IV - All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream

Harry blinked, taking in his surroundings. He had no idea how he had gone from sleeping in a crib to standing in the graveyard of Godric's Hollow, and honestly? It was starting to get rather repetitive. Since he had set foot in 1940, Harry was, to put it simply, lost. He didn't comprehend half of the things happening to him or how he always managed to land in such predicaments. It was exhausting. Yet, he maintained hope in some way or another—probably because he convinced himself that Ginny was waiting for him in his time, and that was all that truly mattered.

The graveyard was exactly as it had been when he first visited it with Hermione while they were searching for Voldemort's Horcruxes. The graves were more or less well maintained, though most were covered in snow. It was cold and dark, and a few snowflakes were twirling in the wind. For a moment, he wondered if he hadn't dreamt the whole story of time travel, deafness, and the Blacks. But a glance at his ridiculously small and terribly pale hands assured him he wasn't dreaming. Perhaps he was just going mad. Hadn't McGonagall told Hermione in their third year that one shouldn't play with time for fear of the consequences? He couldn't recall what those consequences were—which wasn't very clever given the circumstances—but he was willing to bet that madness was one of them.

"You are not insane," suddenly interjected a voice.

Harry jumped before turning towards the source of the sound. His heart was pounding, and he didn't really have time to realise that his hearing had returned because he suddenly found himself facing a young woman in her twenties with flaming hair. Mouth agape, stunned, Harry stared at the silhouette of his mother, Lily Potter.

"What the…"

He blinked again.

"Mom?" he asked, uncertain.

The woman cocked her head curiously and crossed her legs. She was sitting on a tombstone—which wasn't very respectful towards the dead, nor very polite. In a corner of his mind, Harry thought he couldn't see his mother behaving like that.

"You are not Lily, are you?" he said after a brief silence.

He couldn't find the softness in her facial features. They were as frozen as ice, cold, and inspired no love. Harry had always thought that the day he would find her in the afterlife, her face would be overflowing with love. He had been told repeatedly that he had been loved and cherished before his parents lost their lives. He couldn't believe that Lily Potter could show such an expression.

With a smirk, the creature that had stolen the deceased witch's appearance pretended to examine her nails as if they were the most interesting thing she had seen in years.

"Something like that," the imposter finally replied.

Harry frowned. The idea that someone could steal and use his mother's image that way repulsed him to the highest degree.

"Stop that," he hissed between his teeth.

And perhaps there was a slight touch of Parseltongue. Perhaps not. What was certain was that Harry Potter was now angry, as if the past eight days spent in 1940 and the confusion and anxiety he felt were finally finding an outlet.

In reality, Harry was furious. He was tired of seeing this kind of thing happening to him again, as if he hadn't spent his entire schooling—and his life in general—fighting against those who had tried to kill him.

"Young people today have no sense of humour."

Harry saw red.

Around him, the wind rose, and the storm rumbled. Lily Potter—or what looked like her, at least—rolled her eyes. Then, as Barty Crouch Jr. had done a few years earlier (or would do in a few years?), the creature changed. Her skin began to ripple like the surface of water brought to a boil. Instead of Lily Potter, there now stood a silhouette as black as night characterised by the total absence of limbs or even a face. The creature had nothing humanoid about it. It was like a dark cloud, a nightmarish substance far worse than Dementors. The only distinctive feature Harry could assign to it were the two white orbs reigning in the middle of what must be its face. As he observed it, Harry felt he was drowning in the void, with a capital V. His hair stood up on the top of his head, and a shiver of horror ran through his body. Even in front of Voldemort, Harry had never felt such bone-chilling terror. It gripped his throat, and he understood what a deer must feel like caught in the headlights of an oncoming car just before the impact.

Harry swallowed. He could feel the cold sweat sliding against his skin, making him clammy, and with an absurd feeling of loneliness, he thought that perhaps his mother's appearance hadn't been such a bad idea after all.

"Harry Potter," hissed the creature whose voice no longer had anything human about it.

It was distorted like a radio wave without a fixed signal, like nails scraping a chalkboard, like the scream of a Banshee.

Pale, Harry wondered for the thousandth time in 27 years if his end had come.

He wanted to open his mouth, say something— anything —but his vocal cords refused to respond. He felt like a child terrified by a monster hiding under his bed. He felt alone, and that no one would come to his aid. He felt like life on Earth had dried up.

Finally, he said:

"You are not Death , are you?"

His voice trembled, but he didn't care. Sometimes there were things far more important than a man's pride.

Like his life, for example. And although Harry Potter had a life full of hardships, the prospect of a bright future was enough to keep him afloat, to make him want to see more and enjoy what he had missed as a child.

The creature chuckled.

"Indeed," it said. "I am far worse than that."

And Harry wondered what could be worse than death.

Torture?

He had never heard of the personification of torture.

On the other hand, he wasn't sure if the personification of death was real or if he had just imagined it. Sometimes, he seriously questioned his mental health, but that was a problem for another day.

The Being of smoke/dust/shadow moved, and Harry jumped. It was no longer sitting against the tombstone but almost a hair's breadth from his own silhouette—which should have been impossible because no one was supposed to be able to move that fast. A Golden Snitch didn't move that fast. Apparently, he hadn't finished seeing things that weren't supposed to happen since he was almost literally being served them every day.

Weary, Harry had to look up to observe the creature. He really had no desire to stare at it. On the contrary, he wanted to flee far away. But he found himself incapable, as if compelled by a mystical force.

Finally, and surely because the silence was becoming awkward, the Shadow spoke.

"You are a blight upon the universe, Harry Potter,," it said.

And Harry thought really ? and splendid . Everything was splendid. That was certainly uplifting.

"By now, your loved ones have likely perished."

He frowned, uncertain he had fully understood what the creature meant.

He said, " I beg your pardon? " and "What are you talking about? " with his heart pounding, horror gripping his guts. A surge of anger, terror, and incomprehension exploded in his head.

"Hmm," said the shadow, thoughtful. "I thought you knew. Blast ."

It moved around itself, extended what must be an arm that emerged from its liquid/gaseous form—Harry wasn't too sure—and pointed a finger—or something like that—at his 9-year-old chest that the wizard never really stopped cursing.

"Your world is dying, and it is entirely your doing."

His child's body trembled, as if struck hard.

"What?" he said again, his voice rough and raw.

Then the Shadow spoke.

It said:

"Man is a wolf to man ," quoting a known expression whose origin Harry couldn't remember.

It said:

"Since the dawn of time, your species has engaged in self-destruction over the most inane reasons ."

It said:

"Since the dawn of time, Man has laid waste to everything in his path. Bestowed with a land to inhabit, Humanity has transformed it into a wasteland of horror, dust, bones, and blood. "

It said:

"Since then, the Higher Entities have incessantly observed you, initially studying your evolution as a game, and subsequently with revulsion. Man dedicates more time to devising means to harm and terrorise than to mend and assist. Consequently, these Entities have abandoned you like an unentertaining game. They now seek to expunge all traces of your existence. ."

It said:

"One cannot fault them. It is simpler to erase the existence of a mistake than to engage in a protracted and arduous change "

And Harry listened. Harry listened and wondered why it was telling him all this. Harry listened, and the more he paid attention to the words meant for him, the more the terror grew. He wanted to scream, shout, cry. He wanted to beg the shadow and tell it that not all the plants in a garden were bad. Merlin, he wanted to take out his wand and confront this creature that came bearing terrible news. Then, wide-eyed, he realised that this confirmed exactly what the creature had said. His first reflex was indeed to fight. But wasn't that the nature of man? To fight for his ideals?

The shadow spoke, spoke, and spoke .

"I have watched you from the beginning," it said. "And honestly, for many, you are nothing more than cockroaches who deserve no better."

It seemed thoughtful for a brief moment.

"You are part of it, of course."

And Harry pursed his lips, paler than ever.

"Truthfully, men and their hero complex are insufferable. I fail to see how you deviate from this rule. However," it continued, "I do have my favourites. And frankly? It irks me that they too will face annihilation. Magic has favoured you with many gifts . Undeserved gifts, in my opinion, but let us not dwell on that. I am not here to meddle with my peers' toys."

"What do you want?" Harry finally asked.

The feeling of terror was still present, but the more the creature spoke, the more he felt like he was facing an ordinary being bored with its life, rather than a higher force. It was strange because he was sure it could kill him with a snap of its fingers. On the other hand, he wanted to send it to the corner to think about its behaviour because honestly? Whatever this creature was supposed to be, it was acting like a child.

"Meh ," it said. "Audacious, aren't we?"

It grumbled something, and Harry thought he caught a comment about how he "really had nothing going for him" and was briefly offended.

"I desire many things. The collector's edition of the Pléiades, to have tea with Freddie Mercury, to own a zen garden, you see? But primarily, I desire a champion."

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. He frowned and thought what the everlasting fuck is that ?

He told himself he was right, that the Entity in front of him was just a child who no longer knew what to do with its toys.

Then, he took a moment to sort things out in his head and cursed under his breath. Apparently, beyond wizards and Muggles, the world was being watched by what must be Entities—the creature's peers—and that? That wasn't on his 2008 bingo card—well, 1940. Sort of.

Had he mentioned that he was tired of all this nonsense?

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"Sorry," he said, "but I really don't see what this has to do with me ?"

The shadowy creature twirled around him, dancing and dancing. A laugh echoed in his ears (and really, Harry savoured the sound, however terrible it was).

"Oh," said the creature. "There really isn't any direct connection to you. I was bored , you were dead anyway, so poof, back to square one."

"Back to square one," Harry repeated. "Sorry but what on earth is this? Because I get that you don't particularly like me, so allow me to ask again, but what do I have to do with this? What's this story about the end of the world, a champion , and for goodness' sake—a zen garden, really ?"

"I do not grant you the authority to judge me, Mr. I-want-a-wife-and-children. For goodness' sake, you are such a cliché , I would almost vomit if I could."

And that? That was a low blow. Harry felt the anger roar under his skin, and his magic tingled at his fingertips.

"Excuse me for wanting a family! You seem to know everything, so you should know what happened to me, right?"

The Shadow sighed, and Harry swore it rolled its eyes.

"Please, do you truly believe you are that unique? Countless people lack parents. Countless people die every day. So what? You rid your country of a man who sought to conquer a school—wow, I am impressed . Perhaps with more wisdom, wizards could have formed an alliance with the rest of the world; your Voldemort did not have that many followers…"

Harry wanted to reply but was unable to. He frowned (again) and honestly? In fact, he couldn't really contradict the creature. Instead, he dismissed the argument with a wave of his hand.

"That's not the point," he said, his anger giving way to impatience. "What's this story about the end of the world? A champion?" he repeated.

"Ugh," sighed the creature. "You are tiresome. I told you, did I not? Someone has decided to obliterate humanity, and I require you to stop them."

"Stop them," Harry repeated once more.

He thought this was all utter nonsense, that nothing the Shadow was saying made sense, that they were making fun of him.

"Yes."

"You want me, Harry Potter, to stop the end of the world?"

"All that and more if you feel like it," the Being as black as night agreed.

Harry pinched himself just to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

"Thanks, but no thanks," he finally replied because honestly? All this was rubbish, and he was getting tired of being told what to do or not to do.

Suffice it to say that his response was not met with much joy. The shadow, which had been twirling around itself, froze in time. Then, it began to grow, grow, and grow. Black tentacles flew out and wrapped around the ankles of the child that was Harry Potter, trapped in the body of Antares Black. Harry felt like he was drowning. Deprived of air, of his senses, of everything, Harry thought he was going mad. He could see nothing, feel nothing, hear nothing. Even the frantic beating of his heart no longer reached him like a furious drum in his temples. He felt nothing. Everything around him was black and void. He wanted to scream, but no words escaped his lips.

"You. Have. No. Choice," a voice hammered in his head.

Around him, the graveyard rematerialised, and with it, the return of his senses. He gasped, his own hand clutching his throat as if the gesture could help oxygen fill his lungs.

When the silhouette reappeared before him, it seemed barely appeased.

"You are in no position to refuse me" it repeated. "Your time is dying, and if you wish to save your wife, this is the sole solution."

Harry gaped at it.

"What differentiates you from humans? You act exactly like those you despise."

"That's where you're mistaken, Harry Potter. I possess neither soul nor conscience. I do not experience joy or sorrow. I am void, void, void . And occasionally, I find an occupation. Today, it is you. Tomorrow, likely someone else. However, none of this truly concerns you, does it? Your task is to ensure the world remains as it is."

"Stop the end of the world," he said weakly.

"Among other things."

Harry took a deep breath.

"I don't see the connection between that and finding myself in 1940."

"That's because there is none. Call it entertainment, boredom, a passing fancy. Call it a helping hand. Call it the pleasure of bothering you. Today you are here, perhaps tomorrow you shall be dead ."

And honestly? There was really no response to such a tirade. Harry realised once again that he was a pawn in a chess game that was not his to decide the outcome. The weariness returned with full force, and for a moment, he thought of refusing at all costs because death, at least, would have the merit of being peaceful and putting an end to the nonsense that had been his life since he came into the world.

"I'm not sure I can fight against... the bloody end of the world," he admitted after a moment.

"I don't doubt that for a second," the creature cooed.

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Why me? Don't you have someone else to torture with this nonsense?"

"And why not you? I told you. You and your accursed saviour complex. You cannot help but rush to the aid of the widow and the orphan. You will devote your entire soul to it, even if it means selling it to the highest bidder."

"I'm not like that."

"Oh really?"

She laughed. Harry did not find it amusing. Not in the least.

"And besides, has magic not favoured you? Thus, it is more entertaining this way. That is what the young people say nowadays, is it not?"

That intrigued Harry because he didn't feel particularly blessed right now.

"What are you talking about?"

The creature twirled again, all excited. Her laughter echoed throughout Godric's Hollow, and Harry grimaced because it was really unpleasant.

"You'll realise it soon enough," she replied with all the mystery she could muster.

Then, the creature approached him and extended a clawed finger to him, and right at his thorax, she plunged her strange appendage into him. There was a sudden burst of light and an explosion of magic like Harry had never seen before. Finally, the pain seemed to tear him apart from the inside, reducing his bones to dust and his muscles to shreds.

Harry Potter screamed in agony. Every nerve alight with new intensity, every part of his body tearing and reconstituting again and again and again. He screamed until he was out of breath, screamed until his vocal cords gave out under the pressure, crying out for mercy.

Harry opened his eyes abruptly. His throat was on fire, his body gripped by an incomprehensible pain, and for a moment, he seriously thought his head was going to explode. A throbbing pain radiated through his entire body, and he felt as though he was dying once more. Panting, disoriented, it took him long, interminable seconds to remember where he was and the era in which he found himself. As he regained consciousness of his surroundings, Harry finally noticed that above him stood Arcturus Black, and the man was holding him firmly by the shoulders as if he had tried to shake him awake. The man was pale, a worried crease etched between his brows. Even more surprising was the pale blue dome erected all around them.

A protego? he wondered. However, he did not have time to dwell on this thought, because upon closer inspection, Harry noticed that the entire child's room seemed to have been ravaged by an unprecedentedly violent typhoon. No piece of furniture had survived the cataclysm. Splinters of wood lay here and there, the windows were shattered—even his bed seemed to have borne the brunt of Merlin's wrath. Harry found himself in the midst of a storm. Objects still whirled around the room, crashing against the walls, and the wind howled, howled, howled.

Mr. Black spoke, but the boy did not understand the words addressed to him, and Harry quickly realized that whatever had happened with the creature must have been his doing. Was it yet another game for her? He would likely never know.

Arcturus shook him slightly, and Harry locked his now-grey eyes into the crystalline orbs of his non-father.

The storm eventually subsided, and various objects fell to the ground, inanimate. Harry blinked and stared at the Black patriarch, seeming to ask what and what is happening.

However, Mr. Black did not bother to repeat the words he had uttered moments earlier. Instead, he released him, and Harry realized that the man's grip had been so strong that a pain shot through his shoulders. Grimacing, he massaged one of his shoulders with a hand.

At that moment, a house-elf appeared. Its eyes first widened at the chaos, then it seemed to address the Master of the House before disappearing again without the characteristic pop of magical displacement.

Simultaneously, Melania Black appeared in the doorway of the child's room. She looked at her husband, then her son. Her wand was immediately in her hand, and her eyes scanned the room as if she expected to find an intruder.

As usual, Harry was lost, unable to understand the why and how. Had he been attacked during his sleep? He tried to glean some explanations from Antares' parents, but without his hearing, it proved complicated to eavesdrop on the conversation. The two adults were engaged in an animated discussion, and regularly, Harry noticed glances cast in his direction. After long minutes during which he dared not move a muscle, Melania Black passed her husband to crouch beside her son's bed. The magical letters he so despised appeared in the air.

Are you hurt?

He observed the witch, who seemed genuinely concerned. However, there was something strange in the way she looked at him. Something Harry couldn't quite grasp.

He grimaced in response. His body hurt like hell, and it felt as if molten lava had replaced his blood and now flowed through his veins. It was painful. Surely far too much for a child, but Harry was more or less accustomed to pain, and his tolerance was rather high.

Half an hour after his chaotic awakening, the Grand Salon's clock struck 1 PM as a cloud of dust rose from the fireplace. Harry groaned upon seeing the silhouette of Healer Golding.

For heaven's sake, not again, he thought, doing his best to avoid the worried look from the sorcerer. He who had intended to stay under the radar once out of St. Mungo's had failed. He hadn't even managed to spend a few hours without having to call a mediwizard. The shame was at its peak—and it was also a new personal record.

Hello Mr. Black, the magical letters danced.

Harry groaned for show before giving a nod in greeting.

Golding exchanged a few words with the Black couple before approaching him. Harry, then sitting on the luxurious sofa, pretended to stand (even though his muscles refused the idea of making the slightest movement). Fortunately, the healer signaled him not to move.

So, said Golding. Your parents told me you had a little accidental magic incident?

And Harry thought without surprise what the hell is this? As far as he knew, he was an adult, and accidental magic dated far enough back in his childhood that he barely remembered it.

He raised an eyebrow at the doctor.

It happens to all children your age, don't worry. I'm mainly here because they mentioned it was... how should I put it... surprising? In short, I just want to make sure everything is okay on your end. Sometimes, young wizards can hurt themselves without realizing it.

He paused, cracking a smile when he noticed the child in front of him rolling his eyes.

Are you hurt ?

Honestly? Harry was annoyed by this umpteenth question. He couldn't count how many times these words had been addressed to him, but he was sure it was numerous times per day.

Before him, the healer suddenly jumped, and following his gaze, Harry noticed a vase had just shattered. Which was a pity because it looked extremely expensive. He wondered if the Black house was haunted when all eyes turned to him.

Golding opened his mouth, then closed it. He frowned (which was becoming a bad habit for everyone, really) and straightened up to speak again with the Black couple.

Melania had buried her head in her hands, seeming to hesitate between laughter and tears, and Arcturus seemed stunned, forgetting his manners and pure-blood education in the process. This annoyed the savior of the wizarding world even more, who finally understood, when a painting flew across the salon to crash into a window, that he was the reason the vase had shattered and, by extension, that he had probably also wrecked his room in the process.

A feeling of loneliness twisted his guts as he watched the three wizards discuss him as if he didn't exist. He was an adult, for heaven's sake, was it too much to ask to at least know what was going on?

He was tempted to use wandless magic to understand what was being said. However, Harry knew no spell capable of transcribing a person's words into text, and it would have been unwise to worsen his case with an act of intentional magic without a wand.

Instead, giving free rein to his fury, he addressed the adults present in his dissonant voice.

"Look at me! Stop discussing me as if I weren't in the room with you, by Merlin!"

He earned three surprised looks and a bust of a member of the Black family that exploded into pieces a few steps away from him.

Well, he thought. Well done, Harry.

Melania Black was at his side in an instant, kneeling at eye level.

I'm sorry, Antares, we...

Only, her husband interrupted her unceremoniously.

Enough. I did not raise you like this, he said, and Harry guessed he was forcing himself to use the transcription spell since before that, he had never bothered to use it except on the day of his awakening. After that, never again until, well, this day.

In fact, it wasn't very surprising given that pure-bloods tended to send their Squib children to the oubliettes. It wasn't hard to guess that with a child demonstrating such an obvious handicap as deafness, the patriarch of the Black family, the infamous "Toujours Pur," would end up sending him to the oubliettes too. He hadn't done so yet, probably hoping to find a magical cure—or because his wife had prevented him. On this point, Melania Black didn't seem to care about her youngest son's hearing problem.

And because Harry was Harry and had a natural problem with blood purists and authority in general, he glared at the Black patriarch. And if looks could kill, then without a doubt, Arcturus Black would have perished instantly.

Instead, and because anger and injustice thrummed through the child's skin, the man's clothes suddenly caught fire .

Melania let out a cry of surprise in concert with her husband's exclamation. The healer was quicker and quickly extinguished the flames with a wave of his wand, even though it took him two attempts. This seemed to trouble him as the worried crease between his eyebrows deepened.

Mr. Black , said the healer, who had understood well that the child's magical accidents stemmed from an overflow of frustration. I don't know if you realize it, but Antares has experienced five cases of accidental magic within half an hour.

Should we be concerned? asked the sorceress, following suit.

Her gaze lingered on the small silhouette of her youngest son. She suddenly seemed much older and more tired than usual.

Arcturus, for his part, said nothing.

Concerned ? repeated Golding, half-amazed, half-stupefied. This has never happened before! An act of accidental magic is terribly exhausting at their age. Especially if the first one was as you described. If I believe the state of his room, your son should be sleeping to recover. Instead, I've just seen him make a vase, a painting, a bust fly, and set your husband on fire.

Oh, said the magical letters above the sorceress.

Harry thought damn .

Then he added to his checklist setting a member of the Black family on fire because it was also something very satisfying.

How do you feel, Antares? he was asked once more.

And Harry shrugged. He was fine. Well, he hurt all over, but he was pretty sure it had more to do with the Entity he'd encountered in his dream than with using his magic. He could feel it purring under his skin, like a contented cat. His magic was fine. It was even better than ever.

Spectacular ! said the healer, not without a blissful smile etched on his face.

And that, thought Harry, that spells trouble for me.