Unfinished Journeys, Untraveled Roads - 5 - Psychoscape
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by Polydicta
A selection of unfinished tales that have been abandoned.
Each 'chapter' represents a single story.
Ongoing warnings for smut, language, character death, bashing, torture, mutilation, religious/social iconoclasm and reader brain damage. Brain bleach is highly recommended.
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Disclaimer:
All fiction is derivative and fan fiction doubly so. I make no claim to own any part of any of the following, all I have done is an attempt to put together the elements in a novel fashion, using words and ideas like Lego ™ bricks.
There is no money involved – all I do is to share what I do for my own amusement.
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Unfinished Journeys, Untraveled Roads - 5 - Psychoscape
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The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All was well . But as the train with Harry's children on board left for Hogwarts, all was not well, and Harry Potter survived the opening salvo of a new and more deadly Third Wizarding War.
And then comes the fourth war, and Harry Potter is no longer there to help, he is a legend of long ago ...
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Introduction
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All seems peaceful on the surface: Men and women going about their business, muggles and wizards alike. Trade continues, business happens, life goes on … to an outside observer, there would seem to be nothing wrong in the world. Who would believe that under the peaceful surface there is a war going on … a war for the survival of the human race.
Deep in the underbelly of the peaceful world of the twenty fifth century there is a war raging, fought not in the streets and corridors of the city, not in the fields and forests of the countryside, nor in the tunnels of industry, the companionways of satellites and starships, nor even the domed environments of the colonies of the moon.
No, this war rages in a very familiar place to all of us, it is being fought in the collective subconscious of every man, woman and child of human descent, and moreover, it has continued to be fought since 1996, though now on a different battlefield.
Lord Voldemort: A creature whose soul had been torn and mutilated in his attempts to forever avoid death was defeated last in 1998 by a teenaged wizard named Harry Potter. Unfortunately, Voldemort had taken more precautions to preserve his existance than merely a handful of horcruces.
Mad, he may have been, but never, ever unintelligent. Even as the magical construct he used as a body was about to be hit by his own killing curse, he fled. Once more a wraith, he was able to return nineteen years later …
Defeated again more by the self-sacrifice of The Nine, his essence hung on. No longer magically strong enough to build a new body, Voldemort began a new campaign, claiming not the bodies and hearts of wizards but the very souls of men and women of both worlds.
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Chapter 1: The Third War
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It began on platform nine and three-quarters, King's Cross Station, at 11:02 AM, September first, 2017.
The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air. The train rounded a corner. Harry's hand was still raised in farewell.
'He'll be all right,' murmured Ginny.
As Harry looked at her, he lowered his hand absemt-mindedly and touched the lightning scar on his forehead.
'I know he will.'
The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All was well.
(Closing words of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.)
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As they turned to return to the portal to the mundane world, the world turned white and they were flung willy-nilly along the platform amidst a wash of unbearable heat.
Harry let forth a string of invective, language rarely used since the birth of his eldest.
As he opened his eyes, he saw that the portal had been destroyed, and beyond …
The muggle side of Kings Cross was a scene from The Inferno, bathed in the red light of hellfire, the twisted metal of the roof was melted and burned. Beyond, the victorian brick walls were smashed and Harry could see the street outside, burning cars and wrecked buildings, and everywhere the dead and dying, more of the former than not.
He looked at his wife and his heart broke into pieces. Face down and neck at an impossible angle lay Ginny Potter, impaled by a piece of flying debris, an injury none could survive.
A groan caught his attention and his head swivelled, bringing him a view of familiar brown curls rising from behind a tangle of station-platform debris. She looked past Harry and her eyes grew wide.
"Holy ….. shhhhhhh …"
Harry rose somewhat and turned. The entire station canopy was gone, the buildings surrounding the rail-line were gone and ….
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"Ground zero … a school special carrying nearly six hundred secondary pupils on their way to a boarding school in Scotland …"
The picture on the screen showed the flattened and star-torn shape of the Hogwarts Express.
"… There were no survivors …"
Dudley Dursley sat, his mind reeling. His cousin's children would have been on that train, his own daughter was due to start at that same school next year. His cousin … damn, Harry would have been on the platform.
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"Hermione?"
"Ron didn't make it …"
She flung herself into her friend's arms and cried for the loss of her family – husband and children, all gone in one flash of nuclear hell.
Harry joined her in her grief. It was just the two of them now.
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"How did so many magicals survive? There were so few of our people who got out alive, let alone unscathed."
The head of MI5 looked at the members of the committee.
"Magicals are more … resilient than us. They are shielded, somewhat, by their magic. Their magic heals them constantly, at least to a point. The weaker mages died, and any who were fatally injured by debris. Most magicals tend to … bounce when you drop them from a height."
"Invulnerability?"
"No, more like fire-resistant motorcycle leathers."
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"Was it muggle technology?"
The dishevelled brunette with singed curls and dead, chocolate eyes looked at Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic.
"No, it was a hybrid. A magically enhanced nuclear device with about a twenty kiloton yield and next to no radiation other than heat and light. There is no evidence that any nuclear material was used at all. An impossibly 'clean' device."
The prime minister looked at the woman. The head of Military Intelligence looked at her. Both had seen action during the various campaigns of the past thirty years. They saw an expert running on emotional empty.
"You know about nuclear weapons?"
The woman nodded. "I was raised mundane."
Her voice was flat, but there was an edge that chilled the members of the security committee. Those who had been in the forces knew that voice, the voice of a soldier in war-mode. The voice of death waiting to happen.
The dark-haired youth with the scar spoke.
"Hermione has probably the most powerful intellect that you will ever meet. I have never known her to be wrong …"
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Green eyes peered out from under a magically enhanced helmet. The still-burning skeletons of central London's office-blocks surrounded the squad led by the young mage.
"Ground zero … "
A wand was produced and a series of gestures and muttered incantations later and he smiled grimly.
"Accio bomb-fragments … "
A number of tiny, twisted fragments flew toward him and were deftly caught in an aluminium container.
He frowned. "He's back … " he whispered.
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"This terrorist, Lord Voldemort? He has a way to beat death?"
Algernon Croaker nodded. "This is his second reappearance in person, so to speak. When Mr Potter defeated him the second time …"
"Mr Potter? The young man who … ?"
Croaker nodded. "He was prophesied to defeat Voldemort. He had to destroy a number of extremely … dark artefacts that were keeping the Dark Lord's soul anchored to this world before he could kill him."
"But he missed one?"
Croaker shook his head. "No, he must have used a second method, probably through the magic and life-force of his marked followers. If any remain with his Dark Mark, then they are likely to sustain him. I'm surprised that it could possibly work …"
"But the evidence is that it has done so."
Croaker nodded.
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"The bombs are being delivered by portkey, they are being enchanted by Voldemort in person, and they are using powdered depleted uranium half of which is then being transfigured into anti-matter, which in turn is then held in stasis. Each bomb has less than a gramme of anti-matter, the whole thing is the size of a walnut."
She paused for a moment.
"The portkey probably removes the device from a stasis container. It is in the process of detonating as it travels. With the flight-time of a portkey, I'd estimate that it travels less than five miles from launch to detonation."
"Could you build one yourself?"
The woman shook her head. "There's only one other person with the power and skill to do this."
"Whom?"
"Harry Potter," she breathed.
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Harry looked at the tennis-ball sized device and cast the portkey charm.
"launch in three … two … one …"
The device disappeared in a swirl of colour and the sky over the Atlantic Ocean turned white with the unsuppressed fury of a very small supernova.
He nodded at Hermione, she nodded back.
"Now all we need is to find him."
"The scar isn't going to be any use at all?"
He shook his head. "There's no connection anymore."
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"Harry?"
He looked at his old friend.
"Neville."
"I want to help. We did it once, we can do it again."
Harry nodded.
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"Mr Potter?"
Harry looked up to see the now familiar face of the head of the Department of Mysteries.
"There is something you should see … in the Hall of Prophesies."
Harry groaned.
The globe was large and dust-covered. Harry looked at Croaker.
"According to the catalogue, this prophesy was made in about fifteen-eighty. Just take it down and tap it with your wand."
Harry did so. A ghostly figure emerged, a man with narrow features, a close cap of leather and a neatly trimmed beard. A quiet voice spoke, deep and rich with a distinctly rural accent.
"The final war approaches and he who has embraced and mastered death will face he who flies from death.
"The conqueror of death shall rise for the third time and shall face he who will defeat him for the third time.
"A single cord for the first, seven ropes for the second, and three times thrice threefold chains for the third.
"Nine shall face him, one shall prevail yet three shall return from the wrack of battle.
"And seven shall again face the shadows yet to be cast ere the final victory.
"The final war approaches …"
Croaker looked shocked. "Twenty seven anchors … twenty seven marked Death Eaters …"
"But what of the final line, Algie?"
The unspeakable shook his head. "I have no idea, but I suspect that he will be back again one last time …"
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The end of the third Voldemort War ended on 31 October 2023 at 7:47 in the evening when Harry J Potter, assisted by Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Susan Bones and Fred Weasley destroyed the old Riddle manor in Little Hangleton, ably aided by three members of the British Armed Forces.
"Ward-stones are placed, Harry. Whenever you're ready."
Harry nodded. "Get yourselves out of here, everyone."
Hermione gasped. "Can't be done, Harry … we need to keep the wards powered up once we erect them."
Harry Potter swore.
"Then dig in. I need to get the package through Riddle's wards, so I'm stuck too."
"Just do it Harry. I'm ready to be with Ron again."
The dark-haired man smiled grimly.
"Anyone not here for the long dark needs to get out now. We go in thirty seconds and counting."
No one moved.
"I'll see you guys on the other side."
"yeah, see you there, Nev."
"Anti-transport wards are active and holding. Blast-containment wards are up and looking good …"
"Bye guys, it's been good knowing you. Launch in three … two … one …"
A swirl of light and the metal ball in Harry's hand disappeared. A loud gonging noise signalled its piercing of the anti-portkey wards around the house and everything ended in brilliance.
Somehow, Hermione Weasley and Luna Scamander survived the detonation, largely unscathed. They were found in a dip in the ground at the edge of the glass-lined bowl that had formerly been the old Riddle manor.
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Chapter 2: The Coming of The Shadow
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"What is it A.C?"
The screen on the head of magical security's desk showed the face of a man long dead partially overlain by data readouts, his long-deceased predecessor in the department, Algernon Croaker now returned as an AI - an artificial intelligence personality.
"The final line of prophesy JDee-HJP-TMR-003 has activated. The Counsel are agreed in our analyses to within a factor of one in six million. A further prophesy has also activated, but we have no access to the content."
"What reference?"
"Another JDee sphere. Row 23; block seven; shelf three - it is labelled shadow war."
"I'll send someone down."
"No. The sphere is active and protected. We believe who may retrieve it, but he has been dead since October 2023."
"Then there is no hope …"
"There is always hope. That is why prophesy exists."
The screen blanked. The time was 07:32 on 17 January 2485 (old calendar).
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Security Director Trivet's files showed a marked increase in sociopathic behaviour. Extreme sociopathic behaviour, in fact. There had always been a few maladjusted individuals, but the system tended to weed them out and to use their violent tendencies to advantage.
Now, he was looking at five files containing details of vicious, motiveless murders of incredible violence. Messy deaths. Protracted deaths in which the victim suffered for hours at least.
Crimes of passion he could handle – the deaths were typically accidental in any case, remorse being shown within seconds. These, however … the perpetrators seemed to delight in the suffering they caused. There hadn't been a crime of this type in over a century, and now five. There was a half-meter stack of files detailing lesser anti-social behaviours: arson, vandalism, violent clashes, thefts, muggings. All minority occurances until this past month.
And the rapes … he cringed. There was no shortage of willing men and women of any age, but these were acts of violence, of domination and cruelty having nothing to do with the normal sexual frustrations of modern society.
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Lana Mackaye woke from a dream. No, a nightmare. She had been running through a burning wilderness of broken buildings, the skeletal steelwork pointing dead fingers at a burned, dark sky. She was being pursued by a … by a monster. A creature ten feet tall with silver, metallic skin , a noseless face, bloody, steel teeth and glowing, red slits for eyes.
It was shooting energy beams at her while laughing insanely and taunting her in its hissing voice. Where the coloured light struck, things were destroyed, burned, warped, blasted and annihilated.
She recognised battle magic when she saw it in use. She had seen the space-marines' war-games, the men and women who fought to protect the colonists on alien worlds using a mixture of magic and technology, but this dream …
This dream was visceral, dark and very, very primitive. This was a primordial hunt, not the clean, well-drilled techno-magic of the current day.
As ever, she documented her dream in great detail, including sketches and notations. It was not the first of these dreams by a long way, but it was the worst so far.
The following morning, as she arrived at work, she felt an overwhelming urge to rip her boss's throat out with her bare hands. The man was kind, polite, friendly and generous. He had done nothing to earn her ire, but she felt the urge to kill him.
She called security and had herself escorted to a mind-healer.
The mind healer forwarded his report to Magical Security, along with the files documenting Lana's dreams.
She wasn't the first case of this type he had seen, nor would she be the last, but her almost obsessive self-reporting had given them all a first clue regarding the nature of what was happening. This was, by all accounts, some kind of legilimency attack.
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"Director."
The screen lit up to show the image of a woman with a mass of brown curls and chocolate brown eyes.
"H.G?"
"Yes director."
The flat voice surprised the director somewhat. He had never heard of the Granger AI personality interacting outside of The Counsel or Military Intelligence. The voice was flat, emotionless and, he felt, carried a dangerous edge to it.
"The code is: 'He Is Back.' Condition Black, confirmed."
The screen returned to the report that Director Trivet had been reading beforehand, and was now forgotten.
"Get me President Delacoeur. We have a situation."
A pause, and then the screen lit with a security logo followed by a request for voice recognition.
"Delacoeur here, what is it Jeff?"
"The Granger AI. Apparently 'He Is Back.' Condition Black, and it is confirmed."
"Damn … this means we have a war on our hands, but …"
"Where is the violence? The terrorist …"
Trivet's voice trailed off.
"The upsurge of violent crime … it's a psychological war, isn't it?"
Delacoeur's head shook. "No, it's a psychic war, but we have no idea how to deal with it."
"How … ?"
"Other departments have seen the patterns too, and I received a report this morning from Cardiff. A young woman has documented the progress of an attack on herself. We even know who, but not the how."
"Response options? We have options?"
The president looked beaten then. "None. We have no idea how the attack is being launched, let alone how to counter-attack. Even worse, it's not limited to Earth. The Lunar and Mars colonies are reporting psychopathic behaviours in some of the most stable individuals we know."
"Then we're … beaten … before we even start …"
"No, the Croaker AI says that there is hope. Two of their prophesies have activated."
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Chapter 2: The Return of The Light
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The time was 01:17 on 31 October 2487 (old calendar), and the lights dimmed suddenly in the old Ministry of Magic in London.
The ministry, long abandoned for a less secretive high-rise, now served as a museum and as the continued home of the Department of Mysteries located deep below the old administrative levels.
Alarms, long forgotten, blared through the empty corridors. The voice of a witch dead for over half a millennium spoke to ears that no longer listened.
A security guard made a hasty call to the Department of Magical Security. Lists of names were read and calls went out.
An armed party of Space Marines and senior intelligence officers made their way into the depths of the old Department of Mysteries, far below the levels that carried the modern workload.
The torches in the Death Chamber were already lit when they entered and took up positions. The veil arch was afire with the various runes hidden in its surface all aglow, the membrane of the veil was whipping with an unexpected violence in an eldrich wind unfelt by those present.
A heaviness like thunder pervaded the atmosphere, making breathing uncomfortable.
The torches flickered and dimmed as a sepulchral glow emanated from beyond the veil. As it grew in intensity, shadowed figures could be seen approaching as though through a long tunnel.
The shadows grew as they came closer and, finally, they stepped in ones and twos through the veil that filled the arch. As the last stepped through, the light snapped out and the torches flared to full brightness.
Seven figures. Seven men and women dressed in traditional robes, each seemed in their thirties. Each carried a duffel bag and a staff.
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"Well, I never expected to see THIS place again."
The man's voice carried an old-fashioned accent, one only now encountered in a holo-vid play.
"Too right, Padfoot, but I suppose it makes sense, after all."
This other male had a subtly different accent, though just as archaic.
"Um, guys? We have a welcoming committee …"
The third male, larger than the other two, pointed out the marines.
"Ummm …. Hi? I think it's traditional to say, around this point, take us to your leader?"
The crooked smile on the green-eyed male was quite disarming, especially when one of the females hit him upside the head.
"Harry! Stop being silly. They're probably armed and wondering whether to shoot first or to ask questions first."
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A voice from the amphitheatre whispered, "Oh Merlin … they're back …"
"Who're back, Boss?"
"Look at them. The Granger and Potter AI's in the middle. The Longbottom AI on the right. No idea about the others …"
The three named individuals looked up.
"You know us?"
"Damn …"
He hadn't expected the newcomers to have such sharp hearing.