Crisis

3. The Shell With Many Faces

Harry stared, dumbfounded, at the woman he had been talking to, at the stranger who had risen from the Dark Lord's dead body.

"You're not Voldemort," he said. He clutched the wand and notebook to his body. "Who are you?"

The woman closed her eyes and smiled. "Ah, you don't know how familiar that question sounds..." She laughed softly. There was something familiar in the sound. "I was Voldemort."

The boy started; it was rare to hear anyone but himself pronounce the name. "But - he -" He gestured toward the prone body, as unmoving as any of the living ones in the frozen hall.

Her eyes popped open; she glared at him, her soft features in contrast with her black hair, which was drawn back in a severe bun. "I know Voldemort is dead," she said waspishly. "I can see him as well as you can - probably better, in fact. I said I was. And that's not the only thing." She started counting on her fingers. "When Rubeus Hagrid brought you your Hogwarts letter, I was there. When you set the boa constrictor free, I was there. When Professor Dumbledore placed you with his own hands on the Dursleys' doorstep, I was there. When your parents were killed -"

She glanced up as if testing him; Harry did not look away.

" - I was there." The woman strode toward him, unrepentant. "I was Voldemort. I was Minerva McGonagall. I was Hermione Granger, Nymphadora Tonks, Penelope Clearwater. Bellatrix Lestrange, Doris Crockford, Amelia Bones. Everyone. I've been my fair share of owls as well."

The teenager with the eyes of a man began to laugh, a horrible sickly sound. "You almost had me convinced, whoever you are. Undo this." He waved at their surroundings.

She was unfazed. "Maybe a demonstration?" She pointed her hand at a diminutive boy Harry recognized. "See him? Bang." She mimicked the recoil of a gunshot. "Now look again."

Colin Creevey did not move; one moment he was standing, the next lying down as pale as death.

"He was hit by a stray curse sixteen minutes ago, Harry," she said. "It stopped his heart."

Harry felt himself run over to the body and kneel beside it. He placed a hand on its chest; it was already cool. He placed both hands there and tried to push down hard over the heart. He felt only air; his hands sank down slowly through the boy. He pulled his hands back up, feeling sick.

"Colin Creevey, sixth-year," she said. "He was annoying you during your second year. Do you see... hm..." She pointed at a corner of the hall. "Ah. Draco Malfoy. I'm sure you know what he's done to you. What would you like to have happened to him?"

Harry stared at the frozen, pale figure standing in a huddle with his parents. He felt the woman's eyes on him.

"Nothing," he said abruptly. "You're sick. You're just like Voldemort, you know that?"

"Of course," she said, grinning mirthlessly. "What, are you stupid? I am this world's greatest and its worst. But like I said, old habits..." She flicked a finger negligently. Colin was standing once more, his small face forever tense with anticipation and hope.

"I think you believe me now," she said. "You can still give me my wand and notebook. You'll never see me again."

"What - so you can stop time again or whatever and kill even more people?"

She began to laugh. The sound was curiously flat in the silence. "Let's get something straight, Harry," she said. "I haven't stopped time. And these aren't people." She stalked over to an Order member and pushed him, hard; her hand went right through his chest and out the back. She extracted her hand, holding it up. The chipped black paint on her nails were small dots against her wide, pale fingers. "They're not real," she said. Her voice was oddly soft; she bent her head, looking at her hand for a moment. "No, no - it is we who are less real - or is it more?" she said to it.

Harry cleared his throat.

She looked up and moved rapidly over to him. "Well," she said briskly, "I suppose I'd better make good on our deal. Hold onto my arm."

She sighed and lifted it a fraction further from her body, her jacket crackling. "Come on. It isn't a dance."

Harry placed his palm on her forearm. He noted distantly that part of her severe look came from sharp lines of makeup. The rest was all in the expression.

"And I'll need my wand. - Thank you." She nipped it from his fingers.

His grip on the notebook relaxed somewhat as she pushed back her right sleeve and wrote a few lines on her skin with the wandtip. "This is going to hurt in a few seconds," she muttered to herself. "Oh well, it's better than a hot soldering iron."

She smiled up at him, showing teeth. "Welcome to the real world, Harry Potter."

The Great Hall disappeared around them.

If all the seas were silver, and all the land bright gold, I should have my true-love in hand - and a Review brass-bold. (MTR)