Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc,. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Original Author: Karaii
Author's Note: This story originally belonged to Karaii, so the first six chapters are not mine. When I read this story, it left me at awe and it felt horrible knowing it was abandoned. Thankfully, Karaii was kind enough to let me continue it!!!! -squeals- So all I can hope now, is to make this story everything it can be.This story is now my first priority.
Chapter 1 – Another Chance
Today was not a very pleasant day for one Harry James Potter. In all actuality, it was probably Harry's worst highlight of the week. And considering the circumstances, that was saying quite a lot.
"Crucio." Came a calm hiss, laced with pleasure at the simple word's result.
Harry bit his lip straight through in an effort not to cry out as the pain of a dozen knives slammed into his body. It felt like an eternity before the damnable spell was lifted, and even afterwards his body shook, twitching. He refused to scream, though. No, he would not give the slimy snake that satisfaction. He grunted from exhaustion as he managed to wobble back to his feet, his eyes flaming with almost palpable hate and determination.
Voldemort's eye twitched in surprise at Harry's strength, but that was all that he gave to betray his shock. Indeed, his lip curled into a rather frighteningly similar 'Snape'-like sneer, a smirk of satisfaction. "Yesss," the man hissed in parseltongue, a language only himself and Harry knew how to speak, "I knew you would not disappoint me."
"Shut up, Voldy," Harry snarled back, but his voice was hoarse and raspy, barely above a whisper.
Rather than curse the raven-haired youth for his utter lack of respect, the snake-faced man threw his head back and laughed coldly, almost hysterically so. "Harry Potter," he said silkily, Harry's name in parseltongue slithering out of his mouth like liquid fire, "You are indeed the only one who can oppose me ssso." It seemed he derived vast amounts of pleasure by seeing Harry so close to breaking.
But Harry did not break—he was almost, in a way, indestructible in everything but body. No, even if Voldemort managed to utterly eradicate Harry's living existence, his memory would never fade, his powers always lingering in the air, even as weak as they were now, after several days filled with hours of torture.
"It pains me to say that I will have to get rid of you soon," Voldemort murmured softly, almost lovingly, his thin and long pale fingers tracing Harry's jaw.
The Boy-Who-Lived shuddered away, disgusted by his archenemy's touch. No, no longer was he a boy. He was a man of twenty-five who had suffered and toiled, striving so hard to get rid of this Dark Lord that refused to die. Time after time after time, Harry and Voldemort dueled and battled, innocents and blameworthy both dying in the process, yet no side managed to prevail over the other for long. It was like an eternal stalemate, victory and triumph forever eluding both the Dark and the Light.
But apparently, no longer.
Harry gathered up the saliva and blood in his mouth, and spit, managing to soil Voldemort's dark red robes, if only a bit. "Do it then," he rasped out, choking on his parched and raw throat, coughing up blood and vomit that lingered in his dry tongue. "Kill me now," he hissed out in the same language, "End it all."
"And end the fun?" Voldemort laughed, "No, not yet. Crucio."
The man's body arched, his mouth opened in a silent scream, pain beyond comprehension attacking his battered body. Tears leaked out of his eyes as the man once known as Tom Riddle laughed and laughed, enjoying every moment of his ultimate rival's suffering. It was a wonder Harry had not gone utterly mad—he was constantly Crucio'd for many hours. Neville's parents had only lasted an hour with their sanity, yet Harry continued to hold true, even after days of pure horror. He laughed dryly in his mind, suppressing the pain he knew his brain was producing out of reaction to the spell.
"Morde Doloris," the snake-man whispered, changing tactic, ruby eyes glimmering in anticipation. It was a Dark curse, like Crucio, illegal too. Although it's pain was distinct, not quite as physically large as Crucio (it was a lot of pain, yes, but not enough to merit the title of Unforgivable, after all), it brought along the mind's belief that this pain was damnably real, as well as painful memories if the victim had any powerful ones laced with guilt.
And Voldemort knew this young man had countless.
Now Harry's mouth exploded with a hair-lifting shriek, sinking down to his knees, emerald eyes wide and limp arms were brought to his head as cascading memories assaulted his weary brain. He screamed and screamed for several minutes—but suddenly, it was cut short. Harry's body shuddered, eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he collapsed into nightmarish unconsciousness. Voldemort frowned slightly, disappointed his victim had not lasted as long as before. He'd have thought the boy who'd escaped his grasp since he was a year old would manage to last a few more hours, like yesterday or the day before.
It seemed the world's hero was finally conceding into defeat.
Well, Voldemort thought lazily as he barked an order to the quivering Wormtail in the corner. He's lasted far many more days than his sidekick friends.
The pitiful rat scurried to follow his Master's command, stumbling over his own two feet, causing him to receive a Crucio. Voldemort watched Wormtail wither for a few seconds before lifting the curse, and allowing his servant to take Potter to his filthy room, where he would be healed a bit and then thrown back into the world of torture prepared by none other than himself. After all, it would not due for Wormtail to die just yet. Voldemort had been running low on Death Eaters as the Light side had managed to eradicate quite a large amount of his forces—which made him understandably furious.
But now that he'd caught the Light savior, everything was coming together neatly. The Light had attempted to free their scapegoat quite a few times, but none had managed to come and save the boy. They'd stolen away a few prisoners though, namely the Longbottom kid and the Lovegood bitch. Oh well. Voldemort didn't really mind—even if he'd raged at his stupid minions because they'd allowed trespassers—as he was only really concerned with Harry out of all the prisoners.
Besides, the mudblood Granger girl and the hotheaded Weasley brat were already dead. They'd fallen (right in front of Potter, too) after irritating him for far too long. Pity the Weasel brat had died with an Avada Kedavra…he'd wanted to play with him like he'd done with the mudblood. Ah well. No use crying over spilt milk. (Though he had tortured the Death Eater who'd killed the redhead. He hadn't ordered the kill, so he'd been furious).
After Dumbledore had perished six years previous due to Voldemort (It had been a great pleasure. After all, he'd killed the old coot with none other than Harry Potter's wand, a twin to his own) the Wizarding World had turned to their Boy-Who-Lived as the one who would triumph over the Dark. Voldemort felt a bit of pity towards his enemy—it was probably not very easy trying to live a regular life with a Dark Lord after your blood, the media attempting to uncover your most inner secrets and proclaiming you a madman as well as the entire population of Light wizards expecting something practically impossible (No, thought Voldemort. Completely impossible.) out of you. It was little pity, almost nonexistent, but it was there. But instead of feeling bad for his prisoner, he felt pleasure.
Ha! He felt like gloating. That's what you get for failing to die. Die like he had supposed to, so many years before.
Voldemort decided he'd better kill the brat, before any more of his annoying friends attempted to aid him. Yes, kill him so horribly…then deliver his mangled corpse back to the Ministry. That would break the idiotic cowards who dared to continue to thwart him.
Yes, that was a good plan. He was a bit disappointed that Potter, after all those years of fighting against him in pure stalemate, was so easy to kill. Just stop his heart, and he'd be dead. It was different with Voldemort—you couldn't just kill him now with a simple incantation and wand movement. No, Voldemort was invincible. Not even their precious Boy-Who-Lived was capable of defeating him now.
The madman threw his head back and laughed.
Meanwhile, Harry was deep in the realm of nightmares, despite his unconsciousness. Since his imprisonment, he'd constantly been blacked out due to massive amounts of pain and he hadn't had enough strength to continue do to relentless guilt after seeing both of his best friends perish. Ever since Albus Dumbledore had died because of his wand (even if he hadn't been the one casting the spell), he'd been falling steadily into depression.
He'd risen in the ranks of the most-powerful, and become what the public enjoyed calling 'Commander', or head of the Light army. He actually would've become the Headmaster of Hogwarts (Dumbledore's Will held a lot of really strange information and requests after his death) had he not been busy fighting the Dark. Minerva had become Headmistress, though she had died two years or so ago. Severus Snape (who had unwittingly become one of Harry's most trusted allies, after they'd stepped over the snag that was James Potter's memory) had been discovered as a spy not long after Albus's death, consequently loosing his life to Voldemort's fury.
Remus Lupin had met a horrible end. He, like Harry now, had been captured and tortured by none other than the rat that was Wormtail. Even worse, Remus had not died simply of torture and strangling, but of silver contamination. Himself, being a werewolf, had a terrible reaction to anything mildly coated with silver, so it came as no great surprise that when Peter wrapped his silver hand around the werewolf's neck and strangled him to death, Remus's corpse had been horribly shriveled up and burnt at the neck and spread to his chest and wide-eyed face frozen in death. To add insult to injury, his body had been delivered last summer on Harry's birthday, the dead man's chest proclaiming a message of 'Happy Birthday Harry' written in blood—Remus's blood.
Ginny and Dean Thomas (who married not long after their Seventh year at Hogwarts) had died in action a few weeks into Harry's imprisonment (he'd been captured for two months now) as well as countless brave Hogwarts students who had died in a successful attack to the school.
Slowly but surely, the Light part of the Wizarding world was loosing.
Now, after Ron and Hermione's deaths, Harry had practically nothing but the stupid prophecy keeping him alive. He'd given up hope after hearing Hogwart's end, knowing that, even if he did manage to scrape a powerful Avada Kedavra at You-Know-Who, Voldemort would still be alive, albeit weakened slightly. And even if he managed to kill this damnable entity, the Dark wizards and Death Eaters that swarmed England would most assuredly take their chance to gain power, thus battering away at the already quite weak forces of Light.
It was, simply, the end.
A younger, more vibrant Harry would've immediately begun to rant and rave at this, declaring that there would always be hope. Sadly, the twenty-five old wizard had been fighting in an all-out war. He'd seen and dealt death, suffered losses and his optimistic self had been banished into the memories of happiness that no longer lingered. He was calculative, cold and efficient, his previous unknown power shoved into existence due to desperate need of it, born out of force, which was not good for Harry's young body at all.
Still, even after gaining so much more strength, it was useless. Voldemort had done countless rituals and gone to incredible safety measures to ensure his body and soul's stay in Life, no matter how much was thrown at him. The extent of his Dark power was unknown, but Harry was now sure his own would never match Voldemort's, especially under these dire circumstances.
It was the end.
There was no more fight left in this young man.
It was scary knowing that you are helpless despite the hopes of people that back you up. Harry, in a way, had always known he'd never defeat Voldemort. The snake-man had decades years more experience, and knowledge that declared victory even upon Albus's older, wiser mind. It was an impossible situation, an almost guaranteed triumph of Dark over Light, something that was unheard of. In stories and legends, it was always the Good that conquered Evil. So it came as a heartbreaking truth that real life was painfully not a fairy tale, but a reality that none could ever hope to escape in Life.
Harry stirred, eyes seeing double, pain upon pain flowing into his now-conscious body, forcing him to gasp out softly.
"Damn," he whispered under his breath, breathing harshly despite his thrashed vocal chords. That about summed it up, really. They were all damned.
Harry closed his eyes, and prayed for a swift defeat.
Instantly ashamed, though he would not allow himself to sob helplessly. No, even in the light (how ironic) of his defeat, he could not concede to snivel and beg for death. That was against all of his morals—he was Gryffindor for a reason, after all. Slytherin cunning he might possess, but he was no coward. He was ashamed beyond belief that he had no more strength nor energy to continue fighting, but he would not die broken. He'd slipped earlier today, and that was not acceptable. He would never forgive himself if he gave Voldemort that cruel satisfaction.
He blacked out again before he could think further.
Voldemort walked into Harry's cell, his wand twirling absently in one hand. He was loaded with two wands, another extra especially carried around because of Potter, in case Priori Incantatem occurred again due to their twin wands. Also, in case he ever lost his first wand (though most certainly not in carelessness), he was always armed with another as a backup. Today, he would not back off and use the second wand, but the first. The first wand that he ever held in his hand, the first wand that had liberated his abilities and allowed him to control his life, especially after the helplessness that was the orphanage in his infancy…
The snake-like man chuckled darkly. Those memories were no longer necessary. No, he was no longer that spiteful half-blood Tom Riddle. No, he was Voldemort, power of powers, the Dark Lord. And he would not snivel and use a wand that was not meant for him, but used out of fright of a mere boy…he would use his wand, his very own wand, that held a core of the silly phoenix owned by the now-dead Dumbledore.
Ah, yes. Revenge was sweet. And best served quite cold, his favourite.
"Harry," he hissed, smirking dangerously as he saw the momentarily confused man's emerald eyes snap open, and the wizard unconsciously attempted to disappear into the wall behind him. Voldemort laughed cruely, "Time to die, Harry." He said Potter's name in parseltongue, enjoying it much more for it signified everything Harry despised—snakes, as in himself. The language was only to spite the soon-to-die boy who had eluded his grasp for two and a half decades now.
Not much longer, I'm afraid, Voldemort thought with an insane grin. Not much longer now.
"Tom," Harry said simply, awake.
This brought Voldemort's blood to boiling point, but he suppressed the urge to Crucio the whelp. After this annoying fly was dead and gone, no one would ever mention his muggle father's name in his presence ever again. He no longer acknowledged it as his name, for the once Tom Riddle no longer existed. It was a dead name.
"How do you wish to die?" Voldemort asked, "I shall give you the choice. Avada Kedavra…? A round of Crucio?" He named off curses and toyed with the idea of how to kill his nemesis casually, as if he were stating something about the weather.
Harry remained in tight-lipped silence.
"Hm?" Voldemort murmured, amused, "You cannot decide?"
Silence.
"Or would you rather I try the curse I have been creating just for you?"
Harry's eyes widened fractionally at this piece of startling news, but gave no other indication of his surprise.
"Yes, Harry," He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named hissed, smirking, "A curse I have make, just for you."
The Boy-Who-Lived could not suppress a shudder as the silky hiss-like words reached his ears. Voldemort laughed again, causing Harry to momentarily close his eyes in horror. What sort of hex could this all-powerful Voldemort create? It would most definitely be a painful end, most probably more horrible than dying due to an overuse of a select combination of several Dark curses, which was the supposedly worst way to die. He opened them again in grim determination. He knew it was worse. Voldemort would not specially make a curse for Harry with the intent of it being less painful that the worst he could do.
"Shall I test out my theory, Harry?" Voldemort whispered, his pale finger now tracing Harry's scar, which bound them both. The pain that throbbed through their link had been considerably lowered due to Harry's mastering of Occlumency, but it still hurt like hell, especially when the Dark Lord touched the scar. Harry closed his eyes, concentrating on raising his Occlumency shield as much as he could.
It didn't help much.
"Now, child of Light," the Dark Lord hissed out in English with a smirk, "Today is your end." Harry was determined to face his end with his eyes open, standing. Weakly, he got to his feet, ignoring Voldemort's smirk as his knees trembled. He would not die strewn on the floor. "Very good, Potter. Now," The Dark Lord raised his wand, his ruby eyes staring deep into Harry's emerald ones. Slowly, he began to mutter under his breath, gradually increasing his volume.
"Marticulo Serpal lin, Ortemus lor se. Quessant Ul—" Voldemort began to chant, but was interrupted by the door to Harry's cell slamming open, the rat Death Eater scurrying in with a panic stricken face. "My Lord--!"
"WORMTAIL!" Voldemort snarled in fury, whipping around to face the whimpering Death Eater that had interrupted his concentration, not hearing the dull thud behind him, "Do NOT barge in while I am dealing with Potter!"
"M-my L-l-lord," Wormtail stuttered pathetically, "T-t-there was a b-breach in t-the d-d-defense…"
"CRUCIO!" Voldemort roared, effectively shutting the quivering being before him, sneering as Wormatil shrieked out. He ceased the attack a few seconds later. "Deal with it, Wormtail. I shall be present soon. Now leave!"
Wormtail nodded rapidly, fleeing with his tail between his legs. Voldemort exhaled, feeling suddenly exhausted as if he'd spent a great deal of magic, and regained his composure. "Now Potter," he turned around, "For—" his words died in his mouth.
Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, Commander, Savior of the Light, lay soulless on the ground.
Dead.
Voldemort stared for a few seconds, and carefully reached forward.
No pulse.
Harry's face was pale and slack, his hollow eyes staring unseeing. He looked as if he'd received a Kiss.
Actually…
Voldemort muttered some words under his breath, his ebony wand, counterpart to Potter's, gleamed a purple glow. Harry's body shone a slight purple, and then turned to a horrible, lifeless gray. Voldemort stared some more…and then began to laugh.
Not only was Harry Potter dead…his soul was utterly eradicated, no longer existent on this living plane.
It seemed his little spell had worked. Voldemort's cold laughter echoed out.
His revenge was complete.
Potter was dead.
"Now, child of Light," Voldemort said, mockingly, "Today is your end."
Ooh, how scary, Harry thought dryly, not afraid. Hadn't Albus proclaimed that death was merely the next great adventure? He would be able to see his parents, his friends…everyone. He was not scared.
Harry Potter staggered to his feet, determined to die like his father, standing up. He could not fight, but he most certainly would not die half-asleep on the floor. Pain screamed in his bones, begging him to lay down and just die, to not allow this torture to continue further, but Harry shoved these thoughts to the edge of his mind. He would die standing. There was nothing that would change this.
"Very good, Potter. Now," The Dark Lord's eyes met his, scarlet and green clashing. It was rather ironic that Tom's eyes were Gryffindor colours, while Harry's was Slytherin. A poetic justice, if you will. He raised his ebony wand—the one with Fawkes's other feather in it—and slowly began to chant, his voice a hiss in the air, literally voicing Harry's death.
"Marticulo Serpal lin, Ortemus lor se," Voldemort chanted, his eyes almost glowing as Dark magic crackled through the air, approaching Harry menacingly, "Quessant Ul…WOR--!" and that was all that Harry heard.
Suddenly he felt being horribly ripped apart from his body, thrown from the plane of the living into a sort of realm of nonexistence in an instant, new pain replacing the old, shocking him. His vision spun, and he found himself in inky blackness. Yet this was not unconsciousness.
Mirrors erupted in his sight, everywhere, each one containing something different. It was like Wizarding pictures, but Harry somehow knew they were scenes from his life in other places—possibilities, he knew. These were different places, alternative realities to his own, distinct situations from his different lives taking place at this very instant. The strange mirrors sailed through his eyes, though he was not moving.
Child Harry holding a present, James and Lily Potter laughing and unwrapping them with him—
A vampire with black hair running through the Forest, grinning with anticipation at his next kill—
An eighteen-year old Harry giving Cho a wedding ring—
Harry killing Voldemort, grinning triumphantly—
Albus Dumbledore presenting a Percy-looking Harry with an award—
So many possibilities. But it seemed none fit his torn soul that teetered on the border of reality and nonexistence. Yet still the mirrors kept sailing by, his soul desperately searching, searching, for a situation to fit his past body, the curse accidentally twisted by Voldemort guiding him into a new existence, a new life. Perhaps it would be worse, perhaps it would be better, but Soul-Harry was only concentrating on one thing.
Finding the right one.
Suddenly, it all stopped. All mirrors disappeared into the blackness of utter nothingness, except one. It was silvery and transparent-like, showing the wandering soul a mangled body of child Harry Potter, a few nanoseconds in death, leaving an open body for the bodiless entity that was Harry Potter from another plane. Immediately, Soul-Harry lunged into the mirror, plunging into the substance, desperately wanting to live, his soul aching for existence…
It felt like an apparition, in a way. Rubber squeezed at him from all sides, but instead of dragging him through a transparent rubber-like tube, it warped around him, choking him, shrinking him into the body of the dead Harry child that was displayed beyond the mirror…beyond the Veil, was Harry's morbid thought. How a mere soul could think, Harry did not know nor did he ponder it, too busy settling into his new body and adjusting to the dramatic changes, his power level flaring up to what it was at it's full extent plus the now-dead Child Harry's own, what remained of it after a mere moment in death. Which, both combined, was quite a lot…
In another place, in another time line, in another reality, a once-dead, five-year old Harry Potter gave a shuddering gasp, and then fell silent, whimpering slightly, emerald eyes opening up once again to the light of Life.
Author's Note: Reviews would be delightful!