Chapter 7: Brand New Day
Its a brand new day
And the sun is high,
all the birds are singing
that you're gonna die
how I hesitated
now I wonder why
its a brand new day
Dr. Horrible, Its a Brand New Day
I can remember the day my life ended but I did not die.
I can also remember the day I died, but my life continued on.
I don't remember much that occurred after that point, or between or even before.
I can still see Hermione rushing in through the door, throwing Ginny off of my body, and cradling me in her arms. Her
tears mingled in my hair. I can feel them still on my head, I have scars that you can see if you look in the right
light at the right time, almost a crown that dripped blood down my face. I wake up some nights, after remember the
thoughts I can't remember and wipe my face, trying to remove the tears I didn't cry.
I don't remember much between me waking up for the their time, just Hermione sitting in my lap as Mr. Granger pushed us out of the hospital, Mrs. Weasley chasing us out the door, begging for us to forgive Ginny. I couldn't, all i could hear was Hermione's heart beat in my ears, my face held so close to her chest, for a moment, the closeness of her beating heart gave me strength and power that I had never know before. My heart in beat with hers. To feel your soulmate so close and stand in that presence is enough to orgasm the first time if you are unaware.
Hermione learned this, but just giggled her little giggled which I never knew she had and kissed me deeply. Which apparently gave her one.
She blushed as I wandlessly and wordlessly cleaned up our respective messes, her face buried in my neck... I can still feel her breath on me even now. Its my cloak, a wisp of what was, the breathe of life extingiushed.
When we walked out, a storm came, raining all around us. Pounding the ground, covering use as a torrent of blue and clear, darkness swarming in the distance, lightning dancing across the sky above the buildings. I never even heard the first shot, a bullet. I was prepared for everything except for something so mundane. I had shield layered over shield through pure power to protect Hermione and myself, and those we cared about. I was willing to be reading the thoughts of everyone within a hundred miles, searching for anyone who sought to do us harm, but Hermione talked me out of it, saying that such an overload would kill me.
She was always the smart one.
Why'd she have to die first?
The shot came from over a mile away, and shattered parts of buildings in between us. Everyone slowed down, and I felt the air bend for the bullet. Even with time moving slowly as my reaction was, I didn't see the bullet. Magically transformed and mimicking the surroundings, my unrefined abilities were blind to the object. And Hermione knew it. Which is why she shifted to straddling my lap.
She coughed up blood and I knew she was dying. The sounds of apparition roared around us, the rain pouring down heavily, and all I could do was hold Hermione, begging her to be alright.
But everything wasn't. I was a devil of the highest order, almost dead because of some possession by a lowly demon-soul of a dead man refusing to die. Hermione, my equal more so than Voldemort, who was more my foil, merlin damned prophecies, was dead because someone desired me dead, more than Voldemort. I can't remember who, mainly because of my actions that followed.
Everything is a blur. Hermione was in my arms, dying, and all I could do was whisper my love to her, beg her not to. Remus was transforming before our eyes, and Tonks was drawing her wand, but neither was able to move, from what I was able to figure out later. A torrent of silver were unleashed. From where I sat, two shots were fired before Mr. Granger died. Three from Mrs. Granger. The Weasleys... I do not remember them. Everyone around me died, and there I sat immobile with my love in my arms, her blood on my skin.
I still am stained, my arms, slightly whiter than the rest of my tan self, almost pure in comparison to my sins.
I remember silence, then a bright blood light. London died that day, at least half was destroyed in what Muggles would call "an explosion worse than Hiroshima". A crater was left, and the bodies were gone, of my enemies, of my friends, of my love. Only I remained in my chair, holding nothing. My column was still there until the day I died, the chair fused into the ground, granite and concrete, no metal any more. No rubber, no body in it.
I was still alive, my heart was beating, but I wasn't really aware of what was happening. I was dead. The dead have no memory of time. So the months, maybe years that followed me stalking Voldemort down could have never happened or they could have been many life times.
An unstoppable force tried to destroy an immovable object. Problem was, Voldemort was a puppet, and I was seeking the puppeteer. Took two weeks of torture in lava, me healing and burning him before he would talk, I think. Maybe I refused to listen until the two weeks had past. And I doubt talk would be appropriate, more like, I stole all his memories and his core. For a while, my smile was a scar.
Many nights it still is.
I don't remember my end, I just remember waking up, sitting on this throne and nine devils prostrate in front of me, a staff in hand and horizon before me. Red lightning on a orange sky, with heaven no where near me.
I don't remember my beginning. I remember walking and talking, I remember stealing the knowledge of one man and trading the rest for passage. I remember a bright light and gates that stretch farther then the orange sky and red lightning. Behind the clouds behind the light behind everything there lied a mountain and I remember climbing it, and falling and climbing it. There was no boulders to push, only walls with no edges to climb, no where to walk to the top, no stairs or ropes, just my hands tearing into the mountain of the sky.
I don't remember my nights, because I never slept.
I remember my first real morning, when the sun finally rose again, as I jumped off the summit of the mountain of the sky, deals struck and words exchanged. Me to where I belonged.
Its a brand new day.
Maybe I'll be able to live this time.
* * * * * *
Authors Note: So I come to the end of this mini-epic, and thus start the end of my fanfiction career. I have planned out for the most part, the final tale of Harry Potter, son of the First Devil and Librarian. Prior to the launching of the sequel to this story, or rather, the story of this prologue, I will be attempting to edit my story and give proper due to all those who have helped me with it, along with varios problems and ideas that I have been working on. I will probably still have plot holes, but in truth, this is a journey more than anything. So thank you and please enjoy what is to come. I can not guarantee that this will be in the final draft of the epic, but the ideas will carry over:
"Harry you can't." Click. All noise, all movement stopped around them and eyes moved to the Boy-Who-Lived. "This isn't right, you shouldn't-"
"why shouldn't I?" Harry replied. "After everything he's done to us, why shouldn't it?" Below him, the quivering form shook as Harry pulled the trigger on his revolver, a gift from Sirius. No sound came as the hammer fell. Sighed and pulled the hammer back again. "Where is it!?" He demanded. Click. The barrel shifted closer.
"please Harry, we can't-"
Bang! Harry shifted the barrel just enough to graze the nose of the boy before him. The smell of a poorly washed
urinal filled the air. "I have one more bullet. Two chambers. What is your luck? I didn't miss, that is your
warning." He pulled the hammer back and waited. "Where is it. Tell us or die horribly
painful."
"fine, fine its... its..." he was mutter and Harry leaned over to listen. Once the information was given, he stepped back and fired. The bullet left the chamber silently and the man would have plead for his life if he could, but there was no time. The body fell and blood did not fly through the air, covering anyone it. A orb around the man and blood floated within it.
"Harry you didn't have to-"
"Of course he did Ron," Harry walked away, back up the stairs to his room to sleep. "Harsh times call for a harsh master. And Harry is the master of his fate now." She left and ran after him, hoping that he would accept her arms to cry in rather then simply the bed they shared.
-->