officials clambered about, doing this and that, but nothing to any real mends. Nothing could claim back the lives they had lost.
Strained words drifted about the Order as Harry watched them, and he finally found it possible to poise himself up, far too late, to join them. Harry hobbled uncertainly to where they stood, completely vulnerable and unsure of himself - maybe he'd overreacted, just a bit - let his frustration and anger power him instead of rationality. He almost snorted at that thought. Harry didn't think he liked them knowing what he was capable of. Few smiles welcomed him then - a number seemed in terrified awe. Words strung the air, but their meaning meant nothing to him, and Harry was unable to make any sense of the speech.
He could feel Sirius' penetrating gaze, never wavering in its judgment. Harry struggled to subdue a surge of worry that Sirius might have witnessed his exchange with Bellatrix, that he might have taken Harry's moment of hesitation to mean something it didn't, and a heavy guilt lay blanket on him, shifting to rest from its dormant state.
Practically every set of eyes drew a constant flick towards Harry - who was struggling even to stand, though trying not to show it - and seeing him in a new light, then, one Harry wasn't sure he really wanted to be used as such a filter.
The string, the portkey, was produced again from someone's pocket - Harry couldn't see Shacklebolt - and passed around the group. Harry grabbed onto it, forcing himself not to stare at the dried blood caked onto his hands, stuck to his skin, between his dirty nails. Thirteen they had come, and nine they left, back to Godric's Hollow to floo on from there.
The tug to Harry's navel, pulling on his shattered ribcage, was horrible unjustly torture. But when they landed Harry knew he was at the stage where pain didn't matter anymore, anyway - it was everywhere, in everything, in anything he could see or hear or taste or feel, every word he might have spoken.
Then they had landed in the comfortable lounge room Harry had stood in not three hours before.
When he stepped forward Cho caught him, and Harry couldn't have ever been so glad to see her.
Harry's old scar twinged painfully, his stomach tossing, his vision a blur.
Déjà Vu.
...pppqqq...
A/N: Ah, so there we are. Phew. I have really been dreading writing this - I'm not all too confident with fight scenes and the like. I hope it wasn't too awful, anyway ;) The reviews have been so wonderful, so motivating - I really don't deserve you guys. Thankyou all so much!