Chapter Twenty-One: Tamquam alter idem
"Hello, mate."
Those words pierced the darkness and caused Harry to open his eyes. Of all the things he had ever considered saying to his best friend, what tumbled from his lips next was not one of them.
"You're dead."
"Yeah," Ron agreed cheerfully. "But so are you, nearly, if this thing goes as Lestrange has planned. She was gloating about how perfect the plan was. Sirius was going to tell her off, but Snape reminded him that neither of them could." Ron grinned. "Slimy git enjoyed it, too."
Harry smiled, his eyes lighting at the thought of seeing Sirius again. His opinion of Snape had improved greatly when the man had died, but he still did not care for him. "I bet he did. You said Bellatrix was here. Is Hermione?"
Ron nodded and smiled cryptically. "A lot of things become clear up here, mate. But you're here now. Time to get started. Maybe they'll let us have a few minutes to talk afterwards." He frowned. "Or I suppose we could have a whole lot of time to talk."
Harry shook his head. "Not going to happen, though maybe a few minutes." Harry felt more than saw Hermione moving up next to him. He realized that was because she was nearly invisible, while both he and Ron were solid.
She answered the silent question in his eyes. "I'm not dead, Harry, so I don't appear as solid as you or Ron." He realized, looking at her, that the copy of his scar was the most solid part of her appearance.
"I would guess Bellatrix looks like you?" He rotated his gaze to include Ron, at her nod, and asked a question he already knew the answer to. "I would assume that if Sirius cannot talk to Bellatrix, Voldemort can't talk to me?"
Ron nodded. "You lucky person, you. Everyone he didn't kill has wanted to kill him ever since he got here, the only problem being that he's already dead." Ron smiled, though Harry could pick up on Ron's relief that he was not one of the people Voldemort could speak with. "Good job on that, by the way, mate."
"Thanks. How do we go about this now?"
Ron frowned again. "I hope you and Hermione have a plan." He pointed, and Harry saw Bellatrix's ghostly form, and the body of Tom Riddle as he had undoubtedly been the night he had murdered Harry's parents. "Stand over there with those two. The rest of us only get to watch. And Harry, it wasn't your fault. You kept your promise, you did what you had to do."
"Thanks, Ron. You have no idea how much that means to me." Moving was no more difficult than focusing on where he wanted to go, Harry discovered, willing himself over to be next to Riddle and Lestrange. "Goodday, Bellatrix."
"Indeed, little baby Potty," she sneered. "I cannot believe even you were stupid enough to go through with this, even if you care for the Mudblood as much as Draco said."
Red clouds of anger exploded in Harry's head at the thought of Draco putting Hermione through this, but when he felt her stiffen beside him at Bellatrix's words, Harry forced a smile. "Bella, you and your master have taken nearly everyone who has meant anything to me. I'm not letting you disgusting examples of wizard kind take any more."
"No, lil' Potter. Now we're going to take you from them." And then, though her lips were still moving, Bellatrix was silent. It took her a moment to realize there was no sound being produced and then she stopped, glaring at Harry as if it were his fault.
Harry, naturally, was not at fault. He had long since figured out that his magic was worthless here, no matter how powerful he was in the real world.
"You seek an exchange of lives, between the one who calls himself Lord Voldemort and the one called Harry Potter. Advacati, does Harry Potter willingly offer up his life in exchange for that of Lord Voldemort?"
The simple answer to the voice's question would have been 'no'. Unfortunately, here the truth reigned supreme, and the Death Exchange could not continue to even this point without the answer being 'yes'. Which, her face growing pale, was the response Hermione whispered, her voice barely audible.
The terrible crashing voice came again. "Advacati, does Lord Voldemort accept this offer of exchange?"
Bellatrix apparently found her voice again. "He does."
"Then we shall proceed with the testing. Call to mind the occasion of Lord Voldemort's death."
Harry, unfortunately, had a problem, for he had two memories of Voldemort's death, one eleven days old, the other twenty-seven years.
One of the hardest things in nature to break is a habit, and a habit of twenty-seven years might as well be a force of nature. And it was certainly not going to be broken in eleven days.
Harry brought the wrong memory to mind. Realizing his mistake just as fast, he crushed it down and replaced it with the proper one. Even still, he was far too slow.
"Your memories are not the same," the terrible, powerful voice came again, "or at least, Harry Potter remembers two very different courses of events. So we shall examine Lord Voldemort's memory first, for one of Harry Potter's seems to match it, yet it seems less real to him."
Harry suddenly felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, positive that the bodiless voice knew far more than it was revealing. He felt the eyes of his three companions swiveling towards him, with questions that had to be silent.
The flash was blinding, overpowering, as the four of them, and all the watchers nearby, were transplanted back to the Department of Mysteries, inside Voldemort's twisted mind.
* * * * * *
Harry's mind burned, his gaze seethed red with hatred, with pain, with loneliness. Disgust and revulsion for others and himself coursed through the veins of his body, setting his very skin aflame. He screamed, but the sound failed him, and he knew where he was.
This was so very, very different from a Pensieve. This was how Voldemort actually remembered events from that day. Pain pounded at his skull, crushing in on him so hard he could barely see, and Harry realized he felt nothing. There was nothing external to himself, so inflamed and powerful was his ego, his selfishness, that the world outside him was unreal. This was what Voldemort had felt every second of every day since his rebirth in that grave yard.
Possibly even before he had killed Harry's parents and his first body had been shattered by the very force of his spell. Through the haze of red, Harry saw himself, and with a whispered command, it began.
He knew exactly was about to happen before it happened, knew what spells would appear in vision from below his own eye level, what spells his opponent, he, Harry, would cast. His own memories could provide that, clear as day. He whispered his own shouts, and knew all the words Voldemort spoke even as he spoke them.
The battle was fierce, and he could feel Voldemort's astonishment at the power, at the control Harry was maintaining, despite the slaughter of his friend. He could feel Voldemort's satisfaction, even some of his thoughts, at the hatred and pain Harry was displaying. He could feel the cruelty and pride in what he had done, and the perverse knowledge that despite Harry's anger and power that flowed from it, he had more anger, more hate, more pain, and more power, spells that Harry could hardly dream of.
Certainly, the Killing Curse was the surest way to kill, unable to be blocked, but there were many other ways to kill, more painful, more terrible things. Death was not merely a skill or a tool, it was a talent, an art, and the being styling himself Lord Voldemort knew he could teach its Master Class, as Potter was going to find out, if he would just stop being so damn stubborn about it and FUCKING DIE!
Instead of giving up, though, Voldemort noted with dismay, Potter seemed, if nothing else, to be getting fiercer in his attacks, as he shifted the Dark Lord temporarily onto the defensive.
Then anger blazed even hotter as Potter managed to trick him, his skills at Occulmency greatly improved since their last meeting. He could feel it swelling around him, had Potter's little Mudblood bitch woken up, trying to help him. He snarled soundlessly as he fought through Potter's spell.
Voldemort knew pain, knew anguish, knew suffering, he was masters of them, and his own was well under control, the external shut off from the mind. But this, this was…agony, an unknown torment lashing at him without remorse or ceasing, a physical battering of the likes he had never known, even with the loss of his body. He could feel the scream torn from his throat, but he could not control it, could not stop it, as every barrier, every ounce of knowledge, every priceless moment spent learning his iron mastery was proved worthless.
He knew what it was, and tried to fight it, though. If he could only hold on a little longer, he could escape, he could learn to fight this, just like he had everything else. Love could not be this strong, never be this powerful…
It hit him again, and he was dimly aware of Potter moving with him, riding the wave of his own strike, his own power, and Voldemort's senses, blocked to so much, failed him now as his mental defenses were overwhelmed. He spat blood on the cool floor, and looked up at Harry. "Harry," he gasped, trying not to choke on his blood and his plea. "Please, no. I don't want to die."
Harry's words were lost to him, but he could feel their insult, their pain cutting into him like a knife, a knife that penetrated all things, his hate and pain and suffering, slashing him with the knowledge that he could never have this power, that he could never be, was never, loved. He leapt, knowing that if perhaps magic would not avail him, he could defeat the scrawny boy in this way…
It took him in the air this time, and he felt it throw him back. The lightest touch fazed him with a deathly chill, until he realized what it was… His body was dissolving, vanishing… passing through was an eternity of torment, a new understanding of pain and suffering, time slowing to draw out the process as he watched Potter crumple to the floor…
He had won, he knew it, he had defeated the boy… and then the darkness came as the veil slipped back into place with the gentlest of motions…
* * * * * *
Harry gasped as they came up for air, and he could feel the tenseness of those around him, and he shook his head to clear it of the pain and the darkness, blinking his way back into the light. Unconsciously, he reached out and gripped Hermione's spectral hand, which despite its ghostliness, he managed to squeeze reassuringly. He felt her squeeze back, and he pulled her closer, feeling the slight tremble.
That terrible, crashing voice, like the cascade of continuous thunder, came again. "And now the memory of Harry Potter, matching that of Lord Voldemort. If you are ready…"
Not that the voice gave any time to be ready, as the terribly bright flash came again, swirling them out their limited reality and into memories of death once more.
It seemed to go quicker this time for Harry, but then, this was the perspective he knew by heart, the feelings and actions and words and losses that plagued him in his dreams. The memory ended the same way, with darkness descending, except not that of the veil, that of unconsciousness.
This time, Hermione really was trembling, and Harry drew her against him. She was craning her neck to look behind her, and Harry turned his head to follow the shorter witch's gaze. He caught Ron's nod and looked down as nearly invisible tears streaked down Hermione's pale face. His fingers brushed them away and she smiled weakly. She could not talk, none of them could, but Harry nodded and squeezed her in his arms, confirming for her that the memory she had seen, of his choice, of his promise to Ron, that all of it was true.
The snarl was silent as Harry turned back and saw Voldemort and Bellatrix laughing silently at the touching moment, the care that the Trio had for each other, displayed in Harry's memory for all of them to see.
"Well, it would seem that the memories agree de facto. But let us examine the last scene of death before we begin." The darkness flashed with light, and then, claimed them all into a darker time, a more painful, broken reality than the one that each of them knew.
Only Harry had the slightest clue what this held ready for them…
Author's Note: The Chapter title translates as "As if a second self."