Chapter 112 – Song of Harmony
The red triangle on the book Harry and Barty had uncovered from the depths of Gringotts gleamed unnaturally in the darkness of the living room. Harry dug short nails into his trousers to stop himself from reaching out and ripping the tome from pale hands, a surge of protectiveness washing over him that was difficult to place, as he was confused by what he wanted to protect. Voldemort could handle mysterious magic well enough – probably the only person to be trusted to come out unscathed after dealing with possibly cursed objects. Wanting to protect the book was an even more ridiculous thought, for the Dark Lord did nought but attempt to read it.
In the dimly lit room, Harry could barely make out the equally gleaming red of his partner's eyes as they hushed over blank pages, as if its contents were perfectly clear.
''And?'' the teen pressed once the book was closed and carefully placed on the dining table. ''What does it say?''
''It does not have legible text, dear,'' Voldemort answered with a thin smile. ''I wasn't reading, I attempted to uncover the spells placed upon the book so that you might.''
''No legible text does not equal 'blank'…''
''Correct. Particles of death magic cling to the parchment. Permeate it. There is more to this than meets the eye, quite literally. Which isn't all that surprising after Lovegood explained the symbol of the Hallows to us. Whereas the cover bears the full sigil, only the triangle is highlighted, which symbolises-''
''My cloak... How didn't I notice that instantly?'' Harry groaned, about to slap his forehead when the hand was predictably pulled down to the table by a surge of wandless magic so he did not hurt himself. Refusing to have another discussion about how ridiculous that overprotectiveness was, he settled for a glare.
With an unbearable smirk, his partner teased: ''Tell me once you figure that out, I'd like to know as well. Where is your cloak?''
''Put it away upstairs before dinner. Now I know it's a priceless artefact that self-proclaimed 'Questers' are after, I figured it'd be better to be careful about whom I show it to. I don't think Kingsley has ever seen me use it before, best if it stays that way. The only time I used it in front of him was when he was unconscious.''
''You have little faith in the loyalty of your own corpse puppets.''
''For the hundredth time, stop calling them that,'' he grumbled, the chair screeching as he brusquely shoved it back to get up. ''They only died a little.'' A flimsy comeback meant purely to lighten the mood, for they were both highly aware of how conflicted Harry was over the deaths of Sirius and Kingsley – even when neither had technically been his fault.
Voldemort nonetheless darkly chuckled: ''True, at least not enough to tear your soul anew.''
Harry shivered, in no small part because the words were accompanied by a hungering resonance that curled around his mind and a tangible fluttering of dark magic that caressed his skin like oil. It only released its hold once he reached the stairs, far more flustered than he should be from a single touch. Worse was the silent laughter that ricocheted through their mental connection as his partner felt just how affected Harry was. Bastard. How had he fallen for this wicked man again?
His love wouldn't be laughing for long once Harry overwhelmed Voldemort back. At least he had that going for him: the knowledge that the Dark Lord was just as dazed - if no more so - as he when they fell into each other in a hundred ways.
He mused about those ways to distract himself while rummaging through his recently returned trunk for the cloak of invisibility. It was miles better than having his thoughts mill about the tear in his soul Voldemort had just alluded to. It didn't quite work, for the harder he attempted to push it away, the more persistently the memory of that night wormed its way to the surface. Wormtail crumpling under his wand, Harry waking up on the sofa feeling like a hole had been punched through his chest, not succeeding in coming to terms with that he fully was a murderer now. Had that tear mended itself since then? Had it left a scab or a scar?
Harry wrapped the cloak around his shoulders for a spot of comfort, the light fabric a shield between him and the rest of the world. After hesitating for a moment, he drew the Elder Wand, which he'd placed in the holster he'd received as a birthday gift from Barty, whereas his holly one sat in the pocket of his robes in a manner most sensible mages would disapprove of due to safety concerns. Voldemort included.
It was difficult to say whether something was different when holding two of the legendary Hallows instead of just the one. Harry liked to think there was a hint of recognition, of anticipation, but that may well be wishful imagination. Allowing his own emotions to flow freely while having unrestricted access to his partner's mind made it hard to disentangle the feeling enough to say for certain whether it belonged to him, to Voldemort, or to another entity. Not to mention that Tom still slumbered in his mind and Harry never truly knew whether he picked up emotions of the soul piece too.
When nothing spectacular happened, he resolutely slotted the wand back in place and at last cast the thought away far enough as he headed downstairs to where Voldemort was waiting. It'd barely been a minute or so since Harry had been out of sight, yet already did the magic in the dining room feel spikier than before. Long nails tapped an irregular rhythm on wood.
''You're so impatient,'' Harry commented, lips touching a bony cheek to calm the other as he brushed past.
''Only when it pertains to you.''
With a startled laugh, the teen argued: ''Everyone who's ever met you would disagree with that statement. Your Death Eaters most of all. If they don't jump a second after you order them to, you let them feel your wrath. Or do you deny that?''
Slitted nostrils flared as Voldemort bristled at the accusation. ''My entire career was built on patience,'' he hissed, not relenting so easily. ''I spent years working, then studying abroad before rising to power.''
''In the meantime, your followers already laid the groundwork, that hardly counts.''
A flare of defensiveness made plain that Harry's toes were a second away from sliding across the line of what Voldemort would tolerate before citing disrespect. Or, as the man once put it: 'the line beyond which I am not a decent person anymore'. Harry had seen that side of his partner often enough – and gotten hurt by it - to not deliberately bait him into anger. The promises Harry inevitably kept making in heated moments – be it passion, desperation or grief – brought enough trouble without also goading a Dark Lord into lashing out.
''Here,'' he thus said, shifting the conversation to the invisibility cloak that Harry deposited onto the dining table. ''You think this is the key to unlocking the book?''
''Quite. For if this book contains information on the cloak, it would make sense that only those in possession of the object in question may access it. It may not be true that the simplest solution is always best, yet in this case, trying it sounds promising. For if the book is illegible rather than blank, the answer may be that the text is merely-'' Voldemort opened the book once more and took a hold of the cloak, pulling at it until the rippling fabric slid over the pages. Silver turned translucent, making the item disappear as it would a person. Except instead of the book there was now floating text.
''-invisible,'' Harry finished the sentence, moving to stand behind his partner so he could have a better look. ''It's legible when read through the cloak... That reminds me of something similar. Those wisps of the dead that I kept seeing for a while after being chosen by Glory disappeared from view when I saw them through the cloak. So, kind of the opposite of what is happening here.''
''It makes sense: all invisibility cloaks function by disturbing visuals, and this one in particular goes a step further by additionally shielding one from the dimension of the dead. By its very nature, it holds power over perception. That the bleak remains of a magicless existence turned invisible when seen through the cloak is not surprising. This bit of magic reversing the usual process is.''
As Voldemort gestured to the floating text, Harry tried to make out the words that were written in a thin, slanting handwriting. ''I'll make some light,'' he warned, unable to make out more than squiggles until drawing his wand to turn on the scarce light bulbs that had been allowed into the house. Not that it helped much, for Harry now recognised the text wasn't written in modern English. He'd never gotten a better grasp on older versions of his native language than he'd had when struggling through scripts of Shakespeare plays out of pure boredom in the first summer he'd spent in Riddle House. For academic texts, Harry had heavily relied on the translation spells that had already been cast on the pages.
''Could you translate it for me?'' he asked, a bit disheartened to find yet another subject he should put his teeth into one day if he hoped to ever reach the same heights in magic as his partner. Although the running text was more comprehensible than the poetic plays had been and he could read some of the sentences without a problem, Harry did not wish to risk any mistranslations caused by his own poor grasp on this.
''As you wish. Do keep in mind that this may seem a tad nonsensical since it was opened on a random page: - not my purpose in this guide to expound on the compositions of spirits or how they differ from ghosts or souls, as many enlightening works are available on this topic. Frankly, without being entrenched in the Art of Death prior to reading this, one may never hope to grasp the significance of this text. In hopes the natural talent survives in my bloodline, I nevertheless write of my work, to grant a level of knowledge to my descendants that few other Magi Mortem will be privy to. To understand my creation and the gift it is to our kin. Instead of reiterating what should be common enough knowledge for the initiated who have thinned the Shroud, I desire these pages to tell of the tools and rites created to harness the power of death in a materialistic manner without going into the scientific points of whether any percentage of Animus remains in the Unrealities that fail to cross over to the Cosmos.'' Voldemort halted for a moment, as if considering something. ''I've only seen that word mentioned once: Unrealities. It was not in a context that made sense of it. From what we are reading now, it is my understanding that the author speaks of the wisps we just mentioned. The echoes of that which remains in our world when something sentient dies and cannot leave a ghost behind. Muggles, Squibs, children with undeveloped magical core...''
''That which the invisibility cloak is made of,'' Harry added, thinking back on his unsettling discovery in Gryffindor tower months ago. ''As I saw when I attempted to capture one of those wisps with it, back when they still bothered me. The cloak consists of countless tiny rings of these spirit-like entities, as if they are pinned in place. Wait, so this book... is a guide to its creation?''
''It appears that way. Its creation and perhaps its usage. A one-in-a-kind discovery. How terrible that it was left to gather dust in a corner of the Potter vault. All we could learn from this... It's the first claim I've read of anyone putting those wisps to an actual use. Do you still see them, dear?''
''I honestly don't know. I haven't come across whispers or images like that anymore, but some of those I also only saw due to Umbridge destabilising time itself to show the dead from long past. You said yourself that it was odd how long some of those shreds had lingered. After that, I haven't really been in places where anyone recently died who could neither move on nor would be able to create a ghost. Since you advised me to attempt to blend them out as soon as possible due to being a useless distraction, I didn't exactly keep looking for them.''
''Your ancestor could still see them after becoming an accomplished Necromancer, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to craft an item with them...'' the other mused, leaning back with a calculating look. ''I wonder if this is a natural gift or if you would have to attempt to tune into these visions again. A guide such as this has little use if you cannot see the material which with you'd need to work.''
''I'm not planning on sewing another invisibility cloak if that's what you are alluding to. And clearly, the writer was the only one who ever managed it, since we don't have a whole wardrobe full of the things to be passed down as an heirloom. From this one bit we can hardly judge the full potential of this book, besides.''
''Indeed, I was perhaps getting ahead of myself. It does, however, already reveal one indisputable fact about the Hallows: the theories of Lovegood's father and these other 'Questers' are incorrect. There is no 'Death' handing out artefacts to mortals. It is a case of talented Necromancers accomplishing feats of high magic by creating powerful tools. No different from Flamel fashioning the Philosopher's Stone or Goblins forging a diadem that harnesses wisdom itself. The sole divine being worth our attention is Magic, who infuses us directly with her power instead of scattering rings or cloaks about the earth's crust.''
As Harry also can scarcely believe in such an entity, he makes a noise in agreement, then says: ''If dead things can be crafted into cloaks to hide from death, maybe we can also find something within this book to invent an item that helps against undead beings like Dementors. Oh, and before I forget to ask... Since it speaks of family lines and creating the cloak., does this mean the author is Ignotus Peverell himself?''
Skeletal hands uncovered the book and flipped back to the first page before inspecting it by use of the cloak as before. Once again, Harry got the strong urge to reach out and snatch the tome away. With the mentioned enchantments on the pages, perhaps it was because the author had meant for it to only be read by direct descendants. Ever stubborn, Harry fought off the compulsion until the feeling faded. If the Imperius curse had nothing on him, neither would this.
''It doesn't say,'' the Dark Lord concluded after a while. ''Neither on the cover, nor the first few pages. I'd wager it to be a safe assumption that Ignotus wrote this and is simply a tad humbler than his brother. Cadmus couldn't stop referring to himself every few pages. If only he'd written a similar work on the ring...''
''Can you read some more? This is all pretty fascinating stuff'' Harry inquired, leaning on Voldemort's shoulders from behind and using the position to bestow a few more light kisses on his love.
''Now the mystery has been solved on what this is, we ought to move onto another matter first. An explanation of one of the Hallows is not as important as the larger scheme they are a part of. Mastery over death when united... as well as the pressing dilemma over the resurrection stone seeming to be one of my Horcruxes, which hampers this unification.'' Harry might have looked a bit too disappointed, for Voldemort added: ''I will cast translation spells on it later today so you may read it at your leisure. The idea of scouring it for techniques to create other artefacts is a promising one that I shan't be blind to. On the contrary: it is imperative that we thoroughly research this to uncover all the enchantments on the cloak. That it made this text legible lines up perfectly with my idea of reversing the effects of the Hallows, although it would be the alleged powers of the ring that could help us with our troubles. Which is why we must divert our efforts to that, first. Come, I would prefer not to remove any of my Horcruxes from their place of hiding.''
The promise of being able to read more of the secrets of Harry's family in the evening was enough to make him comply and fold up the invisibility cloak to stow it in the deep pockets of his robes. Harry was overcome with a feeling of strangeness as he followed his partner into a part of the house that had remained hidden for so long. Finding out in a dream that an entire room was kept out of sight from anyone but the master of the house was odd – though admittedly a too Voldemort-esque thing to do to be entirely shocked about it.
They went past the door of Barty's bedroom and the Potion Laboratory to head into the storages, which Harry had always presumed to be the end of this portion of the ground floor as there was no door in sight, only shelves filled with dried plants and jars with all manners of ingredients. ''Stand back,'' Voldemort spoke as he drew his wand, tapping a sequence on the bricks that Harry thought to recognise from his first trips to Diagon Alley. An added touch of nostalgia? Or a calculated move, for what intruder would believe the mighty Dark Lord would choose a code that most anyone in the Wizarding World knew about?
Harry left those speculations behind as he was guided into the pitch-black room with square glass cases set onto pedestals. When casting a Lumos, it appeared smaller than when he'd last seen it, which might be chalked up to the nature of dreams. Avoiding touching them as he knew better than most how hostile Horcruxes could be, Harry waited for Voldemort to pick up the ring from one of the cases in the far back. With mixed feelings, he looked at one of the other Horcruxes that he stood close to, the silver locket gleaming in the light of his wand. Was it aware anyone had entered the room? Or was it stewing in its hated existence, cut off from all senses once more?
It was insanity that he felt pity for the Locket after all it had done to Harry, from driving him into sleep-deprived delirium to breaking his bones and ultimately attempting to lock Harry's own mind away in favour of Tom. As the scheme had failed, however, Harry couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for the thing, which only clung onto life for the purpose it served.
''You should stay away from that, darling.'' Abruptly raising his head, Harry saw a ruby stare drilling into the glass case. ''Both the Locket and the Cup were made when I was a very different man. Thinking highly of my power after graduating yet still foolishly believing I had to prove myself to the rest of humanity by playing their games instead of being above them. There was little I wouldn't have done, back then, even if it harmed myself. The Diadem, too, though the nature of its vessel granted that piece of my soul a much-needed different perspective. Not unlike it did to myself after wearing it. That was a... formative experience.''
''You've worn Ravenclaw's diadem? Wasn't it made for a woman?'' Looking at the Dark Lord, Harry couldn't not picture it, silver and sapphire elegantly placed upon Voldemort's brow. Huh, maybe he should gift his partner quite a bit more jewellery after they were married and it wouldn't pose such a 'scandal' anymore... Draco would hopefully be happy with all the commissions.
He could read from the smirk that played on thin lips that the rush of sheer want had been positively received.
''Imagine uncovering a lost treasure said to strengthen wit and wisdom and then not use it. Of course I wore it. Whomever it was made for was no concern of mine, only its untapped potential. If that would damage my masculinity, I wouldn't have much to protect in the first place. Why, when Orion Black once stole his mother's enchanted stockings that made the wearer effortlessly run faster... but we are straying from the topic,'' Voldemort coughed, a slight flush to his cheeks that only had Harry burning with more questions about the alluded to story.
Having vanished one of the glass cases, Voldemort returned to Harry's side with the Peverell ring in hand, like he had done in their dream. Re-enacting it now felt like a déjà vu. ''In the Tale of the Three Brothers, Cadmus called back the girl he'd hoped to marry, wishing for her return. I theorise that the issue may have been that this item uses willpower as a means of activation. Having never known what might the stone possessed, I never deliberately attempted to call the dead to my side.''
''Luna also said the Hallows use the heart and that all answers lie in the tale,'' Harry speculated as he looked at the small object. ''What if it only brings back loved ones?''
''Let us not get ahead of ourselves. We can attempt different methods to narrow it down if necessary. Most disconcerting to me is that it's not obviously enchanted. I can detect nothing unusual besides the feel of my own magic.''
''How about asking the piece of your soul that inhabits it? Shouldn't it be aware of another force if the ring is truly a resurrection stone?'' Harry wondered how this particular sliver of soul could interact with the outside world. The diary had been able to communicate via writing and pulling one inside memories, whereas the Locket had been able to manifest for the wearer upon opening the thing . Although only after sucking away magic and life force for weeks on end. Did the ring need something in particular to activate it? Or could it already hear their every word?
''I have considered demanding answers from it. It may be feasible if it is cooperative. As I created the Ring Horcrux prior to the Locket, that is... questionable. My ideals have changed a great deal since I was a student.''
With how casually Voldemort mentioned this, Harry figured the ring could not yet hear them, and countered with: ''Sure, but we aren't planning to discuss politics with it. The Locket grew resentful only after hearing you'd died and changed your views. I don't see how the ring would be aware of any of that if you didn't tell it.''
Voldemort appeared to ponder on this for a moment. ''A valid argument. Then, let us hope it is less rebellious than some of my other Horcruxes.'' Slowly, the Dark Lord slid the golden band onto his ring finger, in which moment the embedded stone gleamed red. Instead of greeting it, the man instructed: ''Feed upon my magic to gain form outside of your vessel. Fail to comply, and I shall drag you out.''
''Maybe being nice to it wouldn't hurt...'' Harry uncomfortably threw in.
''Yes, that worked wonders for you when handling my other Horcruxes, didn't it?''
Point begrudgingly taken, Harry waited, watching as smoke arose from the ring. Voldemort did not seem obviously affected, the only sign of discomfort as the Horcrux syphoned off the man's magic a few tightening lines on his face. The smoke whirled, changed form and colour, until a young man with dark curls and a pale complexion stood in front of them. Still a teenager, barely older than the Diary had been, but more refined. That one had killed a person by proxy in letting a monster roam free. This one had calculatingly committed a triple murder and pinned the blame on his uncle shortly before its soul was contained in the ring.
''Lord Voldemort,'' it spoke, dark eyes that occasionally flashed crimson roving over the Dark Lord's entire body with evident fascination. ''How wonderful to see what has become of me in person. Our last talk after your servant picked me up was unsatisfying. To now see our greatness with my own eyes... I do hope you have tales of your kills for me. Beautiful, bloody hands...'' Its grin stretched wide, showing teeth. ''Waves of green to drench the world in,'' the Horcrux breathlessly said, stretching out a hand as if reaching for something.
It's mad, flashed through Harry's head. How? Why? He was absolutely certain that Voldemort had never been like this, for how would he have kept up the act for the remaining time at Hogwarts until graduation? Moreover, the Locket that had been created after had been quite sane. Cruel, sure, but not raving about murder.
''Is this to be a sacrifice to me?'' the Horcrux hungrily asked, turning its attention to Harry. ''Oh, a good one. You've seen death so many times... Came back, too.''
''Wonderful that you breach that topic so soon,'' Voldemort interjected, not sounding either surprised by its demeanour nor displeased by the threat to Harry's life – which showed he didn't take it seriously. ''This is the heir to one of the Peverell lines, as are we, the proof of which is the very ring you occupy. It has come to my attention that it is more than a symbol of our ancestry. As we are both Magi Mortem with an intellectual interest in the arcane, I would ask of you to speak of your vessel.''
The Horcrux blinked owlishly, asking: ''Mortem... we became a Necromancer? Bring back the dead wrong? Oh, that is beautiful... what sweet corruption of the lives we vanquished. I can help in this purpose, yes. Is it my vessel? I do not know, but I can see so far beyond life... There's chains stretching endlessly into space. There's a glow of yellow and a red drumming in my ears. It burns cold, this desire to bathe in death. Pull them in, push them out... pull them in...''
''Voldemort...'' Harry spoke, realisation settling into his chest. ''Didn't you once tell me... that Horcruxes become their vessel?''
''Evidently not enough to know what we speak of. Even if he can see the Black Cosmos, the specifics on how to utilise that power escape us. From the viewpoint of a scholar, I am intrigued, but we were searching for concrete answers to stop Dementors from ravaging the wizarding world as we know it and prevent your own untimely death at their rotting hands. Whether he's truly become the resurrection stone as you hypothesise is hardly relevant if he remains unaware of any knowledge related to the stone and its workings themselves.''
''You're being far too impatient with yourself. Hey.. erhm, what is your name?'' Harry asked, approaching the ring Horcrux. ''Do you already go by Voldemort or is Tom still fine?'' When fury burned in suddenly scarlet eyes, he had to fight not to hastily step back. ''Okay, not that, then. How would you like us to call you?''
''No-one has ever asked me that.'' the Horcrux muttered. ''I am... You can call me Peverell. It fits more than other names. More than Voldemort. I do not fly away from death, I embrace it. Use it.''
''How can you use it? Have you killed someone since splitting off? Or brought someone back?''
''No... I lacked a form for that. Not enough magic myself. I look into that other world and drift among the dead, listen to their whispers. They don't make much sense, but I'm certain I can bring some of them with me now I am like this.''
It couldn't be that easy, Harry thought. As Necromancy was heavy magic, there had to be a price to it first of all. Secondly, this field of magic relied on ties. Dragging back just about anyone would result in no more than an Inferius at best. Though that was the logical side of him that Voldemort had drilled into his head. There'd also been no rhyme or reason to some of Harry's own feats, including erasing Dementors from this plane of existence.
The Horcrux – Peverell – dissolved into thin air all of a sudden, as if he'd never been there at all. In that same moment, Voldemort released a pained hiss and sank to his knees.
Alarmed, Harry dropped to his partner's side, automatically checking the man's vitals. ''What happened?'' he frantically asked when finding Voldemort's breath far too shallow and his heartbeat irregular.
''He took far more than should have been necessary, or possible in such a short amount of time,'' Voldemort grimly spoke, opening up his hand to show the ring lying innocently in the palm again instead of sitting on his finger. ''Inanimate Horcruxes do not have much magic of their own and thus need to steal it from others. A simple conversation should not have drained me so much. It's disconcerting. For if it spoke the truth about having gained the abilities of this resurrection stone, working such magic would pulverise the one whose reserves it is using, even if the artefact itself would not need to be fed so much to do the same. In conclusion, we've negated the need to find out how it works if my soul offers assistance and it may have the power we seek that can reverse the effect, yet actually taking up that offer is impossible without sacrificing the lives of hundreds or thousands of mages in return. For now, that makes it a dead end. As you were able to destroy multiple dementors without burning up, there must be a different way.''
''And what of uniting the Hallows?''
''We haven't even discussed what that would mean. Through guided dreams and convenient circumstances that led us to be in possession of these objects, it can be deduced that more than mere coincidence led them to us, to this house. Yet where to go from here, darling? Do you expect me to give up ownership of my own soul by handing over my Horcrux? Or would you part with your family's heirloom to grant me this coveted title? Where does this leave the Deathstick, won from Dumbledore through our mutual plan, with Weasley a wild card who was unaware of being part of the game?''
Harry felt far too scrutinised, pinned in place by his partner's stare in an uncomfortable manner he'd not been subjected to in ages. ''What if-'' he said, mouth speaking faster than his brain could catch up. ''What if it is like the prophecy? So many different interpretations for the same few lines? Can we not find something that works for both of us? Isn't magic all about will? Intent?''
''I'm listening.''
''You ask so many questions that we can never get the answers to because we don't know anyone who's done this before. Even Grindelwald, who arguably knows more than we do about the Hallows, chased after these objects without managing to 'unite' them. He only found one. So, if we can't get definite answers on the how and what, we can just... try to find what suits us.'' Logically, Harry knew he was blabbering nonsense. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Hermione echoed in his head about how magic relied on precision and formula, not belief. Though wasn't it a belief in Magic that Voldemort wished to return to their world? Hadn't Harry accomplished magic never seen before by following his gut?
He felt like he had when performing Necromancy on the late matriarch of the Greengrass family. Ruin had scratched at his mind then, giving insight that mortals, including practitioners of the Art, shouldn't have. There was a grain of truth to Harry's own words. He couldn't yet place his finger on which of the many grains spilling from his lips it was, but it was hidden among them.
Voldemort thankfully did not turn away or scoff at the thought, listening with rapture. With fingers that trembled from excitement, Harry withdrew the cloak from the pocket of his robes, then let the Elder Wand drop into his palm and held both items up to his partner.
''Our blood-bonding ritual: Corpus. A part of your soul attached to mine: Animus. Our mental link: Mens. My sacrifice to resurrect you: Vitae. Our brother wands: Magica. This, this,'' Harry hissed, taking a step closer. ''I am putting your own words in my mouth when I say that when it pertains to the laws of magic, we are indistinguishable. So why then, would we need to choose which one of us unites the Hallows? If there is any such thing as destiny, it has led us to this point, where we stand as one among the torn pieces of your soul, carrying the components of something grand. Voldemort, I-''
Cold lips crossed the distance to claim his own, wiping any coherent thought from Harry's mind that was more than emotion or magic. Every fibre of his being was wild and electric while feelings were exchanged freely between them - Irritation and pride, trust and excitement, a possessive desire to consume all Harry was... Hands covered his own, the metal of the ring in it pressing into skin. It burned as fiercely as the wand and the cloak he held. Colour exploded behind eyelids that had slid close as he was carried by the kiss. Confidence. Respect. A range of emotions so deep and profound that Harry could only name it love.
Upon opening his eyes, he was met with a pair of deep purple irises that stole his breath away. At once, Harry knew his own eyes must look the same. They were united in life as they were in death.
The Hallows sang with magic in their intertwined hands.
AN: The Hallows didn't want to wait any longer ^^
Next up: we get some insight into what's been happening outside of Harry and Voldemort's lives, especially on the situation at Hogwarts.
Since FFN does not have the possibility of creating series one can subscribe to, I'd also like to take this moment to inform anyone who read World Beyond Death that I will start posting the sequel, Dreams Beyond Blood, in about 2 weeks from now - likely on the weekend.
Please Read and Review,
xx GeMerope