Writer's Notes: Wow. Simply Wow. I went to actually -write- on Chapter Forty, and realised that the last time it was modified was June of 2006. It's not that I don't -want- to continue this fanfiction.

There is a story here that I -really- would love to tell, and I would hope that people would love to hear. But that 2006 date just hit me and made me realise how busy I've gotten with university. So busy that I can barely find an hour to upload a new chapter. I wish I could do my first passion, writing, rather than my second. But writing doesn't adequately pay the bills so I will continue getting my doctorate.

But I don't want that to mean that I can't continue writing on this story. After this book, there are two more. And despite the fact that the series has come to an end, and this takes place after Goblet of Fire, I will continue it so long as there is even one pair of eyes to continue it for. When I first started in 2004 (or was is 2002?) I had many readers anticipating the next instalment. Please let me know if you guys are still around and hanging on with me.

And after opening Chapter Forty to, hopefully, finish it before my evening class, I feel warm and fuzzy and a sense of … well, I don't know how to describe it. Warmth. Fuzziness. Like listening to a really good song that just -sings- to you.

Here is chapter thirty-eight, a chapter that has been written since 2006. I hope you enjoy it.

Losing Faith

Chapter Thirty-Eight : Quitting Heroes

"I quit."

A hollow voice has opened his eyes to an empty room, gasping desperately for air, each breath stirring embers in his constricted lungs. His chamber is a black chasm of electrical storms--the white candles lining the walls have flickered dead sometime in the silence of the night. Reaching out with a shaking hand, he fumbles dumbly for his wand but cannot even find the end table next to his bed.

"Wrong side?" he murmurs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and mentally trying to solve the case of the stolen end table. Heaving a deep, bewildered sigh, he tosses the thick black fleece from his battle-weary body. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed only to find nothing beneath his feet. Stretching his toes down, he searches for the Persian rug Fleur left him. It, like his end table, cannot be found.

"What the . . ." He leans forward, his back cracking at the sudden movement. Reaching his arm down, he sharply pulls it back when he encounters no floor. "All right, who stole my floor?" he grumbles as he lies back down, remembering to take this matter up with, well, someone in the morning.

Fluttering his eyes . . . his mind and body collapse into an appreciative slumber . . .

He is jerked to full consciousness.

The spinning room gains momentum; it wails screams that suggest pain and shakes like a shattering Earth. His bed bucks. He's suddenly falling.

But this isn't abnormal. His black hair whips around as he searches his surroundings, but his eyes only find darkness--a darkness that is welcoming, delicate and invigorating. It comforts him. For the first time, he feels safe and desires rest. But before he can fall into the familiar bottomless sleep, he drifts to a stop, landing gently upon a black marble floor.

Everything is a fading black, save for a dim light coming from the thin crack between a door and the floor. He approaches it with trembling and leery steps, entering into an ivory room with a feeling that he's been here before. Staring back, the room he was once in is now a small box at his feet, and he kicks it.

The floor beneath his bare feet is a pure white marble holding no mars of time. The walls are cosmic and white, flawed with crimson blood that haemorrhages from small cracks and pools on the floor, slowly flowing to the centre of the chamber to be one with the gathered magicks. Five framed pictures decorate the walls, as large as he is tall. Each picture holds an infamous creature of the Earth--Grindelwald, Moora elf Steel, Lord Voldemort, Lucius, and four humanoid creatures he has yet to see.

The room feeds off magick, twisting and hoarding it in the centre, and when someone enters, the black-haired wizard stares. He came from nowhere, and a silver aura surrounds him. So strong is his magickal presence that he seems to be made from nothing but magick. His hair is black as the night, his eyes blue as the sky. He wears the red robes of a Gryffindor but holds in his hands the sword of Slytherin. He looks relatively normal, save for two small horns sprouting black on his forehead.

"Dad?" the wizard asks, dumbfounded. He takes a shaking step forward, his bare feet patting echoes against the frigid marble. With every step, his mystical aura leaves a glowing imprint in the marble.

The Father nods and bestows his son an inviting smile.

No secrets are held between them, no lies can be told and no weaknesses can hide--only truth can be told in this room. From the first moment that The Father cradled his newborn son in his arms, he knew he was destined for greatness.

What he never knew, however, was that his son lacked the strength to alone bare the world upon his shoulders. He would need guidance from those who have seen what he's been through , he would need answers from those who know the questions. He would need family, he would need friends. He would need guidance. But there is one thing that he cannot find buried deep inside of others--hope. Because it ceased to exist, he alone must provide hope to a plagued nation.

"I quit," the son hears himself say but he cannot remember the hollow words flowing past his lips and out his mouth on a breath of fresh air.

This bolt from the blue strikes The Father on the chest, leaving no mark. He swiftly sheathes his sword into the scabbard around his gargoyle-hide belt, his ocean blue eyes focussing in on the leader of the Alliance. "You can't quit," he speaks after a moment, crossing his arms before his chest. His eyes quickly examine the five paintings hanging on the walls before he adds a redundant, "You're a hero, boy."

"People will die. I can't bring more death to the people I love!"

The portraits upon the walls begin to shift and change. The colours meld together into blackened chaos before vibrantly separating into five new wizards--Sirius, Remus, Igor, Severus, and Fleur. His family. The people whose death he fears more than the Death Eaters themselves, even more than he fears his own inevitable death.

"Everyone has a gift."

The wizard chuckles sarcastically. "Do not tell me mine is death," he warns.

The Father's spirit dives deep underground and he scowls. The walls are fierce with haemorrhaging, the crimson life now seeping over the bare feet of the two wizards, pooling between their toes. "You have the potential to change the world. This is what you were born for," he admonishes sternly.

"I want a normal life," the boy whispers to his father as he stares helplessly. "I wanted to be a normal kid. I didn't have a childhood, dad. I've been fighting wars ever since I can remember. I'm tired. I want out."

And as the young wizard explained his deposition, the paint of the portraits falls from the canvass and ghost hands illustrate five new ones--disembowelled Death Eaters, fighting gargoyles, a departed Molly and Arthur Weasley, Percy death-cursing Voldemort, his own birth. Slowly, the portraits decay and skulls roll onto the floor.

"That is not for you. If you quit, all people die! Their hope will barren."

"I'm tired," he repeats softly as he stretches his toes and wades them through the puddle of blood beneath his feet. Chewing the inside of his cheek, his heart sinks and skin shivers with gooseflesh. "How can I care about people I don't even know? Let them die." he finishes with a spinning and aching head. Slowly, so slowly that he doesn't notice until he awakens to a crimson-stained bed, the battle scars marring his flesh reopen and blood seeps through.

The Father irritably closes his eyes, forcing himself to remain calm with a deep breath. "Are you as ready to give up and let ever time you've ever fought for die? I'm not stupid, I don't think you are. You might think so, but I know you better than you know yourself. You won't let the world be plunged into this darkness"--and on that word, the paintings suddenly turn black.

"Who are we to challenge the wisdom of the Gods?"

And upon those black images, satellites of the solar system--the heavens--appear. One illustrates the four terrain planets while the next two show the gas giants. The fourth shows the rocky-ice environment of Pluto and Quaoar, and other planetoids of the Kuiper Belt. The fifth is an endless landscape of dwarf stars.

The Father feels his anger rise and he quickly catches the boy's eyes with his own, glaring at him with an intense fire. He tucks his hands behind his back in a calm motion, else he fears he may strangle his son. "Because if you don't, Marcus Flint is going to kill Adrian Pucey!"--and to demonstrate his point, the inner planets change to suit the God's words.

A sigh escapes The Father's lips. "To right fate. Because the strings that hold Lucius Malfoy will break and he will invade with unchallenged power until there is nothing but dark, decaying death left! Because your friends will die, but not before Malfoy and the Death Eaters torture them. Darkness will overcome the world and mankind will turn on themselves, destroying each other!" And with an furious sweep of his hand, the remaining four pictures transformed to further illustrate his point.

"So let them. I'm only one man about to break."

The Father stares thoughtfully at his son. "If you truly believe that, then don't let the door hit you on the arse on the way out."

And though he commands his feet to move and pleads with his mind to bring him from this dream, nothing happens.

"You're a hero, son, like it or not," The Father reminds as he begins to fade from the chamber, his voice echoing from the walls as the blood soaks through the marble and pictures reassume their portraits of villains. "You may not always want to be, but it's who you are. You fight because not taking an action is wrong. Your death was prewritten but you escaped, and that's why the scales of power are unbalanced. It's up to you to fix them, otherwise everything will be destroyed. Look for friends where there might not be none. You're a hero, son. You're life made you that. You're death will enforce it."