Harry Potter and a Memory of Light [Harry Potter] [Multicross]

[Murmur]

Author's Note:

I own none of the series which are being drawn upon, as they belong to their respective rights holders. This is not a work for profit.

This story will contain spoilers for the endings of the Harry Potter series, the Wheel of Time Series, the book Children of Hurin, and probably many, many others.

I welcome any comments which will help me to improve this story for you all.


HARRY POTTER AND A MEMORY OF LIGHT

CHAPTER ONE: A MEMORY OF WHAT ONCE WAS AND MAY BE AGAIN

If asked, Harry Potter would have called himself quite ordinary. His hair was a mess, he never focused on homework like he should, and whenever a pretty girl looked his way he completely fell apart. Normal kid stuff, really. And so he was safe in calling himself a normal kid.

Alright, yes, so he got into more adventures than the Famous Five—but, he would be quick to point out, he owned no dog. He had a snowy-white owl, but it wasn't as if she was ever there whenever he risked his life. His home-life was a bit too Dickensian, as a bookish friend of his put it, for his liking. But then many people had terrible home lives.

And, fair enough, his school was like Greyfriar's as run by Merlin. Instead of learning chemistry, he was being taught potions; and instead of mathematics, he got charms. But none of his enemies were nearly as funny as Billy Bunter, though some were quite as stupid and gross.

Finally, and oh very well, he had a mysterious scar on his forehead that he'd received when the man who had been terrorizing magical Britain had snuck into his house when he'd been a baby and murdered his parents, only to somehow be utterly destroyed when he'd tried to kill Harry in his cradle. When Harry walked down the street, people took one look at his forehead and bowed, or tried to get his autograph, or some such nonsense.

None of that meant that Harry Potter wasn't perfectly normal and ordinary—average, even. Dull as dishwater and as remarkable. He had the grades to prove it.

Sitting in one of the compartments of the grand red steam locomotive that wound its way unseen through the British countryside , Harry felt his spirits rise. He was leaving his miserable home life and going to his true home—Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, his magical public school. The only blood relation he had were the Dursleys: fat bully Uncle Vernon, skeletal bully Aunt Petunia, his mother's sister, and even fatter bully cousin Dudley. Each in their own unique way had made his life quite terrible. Until he had been twelve, he'd lived in a cupboard underneath the stairs. His clothes were hand-me-downs from Dudley, who was not and had never been even close to his size. He'd frequently been told that he was a) unwanted, b) a freak, and c) a waster.

It had been particularly bad this summer. Firstly, he'd been forbidden his school books. He'd been unable to start his holiday homework until the night he'd snuck down to where they'd been hidden and stole his books back. Harry had been forced to do his homework in the dead of night like a fugitive.

Secondly, Harry had been forced to run away from home after he'd accidently blown up Uncle Vernon's sister like a balloon. It had been an accident, and she had deserved it, but it was enough for him to flee his home –again, like a fugitive. Harry had imagined police chasing after him for breaking magical law. Not only was he an underage wizard, thus not allowed to do any magic at home away from school, but he'd done magic upon a muggle, or non-magical person. This was a serious breach of the secrecy laws that protected muggle from wizards (or possibly the other way around; it was supposedly taught in History of Magic, but as that was the most deadly boring subject in school, he'd never been bothered to remember anything that was taught).

However, it had all turned out fine. The Minister of Magic himself had assured Harry that no legal consequences would dog him, and Harry was allowed to stay at Diagon Alley, the magical high street and market town that was located in the heart of London. He'd stayed there for the rest of summer, enjoying strange sweets and browsing weird shops. Everything would have been fine except for the third thing.

Harry was being chased by a great big dog. He had noticed it on the night that he had run away from home. A huge dog, black as anything, had been watching him on that summer night, just as the wizarding bus had picked him up to take him to Diagon Alley. It had badly frightened Harry, not least because it was one more thing in a night of one more things. However, Harry would have thought nothing more of it if he hadn't seen a picture of a similar great big dog on the cover of a book of death omens. Apparently, the Grim, as the dog was called, was the most terrible sign of oncoming death.

It certainly didn't help that Sirius Black, an insane follower of Lord Voldemort, the man who had murdered Harry's parents, had recently escaped from prison. Apparently, Black had vowed to avenge his master by killing Harry, or some such. Honestly, Harry wasn't too bothered—people vowing to kill him were getting to be pretty old hat by this point.

And life went on. He'd boarded the train to Hogwarts on a dreary day that was rapidly becoming dark with rain. Already it seemed more night than day outside the train's windows. The light from the gas lamps that had automatically lit up some time before gave a cheerful, warm glow that was nothing like the cold fluorescence and garish neon that Harry associated with muggle lights. There was something more human and humane about the flames that danced about on the walls of the cabin.

Harry was sitting in the rearmost cabin of the train, his school trunk stowed above him. With him were his two best friends, but surprisingly there was an adult in the cabin. The only adult that the Hogwarts students ever saw on the train was the lunch trolley woman, who came by to sell treats and other food. But this tired-seeming man, who had spent the entire time since before the train left Kings Cross Station sleeping, was apparently a new teacher on his own way to Hogwarts. His name was R.J. Lupin, which had a slightly sinister sound to it. In the back of his mind, Harry hoped that this one at least wouldn't be trying to actively murder him. It would make for a nice change to not be threatened by a grown-up.

A thought occurred to Harry. Turning to one of his friends, a girl with bushy hair who had her face stuck in a book—The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Three—Harry asked, "Hermione, how is my life 'Dickensian'? I mean, the only ghosts I ever meet are at Hogwarts and they're quite nice, really."

"What?" said a baffled Hermione Granger. The daughter of two non-magical dentists, she had taken to magic with a passion. She read voraciously, oftentimes did things to her friends 'for their own good,' and had built a reputation as one of the smartest girls in the school, if not the smartest. She also had a reputation for being the swottiest swot this side of Swotland, but that was counterbalanced by the number of times she'd almost died in one of Harry's adventures. Being one of the smartest people around, she quickly picked up the thread of conversation. With a sigh, she answered. "Oh, honestly, Harry. Haven't you ever read any of Charles Dickens's other books?"

"I haven't read that one," said Harry mock-proudly. Hermione gave a disgusted sniff in response. "I only used to watch the movie before the Queen's Christmas message."

The third occupant of the car looked at them curiously. He was a tall, redheaded boy, with a long, thin nose and an explosion of freckles on his face. Ron Weasley was the first friend that Harry had ever made, never mind the first wizard friend he'd made. He was in the same year as Harry and Hermione, but unlike them came from a wizarding family. As oftentimes as Ron was astonished by Harry's ignorance of the wizarding world, so was Harry surprised by how wrong Ron could be about the muggle world. "Sorry, what's this?"

"Well, on Christmas Day, the Queen comes on the telly to make a speech," explained Harry. "I haven't seen one since I started going to Hogwarts, but before then Uncle Vernon used to make us all watch it. It's usually about, oh I don't know, wars and marriages and like that."

"I know about the Queen," said Ron in exasperation. "We get her on the wireless, though I can't understand half of what she bangs on about. No, who's this Charles Dickens bloke?"

"Well, he's a writer," started Hermione excitedly. Hermione loved books, and one of the best ways to both distract her and get her attention was to mention a book. Already a pleased flush was spreading across her face.

Ron, on the other hand, cared very little for books. If it was not about the history of his favorite sport, Quidditch, then he would much rather not have anything to do with a book. This meant that when studying with Ron, Harry was far more likely to skive off than not. Already Ron was tuning out, his gaze not-so-politely blank as Hermione went on to describe Charles Dickens and his impact on Victorian-era social justice.

Harry, whose fault this was, made the effort of grunting every once in a while, as if in agreement. However Hermione soon became absorbed in her book once more, and all three of them fell into a companionable silence. Though Ron had wanted to play exploding snaps, Harry had pointed out the sleeping professor in the cabin. Instead he and Harry were playing wizard chess, though Ron had made sure that the pieces fought each other silently. To make up for it, the pieces were being very melodramatic, pantomiming grievous wounds and taking a long time to die.

Ron was about to tell the pieces off when he became distracted by his stomach. Going over to the window, and being careful not to disturb Professor Lupin, Ron went to see if he could tell how far from the school and its feast they were. Even as Ron looked out the window, the train had begun to slow down, which surprised Hermione greatly.

"But we're not nearly at school yet," she said, checking her wristwatch. "We shouldn't be slowing down at all."

"Well, we are," said Ron. "So why're we stopping?"

"I don't know," said Hermione. Each word was distinct and filled with distaste. Hermione hated not knowing, and even more hated admitting not knowing to someone other than a teacher. As often as Harry led them into adventures, so too did Hermione lead the three of them into investigations—though those investigations usually began in the library, ended in the library, and stayed in the library.

The train came to a stop with a great hiss and squeal, which was soon followed by dull thuds and crashes as people's' luggage fell from their racks. Yells of pain and surprise floated through the train corridors.

"I think some people are getting onto the train," said Ron, his face still pressed against the window. "They look like—"

Whatever else he was going to say was cut off by the lights of the train suddenly going out. The gentle glow of the wall lamps snuffed out in their cabin. Harry, who had been sticking his head out into the corridor, saw that the same was true for the rest of the train. With the darkness outside from the storm, the train was completely dark. Already the grumbling complaints from the other students on the train turned into panicked exclamations. People began shouting, trying to find friends in the dark.

It even happened in Harry's cabin, as first Neville Longbottom, a fellow third year and one of Harry's roommates, stumbled in. He was soon followed by Ginny Weasley, Ron's little sister and a second year. As they banged into each other in the dark, yelling all the while, the Professor woke up and illuminated the cabin with a flame that floated just above his open hand.

The relief that Harry felt at having both light and someone taking charge was snuffed out like the cabin lights when someone began to open the cabin door. Standing there was a cloaked figure. It— for it was impossible to tell if it was a man or woman beneath that black cloak—loomed over everyone, the top of its hood brushing the ceiling. Mist gathered around its unseen feet and crawled up it and slowly filled the cabin. The only thing that was visible was a single hand, scabrous and skeletal.

As if sensing Harry's gaze somehow from beneath its concealing hood, the figure started to withdraw its hand back into its cloak. But then, before it had halfway hidden it, the figure stopped. Professor Lupin began to lunge forward, but before he could pull Harry back the figure reached out and grabbed Harry. The corpse-like hand gripped Harry firmly. Terror filled him, and his mind went blank with it. Never before had he been so frightened. Even facing his parents' murderer, his monstrously pale face pushing out the back of his Defense against the Dark Arts professor, had not been as horrifying as that hand touching him.

The cloaked figure drew in a deep breath, the hissing inhalation loud in the silence of the compartment. And with it, it seemed that the figure was somehow breathing in all the happiness from the world. While before he had been struggling against the grip despite his fear, Harry went limp in the figure's grasp. The mist seemed to fill him, his mouth and nose suffocated with it. The wand that Harry had unconsciously drawn from his pocket, but had been too stupid to use, fell to the floor. Harry was distantly aware of the shouts of his friends and the Professor, but it all seemed so far away. The figure drew back the hood slightly, revealing . . . .

Everything went dark.

[+]

"Not Harry. Please, not Harry," screamed the woman.

"Stand aside," commanded a high, cold voice.

There were more screams, terrible and pleading. A choice was made, to sacrifice a life willingly in order to buy just a few more moments of time. There was a flash of green light, and a thud as a body fell.

Harry stared down at the woman who was his mother. She was beautiful and brave, and he knew nothing about her. Yet he loved her and it tore at him to see her like this, to remember her like this. But he could not stop looking at her, drinking in her features even as they were frozen in death. Everything went dark, and Harry both regretted it and was thankful.

[+]

There was a man in a forest. It was night, and the man was tired. Harry watched as the man walked cloaked and unseen, surrounded by the loving dead. The man was tall, with dark messy hair and glasses. He walked until he came to a clearing in the forest, where masked figures waited impatiently. A huge man was hanging, restrained and struggling, while a large snake floated in a glowing cage. Beneath the snake, and watched by his followers, was a pale, bald man in black. His eyes were slits, reflecting the fires that lit the clearing. The pale man was growing ever more furious, but that fury became twisted delight when he spotted the tall man, who had taken off his cloak and revealed himself.

The followers stilled themselves, watching intensely as the pale man slowly and with great deliberation raised a long wand. The pale man was obviously taking great delight in this moment. This was triumph, this was victory; a balm for all those years in the dark, screaming in impotent frustration.

The man stood there, watching impassively, even as the huge man struggled and screamed a name. But then there was a bright green light, and the man—who was a boy, really, couldn't have been more than seventeen—was on the ground, dead.

Harry looked down at the dead body, and knew who it was who lay on the ground. Harry knew that he had witnessed the sacrifice of Harry Potter, who had given his life to save his friends.

And the world went dark again.

[+]

There was a man inside a mountain, flanked by two women, one young and the other somehow ageless. The man was tall, with red hair and tattoos of serpents that peeked out of the wrists of his bright red coat. Before them there was a man all in black, his eyes blazing with inner fire and madness. The great cave was fire and madness but, above all else, was darkness. It was a darkness beyond the unconscious black that claimed Harry. It was darkness beyond creation, where the light of stars and life never touched it. It ate at the world, and was bound by it, singular and accepting nothing but itself. It was dark and it was the only one there was of it.

The man and the women struggled with the man in black over a glass sword, with the man in red smiling in triumph, even as the man in black was frozen in horror. The sword blazed with strange light, and the darkness retreated until was a singular point. That point too was gone, unseen unless one looked in just the right place and in just the right way. Where before there had been an oppressive malignancy in the air, now it was gone and replaced with a sense of new life.

Yet the man in red was bleeding through his coat, great rivulets of blood that dripped down his side and onto the rocks of the cave. He made his way to the mouth of the cave and into the daylight, the women following him and supporting him. Yet the man, despite his wound, quickly left the women behind. When he went outside, the land was green and vibrant, though the dead littered the valley below. Men, women and monsters lay on the mountain slopes, some still bleeding. And the man in red joined them, slipping on his own blood and falling unconscious.

The women quickly joined him and carried him down. They were soon joined by others, who helped the women carry the man in red. The people's' joy at victory, true and hard fought, was dampened by the sight of the man in red, but it was not destroyed. Indeed, it could not be destroyed. That was the point of the fight in the cave.

The man was taken to a tent, followed by the still form of the man in black. Harry watched as the man in red drifted in and out of consciousness, until he finally breathed his last. Harry knew that this was Rand al'Thor, the Dragon Reborn and a score of other names. He knew that Rand al'Thor had sacrificed himself for the sake of the world. And in the doing, found himself.

And so too did Harry Potter find himself in Rand.

And everything went dark. But this time Harry was neither surprised, nor afraid.

[+]

There was a palace, wonderful and wondrous. It was the site of great struggle and great joy. It was a palace but also a home, filled with husbands, wives and most importantly children. Yet there knelt a man on the ground, screaming in agony, surrounded by his dead family and friends. Most terrible of all was the woman that he held close to him, her hair still vibrant as the sun even as her pale, dead face was locked in her rictus of disbelieving horror. She, like everyone else in the palace, had died by his hands, for this man had been insane.

Yet he was no longer mad, as he had been healed. It was not done kindly, but as a cruel torment done by the gloating man in black with fire for eyes. This man was laughing at the kneeling man's grief. But he stopped laughing when the crying man drew in power, and more power, and still more power. He held that power for a brief instant, before letting it go in a torrent. The man in black disappeared before the release, wanting to see his grief but unable to withstand the grief-stricken man's unfettered might. He had nothing left to live for, and so had no need to hold back. His world was already destroyed, and so he would usher in the age when everyone's world would be shattered by the power of madmen.

The palace was destroyed in fire and churning, molten earth. And where it once stood rose a mountain, taller than any other mountain. A cairn for a lost world, and a lost family.

Harry Potter watched the death of Lews Therin Telamon, called the Dragon, the Lord of the Morning, and finally the Kinslayer. Harry watched and knew himself in Lews Therin.

[+]

Names and lives flickered through the darkness, each time ending in death. Sometimes it was in triumph, others in tragedy. Oftentimes it was both. Strange fates shaped those lives, and in each of them Harry recognized himself in those men and women.

Garion and Sparhawk, who led lives of wonder and courage against evil gods and bleak futures. Leto, who sacrificed his humanity for the sake of humanity. Severian the light-bringer, the sun-maker. Kimball, Dave, Donal, Valentine and Elijah. Elric, Erekose, Corum and Jerry. Usagi, Utena, Nausicaa. Nadia, Shinji and Simon. Gully and Kaneda. Sinclair, Sheridan and Delenn. John, who created himself. Kara and Jack. The boy magicians: Tim, Christopher and Will. Ged, who was truly named. Ellidyr, who had nothing except his name, his sword, and his friends. Paul the twice-born. Eustace, who was saved when he turned into a dragon.

All of them and more.

Finally, there came the last life, which was also the first. Yet in the confusion of lives, Harry wondered if there could ever be a first, just as if there could be a last.

[+]

The black sword spoke, as he knew it would. His pride brought him here, just as it had killed everyone who had loved him and succored him. Every home he had known, he had destroyed for his pride. He could blame the curse that was laid upon his family by the Great Enemy. He knew that, even now, the others were doing so. Yet here in this last moment, as he molded the earth around the sword's hilt so that it would firmly hold the blade in place, he knew that his pride was curse enough.

How many innocent men and women had he killed, generous friends who had taken him in and cared for him, rescued him even from the ruin that he brought, only to be ruined thereby? Two of them he had killed with this very sword, one unknowingly but the other in purposeful rage. But he knew himself well enough to know that he could have lived with the guilt of even that last murder. War filled him up, made him great. He was a war leader of great power and presence, eventually turning people away from their own chiefs and into his soldiers. He had done this very thing so many times, but always to the death of those same followers. He had no doubt that he would have continued on in this fashion, if not for the truth which had caused the last murder.

He looked down at his hand, where the dragon's venom had fallen and burned him. It had been bandaged, lovingly, the last loving gesture by his wife. When he had killed the dragon, he had fallen unconscious from his malice, and she had come upon him and healed him as best she could. But then the dragon, in his dying, used the truth to cause his wife to kill herself by leaping from a great cliff. Already all things died on the cliff side. He had briefly considered joining her in her fall, but no.

For here was the murderous truth: that the dragon had, in years past, caused his wife to forget herself, and in the forgetting find herself in his company. They fell in love, a great love which calmed his martial spirit, and they eventually were married. She carried their first child in her, and he looked forward to that birth most of all. But the dragon's death brought with it the end of his works, and its culmination: for his wife was his sister, and the horror of it caused her to kill herself.

Now he shall do the same. And he did.

The sword shattered at he fell upon it, and he was buried with its shards.

And Harry Potter knew himself in Turin, son of Hurin, called Turambar, Master of Doom, who was himself mastered. The darkness claimed him one last time.

 

[Finagle007]

My, my... this should be very interesting...

 

[Oh I am slain!]

Sweet, this is on SV too.

The prose really is gorgeous. There's very good use of understatement and nearly-unnecessary specific details. Pacing seemed fine, and there were also a few points where a suddenly short sentence was great for emphasis.

But yeah, like for any good start, I'm slightly concerned that eventually the story will get bloated. A common problem for fics, especially crossovers. Thought up a neat way to tie together an ending yet? Or is this a massive work in progress?

And overall, what are you hoping to get out of this story?

 

[Murmur]

@Finagle007

Thanks, I hope so, too

@Oh I am slain!

Oh, hello again. I'm concerned about bloat as well, though given the source materials this may or may not be inevitable. As for what I'm hoping to get out of this story ... not sure other than hopefully making an enjoyable story.

 

[yobs]

What an extraordinary soul Harry must have, this looks pretty cool. I should be able to deal with bloat as I read the entire Wheel of Time series.

 

[Rinn]

Tentatively watched. Multicrosses so very often have too much going on to make any headway into a coherent story... But can be so very awesome if done right. Other problems might stem from readers having no knowledge of the source materials. Example: I didn't recognize even half the names on the list you gave, or if I did, it was probably the wrong fandom. Here's hoping this ends up making sense!

 

[Murmur]

CHAPTER TWO: A DIFFERENT COLOURED JUMPER

Harry woke up in stages. He was convinced, upon opening his eyes and seeing only darkness, that he was somehow trapped in the non-place between lives. His heart thudded fast and painfully for a few moments, until he noticed the dimmed lamps that glowed from high brackets on a wall before him. He knew then where he was, as the familiar crisp linen sheets rustled beneath him and he cocooned himself deeper in his soft blankets: he was in the Hogwarts hospital wing. He spent quite a lot of time there, over the years. Just last year, he had had a memorable and painful night as the bones in his right arm regrew after a bungled healing attempt.

Just last year . . . what did that even mean, now? All those lives and memories swirled in his mind, but what was especially clear was the life of Harry Potter, the man who had walked to his death willingly. Was he now him, reborn in a thirteen year old kid's body?

A bone-deep exhaustion, one that had been pushed aside by the rush of fear and adrenaline upon waking, came back with a rush. Unable to stay awake any longer, and truly not wishing to, Harry fell asleep and dreamed ordinary dreams.

Harry woke at lunchtime to the sound of friends talking concernedly.

"Isn't he supposed to be better now?" asked Ron, his tone at once worried and angry. He oftentimes sounded like this, as if embarrassed by caring, and angry at being embarrassed.

"He is better," said Hermione, though she too sounded worried. "Professor McGonagall said that Madame Pomfrey told her that Harry was sleeping instead of . . . instead of . . . ." She trailed off, as if choking on the words she could not get through.

Awake enough to move now, Harry stirred in his bed. Forcing open his gummy eyes, it took a moment to focus properly. Automatically, he reached out his hand to try to find his glasses. With a squeak, Hermione took them from the side table and placed them in his hands. Sitting up now, Harry put on his glasses and looked at his friends.

"Do I look as bad as you lot?" he asked. Ron grinned widely, instantly destroying the wan expression on his face. Hermione, on the other hand, still looked worried and upset, though much less so than a moment ago.

"Nah," said Ron, obviously lying. "You look fine, now. You should have seen yourself after the Dementor attack, though. That's what that cloaked thing's called, by the way. A Dementor."

"Oh, Harry, we were so worried," said Hermione, now looking as if she were about to cry when before she had seemed to be feeling better. "When you collapsed, everyone thought that you had . . . died."

"Yeah, mate. You should have seen it. Professor Lupin shot this white, glowing mist from the end of his wand. Scared the Dementor right off the train, it did." Ron's eyes shined with the memory, the words bringing back a part of the fearful energy he must have felt at the time. "Anyway, he started forcing small bits of chocolate down you all the way to the castle."

"Apparently," added Hermione, "chocolate is recommended treatment for exposure to Dementors. However, from what Madame Pomfrey said when we got here, it's never been used for severe cases, because people usually . . . usually die."

"Well, yeah. But I'm not dead, am I," said Harry, trying to sound breezy to keep Hermione's spirits up. From her quavering smile, he knew that he was at least somewhat successful. Ron, who had been looking at Hermione worriedly, smiled at Harry and nodded encouragingly.

They told him all about what happened after his collapse. How, as soon as the train had stopped at the station, Professor Lupin had rushed Harry off of it. Hagrid, a huge, hairy man that was the school's gamekeeper and the one who had introduced Harry to the wizarding world, saw Harry in Lupin's arms and wanted to carry Harry himself. However, by this point, Professors Dumbledore and McGonnagal and Madame Pomfrey had rushed down from the school and met them.

Professor Dumbledore was the school's headmaster, and a very old and powerful wizard. Though he had an odd sense of humor, oftentimes leading others to believe that he wasn't quite all there, he was nevertheless greatly respected by the wizarding community. Indeed, he had been instrumental in fighting off dark wizards for over fifty years. He was even on a chocolate frog card, which meant that he was very important indeed. Professor Dumbledore had ordered Hagrid to continue taking charge of the first year students and to leave Harry in the care of Professor McGonnagal and Madame Pomfrey. One of Hagrid's jobs was to lead the incoming first years on a boat ride on the lake between the train station and Hogwarts as a way of marking the transition from their old lives to their new ones.

Professor McGonnagal was the head of Gryffindor House, as well as the transfigurations teacher. Stern and straightforward, she had little tuck with shenanigans, but she was also even-handed and just. Her colleague, Madame Pomfrey, was the school's matron and thus handled all of the medical emergencies that could happen when you had hundreds of underage wizards and witches banging into each other in a great heap of a castle. They led Professor Lupin, still holding Harry, through the thick crowd of students and into the hospital wing. Professor McGonnagal had had to speak quite sharply to some of them to get them to move, and a talking-to from McGonnagal was no laughing matter.

But she was not the only one who was upset by the situation.

"You should have seen Dumbledore," said Ron. "I don't think I've ever seen him so angry."

"Obviously he'd be angry, Ron," said Hermione. "I've heard that he protested quite vigorously against the Dementors being posted at the school; and even before we got here, there was a wrongful attack."

"Anyway, as soon as we had you in the hospital wing, and it looked like you were going to make it, Dumbledore went running straight back to his office to talk to the Ministry of Magic." Ron laughed, though it was tinged with anxiety. "I thought that I saw lightning shooting out of his wand, he was that upset."

"Why are the Dementors here at the school, then?" asked Harry.

"It's to capture Sirius Black," said Hermione. "The Ministry believes that he'll come to Hogwarts, and so they've sent out Dementors to look for him." She looked at Harry with an expression of grave concern, which at least brought the color back into her face. Hermione was very empathetic, easily crying in sympathy towards other people's pain. It made her a very good person, but an embarrassing friend.

"Cause Black's looking to kill you," said Ron matter-of-factly. "Though if he doesn't hurry, the Dementors will be doing his job for him." Ron, on the other hand, had all the sensitivity of a paralyzed boulder. It made him an oftentimes unintentionally cruel person, but a funny friend.

"Ron!" chided Hermione.

"Anyway, the rumor is that the Ministry's going to let the Dementors do a kiss on Sirius Black. That's what they do when they want to kill someone—just suck people soul's out when they lift up their hood." Ron sounded both disgusted and fascinated by this, while Hermione merely looked ill.

"Like what they tried with me," said Harry quietly. "Why did they try it?"

Ron and Hermione had no answers, nor did they try to make one. They only looked back at him in concern.

Soon enough, Madame Pomfrey came back in to chivvy Ron and Hermione away. Hermione promised they'd both come back after dinner with all the homework Harry missed. Ron merely rolled his eyes in disgust, then promised that he would be bringing him some dessert. As Madame Pomfrey waved a wand over him, apparently to check to see if he was still breathing, Harry watched his two best friends walk out of the hospital wing.

"Give him his homework?" said Ron. "Hermione, don't you know that the best part about being ill is that you don't have to do homework?"

"Honestly, why would one be at school if not to study?" asked Hermione rhetorically.

Ron looked at her in shock as they went through the wide oak doors that opened onto one of Hogwarts' many corridors. The last thing Harry heard was Ron saying, "It's like you're another species or something, you are."

After telling Harry that he was fine but would have to spend another night in hospital, Madam Pomfrey left Harry to settle back down on his bed. Harry stared at the hospital wing's ceiling and brooded. He was not, despite what he may have thought, a seventeen-year old stuck in a thirteen year old boy's body. He knew this because he simply could not imagine himself doing what the older Harry Potter had done. Some of the most memorable acts of the older Harry Potter, beyond the battles and derring-do, was dating and kissing girls.

Harry imagined kissing Ginny Weasley, both the twelve-year old girl as she was now, and the sixteen year old girl she would grow into, and blushed scarlet. He and Ginny seemed to have spent most of his sixth year snogging in isolated corners of the castle. He thought of Cho Chang, a very pretty girl who was one year older than him and was in Ravenclaw House. The older Harry Potter had gone out on a few dates with her and had even had his first kiss from her. Harry blushed even hotter at the memory.

So, in conclusion, and never mind all the kissing, Harry very well may be the reincarnation of Harry Potter, but he was not that Harry Potter.

Harry briefly considered asking Madame Pomfrey to come back and give him a potion for the headache that just rampaged through his mind.

Once recovered a bit, Harry resumed his brooding. In other words, he was living his life over again from its very beginning. Indeed, it was possible that the world was playing out its history all over again from its beginning. Both Rand al'Thor and Lews Therin Telamon believed that time was a wheel, replaying its events over and over again until time ended. Rand believed that he was living in the Third Age and was the reincarnation of Lews Therin, while Lews Therin believed he was in the Second Age and believed that he was some unknown person's reincarnation. Both had been told, and both believed, that they would have to live their lives over again when their respective Ages came around again.

Harry had no idea if this was true or not. It was all a bit too mystical for him. Did all of this happen before and was happening again? Now, however, Harry frowned in consternation. Was his life playing out exactly the same? Or was something different?

Desperately, he searched through memories that he knew to be his own and compared them to the life of that other Harry Potter. This was particularly difficult, as all that he could think of when he tried to remember his life was the ice cream he'd had at Florian Fortescu's Ice Cream Parlour in Diagon Alley just a few days ago, or the first time he'd ridden a broom two years back. Beyond unpleasant memories of Professor Snape, the potions teacher and Harry's least favorite person, he could not remember much of his time in class. Well, there was that one time that Gilderoy Lockhart, the second-year Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, had released Cornish pixies in the classroom and they'd attacked everyone. That was one of those funnier in hindsight moments older people keep on talking about.

When he thought to compare the other Harry Potter's life, what stuck out were the big events: battles at the Ministry of Magic, a fight with a dragon, a duel with Voldemort, another fight with a dragon, another fight with Voldemort—this time in midair, and so on. All the life-threatening things that he'd done in the past, and would apparently do in the future. That, and of course, kissing girls. Harry far preferred the memories of kissing girls, even if it made him feel feverish.

It was not until he was thinking of nothing in particular, possibly having to do with Quidditch, that his eyes fell upon his clothes. Ron had brought him a change in clothing, and Hermione had thoughtfully folded them into a neat pile on a chair next to the bed. On top of the black school robes lay a wooly jumper which Mrs. Weasley had knitted for him last Christmas. Every Christmas since his first year, Mrs. Weasley had knitted him a Weasley family jumper. He had already been having a wonderful year, as he no longer had to live with the Dursleys and had found friends for the first time in his life. Yet with that first Weasley family jumper, he felt like he truly belonged. That, in a way, he was loved.

Though he had outgrown it, he still kept the first jumper in the bottom of his school trunk. Mrs. Weasley, though she had only seen him for a few moments, had remembered Harry's green eyes and had knitted that first jumper in green, with a large letter H at its center. This showed how truly generous in her love Mrs. Weasley was, and the kind of mother that Harry always wished he had, and always envied Ron for having—not that he would ever tell Ron that. It would be way too embarrassing.

His green jumper. He knew it as well as he knew the feel of his Nimbus 2000 flying broomstick that he used to play Quidditch. It was green. So why did he think, for a brief moment, that it was black? A black jumper . . . black jumper . . . .

It came to him, then. That other Harry Potter: his first Weasley family jumper had been black, instead of green. In the letter that accompanied the jumper, Mrs. Weasley explained that it was to match his black hair. To relieve it, there had been a red letter H at the center, and red trimming. The other Harry had loved it as much as he loved his green jumper.

So, there was the difference. It was unlikely to be the only difference in the lives of the two Harry Potters, but it was the first that he noticed. However, despite the different colored jumper, the large events of his first and second years at Hogwarts had not changed. Both had faced Lord Voldemort before the Mirror of Erised for possession of the Philosopher's Stone. Both killed the basilisk that had been terrorizing Hogwarts during their second year in order to save Ginny Weasley from possession by the ghostly memory of Tom Riddle, the Hogwarts schoolboy who would grow up to be Lord Voldemort but who had somehow been able to place a copy of himself in his old school diary.

Harry sat up with a start. It wasn't 'somehow'; Harry knew exactly how Voldemort had left been a copy of himself in his diary when he was a schoolboy at Hogwarts. It was because of this method that the other Harry Potter had walked willingly to his death.

Harry gave a low groan that mixed frustration and misery. He had far too much on his plate in the immediate future to have to deal with this Voldemort nonsense. Quidditch season was coming up. He was too busy to plan to die.

Harry spent the rest of the day, and part of the night, deliberately not thinking about dying. Instead, he took the opportunity to explore the other lives that had somehow made their way into his head.

The three lives, other than his own, that were most clear were those of Rand al'thor, Lews Therin Telamon, and Turin Turambar. The first two were the most obviously connected, one being the reincarnation of the other. Rand's world was completely different from Turin's world. Rand's Great Enemy was the Dark One, an amorphous and chaotic being trapped inside the world by the Creator—God, presumably. The Dark One was released in Lews Therin's time by an experiment in the One Power, their version of magic. Lews Therin, now called the Dragon, led the Armies of the Light against the Dark one's forces, among them evil men and women called the Forsaken and manufactured monsters called Shadowspawn. The forces of Light won, but at a cost. In trapping the Dark One and the Forsaken in the hole in reality that was his trap, the Dark One had tainted the male half of the One Power. It drove every male channeller—their wizards—insane, and in their insanity they had killed families, friends and ultimately shattered and remade the world.

After thousands of years, Rand was born. It was at a time when the Dark One's power was growing, spreading his influence across the world and bringing death and chaos everywhere. Rand fought against the Dark One with the help of his friends, and by learning life lessons he was able to overcome him and heal the world. There was a bit more to the story than that, but that was it in its essentials. Life lessons and friendship.

There was a Dark One in Turin's world as well. Called The Great Enemy, apparently at the dawn of creation when the All-Father—God again, presumably—was creating the world, the Great Enemy had somehow corrupted part of creation, bringing in evil. The Great Enemy then manifested himself in the world and did what evil things do: dominate and destroy. Turin's father, Hurin, fought against the Great Enemy but lost and was captured. Hurin's whole family was cursed, and Turin's death was the result.

Harry recognized himself in all three of these men. Though it sounded insane, he thought that he might actually be those men. Was he not only Harry Potter reborn—ha!—but also the Dragon Reborn, Reborn? Turin reborn?

But their worlds were so different from his own. For one thing, the magic of Rand's world was very much more destructive than any magic he had ever heard of. The One Power was capable of terrible lightning storms and hail of fiery arrows that could destroy armies. There was a weave—or spell—that could erase people from time and existence, burn them out of reality back before the moment they were hit by the spell. Given enough power, it could be and had been used to destroy entire cities.

In Turin's world, magic was the province of the Gods and the craft of the Firstborn, the immortal first thinking peoples of the world. Turin's black sword was such a creation of the Firstborn. It carried its creator's dark nature, and gloried in blood, but even it could not like the accidental murder of its owner and the killing of the innocent. The Gods could make the trees to light the world, the sun and the moon, and people too. But the Firstborn could make fabulous jewels to carry the last light of those trees, and stones to see far, and glowing stuff.

Their worlds were not Earth as he knew it, but could it be Earth as they knew it? Could entire universes have risen and fallen, with a thread of life that would one day be called Harry Potter running through them all?

He had vague memories of the boy magicians, Tim, Christopher and Will. They had all lived in England, and in some ways their lives were much like his. Ordinary kids thrust into extraordinary lives by the magic that bubbled in their blood. Yet their magic was unlike his, as far as he could remember. Similar but not the same. Or maybe he was remembering it poorly.

With yet another mounting headache, Harry drifted to sleep, dreaming of skies so clean, and waters so pure that you could just reach out and touch paradise.

The homework that Hermione had brought after dinner was left untouched, but Harry had finished the dessert Ron had snuck into the hospital wing before going to bed.

[*]

The first thing Harry realized upon waking was that he had absolutely no idea what to do. There were so many things to do that he just couldn't decide where to start. First, there was the problem of the horcruxes. These were containers of pieces of Voldemort's soul and which ensured that even if his physical body was destroyed, he would still stick around even as something less than a ghost. Or at least this had been how Voldemort kept from dying during the other Harry Potter's life. Was this how he kept from dying this time?

Harry thought back to the other Harry Potter's sixth year, when Professor Dumbledore had been teaching the other Harry how to kill Voldemort. Dumbledore had been absent from school quite a lot, always searching for clues and memories. Despite the diary, which held Tom Riddle's schoolboy memories and soul, Dumbledore still required proof. Dumbledore had been fairly sure, even almost certain, but he still wanted proof—not just to the method, but the number of horcruxes Voldemort had made.

Harry too wanted that certainty. He was fairly sure that this time around Voldemort was using horcruxes again. The diary was certainly one. And so was he.

The method by which a horcrux is created, according to Dumbledore, was through murder. Murder tore at a soul, weakening it. Somehow—and Harry never learned the details—there was a method by which one could tear apart the weakened soul and affix it to an object or a person. So long as that object or person existed, then the soul-portion was protected. So long as the soul-portion was protected, the person who created the horcrux would not die completely.

But Voldemort in the other world had made so many pieces of himself that, when he murdered the other Harry's mother and then tried to kill other Harry but failed and was destroyed, in that failure a piece of Voldemort's soul went into other Harry and made him into a horcrux. It was because of this that the other Harry had the lightning-bolt scar.

And presumably this was true for Harry now. Harry rubbed at his scar, though it did not prickle or burn as it would in the presence of Voldemort. He was a container for a piece of Voldemort's soul—Harry felt that this was true, despite not having any real evidence that he could show. It wasn't as if he could open up his skull and see a tiny Voldemort waving out at him, probably ranting about 'mudbloods.'

Harry distracted himself a bit by imagining reaching into his head and squishing the tiny Voldemort between his fingers like a flea. It was quite a satisfying fantasy.

The second problem had to do with Sirius Black. The other Harry Potter too had been chased to Hogwarts by Sirius Black. Sirius Black back then had been a friend of the other Harry's father, his best friend, along with Professor Lupin and a man called Peter Pettigrew. The other Harry's father had made Peter Pettigrew the only person who could magically reveal the location of the entire Potter family, after they had been magically hidden away. However the world thought it had been Sirius who had been the Secret-Keeper, the key to the magical protection around the Potter home. And so when Voldemort had found the Potter family and killed both of other Harry's parents, people thought it had been Sirius who had betrayed them, not Peter Pettigrew. It didn't help that Peter 'confronted' Sirius on a street filled with dead muggles, crying foul betrayal and disappearing in another explosion. People thought that Sirius killed Peter, leaving behind only a finger, when in reality he turned himself into a rat and was in hiding in the Weasley house.

So, having made absolutely no decision, but knowing what the problems before him were, Harry got up with the sun and went to breakfast.

[*]

The Gryffindor House table in the Great Hall greeted him warmly when he came down to breakfast. Fred and George Weasley, Ron's older twin brothers, each gave him a hearty pat on the back, while Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, two of Harry's dorm mates, told him how good he looked. They had all apparently seen him being carried to the hospital wing by Professor Lupin, and been worried.

Oliver Wood, the Quidditch team captain, wasted little time with pleasantries. "So you're feeling alright?"

"Yes, Oliver," said Harry.

"Good, because I mean to win the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor this year, and I need you on as our seeker. We'll be holding practice soon, so don't go messing about with Dementors again, alright?" With that, Oliver went back to his bench. In his first year, Harry had been recruited to play seeker for the Gryffindor House Quidditch team. Though Harry was seen as one of the greatest seekers Gryffindor has had in years, the House had yet to win a Quidditch Cup. Oliver, never one for either half-measures or perspective, had become increasingly obsessed with winning.

"That Oliver," said Katie Bell, a Gryffindor fourth year and a chaser in the Quidditch team, "he certainly has his priorities straight. Never mind that you nearly died, so long as you can play Quidditch."

"Well, it is important," said Harry fairly. Katie merely gave him an old, slightly disgusted look, then she too walked away.

It wasn't all well-wishing and congratulations on his recovery that morning, however. The Slytherin House table, across the Hall from the Gryffindor table, had started laughing at Harry as soon as he'd turned up. One of them, a blonde boy with a pointed chin, shouted at him from within a gathering of friends, "Hey, Potter. Is it true you fainted when you saw a Dementor?" The blonde boy pantomimed fainting, though the effect was hindered as one of his arms was in a sling. Still his friends laughed with the blonde boy.

"Little git," growled Fred. "You should have seen him during the train ride. He came running into our compartment when the Dementors were coming through. Looked like he was going to wet himself."

"That's just Malfoy," said Harry, though inside he burned with the need to push back. Draco Malfoy had been a pain since their first year, starting and spreading rumors about him, mocking him at every turn, and insulting his friends. His father, Lucius Malfoy, had been the one who had slipped Tom Riddle's diary into Ginny Weasley's possession, causing the whole basilisk situation last year. The Malfoys were supporters of Voldemort, and Draco was a Dark Wizard in training, as were many Slytherins.

Harry sat next to Ron and Hermione, who were both glad to see him up and about. When Hermione asked him about his homework, he ignored her. Instead, he was caught up with Ron's accounts of yesterday's classes. Harry so thoroughly enjoyed Ron lampooning Professor Trelawney the Divination teacher, that he forgot about the fact that he had no idea what he should be doing.

"She's a terrible fraud," muttered Hermione darkly. "I'm sorry that I decided to take Divination."

"How are you taking all those classes?" Ron asked Hermione. He then turned to Harry. "You should have seen Hermione's timetable. She has ten classes, some of them at the same time."

"I told you, Ron, I've worked it out with Professor McGonnagal," said Hermione breezily but with finality. "In any case, we have to talk about Hagrid."

"What about Hagrid?" asked Harry.

"It's brilliant," said Ron. "Hagrid's the new Care of Magical Creatures Professor."

Harry felt instantly elated. Hagrid had been the one who had introduced him to the wizarding world, forcing Uncle Vernon to let Harry go to Hogwarts after finding them in a lonely cabin that the Durlseys had run away to, and giving Dudley a pig's tail. He was one of the warmest, most generous people that Harry had ever met. He knew just how much Hagrid loved being the gamekeeper at Hogwarts, and could not imagine how much more he would love being a Professor at the school that had been his home for decades. Harry beamed with inner pride at Hagrid's accomplishment. But his joy dampened slightly upon seeing Hermione's dour expression.

"So what happened?" Harry asked cautiously.

"We were studying hippogriffs—and it was actually a very interesting lesson, really," said Hermione. "But, well, hippogriffs are a bit temperamental and . . . Malfoy . . . ."

"It was all Malfoy's fault," said Ron darkly, glaring at the Slyerthin table's direction. "He should have listened to Hagrid and just bowed properly at the hippogriff. Then he wouldn't have been attacked, would he? Besides, he's faking most of it."

"I wonder why I didn't see him in the hospital wing," said Harry.

"Oh, Madame Pomfrey came down and patched him up right there. She said he'd need to keep the sling on for a bit, but that he's otherwise fine," said Ron airily.

"Hagrid seemed terribly upset by it all," said Hermione. "We went to see him before we came to see you last night. He's worried that he might get sacked."

"Dumbledore'd never sack Hagrid," said Ron. "Hagrid's done loads of stupid things before, and he's never been sacked. Remember Norbert the illegal dragon? Fluffy? Aragog?"

"He might not have a choice," said Hermione. "Draco will complain to his father, and his father will put pressure on the school's governors."

"It won't come to that," said Ron, though with less confidence than before.

[*]

As it was a Friday, there were only three classes. The first, Potions, was taught by Professor Snape. He was a tall man, with a long nose, and long, greasy black hair. Whenever he wasn't sneering, he was scowling in anger. He was, by far, Harry's least favorite teacher.

Unusually, Snape did not start his first lesson with Harry by insulting him. It seemed that almost dying on his first day had gotten him a reprieve from Snape's snide comments about 'Famous Harry Potter' and his arrogance and undeserved good fortune. Instead, Snape took his usual bad temper and focused it on Neville Longbottom, who was terrified of Snape, and any other random student who messed up under Snape's disdainful gaze.

It was strange being in Snape's class after all the memories of that other Harry Potter were crammed into his head. Just before his death, the other Harry learned that his Snape wasn't an evil man, one who had betrayed and murdered Professor Dumbledore at the orders of his true master Voldemort. Rather, he had been working for Dumbledore all along, and had been spying on Voldemort for Dumbledore. Snape had even murdered Dumbledore at Dumbledore's own command. Snape, or rather that other Harry's Snape, had done all this because he loved other Harry's mother and had since they were kids.

Was it true for this Snape as well? Probably. If so, then despite the fact that he was an absolute sneering, greasy git, Snape was also one of the bravest men in the world. Harry could not imagine being in Voldemort's presence all of the time, all the while working to undermine him while convincing him that he was on his side. And if Voldemort rose again this time, Snape would be Dumbledore's spy once more.

It with this thought of knowing secrets that he should not know which followed Harry from his second class, Charms, and then to his third and last class of the day, Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Apparently Harry had missed an exciting lesson in Defense Against the Dark Arts yesterday, when Professor Lupin had made them face off against a Boggart—a creature that could transform into your worst fear. Harry had vague memories of the other Harry going through that lesson, but the details were lost to him. He had an image of . . . Snape in a dress? That couldn't be right.

The day's lesson was not as exciting, mostly a lecture on non-beings, a category of dark creatures that included Boggarts, Dementors and, surprisingly enough, poltergeists.

"But Peeves isn't evil," said Dean Thomas, referring to Hogwarts own poltergeist. "He's annoying, but he wouldn't really hurt anyone."

Professor Lupin smiled gently. The last time Harry had seen him, Professor Lupin had looked years older than his age, worn down and tired. Now, in this class, he looked happy and contented; and in that happiness had come a lightness of spirit that rejuvenated him. Harry felt so happy for Lupin's happiness, but also knew that it could not last. There was a reason why Lupin was the third Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher Harry had had in three years.

"Peeves is not evil," agreed Lupin. "Indeed, I would go so far as to say that no poltergeist is evil. However, questions of good and evil are somewhat beyond this class. But we refer to dark creatures, not for their evil nature, but rather their capacity and willingness to do harm. Poltergeists are spirits of chaos, born from and attracted to chaotic places. And so, obviously, a school is a perfect place for a poltergeist like Peeves.

"But just as poltergeists are created from chaotic places, so too are Boggarts created from fearful places and Dementors from painful, miserable places. They are not born, but they are generated by the negative emotions within all of us. This is why laughter is so effective against Boggarts, as you may remember from yesterday's lesson." Here, he thumped the wardrobe that held the Boggart from yesterday's lesson. It thumped and rattled in response.

Here, people laughed in recollection. Ron wriggled in his chair a bit, as if dancing and slipping, and Hermione snorted. Lupin smiled briefly at his class, before regaining his more serious mien. "Let us turn to page 82 of our text."

The rest of the class passed in note-taking, as they wrote down the way to recognize the signs of a Boggart infestation and the characteristics of various famous Boggarts and their capture. With half his mind on his studies, Harry came to one conclusion: though he was lost in a confusion of memories and problems, he knew that he had to talk with Ron and Hermione. It was not likely that they would know what to do, exactly, but they were his friends and talking to them would make the problems seem less insurmountable. They deserved to know what was going on in his head as his friends. Also, all of the plans, schemes and adventures they had had over the years were the result of all three of them coming together. Sometimes they did not work quite like they were supposed to, but the ones that worked, worked because all three of them cooperated and planned together. Maybe between the three of them, they would be able to come up with some idea of what he—they—should be doing next.

"Meet me in the Common Room. I have to talk with Professor Lupin for a bit," said Harry, as soon as class ended. Ron and Hermione nodded in agreement and left with the rest of the class. As the classroom emptied, Harry was left alone with Professor Lupin, who was cleaning up the chalkboard and tidying away his notes.

"Urm, Professor?" said Harry, nervously. "I wanted to thank you for your help with the Dementors and that."

"No need, Harry," said Lupin, with his same gentle smile. "It was really more Madame Pomfrey than me."

"I still wanted to thank you," said Harry. "Also, Professor? I was hoping to learn that charm against Boggarts from you. Is that alright?"

Lupin looked at Harry for a long moment, then at the wardrobe. "You have very real, very concrete things to fear in your life, Harry. And it has been a life filled with fearful things. Are you sure that you want to confront them, here?"

"Yes," said Harry simply. Lupin nodded in response. He then demonstrated the simple wand-movements and the charm, 'Riddikulus.'

"But remember, Harry. It is the thoughts behind the charm that matter most. Boggarts are creatures of fear. Take away the fear, and you take away their power," said Lupin. After seeing Harry go through the charm a few times, Lupin nodded in satisfaction. Without a word, he opened the wardrobe doors.

However, instead of a Dementor, as Harry was expecting, or Voldemort, or even Uncle Vernon telling him that he was going to prison, nothing came out. Instead, there was an absence in the world, there at the center of the wardrobe. It was darkness beyond darkness, as if no light had ever touched it. But inside of that absence there radiated out cruelty and malice. There was a need there, a hunger, to take all the good things in the world and make it as wrong as the absence itself. It was as if the thing in the wardrobe could not stand for anyone to be anything other than dark and wrong. It was a void, and it was looking right at Harry.

SOON, said the absence in the world. No words were spoken, only imprinted upon the minds of the listeners by a terrible will. It made Harry's head ache with it, and he felt nauseous.

A black fire arose around the darkness, which caused the wardrobe to go up in flames. The fire that consumed the wardrobe was almost light and cheerful in comparison to the black flames of the void. Lupin, who had been frozen, sprang into action. Jets of water streamed out from the end of his wand, causing steam to fill the room. Angry hissing came from the fire as it died. But when the smoke and the steam cleared, the wardrobe was a charred, sodden mess; its top half burned up and destroyed from the intensity of the flames. Of the Boggart, there was no sign.

Harry ran from the room.

AN: That's not ominous at all.

 

[Murmur]

CHAPTER THREE: FIRESIDE REVELATIONS

"You should tell Professor Dumbledore," said Hermione. It was nearing dinner time, the late summer sun just underneath the mountain peaks that surrounded Hogwarts and shadowing the castle. The gold-red light angled towards the floor of the rounded Common Room. It had taken a few hours for Harry to be able to tell Ron and Hermione everything, from the past lives to the life of the other Harry Potter to what had happened in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom earlier that day. Even so, it had all been abbreviated, with eons and lives skimmed over, events compressed, and fears left unspoken. He certainly did not tell them of the other Harry's death in the Forbidden Forest. Still, it felt good to be able to open up and be honest with his friends after so much time alone with his thoughts.

As he had expected, his story had been met with incredulity and disbelief. Ron had shaken his head and, for a brief moment, looked at him like he was insane. Hermione too had a look of dismay on her face, as if unsure if he was at all right. This saddened Harry, but he knew that if he just kept going on they would eventually believe him—or at least follow along long enough to believe him. He just had to give them proof. If only he knew how.

"And tell him what?" said Harry, desperation creeping into his low, hushed voice. "That the voices in my head are telling me that I've got a great destiny? That Potter's going potty?"

"Good one," said Ron, his chuckle forced and his levity feigned.

"Anyway, what if . . . what if things turn out differently than before? Remember the different colored jumper?" said Harry. "I'd look like a right idiot, then."

"Still, Professor Dumbledore would know what to do, even if . . . things have . . . turned out differently than before," said Hermione. She paused before she completed her sentence, as if trying desperately not to say 'even if you're mad.'

"It's real, Hermione," said Harry, quiet but wanting so much for her to believe him. "I don't know how to prove it, not really, but it is real."

"Can you do any O.W.L.-type magic? You said that you left school in your seventh-year, so you should be able to do that," asked Ron. O.W.L., or Ordinary Wizarding Levels, were tests that fifth-year students had to take to proceed to their next years' schooling. Harry briefly flashed upon all the revising he had had to do in his fifth year, and felt a bit sick. Still, it was a good idea and Harry was grateful to Ron.

"I don't know. I haven't actually tried it," said Harry. He thought to one of the spells he'd done during his O.W.L. tests and immediately thought of the Patronus charm. This was the spell that Professor Lupin had used to chase away the dementor in the train cabin, the only spell that was useful against dementors. When the other Harry Potter had learned it in his third year, everyone had been impressed that he could do such an advanced spell—particularly when he could do what was called a corporeal patronus; being able to summon a being of light, in his case a stag.

Harry took out his wand and thought deeply and carefully about the other Harry's lessons from Professor Lupin; much like Riddikulus, the Patronus charm depended more on the thoughts of the caster than anything; in this case, happy memories. The more powerful the memories, the more powerful the patronus. Harry thought back to something happy: the first time he flew, the first letter he got from Hogwarts, the first Christmas at Hogwarts.

"Expectum Patrunoo," said Harry. Nothing happened. "Um, wait, sorry. Expecto Patrono. Expelliamus. Sorry, Ron, I'll pick that up." Harry tried several more times to cast a patronus, but to no avail. Ron looked disappointed, while Hermione, oddly enough, looked faintly satisfied.

"It's alright, Harry," she said after a while. "You can stop now. There must be another way of proving that you have those memories than doing advanced spells that you never really learned the right way."

"The right way?" asked Ron, looking at Hermione curiously.

"Well, if Harry just had memories of how to do spells shoved into his head, it'd be a bit like cheating, wouldn't it," said Hermione. "This way, even though he knows what spells we'll be studying, he'll still have to study how to do them properly. It's like reading ahead in your textbooks. That's not cheating at all."

Ron looked at Hermione, and then rolled his eyes. "I'm not even surprised anymore. I must be getting used to you, Hermione."

Ignoring him, Hermione said, "If you have all this information, there must be something you can do or say that can . . . help." Once again, Hermione paused before completing her sentence. It was obvious that she was trying not to say that it was she who needed a reason to believe Harry.

Hermione and Harry sat quiet in deep thought, racking their brains for something. Harry's mind was a mess, a jumble of need and facts. Was it the Arrow of Apollo in the sea cave? Or was it one of the Wizard's Rainbow? What should he do next? How was he going to convince them? Finally, just when he was about to give up, Ron said, "How is Hermione going to her classes?"

"What?" said Harry, looking at Ron in surprise.

"Well, if you know all of that stuff from your past life, and if your past life is so much like this one, you should know how Hermione is going to all of her classes," said Ron. He reached over and poked the fire, the flames rising as ashen logs fell lower down and let in the air. "After all, you knew about horcruxes and that's You-Know-Who's big secret. You should know secrets about other people that you couldn't know otherwise. We'll ask you about them, and if they turn out to be true, you'll know that you're not a nutter."

Hermione looked at Harry, terror and horror in her eyes. Harry only smiled. "That's brilliant. Brilliant, Ron! And to answer your question—"

"No, please!" said Hermione. She glared at Ron, who was smugly preening at having figured out Hermione's secret, or at least a way to figure it out. "Whisper the answer in my ear, and I'll tell you if it's true or not."

Ron groaned in disappointment, though there was laughter and self-mockery in the noise. Harry leaned into Hermione and whispered, "Time-turner."

Hermione, pale, nodded in reply. A time-turner was a device that could be used to take someone back in time, which she used to be in two places at the same time. It was impossible to change time, so its only real practical use was in taking lots of classes. It was funny, sometimes, how the most mundane uses could be made for magic that manipulated reality itself. Indeed, Harry knew that time was one of the areas of magic that were being researched heavily by the Department of Mysteries. Yet for all that intensive study, only the time-turners resulted from it. Perhaps it was for the best; only trouble came from knowing too much about the future, and the past and its regrets should not be revisited, or else you would never be able to live in the present. Harry was beginning to see this, now.

"Well, obviously you do have . . . secret knowledge," said Hermione, uncertain as to how to phrase Harry's strange memories. "So, I think that you should go see Professor Dumbledore. He'll know best."

Harry looked down, too ashamed to meet Hermione's eyes. He knew that she was right; that he should just go up to Professor Dumbledore's office and admit all. But he was so tired of the disbelief, of having to force people to listen to him. Nobody really did, and it made him so angry to be told nothing and to have his life managed. Even now, the Ministry was trying to both keep him ignorant of the supposed threat of Sirius Black, while trying to protect him. He supposed that they had good reasons; after all, he was a kid. But even as a kid, he felt stifled. He just wanted to be heard, really heard, not patted on the head, told he was a good boy, and then ignored. Why couldn't people just believe him first go? Why did he have to work so hard to be listened to?

Even this conversation was frustrating. Harry knew that it was only in stories that friends automatically believed every outrageous thing that a friend told them, just because they were friends. People were complicated, and skepticism was only natural. Yet a large part of Harry did want unthinking trust from Ron and Hermione. After all, hadn't he earned that sort of trust yet? Hadn't he stopped Voldemort from taking the Philosopher's Stone? Hadn't he killed the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets?

Harry stifled down on the anger and resentment. He had memories of the frightened looks that the other Harry Potter had sometimes gotten when he'd let his temper get the better of him. Then he remembered that rage had been one of the ways in which Rand al'Thor's madness had come through, so much so that in his anger he had almost destroyed the world. And Turin's temper had led him to murder innocent people. Harry knew that he had the potential for that sort of anger, the kind of anger that would murder. Whether it came from having a piece of Voldemort in his head, or from a pretty miserable childhood, or what, it didn't matter. His hands started to shake, and he forced them open and clamped them down onto the sides of the armchair he was sitting in.

Then Ron said something, which interrupted his thoughts and brought him out of his black mood. "You know," he said, "we could just do it ourselves."

Hermione looked at Ron questioningly, and Ron continued. "You said that one of You-Know-Who's horcruxes are here at school. So let's just go get it ourselves, and then show it to Dumbledore. Then you'd have your proof that some of the things you've seen are true, and that you should be listened to."

Harry, after a pause, nodded. He felt energized by the decision. He would tell Dumbledore everything, and with the Horcrux in his hand he would have proof that what he was saying was the truth. Then, maybe, the weight that had been settling on his back would be lifted off. Maybe he would be able to sleep tonight without the hearing that terrible voice that was no voice from within the wardrobe. Soon, it had said. What did it mean? Well, if Dumbledore believed him, Harry wouldn't have to worry about it.

Soon.

[*]

The halls of Hogwarts Castle were empty as they made their way to the seventh floor from Gryffindor Tower. The thick walls and floors stopped the sounds of life from other areas of the castle, so that even the tremendous cacophony from the Great Hall, where the students and teachers were enjoying dinner, could not be heard. The massive stone heap, its walls lined with paintings, gargoyles and suits of armor, would have been frightening by the torchlight had Harry not loved the place so. He loved its dungeons, its towers, and its halls. He loved its grounds, and its forest. He loved its mysteries and secrets. It was home, and it hurt whenever he left it. He had faced terror, humiliation and grief here; but all the happiness he had known, was because of Hogwarts.

He knew that Voldemort loved Hogwarts, too. It was perhaps the only thing that he loved. He hungered for power, for recognition, to be exalted above all others and to hold onto life forever. Yet he loved Hogwarts. Perhaps this meant that Harry should not; that a place was ultimately a place, unworthy of love. But Harry couldn't help himself. The other Harry had loved it here, too. Then again, his life had been much like Harry's life, up until the dementor attack. He had been one of the lost boys of Hogwarts, just like Harry. And just like Voldemort. Their only home had been Hogwarts, and the adventures they had there had shaped their souls by providing a fixed point from which they could go and still stay connected to something which fulfilled them.

He ran a hand, briefly, against a wall and enjoyed the rough scratches the weathered dressed stone made against his skin. Home—what a wonderful word. It conjured up memories from the depths of his visions, far more powerful than even the memories of war and death. From hovels to palaces and everything between and beyond, the idea of home was universal to the lives he had lived.

What had brought on this sudden attack of premature nostalgia? Perhaps it was because he knew, with every step he took, he was going closer to leaving Hogwarts. He had a premonition that, though his life would be taking a course far different from that of the other Harry Potter, it would not be any easier. Nor, he suspected, would it be one in which he could depend upon the foundation of his life, Hogwarts, being there forever to support him.

Without stopping, he turned to Ron and said, "Ask me another question." His voice was quiet, but steady, serious.

"Are you still Harry?" Ron asked, without hesitation, his own voice now hoarse with tension. Harry saw, from the corners of his eyes, that Hermione had turned to him, her face pale, her lips parted with words that would never be shaped and loosed. Harry heard her unspoken words, the question that stood between them and had done ever since he had told them his story. 'Are you still our friend?'

"Yes," said Harry. And then he repeated it, even stronger, with a passion and a longing that words could hold for a brief moment and then explode out in the world like a bomb. "Yes."

Ron looked at Harry, staring into his face, and then nodded. He smiled widely, and it seemed that this had been his first genuine expression—as if the smiles and the groans earlier had only been the expected pantomime of his role in their triad: Ron the complainer, the groaner and the mocker. But here, now, was truth. Ron wrapped an arm around Harry briefly, and another around Hermione. Harry drank in the feeling of acceptance, of belonging and being, that Ron offered as a gift and an affirmation. Harry was still Harry.

A little hoarsely, and wiping droplets of tears from her eyes, Hermione asked, "What is it like, having all those memories now?"

Harry nodded. He had been trying to come up with an appropriate metaphor for this experience, and though it was inadequate and quite possibly a lie, it was as close to the truth as he could conceive, much less admit. "It's like I watched a lot of movies about people's lives." Then he smiled at Hermione. "Or I read a lot of books about their lives. Except for a few of them, a lot of the details are a bit blurry. And what they thought and what they felt, it was them thinking and feeling it, not me."

"But you said that these people were you. I mean, obviously the you that left Hogwarts at the end of his sixth year was you, but . . . ." Ron trailed off. Harry looked at Hermione, who was following the conversation eagerly, yet seemed oddly content to let Ron ask most of the questions. Normally, when presented with any type of puzzle or mystery, she was the one who was most eager to solve it. However it seemed that when it came to questions that struck at the foundations of their friendship, she could not say anything. Only Ron, despite the obvious discomfort and confusion, could ask. And Harry, if he was any friend at all, had to answer.

So Harry answered, as truthfully to his friends as he was to himself—though he realized that that may not be all that truthful. "I felt that they were me. I recognized a lot of me in them. My temper, mostly. I never knew how angry I could get until now, but I can see it in me. But even though I know that they're me, in here." And here Harry pointed at his head. Then he pointed at his heart. "In here, there's like a barrier between their lives and mine."

Harry frowned, remembering the death of friends and loved ones from other lives. "Maybe it's better that way." He had enough ghosts from his own life to deal with. For a brief moment, the sound of his mother begging for his life—not her own life, but his—echoed in his mind, and Harry felt anger and sadness all mixed up into a heavy weight at the pit of his stomach. The heavy burning emotions only diminished to a tiny seed when he felt Hermione squeezing his arm comfortingly. He smiled at her, and she at him.

"You're right, Harry. Here it is," said Ron, stopping to stare at a tapestry on a wall. Harry and Hermione stopped and stared as well. It showed a man in a forest clearing, being hit by clubs held by trolls in pink tutus. As this was a magical tapestry, the figures in the tapestry moved, so that the trolls clubs swung down fiercely, even as they clumsily danced. Ron looked down at a little brass placard next to the tapestry and read, "Barnabas the Barmy, depicted here attempting to teach trolls ballet."

"'Attempting' is right," said Hermione, looking at the tapestry with disdain.

Harry turned to the opposite wall of the passageway. Somewhere in the blank, featureless wall was the Room of Requirement. Ron went over and ran a hand over the stone wall, and then knocked against it. He gave an experimental kick but they heard only the dull thud of soft shoes against hard rock. Ron turned to Harry, skepticism and hope intermingled. "So how do you open the door again?"

Harry began walking before he started to answer, and waved a vague hand in a circle where Ron stood. "Right, so you walk back and forth around here, three times. While you do that, you think really hard about what you need. Right now I need the Room to be the Room of Hidden Things. That's where all those students and teachers stored stuff that they didn't want people to find." Harry, fiercely concentrating, walked back and forth along the hallway, thinking about the Room of Hidden Things. "I need the Room of Hidden Things. I need the place where people stored their stuff they didn't want anyone else to get. I need the Room of Hidden things," he muttered to himself.

Ron and Hermione gasped, and Harry looked up. A doorway, wide enough for two people side by side, had appeared on the once-blank wall, a heavy wooden double door hinged to swing outward closed to them. It looked as if it had always been there, a natural part of the castle. Harry smiled in triumph—here was the proof of his visions. A sudden dread came over him as he pressed his hand against the door. Here too was another step upon a strange road. He had learned this much from his memories—unknown roads were never safe, even if walking upon them was necessary. By walking into the Room of Requirement and finding one of Voldemort's horcruxes, Harry was going down a path that his other, previous self had not walked. Ignorance would surround him; the terrible unknown.

Then he looked at his friends. Ron seemed eager, as if hungry to see what was inside the Room, and when he looked at Harry he smiled with wonder and hope. Hermione, on the other hand, was apprehensive, as if she too could feel the familiar shape of her life becoming distorted. Yet when she met his eyes, she became determined and very brave. They each took a door, he to the right and Ron and Hermione to the left, and pulled back. The door swung easily, for all its apparent weight, and they stepped inside the Room of Requirement.

Inside was a vast chamber, so large that it seemed impossible for even Hogwarts to hold it. It was a cathedral to furtive secrets, with a vaulted roof and high windows that let in starlight. Detritus of the ages, of innumerable people across the thousand years that Hogwarts had stood, cluttered the impromptu aisles of the Room of Hidden Things configuration like skyscrapers and tumuli. They walked through the Room, Ron and Hermione following Harry as he searched for a particular cupboard. Ron pointed out how manky many of the things in the Room were, with one pile being made entirely of cracked cauldrons. However he then noticed a mound of jewels and precious metals, and stood frozen in shock until Hermione pushed him onward. Hermione too found things that captivated her attention. There was one section that was a maze of shelves, each one filled with books. With a squeak, she rushed over to them and grabbed one at random and began flipping through it. Flushed with excitement, she pulled another book off another shelf and began reading. By the time she had pulled and began scanning through a fifth book, sitting down on the dusty floor of the Room, Harry and Ron had decided enough was enough. Not bothering to make an argument, they pulled Hermione to her feet and dragged her away from the library, only one of the pilfered books in her hands. Hermione cried out once in disappointment, before resignedly walking away.

Soon enough, Harry found what he was looking for. Turning when he came upon an enormous stuffed troll, then turning again, Harry saw a cupboard which looked as if acid had been thrown upon it. Chemical burns and blisters covered the front of the cupboard, while the brass inlays were pitted. Nearby was a bust of a warlock atop a crate, a dusty old wig, and finally a lonely old tiara.

"Is this it?" asked Ron, looking at the tiara with horror and fascination. Tentatively, and with great care, Harry reached out and lifted up the tiara. It was silver, dusty and tarnished black with age—though far less than its thousand year history should have made it. A small green emerald glittered at its center. Delicate and beautiful, it seemed too innocent for its true meaning in the world: wisdom perverted for murderous vanity. Harry took it up and held it, trying to feel something, some hint of the malevolence that inevitably lived within a horcrux; the hatred and envy that was the compass that guided Voldemort's every action. But he felt nothing. That was no reason for it, of course. The diary that was the first horcrux that Harry had encountered had seemed innocuous at first as well. It had taken time and interaction for its true nature to reveal itself. Only continued exposure, corrosive and dominating, would make a horcrux obvious. That, thought Harry with sudden recollection, and a single word.

This was the Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw. Created by Rowena Ravenclaw, one of the founders of Hogwarts and the namesake of House Ravenclaw, she had created the diadem as a way of increasing her wisdom. Sometime before her death, it had been stolen and lost for centuries. Both this time, and last time, Voldemort had discovered it and turned it into a horcrux, as he had done with as many magical treasures that he could. His vanity and need to elevate himself above others would not have let him make a horcrux, after his first experimental diary, out of anything less important. However his obsessive secretiveness would not let Voldemort tell anyone that he possessed the Lost Diadem, particularly as its destruction would help ensure his permanent death. So Voldemort had hidden it in a place that he presumed, in his arrogance, only he could ever find.

"Pay attention to this, cause it may be important," said Harry, standing back from the others. He was about speak in Parseltongue, the language of serpents. Harry had always been able to speak to snakes, though it wasn't something he had too much of a chance to do in the suburbs of London. It was only in his second year that he had learned that Parseltongue was a rare ability, even in the Wizarding World, and that only dark wizards seemed to possess it. Salazar Slytherin, the founder of Slytherin House and infamous blood purist, had been a Parseltongue. So too had his descendant, Lord Voldemort. Harry cleared his throat, perhaps a bit melodramatically, and said in a hissing, coughing language, "Open."

From within the emerald there appeared a single eye, its pupil dark, which stared up at him. Ron cursed while Hermione gave a small scream of horror. Though he had been expecting something of the sort, Harry had to fight down on the sudden panic and the urge to throw the tiara away as far as possible. A gathering sense of hatred, like nascent lightning, filled the air. Though he was unsure whether he was imagining it or not, Harry felt the scar on his forehead prickle. In the same coughing, hissing language, and hoping desperately that it would work, Harry said, "Close. Close, close, close!"

To his immense relief, the eye within the emerald disappeared. His heart still pounding in his ears, Harry took deep, gulping breaths. That had been way too close. Next time, Harry vowed, he would think before he acted. It was all too likely that if he had not been able to close the horcrux, it would have tried to attack them. The diary had taken physical form and used a basilisk to try to kill all the students of Hogwarts who were not from magical families—mudbloods, as the blood purists insultingly put it. Though it had had to take the life energy of Ginny Weasley through months of possession and mind-control, the diary had still possessed the terrible will and desire to murder. Harry was all too convinced that the tiara would have done the same.

"Is it always going to be like that?" asked Ron, his own voice harsh with fear. "Looking at us?"

"Worse, most times," said Harry. He remembered what it had been like when the three of them had had a horcrux in their possession for months, unable to destroy it and forced to have it on their person at all times for fear of it contriving to somehow escape from them. It had slowly poisoned their minds, bringing their fear, anger and desperation so much closer to the surface until it had finally driven Ron away. Harry shivered. "Much worse. Hopefully, it'll be easier this go around."

Ron groaned and threw up his hands. "And now you've gone and jinxed us."

"Can we go to Professor Dumbledore now?" said Hermione, plaintive and exasperated.

[*]

Shockingly, they had little trouble making their way to the Headmaster's rooms. The only difficulty had come from nearly running into Argus Filch, Hogwart's notoriously ill-tempered caretaker, and his cat, whom they avoided by hiding behind the set of full plate armour that lined the hallway. They found themselves before the gargoyle behind which hid the entrance to Professor Dumbledore's office in the Headmaster's Tower. It was not until he was facing the gargoyle that Harry realized that he had no idea how to get in to see the Headmaster. Harry turned to his friends. Ron shrugged and shook his head, but Hermione frowned in response, her eyes squinting at the gargoyle.

"I might have an idea," she said slowly. She stepped up to the gargoyle, and introduced herself.

The gargoyle, which had looked much like any other stone statue, slowly moved from its fixed position to regard Hermione. "Are you now? How interesting. And how may I help you, Miss Granger?"

"Are you actually a gargoyle, or are you a grotesque? Because, you see, Hogwarts: A History was ambiguous on that point." asked Hermione. Ron groaned, and Hermione turned to him hurriedly, a slight blush painting her cheeks. "I've always wanted to know, and never had the opportunity to ask until now.."

"In fact, when I was originally constructed, there was no distinction between the two. However, I am indeed a gargoyle, having been moved here from my position on the exterior of this very tower to my current post as guardian of the Headmaster's Tower. I have also retained the ability to expel a stream of water for that very purpose, and at my discretion." Water began to trickle out of the corner of the gargoyle's mouth, but quickly stopped once he saw that his point was made.

"Ah. Ah ha," laughed Hermione nervously. "Well, thank you very much for answering my question."

"If that is all, I shall be returning to my lonely vigil, and you will be going back to, hmm, yes, Gryffindor Tower as dry as the Sahara." The gargoyle started to return to its usual still position, but stopped at Harry's interjection.

"Wait, please wait," he said. "Could you please ask Professor Dumbledore if he would see us? It's very important."

The gargoyle turned to look at Harry, water once again trickling from its mouth. "Is it?"

"Yes, please just tell him that Harry, Hermione and Ron are here to talk to him about--" Harry hesitated a moment, then leaned in to whisper in the gargoyle's large, stone ear. "Horcruxes."

"I'm sure that if I knew what that was, I would be suitably impressed, young man." The gargoyle heaved a huge, put upon sigh. "Oh, very well. Please wait a moment."

Harry and his friends waited silently as the gargoyle froze in place. Ron coughed into his hands once, while Hermione fidgeted. Harry shifted the canvas bag, taken from the Room of Requirement, which held the Horcrux, from his right hand to his left. Though the Lost Diadem was not particularly heavy, holding it in front of him with his arm locked since finding it had left his arms tired and aching. Thankfully he and his friends did not have to wait long before the gargoyle turned to face them once more.

"The Headmaster has deigned to see you all. Please step this way, said the gargoyle, before he, the pedestal on which he sat, and the wall behind him opened outward to reveal a winding stone stairway. Together with his friends, Harry took a step closer to defeating Lord Voldemort.

[*]

Once again, the eye within the emerald at the center of the Lost Diadem glared at the world. The sense of absolute hatred roiled from it as it sat upon the center of Professor Dumbledore's desk. Most of that hatred was undoubtedly directed at Professor Dumbledore himself, but there was enough left for the entire world. Professor Dumbledore himself only looked back at the Horcrux with a mixture of bemusement and pity.

As soon as they had stepped into the Headmaster's office, Harry carefully upended the canvas bag and slid out the Lost Diadem. Harry then quickly went on to explain the strange memories he had of his other lives, including the memories of the previous Harry Potter and his search for Voldemort's horcruxes. Professor Dumbledore had listened closely to Harry's story, and accepted it. Though Harry was sure that he had questions, the Professor had simply nodded and then asked for Harry to cause the Horcrux to open. Harry had felt so much better at the Professor's unspoken acceptance.

Once Harry had caused the Diadem to open its eye, he and his friends had stayed well away from it, standing by the large fireplace and its crackling fire.

"Hello, Tom," said Professor Dumbledore calmly. "My, what lengths fear has taken you. I do not suppose that you would be willing to share where your fellow Horcruxes may be located?"

The eye's only response was to glare even more hatefully at the Headmaster. Beside Harry, Hermione squeaked in fright while Ron whimpered once.

"No, I did not suppose so. Goodbye, Tom." Then, without another word, a great sword flew from across the room and into the Professor's hand, who swung it swiftly and effortlessly down onto the Diadem, cracking it in two. A dark, blood like substance began seep out of the emerald.

The three students looked in silent shock at the Headmaster. The sudden, unexpected violence had taken from them all speech. Professor Dumbledore kept his eyes on the Horcrux, before nodding in satisfaction. As if that nod gave him permission, Ron spoke up.

"Can I have a go?" he asked, pointing at the sword. With a twinkle in his eyes, Professor Dumbledore handed Ron the sword with a word about "minding the varnish."

"You shouldn't have tried to kill my sister, you toerag," hissed Ron angrily, before smashing the sword down upon the Horcrux, cracking it even further. Ron then set the sword down upon the Professor's desk with a sigh. "And I'll do the same to the real You-Know-Who as well."

With a clap of his hands, Professor Dumbledore cheerily said, "Now why don't we all sit down by the fire before we continue our conversation regarding these memories of yours, Harry. It has a most eventful day, though I daresay more for you three than for myself."

All three of the friends quickly agreed to warm butterbeer and biscuits, as they sat on large, overstuffed chairs. Professor Dumbledore contented himself with a cup of tea alone. Once everyone was fortified, the Headmaster smiled at Harry. Another thrill went through him at that smile, so filled with confidence and trust in him. The other Harry had, at times, been so filled with resentment and even anger towards the Professor, and perhaps he had even been justified to an extent. But on looking at that smile, Harry could not imagine not placing his own trust in the old man. And so he prepared himself for yet another conversation about his past lives with the man whom he trusted above all others.

AN: That was so easy. I'm sure that it'll all be smooth sailing from here on.

 

[artanis00]

AN: That was so easy. I'm sure that it'll all be smooth sailing from here on.

Click to shrink...

Ron groaned and threw up his hands. "And now you've gone and jinxed us."

Click to shrink...

 

[Finagle007]

AN: That was so easy. I'm sure that it'll all be smooth sailing from here on.

Click to shrink...

I Heard That.

 

[Oh I am slain!]

Huh.

Miscellaneous thoughts:
1. I'm not sure what I expected, but I quite enjoyed the pacing of the second chapter. It was fitting for Harry to be in a daze and do nothing immediately till he kinda 'woke up' and made a decision.
2. A different jumper? Dunno where that's going yet.
3. At first I thought it absurdly risky for Harry & Co. to go for the Diadem despite not knowing what dangers it might have yet. But I guess some of the worry was due to fanon playing up the immediate dangers of contact with a horcrux. Now that I think about it, none of the horcruxes themselves were immediately dangerous, besides perhaps the cursed ring.
4. Yeah, I don't know anything beyond the basics about WoT. I'll learn as a go, I suppose.
5. I quite liked Dumbledore's swift action. There was no need to drag it out, and you didn't.
6. I think you did a decent job assuring readers that this is a 13-year-old Harry with extra memories, and not others taking over his body.
7. There were two or so bits of Ron-Hermione dialogue that felt a bit stale, but nothing major.
8. Overall, it'll be interesting to see how this prematurely wiser Harry perceives the world around him. I'm looking forward to more details on how his perspective is a bit different from canon in every chapter.

"Like what they tried with me," said Harry quietly. "Why did they try it?"

Click to shrink...

Ha, this makes me imagine that the Dementors simply wanted to help extract Voldemort's soul sliver from Harry. The real reason why they went after Harry multiple times is 'cause they thought they were halping.

against the Dark one's forces

Click to shrink...

*Dark One

 

[the DragonBard]

Just found this, and it is 'very' interesting.

I wonder if Harry has gained access to any other magic systems besides HP magic.

Though, why can't Harry use any of the wand magic he learned from the future? Rand learned some weaves from Lews Therin's memories. Why not Harry?

 

[Finagle007]

Though, why can't Harry use any of the wand magic he learned from the future? Rand learned some weaves from Lews Therin's memories. Why not Harry?

Click to shrink...

He forgot the incantations?

 

[Murmur]

@the DragonBard
Honestly, the real reason is that it would have made the story pretty boring. I don't really want to do a curb stomp story, though they can be fun to read.

As for the in-story reason ... I've got a couple in mind.

Thanks for reading, btw.

 

[Murmur]

Chapter Four: A Hint of Shadows


Lucius Malfoy, proud son of a proud house of witches and wizards, considered himself to be a great man. As a great man, he had strived all of his life to strengthen the position of his family, and steer the course of society in the right direction. Sometimes he succeeded, and sometimes - though not often - he failed. Oftentimes this meant steering the course of government and society through bribery and threats. Sometimes it meant endangering the lives of children. But it was all for the very best of reasons; it was for his family.

But all of his power and influence were meaningless here: Azkaban, the Wizarding prison. The word itself would sometimes wake him up in the middle of the night, clutching his wife for the comfort of human contact that Azkaban denied. Those nightmares, of being sent to Azkaban like so many of his friends and relatives, never failed to terrify him. The sight of its guards and punishment, the Dementors, never failed to cause dread to press down on his chest, no matter how louche he acted whenever he saw them.

Now his nightmare had come true, and it was worse than he ever imagined.

---

He had awoken to find himself in the air, wrapped in his bedsheets along with his wife, Narcissa. They had struggled and screamed together, each trying to free themselves; all on instinct. They stopped struggling when a Dementor flew before them, and placed a single finger just where its mouth would be. Of their wands, there was no sign. Until that Dementor showed himself, he had a small hope that all of this was either a mistake, or at least manageable. Given his position in Wizard society, who would dare to kidnap him, and what scoundrel could stand against him? But upon seeing that shrouded head and scabrous, corpse-pale hand in the dim moonlight, he knew that there was no mistake; and if there were, any correction would be too late. The Dementors had never been tamed, and once in their grasp had never let go of one they deemed their prey.

Lucius inched his hand towards Narcissa, and felt relief at her returning touch. He concentrated, and willed himself to disapparate with his wife and reappear anywhere but in the hands of the Dementors. Lucius was dismayed but unsurprised by his failure, as he knew full well that even when not draining happiness and souls Dementors could cause magic to fail around them. Dementors were the vilest parasites in the world, and should have been erased from existence.

Lucius tightened his grip on Narcissa and smiled tightly at her. "Keep your eyes on me. Look only at me," he said to her, though the wind whipped by so quickly that he could not hear even his own voice. Yet they had been married for so long that she understood him perfectly, and met his gaze with her own. She smiled, and the fear in her eyes tore at him though he fought to not show it. Damn these Dementors for the pain they have caused Narcissa. He would tear them apart, and their destruction would be the happiest thing of all.

The landscape blurred below them, and in the darkness he could not tell where they were going. The cold wind of their passage burned his face, and soon enough he felt his body cramp from the tight bindings and inability to move. Time lost meaning in the haze of pain and cold. Narcissa had fallen back asleep, the stress and fear of the situation, coupled with the tedium of absolute helplessness leaving her little choice but to become unconscious. Lucius looked upon his wife's face, slack and worn, and felt his chest tighten again from his inability to do anything for her now. Already he could feel the tendrils of helplessness and hopelessness that came from being in the Dementor's presence, and wished that he could fall asleep himself and find some escape from this wretched, cold hell. His neck hurt from turning it to face Narcissa, yet he could not look away. He stayed this way for some time, thinking about his wife and his son, Draco, their lives together in his home, and he mourned. Whatever happened at the end of this flight, he knew that the death of his comfortable life with his family had ended. Perhaps something better awaited, but he doubted it. He knew that he should take what comfort there was in what may be his last moments, but he found that the fear and bodily aches of the past hours had robbed that from him. Lucius remembered hearing that when one walked to certain death, the world tasted sweeter and more vibrant, yet all he felt was a numb ache. Perhaps this meant that he would not die. He looked again at his wife, and hoped desperately anew and hated himself for that hope.

Lucius thoughts wandered to the young man he had been, and wondered. He had been born some years after the fall of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald, yet the world still bore the scars of that long and terrible war. The argument between Grindelwald, who favored abolishing the Statute of Secrecy and revealing to the muggles the wizards and witches among them, and ruling them, and Dumbledore and all the others who supported the status quo of maintaining the Statute, was over, and Dumbledore had won. That argument had been won as all such are, by the use of force. From the smuggled muggle newspapers that he had read when he was a boy, Lucius thought it a good idea to separate from the muggle world. It seemed that all they did was kill each other in the most degrading ways, or invent new ways to murder in unthinkable numbers. Muggles were worse than giants, and as soon as they killed themselves off the better the world would be. As to blood purity, Lucius never gave it that much thought; it was the obvious way of the world, much as washing one's hands or table manners. It was an automatic thing that one associated with the pure blooded, and disdained the mud bloods. If he gave it any consideration, he would say that the taint of the muggle world that mud bloods brought with them should not be allowed.

He was fifteen when the Wizarding War in Britain began. Lord Voldemort had declared himself the new Dark Lord and rallied his followers under his rule. His inner circle trumpeted the cause of blood purity, and the old families had sent their sons and daughters to become Death Eaters, the masked symbols of a return to a better time, when there had not even been a question that blood purity should be maintained. Yet life within Hogwarts continued as always, though everyone of right mind supported Lord Voldemort's efforts at reforming wizarding society. And so, as soon as he graduated, Lucius presented himself to Lord Voldemort and became a Death Eater, dedicating his undying loyalty to Lord Voldemort and his cause. With their support, Lord Voldemort would not only bring about a better world.

The disillusionment set in quickly. Voldemort was brilliant. Voldemort was ambitious. Voldemort was powerful. Yes, all of those things. Yet Voldemort cared for nothing except himself. He made no true secret that he had no interest in blood purity. The ideology of Voldemort was Voldemort, no more and no less. The world reflected in Voldemort's eyes was a cold, bleak place, populated only by himself and no other. Lucius quickly discerned that no matter what his promises, or his lies, Voldemort's charisma hid an increasingly disfigured body filled with a rage that could destroy the world.

But Voldemort's power, brilliance, and even that empty vision gave his followers something that, before Lucius had come to be in his presence, he would never had thought was necessary: license. It was as if being a follower of Voldemort gave them permission to be whoever they wanted to be, to follow their dreams of power, and to strike out at the world that seemed to have betrayed them. And so Lucius spent those years during the war, learning from Voldemort how he worked and, perhaps more importantly, how he shouldn't work. Though Voldemort revelled in the theatrical, he could also be subtle in his use of power. It was for this reason that when Voldemort fell, Lucius was able to secure his own safety by denouncing him, claiming that he had been under the imperius curse and thus his mind was not his own, and then leverage his family's wealth and the connections he had made with other former Death Eaters to reach the heights of power and prestige he enjoyed today.

But that power and prestige meant nothing, here in the grips of the Dementors. He looked back on his life, now, and saw that it had been a good one: he had fought for his beliefs, and for his family; killing no more than he had to, in order to survive and thrive. That it seemed likely that he would die, and his wife with him, tore at him, but he could think of no way in which he could have been a better father or wizard.

After what must have been hours, though it was still dark out, he saw from the reflection of the moon that they were moving across water. Though he had hoped otherwise, Lucius knew where they were going. Soon enough, he saw their destination. Azkaban took up nearly the entirety of the unnamed island upon which it was built over four hundred years ago as a fortress of a dark wizard of great power and dubious sanity. It could not be seen in the night and fog, yet as they drew closer Lucius found that even so it was difficult to make out, and the only way to determine its shape was in the negative impression it made upon the world. There was the world of the living and hopeful, and then there was Azkaban; a black shape cut out of the world. Nothing grew on the island, Lucius saw, not trees, not moss, not even mushrooms. What living thing willingly came to Azkaban? Lucius let his wife remain asleep, to save her from having to witness this place more than she would have to.

The Dementors holding them flew them down into the courtyard of Azkaban, where they tumbled out of the loosened bedsheets. Narcissa woke up with a startled yelp, which turned into a brief, strangled sob. However, she then stood up defiantly, glaring at the Dementors and held her head high and proud. She strode through the doorway to the main hall, Lucius beside her, his hand in hers. They found the main hall to be fully lit, which shocked Lucius; he knew well that Dementors doused any light in their area. However, despite the light, the sense of oppressive hopelessness increased, with both the light and the despair centered at the far end of the main hall. Lucius looked, and had to turn his head away as a rush of dizziness nearly overwhelmed him at the sight. It was a huge ball of orange and red fire, at least three meters tall, shaped like an eye. At its center was a black flame, in which it could be barely discerned shapes writhing in seeming agony or ecstasy. Littered everywhere else were either the bodies of those who had been kissed by the Dementors, or the prisoners who awaited being robbed of their souls. Dementors hovered over the wretches, who huddled by themselves against the walls of the hall, lost in their own worlds of pain. They walked on towards the fire, as that was the only place to go in this wretched place. However, Narcissa suddenly stopped and sprinted to the side of the hall.

"Bellatrix," she cried, as she hugged one of the insensate prisoners.

Lucius turned to see that one of the living was indeed Belleatrix Lestrange, Narcissa's sister, who had been one of Voldemort's most fervent followers. She had been imprisoned in Azkaban after a futile attempt to discover where Voldemort was after his downfall, along with her husband, Rodolphus Lestrange, and her brother-in-law, Rabastan, and the son of a ministry official. That she had he survived for so long in Azkaban was a testament to her willpower. But now she seemed a shattered thing; the only difference between her and those whom the Dementors had kissed being the slow blinking of her eyes. But upon Narcissa's touch, Bellatrix focused upon her sister, then began to softly sob with grief. This place had broken her.

Before he could go to his wife, a Dementor came between them and pointed at the fire. It then drew Narcissa and Bellatrix back to their feet, and pointed again. Without a word, Lucius took up Bellatrix's other side and together they walked on toward the fire. It did not take them long before they were made to stop, and though the fiery eye was huge,Lucius felt only cold near it. There was no warmth there, no life, and the light that it gave was sickly and distorted. Suddenly, one of the Dementors fly past with a struggling witch in its grasp. They both dove into the fire, the witch screaming in agony. They did not come out again, and Lucius thought he saw two more figures join those already within the black flame at the center of the eye. He turned his gaze away from the eye, sickened by it.

"Rodolphus is in there, too. Rabastan was kissed," said Bellatrix, her voice dead. "His remains are somewhere around here."

"We will get out of this place," said Narcissa stoutly. Her eyes caught his, and he nodded in support, though the lie made his stomach sour. "We will find a way."

Gathering his will, with the need to keep his wife safe pushing him, Lucius turned to the nearest Dementor in anger and pride. "You wanted us here. So what do you want?"

Lucius knew that Dementors could think, and they had a method of communicating with the Ministry of Magic. How else could they serve as guards in Azkaban? And though he was ignorant of the methods, he was sure that they would make their wishes known. For it had come to him that though they could have kissed him and his wife at any time, the Dementors had brought them before the fiery eye for a reason, and this thought once more gave him hope. Lucius would fight to make that hope a reality for his wife, and it all depended upon convincing whoever had ordered the Dementors to bring them here. The Dementors were known to be concerned with only feeding off of the happiness and souls of people, and would give their services to whomever could provide those things; they were dangerous creatures, nothing more, despite their ability to communicate with wizards. They made no plans, and had no concerns beyond their appetites. If the Dementors had had their way, Lucius and Narcissa would have been kissed long before now, not brought to Azkaban. So it came down to Lucius negotiating with whomever had power over the Dementors.

Instead of an immediate answer, a Dementor came between them and the fire, bringing with it the body of a wizard who had been kissed by a Dementor. The eye surged, and a fine lance of black fire went through the Dementor and into the wizard. The Dementor screamed, a high-pitched grating gasp of agony, then began flickering in and out of visibility. The wizard spasmed in place, then slowly rose from the ground. When he raised his head, Lucius saw that the where his eyes should be were only pinpoints of black fire, burning in their sockets and charring the flesh and bone around them. The once-wizard - for it could no longer be said to be human, or even alive, but an alien thing - opened its mouth, from which spilled out more black fire. When it spoke, everyone quailed in fear, though its voice was neither loud nor harsh, but rather calm and even. But the sound of its voice echoed in all of their minds, imprinted indelibly with power and pain. "What do I want, sniveller? I want it all."



Author's Note: Well, that's something. Next up: Hermione's viewpoint, entitled "Sound and Vision." Fun fact, in this story, Hermione was not named after the Shakespeare character, but rather from the David Bowie song "Letter to Hermione." So all chapters from Hermione's perspective will be named after a Bowie song. "I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do/So I'll just write some love to you."

 

[Finagle007]

Oh dear.

 

[Oh I am slain!]

...I'm kinda confused. Was Lucius already in Azkaban at the start of the chapter? And why was Narcissa there with him? And just for clarification, were they levitated all the way from their home? What prevented them from waking up earlier?

Overall, the writing itself is lovely, but I'm still not yet sure how you'll be able to hold all this together coherently enough to keep readers engaged. I guess I'll see?

 

[Murmur]

Right, so I've made a slight formatting edit in order to make it clearer that most of the chapter was a flashback. Thanks for your help in pointing that out.

As for why they didn't wake up earlier .... umm, the Malfoys are deep sleepers? More seriously, the Dementors are a metaphor for depression, and one of the symptoms of depression is sleeping a lot (another one is insomnia). But honestly, I thought it made for a better image if Lucius and Narcissa woke up in mid-air.

Thanks for the kind comment. Not ... quite sure what you mean by "hold all this together coherently." Hopefully whatever I write will be engaging for you readers. If not, please tell me. Maybe it's because I'm reading Gardens of the Moon by Steven Erickson, but I don't think what I've written so far is all that convoluted, but maybe I'm too close.

 

[sdarian]

But the sound of its voice echoed in all of their minds, imprinted indelibly with power and pain. "What do I want, sniveller? I want it all."

Click to shrink...

Is this a reference to something? Because it's not intimidating at all, and in fact detracts from it. Just cutting it out entirely sounds far better.

 

[Murmur]

It's ... kind of a reference? As someone over on the other board pointed out, it's an echo of the scene from Lord Foul's Bane by Stephen R. Donaldson, where the titular Lord Foul keeps on calling Thomas Covenant groveler. Here, Lucius is not so much groveling, but the big bad, being a big bad, can't help but put the boot in. Also an echo of "Snivellus" which James Potter et al called Snape, though I don't mean to imply a connection there.