With the outlines of his hood in front of him, the Dark Lord stood in front of the door, his long, bony fingers curled around the knob. He was more than ready to end this. More than ready to show the world that it would never be possible for a small infant that knew little to nothing about the world to defeat someone as puissant and as gifted as he was. Let alone an infant defeating any adult, as a matter of fact. It was illogical. Unthinkable.
Impossible.
It was all too easy, as he thrust open the door, a rumbling laughter drumming in his chest. It was almost like a song, a lullaby, to his soon-to-be victim. Ahead, a tall-figure with glasses stepped into the foyer, his hazel eyes widening at the intruder.
"Lily, take Harry and go!" cried James Potter to his wife, straight-backed with determination. "I'll hold him off!"
But the Dark Lord couldn't resist another bout of laughter. How foolish . . . Gryffindors and their witless leaps . . . without a wand, what could he possibly do to him–to the greatest wizard of all time?
He had almost pointed his wand at the man, intending to send him writhing to his death, when something–a mysterious feeling–coiled around his wrist like a snake, preventing him from continuing. Instead, he lowered his wand, his heart bleeding with longing instead of the previous aversion for the man. As if some external force was manipulating him, he approached the man and tried to lay a hand on him–his father–to try to tell him that he was being controlled, that he was being forced to do this. But as soon as his fingertips touched his father, the latter turned into solid gold, his hands flailed out in defense.
Horrified, the Dark Lord stumbled back, a silent cry in his mouth, only to hit something solid behind him. Slowly, he turned around to find his mother standing with one hand outstretched, as if reaching for his shoulder. But she was frozen, and like his father, her body had turned into a bright gold colour at his touch. He had killed her. His chest heaving, he collapsed onto his knees, his bony fingers fisted around his hair, his heart ripping apart in agony.
And he screamed. And screamed.
Gasping, Harry bolted up from the bed, pressing his palms against his searing forehead, his face drenched with sweat. He hardly registered his injuries. He was so engrossed in his pain that he hardly noticed his surroundings. Finally, the pain subsided, leaving behind a dull ache, and a bile feeling at the back of his throat. Blinking away dark patches from his eyes, he wiped hastily at his teary eyes before he registered the fact that he was cold. From around his cell, he could hear the familiar hoarse breathing of the Dementors. The place reeked with dead flesh and salty air. He looked around, the events of the previous night drenching him like water. He was in Askaban, not Godric's Hallow, although neither of them seemed to be a pleasant revelation. But at least he wasn't seeing his parents dying or even . . . outright turning them into gold.
Harry shook his head. He didn't want to think about it.
The stillness and the strait of the cell bothered him. He had never gotten used to it, even though he had spent almost ten years in them. It forced him to think about things that he would be better off not thinking about – unpleasant things even though he should be thinking about them. In fact, he should be torturing himself for every second that the families of his victims mourned for their loved ones. But the only benefit he got from feeling utterly miserable and grieving indefinitely for his victims was that the Dementors didn't seem to be influencing him as much as they did his first years in prison. They fed on happiness, mainly. Forced their hosts from their happiness in order to make them hopeless and melancholy, but they didn't need that from him, anyway.
He had little to no happiness to give them.
Agitated and restless, he stood up, pointedly ignoring his injuries. But he couldn't stay still. He paced and paced across the short lengths of the room, trying not to think about what was waiting for him behind the shrouded hood of the Dementors. He didn't regret his decision. He had gotten to the point of his life where he would accept anything – anything! – that would stop him from trying to hurt others. No, he couldn't bear to see another person hurt because of him. It was bad enough that half of the villagers in Fraisdaill Village had survived. The other half was all his to blame. He didn't think that he could even stand to see his parents in the afterlife, especially after all that he had done . . . after so many lives . . .
And Neville . . .
No, he accepted the Dementor's Kiss.
The bitter coldness bit into his skin, eliciting a shiver up his spine. His breath billowed out like steam, a gruesome reminder of the breath that would be snuffed out of him in just a short time. He couldn't stand it. This waiting game. He would much prefer a quicker end, one where he didn't have to be thinking about what exactly he was leaving behind. He tried not to think about it, but he failed miserably. Who was going to watch over Grimmauld's Place? What if Voldemort found about the place? Would he somehow kill everyone in it? What had happened to the sleeping villagers? Knowing the turbulent state of the Ministry, they were bound to do something wicked with them. Harry honestly doubted that they cared about anyone. But after he was gone, would the Order still continue to exist? If they didn't, then who was going to bring down Voldemort? Could Harry really abandon them at the height of the war? Did they even need him?
Harry shook his head.
Growling in frustration, he whipped around at the faint rustle near to him. He looked towards the sound, and his already pale face drained of its last bit of colour.
There, leaning against the shadowed corner of the wall, was a tall, thin figure with short-length black hair standing with his arms crossed, his red eyes peering, amused, from under the hood of his cloak. There was a small curl in his lip. He looked young and human, a far cry from his present counterpart. With a jolt, Harry realised that it was Tom Riddle. The same Tom Riddle that he had seen in his dream, the one that had slayed his parents, judging by how he still had the same handsome features that he had had before he had become Lord Voldemort.
Harry swallowed, hoping against all hope that he wasn't hallucinating. Was he going mad? Was he imagining things? Deciding to take the chance, Harry approached, ready to leap away just in case he tried anything dodgy.
"Are you . . . Tom Riddle?"
His voice echoed in the silence of Askaban, with nothing but the mourning and moans of its occupants and the hoarse breathing of the Dementors to mingle along with it. But Riddle simply stared at him with a look that bordered between arrogance and amusement.
"Why waste your breath asking a question that you already know the answer to?"
Annoyance crossed Harry, but he trudged on. "You're . . ." said Harry slowly. "the part of Voldemort that's inside of me?"
"A startlingly accurate deduction," replied Riddle. "for someone so impetuous."
"What do you want?" demanded Harry. He couldn't deny that a large part of him was unnerved on the fact that Riddle was here. "Why're you here?"
Riddle gave him a long, piercing look. Harry almost felt like he was part of a dog-show, like Riddle was looking through him, instead of at him. But then he remembered that Voldemort had been a Legilimens, and he quickly broke the eye contact.
"The proper question is," said Riddle, his expertly leveled voice cutting into Harry's thoughts. "why did you call me here?"
Harry startled, taken-aback. He turned back to Riddle, looking quite bewildered. He had done nothing to bring him out. In fact, he hadn't been trying to contact anyone at all, let alone Voldemort's Horcrux.
"I didn't."
"Are you certain of that?"
"Yes," said Harry vehemently.
Riddld raised a black brow, looking quite unimpressed that Harry wasn't following along. "Your conscious begs to differ."
"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Harry.
Riddle looked like he was trying very hard to refrain himself from rolling his eyes, as if Harry was some petty teenager to its parent.
"Ask yourself," said Riddle blandly. "Is it wise to dwell in fruitless conjecture?"
"Ask me if I give a damn."
Riddle raised a brow. "Are you always this insolent?"
"Wrong question," said Harry. Ignoring Riddle, he turned and tossed himself on the bunk bed. Quite honestly, he didn't care what the hell Riddle was here for. He was done with trying to make sense of things that can never be made sense of. Maybe if he pretended that he wasn't here, he would shove off. Harry sprawled on his back with one foot tucked, marveling how he always managed to get himself back in prison all the time. Was it sheer dumb luck? Or was it the fact that he had broken almost every bloody rule in life?
Pure talent, then?
But as he gazed at the ceiling, he tried to thoroughly ignore the existence of the figure in the shadows. That is, until the subject in question crossed his vision. Calculating red eyes met irritated green eyes, and Harry scowled up at the man.
"So you are the one destined to become my downfall," said Riddle distastefully, studying Harry from under his nose. "I must admit, I am rather unimpressed."
Harry scowled.
"You chose me, remember?"
Riddle waved a hand idly. With a furtive look, he turned to walk to the wall where he crossed his arms and leaned against it.
"Unwillingly," he said dully. "Unwittingly."
"You're the reason why my life's all botched up!" said Harry heatedly. "I'd sooner drive a knife through my chest if I knew it'd help."
"You would sacrifice your life in exchange for millions?" Riddle raised an unimpressed brow. "How despicable."
"Funny, isn't it?" said Harry darkly. "Not something you're used to hearing, I suppose."
Riddle waved a hand.
"A life taken is a life robbed, Harry," he replied. "Whether it is your own life or mine, it is a life nevertheless. Others may think sacrificing your own life in exchange for the majority is a considerably noble act. I, however, think it is an act born from cowardice."
Harry tucked his hand behind his head and raised a brow. "But you're all right killing millions for billions, is that right?"
"I never claimed to be a saint."
"No, you're a far cry from one."
"Your impudence will be your downfall."
"And your ego will be yours," Harry shot back.
Riddle looked unperturbed. "Do you really think a fanciful concept such as a saint exists in this world, Harry? Do you really think that such a man is capable of existing?"
"No, but I know the opposite does. And he's here in this room."
"How flattering," remarked Riddle calmly. "Are you referring to your own self or the part of me that is within you?"
"What's the difference?"
Riddle snorted.
"What is a man without sins, Harry?"
"I dunno," he replied dully, his gaze fixed on the mossy ceiling. "You tell me."
"A man without sins is no man at all," explained Riddle. "A man who does not err is no man at all. If every man is destined to be flawed, then surely a man who sins is human. You see, Harry. With all my, as they say, questionable acts, I remain as human as the next man. But it is not I who is as human as they are. But rather, they are as human as I am. Do you understand now?"
"Yeah," he said coldly. "splitting your soul into seven is very human."
"Where is your gratitude?" said Riddle, an eyebrow raised. "Would you be alive had I refrained from it?"
"I'd rather be dead," contended Harry bitterly. "I'm not scared of death, Riddle. I don't go around splitting my soul for the chance at living forever."
Riddle looked unfazed. "Perhaps not with a soul that was never yours to keep," he said calmly, a curl in his lip. "If it was yours, however, you would execute it . . . in due time, of course."
At the implication, Harry shot up in defiance. "I'd never split my soul into seven!" said Harry hotly. "I don't give a damn about my life."
Riddle's lip curled.
"Precisely, Harry," he said mockingly, his red eyes gleaming. "What is preventing you from executing it? If it is death that you desire, then surely there is nothing left worth living for. Then, why not achieve it, Harry? Why not reap the benefits of corruption if the world means nothing to you? You possess both the strength and the will to accomplish it. After all, your soul is just as corrupted as mine. Just as befouled as mine . . . if not more. From the time of my ascension as Lord Voldemort to the time I intruded on your foolish parents in Godric's Hallow, my victim count was not nearly as rampant as yours."
"Yeah," said Harry darkly. "You made up for it through me."
Riddle smirked.
"Ah, still in denial, I see."
"And you're wrong," said Harry, swinging his legs over the bed and rising to his feet. "There is something worth living for."
Riddle sneered. "Humour me."
Harry approached him until they were almost at an arm's length of each other. He looked at him dead in the eyes. Green to red.
"I'll live long enough to take you with me," he asserted quietly. But Riddle simply smirked, almost as if Harry had just done a magic trick of some sorts.
"Together both in this life and the next," he replied mockingly. "How fitting, Harry."
Harry's lip curled. "We'll see."
Without another glance, Harry turned to walk back to the bed before Riddle's voice halted him in his tracks. "Perhaps if you were less insolent," said Riddle icily. "I might have offered you a glimpse at my own insight."
Harry whipped around and shot him a suspicious look. "Why would you help me?" Harry shot back. "You tried to kill me."
"You possess a part of me," replied Riddle dully. "and if you perish, then I perish as well. Perhaps if you were less dim-witted, you might have made that deduction."
Harry glared.
"No, thanks," he replied coolly. "I'd rather Kiss a Dementor."
Once again, Harry tossed himself on the bunk of the bed, a leg tucked, one hand behind his head. He tried to ignore Riddle. He didn't need help from the person responsible for his imprisonment, for the death of his victims and his parents. There was no possible way that he could ever re-assimilate back with society – not with the families of his victims testifying against him. Not with all of his crimes. There was no way. No way that they could all forgive him, even if he was possessed. Even if all but one forgave him, he would still be punished.
Justice, after all, was a purely objective matter.
Or was it?
It was either he died killing Voldemort or he served the rest of his life in prison or in Askaban. He knew that. But try as he may to ignore Riddle, the man seemed annoyingly insistent on his company. But what Harry didn't understand was . . .
Why did Riddle only show himself now?
"Oh, yes," said Riddle offhandedly. "Noble Harry Potter–the Chosen One above all else–abandoning his people. How fitting. You nearly possess all the traits to become a Dark Lord . . . if only you were less forgiving."
"Fat chance," replied Harry darkly.
He had to admit. He was a bit unnerved by Riddle's comment. But he had enough experience with Riddle's future self to know that he only desired a reaction out of Harry. It wasn't necessarily the truth.
Was it?
"Will you accept my assistance?"
"I don't need your help."
Riddle smirked. "Wounded pride, I see."
"Why're you still here?" snapped Harry.
Finally, Riddle moved away from the wall and approached Harry. He looked down at the younger man with a complacent look of his face.
"Every decision you make is leading you closer to the path to darkness," he whispered. "You see, Harry, the part of man that fools like Albus Dumbledore deny so strenuously: the necessity of evil. The two faces in a man, good and evil–they must exist. They cannot exist without the other. They are like the two faces of the moon. A light that beams in the fullest moon but disappears fully behind the shadows at the end of the month."
"Very clever," said Harry sarcastically. "So you admit you have goodness in you? If evil can't exist without good, then you've got it too, is that right?"
"Every man is capable of good deeds."
"I find that hard to believe."
Riddle raised a brow. "Is keeping the purebloods alive not an act of goodness? Is offering mercy to my greatest enemy not an act of goodness? Or perhaps offering your mother a second chance to step aside so that I could claim the life of her only son?"
Harry bolted up in indignance. "You only did it for your own gain," he snapped. "You didn't give a damn about her."
Riddle sneered, his teeth bared like that of a snake. "Pray tell, what could I possibly hope to gain from a filthy Mudblood–?"
"Don't you start about my mother–" Harry warned.
"Ignoring the question, I see," smirked Riddle, looking quite smug. He turned to walk back to the wall and resumed his position.
"You never cared for anyone," said Harry firmly. "That makes all the difference."
Riddle's lip curled. "Oh, yes, and you know better, of course," he said mockingly. "Perhaps, you will find, rather like Dumbledore, that you care, perhaps . . . too much?"
Harry frowned. Whatever he was expecting this time, it was certainly not that response.
"I don't see how–"
"You see, Harry," explained Riddle calmly, "to care for others implies that you are willing to take into account your victims, whereas I value their numbers as irrelevant in terms of meeting my overall goal. The goal is relevant; however many lives are taken is irrelevant. Take yourself as an example. The way your life is structured, the way it prospers, is rather like the lunar cycles. Only, when the light dissipates, when the shadows trounce the light, it will remain dark and haunted . . . as a result of the consequences of the greater good. When you will be forced between exchanging several lives to save others.
"You will find that what I do is no different. But I do not conceal it behind a veil of false truths and fake smiles, Harry. I readily accept my crimes. Perhaps the best type of criminal is one that admits their crimes, rather than pretend that they do not exist," he twirled his wand in idly. "Pity. Fate is, indeed, a cruel mistress."
"I'll never make that decision," asserted Harry firmly.
Riddle smirked.
"You already have," he said, his eyes gleaming with victory.
Harry flinched at the blunt response. Suddenly, an image of the village–of Fraisdaill Village crossed his mind. He could see the bodies of the villagers piled one on top of the other. Limbs tangled with limbs. Those that were dead lumped with the ones that were living. He could smell the burnt flesh of the sleeping villagers. Heard the cracks of broken wood of their homes. He could see the Lethifolds consuming them–digesting them until they were nothing more than a memory.
He had been too late to save them. And Riddle knew.
He was using Harry's guilt against him. He was projecting the image purposefully in his head. To get a reaction out of Harry.
He was proving his point. The villagers would have survived if someone had not tried to save them in the first place . . . if the Order hadn't sent the Aurors or even their own members to try to save them. Even if they still would have been asleep, they would have survived regardless. If Harry himself had not tried to save them. If they hadn't intervened, the village would never have been burnt in the first place. By choosing to save them, they had basically killed them. And if the Aurors really were working with Voldemort, then, in retrospect, he had just sent them to sleep. Instead, he made anyone trying to save them suffer for their actions.
And they only had a limited number of Thestrals. They had to leave behind a select few instead of letting the whole villagers burn alive together.
They had to save some, but leave the others. But that was war, wasn't it? That didn't make them criminals . . .
Right?
Harry dimly registered the rustle of robes and the shadow that crossed his vision. He felt numb and sick. Dimly, he looked up into the dark red eyes of his greatest enemy.
"In retrospect, Harry," said Riddle, his red eyes gleaming. "everyone is a criminal. The Order, the Death Eaters, the Ministry. Any individual that presumes authority over the taking of a human life–they are all criminals. Since there is always goodness in others, then killing anyone is, by default, a crime, is it not?"
Harry felt numb.
But they had saved people . . . but by sacrificing others. But that was the consequence of being a flawed human, right? The consequence of being human was that everyone couldn't be saved. That didn't make it wrong. In fact, killing others was very much necessary. And as he looked up at Riddle, his chest boiling with hot fury, he very much affirmed that thought.
Harry shot up to his feet.
"None of it would've happened if you hadn't caused it in the first place," said Harry angrily. "You poisoned the water. You sent the Aurors and the Death Eaters after the villagers. We didn't need to choose between one life or the other if it you weren't for you. You started it."
Riddle waved a hand. "Evil is necessary for good to exist," he explained. "In retrospect, evil is, in fact, a necessary good. If I had not sent the Death Eaters after the villagers, would you ever have committed the good deed by saving them? If I had not brought fear and devastation to the world, had I, perhaps hypothetically, never had been born or even risen to become Lord Voldemort, would the saviour of the Wizarding World – would Harry Potter likewise ever have been born?"
"That's a pathetic excuse, Riddle, and you know it."
"Or perhaps if I had not kindly asked your mother to step aside," he continued darkly. "would I ever have been thwarted by her only son?"
"Maybe if you hadn't tried to kill me in the first place," snapped Harry. "None of it would've happened."
Riddle's eyes gleamed. "And yet, if I had not attempted to kill you, I would never have been vanquished at all," he said, straightening from his leaned position. Harry gritted his teeth. "I would have been free to accomplish what I sought from the beginning–to eliminate any trace of Muggle blood within our lines, any filthy blood that taints our future wizards. To finish Salazar Slytherin's noble work. Would you have preferred that instead, Harry?"
Harry's eyes darkened.
He couldn't believe him. He tried so hard to justify his actions – so much that he was willing to commit evil acts in order to balance out the cycle between good and evil. But at what expense?
At the expense of hurting others?
Harry gritted his teeth, trying very hard to keep his voice leveled. "I'm surprised someone as clever as you lacks something as simple as common sense."
"Common sense?" he enquired distastefully. "Common sense as it refers to the views of the majority? Funny, it never occurred to me that the majority was capable of any sense at all."
Harry snorted. He was slowly losing his grip on himself.
"I didn't think so."
"The consequences of every evil action is a good one. For every oppressor, there is rebellion. For every murderer, there is a saviour. For every poison, there is a cure. Then we can logically conclude that every action is a good action, and evil is a necessary good. You must know this, Harry."
"Sounds a bit dodgy, if you ask me."
"Come now, Harry," he said slyly. "the very reason why you are protecting others–why anyone would protect others–is purely for your own self-interest. Something worth gaining, perhaps . . ."
Like the snap of a twig, Harry's frustration reached the height of its tension.
"Yeah," he said furiously, starting to pace around the cell, trying to alleviate his frustration. "going through all that trouble and ending up in a cell in Askaban, with loads of Dementors hanging over my head is definitely for my own self-interest. I know this is news for you, Riddle, but I don't expect anything from anyone. I'm not looking for power or glory or whatever dodgy ideas you've got in that Bludger-sized head of yours–I don't want any of it."
"No," said Riddle dismissively, his voice hardly above a whisper. "but you want something . . ."
Harry stilled in his tracks.
"What–?"
"Something far greater," said Riddle silkily, circling around Harry, whose eyes followed the former like a vulture to its prey. "Something that transcends all boundaries of life and Death."
"Can't you be a bit less Riddle-like?" snapped Harry.
"You want validation. You want it so badly, you feel as though you will bleed to Death with the intensity of it, and who knows the feeling better than myself?"
"Validation from what, exactly?" scoffed Harry, his temper trouncing his wits. "You? You might want to try deflating that head of yours–"
"Validation that you are, in fact, different than I am," replied Riddle, his eyes glinting from under his hood. "Isn't that what you strove to prove Harry? That by the sole reason of saving others that you are the better man."
"It's not a game about who scores best," said Harry loudly, his insides curling with irritation. "it's about what's right–"
"Who dictates what is right or wrong, or is there ever a dictator at all? Is it the people? The majority? But people's views change over time, depending on who rules or the nature of the state at the time. Give them food and shelter, and they worship you like a ruler. Their beliefs fluctuate, and is therefore, never fixed nor reliable. Then who is the dictator of morality? Why should an innocent life not be claimed if there is no fixed rule or punishment? Why should immoral actions be avoided if I can simply bribe or outwit the guards in the prisons? Even Dementors will never administer the Dementor's Kiss to me, since I benefit them in the long run. If we were to leave the matter of morality to unreliable dictators like the people, then there is no reason at all why moral boundaries should exist–"
"So tearing families apart doesn't matter?" interjected Harry coldly. "Hurting and killing others is just spilled water – just something to wipe the floor every night, is it?"
Riddle stopped in his tracks and shot him a cold and haughty look. "I believe that the question was directed at us both."
"If you didn't care what happens to anyone, why've you kept me alive?" demanded Harry. "Why haven't you killed me yet? What's one more body to fill a graveyard?"
"You proved your worth . . . Obviously."
Harry froze. Suspicion undulated under his skin. He wasn't entirely sure what Riddle had meant by that statement. Was he talking about Harry's position as Voldemort's personal "assassin"? Was he somehow referring to what happened at the village? But how could he know what happened to the villagers? He was still the Riddle that had murdered his parents, the part of him that had fused with Harry's soul. He wasn't Voldemort . . . yet. Did he somehow remember what Harry remembered? Did they both share the same memories, perhaps?
He decided to test him out.
"You tried to kill me for trying to save the villagers," said Harry slowly, partly suspicious, partly thoughtful.
"I did."
So they did share the same memories, Harry mused. But did that mean that he could see Voldemort's memories? Was that what the ghostly man Harry had met near Grimmauld's Place had tried to tell him?
Harry continued carefully, as if treading on needles.
"And again for helping the Order."
Riddle straightened and started to pace around the cell, still exuding the same aura of calmness and confidence. Nothing that Harry said seemed to faze him. In fact, if anything, it only seemed to amuse him and further inflate his already inflated ego. Even though, he looked a tad impatient now, pacing to and fro.
"You are deluded by the illusion that you are delaying my plans when you are, in fact, aiding me in my relentless pursuits to accomplish my goals. You believe that you are saving others, but you are, in fact, bringing more destruction – more pain onto those of whom you try to save. With all your impulsivity, you reacted just as I predicted. And in doing so, you paved the path for Dumbledore's demise."
Harry suddenly felt a tight constrain in his chest, as if someone had dropped an anvil onto his diaphragm, causing him to inhale sharply.
"What are you talking about?" he said, unsettled. His heart hammered in his chest. "What demise?"
But Riddle didn't seem to hear him. As if another world, he paced and paced across the cell, to and fro, not unlike a pendulum.
"Destiny can be altered, changed, adjusted, like a cog in a timepiece," he muttered, almost to himself. "Remove the cog, and time stops. Keep it, and time churns and twists. It is the designer of the timepiece that decides what the fate of time will be, the designer which must be intelligent and puissant enough to concoct it, all characteristics of which I, myself, possess."
"You're going to change destiny?" said Harry, his words spilling like water. "Is that your plan?"
"Do you know how Prophecies are concocted, Harry?"
Harry felt as though he had lost all of his blood, rendering his mind thoroughly incapable of thought. There was no way–Riddle couldn't possibly be thinking–destiny couldn't be changed. That was impossible. There was no "what ifs" about destiny. Whatever was simply was. But then . . . a horrible thought occurred to him. But no. Destiny could be changed. Time Turners were capable of reversing time, and altering what was already destined. But didn't that mean that the one altered was the one destined? But all of the Time Turners were destroyed, weren't they? What the hell was Riddle planning? Harry's convoluted thoughts echoed through his words.
"I don't–" started Harry, his breath hitched. "you're not seriously thinking about–you're mad–"
"Destiny," breathed Riddle, entranced in his inner euphoria. "Destiny is a thief, very much intent on robbing the lives of its mortal victims. And what better way to alter destiny than it is to trounce the very reason for its existence, the one with the knowledge and power to know when an individual will perish at any given moment, one omniscient in his essence: Death."
Harry bolted up to his feet. "You're mad!" he said indignantly, his face white and disturbed. "You can't change destiny, much less a Prophecy!"
"Can't I, Harry?" breathed Riddle, a mad glint in his eyes. "When was the last time you visited the Department of Mysteries?"
"No," Harry shook his head, his mind in denial, his hands trembling. "You're mad–barking mad."
"Why, it's only just started," said Riddle, almost mockingly. "and it's all thanks to you, Harry, my ever-loyal follower, for distracting the Order long enough to enable the attack on Diagon Alley."
Harry's breath quickened, his lips felt dry and chapped. There was an attack on Diagon Alley? But how could he have known that? No, Riddle was lying. Why hadn't anyone mentioned it? And who was involved – the Death Eaters or the Aurors? And if so, that must've meant that the Ministry had blamed the Order for the attacks like they had done yesterday. If what Riddle was saying was true, then Harry's trip to Askaban had basically been for nothing. Had the Ministry convicted the members of the Order for their so-called crimes? Did they somehow separate them or kill them? Had Harry's efforts to save them been for nothing? Riddle must have read his mind because Harry vaguely registered dark robes near his vision, but he didn't look up.
"Still intent on killing me?" smirked Riddle.
Harry gritted his teeth. Oh, he would do more–much more than just kill him. He would rip his bloody limbs apart and feed them to the dogs. That was how fed up he was with Riddle's lies.
"Rot in hell," snapped Harry. "See if I care."
Riddle's eyes gleamed. "You will join me, of course," he said icily, his voice barely above a whisper. "Time is against you, Harry. As time passes, you are slowly shaping your true self. Your true core–your essence. You are slowly giving into my wisdom, slowly accepting that the world is just as corrupt, if not more, than I am."
"It's all a matter of perspective," said Harry firmly. "You only see what you want to see, which isn't always true."
"That, objectively, every action is a good action, and that evil is a necessary good. You understand now, Harry. Killing yourself, killing me, letting me live, letting yourself live–they are all evil deeds. You will always choose the path to destruction. That is your fate," whispered Riddle, stepping to Harry. "You see . . . you are no different than I am. Perhaps it is not the Dark Lord living inside of you, Harry. Perhaps it is you, yourself, that is the Dark Lord."
Trembling with fury, Harry felt something menacing inside of him snap. The ensemble of emotions all came flooding back to him like the roar of the waves in the ocean. His trip to the Ministry, his fight with Voldemort, his wasted trip to Askaban had all been for nothing. His efforts to stop Voldemort had actually been to help him.
Once again, he had fallen right into Voldemort's trap.
"Shut up!" bellowed Harry, his voice almost shattering the dungeons walls, his chest boiling with rage. "Get out of my head!"
And almost like a man breathing his final breath, the image of Tom Riddle effaced. It was almost as if he had never appeared at all. Harry stood there, breathing heavily, his mind very much vacant of reasoning. There were no footsteps left behind. No imprints from where he had been leaning against the wall. But he had been there. A witness could vouch for that. He was real. He had been standing there, just underneath the shadows.
But only Harry had known that.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Gordon Walter stalked down the halls of the Department of Mysteries, his annoyance trouncing his wits. He had just been intending to return home to his wife and children, only to be called back, even though he had already served the necessary time. As an Unspeakable, the others had claimed that it was important, and that he was wanted back in the study of Dark creatures in the Restricted Area of the Department of Mysteries. He had wanted so much to snap at them, as stressed as he was from an overload of work, but he was a man of integrity.
So he held his tongue, being the ever-accommodating person that he was.
Exhaling a shimmer of his stress, he continued down the hall, past the large fountain of Amortentia and halted at a wall with a large, glass-stained picture of a dragon on it. He took his wand out of his pocket, causing the dragon to growl menacingly at him. But he was no stranger to this. He knew that the dragon would start breathing fire if he was an imposter. But as soon as he touched his wand to the wall, the dragon bared its teeth, batted its wings, and went soaring out of the picture. Glancing around warily, Gordon stepped into the picture and down the rickety trail of the Restricted Area.
As soon as he stepped through, the ground sank like goo, leaving large blotches of footsteps behind, ready to swallow anyone who dared to step out of line. The hall was dark with spider web hangings over the ceiling. An incessant banging sound was coming from one of the skeletons inside one of the aloft doorways. There was a strange coldness in the air, almost like Gordon was swallowed by a Dementor. He hated this place, and he hated this job. But nevertheless, he quickly continued down the hall, and reached his destination.
Without another glance, he knocked exactly four times before he entered the room. But as he did, his face drained of all colour at the inner dwellings of the room.
"Good evening," said a dull and deep voice.
To his horror, there was a shaggy-haired man dressed in purple robes standing against a large table with a steaming cauldron on top. There were several phials scattered throughout the table, along with Potion ingredients like Billywig sting slime, Doxy venom, and a Salamander brain. But what caught his attention, however, was the tall, hoarse breath that was drenching the room with coldness, a coldness that didn't seem to affect the shaggy, blonde-haired man. The Dementor in question was encased in a rectangular glass box, shackled to the wall by the wrist. In front of it, however, were at least three bodies, who looked seemingly asleep, lying on stretchers side-by-side.
Gordon, stricken and trembling from head to toes, looked up at the sign of movement. At the back, near the cabinets of phials and jars, there were three purple-robed man that didn't seem to give a hoot who the shaggy-haired was. They looked engrossed in their work.
"B-but–" said Gordon, his voice cracking with trepidation. "you were supposed to be in Numerngard."
But the shabby-haired man continued to tap the pestle against the mortar, thoroughly ignoring Gordon's existence.
"Yes, that was the plan, unfortunately."
"How did you escape?" demanded Gordon, his face pale with fear, his hand trembling around his wand. "What are you doing here?"
But the man didn't answer. He simply shot him a look that bordered between indifference and annoyance and turned his back to him. Gordon looked around, trying desperately to find an answer to this madness. His heart was restless. This couldn't possibly real. Surely he was dreaming. Gellert Grindewald was supposed to be locked in Numerngard, supposedly the most secure prison in all of the Wizarding World. What was he doing here? And how did he get here? Gordon could hardly stifle his trembling, which had little to do with the frosty room, and more to do with the fact that the elder man had just swept past him to a cauldron on the nearby table, sending a rush of chill air biting into his skin.
"That is beside the matter," Grindewald waved him off, as if he was a petty fly swooping around his nose. "You have proven to be a worthless distraction."
"Me?" Gordon said in astonishment. "I beg your pardon, but it is you that is unauthorised to be here. Only an Unspeakable is permitted–"
"To stop speaking?" he replied dryly. He started to rummage through the cupboards, fishing for something. "I dare say, that would save you a few breaths."
Gordon gulped.
Grindewald neared him, and Gordon resisted the urge to flinch away. Every word, every gesture, sent him quivering like a frightened cat with its hair on ends. But he didn't want to give the impression of disapproval lest the man try to 'convince' him using less ideal methods. But the man didn't seem to want anything from him. Instead, he simply swept past him towards the glass box containing the Dementor to his side. As he did, Gordon trounced the lingering affects of the creature and regained a modicum of his strength. On wary feet, he approached the glass case, thoroughly studying the wretched creature.
"Why is this here?" demanded Gordon, his voice amplifying. His wits returned to him like a cat to its owner. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Relax, my good man," said Grindewald, clapping the man on the shoulder. Though there wasn't the slightest hint of pleasantness in his tone. "We are only attempting to resuscitate these victims placed under an enchanted sleep."
Gordon scoffed loudly, almost choking on his saliva. "Oh, pray tell. What could they possibly benefit from a nasty creature like this?"
Grindewald's lip curled.
"Everything."
"What–?"
"Shall I explain?" said Grindewald, a hint of a threat in his tone. Gordon looked at him, apprehension undulating under his skin. The man's eyes, though glinting with the thrill of knowledge and power, looked like they carried an ensemble of all the darkest pits of humanity, as if he was projecting onto others what he, himself, had became, as a result of every corrupt thing in the world.
Terrified on the inside, Gordon forced a brief nod. He didn't want to know what happened if he refused, and he was too far from the door to try for a furtive escape.
"It begins and ends, of course, with this creature here," he muttered, with a rather wistful tone, as if the years of imprisonment had robbed him from an animalistic fascination with knowledge. "I'm sure you know what this creature is, Mr.–"
"Walter," said Gordon stiffly. "And of course I know what it is, I've worked with it long enough–"
"Ah, splendid research, I presume," nodded Grindewald. "of, in my opinion, one of the most fascinating creatures to ever walk this Earth."
Gordon paused, his eyes drifting across the cloak-like creature.
"I dare say, they do provide a rather interesting enquiry," he maundered, with clear distaste in his tongue. "but fascinating–? Nasty, more like it. Hideous creatures. Inhumane–"
"Ah," breathed Grindewald, a mad glint in his eyes. "there's the silver lining." Intimidated, Gordon shot him a wary look.
"Pardon?"
"Dementors are vital to understand the nature of the human soul, and in doing so, offers insight into the path to amortality."
"Amortality?" he demanded. "What sort of madness–?"
"Non-beings. Dementors. Poltergeists. Neither living nor dead. Never born, never to die. Never to see the afterlife," said Grindewald, a wistful look on his face. "Ah, but what a wonder that is."
Gordon felt as though the world had crumbled from right into his feet. His head was spinning, trying to grasp at loose strings. Despite all of his experience studying Dementors, he couldn't understand a single word that the man was saying.
"What are you–?"
But much to Gordon's revulsion, Grindewald steered him by the shoulders until they were right above the sleeping bodies on the stretchers.
"Don't you see, Mr. Walter? These people are trapped in a deathlike sleep. Their consciousness still lives on, but it is sealed in the world of dreams. In this life, they have essentially departed. And only by killing them or splitting their soul can they ever truly become conscious again."
"Splitting their souls?" enquired Gordon, his voice quivering. "You don't mean–?" But Grindewald removed his hand and proceeded to pace around the room.
"Rather like a Horcrux, Mr. Walter," explained Grindewald, pacing up and down the room. "The act of splitting the soul is defined by an immeasurable happiness in the distraught of others. Hence, in order to possess a soul, one must feel pleasure and happiness. That is what makes us human. For example, we all know that, when a Kiss by a Dementor is administered, the victim lives on–soulless. The Dementor feeds on happiness. It extracts it until the victim is left with nothing more than a hollow shell, rendering it incapable of thought or free will. Instead, the victim is left to relive their worst fears–in other words, they are soulless without happiness."
"So . . ." swallowed Gordon, his strained voice betraying his fear. "the soul is defined by pleasure–by happiness?"
Grindewald nodded. "By emotion. Or rather, the intensity of emotions. To remove one emotion will cause a cascade of others. Sadness, for example, cannot exist without happiness or vice versa. To make a human a human, it is vital that all the emotions are present."
"But depression–?" interjected Gordon.
"–is defined as a lack of happiness, not sadness in its purest form. In other words, when the source of happiness is robbed from you, sadness is the result. Emotions are a spectrum, relative to its opposite."
But with all of his years as an Unspeakable, Gordon couldn't stay silent. "But animals also have emotions," he argued. "Why is that Dementors do not feel their emotions?"
If Grindewald felt any irritation towards questions, he certainly didn't show it. From beside him, Gordon could hear the bubbles of the cauldron nearby, the steam drifting out like vapor. He could see his breath flow out in wisps, reassuring him that he was still alive, as the formidable figure of Grindewald paced and paced in front of him.
"Animals are not targeted by Dementors since they are incapable of complex emotions; they have instinctual emotions, but they can never possess a complex emotion like happiness. One would require a sound mind and depth in thought in order to understand happiness. For example, to look at a loved ones as a symbol of what they represent to you. First, you must understand that person, communicate with it, find common interests, before establishing this emotion, all of which require the ability to rationalise or sympathise, neither of which animals are capable of doing."
In the back, the clang of phials became almost an otherworldly distraction in Gordon's ears. He was trying to gauge what Grindewald's reasoning, but he didn't understand a single word of it.
"Now, onto the subject of resuscitating these sleeping victims," began Grindewald again. "Let's assume for the sake of argument that only by dying, and living in the afterlife, is one truly immortal. This life is finite while the next is infinite. And since a dead person is defined as a soulless being, then logically, by establishing a half-soul, one that tethers between Death and life, one can get the best in both worlds. Neither mortal nor immortal . . . An amortal being, in other words. Not unlike Dementors."
"There you go again," said Gordon, his frustration swelling like a sore in his mouth. But his sweaty hands betrayed his fear. "Amortality?"
"A being that meets all the conditions of a non-being: never dying, never sleeping. Only eating and living. All of which Dementors are. Therefore, logically, to make a mortal into a non-mortal is to make a being like a Dementor: living but incomplete – thereby overriding their humanity, in other words."
Gordon's breath hitched in his throat. "Overriding their humanity?" he said in disbelief. "You couldn't possibly be thinking–?"
"What are Dementors, Mr. Walter? They are beings that thrive on instinct. They live an incomplete life with only their fears and their evil deeds to accompany them. But what makes them whole again? What is one thing that they seek above all other things? Goodness. Happiness. The one emotion which they are missing to make them a complete being – to make them whole again. This enables them to survive. Without anything to feed on, without happiness, their numbers dwindle. Three becomes two, two becomes one, in other words. This process of collecting the other half of one's self is the sole reason why they are amortal. And this is the principle that will be applied tonight."
Gordon paused, his head bulging with thought. It almost felt like someone had rammed a Bludger into his head, causing his thoughts to become a muddle of confusion. His hands and face felt like stone with the cold air of the room, but the elderly man didn't seem to feel it. In fact, Gordon genuinely wondered if he was, in fact, human at all. But so engrossed in his thoughts, the elderly man continued to pace around the room, his tousled hair in his face, his hands behind his back, his gaze pinned on the marble tiles that aligned the floor.
"So . . ." began Gordon slowly. "you intend to split their souls?"
Grindewald paused in his pacing and lifted his head, a curl in his lip.
"Not split," he said flatly. "but erase one-half of the soul."
Gordon's blood drained from his face. "But that's preposterous," he sputtered. "That's never been done before. How do you intend to erase it?"
Grindewald waved a hand idly.
"By extracting happiness, which can be done through the flesh of the Dementor and a tablespoon of Doxy venom, which in itself, is notorious for keeping its victim awake for a long period of time. Once the concoction passes through the victim's mouth, it will inherit all the traits and characteristics of a Dementor. In other words, what happiness is left will be snuffed out, like a beam in a lantern."
Despite the absurdness of the experiment, Gordon couldn't deny the brilliancy of the theory. He could follow his reasoning. Dementors were known to exude an air of coldness whenever they entered the room, stripping all memories of happiness from anyone that was nearby. When consumed, the Dementor remains would destroy these thoughts or any shred of happiness within the individual. It would leave enough emotions to keep one-half of the soul, the less intense emotions like tranquillity or melancholy. And the Doxy venom, which was commonly used in the Wiggenweld Potion, was an ingredient used to keep or awaken victims placed in an enchanted sleep, and therefore, giving the illusion of living indefinitely.
After all, a person that couldn't become unconscious couldn't die – ever. Not unless they were actually killed.
"You're mad!" cried Gordon, his face ghost-like.
"To render a being that lacks a certain emotion, it can no longer human, and therefore, no longer mortal. In other words, it is partially alive, but not human. This process, as you will see, involves a half-soul being."
"So," swallowed Gordon. "the idea of meeting these requirements involve making humans . . . non-human? Non-mortals, in other words?"
"Rather like the act of splitting one's soul to fashion a Horcrux, yes," affirmed Grindewald. "These individuals are not, therefore, human. Not until they revert back to their original state, when all of their Horcruxes are destroyed: a mortal being, in other words."
Gordon tensed, more out of outrage than fear. He doubted very much that this process would benefit them; in fact, it would very much affect the people which they try to suck the happiness out of. It would be like administering the Dementor's Kiss to others, only it would be humans that would administer it, leaving their victims with nothing more than a hollow shell.
"This isn't about the sleeping bodies, is it?" said Gordon, his voice hoarse with horror. "This isn't about helping others?"
"No," stated Grindewald, his hands tucked into the pockets of his robes. "this is about experimenting–or knowledge, in laymen terms."
"Knowledge at the expense of the lives of others?" barked Gordon, outraged. "My dear man, this is purely unethical–!"
"It is not unethical," said Grindewald nonchalantly. "It is for the greater good. I assure you, they will recover. It will neither harm them nor affect their daily lives."
"But surely it can spread?"
"Through injection or blood-to-blood contact, yes. It will be known as the Living Dead sickness, in which the victims, rather like victims of the Dementor's Kiss, will be stuck in a Limbo state and will be refrained from dying or entering the afterlife."
Despite the bitter coldness of the room, Gordon's face and neck heated with indignation. He wiped the sweat off of his face, his chest puffing out, his eyes bulging in horror at what utter madness he was hearing.
"Why, this is–this is . . . vile," he sputtered, his hands trembling. "Cruel–! Positively repulsive! You have the audacity to go forth with this? Have you no sense, my good man? To make a person less human–good God!"
Grindewald looked unperturbed, though the twitch of a vein in his head suggested that he was getting very much irritated.
"It is necessary for the greater good."
"Greater good?" roared Gordon, looking a bit deranged. "What madness is this! Rendering one incapable of happiness–? Good Lord!"
"I assure you, my good man," said Grindewald, unfazed. "They are not without happiness. Rather like Dementors, they will need to obtain happiness in order to remain fully human."
Gordon's eyes felt ready to fall out of eye sockets. Somehow, his heart had reached his head, causing a drumming noise in his ears.
"Fully human?"
"They are only partially human for now. But as they venture to collect happiness from others, they will fill in that emptiness, sort of speak. As long as they continue this process, they will remain human, but under certain conditions and not without consequences."
"But–But . . ." spluttered Gordon. "taking the happiness of others?"
Grindewald nodded. "Rather like a Dementor, Mr. Walter."
"Then . . ." started Gordon, a hollow feeling at his insides. "it must be done . . . through a Kiss?"
"Shall I demonstrate?" offered Grindewald. With a hint of hesitance, Gordon nodded. The former drew out his wand and pointed it at the cabinet near the back, causing the other Unspeakables to jolt and step back. The cabinets shifted to the side, showing a narrow, hidden doorway from behind it. Without glancing back, Grindewald beckoned him through the door. Feeling as though the world would swallow him under, Gordon accompanied the man, his knees trembling like jelly.
But as they entered the room, Gordon's heart leapt to his throat. They were in a large, dark rectangular room that still exuded the icy aura of a Dementor, but there was no such creature in sight. But in the center, there was a large glass case, almost like a room within the room, which seemed to contain a person inside of it. A person – a man! Gordon realised in horror – who was moaning in misery and hugging his stomach, his feet flailing out like that of an infant. He didn't seem to see them. Gordon supposed that the glass was a one-way see-through. He could see the man, but he doubted that the man could see him.
But Gordon hardly registered the thump of the footsteps right near him, signaling Grindewald's presence. His horrified gaze was sweeping across the man, his face draining of all colour. The man was deathly pale with large black blotches littered across his skin. His lips and fingernails were pitch black. His skin was shedding, almost like the ends of the cloak of a Dementor. Gordon instinctively knew that the blackness of the skin would spread until it reached all across his body. The bitter coldness seemed to have come from him. Gordon wondered if this was one of the men that had been placed under an enchanted sleep by an overdose of the Draught of Living Death.
But Grindewald spoke, his voice drumming through Gordon's trance.
"This man has ardently refused to cater to his instinctual needs. He has repressed himself for a total of fifty-eight hours. If he continues to delay the inevitable, he will find himself succumbing to the same bouts of insanity as a victim under the Cruciatus Curse. It is imperative that he sustains himself, and that could only be done through the happiness of others."
As if at a distance, the young man's moaning amplified, his black nails clawing across his shedding skin. His breaths were swirling out of him like a wisp of his misery was made apparent. But suddenly, Grindewald snapped his fingers, and a droning noise reached Gordon's ears. He looked up and a platform emerged from the floor in front of the man. On top of the levitated platform was a chair that had a person – a woman from the Ministry Detention Area! Gordon realised – chained in it.
"Good God!" he breathed, knowing what Grindewald was going to do. "This is perfectly–unruly–despicable–"
The woman was sobbing almost hysterically. But the younger man looked up with an almost animalistic hungry look in his eyes. But he clenched his fists and turned away. It was clear that he was trying hard to refrain himself from leaping onto her–from draining her happiness. He still had a hint of humanity, but it was clear that it was fading fast.
"As you can see," explained Grindewald, with the same wistful tone as earlier. "our morality trounces our innate ability to survive, to nourish. To overcome this dilemma, we revert back to our primary instinct: the animalistic instinct to thrive no matter the consequences. It is instinct that drives our need to survive. Moral boundaries are irrelevant."
Gordon swallowed. He couldn't speak. He felt like he was wrapped in a nightmare of his own doings. The woman's sobbing seemed to be an echo of how he felt on the inside. She leaned back as far as she could in the chair, the chains clinging around her wrists. The man, too, tried to shuffle away. He closed his eyes, his determination trouncing his instinct to feed. But Grindewald waved his hand and brought the woman's chair closer to the Dementor-like man.
And that gesture broke the man's resolve.
With a wild cry, he sprung to his knees, wrapped his hands around the woman's neck, and roughly pressed his lips to hers, and freed her of her soul. As the woman fell limp, her head bobbing, the man recoiled, as if stung. He stumbled back against the wall where he collapsed, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with horror. He had apparently regained his wits. With a furious cry, he fisted his hair and elicited a howl of anguish at what he had done to the woman. Despite how young he was, he seemed to know what had happened to him, and how severe a Dementor's Kiss was.
Gordon vaguely registered being led back to the original room, feeling like his own soul had just been ripped out of him. He was so furious that he completely forgot who he was talking to.
"This–This is . . . unacceptable!" spluttered Gordon, his head boiling with fury. "Utterly despicable! I will not allow this to continue."
Grindewald raised a brow. "You will keep these people asleep under your care, wasting time and money keeping them alive while others scrap their vaults to keep their families properly nourished?"
"I–I–"
"Or perhaps continuing to fund the prisons to keep conniving individuals alive?" continued Grindewald, an underlying threat in his tone.
"My good Sir," shouted Gordon, astonished. "Prisons are necessary in a civilized society."
"Only to fools in bowled hats and fat stomachs protruding out of the clasps of their robes," he said distastefully. "Those who assume that they are safe under their comforters while the world protrudes its claw amongst the shadows."
"My dear man," Gordon pumped his chest out in outrage. "They are better off dead! To bar them from Death, to bar them from the afterlife – why, it is a hope that people cling to – !"
"Hope is a fickle thing," said Grindewald impassively. "It drifts along the shore and retracts, not unlike the fury of a wave in the ocean."
"There are those who live hoping, dreaming of seeing their loved ones in the afterlife. Those who live in suffering, you are barring them from Death! This is cruelty beyond measure!"
Grindewald shot him an impatient but irritated look before he turned to lean across the wall, twirling his wand in idle amusement.
"Suffering is something which one brings to his or herself, not what is objectively true. It differs from person to person. You will find that, as much as humanity continues to believe in such a concept, the more life is meaningless."
"Suffering proves that you can empathise," said Gordon. "That you can love–"
"And this is precisely the problem," he replied. "Suffering is brought by stifling one's pleasures, ambitions, desires. But by destroying these boundaries, these moral restrictions, one can experience life in its true form – boundless pleasure. Who will wish for Death, then? Only those who live in suffering wish for Death."
"Death is inevitable," argued Gordon. "They are suffering by continuing to live–"
"But they will never grow ill, never become unconscious, never sleep as a consequence of possessing only half a soul. Like Dementors, they cannot die. But unlike Dementors, they can, of course, be killed."
"But–the afterlife–"
Grindewald's lip twisted into a cruel smile. "A fitting punishment for corruption, don't you agree?"
"Injustice – purely unthinkable!" he stomped to the door, determined to end this bout of mischief, only to find it bolted shut from the inside. "I swear on Merlin's grave that I will report this at once."
"To whom will you report?" enquired Grindewald. But Gordon whipped around at the mocking hint in his tone.
"The Aurors! The Minister of Magic!" cried Gordon. "Why, I'll be damned if I'll allow this to continue." But Grindewald gave him almost a regretful look.
"Then you will find that your hospitality will no longer be needed here," he said, his lip curled. "It is quite shame, we could have been great companions, you and I. Crabbe. Goyle, put an end to this man's misery."
"Yes, Minister," they said.
Gordon suddenly found himself at the feet of two of the three purple-robed figures that had been silently working in the back, but he froze at the next statement. Gordon's face drained of all colour, feeling a wave of nausea in his insides. He looked up at the smirking elderly man with his eyes bulging out of his sockets.
"Minister?" he breathed, horrified.
But before he could consider the matter, he felt a sharp object jab into his head, and he fell face-forward and knew the world no more.
A/N: I don't know if I should be concerned that my natural voice is Voldemort. I honestly didn't know how dark and loaded this chapter was, but whatever . . .
This is almost turning out to be a Harry/Voldemort fic (don't worry, I don't do slash).
Yes, I know that an Amortal being was never alive in the first place nor can they ever die. But that's just it. It's about not making humans less humans. It's about making them completely non-human. You can't be human if you're Amortal. In order to be fully human, you need a full-functioning soul. A half-soul doesn't have that, then by definition, it is no longer human. It has to be mortal to be human. Therefore, a person with a half-soul is no longer human, it's just a completely different being. Starting from that point onward, when half of the soul is erased, it is a completely different being and therefore, it was never living in the first place.
The way JK established the concept (if I'm not wrong), you need to have a full soul in order to be alive. But a half-soul is basically just half-dead, just alive enough to eat and breathe.
Sorry, I just love the concept of Dementors, and I like how JK established the concept of the soul. I wanted to mess around with it. No one seems to use it much.
Oh, and the Doxy venom was something I made up. It's just not actually used as an ingredient in the Canon universe.
Reviews welcome.