Crisis

2. The Spirit in the Machine

Harry stood his ground, preferring not to retreat yet loathing the thought of taking one step towards the enemy. And if the ghost, or shadow of Voldemort or whatever it was couldn't move, so much the better…

The very solid-looking ghost sighed and took a step forward, its robes swirling through those of its body. "Come on, Harry. I'll make you a deal. Give me the wand and notebook, and your story will end without any fuss. Withhold them from me, and I'll explain to you exactly what's going on."

"Are you joking?" the young man asked. "I'm keeping them – it." He motioned with the wand suspiciously. "What notebook are you talking about?"

The spectre snapped shut a silver pocket-watch and placed it back in the place a waistcoat pocket would be, except there was no such pocket on the front of its robes, and glared with its red eyes. It didn't have much of a choice. "Very well. I knew you would say that." It pointed a bony finger. "The notebook is in your left pocket. Take it out and I'll explain, and do try to keep up."

Harry felt in the robe pocket, keeping his eyes and wand trained on Lord Voldemort. He pulled a rectangular object out by the corner; it expanded to full size in his hand. Voldemort widened his eyes and presented his open palms, long fingers spread – a disturbing portrait of innocence. Defiantly, the boy backed away to the nearest wall, supported the book on the wand, and flipped it open one-handed.

'The Goblin Revolts of '06,' the first page said. He flipped to the next. 'Copernicus v. Ptolemy.' Frowning, he flipped past five pages and gasped. The next page was filled with writing from edge to edge, but his eyes skipped over the words so they could not be read. He felt the unearthly red eyes on him as he opened to a page in the middle of the book. The words there had a similar property. They moved, sometimes like water, sometimes like lightning. The black ink presented tantalizing flashes of half-familiar images, as if it could suck him in forever.

"What is it?" he murmured.

"I suppose you could call it an intrinsic property of both our existences. I confess I slipped up, and forgot it quite until now. Rather unfortunate that it ended up in your hands, though it really does go with the job, doesn't it?"

The boy snapped the book shut and glared at its purported owner. "It's a Horcrux, then? That's why you're still alive."

"No, it isn't," said the thing that looked like his enemy. "Though in principle it is similar to the diary you have already encountered, it is far, far more than that…"

Harry's grip tightened on the battered cover. "You'd better explain for real," he said. "If this is a piece of your soul, why shouldn't I destroy it like the others?"

"It is more than a piece of my soul." The speaker flung its arms wide. "In layman's terms, this notebook holds a piece of everyone in here. Everyone you've ever met and a few you haven't. A lot of your soul, and a lot of mine.

"So go ahead!" Its shout rang through the air. A storm of dust rose in the red sky's glow. "Destroy it now, if you think you should. Or you can come with me to your awakening… I offer nothing but truth."

"Why these choices?" Harry asked. "I don't have to do what you say. What is this, some kind of game?"

The simulacrum cocked its head to one side, arms akimbo. "Oh, I see. You don't trust me. Old habits die hard, and I suppose that goes for both of us…"

It changed; the youth started back, knocking his elbows on the stone wall. A woman stood where previously there had been a snake-faced, red-eyed demon. It tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and inspected its fingernails briefly. Then it looked up at Harry through small rectangular glasses.

"There," it said. "Much better."

"Review, gentle readers!" said the fanfic writer. (MTR)