Harry Potter and the Destruction of Magic

Author's Note: This is a pseudo-sequel to a previous story I wrote and finished rather abruptly. But in truth, I am exploring the simply fact that magic is a lot more than just what the wizarding world offers. It has to be. Its the same understanding that various religions can come to the same result through different methods, or that science has countless ways of analyzing a problem in different fields that often look to produce the same thing. Magic is. This is undeniable. So the story then comes to how does a person respond to the world of magic as it is, now, constantly in flux.

I start with Hermione and her view in the fact that she is the most logic and in a way accepting of change than anyone else. Harry is the catalyst so to start with him is a bit awkward but nevertheless this is a story about Harry and his trials and tribulations.

I will also explore various “holy” ideas of fanfiction, things that we accept to be true without question, one of which is prophecy and how the characters respond. I will also be looking at how various characters respond to others, how people grow in a natural and fluid manner, including all pitfalls and faults. I want this to be as real as possible, so please give feedback on how a character is acting.

Standard disclaimer applied, please enjoy.

It's hard, sometimes, to think about others before we think about ourselves. It's hard to differentiate between the now and the future, before the now has left and past us behind. What's harder is to do the right thing for the other person, no matter how hard it is on us now and then. The point of all of this -

"Mum," his daughter screamed and Dan Granger's hands shook from the keyboard, his body cringing in recoil from the angry and frustration within that voice. Hermione had been home for three days and that was all it took for his wife and daughter to be on each others nerves. Like mother, like daughter. He saved his file and turned off the computer, stepping away for a moment until the chaos and the yelling ended.

The study was his Fortress of Solitude, where he keep all his little memories from a previous life. Where he stored his books, his ideas, himself, away from his family, so when he left his study, he could be the father he was, not the man he used to be. Turning off the only light in the room, an oil lamp, he walked away from the black oak desk, runes covered almost every inch of it. His feet flowed across the ground, and as he left, a point on the floor glowed briefly, so much so that he didn't even notice.

"Daddy!" A bushy-haired bullet shot down the hallway and hugged him as closed the door. Despite having finished her third year at her school, Hermione still was enamored with her father, though the shine was disappearing. He was a knight after all... when she wasn't thinking of her other knight and worrying about him. Her hugs weren't as tight anymore, and often she would disappear into her room to write a letter for her other knight, letters that she would rarely send. Though, Emma was more upset about their daughter's crush than he was. Maybe because he had accepted a long time ago that one could not help who they loved. His eyes meet his wife's and knew that this was one fight that his daughter was going to lose, as he could not fight her wishes.

"What seems to be the problem, pumpkin?" He stepped back from her and looked down at the tears that had stained his daughter's face. She had started to try make-up last year, nothing extravagant but enough that he could see the lines where the tears were falling. Emma was so proud when Hermione wanted to go buy make-up last year. It wasn't that they weren't proud before, hallway was filled with awards that she had won: music, spelling bees, dance, even an odd art one every once in a while. Hermione's greatest power was her focus. He had seen her sit and read entire collection of books simply because she was focused enough to sit and read and memorize.

"I want her to see our doctor." Emma spoke, pleading with her eyes. Dan nodded and looked back at Hermione.Â

"I don't need to go," Hermione pleaded. "I'm perfectly fine. Madam Pomfrey gives the Muggle-Born-"

"You know I dislike that term, pumpkin," Dan said. Hermione just shrugged and continued.

"An exam each year we come back. I don't see the point-"

"Are wizards always healthy?" Emma asked.

"No, but-"

"Do they have to deal with the same illnesses as we do?"

"No, though-"

"Then what is the argument? Our doctor will give you just a basic exam. No worries."

"I talked with Madame Pomfrey, she said everything was alright, no worries-"

"Well, just to be on the safe side, I'm sure it won't be trouble to-"

"I'm fine. I'm healthy, there is nothing wrong with me." The Granger stubborn gene came from Emma, he swore. He wanted to glare at her, his daughter or his wife, but that would only make the situation worse.Â

"We're not saying that there is anything wrong with you, but rather its just a precautionary move." Emma said, though repeated would make more sense. Dan could tell that this was the exact same argument they were having in the hallway. "I'm sure we could find a doctor to go to in the magical world as well if that is your worry. Its important to cover your bases Hermione. And you haven't had a physical in quite some time."

"Three years." Hermione didn't look up when she added the information.

"Three years it is then; so you can see why this is important." It had been four years since Hermione had entered the wizarding world, and the past three had really changed their little girl. Something dreadful occurred last year, and if was obvious for Dan to notice, then something was terrible wrong.

"Okay, well, Mum has presented her points, so what is your argument?" Dan asked. He stood up and looked down at Hermione. She was slowly growing up, standing at a five feet six inches. At his full height, he stood well above her, and his wife. Hermione remained quiet, and shuffled her feet, her eyes staring at the biege carpet of their second floor. "Do you have an argument? Anything to say against it?"

"I don't want to?" she said. Emma smirked at Dan and Hermione, enjoying her victory, it seemed. But no one ever said Hermione was anything but stubborn. "Please don't make me go." Dan was shocked to hear the voice of his daughter, a voice he had not heard in three years. The quiet scared little girl he knew for most of her life until she left for that godawful school, away from him and her mother. Emma walked to her daughter and knelt down, taking the place of Dan. She wrapped Hermione in a hug and held her tight.  Dan took a step back. Consoling his daughter when she was angry was one thing, when she was about to cry, completely different and a topic to be feared. "Please, mum."

"I don't understand." Dan looked at his daughter as though he would a book, something to be read and analyzed. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. His daughter was brave and brazen almost, willing to charge into anything.  The last doctor's appointment three years ago led to the most questions about health he had ever heard, cumulative, and he was dentist for Christs' sake. They had a shelf filled with medical books, some journals even from Hermione' curiosity. No something had changed, and he would figure it out, quickly and effectively for the sake of his family.

"Just please, please don't make me go."Â A flash of dark light and he knew that there was a problem, one that stemmed from a spell cast upon his daughter.

"Honey your health is very impor-"

"Please?!" Hermione practically screamed into her mother's shoulder and a vase exploded down the hall. "please, don't make me go, I'm begging you. I-I-I-" A wave of his hand and Hermione feel asleep. Â

"Daniel, you swore-" She was shocked at her husbands blatant disregard for his own rules.  Even he was acting in the best interests of his daughter.

"I swore first and foremost that I would protect my family." He said as he rushed to his daughter, who was limp in Emma's arms. "Even if that means from themselves." His hand glowed, or more specifically the pentagram that was burned into his palm glowed bright purple, as he whispered in a forgotten tongue. Emma smiled despite her worries, and even Hermione's face slowly turned into a smile as peaceful dreams danced in her head. "No, someone has infected our daughter."

"Infected?" He recognized the spell work from years ago, a spell that removed or altered a part of the mind for the betterment of the caster. It was a wand spell. If he could spit he would.

"For lack of a better term, honey" The colors changed form purple to white, and he lowered his hand onto Hermione's forehead. "Her mind was being altered, by a wanded-one. I don't know who, but it was powerful, and advanced. This was no minor spell, but strong one connected to her cognitive skills, designed to make her fear or distrust, or maybe even the opposite, I don't know who-"

"Doctors?" Emma added and petted back Hermione's hair. The static in the air was making her daughter's hair frizz up, as was hers.Â

"No, not doctors. Something else. I can't figure it out from the spell, but something is missing, something that was important to pumpkin." The pentagram changed from white to blue, and Dan's hand started to shake. He was worried as he read over the spell that had been cast. It had been years since he even tried something like this, and he was never a healer, certainly not a mind one. His power was in destruction, or more precisely, removal of obstacles in his way.  Could he convince his magic that this was simply that, an obstacle in this argument?

"Do we need my floor?" Emma was worried and rightfully so. Between them, he was unsure if he could help his daughter. This was needed to be done now, the repair might take his wife's powers, but not now. Now was simply a battle of wills. Dan's versus his magic.

"No, here should be fine." His eyes flared blue and his entire hand glowed. If he was paying attention to anything other than his daughter, he would have seen Emma's hair floating up. He would have a red spark jump across the room from outlet to outlet.  His chanted his mantra over and over. begone... begone... begone... begone... begone... begone... as his hand remained millimeters from Hermione's forehead. He didn't hear his wife softly speak, her words, well word, was long and fast, perfect in every syllable and pronunciation. He didn't see her eyes change into gold, and light erupt from her mouth. Dan Granger didn't see any of this. He was simply focused on helping his daughter.Â

begone, begone, begone, begone begone begone begone begonebegonebegonebegonebegonebeg-

A shadow stretched out from Hermione's mouth, grasping at the air. Emma jerked back, dropping her daughter into Dan's arms. This was not the world she knew, and it frightened her. Rightfully so.  The world was dark. Much darker than Hermione knew, than Emma realized, than Dan faced. The shadow formed into a hand and pulled itself out of the open mouth, gripping her lower jaw and pressing down. Dan prayed he didn't hear popping or the breaking of bone as the hand pulled a shoulder out and then another shoulder and finally with both out, wiggled a smaller arm of his daughter. No head was visible. As the shadow pulled its chest out, two faint outlines of eyelids of a single large eye was center on the shadow. With a sloppy plop, two stubby feet appeared and standing on his daughter's face was this creature of darkness.

And it opened its eye.Â

Dan stared at the creature with equal fervor and power, his eyes returning the empty glare the shadow gave him out of single bloodshot eye.  A staring contest of masters. and all Dan could do was chant under his breath: begonebegonebegonebegonebegonebegoNEBEGONE BEGONE! the final word was followed by an explosion of the creature, the shadow covering the walls and disappearing into the air.

For a moment, all Dan and Emma could do was breathe. The problem was Hermione wasn't.

******

"You're daughter breathing on her own now," the doctor said. "Her heart rate is stable and everything else seems to be in order." A glance over his shoulder to the bushy-haired girl lying on the hospital bed showed his lack of concern. "She's a very lucky girl." The doctor was short, and the balding head reflected the light well, probably shined with shoe polish. His white medical coat was spotless but his shirt beneath it was smeared with what looked like mustard.

"Clearly," Emma replied, her eyes not moving from her daughter. They brought her quickly to hospital, one where a doctor was an old colleague of Dan's. Sadly, he wasn't on duty to play deus ex machina at the moment, so a random pediatrician took over their semi-catatonic daughter. "Can we go in?"

"Certainly," the man continued, looking down at his watch. "Shall I assume that you will be staying with her?"

"Of Course," Dan said as he walked right past the man, leaving Emma to deal with the fool. The only reason why they had brought Hermione to this hospital was Dr. Stephens, a...man from the Old Days. And the old bastard wasn't available, whatever that meant. He didn't care about these useless doctors who believed they understood what had happen to his daughter, who said that it was simply a nervous breakdown from something. Dan and Emma did nothing to alleviate that thought, simply because it was easier to explain the danger that had finally past. There would be answers to come, he was sure of it, by his hand or someone else's. His left hand glowed slightly before he hid it within his jacket.

His daughter was not dead, and it wasn't the machines that told him this, the quiet beeping of the heart and the silent sizzle of a monitor. It wasn't the slow and methodical up and down motion of her chest, the deep breathes his daughter gave to the world and took away. No, the color of her cheeks, the soft rose that was never there before, the smoothness that he could see him here, the color, the life, that was within his daughter that was not within her for the past three years. She was alive and well, but was she the Hermione who learned the magic. Would she be happy? Normal? Safe? He couldn't protect his family all that well against a wanded-one, whose flexibility was the greatest advantage. And the power.... the power that this one specific wanded-one-

"Dan?" His wife's voice and gentle hand on his shoulder awoke him from his revelry.Â

"You've never seen anything like this?" It wasn't an accusation, but Dan needed to know. the Warrior within him, the one he quieted for the past thirteen years, needed to know.

"There is a sect that summons and binds..." she started. "But no, in all my research, I have yet to see anything like this. Whatever happened to Hermione....what did happen?"

Dan shrugged. "You know how strange the wanded magic can be, not straight forward like your words or my spells. No... what happened tonight is something new and as dark-"

"As the day is long?" A low and dull voice said behind them. If Dan wasn't paying attention, he probably would have forgotten that something had even been said. Emma would never forget though.

"Geoff..." The venom was strong in her voice. Dan knew his wife was pronouncing the name of his old colleague correctly, unlike most of them who simply just called the man Geoff because it was as close as they could to pronounce the name. Standing behind them in a black medical coat, button tightly and a stethoscope hanging from his neck, was an unsupposing...man. He held only a black cane, with a silver curved hook at the top, one he did not use for support. Dan never remember what Dr. Stephens looked like, only that it was average. He felt the air drop around him, not temperature, but become harder, his breathes became labored but nevertheless his eyes did not turn away from Dr. Geoff Stephens. One who did rarely was better for it.

"Emmanis-"

"I no longer go by that name!" She shouted and a breathe of light sparked for a moment from her mouth. "I will not tarnish myself with that name."

"Easy, Em's." Dan's turn to calm down his partner. Years had past since they had seen the old...man, but time hadn't affected him at all. "Dr. Stephens is here for Hermione."

"Yes, I remember..." He walked into the room right past the parents, and straight over the to the sleeping girl. "You're excuse for leaving."Â He placed his bag that wasn't there before down and took a seat next to Hermione, and proceeded to give her a routine check: temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, magic levels, divinity rating, Spes Ferre Test, etc. Routine.

"My reason, Dr." Dan replied. Emma remained rooted in her spot in the doorway, while Dan ventured into the room. He stood as far away from the man as possible, yet still near his daughter.

"That is what I said, no?" Dr. Stephens listened to her heart for a moment. "Up on the sixth floor, laying in room 652, and hopefully still breathing, is a..." Dr. Stephens shuffled his instruments in his bag, which was probably why there was a pause, Dan hoped. "Child whom I believe would interest you."

"The only child whom interests me-"Â Emma started, but a hand from the doctor silenced her.

"Not you, woman. Dan'el. He would be the one who should take a look-"

"I stand by my wife's statement."Â Prior to leaving the Order, Dan was part of the many people who sought out and dealt with new recruits, both for their side and others. That was only thing that Stephens would believe would interest him, especially since his daughter had become his purpose in his new life.

"As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted," Dr. Stephens paused again, but his eyes stayed on Hermione. "He would be the one who takes a look as payment."

Dan sighed. This was not going to be fun, pretty, or even prosperous in the least.  The last time Dr. Stephens had requested payment for something, Dan left without the use of his right arm for almost six months and barely walking. Probably was the reason why it was also the last time they had seen the old...man. "Fine."

"Dan?!"

"I have no real choice," Dan replied, looking at his stationary wife. "Not if we want answers for what happened to our daughter." Emma glared at her husband but a brief and almost non-existent look toward her daughter was all he needed to know that she had accepted. he would in be trouble later with her, but she had accepted it.

"652, you said, correct?"Â No response from the doctor so Dan assumed that the number was correct.

The journey to the room was worthless and quiet, and Dan preferred not to dwell on it.  Just as his thoughts preferred not to dwell on the task at hand. The doctor mentioned nothing more than to check on the boy, one who would interest him. Sadly, given Dan's focus on his daughter, there wasn't much that interested him at ...the...moment.

He halted about three doors down from 652. The floor was empty, the air stale and dry, the lights flickering. Thunder cracked outside, and for a moment, Dan was sure he was alone as the darkness left the hallway.  A nurse bustled in and out of rooms, fast paced, focused on their tasks. So some other patients were here. Then why the - Another crack and the lightning appeared to shatter the glass of the window far down the hall. The room was the only one lit at this hour, and no nurse entered the room, and no one exited.  As all the other lights drifted from on off, on off, on off, that remained constant. Dan walked down the hall, gliding around a nurse who rushed past him, and stood in the door way, trying to understand why he was sent here.Â

Lying on the bed, with a large gauze covering his bare chest, a tube coming out of his throat, and the soft gentle beating of a machine signifying the heart was still working, was a boy no older than Hermione, he hoped. The cast on the arm and the multiple bruises across his body were not good signs. He grabbed the chart on the end of the bed and pulled the curtain around them, leaving the boy and Dan alone in solitude as he over looked the chart.Â

Harry Potter? he read. The boy who Hermione is always on about? What is he- his eyes scanning the rest of the medical chart, every drug given and every choice made, every cut. There was a chart even with a scale of Harry's body that showed all the scars, and Dear God! He closed the page and turned away, throwing it away to a spare chair.

"Dear boy, what did they do to you?" He stood next to Harry's bed and placed a hand on the child's forehead. He was too thin for a boy his age and much too short. His hair was shaggy and wild, though that might be from the surgery and moving him around. Just as Dan went to move, to figure out why Dr. Stephens had sent him here, Harry's hand shot out and grabbed hands holding him still. His eyelids burst open and powerful green eyes stared at the older man. "I understand." He barely spoke, as if the words refused to leave his throat.

When a child is born, for a single moment before the child opens its eyes, sometimes there is a chance for the divinity of good and evil to take possession of said child and curse or bless, depending on who took possession. After that brief possession, the child is destined for very great things. Very great. This was not the case with Harry. Sometimes, a child is born with the heritage of the divinity, back to the first. That child is destined for very great things. That was not the case with Harry, either. Neither he subject standard possession nor selling of his soul. No, with Harry, the problem came from the simple fact that sometimes, when woman is tired and angry and frustrated, and her husband, or wife in the stranger cases, was something....more, that something more grew up, and was for lack of a better term, human, though divine in the same moment. Harry wasn't normal that was for certain, but his curse and his blessing Dan had seen enough in the bodies of other men and women, other children, to know how strange and wonderful and terrifying it was.

Especially since what he was seeing was impossible. Hidden beneath the emerald gaze of this boy, behind the eyes and skin, was the darkest power he knew. There was no real gift that allowed a person to see what was there, only an understanding and the knowledge that if you look in the right way through the right mindset at the right time, you could tell. This child may human, but he shouldn't be. Not by the level of power he was producing.

"Do you know his parentage?" he asked to the...man who appeared in thin air behind him. Dr. Stephens took a step forward into the room, across from Dan, next to Harry. Harry shifted closer to Dan, away from the other...man. Dan took Harry's hand and held it tightly, trying to give strength to the frightened boy. Whatever brought Harry here, the horror would not end tonight.

"Pity, he is still breathing," Dr. Stephen said. He put his bag upon the ground and hung his cane on a machine next to him, balancing the straight hook to hold it up. The silver reflected the light well from the room. "I have figured out that his father is not a full devil. However, even you who has lost your touch can see what I see. See what he is, is he not?"

"A Hell's child?" Dan asked, but looked at Harry. "But he hasn't the marking of-" This boy should be one of the few who were born from a family of power, of great, terrible power. There was nothing, however, to support that statement. Harry's parents were normal, wanders for sure, but normal, weren't they? None of his research indicated that James or Lily Potter were anything but human.

"A half, I know. This is a lineage thing, not a parentage, though from those I met before," Dr. Stephens reached into his coat for something. "they would called the first Father." He removed a scalpel and Harry was helpless to watch what would follow, at least his body was. His eyes glared, no longer afraid, though, daring the man to try.

He didn't think, he didn't even realize what he had done until it was over. Dan reached across the bed and pulled Dr. Stephens by his lapels, throwing him against the outer wall, placing himself between the kind doctor and the wounded boy. "You will not harm him." He swore an oath after Hermione's birth, after the birth of his angel, to never allow that decision to occur again. Never to prejudge them again. Harry Potter was a good kid from Hermione's stories, if they were true. And if not, Dan prayed he had enough power to stop the child should he ever cross that line. But he was a child nevertheless and no child deserved that fate because of some bigoted fool.

"He is a devil," Dr. Stephens said, fixing his coat, and brushing himself off. "You know the law."

"I left, Geoff. I left because of that law."

"Yes, I know of your sympathies."

"I will not kill an innocent child."

"There is nothing innocent about them."

"Good or evil is not decided at birth. There is no such thing as Fate, as Destiny."

"You're words, not mine, Dan'el." Dan growled, and picked the old...man up again, holding him off the ground and leaving his feet the dangle beneath him. Harry watched helpless as the light vanished from the room, sinking into Dan as he summoned the energy to do what he had to. "If you continue this... fight, Dan'el, you're family will die."

"You stay the fuck away from my family, you f'-" Dan was thrown across the room, shattering the outer wall. Thankfully, his momentum died just after hitting the wall, landing on the inside of the room, rather than outside with the rubble six floors down.

"Dan'el, Dan'el, Dan'el." Dr. Stephens glided across the floor, grabbing his cane, his staff, his scythe before reaching the fallen man. "You seem to believe that this is a simple fight that you could win. I am the oldest because I have survived. This child should die because that is the way, not because it is good or evil. When will you see that? These concepts you humans like: Good, Evil, right, wrong. They don't exist. They are all just figments of your imagination. In the end, there is only what needs to be done to maintain the balance. The more of his kind that finds their way into the world, the more danger the world is in. You saw that once. What happened? When did you get soft?"

"I will not...murder... children, Stephens..." Dan was breathing hard. Dr. Stephens was doing something, hardening the air. He had seen it once before during an interrogation, and the man's lungs collapsed on themselves, crushed by a boulder the mortician said. Between the throw and now the deadening air, he was in trouble. He tried mutter his mantra, but words would not come out. His mind, unfocused. begon...e, beg....one, b...ego...ne....

"It isn't murder if they aren't human." He leaned forward and stared through his black glasses, for which Dan was grateful the...man never took them off. There were so many stories, no facts, for a reason. Dr. Geoff Stephens, a pseudonym of the nth degree, had lived a long and blood-filled life. He was always part of the Order, from the beginning until the end. And there was a reason for his survival: he was the strongest of them. "I hoped that you would see that, Dan'el. You were one of the best and brightest. What happened?" Dan stuttered, trying to fight back, but his arms were tired, his legs refused to move. "Shhh, don't speak." be....gon...e, be....go...ne.....b...e...gon...e " It'll be over soon. Then, after I clean up this little.... accident.... I will attend to your family down stairs. Pity to kill a daughter of Eve." b...e...g...ooooooo "You will be with them shor-" A metal bar was sticking of the Stephens' chest, along with various pieces of meaty flesh and bone, and well... something else that Dan could see.Â

He gasped as his lungs started to work again.  "Oi, wanker." A voice said, and Dr. Stephens stared at the broken metal jutting from him. "Over my dead body." Dan could see, he could barely move, but he heard a boy's voice, a kid no older than his daughter. Where did he come from, how was he not effective against-

Dr. Stephens' laughter interrupted the thought. "You really think that a silly metal bar would kill me."

The kid snorted. "No," he replied. "But it was enough for you to stop paying attention to where I was." Dr. Stephen twisted around to see a fist coming toward him. Dan watched as Harry Potter, the boy who had just came out of major surgery from a knife wound nicking his right ventricle along with countless other injuries, punched an immortal man hard enough to go through the wall and out into the rain below.Â

For a moment, Dan couldn't believe his eyes. It wasn't his magic that saved him; he couldn't even summon the words to control his magic. The lack of oxygen left his brain all confused and muddled, and here Harry stood up from his wound and went toe-to-toe with one of the Dominions in the world.  Harry stood probably shy of five eight, and was incredibly thin, emaciated almost. Yet he stood as though he were the caped crusader himself, threatening a villain with a mere glance. Which was interesting because he was wearing a hospital gown. His eyes, bright green, shown and almost glowed with a terrible power threatening to break out. "You need to go, Mr. Granger."

"Harry, I don't know-" No halfie, no Hell's Child could have done what Harry did. A full demon or devil would have been hard pressed. It was impossible. In all his years as an Order member, it was strictly impossible for a halfie do to that.

"Dan!" Emma's voice broke what ever held him down. She rushed over and hugged him tightly. "Dear God, what happened here."

"Mum? Dad?" Hermione's voice came from the hallway. It would be moments before she entered the room and saw the aftermath. Then the questions would start. Dan hurried to his feet and practically ran to the door, hoping to stop Hermione from entering. A vice-like grip on his arm stopped him.

"Mr. Granger," Harry said, staring into his eyes.  The depths of the green sun were amazing, blinding even. Harry's eyes no longer had pupils, iris, or anything, there were just green orbs of power. Bright. Alive. Green. Good. "Dan, you need to go."

"Harry, I-I-I" he stammered, and Harry just smirked. The room was calm again, silent. Had the rain stopped, why wasn't his wife asking questions-

"You can preform a summoning ritual, right?"

"Emma can."

"What do I need to summon part of me that has died?" An odd question, but answerable. Heard stranger from back home.

"A holy relic, or part of one. Any religion, though preferable one that the deceased was part of."

"My parents were Catholic. Any suggestions?"Â Hermione would be coming in here any moment and Harry was asking these pointless questions.

"Shroud of Turin would work."

"All of it."

"No, well, maybe, in theory just a square inch would work. We have the rest at my home." This was a casual conversation on a Sunday. Harry nodded.Â

"Thank you." With another smirk, Harry turned and started at a run and followed Dr. Stephens out into the pouring rain. Rain? Hadn't it stopped?

"Dan!" Emma hugged him tightly just as his daughter, dressed and ready to go, entered the room. "You're alright." Thunder sounded outside, and the lights within the room flickered like the rest.
Â
"Dad?" Hermione asked, standing in the door way. "What happened here?" She took in the room, the chaos, the destruction, and her father standing confused.

"I honestly," Dan replied. "don't know." He looked out the hole in the wall where Harry had left. The hole that was gone, and all the damage oblivated from the room. Only thing of Harry's that remained was the medical chart on the chair he discarded. "I honestly don't have the slightest clue what just happened." He looked at Emma and frowned. "And that frightens me."

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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.

Chapter 3

“Listen to your father, dear,” Emma said. Â The Grangers arrived at Aeroporti di Roma very early in the morning, despite leaving their house at ten in the morning. The flight was only a few hours at most and yet, it seemed to take forever to get there. Â It took a lot longer than her father wanted to leave, too, partly due to some negotiating that had to be done. Â Hermione didn't feel comfortable in the room with the fat sleazy Cockney, but Emma reassured her, despite some rather rude looks from the slob, that they had nothing to fear. She felt better when her father took the man into the next room and returned wiping blood off his knuckles, proclaiming that everything was taken care of and they would leave as soon as the plane was brought out of the hangar. Hermione wanted to ask questions, her nature didn't allow her silence, but a plea from her mother and a command from her father kept her mouth shut until they were on the plane.

“Whatever happens, whatever you see, remember that you are protected, hun,” her father said once they were alone in a private jet. This was a new world and she was excited. Something to learn, and however quickly it occurred, Hermione would pick up everything, if only to organize it later.

The time on the plane was spent going over their plan to retrieve Harry from the Vatican. Her father stated that they would not let the boy go easily, but that wouldn't stop him. He figured he had some pull, if not, well, he would find some ways. Her mother was more sure of what was going to occur, and spent the next few hours on the plane writing something on paper her pulled from her bag with inks and quills Hermione had never seen before. One feather shifted colors of the rainbow, though it looked rather scaly. The smells that originated from the stack of inks rivaled the potions laboratory(and she refused to call it anything else given how mad scientist it all was sometimes) and Hermione could have sworn one ink moaned as her mother used it. She wasn't quite sure if it was in pain or pleasure from the moan, but she quickly moved away to the other side of the plan after that, leaving Emma with a smile on her face as she continued to write whatever she was writing.

Her father, on the other hand, sat in a corner of the plan, holding onto the arms of his chair for dear life. Â Dan's first act when they got on the plane was to close every single blind then sit very far away from the cabin. Making a stiff drink from the liquor cabinet near him was his second priority. He talked briefly to Hermione, saying only to follow his lead and stay a step behind him while appearing to take notes on everything she saw and heard, before he downed his first drink and started a second one, this time the cognac that he had was filled to the brim of a cold goblet.

All in all, the flight over was quiet and calm, though Hermione could have sworn that she heard roaring of something outside, and when she went to look, her father yelled at her to keep the blinds closed. Her curiosity would have to be put on hold for the moment. So she was left reading the few books her father had allowed her to bring with, detailing some of basic history of the world she would be entering.

She read all five books, the smallest one thousand pages, three times before the plane landed, with over an hour to spare. Â She might have skimmed towards the end of the books just out of boredom and desire to be there finally.

Most of the books contradicted each other, and none of them agreed on the origin of magic. Some stated that it was here prior to the world was created and that God simply built over it.  Some believed that the world was formed from Chaos, and the God shaped what occurred next using magic.   The differences went even further when the books went into the use of magic itself.  The only one that she felt she could get a straight answer from what this book titled Magic: an Idiot's Guide  by Anonymous.  She thought her father gave it to you her as a joke, but it ended up, despite the massive number of pages in it, being the best of all five.  Magic wasn't simple. It wasn't easily divided and defined, for it was different for everyone who experienced it.  Wanded ones were the exception, for they developed their society as such, but even then, even everyone within that specific culture had a different connection to magic. Â

Brief tales and lists of various types of magic users, and the author apparently wanted to make the distinction clear to the reader: magic is, and because it is, it can not be perceived as whole. So the users break it down however they could attempt to perceive it, thus creating their existence. The options weren't limitless, if only limited by a prejudice and preconceptions of people, and therefore preconceptions of magic. Â Furthermore, magic was passed through bloodlines, though sometimes odd things could occur. A mage would produce mage after mage through their line, though sometimes, that form of magic could be alter or skipped. It might even not exist for a while before suddenly showing up again. Â And none of this precluded the idea that magic could be learned.

The author considered this list to be grossly under representing of the magic world, stating that if anything, this did not cover the ethnic variations and selections, focusing mostly on some of the more popular ones of Europe and North America. Though popular did not mean strongest and certainly did not mean many. Â These were just few of the more well known magic varieties, even if they were selective and secretive. This text touched briefly on the `wanded ones', referring to the magic that Hermione grew up in. More secretive and hidden than most magic, they had segregated themselves in their superiority, believing because they could mimic most magic with the least amount of effort, they simply were the best. An idea that the author did not agree to.

Another text, again authored by anonymous and was probably older than Magic: An Idiot's Guide, focused solely on the magics of a warlock. Â It seems that while all warlocks are different in what they do, their connection to their magic is similar: a bending of the will of magic by forcing one's will on top of it. A warlock could do anything if they forced magic to act the way they wanted. Â Some created fire, burning the air with their magic. Another might just removed obstacles, as the author wrote of a famous one, though what the obstacle might be was left to the judgment of the warlock. Their power was only limited by the will of the user.

The third book, which without a translation spell, was rather limited, but offered a summary of what this author named as speakers or truenamers, a scholarly school of magic where a lifetime of research often only lead to a few words known. But they believed there was power in knowledge, certainly in words. With the right set of words, a speaker could change reality. For they spoke the original language, the one that born all the worlds and possibilities. In their mouths and souls, they knew how to bend time, space and understanding to their well. Â Â Â A myth existed that some of the first speakers knew words that could unname a being, dissolving them into nothing. Â

The other texts were just propaganda against “wanded ones”, speaking against their reasons to leave the known magic world and form their own community. Despite being radicals, it seemed, wanded magic was the most popular drawing attention from everywhere and people from everywhere. Â In fact, there was an article about the foundation of a school under the Merlyn Principles, though this was the last fully acknowledge school of wanded magic by the magic community.

In all, the books did nothing to enlightened her, though Hermione believed that she had much to learn about the world before she felt ready again. Especially this new world. She wondered if they had a library she could see, or borrow. Â Keep would be better.

Dan Granger watched as his daughter began her descent into his world. Â She had finished all the books quickly, too quickly in fact. The trip would be long, he knew that, even if normally it wouldn't take half of the time; they had to travel in a round about manner to even get to the Vatican. The issue wasn't time. Â If Harry was the being who disrupted Dr. Stephens, then he should be alright. The time was more for his daughter to get to know at least part of the world she was going to be entering, but also for him to observe her. Â

Emma first noticed the strangeness of his daughter five years before, though this was after the first magic she preformed. Â One day, when she was home from the office, she watched how Hermione read over thirty books about animals, most of them taken from the library without a library pass. Â But that wasn't the odd part. Â That night, at dinner, Hermione began to tell them all that she learned, spouting out incredible detailed passages above mollusks of all things. Then she moved onto extinct creatures and their bone structures, pointing out the measurements of a raptor's leg bones. This could have gone on for hours, if Emma didn't put a stop to it and got a conversation going on the latest children television shows, a vice that Hermione still enjoyed during the summer. Dan returned the books the next month, after checking every single fact that his daughter said, for his sake not Hermione's. Â His daughter was smart, borderline genius, and had always been a fast reader. But this was new. Â

There were rumors and myths floating around of Learners, magical beings who could learn and absorb knowledge as people can breath air and see. Â They could look at a building and know everything about it, strengths and weakness, as well as the greatest chance for escape or destruction. One myth claimed that a Learner was responsible for the discovery of magic, that with a look, they understood how the world worked and how to make it better. Â It was the arrogance that made Learners dangerous; because in knowing everything, they never understood anything. Â The few times a so called Learner attempted to take over was devastating to the world, not just magic. But there was never proof that it was really a Learner or that they were anything more than they appeared. Â No one had met one in person, but everyone claimed to know someone who knew one.

The truth of the matter was much simpler, in Dan's opinion. Like all things in magic, it was hard to discern fact from myth, but in the end it is possible with enough study and inquiry. A Learner was simply gifted with the ability to learn and acquire knowledge often in different ways. The application of the knowledge was where the real power was. Thus, critical thinking and logic were skills that his daughter would need in her future. Â Skills that the last two years threatened to take away. Â Now was the time for rebuilding, even if it took more than time.

The flight took ten hours in total. Â From some maps and quick math with just very basic estimation (Hermione Granger does not guess, but educated estimations based on logic was acceptable), she figured out that at most the flight should have been two and half hours, baring no delays and clear weather. Somehow, they were traveling somewhere that wasn't Rome, but when they stepped out of the plane, they arrived at the Aeroporti di Roma. Â

********

Back in London, ten hours earlier, the Order of the Phoenix was attempting to figure out what happened at Privet Drive Number 4, especially since it was currently a pile of smouldering ruins. Â Remus Lupin and a young Auror who introduced herself as Tonks were sent there once the first alarm was raised that something was wrong with the building. When they arrived, after running a few blocks to the house, they found the entire block inaccessible. They saw massive red trucks pull up and men pour out of them, spraying water from somewhere to put out the fire.

Remus stood still, unable and unwilling to move from the spot as he watched the Muggles attempt to save the burning house. He didn't need to be a werewolf to smell the burning flesh within the building, even as far as they were. Â For years, he was prevented from seeing Harry, by law, by promise and by guilt. Law prevented him from seeing Harry for years, through wards and curses. Promise simple held him away, a foolish promise that he wouldn't even grant the chance of leading danger to Harry, a promise he gave to Dumbledore. And guilt forced him into a bottle each night, simply because of the pain he caused as a werewolf, and his inability to help his friends in their hour of need.

But the worst of it, the thing that forced him to face an awful truth that burned deep within the core of him, was the smell. Â His werewolf senses sometimes bleed into his human form, forcing him to know things that he shouldn't know. Â Like that burnt human smelled so much like the meat he ate every day to help sate the wolf within him. Â That body's muscle could have been beef, the fat pork, the cerebral fluid a sweet perfume to add to the wonderful smells of the dead. Â This of course was only if the body was fresh, for rotten is rotten, and there is no sense in eating the rotten. And hidden underneath all of it, deep within the smell of cooking food, Remus smelled that which was dead and lost, something from his past that he swore wouldn't return: brimstone.

Tonks was smelled it too, meaning the idea of brimstone was burned into the surroundings. The actual scent was hidden within the fire and the bodies and the people and the sweat and tears, too low for anyone human to smell. But the idea was there, which worried Remus more than the fact that Harry's body was missing, meaning he was alive, though there were no leads. Â

“I swear, Professor, the entire neighborhood was out, watching the firefighters deal with the mess. Â We stood there, watching them deal with it. Â Couldn't get close enough to see, but once the fire was contained, they only brought out three body bags,” Tonk finished her report. “They were identified as the Dursley's. Â There was no sign of Harry.”

Despite it being Sirius' house, Dumbledore sat at the head of the table, his fingers tented and staring straight ahead. Â He was thinking or planning, and Remus could only assume the worst was yet to come. Â Tonks put her paper down. Â Remus couldn't help but admit that she was attractive, though he wasn't sure if that was the wolf speaking or him. Â The problem with lychanthropy; there were two sides of everything, a bestial being within him tearing to get out and threatening to consume him and all he knew. Â Â There were days he could control it, and days it threatened to devour him. Â With Tonks, apparently devour had a different sense, and for once, Remus couldn't disagree.

“The worst part of it was the smell.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore replied. “Smelling human bodies is something-”

“No, not that Professor,” Tonks said. “It was this rotten egg smell that I couldn't get rid of. It got into my cloths too.” Sirius, Alastor, and Dumbledore stiffened, though probably for similar reasons though they might not know that. This was not going to end well, and probably a bit bloody from the  Sirius shot Remus a look before standing up.

“Everyone, leave.” Remus had heard this voice a few times, it was Lord Black showing himself, when he needed something done, and he couldn't trick his way through it. Sirius Black was a strong, enigmatic man who was always in control of himself, even if he didn't realize it. There was a reason why the core of the Marauders were so close, and it wasn't the reason that everyone thought it was. Â “Now.”

The Order of the Phoenix was a volunteer group, a collective of like minded people who were focused on the demise of Voldemort, especially since the government was not. There was no more than thirty people in the group, though less often showed up to the meetings now that they started again. Â They followed Albus Dumbledore, the leader of the light, who gladly played chessmaster, even if that wasn't his intention. The members expected orders from him, for he was the most powerful, by their standards, and as far as they knew, amongst them, and Ablus Dumbledore was rarely wrong. Â When Sirius order people out, though, it was new for them, but they did listen, especially since it was his house after all. Each glared at Sirius as they left, though. Â “Tonks, stay.”

Alastor and Dumbledore did not move, though Remus walked over to Tonks, who looked oddly worried. He offered a smile and she returned it, her hair shifting from the vibrant pink to a more subdued brown. Remus wanted to offer words of encouragement, but he really didn't know what to say. Â She was worried and he assumed it because Sirius was the Lord Black, who, despite Andrometra “removal” from the family, was head of the family. Â Only conviction of murder could remove it, and even then in a separate trial by his peers. Â So his imprisonment did nothing to limit his power, despite the government's search for him. Â Meaning that Tonks feared that she had done something wrong, for she alone was kept behind. Â

Sirius Black could impose himself anywhere, a talent granted to every Black from what Remus knew. Â Sirius' grandfather was said to have silence a room without a sound, and part crowds with but a glance. Â It seems it was not an exaggeration. Prior to his imprisonment, Sirius was a playboy, a man-child who had no purpose but to enjoy himself and life. Â He had his friends and family, though wasn't really close to the latter, but never a real purpose in his life. Even fighting was nothing but a game to him. Even with Azkaban, he hadn't changed and talked about finding himself a nice bird and showing her a good time. Â But now, with the disappearance of Harry and the reignition of a flame best left dead, Sirius Black, the child, had apparently decided to step off the bench and onto the field. Â With a wave of his hand, the room was sealed and they had privacy they would need. Â Remus took a seat down by the other men, aware that each knew more than willing to let on.

“Tonks, I need you to go over what happened there, exactly. Leave nothing out, every sight, every smell, every feeling that you got. Was there magic residue? Everything.” Sirius stared at her, his voice and posture refusing anything but compliance. With a smile and a nod from Remus, she started a bit more confident.

So Tonks did. She described every last detail, even a few that Remus had to admit he missed. Â The magic of the area was off, ignoring the collapse of the wards, something that put the wolf on edge, but Remus took that as more of Tonks around him. Â She had this tendency to distract him. Not that he complained. She finished and the room was silent. Remus sat heavily in his chair, even the wolf feeling worried. Â

“So gentlemen,” Sirius said, walking over to a liquor cabinet in the room. He poured five drinks of a harsh Muggle whiskey and promptly handed them out. Â It said something of the situation that Alastor Moody did not hesitate to down the alcohol. “It appears that we have a situation on hand that we did not account for. I think it's time we all came clean.” A look at Albus said everything.

“I first learned of James' unique heritage our seventh year at Hogwarts, when there was an incident involving some Slytherins.” Remus smirked at the memory. “It wasn't meant to be something special, after all, he, Remus, and I were pranking them for years at this point. Â But this day came after the death of James' grandfather, the man how took me in when I was kicked out for the third summer in a row.”

“Who helped me find shelter and safety in the summer, after James demanded that his friend come over,” Remus added.

Sirius smiled and nodded. “Charles was a great man, and sometimes I doubt we all deserved him the way we acted.”

“Is that regret I'm hearing, Sirius,” Albus said.

“Maybe but that isn't the point. Â The point is that a new year started and James had found out about his past, about his heritage, and his family. Â Charles Potter died in his sleep, as far as the newspaper was concerned. Â So when James received a letter notifying him the change in his family, the loss of the Charles, he was sullen and depressed. Not just sad that he lost a great man and his father figure, but more so, as if everything in his life was a lie. Â Not to mention that he was sick for a few days, down with something and stuck in the hospital wing. Â Pomfrey was out for the week and we had some random witch from Mungos filling in. At first, I thought that was the reason why James' stay was so long. So, Remus and I figured that a good prank could cheer him up.

“Didn't take long, we'd it planned for a few days, so it was just a matter of execution. Â Would have been brilliant too had Snivellus not gotten involved. Somehow, just as we were about to make the magic happen, he and about ten seventh year snakes showed up. Â There we were, standing with a few buckets of some, well, we'll just call it interesting materials and eleven wands pointed at us. Â It was only a matter of moments before a professor showed up, but given the numbers, I was sure that we'd be in the hospital wing for a bit before serving our detentions.

“When James appeared out of nowhere, right behind the Slytherins. I swear, he waved his hand and they parted, stuck to walls. Â The wands dropped right where they stood. and he just walked over to us smiling devilishly. He stood taller, stronger, and probably more handsome than he'd been too, now that I think about it. Â It was as if James Potter, the spoiled boy who just wanted to have fun, was left behind and returned was this figure cut from granite. Â After that day, James acted like a new person, one of honor, responsibility. He didn't prank much, if at all, but when he did, it was to get back at someone. Â Many place the change on Lily, and that probably helped, but I think whatever it was, happened because of that letter.” Sirius poured himself another drink and smiled. “And the strangest thing about it, was that whenever James did this fantastic feats of magic, there was this sulfurous smell about. Â We thought it was just another prank, but now that you tell it that.

“I found that letter, once, and only read a part of it. It spoke of the history of Gryffindor, of the trials and the pain that they would go through. But power came from it. James came back too quickly for me to finish it, but from what I could figure it out, it reminded me of a Devil's Bargain.” Â Tonks gasped while Alastor frowned; A Devil's Bargain was not unheard of though rarely followed through, simply because no wizard would be foolish enough to do it. Muggles may talk of selling one's soul to a devil, but for a wizard it was possible. Â Legend even had it that was the purpose of the Dementors, to house the souls of those who sell them until collected.

“Sirius spoke of sulfur smell following James. You have to understand though, it wasn't just there when he cast spells, it was James now. His scent had changed, he had changed on a fundamental level.” Remus said. Â “We never brought it up because honestly, we loved James. He and Lily were the best of us. That year he changed, for the better. There was no better man than James Potter than.”

Moody spoke up. “How can a man who sold his soul be-”

“I doubt it was he who sold it, Alastor,” Albus finally spoke up. “James was brash, foolish, and arrogant, but he knew better than to play with fire. Rather a Cursed Line. Could be that Potters did something in the past that cursed them. Or it could be far worse, but we do not know”

“Still don't like it.”

“You don't have to, Moody,” Remus said. “just understand that we might be dealing with the same thing here. That Harry had awoke the darkness in him, and somehow this was the result.”

“Do we think he's dead?” Albus asked.

“Unlikely,” Moody replied. “Potter has more luck than most, so he's alive out there. No, we need to be talking about the Myrddin Proclamation and Principles, especially if we have a Cursed Line. You of all people should know this, Albus.”

“A Cursed Line is not enough for a violation of the Proclamations, Alastor. In fact, there is nothing to even suggest there is a violation.”

“Excuse but what exactly is this Merlin Principles and-” Tonks finally spoke up, her silent figure only accented by the fact that her appearance was just as meek.

“It's `Myrddin' my dear, though I can understand the issues and similarities. And its the Proclamation and Principles,” Albus said. Above all else, the man was a teacher, a sage on the stage. “It a decree and rules for which to protect our way of life founded by Merlin Satanspawn himself.”

“I've never heard of them,” she said.

“Of course not, this title has been lost for a while,” Moody waved his glass and Sirius grumbled as he went for the bottle, setting it down in front of the wizard. Â “Currently, we know it as the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy of 1692, though it has existed longer than that.” Â Moody didn't even have the decency to pour another glass; despite his paranoia, he just drank from the bottle.

“And you two know about this.” Sirius smirked and Remus shrugged. Â Tonks attempted to glare at the him, but the older wolf did nothing. Â The inner wolf was smirking if Remus understood it correctly, though he was unsure if it was a good or bad thing. “and why did you call him Merlin Satanspawn.”

“One of the nefarious myths revolving around Merlin was that he was the son of Satan, and that his actions were the basis of our entire culture. Â Some of the more restricted texts even say that he is the reason why majority of magic has been lost, as a means of protecting our way of life. But that is neither here or there.”

“The point being,” Moody said, “is that we are dealing with something that should not have even been here in the first place. A Cursed Line has unholy blood within it, that someone in their ancestry had.. carnal relations with a demon, devil, or some other dark one, and cursed the future generations. They possess great power, physical and magical, and  - Albus why did you not tell us of the presence of a Cursed Line?”

“Because I was not informed until years after James' death,” Albus said. “But the Cursed Line is not our concern, at the moment. Finding Harry must be our number one priority.”

“Albus, the boy could be-”

“Harry James Potter was one of the best and most outstanding students I have ever seen,” Remus said. Â “Given the events last year, that he was forced into a situation that you could have easily prevented, Albus, and then had to face Voldemort for a fourth time, by himself, mind you, I'd wager that he was better than all of us.” Â The wolf gave no quarter to those who threatened its pack, especially the cubs. Â Remus was strong-willed if only to keep the best within sated and down, but sometimes, like with Tonks oddly enough, he and the wolf would agree. “you are the one who placed him in that hell hole, you are the one who left him there, alone, afraid, beaten-”

“Don't you think I know that,” Albus shouted. No one moved, no one said a thing. Albus Dumbledore was not one to shout, or even raise his voice. Â In all the time that he knew him, Remus had never seen Dumbledore be anything but the picture of calm, collected reason. Â But now, he looked every bit the old man that he was. “You don't think that I was unaware of every last thing that happened to Harry, every bruise, every broken bone, every single little thing that happened to him in that cursed place. Â Do you really believe me to be so heartless and cruel that I would sit back and do nothing if something was the option?”

“Yes,” Sirius replied. Glaring at the old man. Abused knew abused, and Siruis could see it in the eyes of Harry every time they met. Â

“I am paying my penance, Sirius ,” Albus said, as he removed his robe, revealing a simply button down shirt and dress pants, beige on brown. unbuttoned his shirt. Â “I did not believe that the Dursleys would be so cruel, but I was aware their... dislike of magic. I did not want to believe they could hurt the child so badly as they did.” Â He began to unbutton his shirt.

“I didn't think I paid for a stripper to this meeting.” Sirius, the first to attempt not to be serious. “Certainly not an old man stripper.”

Dumbledore chuckled and opened his shirt, revealing a long red gash that tore itself down his chest, just left of his heart. Â Sketched across him, in various shapes and sizes, were scars and bruises, some looked older, some fresh as if they were just healing. But he was certainly not as aged as a centennial should be. “When I first placed him there, I did a long term curse on myself, tied to Harry.”

“Why would anyone place a curse on themselves?” Moody asked, his eye focused on Albus' broken chest.

“To monitor Harry's condition. For reasons that I can not release at this time, I was not permitted to remove Harry from his environment. But I could at least pay penance for the crime of leaving him there. Every pain he felt, I felt. Every injury he sustained, I sustained. Â The curse prevented me from healing my wounds magically, unless Harry was healed as such. Â This is my punishment for my crime. I know Harry still lives, for the curse is still with me.”

“That scar?” Tonks asked. Albus started to redress himself, though a bit slower this time, as if he was still recovering from whatever happened to Harry.

“No,” Remus said. “That scar is about a week, maybe more old. Looks like a knife wound.”

“Correct, as far as I could tell from the sensation that I felt when poor Harry received it. I would have seen people to the house immediately, but sadly, I do not handle pain well any more. Between the stabbing and the fire that occurred afterwards, I blacked out.”

“Aye,” Moody replied. “Minerva found you in your office, slumped over.”

“That does not excuse your actions.”

“I have no illusions of that, Sirius.” Albus sat back down, his body heavily situating itself in the chair. Â “I am not a good man, certainly when compared to others. I try my best, but I am also trying for a better world. Â A world I will not see.” Â He sighed and closed his eyes. Â “Everything is not as black and white as you wish it, Sirius. Â That one act while evil in the eyes of one is good in the other, neither preclude the other from being wrong. The world is.”

“Is what?” Tonks asked.

“It just is. We cannot define that we exist in, because to do so would change- no there is no need for this discussion. All that you need to know is that I am paying penance for my actions, and that Harry is alive. We must search for him, and bring him to safety.”

“To you, you mean,” Remus added. He was not happy with Dumbledore's lack of answer, his hidden agendas, and the fact that he did nothing to stop the pain Harry was in.

Dumbledore shrugged. “If necessary, to protect him, even from himself, yes. Â If the Cursed Line has manifested, then we must find Harry and shelter him from the world before they learn of the situation. Â The clues are readily available to those who are willing to look for them. Â If it is something else, then Harry must be protected and hidden for his own safety.”

“Another means to the end, isn't it,” Sirius said. He was upset, Remus could tell, but it was more than that. Control was something the Maruaders knew about, and to be under someones control was something the last true Scion of the Blacks would not allow.

The room was silence, and Remus shifted in his chair. Â Too many truths were released tonight, and there were still many more that were hidden from each other. Dumbledore had some, but he knew that Moody and Sirius had their own; Remus was unsure what to make of everything, given that he felt more research into the situation was required. “So what now?” Remus asked. Dumbledore's silence worried the wolf within him; if necessary, he and Sirius would do whatever it took to protect Harry from the old manipulator.

“Now, with Harry missing, we attempt to figure out what occurred that night. Â It is imperative that we know what happened, if nothing else to make sure that it wasn't a violation of the Myrddin Proclamation.”

“And hide him away?” Remus asked.

“No, the time for hiding and sheltering is past, at least in terms of Harry.” Dumbledore finally opened his eyes and was looking at everyone. The twinkle was back. Â “As much as I wish to protect him, if this attack or event was planned, hiding is no longer an option.” Â He knew something, Remus decided. Dumbledore knew something more that was important and probably deadly, but the old man kept his secrets well. Â

“And if it was a violation?” Tonks added. “Not just Harry's oddity and Cursed Line? Â What then.” Dumbledore turned to Moody, the only man Remus knew in recent history, if not record, to actually fight and win against one.

“A demon is hard to kill, smart as a whip, and deadly as a basilisk with no eye lids, so if they are involved and wanted Potter alive, he would be. Course, if they wanted him dead then this conversation is futile,” the old Auror started. Â “No, in all likelihood, if a demon was involved, then this wouldn't be the only source of blood and chaos in the world. Â Chances are, sadly, we are dealing with a devil.”

Tonks snorted. “There's a difference? You've got to be kidding me.”

“I'm afraid so. A devil is slightly less powerful, though what it makes up for is in intelligence and awareness. Â Devil's plan. Â It's what makes them more dangerous. Aye, if a devil was involved, we should be prepared for the worst, because everything that follows will be much worse.”

Silence took over the room again, sitting down in a chair with them and drank expensive brandy. Â It stood behind each person, hanging over their shoulders and reading their faces as though it was a simple children's book. It hovered and drifted, the unseen figure that prevented them from speaking what could be worse than, than Voldemort, worse than Harry's tortured life, worse than every fear and danger they had. Things had changed, and not for the better.

********

Hermione followed three steps behind her mother, who was a step and a half behind her father, through the catacombs that were the Vatican. In truth, it was nothing like she expected. Â The Vatican they were located in had to be about a mile in the Tyrrhenian Sea if she went by the estimated travel times, but lately, she had almost decided to give up on that context. Though, it did cross her mind that she was using the wrong maps.

The Vatican itself was a series of streets and catacombs, filled with both vendors of all types and beings of all type. From what Hermione could tell, the Vatican was two places with the same name. The first was like Diagon Alley, a place where shops and stores set up with the intent of making any sort of profit, though Hermione could tell that some did not accept standard currency (who buys in larva). Â Things that you only dreamed of, that were made of dreams and from dreams could be found for sale, for the right price. Â Her father said that this was one of the few markets in the world that catered to unique crowd, as he referred to it. Another was rumored to be located in London, though apparently there had been some trouble lately and he never did figure out the entrance.

The second place with the name of the Vatican was an posh business that stood about ten stories high and probably stretched as far down into the ground, though its basement had roots of its own. Â Here, decisions and ideas were traded like stocks, and the whole of the magic world of Southern and Western Europe was decided. The above ground portion was used for the government, the decisions and the rulings of issues and problems. The below ground portion, hidden from view for good reasons acted both as a prison and a library. Â Here a man could be kept alive for the simple fact that he could not be killed. Â The most dangerous were not housed here, but those that pissed someone off were.

For the moment, Hermione was silent, mapping every detail around her. Â She knew how far they had traveled despite the blackened windows and dark car by turns and average speed. Â She knew each step, each turn, each path they had taken, and was projecting the various alleyways they had passed on the way here. Â She didn't know how, but she bet she could draw a detailed map of the entire complex from memory, blindfold, with a crayon, and still show every color and mark that she saw.

Since her change, Hermione became aware that she was learning too quickly. Absorbing would be a better term. Â She took things in naturally, and her intelligence allowed her to use that gained knowledge quickly. Â She could recall, with total clarity, everything that happened. Her reading speed increased greatly, and it felt as if a block was released, and the dam was reversed. Everything came flooding in, which worried Hermione. Â She was always of the belief that you could learn, but there was a finite space for things. Â That eventually she would run out. Â What then? She could feel the starts of a headache as she continued to map the place in her mind, using only the floor. Â Things would not end well.

They met a strange man in the lobby of the Vatican, where he quickly ushered all three of them down to the first basement. Â There business occurred. Daniel Granger was a powerful man, she figured, because people stepped away and looked down at the ground as he walked. Â If he was part of this world, then whatever magic he held would be fantastic to learn, and Hermione wanted to. Â Emma Granger was introduced as her fathers consort and advisor, and Hermione was given only the title of scribe, so write she did. Â Â But she did not write of what she saw of the building, the location, but of people and their actions and reactions. Â Hermione could play her part; if they wanted a simple scribe, then she would record, just not what they want.

They passed room after room, corridor after corridor, with passcodes and keycodes, people moving in and out, just daily business Hermione recorded them all: passwords, the numeric keys, the magentic ones had their own notation for the sounds they made. Â She record behavior and hidden thoughts and emotions of people that showed when they didn't think. The record wasn't for her though, Dan Granger had a plan.

“As you can see,” a messenger droned on and on as they walked through the various corridors, “We have top of the line technomancer and druidic protections and glyphs as means of  overseeing the operation here.  Every month, we review and upgrade if necessary, looking to ensure our clients integrity and safety within this building, as well as some various Old-One protections just in case.  Never know when something from the depths of existing life is going to rise up and destroy us all.”

Hermione recorded the lies and just remembered the truths. Lies were abundant: in body language, in words, in sights and sounds. Illusions fell apart to her when she looked at them, the very fabric of whatever spell powered the magic turned into, well, fabric. Â They looked unreal, as everything else stood out in the beauty that was life. Â But illusions were neither beautiful nor realistic. Â Most of them, those that hid something behind them, looked like a child's drawing using crayon and marker, along with failure to color in the lines. Â Of course, she memorized where the illusions were and made notations on how to spot them. Â Her headache was getting worse.

Emma Granger said nothing, but looked back at her daughter every once in a while. Â To the average eyes, she was over looking the work of a lowly scribe recording the adventures and times of a great man and his consort. To more observant eyes, she was worried. Â Hermione was using a great deal of her new ability without understanding how it worked. Â Her father insisted on it. Â But she was unsure. Â A Learner was powerful, in raw ability and application, especially when the Learner was a genius in her own right. It was difficult to know where Hermione's natural genius ended and her power began, but there was a line. A Learner absorbed the information, but it took a genius to apply it. Â Dan Granger wanted that application if they were going to escape here alive. Â And she almost hated her husband for it.

The problem with a Learner is that they never stopped, which meant they took in too much of the world around them. There was an article out that talked of autism and compared it to Learning, though in many ways a Learner could function with much more ease, the inability to shut off the sensory aspect could grow if they did not learn to control it. For the moment, Hermione was a raging torrent of power, hidden underneath layers of reality that very few could pierce. People like her. Â While the Vatican housed some of her old colleagues, they would simply see a scribe who was unable to control her magic, a truth that housed a lie. Emma only hoped that they could finish the rescue plan before it was too late.

The messenger stopped in front of a group of four men in brown robes holding rosaries. Â Emma could sense the holy power within each of them. Â At least they looked like men. Â Sometimes it was hard to tell who was what race and gender in the world of magic. But since the symbols craved into the back of their heads denoted the Order of the Voice, a religious sect that believed they held in their possession that which was the voice of Yahweh crystallized. Â Wasn't the oddest sect she'd seen, but they knew more about the fallen and capturing them then any other group in the Greater Europe area, including the Mediterranean. “Here he is, sirs,” the messenger said. “I will return when your work is complete.”

Dan Granger was a calm man, a patient man, a man of internal strength and power. Â But for the moment, that was not who he wanted to be. “You need help, so explain what you did wrong so I could fix it.” In either case, he wasn't subtle.

“There is a...creature-”

“Who attempted to pilfer”

“A valuable artifact, right-”

“Underneath our very home.” All four of them spoke in the same manner as the twins: broken and finishing each other's sentences, though apparently these men only used four words at a time.

“Since it has refused-”

“Counsel and currently is-”

“Not communicating with us-”

“Your expertise are needed.” Â Dan gave all four a look before staring down who he decided was the leader.

“Fair enough, and thus the plea for help to communicate.”

“You miss understand, warlock-”

“We seek not communication-”

“But extermination and retrieval-”

“of our most valuable.” The last speaker stopped short, though none of them showed it.

Dan smirked. “That one got away from you didn't it.” No one responded, but Hermione couldn't help her smirk. Â Her eyes remained focused on her notebook, which currently was almost full. Â Her hand hadn't stopped recording what she saw since they started the whole trip. Â “Where is he?”

“Within these walls houses-”

“our vile captive and-”

“A means to hold him-”

“Until a person arrives.”

“As we are unsure-”

“Of its origins, it's-”

“extermination is left in-”

“your hands, exalted warlock.”

“Flattery will get you every where.” Dan smirked and walked forward. Â The steel door separated them from Harry, she knew it. Â She could feel her friend. Â The four parted to reveal a computer screen along with a series of other readouts and keyboards. She recorded the four passwords each of them entered, in order, and the screen showed nothing but bright lamps focused in the center of the room. “this is your means of holding him?”

“Correct, we have found-”

“That the light prevents-”

“His escape, so we-”

“Held him until now.” Dan nodded. Â Hermione didn't strain to look for Harry; the was only the outline of a figure, but she could feel it was him. Â Harry was close, he was in pain and suffering, but he was close. Â Her father and these strange men had their conversation, leaving the women folk alone. Â Hermione recorded their movements and postures, but in truth, explaining the subtle differences that each of the four men acted as one, including adopting the same stances and movements, was difficult in her notes. Â Her headache didn't help the situation. Rocks tumbled down mountain with every breath, and she absorbed what people did and didn't do, said and didn't say. Â With each moment, she knew what was happening, learning about the ever evolving situation.

“Let me get this straight,” Dan said. “You want me to kill this boy simply because he took something of yours. Even if you don't get it back?”

“Correct, exalted warlock. We-”

“Seek to ensure the-”

“Safety of our ways-”

“Even without the items.”

“This action you take-”

“The death of one-”

“Will protect us all-”

“from future foolish endeavors.” Â The collective nodded and decided that was all there to be said. Dan looked at the equipment, then the door, and turned to his wife. Â

“Well, it  seems then the rules of business have been established. My beautiful companion, may you draw up the contract.”

“Such action is not-”

“Necessary as we have-”

“Completed one prior to-”

“The arrival of you.” Â Dan turned around, frowning.

“What do you mean?” he asked the collective. “What contract?

“There is no need-”

“For your outside forces-”

“To waste out time-”

“With writing a contract.”

“We have taken care-”

“Of all the procedures-”

“And have made ready-”

“A form for you.”

“All it requires is-”

“A quick signature and-”

“your work can begin-”

“And end, exalted warlock.” The body language told her that no one was happy at the moment. Her father for the breach in etiquette and the collective for the assumption that Dan dictated the rules of the engagement and the breach in their security system. Â The magic in the air slowly became palpable, almost visible to her eyes. Â Currents flowed off of her father, refusing to touch him. The same currents converged on the collective. Â They drew in power from the surroundings, taking in energy and magic from the lights, the sounds, the heat, everything. Â Â Her headache grew as she began to think of ways to use her newfound knowledge against people, including her father. Â The extra sight just added to the pain.

“Scribe!” Her father shouted, and Hermione stepped forward, her eyes refusing to look at anyone. Not out of respect, but pain. To see anything else just increased how much pressure her brain was under. Her body was hurting, starting with her head and slowly working its way down to her toes. Â Each new sound, sight, taste, smell, and touch was adding new information to her mind, things she didn't realize that she could learn. It was horribly wonderful; pain from the act of learning, but pleasure from the fact that she was learning. The back of her head pulsed each time something was absorbed, sending ripples down her spine and arms. Â It wasn't comfortable, more odd, as if her magic was trying to spread the knowledge through out her body, but the pain of the migraine was more worrying. Â

Hermione didn't watch her father any more, she just closed her eyes and tried to close herself off from the world. Â Â She couldn't do it; she couldn't just stand there and take everything in. Is this the new world that she wanted to learn about? That she was so desperate to learn about? Her desire was so strong that her magic made is so, and she learned alright. Â She was learning about the interactions of particles on subatomic level, despite not seeing them. She was learning about how magic could be diverted and destroyed, despite the Laws of Conservation. She was learning how her mother smelled when she randy, something she never cared to think about, let alone know. Â In the end, all Hermione could do was learn.

“Ems,” Dan said, not looking up from the notebook. His wife turned and looked at Dan, her focus on a parchment displayed in a case near by. “Take Hermione and run.”

Emma was confused for a second, but a glance at her daughter told her everything that she needed to know. Â There was an inherent danger with Learners. Despite their rarity, they were well documented and studied. Â A Learner who was too obsessive, or naive or untrained, had the potential to become too absorbed the world too quickly, opening their magic and pulling everything in. They couldn't observe themselves, so a Learner could not see the effect and dangers. But outsiders could, and Emma saw what her daughter was doing. Dan must have figured out from the notebook, as he was flipping through it as she rushed towards Hermione. Â With a swift movement, her daughter was in her arms and Emma ran towards the exit, carrying her away from all the turmoil and knowledge that was lost and locked in the building.

Dan turned to the collective; his smile was bright despite the danger he brought his daughter into. Â He did not know how strong her magic was, how strong her will was. Â There were recordings of everything, even things that Dan did not ask for. But in the end, he had what he wanted. Â His daughter found a pattern within the passcodes, one that no one would have been able to figure out if they hadn't looked at them all, at the same time, while making educated guesses to the next ten passcodes for each door. Â Hermione, in a matter of minutes, had broken the Vatican. Â “I think its time we change that contract boys, or even better, you just listen and we not even allow this to get out between us.”

“What are you referring-”

“To, exalted warlock, for-”

“We hold all the-”

“Cards and rules here.”

“You did, until I brought a Learner within your walls.” Â They gasped as one, which was funny. It wasn't forbidden, but in their haste, the guard never asked about the scribe, seeing only what he wanted. Â A good Learner could figure out the passcode of one or two doors. A great one would find them all. But Hermione, she was something. She had figured out how the passcodes were generated despite all magic and protections they held, then broke that down into one phrase, one word, to shatter all the wards and security the Vatican had. Â Without any knowledge of truenames. All she had done was brought logic and reasoning to magic, through almost infinite amount of knowledge. “I hold in my hand everything that you could possibly need to know about the Vatican, including all yours codes, magical and not, and every future one.”

With a wave of the notebook, and a force of magic, Dan copied it and sent the copies to his safehouses across the world. “In fact, if I spoke just a word, why I could bring down...everything I believe.”

The collective group looked at each other. Â In their haste, they had forced Dan's hand. He had no desire to destroy this bastion of magic. He simply wanted to get Harry out. But there was etiquette that needed to be followed. As a warlock, he followed that, despite his name, or maybe because. A contract between two mystical beings ensured that the contract would be followed, both by letter and by spirit, if done correctly. Â There was a reason why the Magic had Lawgivers, and why lawyers were just as evil in this world as the mundane. Â No, this collective, in their haste to hid the fact of the break in and housing a criminal, in order to protect their order, had allowed a Learner of extreme power into the Vatican.

“What is it you want?” Dan looked at them. Only one spoke, he stepped forward, and glared at him. Â This man had the monks habit like the rest, but his hair was long red, almost on fire. It certainly matched the anger within the man's face.

“Give me the boy,” Dan replied.

“He has stole from us.”

“What exactly?” No one answered, and all the collective refused to look at him or each other. “You don't know do you? Which means you have had numerous break ins, and many things are missing. You know some of what was taken, but since the number of items housed beneath here rivals that warehouse across the pond, you can't be certain.”

“We do know that he attempted to steal the Shroud of Turin earlier.”

“But since that was a copy, a non-magical one at that, I assumed you found him trying to find the real thing here.” Dan glared at them. Â “So you have no proof that he has committed any crimes.”

“He broke in!” The man screamed.

“Give me the boy and you're secrets remain as they are now: Â a secret.” For a moment, Dan warred with the collective, their wills combined and their thoughts one again. Â The power that they held was comparable to four men, but it was rumored that Dan'el was more than just a will-bending warlock. Rumors were nice in moments like this, for that alone broken their gaze, and Dan was left smiling. Â The lead man turned around and went to the panel.

“And the notebook? What-”

“Should become of it-”

“Now that we have-”

“our deal, infernal warlock?”

“That remains with me as insurance that you don't do something foolish, now release the boy.”

The lead one paused before entering the final sequence. “You know what he is.”

“Only the Order views him as evil from birth, their self-righteous views will doom us all.”

“But clearly he has-”

“done nothing to alleviate”

“That theory has he-”

“Or is there more?”

Dan remained silent. He knew next to nothing about Harry, except that which Hermione told them. But the problem was Hermione was bespelled by a wanded on for the past three years, which mean the possibility of everything that they know about Harry being a lie, that he was really a horrible person. But Dan Granger trusted his daughter. He would just have to be extra careful and have a nice long chat with the boy. “Release him now, or we'll see what you've been hiding here for years.” Â The lead man flipped a switch and something powered down behind the steel doors

The collective worked quickly, pressing buttons and pulling levers. Â The lights were off in the room at least, so Harry would not suffer any more from that source, though Dan doubted that his current pain was reduced any bit. Â Â If Harry was being held in the manner that Dan figured, than he was probably dealing with a severe sunburn, if not second degree or even third. But there was nothing that he could do at the moment for the boy.

The door opened and showed the dying glow of countless bulbs. Â A figure stepped out; his skin red and raw, but with black hair just falling around, and probably off his face. Â He was bare as the day he was born, which probably didn't feel good at all. Â Dan was sure this was Harry, it had to be, otherwise Hermione was going to kill him. Â His body was the same, though given the fact that his skin was cracked and red, almost burnt in some spots, so Dan couldn't determine by scars if it was him. Â

Once out the doorway, the figure sighed and nearly collasped, but grasped the frame for support. Â His knees did buckle though the grip he had on the frame held him up. Â Dan moved to touch him, pulling the boy up by his shoulders and throwing an arm around his own. They limped away, the notebook safely away in his jacket. Â He waited until they turned a corner before speaking as soft as he could, hoping this boy would hear him, “Please tell me you're Harry Potter.”

“I hope you realize that after the past few years that I've been in there that I'd say I was the bloody Queen of England just to escape.” Â Dan glared at him, and he could have sworn he saw a smirk. “Yes, I'm Harry Potter, friend of Hermione Granger and godson of Padfoot. Happy?”

“Extremely.” Â Harry sagged as his legs gave out on him. “And you were only there for a couple of days.” Â He said nothing else as Dan pulled up and dragged him to the exit. Â Things were looking up, maybe. Â “You know, for a scrawny kid, you sure are heavy.”

“Sorry, let me fix that.” Â Harry tried to stand up straight, pushing off of the warlock. Â For the first time since that night, Dan saw the fiery green eyes that took in the world. Â Rumor had it had green was the color of magic, or willpower, or anything really. Â Rumor was king in the magical world, just because it was often true, especially if people believed in it. Â Dan saw Harry's eyes though for what they truly were. Â Power. Â

Slowly, the skin fell off his body, slothing its way down and exposing the black skin underneath, which quickly followed. Puddles of burnt flesh and a shadowy substance sat at his feet, and the body of a fourteen year old boy stood before him.

When Harry finished, he was certainly much thinner, pressing gaunt even. But the second to third degree burns were gone, showing only a slight sun-burn all over his body. Â He magicked himself a pair of shorts as well, which Dan was kinda thankful for (something wrong about caring a naked fourteen year-old boy around). The scar on his chest and those across his body were much more evident. Â He collapsed again, this time, breathing rather heavily. Â All in all, Dan had to say he was impressed. Just wish he knew how Harry did all of it. “C'mon, we need to get back to the plane.”

Harry nodded, but said nothing else as Dan picked the boy up again. Â He was much lighter and they moved quicker through out the Vatican. Â Maybe now, he could get some answers concerning just what the hell was going on.

Author's Note:

So yeah, I have another reference in here. if anyone reads the series, I have internet cookies for you, freshly baked.

Any questions, comments, wise remarks, pls leave at the review button thank you.

Again, I own nothing of JK Rowling's creation(because if I had done it, Cthulhu would have been summoned by now).

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