Disclaimer: This world and its characters belong to J.K. Rowling and any company that has a claim to the Harry Potter Trademark. I write this for fun and make no money out of it. Please don't sue me!
To Die Alone
Among the darkness, Harry and Albus shared a moment of silence.
"Voldemort knew that Snape was spying for the Order, so he fed him false information to lure us into a trap," Harry began, his voice tense. "The people we thought were Death Eaters were actually the last of the Auror force not under Voldemort's control. Their robes had been charmed to change the moment Yaxley appeared, and Tonks, Kingsley, and Mundungus had also been placed under the Imperius Curse, ordered to kill the Aurors as soon as we'd finished stunning them."
"I see," Albus murmured, clearly troubled by this revelation. "Voldemort managed to eliminate the remaining good Aurors and turn the Order into fugitives."
"Exactly," Harry confirmed, bitterness coating his words. "And he didn't stop there. Fudge had 'an accident' shortly after, leaving Umbridge to take over as Interim Minister of Magic."
"Umbridge declared civil war, granting herself extraordinary powers and hiring all the mercenaries Voldemort had smuggled into the country," Harry continued, his jaw clenched. "She needed to rapidly replenish the Auror forces to face 'Dumbledore and his usurpers'," Harry said this last with tangible venom in his words.
"By this point, I imagine the Light had lost most of their members," Albus deduced, a hint of sadness further seeping into his eyes, making them look dull.
"Yeah," Harry replied bitterly. "Those not dead either moved to the Neutral Party out of fear or had mysterious accidents that wiped out their entire line, leaving Wizengamot seats conveniently open for the darker families."
"You transported us to Hogwarts. The wards were still under your control, so it was the last defendable place we had." Harry explained. "From there, we started guerilla-style tactics, striking Voldemort and his forces wherever we could while working on bringing him down permanently."
"I imagine the Ministry wouldn't take kindly to the occupation of Hogwarts." Albus ventured.
"Yeah, they didn't like it one bit," Harry admitted. "But there wasn't much they could do while you had control of the wards."
"What of the castle's residents?" Albus asked.
"Thankfully, this all happened during the summer," Harry explained. "So the school was mostly empty, save for a few professors who lived in the castle during the break. Some joined the Order, the others left quietly."
"Of course, Voldemort wasn't going to let us have our little rebellion without some interference of his own," Harry continued, the ghost of a sardonic grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "While in hiding, he performed some other rituals, and finally emerged into the public as Tom Riddle, Heir of Slytherin."
"I see" Albus sighed, his brow furrowing with guilt. "And I had decided not to make that information known."
"Yes," Harry agreed, choosing his words carefully. "No one knew that Tom Riddle was Voldemort, so it was the perfect cover, but it was not your fault. If you'd revealed it, he would've chosen a different name, and it would have been the same."
"Still, I cannot help but feel somewhat responsible," Albus murmured. His eyes betrayed the guilt within the old wizard but after a moment it was pushed aside. "What happened next?"
"Tom publicly promised he would take back Hogwarts from the hands of the traitors," Harry explained. "He gathered his forces and attacked the castle not long after that."
The darkness dissipated like the remnants of a fading dream, leaving Harry and Albus standing in the familiar surroundings of the Headmaster's Office. Through the vast windows, they beheld the storm of chaos raging outside, as Voldemort's forces assaulted Hogwarts' magical wards with relentless fury.
Memory Harry and Memory Albus were standing on the balcony outside the headmaster's office.
"So this is it." Memory Harry said, his knuckles turning white over the balcony's railings. "All our mistakes have led to this."
"There is nothing to be gained by lamenting about the past, Harry," Memory Dumbledore put his hand over Memory Harry's shoulder "And there is still hope"
Memory Harry looked deep into his mentor's eyes and smiled faintly at seeing the ever-present twinkle in his eyes "There's a lot to admire from you Albus, but I always admire your constant hope the most"
"That's funny, my boy," Memory Albus responded "I was about to say the exact same thing about you."
The wizards shared a warm, knowing smile. In that moment, the bond between teacher and pupil was truly palpable, radiating with a deep sense of friendship regardless of the chaos around them.
They kept watching the light of the spells crashing against the last wards of the castle, exploding like fireworks in the night sky.
"Do you have any regrets, Albus?" Memory Harry asked breaking the silence.
"Everyone has regrets, Harry," Memory Albus countered, his gaze drifting to the portraits of past headmasters adorning the walls. "But the key is not to let them define you."
"Fine words, but you're avoiding the question," Memory Harry accused, smirking at the headmaster's antics. "We are possibly about to die, I want an answer."
Memory Albus hesitated, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly under the weight of his memories. "Throughout my life," he began slowly, "I have been so rigid and secure in my decisions that I pushed the people I loved most away. My greatest regret is not allowing myself to be wrong occasionally, in favour of letting someone I love be right."
A heavy silence settled over the balcony as Memory Albus's words hung in the air like a spectre. Harry glanced at Albus, who seemed lost in thought, his half-moon spectacles reflecting the night sky within the memory.
The moon cast its silvery glow over the balcony, illuminating the two companions as they stood side by side. The distant sounds of battle were a stark contrast to the peaceful scene before them.
"Harry," Memory Albus said suddenly, his voice serious yet soft, "The time has come."
Memory Harry pushed himself from the balcony handle. He looked at the fragile-looking wards intensely, his resolve clear even against the impossible odds they faced.
Memory Albus's eyes shone with pride as he regarded the younger man. "I must tell you, Harry, that I am most proud of the man you have become."
"I would say the same about you, Albus," Memory Harry replied with a small smile, "But I believe you were already a great man while I was still swimming in James Potter's balls."
Their laughter rang through the air, a fleeting moment of joy amid the darkness surrounding them. With one last shared glance, they disapparated, leaving behind the sanctuary of the Headmaster's Office.
In an instant, Harry and Albus found themselves in the thick of the Battle of Hogwarts. Death Eaters and dark creatures swarmed around them like a violent storm, their sinister cackles echoing off the walls. Spells flew through the air, painting streaks of colour against the night sky, only to be extinguished in bursts of pain and destruction.
The Order of the Phoenix fought valiantly, but their numbers dwindled, picked off one by one by the relentless onslaught of Voldemort's forces. The once-great castle was now reduced to a twisted warzone, haunted by the cries of the wounded and the dying.
As sparks and flames illuminated the gruesome tableau, Memory Harry and Memory Dumbledore stood side by side, wands held high, casting spell after spell in a desperate attempt to hold back the tide. Their faces were etched with sweat and grime, their bodies weary from the relentless battle, but they fought on nonetheless.
"Protego!" Memory Harry shouted, shielding himself and Memory Albus from a barrage of curses coming from one side. In response, Memory Dumbledore sent a powerful wave of magic rippling through the air, knocking several Death Eaters off their feet.
The stench of blood permeated the battlefield, and it seemed as though the darkness would never end. Yet, amid the carnage, there was a spark of hope – the unwavering resolve of two wizards standing together against the tide of evil.
As the battle raged on, their comrades fell around them, until only Memory Harry and Memory Dumbledore remained fighting, knowing that fighting was all that was left.
"Albus," Memory Harry gasped between breaths, "we can't keep this up forever."
"Indeed, we cannot," Memory Dumbledore agreed, his voice strained. "I am afraid, my boy, we are about to start our next great adventure."
"Then let's make sure we give them one hell of a story to remember us by." Memory Harry declared with a smirk.
Together, they stood tall, their wands raised high and their spirits unbroken, never afraid of what was to come.
There came a sudden stillness to the battlefield, as if time itself had halted. The Dark Lord's forces ceased their onslaught, and through this unnatural silence emerged a figure of deceptive charm – a slender, handsome man with an air of malevolent grace. He strode confidently towards Memory Harry and Memory Dumbledore, his footsteps echoing like the whispers of a thousand tormented souls.
"Ah, how touching," the man sneered, surveying the two wizards with disdain. "The last pathetic remnants of resistance. You must be so proud, old man."
Memory Albus regarded him with a steely gaze, his eyes narrowing behind his half-moon spectacles. "Tom," he intoned, his voice strong as oak.
"Potter," Tom Riddle said, turning his attention to Memory Harry. "I expected more from you. Weren't you supposed to be the great hope of the wizarding world? And yet, here you are, standing alongside this... relic." His laughter was cruel and merciless, as sharp as shattered glass.
"Hi, Tom," Memory Harry replied, his voice cheery despite the situation. "Fancy seeing you here. I thought you would be at home, shagging your snake."
"Your insolence is pointless," Tom Riddle retorted, his voice cold. "And soon, it will be silenced forever."
"Enough!" Memory Dumbledore interjected, a spark of anger igniting in his ancient blue eyes. "We do not fear you, Tom. There is still light in this world, and that alone shall be our guide, no matter how dark the path before us."
"Ah, Dumbledore," Tom Riddle sighed mockingly, "always the dramatic optimist. But optimism won't save you now."
As he prepared to order his forces to tear them apart, Memory Dumbledore interrupted with a final act of defiance. "I will not die at the whim of a monster," he declared, his voice resolute and unwavering. With a sudden surge of strength, he pushed Memory Harry squarely in the chest, activating the portkey concealed within his robes.
Memory Harry vanished from the battlefield, reappearing in the safety of the headmaster's office. Disoriented, he stumbled towards the window, watching as an impossibly bright white light erupted from the spot where Memory Albus had stood moments before.
The dome of light expanded rapidly, growing ever larger until it encompassed the entire castle. It tore through stone and metal alike, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. The very air seemed to tremble as the magic hungrily devoured everything it touched.
As the tremors intensified beneath his feet, Memory Harry stumbled back from the window, barely catching himself on the edge of the cracked fireplace. The tower swayed dangerously, small rocks and debris bouncing around him like marbles on a vibrating plate. He gagged as the acrid smell of ozone filled the air, its tangy bite clawing at his throat and lungs.
As the dome of light receded, taking with it the smouldering remnants of Hogwarts and the twisted souls of Voldemort's followers, Memory Harry felt a bitter fury well up within him. He had been robbed of a warrior's death, torn from the side of his friend.
"Damn it," he gasped, eyes watering as he tried to focus on the destruction outside. It was as if an angry god had descended upon Hogwarts, leaving nothing but scorched earth and fire in its wake.
"Albus… you fool," Memory Harry choked out, his voice broken by both rage and sorrow. He slammed a fist against the crumbling wall, the sharp sting of pain grounding him to the reality of the moment.
Gazing out across the charred landscape, Memory Harry's heart clenched painfully in his chest. Everything was destroyed – the once-majestic castle reduced to smoking ruins, the grounds littered with the twisted remains of Voldemort's dark forces. And yet, there he stood, alone in the sole remaining tower, a living testament to Dumbledore's final act of defiance.
"It should've been me," Memory Harry whispered, his eyes burning with unshed tears. "I should've died with you."
With a guttural cry of anguish, he sank to his knees amidst the rubble, his body wracked with sobs. He felt the weight of every loss, every sacrifice, pressing down upon him like a thousand crushing stones.
Harry was looking at his memory reflection intensely, feeling as if long-healed cuts were opening once more within him.
"My boy," Albus started, his hand stopping inches from the boy's shoulder, uncharacteristic uncertainty radiating from the wise wizard.
"We are almost done," Harry said, his voice falling flat as the inky smoke of the pensive washed away the grim scene, taking the whipping Memory Harry away with it.
The new memory started immediately as if the pensive could feel the anxiety Harry felt to move on. They still stood in the headmaster's office, but the passage of time was clear in the state of the room.
The office had been transformed into a space of organized chaos. Books were stacked haphazardly in one corner, forming towering structures that seemed ready to topple at any moment. The furniture had been rearranged in various configurations, creating distinct improvised living areas within the once single-purpose room.
Memory Harry slumped in the battered armchair that sat near one of the walls, just in front of a portrait with a tastefully decorated frame. His face had the marks of years past, of battles lost, of pain and of hate. His fingers traced the outline of a dusty tome that rested on the small table next to the armchair.
"Albus," he said, turning to the portrait hanging high on the wall, "I need your help. I have no other choice."
"Harry, my dear boy," Dumbledore's painted visage replied, steeped in concern, "I must remain resolute on my decision, time travel is not a path we should tread lightly."
"Lightly?" Memory Harry scoffed, his voice laced with an edge of bitterness. "There's nothing light about what's happened. We've lost everything, and this—this might be our only chance to set things right."
"Time is a delicate tapestry, Harry," the painted figure warned, holding the young wizard's gaze. "To meddle with it risks unravelling more than just the threads you wish to change."
"Then we'll be careful," Memory Harry shot back, a spark of his old wit shining through the pain. "You taught me once that there's always a choice. Well, I choose to fight."
"Fight, yes," The wizard in the portrait conceded, "but not at the cost of losing yourself to desperation. I cannot condone this course of action."
"Fine," Memory Harry spat, frustration boiling over. "If you won't help me, I'll do it myself." He slammed his hand down on the table, sending dust motes swirling into the air. "I don't need you, Albus."
"Harry, please," the portrait implored, the sadness clear even in the painted eyes. "You lack the knowledge required to create such a ritual. You risk not only your own life but the very fabric of our reality."
"Then what's left for me?" Memory Harry demanded, voice cracking. "Everyone is gone. This ritual, this chance to save them—it's all I have left. If it kills me, if it destroys everything else, so be it."
The air in the Headmaster's office hung heavy with tension. Dumbledore's portrait stared intently at Memory Harry, his eyes shimmering like deep pools of azure ink. The silence that followed Memory Harry's declaration was a suffocating blanket, smothering the room in its oppressive hold.
"Very well," Dumbledore sighed after what felt like an eternity. His painted visage appeared to age before Memory Harry's eyes, lines of worry etching themselves into his features. "I will help you, but on one condition."
"Name it," Memory Harry replied without hesitation.
"Promise me that you will follow my guidance to the letter, and that you will not attempt the ritual until we are absolutely certain it will work," Dumbledore said, his tone implacable.
"Alright, I promise," Memory Harry agreed, his words tinged with relief. And then, as if a crack had formed in the armour he'd built around himself, a smile blossomed across his face—the first genuine expression of happiness he'd worn in years.
"Then let us begin." Dumbledore's stance softened, and though his voice was uncertain, a flicker of the spirit Albus Dumbledore had in life was visible in the painting's eyes.
The memory dissolved as the two wizards were ejected from the pensive.