Chapter 2:
It had been a week since the incident at the hospital, and the Granger family was slowly recovering from the whole ordeal, though normal would not apply. Dan bruised his ribs and was still struggling to take in full breathes after what Dr. Stephens did to him. He was unable to work his practice for the entire time, his weak lungs a problem and the hacking cough made the detailed work of a mouth difficult. Not that he was complaining, as he could stay in his study, researching what occurred, attempting to figure out all that had happened, including just what Dr. Stephens did to help Hermione. Despite the pain he was in, Hermione knew her father was more upset about her.
Whatever a wizard did to her, it left Hermione missing large chucks of her memory, of her life. The past three years were blurs with some very beautiful stills. The way her parents acted it was as if she had come back from the grave. Her mum said that had their daughter back, the one who left for Hogwarts her second year, alive and smiling all the time, in love with life and the act of living. Not the daughter who returned, morose and tired, sleeping most days if she wasn't reading book after book, trying to live through the fictional tales of the page. The only parts she could remember involved Harry Potter, a boy who was integral in her life, so thankfully she could remember some, if not most of her life. These memories were singular moments in time and space that were merely snapshots of the entire movie she'd missed, telling a brief and tragic tale but never a whole one.
Currently, Hermione was laying on her couch, reading through her diaries of the past two years, trying to find the rest of the puzzle. She wrote in a majestic scrawl and at least this Hermione, the one on the page, wrote down everything and anything that occurred, still focused on Harry, despite how hard this fictional Hermione tried not to. She could almost hear the stone floor as her feet slapped against it, running towards Harry, almost tackling him because he had figured out the clue to save the school, and she was just happy to see him. It was her first memory after the basilisk and honestly, her diaries didn't go much into her summer between her second and third year, besides some panicky entries about Harry and one Sirius Black. She was speed-reading through her third year for the fourth, trying to understand all this about the time travel and her keeping the days straight. She remembered the flight with Buckbeak and how she pulled herself as tight as she could to Harry, for warmth and pleasure, apparently, something her fictional self was unhappy about. Unfortunately, no matter what she read, she couldn't remember anything else. Just those select moments of her and Harry.
Her diaries only said so much, especially since they barely mentioned Ron, though when they did, it was rarely good. Her third year had her fighting with the childish boy for most of it, first over Scabbers then him driving a wedge between Harry and her over a stupid broom. It was heartbreaking to learn that she acted without Harry's permission on his broom, and then to find out in her fourth year, this boy who she didn't even know took her to the some dance, while her friends completely forgot her. Her diaries were filled with small dried tear stains at that point and she could almost see when she closed her eyes, her walking down the stairs with this unknown boy. Everyone in the memory had faces that were older of people she remembered, just slight enough that she could recognized, but their features were blurred compared to the green-eyed boy who stood out as though he was the shining light in the darkness.
"Mum?" Hermione asked, finally closing the last of her third year diaries. She had finished her fourth year a while ago, reading through them quickly and learning about the dreadful tournament that Harry was forced to go through, and the subsequent horror that occurred at the end. And most of it she didn't remember. Her life was destroyed by someone, and all Hermione could do was wonder just what was the next move. Could she go back to Hogwarts? She was unsure if she could even remember all of her spells and knowledge from the year before. She been afraid to read her books from the previous year, especially since she couldn't see them any more. Instead, she was left to reading her other classical books: Homer, Shakespeare, Faulkner, Frost, Emerson, Whitman. These were her teachers for the moment, teachers of thought and love and courage and honesty. She had added Bradbury and Orwell and enjoyed the warnings and the truth within the works. Rand was boring, but reflected the way she felt some days, despite the verbose work. Really, seventy pages for a speech. The woman needed an editor.
All her life, Hermione prided herself on learning and now two -almost three- years had been wasted away by someone with some goal in mind. Three years possibly without a single bit of knowledge to show for them. And for what reason?
The news played in the background, and very briefly, a story about an attempted heist at the Vatican came on. The report mentioned that while nothing was stolen, they were unable to catch the thief either after a long and daring chase.
"Yes dear?" Her mother was fascinated with one of her special newspapers. Hermione learned a long time ago not to ask where it came from, or even to read it. The words didn't make any sense, considering there was no punctuation or spaces or anything that looked like a modern language. In fact, she could tell there was a bit of every ancient letters/rune/symbols on the page. She wanted to learn but her mum kept saying when she was older. When was older? Wasn't she older now.
"You have no idea what happened to me, do you." She didn't have to ask the question to know the truth. They didn't tell her much about what happened in the hospital or what happened that lead them to it. All she knew as that Harry was there, and some man tried to kill her father, the greatest man in her mind next to Harry Potter, and Harry escaped after saving them. This was a new world, one that her parents knew more about then her, the hidden dangers and wonders that lie beneath everything. Her father was some kind of wizard, but not like her. In fact, there was a large sense of distrust for most other "wanded ones", as he called them. He never explained what he did prior to becoming a dentist, but Hermione knew Dan Granger had many dark secrets that he kept hidden away in his study. Her mother was a bit more open now that this danger had occurred and past. She said she was an evoker of the true names of the world, which probably dealt with the strange language that her mother was currently reading. But that didn't mean all of Hermione's questions were answered.
Emma closed the paper and looked directly at her daughter. Hermione wanted to flinch underneath the gaze, but remained stagnate, still and returning it. Gryffindors forward. "Your father is working rather hard on trying to figure it out, but sadly we can't access our contacts within the Order, or even outside the home right now." They had mentioned the Order before, but never in detail. Nothing was ever in detail. So far, Hermione and her mother had been on house arrest, save when she went to work with her father acting as guard.
The world had changed about a week ago, when lies were torn asunder and hidden truths, at least some, were brought to the light. But still, Hermione was left in the dark. Her parents wanted to protect her like they wanted to when this whole mess started. But all of them knew that it was impossible. "So, what happens next then, withdraw me from school?" To her, the fear of never seeing her friends again, her only friends, well, friend, petrified her all over again. The loss of knowledge, however terrible, could be recovered, but the loss of the what felt like the one person who stood by her most of the time, who tried to stand by her, held her still, solidifying her to her spot on the couch. The lights flickered for a moment, before steadying at a hearty glow.
Her mother stood up to consul her daughter when her father came running into the room, a hand raised and glowing dark white. "The wards have been breached."
"We have wards?" Hermione asked, her curiosity peaked. She had never seen this side of her parents before, the magical, though the magic was no even remotely similar to hers. In all her hours in the library, she had never seen or even heard of the variations of magic. In fact, up until this point in her life, the only magic in the world was what Hogwarts had taught her, whether through classes or, more importantly, her books. This new world was just more information for her to devour, process, and reproduce to show the world how good she was, how smart she was. Sadly, her parents forbade her from reading anything that they had in the house on their magic, either the truenames of her mother's study, or her father's hidden world in his.
Magic was more alive than just a wand could even suppose. It was merely an assumption proven by the teachings of a school that there was only one form of magic, one way of life, but in truth, in the wake of the incident, it is only the perception of one way of perceiving life. Magic exists, in forms yet to be discovered, but exists nevertheless. Knowledge was power, in that the holding and rational understanding of what an object is enables one to understanding its nature and its purpose. That which is, is.
Her father stood at the door, a few feet from it, hand glowing and bearing against whatever may try to enter. Her mother pushed herself between her husband and Hermione, words forming at the base of her throat, the magic at an explosive rest, waiting for the mouth to open and fly forth into the darkness.
"Although the Shroud of Turin remains unharmed, the Vatican officials are still searching for why a thief would attempt to steal this priceless artifact."
Through the front-door window, Hermione could see empty street outside, the lamps illuminating the world that hide within the night once very hundred meters or so. The light hanging over their porch flickered on and off. Hermione had no idea how far the wards stood away from the house, but the barren porch, accompanied by the the moonless night and empty streets did nothing to alleviate her fears. Shadows stretched forth from the darkness, products of the lamps no doubt, but their arms and claws reaching towards the darkness. Tricks of the light, she thought, but still she stood behind her father and mother. Fear is the mind killer.
"Only a partial rendering of the thief could be made. One witness claimed that his eyes were emeralds placed in a skeleton's sockets, and his jet black hair hung about his head as though it would fall off at any moment."
For a moment, a brief singular moment, Hermione saw the flicker of a bluish hue outside her home. Across the street, and in the middle of a neighbor's home, the solid wall of something flashed before rippling into nothingness. "Show yourself," her father whispered. Her mother remained silent, but she could see the glow of her throat, the expulsion at rest. "Damn you, show yourself." The porch lights danced on and off, a sway to them now, a pattern in three-eight. And in the rest between, she could hear the darkness, the whispers, the silent voice at the edge of every shadow and hole with which you could not see in. Come to me, come to me, it would say, and Hermione steeled herself against the silent voice. The words unspoken often had greater harm then those said.
"Last known location, he was headed towards England. Authorities are on the look out for him, and state that the public should not try to apprehend him on their own. He is considered to armed and dang-"
The home went silent, and darkness leaked into every space that it could find. The only light left in the home was coming from two magic users, the father and the mother protecting their daughter, and the dying porch light. Dan's eyes remained on the door, while her mother shifted Hermione between them. They were afraid of the darkness, the silent voice roaring in the space of the swaying light from the porch. Come to me.... come to me... come to me... How she wished she held her wand. How she wished that she was safe. Oh, the things she wished for in the darkness, the shadows of the world as the unknown solidified around them.
A furry object rubbed up against her leg, and Hermione fought the urge to jump. It was Crookshanks, the pet from her diary. She had read about him so much and grew to love him even more know that she knew him. He was frightened by the darkness, warming her from the cold black that was now stretching in their house, reaching out toward the Granger's, trying to pull them in and hide. The porch light flickered on and off, but the light from within the house, the light of the magic was slowly dying, losing shape and form to the darkness. Her father's hand no longer evident, but a blur. Her mother's mouth closed tightly and the glow dissolving into the air.
Time died, and the world slowed. The three-eight grew longer and longer, as the shadows stretched from outside. There was no flash of blue, the trick of the mind that she saw before, only the lights dying, put out by some unknown entity that consumed the light around them. Crookshanks' warmth disappeared from her legs, following the light into the darkness. No warmth, no light, no comfort within the swallowing maw of the world around them. Three eights slowed down, further and further, the internal beat of that flicking heart-light died. The warmth of the room did not dissolve away, it did not disappear or even seem to lessen. But rather, the warmth - of her parents, of Crookshanks, of her self - just was not enough any more. The darkness and the shadows of the house hung like a frozen blanket, enveloping her body and wrapping her so tightly that what little heat and light could was limited to just her heat, now in time with the swaying porchlight. Come to me... ... come to me... ... come to me... ...
What was occurring, what strange new world had she found herself in? The magic of Hogwarts and the wizards and witches who lived within those hollowed halls held no candle, no flame to whatever this magic was. The books she could remember, pouring herself into and coming out a learned and intelligent young girl, spoke nothing of the darkness that fogged the living room now. Even the moon hid behind the darkness, frightened so much that it decided to step and turn its face away from whatever inexplicable horrors await within this black fog, arms stretching, claws reaching, and hands grasping at those who stood within the center. No magic could explain, not her words and her knowledge could grant her the wisdom to recognized and identify what was occurring.
And if, all else included, that was the sole fear that existed within her, she was more frightened by that idea then the knowledge itself. To realize, to accept and acknowledge, the fear would give it power over her. Maybe the darkness, the shadows, the nothings, could protect her from that fear, save her. Please...come to me... .... ... ...please... ....come to me... ... ... ... ... come for me... She wanted to stretch her hand out, for the darkness, take her hand, go with the voice that now seemed so warm, so inviting, so powerful. So familiar. Why should she stay with her parents, in this place, when all they wanted to do was bind her and control her, hold her back?
The shadows solidified in a form; there was this liquid skins slowly covering her body, growing up from her bare toes towards her jeans, soaking her skin in this odorless jelly. Her parents didn't seem to care, they weren't trying to save her, maybe she should leave, take off, disappear into the darkness, follow the hauntingly strong chorus of shadows, pleading for her to join. The ooze continued up her body, cold as the shadows, but warming her nevertheless. Maybe it was time to say good bye, kiss the world goodnight and lay her eyes closed one final time, embracing the darkness for what it is. please... come for me.... And she knew that voice. Hermione... sav-
"Harry." Hermione whispered and opened her eyes.
Light shattered the darkness, and all the machines exploded on with the energy of a new born gazelle fresh from a mother's womb. "Today in sports..." The television continued and Hermione found herself standing between her parents, confused and her hand was out. Her father was frozen in place, his hands stretched out to the side, pulling away from his rigid body. Her mother looked so serene and peaceful, arms crossed over her chest as though she were in a coffin, only standing. All the lights of the house were on, the shadows had disappeared, a sort of dying scream held itself in the silence, no sound filling the void.
"Dad?" she asked, touching her father. Of her family, she was the least familiar with this new world, if that was what caused it. But she knew the voice, the power, the heart behind it and felt that she needed to do something. Dan Granger slowly lowered his arms, but refused to meet his daughter's eyes. He had seen something in the darkness, something hidden away behind the light of the world in the regions where man and woman dare not tread alone. "What is it Dad?"
Her mother moved forward and grasped her husband's shoulders. "Dan, what is it?" He remained silent, his hands cracking as he flexed his fingers. Hermione recognized that motion; her father continued to crack his knuckles, his hands. his wrists.
"Deep within the Vatican," Dan said softly, "They have these chambers for those who.... well, those who they can't exorcise or kill straight out." He didn't look up. "I was there once, accepting a job." He turned to Emma, grinning sheepishly towards her in hopes of dampening the glare. "It was long before I met you, hun. Anyways, my partner and I were looking for work, and there was always rumors that the Vatican-"
"You mean the Pope..." Hermione said, unable to finish her words.
"No," Dan chuckled slightly and stood up with the help of Emma. "no, not at all. The Pope is just a figure head. In fact, the place's real name isn't even the Vatican, its a title. No one really knows the real name any more except the information mongers that live inside, and they are never going to part with it. This way." He walked, glided even if Hermione's eyes could believe it, to his study and opened the door. Her mother followed him and Hermione was left alone for a moment before rushing to see what exactly her parents were up to.
Her father's den was sacred, as far as Hermione was concerned. She had rarely if ever allowed through the burnt oak doors, who apparently had runes etched into them so deep that she could have sworn they would be through to the side. Runes that appeared out of thin air, and pasting themselves to the wood; runes she saw for the first time despite walking past this door for all of her life, whether to the family library for something new to read or the kitchen for a latenight snack with said new book or anywhere really. Dan Granger's study was the center of the house, and everything seemed to pass by the door, closed and locked, until now.
"The Vatican acts as the center for majority of the magic users in Southern Europe, if not all of, at least those who do not consort with devils and attempt to control demons." His voice boomed through the open door and Hermione turned to look inside the room. Her mother was leaning against the desk just watching her father rustle through some papers in the desk. It was a study; Hermione felt herself a bit disappointed by the normality that drifted from the room. Her father was shuffling papers as "Come in Hermione, and close the door behind you." He didn't look, continued to dig through the drawer, his arm disappearing up to his shoulder at one point.
"And as that power center, they can control how magic is perceived, used, and taught... for the most part. Ignoring wanders, of course. There we are." He said, smirking at her mom as he pulled his arm out. As Hermione walked inside, she felt as though she was stepping through a waterfall. There wasn't many electronics in the room, just an old pc that her father had found before she was born. The entire room was only lit by a few candles, including one on a human skull. Books lined the massive study, stretching taller than she thought the house was. Runes were etched cross the exposed wood, covering almost every surface, lighting the room where the candles did not reach with a dull hue of purple. The red carpet was various pentagrams, with a giant one in the center, glowing as Hermione stepped into it.
"Of course," she said.
"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked.
"I'll explain on the plane, which your mother needs to-" Dan looked up at Emma who had pulled her cell phone was calling a friend of the family who had access to planes. It was going to be a long night, Hermione figured, and her world grew immensely in a few moments. "Plus the rules you need to follow."
"Rules?"
"Magic, true magic," He said, grinning as he looked at the cloth-wrapped items in his hand, "has its own way of thinking and sometimes, it pays to follow them." He looked at her when he unwrapped the items, revealing a red-steel dagger and a rune-laid bone. "Course, when you know the rules, its easier to break them."
******
"So we meet again." A voice in the brightness was often non-descript, Harry decided, and this one was no different. In fact, if anything its non-descriptness made it describable by calling it non-descript.
He wanted to speak, but his throat was dry, his lips burnt and his eyes were closed so hard that he could only imagine the darkness as light threatened to burn through them. He felt as though his entire body was on fire, even if it was just burn from the light around him. His arms were stretched out and tied to a wooden beam, his legs ramrodded straight down, chained to the ground. A catheter and a IV drip keep him hydrated, feed, and alive, though in truth, barely. So Harry could only assume when he heard that voice that he was going insane. "Focus, Harry."
Rather hard to focus when you were slowly being cooked, but it beat being deepfried like many of the meals he had made for the Dursleys over the years. Dursleys... the name sounded familiar, as if it were something or someone he should remember. Though in the fact that all his attention was either on his burning skin from the light or the random - "Harry, you need to focus."
Can't right now, but if you leave messa- A blast of cool air and darkness swallowed Harry, folding him into nothing. His body relaxed and despite the pain being on the very edge of the darkness, he wasn't so concerned with it. At least now he could get some answers from the non-descript voice that guided him to the chamber where he was currently being held. It wasn't his fault that everything else was so easily escapable. Instead, they had to crucify him to an extent and turn on all the bloody lights. "It seems that your situation is a bit more-"
"Torturous?" He was sitting down now, at least as far as his mind was concerned. The coma at least granted him a bit of relief through his insanity.
"I doubt that you are using the correct word there."
"Like I care." Harry coughed in the darkness. Sitting down, even if it was just his imagination, was a relief. "What do you want? You're the single reason why I'm in the mess in the first place." He followed the voice because there was nothing else to follow. He woke up in the hospital, after an event that still rested on the edges of the darkness with the light and the pain, because this voice asked him to. The attack that followed, well Harry had to admit, that was all him. He couldn't allow Mr. Granger to be hurt, even if he barely knew the man, so he attacked the stranger with magic rolling off of him. The next task was apparently reconnecting part of Harry to himself, which entailed traveling to Vatican City, finding the hidden world of strange magic and wonder, steal a priceless artifact, and apparently get caught. "I didn't ask for your help."
"No, but you accepted it nonetheless."
"So what, I'm in your service forever? You still haven't explained who you are."
"Do you believe that its necessary?"
"Yes." What it was.
Silence was a companion Harry knew well, even in the days prior to Hogwarts, he and silence knew each other, for silence was the only company he was allowed in the cupboard. So when the voice did not respond, Harry figured that, like his past, he was left alone again, to have to figure things out for himself. He force himself to stand up in his mind and walk towards the light and the memories, maybe see if he could-
"There are many different worlds Harry," the voice said, and Harry stopped walking. He couldn't turn to look at the voice because there was no where to turn to see it. "So varied and colorful, that to describe one would probably just create a new one."
"You are talking about alternate realities."
"Maybe alternate from yours, but full fleshed and alive realities filled with flawed people and things, even if those flaws are perfection. From slight changes in your life, such as you having a positive, even possibly romantic relationship with say Draco Malfoy or Severus Snape-"
"That's a slight change?! Think I'm gonna puke. And in no way is that a positive change. If anything I'd consider that-"
"To major ones such as your parents alive and Tom Riddle being a mentor/father figure to you, and you betrothed to Draco Malfoy."
"I am going to puke. Just what is your obsession with me and that piece of dragon dung."
"I am simply trying to you show there are a variety of worlds that are possible."
"By bringing up me with Malfoy?"
"By showing you the possibility of the impossible."
Silence returned, and Harry did not appreciate the company. The silence meant he was left to his own thoughts and in the current situation that he was in, he didn't want to think about what was just beyond the dark horizon and everything that had led him to this point. His chest was still sore, despite the wound almost healing. It would be just another scar for him to carry. "So what now?"
"Now we call in the cavalry."
"No, I mean between us. I know Hermione will find a way, especially since her dad seems to be in deep as this bat-shit crazy magic that are a part of. But at this point, I'm starting to thing you enjoy this type of thing."
"What thing?"
"Torturing me. I mean after all, apparently after my aunt and uncle went crazy and attacked me, you wanted me awake for it all, including the partial reconstruction of a lung, thank you by the way for the necessity of that."
"You're welcome."
"I'm not finished yet. Then a couple hours after surgery, I wake up to find two crazy people throwing magic at each other in my room. Part of me is unsure that you weren't involve, but I'll let that one slide if nothing for the sake of it saving Mr. Granger. Then we take this cross continent travel through shadows of all things, where I am freezing my ass off because I'm wearing nothing more than the hospital gown. I'm surprised I didn't get frostburn, and I happen to like my dangly bits, so that's another thing I have to thank you for."
"Again, you're welcome."
"And then we get here, looking for that bloody artifact, which by the way the wards were brutal to get through, even if you didn't realize it, you probably thought of the possibility. Furthermore, we got caught on the way out and here I am stuck in this bloody contraption, with Merlin knows what all around me, slowly burning me to death. In otherwords, my non-desprict shadowy man: who the bloody hell are you?" Harry screamed at the darkness, which seemed odd since he wasn't even sure he had company here. All of this simply could be his minds way of rationalizing everything that had happen the past few weeks. But if that were true, then everything that had happen would be nothing more than just a delusion and that would mean he was suffering for no reason. Harry could not accept that as the truth, for if he did, then.. then... he just couldn't. His life was more than a series of delusions.
A figured stepped out of the darkness. He stood no taller than Harry, though impose his figure on the world around him. He cloaked himself in darkness, hiding as much as he could. He was old too, white streaked black hair, and wrinkles covered his face. But the man couldn't cloak the stark green eyes that peered at Harry. The same eyes Harry saw every morning through his glasses in the mirror. "Hello Harry." the figure said.
"Hello Harry," Harry replied back. Silence stepped in between them, emerald eyes glaring at emerald eyes.
"You wanted to know, Harry."
"I doubt this fully explains things."
"No, probably not."
"Well, are you?"
"Are I what?"
"Going to explain things. Starting with "who you are", and then continuing with "what are you doing here'; maybe end with 'how are we going to get to out of here.'"
"I'm you."
"Really."
"Well, I'm a you, to be more specific."
"Which that isn't." Harry was getting tired of the run around. The non-descript man who was descript now did little to alleviate the fears that he was going to die here. that Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived-under-the-stairs, was going to die in captivity; the irony of it did not escape him. He could feel the pain slowly burning the edges of his mind again, the cool darkness doing nothing to stop it now. Either they increased the temperature or he was really getting burned by the lamps. He wouldn't see Hogwarts again, or even use magic as far as he knew it. He wouldn't see his friends, never have to deal with Hagrid's rockcakes, or play chess with Ron again, Quidditch with the team, or greasy Snape and his potions(though harry considered that one a plus despite everything). Worst of all, he wouldn't see Hermione again. He would never have to a chance to sit next her and struggle with his home, her leaning over him as she check it and his notes, correcting him in his flaws. He would never smell that library and citrus smell that he found drifting into him every time she was close. It was a comfort, he found, something that he longed for and even held close some nights at the Dursleys a book of hers, that still had that glorious scent. Not that he would ever tell her. She was the world to him, and he couldn't bear with the loss of her. Whatever happened he-
"In my world, I was a god." the new Harry said. Harry looked up at the figure. He was staring off at the horizon. "I had power that you couldn't believe, all because someone, somewhere thought I should. I had power but no knowledge. I was a toddler with a detonator to all the explosives in the world. And she made everything worth it." He turned around and looked at Harry. The man looked almost lost. "I had her in my arms for only a short while, but the world was perfect, even when I was in pain. You understand pain don't you? The pain of the body betraying you. The pain that courses through every part of you and then pins itself in your heart. But all that we can deal with. We know the physical, Harry don't we."
"With her, when she was taken for me, I lashed out. A pain I didn't know how to handle took over me, and all I could was lash out at the world. When all was said and done, there was nothing left. I killed it all to get my revenge, and then I killed the man I blamed for her death." He looked away again, and harry knew it was to prevent him from seeing the tears. "I couldn't die; I had too much power, too much in me anger to die. But my world was over. So when I woke up in Hell, I began walking-"
"You woke up in hell."
"Death itself for the powerful and the wise is really just a brief sleep. When you wake up, you just begin the journey again."
"And you woke up... in Hell?" Harry didn't move, though couldn't would've been better.
"Yes, Hell... When you have done what I have, you really can't go any place else when your world is over. After waking up, I began walking upward, thinking of how I was gonna deal with everything, and what were my options. I couldn't just die, well I could be killed but there really wasn't much in existence that could kill me. And my death through violence would break a cycle that many need for various reasons that I am not at liberty to discuss with anyone. So I was forced to find other means of understanding my life and existence. Which led me to discover some truths about life in general. There are no real differences between you and I save the fact that my existence is one of power, while until this moment yours was not. "
"But you said-"
"I said that we have no real differences, so that means you suffer the same affliction I do, probably what that creature wanted you dead in the hospital. Why you saved the man I don't know, but either way, we are the same people, Harry. No, our worlds are different, your world's connect is much more... fluid than mine, meaning there are more users of magic in different forms than I original thought possible in my world. But here, hidden in plain sight, is everything and anything Harry. And that makes things a bit more... complicated for you. Which brings me to the reason why I am here. I have found a way to die and let the powers that be be happy."
"And it concerns me."
"It concerns you, yes. Basically, I offer understand and maybe a just a bit of power to go along with it, while you offer me a house to die in." Harry remained silent while Old-Harry continued. "Basically, and I saw this like thirteen thousand realms ago where you combined with Voldemort, I lay my essence over yours, and we fight over who is the dominate personality. You win, I die. I win, well, I just keep on trying to find someone who can beat me it seems."
Harry stood up slowly, his skin creaking. "So you win no matter what."
"Seems about right."
"And I can win or lose?"
"Yep."
"Then why would I want to."
"Because I have no problem leaving you here to fry and go find someone who will fight me."
"Bloody hell."
"Been there, done that, had it scoured into my soul."
"So I have no choice?"
"Well, there is a choice, but the options just aren't good for you. Look, if it makes you feel better its a battle of wills not power. I really have no access to my abilities when we will do this, I think."
"You think?"
"Sometimes, without her, I seem to be lost most of the time."
"Why me?" Harry asked, looking at the old, insane version of himself. If any of this was true, he figured he might as well go along with it until the pain was too much for him to think any more. But this didn't fit. Something was off. Something made this older Harry choose this world, this reality over all other options, including ones that this other Harry might have actually existed in, if at a different time or place. No, Insane-Harry wanted something specific, and it wasn't just to die.
"I told you why. We have no real differences."
"But, if all the worlds are similar on some level, and the changes come about from choice and chance, then that means you could have probably picked a world even more similar to your own than mine. Especially one that probably you couldn't have lost to. Instead, you picked my world, my life, my identity, as if you want something from me, or my life, or my identity."
"Not true, I simply-"
"No one does something without gaining from it. And after being alive as long as you have, I'd guess that you'd gain more from taking over me, simply because you'd allow me to take over you if you wanted to die." Harry stretched his back, even if it was just in his imagination. "In terms of what you have offered so far, what challenge is there to you, a god as you claim, versus lowly meek Harry. As it stands, you gain no matter what. So it comes down to, why even make the offer."
"What are you talking about?"
"Seems to me, the question is now who benefits? Who benefits from this transaction if you will?" Harry kept talking while the old-Harry was growing more and more nervous. Life had changed in the past few days, and while the voice could be considered a driving force, Harry had a hard time accepting that all the actions were simply a byproduct of the voice, that he had no control over his own life. And if the voice simply gave control to him, Harry was not about to let that control slip ever so easily. So he'd do something he always felt like doing: babble. Hermione seemed to be good at it, and why not it looked like it was so much fun. "If I take this deal, which is not an agreement or disagreement mind you, but rather just a hypothetical, so if I were to take this deal that you proposed, without any counter deal from me, something we will be discussing, then I would benefit how? Not your so-called god-like power, since I am not the same as you, though you claim we are similar, but what else could I gain. Certainly not your knowledge, since you said you would be destr-"
"Enough!" Old-Harry yelled, for the first time showing anger and frustration. His voice echoed off of nothing, and returned stronger than it had left. "You know nothing."
"Probably," harry replied. "But knowing is never the point. Knowing without understanding-"
"Silence!"
"the chattering monkey? I think not. No, I'm still curious as to-"
"You don't deserve her!" He probably should stop it, but in all honesty, Harry was enjoying himself too much to stop.
"By who's command? Yours? Like I would ever-"
"Stop it right now."
"listen to you in the first place. Though that-"
"I mean it, Harry, don't push it."
"does raise the awfully fun question-"
"Last chance Harry."
"Do you?" He didn't feel the first hit, nor the second. Harry was unsure if he even felt the fifth one. But he knew he felt the sixth; it was him hitting the ground. His body ached, in addition to the burning sensation he felt upon his skin. Nothing was probably broken, but Harry sure felt like his chest collapsed, his legs were shattered, his arms dislocated and hanging at his sides, and his skull felt like it was flattened. Still, Harry tried to sit up.
He laughed, and couldn't stop the blood that came out of his mouth at the end, coughing and coughing. A lung was probably destroyed. With sigh and a thought, though, Harry was as good as new. Old-Harry took a step back. "What sorcery is this?!"
"I figured as much." Harry stood up slowly, and with each movement his body was stronger.
"How could you-"
"We are in my mind, insane-one," Harry replied. "And because of that, I am king. Funny how simple it is to get that first attack, its probably why Snape withdrew immediately when he was done." he looked bigger now, as if the weight he had lost in transit, the decaying muscle, was gone. had returned to him in full. He felt stronger than ever, as he accepted that he was just plain odd. "Now, back to what I was saying before." Old-Harry attempted to attack him, but a wall of nothingness held the stranger in place. "Cui Bono? Who benefits. I am no scholar, that has and always will be Hermione's position in life. But that doesn't mean I don't pay attention.
"In all of your talk and bluster, I noticed how you failed to mention her by name, which probably means one of two things: you are ashamed of who it is or you are ashamed of what you have done, meaning that you don't deserve to speak her name any more. Either way, you are attempting to fix what has happened or you have done. You are attempting to relive your life with her, who ever she may be.
"This brings us up to the idea of us 'combining and fighting for dominance.' Honestly it sounds like crap, and there is this saying: if it looks like dragon dung, smells like dragon dung, and has the feeling of dragon dung, then you have some major problems on hand. Seems to me that there is no ritual needed, but rather its a ritual of acceptance. Where I accept you into my body and you take over." The harsh smile on Old-Harry's face told him the truth. "Which begs the question: what if we battled here." A sharp punch from the nothingness slammed into Old-Harry. Followed by another, than another. "I'm of the opinion that you are simply a spirit, albeit a powerful one, one that can be beat simply because you are weaker than you think. Arrogance is a terrible price we pay, isn't it Harry."
"Without me you will never defeat Voldemort, not even in your own mind." Old Harry shouted.
"I forced him out before, I'll do it again."
"Oh, and now? What of that which plagues you now." The spirit pointed to an area of darkness that he did not notice before. Hiding itself in the darkness, was a lump of something, hunched over and cowering as two beings battled. For the brief moment of confusion, Harry dropped his wall and Old-Harry attacked.
Harry couldn't describe what happened. Even years later when asked about it, he came to accept that he was just odd. A battle of wills, then, was never seen by anyone but those involved. For Harry, it was an over load of pain and laughter. He couldn't stop laughing, not because it was funny, but because it hurt so much. He remember lights and sounds and smells and colors and touches and tastes. Senses he didn't know he had he felt pain on. It felt like forever, but ended so quickly. But He never gave up, he said, that's the key with a battle of wills. A person lost when they lost faith in themselves, even for a moment. Hermione liked to say it was because he was too foolish to do so. Harry never corrected her on that.
When it was all over, Harry stood over the body of Old-Harry. Now, he looked nothing like he did before. Old-Harry shown his true colors and its will reflected it. The spirit looked what old would be personified, and what happened when power slowly decayed and withered due to neglect and arrogance. He smelled the dying breath of a flower, the last dreams of a stone before it melts away, and thoughts of a cake soon to be burnt. It was the sight of the old tyrant learning that he would no longer rule in a mirror and the sound the land giving in to the inevitable destruction of its body. He felt as though he just destroyed part of who he was, though was unsure whether or not it was a good or bad thing. Though he knew he was unhappy with what just occurred.
"All things come to an end, Harry," Harry said. "It's what Dumbledore said about death. It is, in the end, the reason we fought against Voldemort our first year, because he refused to let things end. Now its your time."
"No it's not. I need to-"
"Apologize?" Harry said. He knelt down next to the figure. "Then accept that all things must end." He didn't hate Old-Harry, he didn't even pity the old spirit. There was a sense of sadness. He could have been great, a being a power that could have changed the world. But from the story, he guessed that Old-Harry did change the world, just not for the better. Maybe that was the sadness. In all things possible, this Harry lashed out. The anger and the hatred and the sadness within him destroyed his world.
Even if this wasn't a real other Harry, Harry took the even at its value. Hatred destroys. Anger destroys. Sadness destroys. All in moderation are acceptable because they are human, but once you extend yourself beyond the moderation, then all bets were off.
"And if I don't?" The voice was the sound of ancient parchment crumbling from touch.
Harry shrugged. "Your punishment isn't my concern. What is is dealing with that." He pointed at the other blob of darkness in the nothing. It had wrapped itself in the nothingness, attempting to hide in that which was Harry. The thing was afraid, just as the old spirit knew, it knew that its time had come.
"You have soundly beaten me, so why can't you destroy it."
"Its holding me hostage?" Harry could only guess. The darkness that was him helped hold the blob in him, he figured. Old-Harry laughed and then coughed.
"Close enough." the old spirit stood up and walked toward it. "Maybe you do deserve her."
"Probably not," Harry replied. "But I think I deserve the right to try."
But Old-Harry wasn't looking at him any more. He was standing over the blob hiding in nothing, looking it over. "At the very least, Harry, in my departure, know that your mind and soul are yours fully." He griped the ends of nothing and tore it away. Harry gasped as his head exploded, but he didn't look away. Underneath that which is Harry was a figure, weak and thin, emaciated and rank. He recognized it from the graveyard and Quirrell. It was Voldemort, not powerful or anything just weak and hiding until he could take over, until he could strike. A proverbial snake in the grass.
"Do you think..." Old-Harry said.
"Do I think what?"
"Do you think I'll see her again?"
Harry shrugged. This spirit wasn't a good being. He had done terrible things in anger and hate. But existence is sometimes enough of a punishment. "Maybe. Maybe Hell isn't a physical place that we all like to believe it is. Maybe its where we go when we are mad and hateful. And maybe, the hate has finally left you, so you might be able to see her again."
Old-Harry smirked and reached down to the other spirit and grabbed its arms, pulling it up. Harry felt as if something was tearing his brain apart; he could see lines attaching the Voldemort spirit to his nothingness. Old-Harry continued to pull upward, dragging Voldemort with him. The cords stretched and stretched, pulling hard and farther. Harry could barely focus at the moment and his head burned deep within. There apparently was no subtle way to remove Voldemort from his mind, and from the looks of it was firmly entrenched within him.
Someone was stretching and pulling his mind; cords and chords exploded as Old-Harry tore out the portion of Voldemort from his mind. Harry watched as memories and ideas and concepts were destroyed. These were portions of him, tied deeply into Voldemort. One can not simply cat-tank into Mordor. Little memories, large moments, and sides of him Harry knew never, all torn asunder, no longer part of him, no longer him.
Old-Harry stood still, holding up the figure of what Harry assumed to be Voldemort. Underneath the figure was pure white, emptiness for the loss of him. "In its place, I will gift you something that you need for your future, Harry," the wizened figure said. "With what you have lost, I will replace with something. Maybe a bit of power or understanding, insight or belief. I frankly don't know. But in the end, I'm sure what I give you will help.
"I am also leaving knowledge of a ritual. This ritual will release that which is you, the dark side, the powerful side, the true side. It isn't like Voldemort or myself, Harry. Something that has added on. Just as I was like you, you are like me; and our fathers were more than shown and seen. I ask only that you bind what find, for the energy and magic you release will be more than you can bear. Mr. Granger will know what to do; he seems more competent than mine. Goodbye, Harry Potter, Chosen One, Boy-Who-Lived, and Half-breed. Goodbye and Godspeed."
The world flashed white, and Harry couldn't see what Old-Harry did. But when the darkness returned. Only Old-Harry stood there, weak and tired, finally the way he should be. With a lost smile and wave, Old-Harry drifted away in a breeze, taking his body away in petals or ashes, and slowly returned him to the realms he dreamed of. Maybe Old-Harry would find happiness in the ending.
Left alone again, Harry couldn't help but wonder: how the bloody hell he was gonna get out of this one.
Author's Note:
I'm back, though not badder than ever, I still am learning more about writing each day. When I picked this story back up, I've realized that I might be able to finish it, especially since I've been writing a couple thousand words a day on this, as well as working through the story line constantly.
This story is a monster in its own right now, and though I do not own Harry Potter and wonderful Miss Granger, I can say with certainty, everything else is mine. I own my views on magic and how they are represented here.
So please, read and review, and if you are a beta looking for work, or know someone who is a beta, please have them contact me at tskwiat@gmail.com - I am more active on that email than anything else
So, release, sit back and enjoy the ride
Note: I hid an easter egg here... try to find it.