A/N: This chapter's title is an homage to one of my favorite (abandoned) fanfics, The One He Feared by Taure. The chapter itself is also a bit experimental in nature, but I hope it works out okay for you all. I've kept it short and sweet in case it doesn't so we can move on. Enjoy!
December 10, 1997 (Harry)
Harry was content to remain in the tent high up in the mountains, but Hermione insisted that they find a more permanent place to stay. Snow was beginning to fall, and for that matter, she was tired of relying on magic for water and energy when a Muggle building could provide such amenities much simpler. So they descended from the hillside towards the nearby villages to find a suitable place to stay.
They found an apartment for rent in a little Greek village on the coast of the Aegean Sea. Disguised as a Muggle couple, Harry and Hermione negotiated with the landlord, a shrewd and suspicious man, with Hermione translating with her limited and broken Greek. The man finally relented when Hermione flashed two thousand Euros in his face – most of her savings – and they managed to secure a three-month lease and move in the same day.
"I'm positive he ripped us off," Hermione huffed once they were finally free of the man's gaze. "This is a popular tourist spot, and we're doing him a favor by moving in during the off-season."
"I swear I'll pay you back as soon as this is all over," said Harry. "Assuming the Ministry doesn't find some excuse to drain my Gringotts account in the meantime."
"Honestly, I don't care about the money," said Hermione. "Let's just focus on getting through this war alive, and then we can square up."
"Deal."
They spent their first couple of days in the new flat settling affairs – transfiguring furniture and appliances, shopping for groceries at the local market, unpacking their meager belongings. Once that was settled, Harry was eager to make use of the vials of green liquid they'd procured from the mountain, but Hermione insisted on first doing as much research and preparation as possible.
So they spent several more days poring over old Alchemy and Potions textbooks in an attempt to learn as much about Essence of Thought as possible. There wasn't much literature out there about the substance because it was so rare, and the few mentions of it only underscored how dangerous and deadly it was.
"Honestly, Hermione, we can do this for weeks and come to no new conclusions," Harry finally sighed after tossing aside yet another unhelpful tome. "We know it's dangerous to consume. We know it has no antidote. But I have to drink it either way."
"You don't have to do anything!" Hermione protested. "We can find other ways to prepare. Just because Krum said—"
"It's not just what Krum said!" retorted Harry. "He learned of it from Karkaroff, who learned of it from You-Know-Who, who no doubt learned it from some other great wizard in the past. And it was how they learned the knowledge needed to grow more powerful."
"But there are others who didn't survive, who died in the attempt!" said Hermione. "Yes, there are a few who survived it and went on to great things, but the vast majority of them didn't, and their stories were never told!"
"Hermione, I've been marked for death since I was a baby," Harry said soberly. "If I don't die today from drinking this, I'll die months or years from now attempting to fight Voldemort as a weaker wizard. This war is depending on me to grow to my fullest potential. I have no other choice."
He could tell from the look on Hermione's face that she was unconvinced of this fact, but she sighed and held her tongue. "I don't like it, Harry, but I can't stop you," she finally said. "I'll do what I can to help you survive it, but I don't know how much good that will do."
So it was decided the following morning that Harry would drink one of the vials of Essence of Thought under close supervision. Hermione insisted on saving the second vial for future testing – "If something goes wrong, perhaps I can study its properties and improvise some way to revive you," she reasoned. Whatever made her more comfortable, Harry supposed.
"Here goes nothing," said Harry, laying back in an armchair and uncorking one of the vials. He took a tentative sniff of the mysterious green liquid, but it was odorless – for that matter, he couldn't even hear it sloshing about in the glass container as he lightly swirled it. He knew whatever was about to happen would not be pleasant, but there was no point in delaying it further. He tossed his head back and downed the vial of green liquid in a single gulp.
He sat stock-still as he waited for something to happen, Hermione anxiously watching from nearby. The Essence of Thought had tasted like nothing going down and had caused his stomach no discomfort – if he didn't know any better, he'd think he just swallowed a bit of water.
"How long is it supposed to take to kick in?" he asked.
"No idea," Hermione said fearfully. "We don't even know what it does, exactly…"
"Well...I feel fine so far," Harry muttered, examining his hands as though to make sure they were still there. "I thought maybe I'd be at least nauseous, but it's like nothing." Harry made to stand up, faced with a sudden urge to walk off some of his restless energy while he still had the chance.
"You should just stay there," Hermione said warningly, fear still visible in her expression. "We have no idea what might happen."
"Honestly, it's nothing," Harry dismissed, rising to his feet and taking a step towards her. "I feel f—"
Harry suddenly had the feeling that he was falling backward very fast. It was similar to the sensation of a Time-Turner, but on a drastically larger scale, as though he were tumbling backward through all of human history. Memories flooded through his brain, but they were not his own; he saw through his eyes the lives of others, many others, all at once and yet in full continuum. Their lives flashed by in an instant, and yet an eternity, as he watched them grow and learn.
He was a timid orphan, sorted into Slytherin House, discreetly studying the Dark Arts while evading the watchful eye of Professor Dumbledore.
He was a brooding teen in the cold halls of Durmstrang, plotting the subjugation of the Muggle race, scribbling the symbol of the Deathly Hallows on the walls.
He was seated at the medieval high table of King Arthur, advising the Muggle leader on matters of state.
He was all of these people and more, some he recognized and others he didn't, experiencing all they had experienced, all they'd seen and learned in their travels. Fearsome spells, complex potions, bloody rituals, tremendous sacrifices. Triumph and defeat. Conquests and setbacks. Pleasure and sorrow.
It was too much for one man to handle. Harry's mind attempted to shut out the constant stream of information, but it was unceasing, continuing to flow through him and overload his senses. Make it stop, he tried to scream, but could not find the voice to do so. He had long since left his corporeal body behind, his mind many miles and centuries away, racing through the lives of others without abandon. I don't want to know all of this. Make it stop.
He held his newborn child in his hands. Buried it days later. Married the woman of his life. Cut her down with a Killing Curse. Won vicious duels against superior opponents. Suffered embarrassments at the hands of a friend. The highs and lows of the human experience, flooding through him in a constant tumultuous wave of thought, his mind tumbling helplessly in the current, trying to stay afloat, to stay sane.
How long had he been riding this wave for? Seconds? Minutes? Years? Millenniums? All sense of time and space had long since disappeared; Hermione and the apartment were a distant memory. Harry Potter was as well, an echo of who he had once been. But wait – he still had Harry's memories, didn't he? He remembered his own time at Hogwarts, his friendships and relationships. Dumbledore, Ron, Ginny, Krum, Hermione. Hermione...her face swimming above his vision, anxious face peering down into his.
"Harry?" she was saying in a strained voice, shaking his shoulders desperately. "Harry! Are you okay?"
"'Mione," Harry croaked. "I love you." But that last bit didn't escape his throat; he could only choke weakly as his mind continued to convulse with the weight of centuries' worth of knowledge coursing through it.
"Come back to me, Harry," Hermione said, a sob catching in her throat.
Harry wanted to. He wished he had never drank that vial of green liquid, had never jeopardized his life when she so clearly needed him. He wanted to jump up and take her in his arms, to tell her what he really felt about her, to act on the feelings he'd kept bottled up out of fear, out of chivalry. Life was too short and full of hardship to deny the beauty it contained. He saw that now. He saw all of it. And he wanted to come home.
"I'll try," he promised, before the madness of the Essence of Thought gripped his mind once more.
Tsk tsk, Harry my boy, what have you done to yourself?
Where am I? Who is that speaking in my head?
You know who it is, Harry. I can always tell when you're distressed or angry, and I've never seen you in such a state.
Voldemort.
I see you've found the Pool of Knowledge and drank straight from the source. I remember when I too decided to walk the Path. I confess, I'm not surprised that it has gotten the best of you already.
Get out of my head.
You would like that, wouldn't you? Severus told me how useless you were at Occlumency, and breaching your mental barriers was child's play for me. Perhaps once the Essence of Thought has finished consuming your weak mind, you'll understand why you never stood a chance against me.
I'm not weak.
Prove it, then. Force me out. You will never be able to match the power of Lord Voldemort.
I will become stronger. I will return and defeat you one day.
That's adorable, Harry. Now, why don't you save me some time and tell me where you and the Mudblood Granger are hiding so we can end this charade?
Don't call her that.
I can see how you feel about her. Don't deceive yourself into believing she feels the same way towards you. She needs you for protection now, but she'll abandon you the second it's convenient. She preferred your friend Ronald Weasley; I could see it in his mind when I tortured him—
You're wrong.
Who could ever love you, Harry? Everything you touches dies. Anyone who ever tried to help you met a sticky end at my hand. Your mother and father...Sirius Black...Dumbledore…
I will avenge them all.
They are dead because of you. Granger will be next. But I will spare her if you turn yourself in now.
Never.
Her blood will be on your hands, then.
Get out of my head!
Hahahaha...so weak…ahahahaha…
GET OUT OF MY HEAD!
…
…
…
Harry was dead.
He was pretty sure, anyway. Floating in a void of nothingness, nothing to anchor him to reality. That's death, isn't it? Was death the mere absence of life, or was it something more? Was he dead before he lived, or was it only an after-effect of life? On the other hand, was life itself the causal effect of the pre-existence of death? Did his soul exist before his birth? Would it continue to do so after his death? Was there even a soul at all?
But he was here, thinking, wasn't he? What was 'here', exactly? Could the absence of time and space be considered a place and time in itself? Or had he escaped such constraints, existing independently of them? Could he live without a body? Could he experience without the five senses to contextualize them?
Oh, but what did it matter? It was peaceful here. He could get used to this. He had already lived many lifetimes; now was a time of rest. He could just stay here and drift forever, blissfully ignorant to all thoughts of souls and Dark Lords and all other manner of things. He had never wanted to die, but now that he was here facing it, it didn't seem too bad.
…
…
…
Yes, this lack of experience was something he quite enjoyed.
…
…
…
Come back to me.
Huh? What was that?
Probably nothing.
…
…
…
Was it nothing?
Someone had said that to him once. But who? Could have been any number of people in the lives he'd lived.
But it bothered him all the same.
Why? Why should it bother him? He was happy here, by himself, shutting out the weight of the world. The burden he'd been granted access to. The sum of human experience.
Come back to me.
I don't want to! I'm content here, free of pain!
Come back to me.
Free of pleasure.
Wait. That didn't sound right.
Why would he want to be free of pleasure? That seemed like something he would want.
But to experience pleasure would mean opening himself up to pain again. That sounded not so great.
Right, yes. That was the trade-off. And he had decided it wasn't worth it. Sorry, mysterious voice. I'm staying here.
…
…
…
But you promised.
…
…
…
That's right. He had promised.
Dammit.
…
…
…
Harry blinked.
Interesting, he thought, pondering the implications of this phenomenon. Blinking meant having eyes. Having eyes meant he could see. Seeing meant he inhabited a body, that he was a singular person. Or was he? He still felt like many people in one, having lived all of their lives before. And yet he breathed through one mouth, smelled through two nostrils, heard faint bubbling noises through two ears. One body inhabited by many consciousnesses. One man containing multitudes.
Harry stared at the ceiling, pondering the small cracks criss-crossing his vision and the peeling flakes of dried paint threatening to fall into his eyes. He waited for his vision to change, for some new setting or time period to overtake him. But it didn't. Was this reality? Did he exist here and now, in this room, in this time? He could hardly dare to believe it – surely it was some kind of trick, a rug yet to be pulled out from underneath him. He could not trust his own sanity at this moment.
Harry looked down at his body. It was draped underneath a wool blanket, but it certainly looked like his body. His arms and legs were in the correct place; his bare feet poked out from the end of it, five toes still on each. He wiggled them, marveling at the way his body responded to the commands from his brain. But surely this too was a trick. His body was not real; his mind was simply keeping him here until it was prepared to whisk him away again to some other place and time.
Harry forced himself to sit up. He felt weak; his joints ached, and his muscles screamed in protest at the effort it took. He swung his legs over the edge of the sofa and pressed them down into the stained carpet. He didn't dare attempt to stand; he knew he lacked the strength. But what did it matter anyway? This was all a smoke screen. If he got too comfortable here, the universe would only take it away from him, and he would be back floating in the in-between, unable to grasp what was real.
"Harry?"
The voice was feminine, nearby. Harry's head turned to see a woman peek her head in from the next room over. He took in her features: bushy brown hair, slim figure, worry lines etched in her forehead as she stared at him, wide-eyed. He knew this woman – or he had known her, long ago. She had a name. He must know it, buried somewhere deep in his mind, among the many names he'd known and forgotten over the centuries.
The woman rushed to his side, kneeling and taking his hand. "Harry, it's Hermione," she said. "Can you understand me?"
Hermione. That did sound familiar. He studied her face, trying to parse which version of himself he had been when he met her. She called him 'Harry'. That was his identity in this moment. I am Harry. She is Hermione. That much I can assume to be true. She asked him a question. What was the question? Could he understand her? Did he? Should he attempt an answer? He opened his mouth to speak, but found his throat too dry to answer; only a faint croak escaped his lips.
"You must be parched," said Hermione. She waved her wand in the air, and a glass appeared in her hand; she pointed her wand into it, filling it with crystal-clear water. She handed it to Harry, who stared absently at it in his hands. What was he meant to do with it? The water did look rather delicious, and he could feel his salivary glands activating at the enticing thought of drinking it. So he did. He took a deep gulp of the liquid, relishing in the cool sensation as it passed down his throat.
He could feel Hermione's eyes probing his, as though expecting something. Right. She had asked him a question. He ought to respond. What was the question again? He was distracted by everything happening around him: the sensation of his heart thumping in his chest that was definitely his; the deep almond brown of Hermione's eyes; the persistent bubbling sound that was now growing in intensity…
"What's that sound?" Harry croaked.
"Oh shit," Hermione swore; she rushed into the other room and out of sight, and seconds later the intense bubbling sound subsided. She returned quickly to his side. "Sorry, I'm brewing a potion and left the heat on for too long."
"Potion?" Harry asked.
"Yes," said Hermione. "Something called the Draught of Omniscience. Just a side project of mine. But never mind that. How are you feeling?"
An excellent question. How was Harry feeling? At that moment it was secondary to the understanding that he was, in fact, feeling. He felt as though he'd been without a body for so long that he'd forgotten what it felt like.
"I don't know," said Harry honestly. "Is that a bad thing?"
"Not necessarily," Hermione said cautiously. "You've been out of it for quite a while, so the fact that you're up and talking is a great sign—"
"How long?" Harry asked at once.
"Weeks," said Hermione. "Coming up on a month now, actually. I thought you were gone there a couple of times, but I kept monitoring you, kept force-feeding you water and putting wet cloths on your head to cool you down."
Harry saw her face change subtly at this. The wonder and surprise in her expression gave way to fear and sorrow. She must have believed he was going to die. He certainly thought so too at one point. Without truly understanding why, he instinctively reached out and took Hermione's hand.
"Thank you for taking care of me," he said.
"Of course," Hermione said with a small smile. "I know you would do the same for me."
Now it was Harry's turn to experience fear and sorrow. The magnitude of the experience he'd been through was just starting to hit him, and the realization that it was now over was overwhelming. "I never thought I'd see you again," he said, his throat beginning to constrict with emotion.
"So did I," Hermione breathed.
"And I never would have gotten to tell you the truth," said Harry.
"The truth?" asked Hermione.
"I love you," he said. He'd never uttered the words aloud, had never even considered them in his own mind before. But seeing what he had seen only solidified it for him. The love and loss of others, the euphoria and heartbreak, life and death, beauty and terror. He'd experienced it all. He knew the lows of life, and they'd almost broken him down. But he knew the highs that were possible as well, and he wanted to cherish them while he still could.
Hermione's eyes went wide at this statement. Harry felt his heart thumping faster as he waited for her response. "You know I love you too, Harry," she said at last. "We're like family, you and I. We've always been the best of friends—"
"Not as a friend or a sibling," Harry said firmly. "I love you, Hermione Granger."
Hermione looked afraid. Was that a normal reaction? Had he said something wrong? He watched her face as she processed this. Was she figuring out how to let him down easy? Had he given her the wrong impression all these years? Oh, gods, had he ruined his chance with her by never making a move? Harry felt fear seeping into him as he considered the fact that he may have just crossed the unspoken line and ruined their friendship forever.
Hermione gently removed her hand from Harry's grasp. I've ruined it, Harry confirmed for himself. But then she placed her palm on his cheek; her touch was electric, and he leaned into the tender caress as she leaned in towards him.
"I love you, Harry Potter," she said. And they kissed. The most wondrous, blissful kiss Harry could have ever imagined. He took Hermione in his arms and pulled her close, not wanting to ever let her go again. Her mouth was like manna from heaven, and Harry felt as though he could survive the rest of his life in the desert with nothing but her to sustain him. And all his worries, all his doubts about this existence faded away. Finally he had something to anchor himself to this reality, to distinguish himself from the multitude of lives he'd lived.
I am Harry Potter. I love Hermione Granger. And she loves me back.
He still didn't know for sure what was real and what wasn't. But right now, that much was true, and that was enough for him.
