A/N: I've taken some time to outline the rest of this fic, and if my calculations are correct, this chapter should mark roughly the halfway point of the story. So to those who have stuck with me this far, thanks for the support! Things are only going to get more interesting from here, and I hope I've done enough to set up some of the big juicy reveals yet to come. Stay tuned!
March 13, 1998 (Harry)
"I attended Hogwarts under Albus Dumbledore."
"True."
"I killed my wife."
"Not true."
"I split my soul into seven pieces."
"Not true."
"We're on the run in Greece."
"True."
"I love you."
Hermione grinned and paused from her brewing to accept Harry's cheeky kiss. "True," she sighed in fake exasperation.
Harry's physical recovery was swift from the experience of drinking the Essence of Thought, but his mind still felt scattered and fractured. He needed Hermione to ground him, to remind him of what was real and what was not. His new routine consisted of sitting beside her as she brewed her potion, grilling her on what was real and what was only in his head. He was slowly but surely putting the pieces of his own life back together, extricating himself from the multitude of lives he'd lived in a very short period of time. Occasionally he would follow the thread of some new bit of knowledge he'd learned, and it would take him too far, back into the past, but Hermione was always there to reel him back in.
He found it was easier to stay sane the more he focused on her, on the little details he hadn't fully appreciated before. The way her nose flared when she was intently focused on something. How she always tucked her wand behind her right ear between tufts of thick brown hair. Her bashful smiles whenever she noticed him staring at her in complete awe. And of course, the electricity of her touch, the blissful taste of her lips on his, the radiant warmth of her tender embrace...Harry was absolutely smitten.
The Path was laid out before Harry now...he could see it in fragments, pieced together by dozens of great wizards over the centuries, a mental map for him to achieve greatness. But suddenly, it didn't seem quite so important anymore. He felt like he was right where he was supposed to be. Back in Britain he was a hunted man, unwanted by anyone; here, with Hermione, he was wanted; he was loved. He no longer cared about prophecies and destiny and Voldemort...he wanted to be selfish for once and pursue the first true, mutual, unambiguous love he'd ever experienced.
Harry could still feel Voldemort's presence in his mind, could sense his mood swings as he experienced anger, triumph and shock. He occasionally got glimpses into the Dark Lord's activities – pacing about Malfoy Manor, traveling over vast seas to far-off destinations unknown. He was confident enough that Voldemort did not know where Harry was, and was not actively hunting for him and Hermione. That was enough for him to relax a little and enjoy the brief reprieve.
He also had a pleasant discovery shortly after awaking from his mental odyssey: he was now proficient in Occlumency. Everything Snape had tried to drill into him in fifth year – clearing his mind, blocking intrusive thoughts, tempering his emotions – now came second-nature to him. He took up half an hour of meditation each morning, something he'd never done before, but several of the past lives he'd lived did so, and it seemed right to him. Now, any time he felt Voldemort's curious probes into his psyche, he was able to slam his mind shut in an instant, severing their connection and denying any insight into his own state of mind.
He knew spells, too – a vast library of them, thousands upon thousands of both unique creations and studied spellcrafts. Dangerous, enthralling, powerful spells that Harry knew would benefit him greatly in the fight against darkness. But he also knew the risks involved – the sheer force of will required to channel them, to prevent them from turning against the caster. Fiendfyre. Inferi. Transfigurations on a massive scale. All the knowledge was contained in his mind, but his body lacked the capacity to harness them. And he did not have decades of study and practice to master them...he would need to find a faster way to improve.
But that was a road Harry knew was full of darkness and pain. He saw the future stretching out before him like an infinite spider-web of possibilities, much like his multi-faceted past that he was now forced to grapple with. There was a world where he spent decades training and confronting Voldemort long after all those he loved were gone. There was another where he turned his back on his destiny and ran away with Hermione into the Muggle world forever. And there were many, many in which he died attempting to balance the two – either by rushing to his doom or waiting too long to make the first move. He wasn't sure which path to take.
He was holding an old wandmaker hostage, demanding answers, demanding the identity of the thief—
Wait, was that real? Had that happened in one of his many past lives? Or was he seeing into the Dark Lord's mind again, in real time? He would ask Hermione, but she could provide no help on that front. It was up to him to distinguish what was real and what wasn't in his own mind…
Hermione finished her potion in mid-April, and together they looked down into a cauldron of simmering, light blue liquid. "I think that's the proper shade," Hermione frowned, checking her notes from a centuries-old potions guide that looked hand-written. "In theory it should be safe to drink, though it could also be incredibly toxic."
Harry stared down at the bubbling liquid, apprehensive. Hermione seemed to sense his anxiety, because she said, "I'll be drinking it alone, of course. I don't want to be responsible for your demise after all we've been through."
"Your potion, your call, Granger," Harry said teasingly, though privately he was glad at the excuse not to have to drink it himself. He wasn't eager to re-live the horrors of the Essence of Thought, even a watered-down version of the experience.
Hermione scooped herself a cup of the liquid and held it uncertainly before herself. Then, as though willing herself into the act, she swallowed the whole thing in a single gulp. She looked fearful for a moment as they both waited for something to happen. Then, Hermione grimaced and bent over, groaning and clutching her head.
"I'm right here," Harry reassured her, taking her free hand. "You're Hermione Granger. Don't lose yourself."
"I'm just...I think…" Hermione panted, taking sharp, shallow intakes of breath. "I think it's passing. I can feel the effects subsiding."
Harry internally breathed a sigh of relief. The thought of slipping back into the nightmare he just had was horrifying – doubly so to have to watch Hermione go through it alone. It had nearly broken him; as much as he respected Hermione's mind, he wasn't sure if she could withstand the psychological torment. After another minute of labored breathing, Hermione finally calmed and she opened her eyes.
"Right, then," she said matter-of-factly. "Time to experiment."
"Experiment?" Harry inquired. "What exactly did that potion do?"
"It's supposed to heighten my affinity for magic," said Hermione. "Can you cast a few basic spells for me? So I can see what they look like?"
Harry frowned, but did not argue. He stood and crossed the room, aiming his wand at a pillow resting on the sofa. "Wingardium Leviosa," he muttered, swishing and flicking his wand. The pillow levitated off the sofa and up to the ceiling, before Harry dropped it back to a resting state.
"Fascinating," Hermione muttered. She was staring at the pillow, her eyes oddly unfocused; it slightly disconcerted Harry.
"What's so fascinating?" he asked her.
"It's hard to explain," she said. "It's like I can see...waves of magic carrying the pillow. Like you're manipulating the air around it rather than affecting the pillow itself."
"Flitwick described something like that once, didn't he?" said Harry, thinking back to their sixth-year Charms lessons with the excitable professor. "How our magic can affect the properties of an object without changing the thing itself?"
"Yes, but I never imagined it would be so literal," Hermione said in an awed tone. She drew her own wand without warning and muttered, "Levicorpus!"
"Oi!" Harry bellowed; he was wrenched off the ground and suspended in midair by the ankle. The apartment was cramped enough that he banged his shoulder hard on the coffee table as he was up-righted; he hissed and grabbed at it.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Harry!" Hermione fretted; she whispered the counter-curse, and Harry was unceremoniously dropped back to the ground, groaning in discomfort.
"A heads-up would have been nice," he grunted.
"I know; I wasn't thinking straight," Hermione said, her voice breathless with excitement. "But that is fascinating...it's as though the two spells are linked together linguistically, but with a slight tweak to the mechanics...that was much more forceful than a basic Levitating Charm…"
"You're telling me," Harry snorted, rubbing his aggrieved shoulder. There was suddenly a loud banging on the wall; Harry briefly feared that they had somehow been found by Voldemort, but a string of rapid, furious Greek told him it was just an irate neighbor. It was quite late, after all…
"Oh, damn, I've forgotten to put up Silencing Charms," Hermione muttered. She and Harry waved their wands in tandem, warding the apartment to muffle the noise they were making. Hermione continued to make odd gasps and noises of recognition as they did so, as though awed by whatever she was seeing that was invisible to Harry.
"How strange," she mused. "It's like some kind of ancient language, but not one I've ever seen written down before...at least, none that we studied in Ancient Runes…" Hermione abruptly dove for a notebook and pen and began to rapidly jot down notes. Harry watched on, bemused.
"Do you need me for any of this?" he asked, a knowing grin on his face. Once Hermione began engrossed with something, it was not uncommon for her to disappear from the real world for hours, if not days, of private study.
"You really ought to try this potion, Harry!" she exclaimed. "It's an extraordinary bit of magic, really."
"Maybe next time," Harry chuckled, dismissing her excited gestures towards the cauldron. Frankly, the thought of taking the plunge into the unknown again terrified him, and he would avoid drinking more Essence of Thought at all costs. Besides, whatever insight Hermione thought she could glean from the potion probably paled in comparison to the immense knowledge already swirling in his mind, bouncing around unfiltered, waiting for him to tap into its potential. There was enough on his plate already without the ability to 'see' a Levitation Charm in action.
The following few days passed in a blur as Hermione continued to experiment with the Draught of Omniscience. She would sit for hours, cross-legged in the center of the apartment, performing basic spell casts and jotting down notes in her notebook. Harry caught a glimpse of one discarded sheet, upon which Hermione had charted some kind of complex table filled with odd symbols Harry didn't recognize. He knew whatever she was studying, it was far beyond his comprehension.
He did manage to coax her out of the apartment a few times for some fresh air. They were both convinced that it was safe enough to venture out into the Muggle village from time to time – under heavy glamours, of course – and simply stroll the countryside. The weather had improved enough that they could walk on the shores of the Aegean Sea without need for warming charms. For these brief strolls, Harry was able to pretend that they were not fugitives in a war – they were just two kindred spirits enjoying their lives in a beautiful locale, free as could be.
This could be my life, Harry thought to himself. Whenever he pictured the future, beyond Voldemort and the impossible war he had to fight, he envisioned something very close to where he was now. In an idyllic paradise, with the woman he loved, and not a care in the world. No responsibilities, nobody looking to him with expectations of greatness, no imminent fear of death. Just a man and a woman, alone and at peace. A prize Harry once thought he'd never be entitled to, and here he was, claiming it. Why would he want to give that up?
At night, reality would come crashing back down upon him as he attempted to keep Voldemort out of his head. His Occlumency had improved considerably, but he continued to receive unwitting glimpses of disturbing sights: a flash of green light illuminating a dingy prison cell; a crackle of lightning splitting open a white tomb. He continued to clamp down on these visions, uninterested, unwilling to confront the reason he'd fled Britain in the first place. Ignorance was bliss.
"How is your head feeling?" asked Hermione one morning as they lazily lay draped in one another's arms in bed, the morning sun peeking in through the blinds.
"A bit better, I suppose," Harry muttered. It wasn't a total lie; his mind felt clearer and more removed from the traumatic exposure to Essence of Thought by the day. If he was being honest, he felt completely ready to get moving again, to continue on their perilous journey. But the past few weeks had been among the best of his entire life.
But Hermione clearly was of a different mind. "Our lease is ending at the end of this month," she said softly. "I don't have much more cash for rent. We can Confundus the landlord if we really want to stay, but it might be a good time to think about...moving on."
"Hmm," Harry hummed noncommittally. "Don't you have more experimenting to do with your potion?"
"I can do it on the move now that it's finished," Hermione said dismissively. "We only had to stay put during the brewing phase. Now I can take it with us wherever we go."
"It has been nice to have a steady base of operations, though," Harry countered, gesturing at the apartment around them. "You said so yourself back at Krum Manor."
"Sure, but that was when we weren't sure where to go next," Hermione reasoned. "You know where we're going now, don't you? Didn't the Essence of Thought show you the Path?"
"Yeah, it did," Harry sighed. "It's...not pretty, Hermione. The dangers to my well-being aren't over yet."
Hermione considered this in silence for a moment. "You're afraid to go on, aren't you?" she finally whispered.
"Not exactly," Harry sighed. "I've always known it would be difficult. But...I just wanted to enjoy the last bit of peace I might ever get for the rest of my life."
It was a sobering remark, and they lay quietly contemplating it for a long while. The fact that Hermione did not dispute it right away meant that she must feel similarly deep down. Their lives would only get more difficult from then on; why rush headlong into the fire when they had some semblance of happiness and freedom here?
"People are suffering back home," Hermione muttered. "Life in magical Britain is harder now than it's ever been."
"And there's nothing we can do about that right now," Harry retorted. "Rushing back could only make things worse. We have to be deliberate about things...it could take years until I'm ready to take on You-Know-Who."
"We also shouldn't waste time unnecessarily," Hermione pointed out. "If you're just avoiding the inevitable—"
"Geez, Hermione, I'm still recovering here!" Harry snapped irritably. "We'll go when I'm ready, alright?"
Hermione stiffened at this reproach. "I'm sorry, Harry, I wasn't trying to push you into anything," she said diplomatically.
"And yet, you did," Harry muttered. He wasn't sure what caused him to lash out so harshly at her like that. It felt like more than just his own anger bubbling to the surface; it was as though he was harnessing the collective anger of all his forefathers, the pain and frustrations of many past lives lived bursting out of him like a tidal wave. Or was that just Voldemort again, continuing to invade his mind and disrupt his naturally-stoic disposition? His scar burned so often nowadays that he could barely distinguish which emotions were his own and which were transferred onto him…
He was torturing Ollivander, demanding answers about wandlore—
No, stop it, Harry growled internally, forcing Voldemort out once again. It was a bitter reminder of his shared connection with the Dark Lord, which would only continue to plague him until one of them died. Why had he, of all people, been chosen for such a cruel fate? He thought back to the end of his fifth year, sitting in Dumbledore's office and learning of the prophecy for the first time. How he wasn't actually obligated to fulfill the terms of the prophecy – he could choose to walk away and choose his own path, independent of Voldemort. It was unlikely anybody could stop the Dark Lord if Harry abandoned his destiny – but what did it matter if he died trying in vain to do the impossible? Who could blame him for choosing life and rejecting the mantle thrust unwillingly upon him?
He made up his mind a few days later, as Hermione listlessly read from a book of Dark curses that she'd already read half a dozen times over. "We'll go to America," Harry announced, drawing her surprised attention. "Lay low among the Muggles, like we said. MACUSA is standing firm against You-Know-Who; we'll keep an eye on them until we know who can be trusted. Then we can start making allies and connections."
"How is that any different from staying with the Order in Britain?" Hermione inquired.
"We'll be farther away from the Dark Lord's reach," Harry reasoned. "America has always sided with the Light in past wars; surely their magical government will remain neutral at least. We should be safer there than in Europe."
Hermione frowned at this, processing his proposal. "Is this part of the Path?" she asked.
"I thought you were against me going on the Path," Harry ribbed lightly.
"Generally yes," said Hermione. "But I thought the alternative was finding the Horcruxes and helping the Order?"
"We've already established that that's what Dumbledore wanted," Harry huffed. "And it would have ended with me dying—"
"I know that, Harry!" said Hermione, exasperated. "But I thought the whole point of this was for you to get stronger, not to stick our heads in the sand!"
"We're not doing that!" Harry insisted. "We're staying close enough to the action to know what's going on, but far enough away to stay out of the crossfire. I can continue studying and getting stronger in the meantime. It may not be as fast as the Path, but it'll be much safer."
Hermione studied Harry's face, as though trying to determine if he had ulterior motives. "You do recognize that the longer we wait, the more likely it is that Order members die," she sighed.
"I know that."
"And the more likely that You-Know-Who will be able to consolidate power—"
"I said I know that, Hermione!" Harry scoffed. "But we'll be one step closer to the fight at any rate, won't we? It's not like we're accomplishing much here in Greece."
Hermione couldn't argue with that, though she still looked troubled. "Fine," she sighed. "If you think it's best, we'll go to America."
Harry felt immense relief at this concession. A tiny part of him felt guilty for his mild deception, but he Occluded such thoughts away. Of course he knew that every minute he spent outside of Britain would condemn more innocent people to death. But he was tired of bearing that responsibility, which he'd shouldered since the age of one year old. Didn't he deserve a bit of happiness? Would the wizarding world forgive him if he saved the world a decade from now instead of tomorrow?
They began to pack their things as Hermione researched possible landing spots in the U.S. for them to hunker down. She suggested upstate New York, which had ample camping sites, temperate summer weather, and was within Apparition distance of both MACUSA Headquarters in New York City and Ilvermorny School in western Massachusetts. That seemed reasonable enough to Harry; he would miss the amenities of a physical home, but magic could make tent life more than manageable.
He felt surprisingly content the night before the planned move, snuggling into bed with Hermione and relaxing in her arms as he had for weeks now. As long as she was by his side, he didn't care what came next. They could worry about the future tomorrow. For right now, he was with the woman he loved, and nothing else in the world mattered. All thoughts of Dark Lords, prophecies and wars drifted from his mind as his breathing synced with Hermione's and he drifted into a peaceful slumber…
He sat in the high chair behind the desk in the Headmaster's Office, gently stroking the head of Nagini, who was draped over his shoulders. He had not set foot in this room since his ill-fated job interview with Dumbledore all those years ago; now he could come and go as he pleased. One day he might even take over the Headmaster position for himself – but no, it was more prudent to let his puppets do his bidding while he attended to more important matters.
A knock at the door was preceded by the entrance of four Death Eaters: Amycus Carrow, Alecto Carrow, Severus Snape, and Draco Malfoy. The latter looked petrified to be here; he'd never been comfortable in the presence of the Dark Lord. He cowered in the corner as the other three bowed their heads in respect.
"The castle is secure, my Lord," said Snape curtly. "We have captured the instigators of the latest rebellion, and they are awaiting punishment in the dungeons."
"Good, good," Voldemort mused. "And the identity of the ringleaders?"
"The three we expected," Snape said with a sneer. "Neville Longbottom, Ginny Weasley, and Luna Lovegood. Mr. Malfoy here was instrumental in smoking them out of their hiding place."
"Well done, Draco," Voldemort said, surveying his youngest follower. Draco did not acknowledge the remark, merely staring down at his feet in fear.
"Can I kill 'em, my Lord?" sneered Alecto, looking downright gleeful at the opportunity. "Those three have been causing us grief all year long."
"No pure magical blood shall be spilled in my school," Voldemort said calmly. "Punish them harshly if you must, but they shall not suffer permanent damage."
"Yes, my Lord," said Alecto, looking a bit deflated at this.
"This is not why I have summoned you all here tonight," said Voldemort, twirling a wand between his fingers. "I wish to know precisely what happened the night of Dumbledore's death."
All four Death Eaters looked at one another. They had all been present atop the Astronomy Tower that night, had all witnessed the former Headmaster's murder. "Well, it was Snape who did the Avada Kedavra—" said Amycus, but Voldemort held up a hand.
"Start from the beginning," said the Dark Lord in a placid tone.
Amycus cleared his throat nervously. "We showed up to find the kid cornered Dumbledore," he said, pointing his thumb at Draco in the corner. "We tried to convince him to finish the old man, but he wasn't up to it."
"Is this true, Draco?" asked Voldemort softly.
"Y-yes sir," Draco squeaked, unable to lift his head to face the Dark Lord directly.
"And you cornered him without a fight?"
"Erm...yes," stammered Draco. "I caught him by surprise. Disarmed him so he couldn't defend himself."
"Very clever, my boy," said Voldemort appraisingly. "Not many wizards alive can say they got the upper hand on Albus Dumbledore. You should be proud."
Draco lifted his gaze from the floor for the first time and looked into the piercing red gaze of Voldemort. "T-thank you, my Lord," he breathed.
"And as I understand it," Voldemort went on, stroking the wand delicately, "you showed up last, Severus, and cast the Killing Curse?"
Severus inclined his head in silent answer. Voldemort had always appreciated Snape's brevity and humility. It was regretful what must come next.
"I see," said Voldemort. "Unfortunately, Severus, I fear we have a problem. Because you murdered Dumbledore, it seems that his wand answers to you. And I'm afraid I have greater need of it than you do."
"My Lord…?" said Snape, eyebrow raising. He never realized what was to come next: a swish of elder wood, a flash of green light, and the Headmaster lay dead in his own office, struck down by a Killing Curse. The Carrows and Draco flinched, horrified, cowering before the Dark Lord.
"Congratulations, Amycus," said Voldemort in a level tone. "You are the new Headmaster of Hogwarts. I trust you will serve this school with the distinction it deserves."
"Of...of course, m-my Lord," said a terrified Amycus, lowering his head in a shaky bow. His sister Alecto did likewise, not daring to question why she had been passed over.
"You may leave me," said Voldemort. The Carrows couldn't get out of there faster; they stepped over Snape's dead body and hurried to the door. "Just one more moment, please, Draco."
Draco froze; he'd been halfway to the door after the Carrows, interpreting their dismissal as his own. He looked up at his master, trembling with fear.
"Wand loyalty is a tricky thing, Draco," Voldemort mused, still considering the wand in his hands. "The transfer of loyalty from one to another has never been well-understood, and death is not the only means of taking said loyalty."
"I-I don't understand, my Lord," Draco stammered.
"I must not leave anything to chance," said Voldemort. "I must ensure the loyalty of Dumbledore's wand. And because you successfully cornered him…"
Unlike Snape, Draco seemed to realize his impending fate. "Please, sir!" he begged, dropping to his knees. "I brought the Weasley boy to you. I stopped Longbottom and his cronies today. Please, I'll do anything—"
"I do regret it," Voldemort said with a small frown. And with another blinding flash of green light, Draco fell lifeless to the floor, joining his former mentor in death.
Voldemort felt the change immediately. The wand hummed with power in his hands, practically crackling with untapped potential. He felt more powerful than he ever had, even before his first downfall – invincible at long last. No Dumbledore or Harry Potter to stand in his way any longer. The former had perished; the latter had surely lost his mind to the Pool of Knowledge by now. He was no longer able to enter the boy's mind, which meant that he must have lost his sanity. He was no longer a threat.
The Deathstick was his at last. Now it was time to move out of the shadows, and show the world who their new master was—
"Harry? Harry?! HARRY!"
Harry awoke with a gasp, thrashing wildly in the bed. Hermione gaped at him as he struggled to come back to himself, to reconcile the images now burned into his brain. The sheer glee he'd just experienced…
"Harry, what is it?" Hermione pleaded. "You were muttering in your sleep...you were laughing…"
"It's You-Know-Who," Harry panted. "He's got the Elder Wand. We have to go."
His illusions of peace had finally been shattered. It was time to walk the Path.
