Author's Note
Thanks for checking out this story, guys! I just wanted to take a moment to address the rating. This story is rated M for language, fantasy violence, and some sexual themes and situations, though this story contains nothing explicit in nature. There aren't any specific trigger warnings to call out, but the story can be quite bleak at times; death is a constant companion to this story, so if you are especially sensitive to the concept, take care if reading. There's always a light in the dark!
A Potter of Two Worlds
a Harry Potter tale
Chapter One
Final Sanctuary
A fist rose into the air. There was a glint of metal, and then, with a plunge, a dagger found its mark.
A look of betrayal marred the victim, mouth agape in a scream that would never come. The body fell, the slapping of flash on stone stark in the dim.
The man splayed his arms wide, feeling more powerful than ever before. He stood, naked, in the dark, triumphant in his twisted majesty. Blood seeped from the pierced and broken heart of the woman on the floor, the crimson fluid pooling around the man's feet, creeping between his toes and staining his blackened soles. Not deigning to garb himself in even a simple robe, the man held out his hand with a wordless evocation. From a table in the corner soared a heavy, leather-bound tome so black it might've been forged of darkness itself. The grimoire landed weightlessly upon the man's palm, its cover opening and its pages turning in accordance with the man's unspoken command. When the pages settled, it was in revelation of a powerful enchantment.
"Now," murmured the man, a manic gleam in his narrow eyes as he scanned the pages, "for the final spell…"
Harry looked to the sky. Dawn was coming; the horizon was painted with purples and pinks, and the sun wouldn't be far behind to light up the expired remains of the distant city. A skyscraper leaned, crooked as a vulture over a corpse, its outline constant amid the lightening sky. He should have left sooner.
Getting through the fence had taken too long—far too long. If it hadn't been for the Anti-Apparition Charm, Harry would've just Apparated across with nary a pop, but Harry had known better than to test his counter-charm against Voldemort's immense capabilities. Even if Harry had just managed to break the charm, Voldemort would've known, and then he would've fled—again—and it had taken Harry months to find this place.
After nearly an hour of searching, Harry found a spot where the fence had been breached by debris, torn apart as if by a meteor. Squeezing past the wires without tearing his father's old Cloak had taken a few more precious minutes' time. It was true that he could have flown over the barrier on his Cleansweep Twelve, but he didn't know who might've been watching, Disillusioned or hidden beneath an invisibility cloak of their own, waiting for him to reveal himself, either by sight or sound. Voldemort had all manner of goons working for him, only a handful of them human.
No. Harry was going to end things today, and he wouldn't let himself be caught again.
There was the warehouse. Harry was almost there. He crept past rusted shipping containers and around stacks of crates, worn and weathered, careful not to kick even a stray pebble, lest Voldemort hear and be spooked. Harry only hoped that potion he'd brewed the night before would keep him hidden from Nagini's keen scent—that's how his ambush in Castle Combe had been spoiled last year—and the noses of any other creatures Voldemort had lurking about.
As Harry approached the warehouse, he spotted a hole in the corner of the roof. That would be his way in, not the front door nor a window near the ground, as he was sure those would be the most heavily guarded locations. Harry's eyes darted around the concrete yard, searching for a way up that wouldn't expose his feet. At last he found it: a shipping container thrown about by a powerful blast years ago. The remnants of its green paint were chipped and flaking, its one remaining door lay ajar, and rust had spread like an infection. But it could be climbed, its battered body slanting upward to the top of a nearby stack of containers, the edge of which was only a jump away from the warehouse roof. The tricky part would be the initial climb onto the container without flashing his trainers.
Silent as a snake, Harry pulled out his hawthorn wand and murmured the incantation for the Disillusionment Charm. It wouldn't be perfect—it never was—but it was the best he could hope for. He hated casting them; Voldemort's were always so much more complete, closer to true invisibility than Harry's camouflage. Besides, Harry had the Cloak, which beat any simple charm, even with the limited mobility it offered.
Of course, Voldemort's soldiers knew Harry owned an invisibility cloak—not to mention one much better than any they could buy or enchant themselves—and they knew Harry was after the Dark Lord, but they didn't know Harry was coming today, nor that he was here now: A difference could be found between watching for the suspicious and waiting for the expected.
Keeping the Cloak draped over him, Harry approached the container, reached up and took hold of the top of the crate, the Cloak rising with his outstretched arms to reveal his Disillusioned legs beneath; he hoped there weren't any eagle-eyed guards about. He pulled himself up as carefully as he was able, desperately trying to avoid bumping the container and giving himself away. One's depth perception tended to be thrown out the window when invisibility was involved.
Once atop the container, Harry stooped extra low to ensure the Cloak trailed the metal as he half walked, half climbed to the top. From there, he cast his eyes about the property, scanning for threats. The Death Eaters were no more; only one or two of them remained. Still, Voldemort had acquired the services of some wands-for-hire, a werewolf clan and a few semi-intelligent beasts. The snakes were the most frustrating; silent and difficult to spot at the best of times, they would slither to and fro, Disillusioned, and report back to Voldemort or Nagini. As for the here and now, the coast was clear as far as Harry could see, though he was positive his searching eyes must have passed right through some invisible sentries. There was no doubt one just below him at that very moment.
There was no point in wasting time, so Harry crept along the crate toward the warehouse. The hole in the roof was just in front of him, not ten feet away. He might manage to jump in and, with a well-timed charm, land noiselessly within. The Cloak would have to come off as it would only slow him down and flap in the wind. He could replace it once he was inside, but the real risk was someone spotting his camouflaged form mid-jump.
But Harry would just have to take the risk—he was doing that more and more lately. For all he knew, this was his last chance to stop Voldemort once and for all. For all he knew, every chance was his last chance. So Harry removed his Cloak, folding it up nice and tight beneath his arm, whispered a Silencing Charm on his trainers, and sprinted toward the end of the container.
He jumped—fell through the gap in the roof—cast another spell—!
Landing lightly on the floor with nary a whisper, Harry once again donned his Cloak, praying that no one outside had heard his footsteps on the metal container. His Silencing Charm should've countered any noise he might've made, but his spells were rarely perfect. He wasn't Hermione. He still hadn't mastered nonverbal casting for most spells; it was only a choice few he managed to get right without uttering a sound.
He'd landed in an aisle, boxes piled in rows to either side of him. Harry tried not to remember the last time he hunted Voldemort amongst aisleways. He sneaked to the end of the row and peaked around the corners. What he saw made his heart race and his breath catch.
The mark of Harry's hunt, the object of his mission, the Dark Lord himself, with Nagini draped across his shoulders, stood at an intersection of aisles a few rows ahead, pointing his wand at a cauldron and directing a jet of fire onto the surface of the concoction within. After a moment, Voldemort ended the spell and ladled an incandescent, aquamarine fluid into a single phial. He pulled a second phial from within his robes, this one filled with another unknown substance, and delivered a drop or two into the first.
What's he up to now? Harry wondered. He didn't fancy the idea of Voldemort brewing up some sort of serum to make him stronger for their next encounter. Which he won't see coming, he vowed with grim determination.
Harry raised his wand, taking aim at his target's back. With enough luck, a single spell would kill Tom Riddle, and after that… Well, Harry had never truly considered what might happen after.
But curiosity got the better of Harry when he watched his nemesis take the potion and, instead of drinking it, set it on the floor of all places! He could see outlines drawn on the floor in different colors. There looked to be a red star, a few orange and purple circles, and several lines intersecting in the center—exactly where the potion had been placed. Voldemort proceeded to place five more items—Harry couldn't discern them at such a distance—in five places around the outer circle. Then, to Harry's disbelief, Voldemort got on his hands and knees and, with a thin paint brush, began to scribe something onto the figures.
Harry couldn't have chosen a better opportunity; a Killing Curse to the arse was a fitting end to the Dark Lord. Harry was positive he could conjure up the hate required to fuel the Unforgivable. Merlin knew the last few years had been the worst of his life, and this could be the end! Just a quick curse, and then he could take care of the snake. He summoned up memories of the people that had been killed by the madman: his parents, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, and Dumbledore to name only a few. But he focused on the two deaths that caused him the most pain—those of Ron and Hermione—and used the unbridled rage and hatred they elicited to form the words on his tongue.
But wait—! Harry had lost his chance. Voldemort was on his feet again, wand in hand and pointing it—not at Harry—at the circle of figures on the floor! In an instant, a circle of fire sprang up, then another, and then there was the smell of smoke and a flash of purple. And as soon as the fire appeared, it was gone, and Voldemort was bending down—he had the phial of potion—he was drinking it—!
Voldemort howled in agony, his inhuman face twisting with pain. His eyes were screwed shut. His teeth gnashed. His wand slipped from his skeletal hand to clatter on the floor. He scrabbled at his robe, the only thing he wore, tearing it open to reveal a deathly pale, thin frame, which glowed cherry red. His long fingernails dug at his skin in desperation as if he were trying to put out a fire that had ignited in his breast. Splayed across her master's shoulders, Nagini hissed in agitation.
Harry was silently cheering, reveling in the pain the Dark Lord endured, no doubt the result of some botched experimental potion or spell, and the monster deserved every second of it. Just another moment more and he'd end it all. A quick Killing Curse to avenge the thousands killed… the millions killed…
But then the red faded, along with Voldemort's screams, and just as Harry frantically shouted the incantation of the Killing Curse—"Avada Kedavra!"—the Dark Lord, a smile upon his face that unsettled Harry to his very core, vanished with a faint, Disapparition-like pop!
Harry's Killing Curse struck a wooden crate, exploding it and setting its remains aflame. The fire crackled in the loud silence.
Harry knew better than to shout and curse and scream expletives until his throat was raw. Voldemort's followers would have heard the howls. They'd be here any second—werewolves and venomous snakes—
And yet…
There was nothing. Nobody was around. Harry would even be willing to bet that Voldemort's Anti-Apparition Charm was no more.
Harry took a deep breath and let the oaths fly. He cursed Voldemort to hell and back again, he implied many things about his mother and father, he even insulted his taste in fashion! The anger, the frustration, the wilting hope of ever ending their eternal struggle to kill the other—it was all too much to bear! Harry had the overwhelming urge to construct a likeness of Voldemort and totally obliterate it with a sledgehammer.
Eventually, Harry's rage subsided. He stamped his foot once more for good measure and sighed.
Thwarted again. Another unsuccessful attempt to end the endless bloodshed. Harry supposed he was used to it by now. How long had it been since Hogwarts? Eleven years? He'd almost lost count. Eleven years of chasing, searching, following, finding, and planning, only to fail at every turn.
Still, Voldemort had failed to kill Harry as well.
With a final growl of defeat, Harry decided that he might as well search the warehouse for clues. He'd already tarried too long, ranting and raving as he had; who knew when or if Voldemort was coming back? Harry didn't fancy being caught unawares if Voldemort did return, unlikely as it was.
He began with the cauldron, still bubbling with some aquamarine substance whose color Harry vaguely recognized during his Hogwarts years, though he couldn't recall the potion's name or purpose. He daren't taste it to find out.
Voldemort's wand Harry pocketed. It wasn't the Elder Wand; that Voldemort had destroyed years ago when he'd learned it owed its allegiance to Harry. This wand… Harry had a feeling he'd seen it before.
The drawings on the floor were next. The five items Voldemort had placed around the outer circle, each housed within a red diamond, were blackened and burnt beyond recognition, as were a pair of rings drawn around the central star, also red. Orange lines connected each of the five diamonds to the center of the star. The shapes were all drawn in chalk.
Harry didn't know what to make of any of it, but it was obviously of great import to Voldemort; the smile that had graced the Dark Lord's lips sent chills down Harry's spine even in retrospect.
In defiance, Harry pointed his wand at the center of the diagram and said lowly, "Defodio." The concrete floor cracked, creating deep ruts that split the circles, destroyed the diamonds and shattered the central star. Then he tipped over the cauldron, spilling its bubbling substance onto the broken floor, where it oozed and dripped into the crevices and inched perilously toward the burning remains of the crate.
If nothing else, the destruction had been cathartic.
Satisfied, Harry marched on, intent on exploring every corner of the warehouse for clues. It was a necessary habit he'd adopted after uncovering one of Voldemort's secret lairs, though Harry was never sure what he was looking for.
He turned down one aisle and found his eyes drawn to an object at the far end. The figure was mostly hidden in shadow, but the shape— Harry gasped. Was that a foot? He hurried down the aisle, lighting his wand as he went. He wished he hadn't.
"What the fuck?" he cried in horror.
The corpse was that of Bellatrix Lestrange, pale and gaunt, with limbs twisted sickeningly, and covered in dried blood all along her right side from knee to shoulder as if she had lain in it for some time. Rivulets of crimson steaked across her chest, ebbing from the dagger protruding from her heart. A body that, in its prime, had once been beautiful and lithe was now bloody and broken.
Harry scrambled away, pure terror enveloping him. If Voldemort would do that to his most devoted servant, of which she may have been the last, what did that imply of his state of mind? Voldemort had never been stupid—a psychotic, cold-blooded killer, yes, but never stupid. Why in the name of Merlin would he kill one of the last of his followers, and in such a gruesome way at that? The look of betrayal was still etched on Bellatrix's face.
Harry returned to the main aisle. Hands on his knees, he retched into the slowly expanding puddle of ooze. The aquamarine substance turned sickly yellow; if the potion had been salvageable before, it certainly wasn't now. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Harry hurried away, determined to finish his search and depart posthaste.
His final stop was a far corner of the room where there was a table. Upon the table was a perished candle and a solitary book, a heavy, leather-bound tome so black it might've been forged of darkness itself; the analogy came to him unbidden, as if the book wished to be identified as such. It was thick with weathered pages and lay open. On one of its bared pages was a diagram, just the same as the one between the aisles. Sensing its importance, Harry seized the book and Disapparated, leaving what he had once hoped would be Voldemort's final sanctuary.
Crunch, crunch, cried the gravel beneath Harry's boots as he ambled up the drive. The single remaining winged boar statue stared at him as he approached, turning its head to keep him in sight as Harry passed through the gap that had once been occupied by an enchanted wrought-iron gate. Harry felt as if the statue were casting its judgement upon him every time he returned, condemning him for his every failure, for his part in lighting the fires of chaos that burned the world. Harry wouldn't blame it if it were; he had a lot to answer for. Or maybe the statue simply found him untrustworthy. Harry couldn't fault it for that either. More than once, Harry fancied the boar had something to say but, being unable to physically voice its thoughts, remained stonily silent.
Like always, Harry kept his eyes on the ground as he approached the ruined building. It pained him to see what it had become. True, it wasn't very vigilant of him to walk about with his eyes glued to the ground, but who in their right mind would look for him here? The place was, frankly, a shithole. And besides, if anyone did come along with the intent to murder him, Harry would rather not see them coming; his survival instincts would kick in then, and Harry had a knack for surviving.
"Caw!"
Harry twitched, his hand halfway to his pocket for his wand before he realized it was only a raven. A cacophony of cawing and the flapping of dozens of wings quickly followed, and a conspiracy of them took to the air from the dead branches of the Forbidden Forest, following their leader across the desolate landscape that had once been the most magical place in the world.
Hogwarts was in ruins.
Nearly everything above the second story had caved in, rendering most of the rooms above the first floor inaccessible. Much of the dungeons were still intact, as were the rooms off the kitchen corridor. The Great Hall's magnificent ceiling was on its floor, and its back wall was scattered along the base of the cliff below. Only one tower still stood: the Defense Against the Dark Arts Tower—aptly named, Harry thought, considering it was the sole survivor.
The grounds were dead and devoid of grass. The Quidditch pitch had burned and the greenhouses had melted when the Fiendfyre swallowed them. The Great Lake had permanently turned a sickly shade of green over the years, and what remained of the giant squid lay half-buried on its shore.
Harry hated to see his beloved Hogwarts in such a dreadful state. He cursed the raven for making him look, returned his gaze to the ground and resumed his walk to the crumbling castle.
The towering front doors were splintered and burned. Only the bottommost hinge of the left door remained attached to the stone, valiantly holding the weight of the portal as gravity tried its damnedest to introduce it to the steps below.
Harry slipped through the triangular gap between the great, English oak doors and continued into the remains of the Entrance Hall, following an almost dust-free path amidst the rubble. Past the Great Hall he went. The dungeons he ignored as usual. He daren't attempt the dangerous precipice that was the marble staircase. Instead, Harry padded down the flight of steps to the basement level.
The kitchen corridor, once aglow with warm torchlight and adorned with many cheery paintings of fruit, was now dark and desolate. A rat could be heard as it scuttled along in the darkness. The diminutive creature dislodged a rock from the rubble, and the skittering echoed in the gloom.
Harry had no need of a light, however; he knew the path so well he could have walked it blindfolded, not that the blindfold would have made the place much darker.
He passed right on by the doorway that had once been hidden by a gargantuan bowl of fruit, and carried on, deeper into the castle's corpse. He didn't falter as he came upon a shadowy alcove filled with shattered barrels. Ignoring the splintered fragments, he climbed into a hole in the back of the recess: the entrance to a sloping, earthen tunnel. He walked along the tunnel, gently ascending, until he emerged into a round room with a low ceiling that was perhaps only seven feet high. The room's creator seemed to have had a fondness for rounded things: the tables and chairs were round, the small windows were round, and the doors were round—even the fireplace fit seamlessly into the curve of the wall.
Unlike most of the castle, the Hufflepuff common room remained mostly intact. When Harry had stumbled across it in his search for a place to kip, once upon a time, the room had looked much shabbier than it did now. Two of the windows had been broken, and being even with the ground outside, they had let in a substantial amount of dirt and rain. He'd had to clean the place up, repair the windows, put the stuffing back in one of the overstuffed sofas, and sort out a horde of doxies that had infested the place; Harry had been forced to magic shut the door to the boys' dormitories just to contain the queen and her army within.
Harry dropped the heavy, black tome—so black it might've been forged of darkness itself—onto a table and tossed his Cloak onto the nearest squashy chair, causing its back and one of its arms to vanish. He hung his coat on a hook by the entrance, right where it belonged between two others, and it slipped off, pooling onto the floor in a heap. Harry left it there. He propped a foot onto the semi-visible chair and began undoing the laces of his boot with weary desperation. Oh, how he hated those boots; they were practical, yes, but about as comfortable as walking on Knarls. He tossed first one and then the other into the corner—or what constituted a corner in a rounded room—before yanking off his sweaty socks and stuffing his aching feet into a pair of soft, comfy slippers. Ah, the simple pleasures in life.
He'd taken the boots and the slippers from a store in Devon years ago. He hadn't actually stolen them, considering the people who owned the store, and thus the footwear, had fled or been killed like most everyone else. Personally, Harry felt a thrill at the thought of being arrested for shoplifting and sent to prison because that would mean that laws still existed, that government still existed. Isolation in Azkaban with Dementors for company would have been far preferable to the miserable, lonely existence that was Harry's life now.
Harry shuffled through the large, round door to the girls' dormitories. The first room on the right housed the bed he'd claimed; he hadn't been picky when he'd browsed for a bedroom. The Hufflepuff dormitories were much the same as the Gryffindor ones, except for the color change from scarlet and gold to yellow and black, and Hufflepuff's obvious love for quilts. The same copper lamps protruded from the walls to offer light, though they hadn't worked in ages.
Harry had done away with the extra beds in the room to make space for other things, including a couple extra trunks, a wardrobe, a bookcase, a mirror, a round table taken from the common room, along with a squashy chair, and, occupying a place of honor at the center, a freestanding tub that he'd liberated from a bathstore in Bath of all places.
As his gaze landed on the pristine, white bathtub, Harry unconsciously began to strip. Baths had become a sort of ritual for Harry, a time to relax and reflect in the steaming water—whenever he managed to summon up the energy to make it steam.
The bathtub had actually been one of his first additions; with no working plumbing at Hogwarts, Harry had had to rely on Scouring Charms to keep clean. That wouldn't have been a problem if he were as proficient in charms as Hermione. That first soak after having gone without a proper cleaning for months… Harry felt no shame in the fact that he'd accidentally fallen asleep, submerged up to his neck, and woken up the next day, pruned and shivering with an aching neck and a runny nose.
The plumbing wasn't the only thing to fail at Hogwarts. Almost all the castle's enchantments had expired with its near utter destruction. The Anti-Apparition Charm and Anti-Disapparition Jinx had gone, but Harry had replaced the former; he didn't think anyone would notice if they couldn't Apparate someplace they never could before. Besides, there couldn't be that many people left in Britain that could Apparate.
Some of the portraits remained. The ones that hadn't burned spent most of their time sleeping the months away; Harry figured it was far easier being trapped timelessly in the unconscious realm than existing in the conscious one long enough to converse with a fellow survivor. Harry often wished he could emulate them and sleep for days or weeks at a time, simply existing without pain nor loss nor regret. The only portrait in the Hufflepuff common room was that of Helga Hufflepuff herself, occasionally making eye contact and gesturing with that damn cup of hers. She never spoke; Harry didn't think she had the ability to.
The ghosts were absent as well, though the how and why of it escaped Harry; he hadn't known ghosts could disappear from the world. Or had they left only Hogwarts behind? Either might've been the truth, as he hadn't seen a ghost at Hogwarts for years. And Peeves, whose existence as a poltergeist had been brought about by the mischief of children's hearts, disappeared also, as there were no children to manifest him anymore.
Gone also were the house-elves, most of them perishing in the Battle. With no house-elves, that meant the kitchen went unstaffed, Harry's laundry left unwashed, and the general welfare of the remaining tower doomed to die. There was no upkeep, except for the little that Harry did himself, not that he could clean and maintain the remainder of Hogwarts castle alone, much less a rebuilt version of it; this, strangely, gave Harry a modicum of newfound respect for Filch. But as Harry was the castle's sole occupant, there was no need for upkeep anyway. Harry cooked his own meager meals, washed his own filthy clothes, and tended to his claimed corner of the castle.
"Aguamenti," muttered Harry, directing his hawthorn wand at the tub. Water poured forth, crystal clear and pure. His conjured water wouldn't last long—perhaps fifteen minutes if he was lucky—but he didn't have the will to fetch a tub's worth of water for a long, luxurious bath. He heated the water with a second spell, murmuring the incantation until steam rolled off the surface of the water. Then, with a whispered "Spongify," accompanied by a tapping on the tub, Harry let the wand fall to the floor with a clatter.
The wand was the same he'd had for years, the one he'd seized from Draco Malfoy oh so long ago. It had never worked as well as his holly and phoenix feather wand had—nothing did—but with his own wand broken in two, there weren't a lot of alternatives.
Harry moaned as he sank beneath the sultry water. He breathed deeply and released a sigh as the warm temperature caressed his aching muscles. He laid back his head and shut his eyes. In no time at all, he was grimacing at the feel of hard, unforgiving porcelain enamel under his back and reaching for his wand to cast another Softening Charm before deciding against it. He went to work, wasting no time as he scrubbed himself clean. The bathtub was deep enough for him to completely submerge himself in the water without his knees breaking the surface, and he dunked his head three times to clean his hair and beard.
He groaned and stretched, reveling in that feeling of freshness. Reluctant to leave the soothing confines of the tub, Harry reached for the hawthorn wand and reapplied the Softening Charm, content to relax for the time he had left.
He turned the wand over in his fingers, his mind wandering, when he remembered the other thing he'd taken from Voldemort's warehouse. He reached for his discarded trousers, his extended arm dripping temporary water across the floor, and retrieved the wand he'd witnessed Voldemort use. It was dark in color and more than a foot in length. While from the hawthorn wand he felt indifference, from this wand Harry felt a chill creep into his fingers. It pulled at the chords of his memory like a harp player, eliciting tones of vague familiarity but never forming a recognizable song. And then it did: Bellatrix Lestrange. This was the wand that caused Sirius' death, that tortured Hermione, that ended the lives of who knew how many; its black history rivaled that of Voldemort's.
With profound revulsion, Harry flung the foul thing away. It struck the floor and skittered into the shadows beneath the table like a spider, where it came to rest. As if on cue, a small, purple handbag, from its place atop the table, let out a belch as it regurgitated a book like a cat would a fur ball. The book slipped off the table and fell to the floor with a brief whoosh and a solid thud.
Harry didn't flinch at the noise; he'd grown used to the bag doing that. The Undetectable Extension Charm on Hermione's old beaded bag was failing—had been for quite some time—and was consistently coughing up one thing or another every few days as its magically expanded interior slowly shrank toward its original size.
As its conjured lifespan came to an end, the water began to vanish from the tub, slowly siphoning away as if Harry had unstopped the drain. In moments, Harry was left in an empty tub, both as dry as before, though Harry felt decidedly dirtier since holding Bellatrix's wand. He stood and donned his slippers and a plush bathrobe he'd nicked from a high-end hotel's laundry room three years ago. He shuffled toward the table, kicking his dirty clothes into a pile as he went, and dropped into the cushy chair beside it.
Deliberately ignoring the instrument of evil lurking somewhere near his feet, Harry leaned over an arm of the chair and swiped the book off the floor. He set Break with a Banshee on the table, idly fingering its pristine corners. Sixteen years old, the book still looked brand new. Harry flipped the cover. Written on the first blank page was the extravagant autograph of one Gilderoy Lockhart with the following inscription: To dear Hermione, my cleverest fan. Accompanying the autograph was a photo of one of the smiles that had won him a Most Charming Smile award. How many had he won? Fifty? Seemed like it; he was always going on about them, always showcasing the many, many smiles of Gilderoy Lockhart. This one in particular featured Lockhart with a ridiculously curly mustache, a monocle, and a ribbon in his hair, all drawn in lilac-colored ink—Lockhart's favorite color.
Harry snorted in amusement. I never knew Hermione was such an artist, he thought wryly.
He closed the book and pulled the purse toward him. Harry suspected she'd bewitched it; that would explain why the charm had lasted as long as it had. Bewitching an enchanted object increased the charm's life extensively, based on the proficiency of the witch or wizard who cast the Lasting Charm; Harry didn't remember much from Flitwick's classes, but he remembered that bit. If Hermione had been anything, she'd been proficient. Harry had been trying to replicate her charm, but it was slow going.
He wasn't quite as powerful as Hermione, nor nearly as naturally talented; it was something that no one had ever quite understood about him in the past. Everyone seemed to believe that the Boy Who Lived, he who vanquished the Dark Lord at a mere fifteen months of age, should have been a powerful wizard in his own right. Harry was lauded for his ability to produce a fully corporeal Patronus when he was just thirteen, but no one realized just how hard he'd trained for it, out of necessity, because if he hadn't, he'd have been worse than dead. It was like evolution, a force beyond his control, a biological imperative to escape extinction, to be able to repel those hooded demons that wanted to feast on his soul. He needed to discover a new power to ward them off, so he'd developed one.
Hermione, he was sure, would have managed a similarly difficult spell in a shorter length of time. She'd definitely had a way with magic; perhaps it was just innate skill, or perhaps she understood the world in a way that Harry simply couldn't. In fact, the only spell Harry had ever known her to fail to master was the Patronus Charm itself. Harry attributed it to her way of learning: logical and analytical. He knew she felt deeply, but he wondered if her usual approach hindered her when it came to the Patronus Charm. Then again, Hermione only really struggled with the charm when confronted with Dementors; had they affected her abnormally strongly? Had she wrestled with finding a happy enough memory?
Harry shook himself of his thoughts. The why's and how's of Hermione's magical ability didn't matter—not anymore. The fact was she had been a better witch than he was a wizard, and Harry's ability was limited even further now by the lack of a very well-supplementing wand.
There was a moment, during his last attempt to replicate the charm, when Harry thought he'd succeeded in enlarging the interior space of a backpack and adding a pair of trainers at the same time. Though, it turned out he'd only blasted a hole in the bottom and was staring, in fact, at his own two feet.
With an exasperated sigh, Harry abandoned the table. He dressed in clean clothes and made for the greenhouses, where within a relatively intact one he grew vegetables and berries instead of magical plants. He harvested some choice ingredients and was busy in the kitchen less than an hour later, up to his elbows in flour. In the kitchen he ate, washing down his unexceptional supper with a double measure of Firewhisky, two magically expanded casks of which he'd liberated from the Hog's Head. Then, once night had fallen, he passed out in his bed, awaking to an ordinary, silent morning, devoid of songbirds and sunshine.
Only after he'd had his breakfast did he light a softly crackling fire in the round fireplace and take a seat at the table in the common room and examine the tome. It was old, no doubt about it, and its leather skin was black and thick and rough and blank; no words or pictures adorned the front or back cover. He lifted the heavy face, a dark feeling settling in his gut, and peered at its first few pages. The book featured neither its name nor its author's. Also absent was any kind of foreword or preface, a table of contents, a glossary or index, even a title page. Instead, after three blank pages, the text began abruptly, consuming the entire page from margin to margin, top to bottom. The script looked old, though how old Harry couldn't say; it was perfectly legible to him.
Instead of starting at the beginning, Harry continued to flip through the pages, looking for the headings of chapters or sections, but he found none. The initial body of text continued for a dozen pages without even switching to a new paragraph. Then Harry turned a page and found not a heading but a drawing, made by a quill, of a half-filled phial. Beneath the picture was what seemed to be a list of ingredients, as if for a potion, and below that, continuing to the next page, was a series of instructions, ordered by numbers and letters. Harry's eyes roamed the list of reagents: Ashwinder egg, Murtlap tentacle, Occamy eggshell, thyme, and common rue, among others… Harry knew this recipe!
"Felix Felicis," he breathed, staring wide-eyed at the ancient text. To the best of Harry's knowledge, the potion had been created sometime in the sixteenth century, but Harry would have dated it older than that. He only knew such details about Liquid Luck because he had researched the potion thoroughly and attempted to brew it himself some years ago, nearly dying in the process when it quite literally blew up in his face; after that, Harry gave up the undertaking.
The fire popped; Harry started.
He turned the page twice more and found another recipe, complete with illustration. Deeper and deeper into the book he went, though he never seemed any closer to the end. He was both astounded and appalled by what he found within: spells to render the user semi-permanently invisible; spells to turn corpses into Inferi; spells to conjure demons; spells to summon spirits of the dead, which were identical to the eternally depressed ghosts Harry was familiar with. Harry knew what these were: rituals. Rituals were wizarding fiction; they weren't considered real magic in wizarding culture, except to those who believed in such legends and stories—the Lovegoods likely had. The idea that great magic could be achieved by a few drawings and magic items and spoken words was absurd.
Demons, indeed. How ridiculous.
Then again, thought Harry, it isn't vastly different to magic with a wand.
Harry continued to idly flip through the pages, not truly believing that any of it could be real, and even if some of them might've been, they served him no purpose. But then he saw it: a diagram featuring a central star, five diamonds, alien glyphs, and encircling rings. There was no doubt in Harry's mind that it was the same pattern he'd seen on the floor of the warehouse, the very same that Voldemort had been tending to when Harry arrived. His eyes skimmed the description of the ritual, his brain picking out words like links and neighboring world and travel.
The world ground to a halt; Harry felt as if his head had taken up the momentum of Earth's spinning. An iron fist clenched his stomach; his heart skipped a beat. There was no way—! It was impossible—! Had he really—?
Had Voldemort transported himself to another world?
Author's Note
Thank you to everyone who made it to the end of chapter one! I invite you to like and follow the story if you're interested for more, and please feel free to review! Tell me what you liked, what you didn't, or just your favorite part.
Furthermore, if you like my style or are just looking for something new, I'm working on an original novel! It's a high-fantasy adventure novel that follows aspiring knight Gwen as she toils to save her queen from a villainous plot. The Faerie Knight is a story of quests and quandaries, faeries and fortune, and wonder and whimsy! If this interests you, you can find me over on Wattpad with the handle MisterVilliers. It's free to read! Hope to see you there! :)
