An instant, a moment in time, can seem as an eternity in the right lighting, in a moment specifically focused on. The more repetitions or concentration held upon it, the more power the mind has to recall it. It becomes clearer as a paint job with more layer applications. In a sense, a brief time can stretch, extend, the more one notices of its details. The mind, in the strictest sense, can only comprehend so many things, so many objects or movements in a period allotted. Therefore, it could be conjectured that the more one witnesses, the longer the time that has passed.

What if this was not the case? What if a moment could come when the clarity and absorption of one's mind was heightened beyond the physical means normally available? Would not the instant extend beyond its physical capacity into a hyper-moment? Such it was for Harry.

He found that, unlike the Time Turner, this form of time travel was instant and eternal. It was closest to when he traveled by Floo Powder. In the Floo Network, you can see and exit through various fireplaces along the way, as you pass them. As Harry was swept through time, he could see and, he believed, could have exited into any time slot he had chosen. Unlike the Floo Network, a relatively small grouping of connecting nodes, the one he traveled in now was immense. He could feel the enormity of time and space. He felt at a distance of an eternity from any one node and they surrounded him in a complete circle, a tunnel indeed. Every thin crest of the circle was an instant going from the beginning until the end of time. Somehow, and it made no sense, Harry could comprehend both directions and knew he could traverse to either end effortlessly.

The tunnel shifted and rotated in and out of line as worlds and places, times and spaces faded in and out of existence. He felt a power of understanding that transcended his experiences with time. Now he got it. He wasn't traveling through time. Time was traveling through him. The tunnel was simply a physical embodiment of his existence, of all that was possible for him to connect with in his lifetime, every twist and turn he could have, did, or did not take was mapped out before him. He was restricted to touch the moments he had perpetuated and the line he had created.

He did not have far to go. It was easy to find. Wavelets of some radioactive element seemed to permeate the air ahead. Shockwaves of some blood red substance pounded upon the surface of the eternal nothingness that was his life, altering the universe retroactively. No other section seemed to resemble this, including the present moment. As he approached, he saw the light grow and the waves became fiercer.

The red was benevolent and sharp. It called him home and thrust him away. He felt compelled to step forward and fall away. He had to go in. He flew through a film, tearing its surface quickly. It was hot and sharp. He felt a thousand cuts upon his face form and heal over instantly. He felt the lick of fire upon his heart, and looking saw nothing. Before him was a surface of glass. A voice in his mind whispered caution. He could see the blurred figures of living persons behind it, reenacting an instant for all eternity. He didn't think. He shattered through the glass. Then, everything changed. Everything became clear and was terrible...as truth.

He appeared, through that shattering glass, in a room familiar from his memories and nightmarish dreams. He could see it all as though frozen, awaiting the cue to begin. Harry saw himself facing Voldemort, that look of failure fresh upon his brow. He had not gotten the spell off, but had to come up with something else. There was still the determination. That Harry remembered well. Outside, rushing in the doorway, in motion and motionless at once, his friends came. Where, where was Voldemort's spell? He had to counter it. He had not had the chance last time. He had not seen it fired upon them. Maybe he could stay their progress.

He rushed forward and felt a tug upon his shoulder, like a branch holding back a weary traveler. Looking back, he saw a line of that same glassy substance, mixed with the heated film. It held him bound, unable to completely enter and remain in the place he was. It needed something. The more he tugged, the more it expanded, forming a dome-like film along this side of the room.

He ignored it. He had to reach his friends. He pulled back. A stretching sensation, a pull of incredible force fought against him. Like a bit of wire contorted to unusual length, this thread holding him threatened to snap. It began to pain him unbearably. Lights flashed in his eyes, his stomach compressed and stretched. His legs wobbled, unable to move.

He pulled out his wand, pointed at the line, 'Diffindo!' he thought. It snapped. It was sudden, it was unprecedented, it happened. Like a rubber band, he shot forward, crashing through his friends and hitting the far wall in less time than it takes to blink. 'Yes,' he thought, 'I've stopped them!' He felt slight relief. It was short-lived.

They were on the ground, lying as he had knocked them, lying as he remembered them, except, it was different. He could see a bit of that substance, the essence of this time space moment covering their faces. He rushed over and tried to remove it. He could no longer touch them, or anything. Like a ghost, he could witness this existence but not participate. He had done nothing to prevent his friends' conditions. He had caused it.

Harry froze. He couldn't believe it. All this time he had thought it some spell, some terrible last lash of Voldemort's, one last stab at his heart. He had been wrong. Again, he turned and tried to wipe the mess from their bodies, nothing happened. He looked up. Voldemort was looking now, directly at him, and laughing. He could see the ludicrous nature of the situation. The younger Harry, in shock, saw the laughter and grew angry. Harry watched this as in a dream. He could not say what was worse, that he had harmed his own friends or that he had done so in order to save them. Voldemort's eyes burned into his, the laughter affixed into his very eyelids like a searing brand.

He wanted to get out, he wanted to escape, but he couldn't. He felt frozen in place, as verily as the bodies below him. The protesting beast within his belly roared and fought hard against the cage of his body. It broke free. Harry saw, as through some jaded mirror, the image of his young self, eyes glazing and then closed from the strain of the impact upon his mind. Harry knew the feeling well. He also remembered what came next. Glaring hungrily at Voldemort, he felt a hatred that had never touched him before.

It was Voldemort's fault. He had caused all this, directly or indirectly. He knew his younger self did not have the strength to stop him; he was weak then, scared and mournful. The new Harry was not. He was bitter, he was angry; he was frustrated by a world that had not made sense in years. It made perfect sense now, but at what cost? The beginnings of some odd pulsation in his mind prevented this thought from anything more than a sad whimper and it withered.

Only the heated pulsation remained. It grew and intensified with that anger, cycling back more heat to anger him and soon, the anger itself was without purpose, it was hatred for the sake of hatred. Now, he was ready. Drawing his wand before him, he did the unthinkable. Two words, a green blur of dull, putrid light, like the expulsion of something horrible from his system, cleansing, purifying his innards of that reckless cycle of hatred and bitterness. He heard a thud.

He felt powerless, as though he had unleashed a horrible monstrosity into the world. This lasted but a moment. A tidal wave of euphoria caught him, the exultation of the power he had just had, the ending of another with his own hands. He fought. It was dirty, it was unclean, it was wrong. 'In this instance, I had to do it', he thought, pressing his argument in hopes of guaranteeing its validity. He had had to do it. Voldemort had needed stopping and he had done it, just as destiny had planned from the minute Voldemort fingered him as a target.

The truth he experienced did not bother him so much as the hunger he felt to do it once more. He felt the beast, caged once more, prowling the perimeter for a chance to take that step once more. A wound had opened in his side; the stitch work was not permanent.

It was then, in that moment of horrified gratification, that Harry felt the tug. The goop, the slime that had plastered his friends' faces and bodies, that had ruined all, was calling him back into the stream of time. His moment was up.

With a lurch he was thrust back through the void of his own self, transported past memories and thoughts that had just recently intrigued him, interested him, brought back emotions long since forgotten. Now, it felt as an empty tunnel, funneling a listless spirit from one doom to another.

Harry swam alone in his thoughts much more so than he did in the time stream. Here, for the briefest of moments, without the encumbrance of his own body, he could step back and see all. His past, his present, perhaps even his future were laid before him on a platter of gold rusting from that central moment he had just been part of. Somehow, his past, present, and future had met in that instant, as it does at all times but ever so slightly differently, and sealed the fates of five of his friends.

How could it have come to this? Everything, every thought, every word, every dream, every action had led him to this moment. He felt completely powerless. His eternal sense of personal freedom and choice seemed like a foolish joke before the evidence of the past lifetime. Nothing he did really mattered; it had all been foreseen. That figure had known; whatever it was. It had known the truth when he, the only witness to the scene who was conscious afterwards had seen but deceit.

But how? It could not have been there. He had seen the scene with perfect clarity, just as clearly as Voldemort himself had, before he died. No one had been there. Beyond Voldemort, Harry, and the five friends, not a soul had been standing in witness. He knew instinctively that not even an invisibility cloak could have hid a person from Harry at that moment. He had seen it all. Had he tormented some information out of the friends, if that were possible? Or, perhaps, he had done something to Harry. Had he altered Harry's memory, catching him napping, perhaps, and then used that information against him.

He did have an unnatural set of powers. Harry argued, but the new truth gave no indication of past learning. He had not known what he knew now. He had never known. Or, had he? He had always doubted that instant. He had felt a strange detachment from the spell that killed his foe. Yet, he had always assumed it was his anger, his pain and suffering that had prevented this connection. Some parts had doubted, his inner mind pressed, some never believed.

He landed. The room was the same. The figure and Jan were exactly as he had seen them, unmerging as he fell back through the opening. Jan fully detached herself and rushed to his side. The figure stood back, aloof, but with an amusedly assured stance. It knew. He did not know how, but it knew more than it ought. It knew all. Jan seemed aware, if peripherally, that something terrible had befallen him beyond that whirlpool of flashing green and grey that had just faded, revealing, once more, the picturesque scenery of that room.

Jan held him close, her arms seeming as thin as mist upon his weighted form. He could not sustain himself. He had exhausted his mental faculties. She just held him, silently. The figure, would have scowled, surely, if it had a face, but did nothing to stop this. It waited. Harry could nearly hear the impatience of its silence. He moved to get up. Jan restrained him.

"Harry," she whispered, ever so softly, "Whatever happened, it is passed. You haven't changed, not really. You're still Harry." She said this last with a light smile upon her lips and a soothing light in her eye. Harry wanted to believe her. "Your friends still love you. They don't mind. They are patient. They say they don't blame you. You did what you had to. You had to."

She seemed on the point of choking on tears at this last. Harry could feel that same strange churning within his stomach, as though a monster was hoping to be unleashed. He had to restrain it, even if it meant eternal pain and suffering for him. He could not let it loose, not any more. She saw the look of horror that had come to his eyes. Her eyes drooped, in failure. Jan's attempts to calm him would do nothing. They both knew it. Her lips formed the words, "They love you, still," but she remained silent.

Taking her hands gently from his shoulders, he stood, determined that he face the figure, that enigmatic creature through whose plan this had all come about. Standing, shakily, first using the bedposts of Ginny and Ron to gain his footing, then stepping weakly forward, he approached the towering image of power and deception. He looked a pitiable hero, a disrobed disgrace, as he approached a foe that was unimportant in terms of clarity and place.

As he passed Hermione's bed, his legs were given new strength, as from some new power, some added confidence. At Neville and Luna's end of the room, he eclipsed this strength with a new level of determination and will. He had to stand tall, for the friends he had just destroyed. He had to stand, because nothing stood between them and this figure, this floating image, not unlike the average poster of death.

It did not move and it did not speak. Its purpose had been achieved, almost. It knew to wait. 'It had seen this, too,' Harry reflected, angrily, but kept on walking. Despite his gait and powerful eyes, his right hand shook shortly as he stepped before the being. Then, he slid it upward in a neat and elegant arc, peaking just above the skullcap of this being, and with the simplicity of someone combing back one's own hair with one's fingers, he slid off the hood.

A sudden hush came over the room. The silence paused a moment, shocked and awaiting the moment to pass, to continue its course. Harry could not blink; his eyes scrutinized every surface, every crevice of that face, as though expecting it to vaporize and thus dissipated, leap from his memory simultaneously. It was an older face, but familiar. He had not seen such a grotesque normality as this anywhere. The horror for him, the last lesson of the figure, was this appearance.

The face that appeared before him was as scarred as old Mad-Eye, but younger seeming than his was. It was brisk, tight, and strong. From what Harry could see, the cloak hid a muscular neck and shoulder line, a powerful essence that could stare back at Harry with such lifeless eyes, such a foul, amused grin. It looked, to put it bluntly, like Harry. But not Harry as he had ever seen himself, from his worst days to his worst nightmare. There was a twisted, altered sense to that face, and the eyes, the eyes had taken on a grey haziness, a departure from Harry's pure greens. The hair had retained the coal black demeanor but had taken on a few strands of glistening, almost mocking, silver standing bravely out front of the others.

Other than the obvious signs of strain, wear, and age, this was a perfect match. This was Harry. He could hear, in his mind, in that echoing laugh a touch of his laugh of old. He could not understand. How, why, was this apparition here? If it was himself from the future, how had it stayed so long? Did it use a time turner? Had it adapted beyond the need? What was its true purpose?

As these thoughts flew wildly in the chaos that was his mind, a sound caught his ear that brought some sense to this madness. It was a reminder, a reverberating reminder of the world beyond this microcosmic room, this ecosystem of darkness and pain. It began, like a cyclical tapping, like a soft whisper from beyond the borders. As Harry listened more closely, he realized that this was the hammering of spells upon the doorway, the attack of curses and shouts upon the hardwood and the protective spell of the figure.

The dragon, a powerful magical creature with armor and magical defense unlike any other creature before or any to come, could fall with the simultaneous strike of half dozen or so able-bodied wizards upon its scaled hide. However, a single strike upon the eyes would bring it to its knees. Harry could tell, from the rotation and alternation of the spells that the outsiders were firing, that they were too few in number simply to overpower the great spell, but were searching, eagerly and quickly for that point, that weak spot along the wall and doorway. He could even hear a little done beneath and above him.

The figure had done well in his protection. The room was practically impenetrable. There was always a weakness, however. Harry had found, just moments before, that he, too, had a very great weakness. He had crumbled from his pedestal of heroism and bravery, to that of a murderous fiend, desperately fighting the losing battle with an inner urge that was far superior to him. A beast had lived within him, all this time, might live within them all, and once unleashed, it would have its way, in the end. Like death, it was inevitable.

Regardless, Harry knew that their time was limited. The wizards and witches would find a weakness or eventually overpower the spell and seize the three of them. Or, the two of them. Looking over at the figure, he could sense some last act, some last terrible eventuality he would perpetrate. Harry could think of nothing more fitting than to leave Jan and him to the hands of the angry mob without. Then it struck, the reason.

"Yes, Potter, yes. You have come to it at last. I have told you that your destiny is to be a great one," the voice seemed uncharacteristically smooth and silky for the roughened visage. "You are to be remembered. Feared! Look around you; this is the birthplace of a god!"

"Humankind has often contemplated the rise of the great. Mostly they quibble over details of power struggles and persons killed off, hoping to tap upon that inexcusable thing without which the great are nothing. They know nothing, we know better. The great do not become great because they have begun with a lifelong goal of world domination. Those with that goal are swallowed by society at the first attempt to grow in power. It is the innocents, the ones with no conviction towards power, but the inner strength and idealistic directions towards helping their fellow men, who rise.

"Look at the great wizarding dictators, who had so much to overcome for the good of their respective countries, the expansion and pride there from. Yet, they failed, in the end. They became hungry, as all men will, for power and finally gave themselves willingly toward its dominion. This blinded them to reality. They were doomed from the start, but they did start.

"You, however, are different. You will not fail. I have seen it! In the back of the mind, you have lurking a demon, a viper, calling you to do ill, but the stronger half has resisted, impossibly over urges most of us cannot even comprehend. Yet, you have done ill. You have harmed, maimed, killed, and here you stand, determined still to destroy evil. You have done over such a powerful mindset that you are impervious to the call for power. Moreover, you shall have power. We just need to show the world one last demonstration and then you cannot live without wielding it.

"When those doors burst open, the ones beyond will be calling for blood. You cannot live without destroying them. And you cannot die because you will have lost all the hope that new and upcoming powers give you, your new understanding of your friends' ailment, that you might - one day - bring them back."

It paused, a laugh deep within its eye. Harry remained frozen. He had not needed this speech. It had come to him at once. He had seen it all, the horror and the hope. He had brought this ultimate misery upon them, upon himself, upon the world. There was no choice in it; he knew that. He had to save them. His life, a thousand lives, his very soul were nothing against that debt. He owed them all; he had, he knew, the very fabric of the world to give.

He had to strike out. This was not the beast within, but a righteous fury, an anger that wanted to wash out this string of truths, this knowledge from his system, from existence. He had but one target. "What, may I ask, do you gain by it? Who are you, really? Tell me no lies, no deceit, no evasions. Speak!" His voice grew more and more commanding, more and more infused with power and animation as he spoke. He could see the glow of success rising in the face of his adversary every passing moment.

"Can you not see? Is it not obvious? Did I not make it clear with my very actions? I am you. I am the projection of a part of you that you would not let free. You stifled emotions, good and bad, and they have come to life, physically given form to aid you on your way to greatness." Even as he said it, Harry could suddenly see faintness about its form, as though this question, once answered, triggered the deterioration of its physical being. Its purpose was served. It had gotten the message across. The rest was inevitable.

Yet, something troubled him still. Good and bad? How had that thing, that figure of his own foulness and darkness, the deceit with which the blackest part of his mind worked, had anything to do with goodness? On that, how could goodness have drawn him hence? As the figure faded, he longed to ask it this, but it was soon gone with a wicked smile and a wink. The very air about where it had stood seemed to mock his terrible doom.

"What did it mean, 'good'?" he asked aloud, senselessly.

"It meant me, Harry," spoke a voice behind him. He noticed Jan. He had forgotten her, for a moment. He did that often, it seemed. Harry looked at her closely. He nearly cried out. She was fading. How could it be? How could she not be real? They had spoken so often, touched, embraced. She had driven his friends' bus off the road! He could still see her in her ragged dresses, waiting what seemed a mile below him as he finished a building; saw the fear in her eyes as the dementors approached. Had that all been illusory? Had he gone insane?

"Harry," she said, voice softening such that Harry could hardly hear it over the increasing and more intrusive sounds from outside those double doors. "Whatever has happened, it doesn't matter. All that matters is your love for your friends. You do love them, don't you?" She let this hang in the air a moment. His silence answered. "Yes. They love you, too. This future, this horrible foretelling does not need to be. You can stop it. You can put it to rights. But only you know how. They said you would…they said."

She had faded nearly to a thin sliver; he reached out and brushed her hand as it began to wisp away. He wanted her to stay; she alone could possibly bring comfort, as she had of old. He wanted some reassurance, anything. He wanted to lose this sense of guilt, this sense of endless loss.

"One last thing, before I go," she began, "You cannot remain locked up. That began it all. Yes, before you confronted Voldemort. You distanced yourself from everyone; the title Chosen one did get to you, despite your efforts. You have to open up. Even to the bad side. It is all a part of you. Remember, it is all a part of you, love and hate, together."

One thing came to him. Just one more slice at his heart. If she were a part of him, then, he had driven that car; he had caused the accident. With her childlike fear heavily upon him, he had fled. He had run from the scene, uncertain of what he did. This was before those two had broken out entirely, but had been fighting for their freedom, their expression. He had done it all. He was a monster. He truly was a monster, wasn't he?

Jan, friend of friends, part of his mind, dissipated, and let fly her final words, "Goodbye, my hero." She was gone.

The quiet had become complete. His mind was blank. With both his hatred and love silent and still, at last, it was nothing but that indiscriminant judgment he had lived on for the past so many years. That being, it seems, knew nothing of what to do. He was flummoxed. He was…alone.

Despite the pain and despair this evening had brought, he had enjoyed the company, the constant companionship these last months had wrought. Nothing. No one. He was alone, finally returned to where he had sought to be. He hated it.

His friends, they were here, and soon others, but they would perish. The figure had seen it would be so. It knew. Jan was a sentimental dreamer. That part of him always had been. The same part had hoped, in vain, that he could save them. It was the same part that the figure, the dark side of his person, counted on to keep him living, hoping, dreaming for eternity. She was the same part of him that would not let him give up, would keep his hand ever upon monstrosity after monstrosity to last that one more day, the one more day until he might find a cure.

She had said there was a way. She said it did not have to be. This sounded as though she knew one thing more than she was telling. 'If she knew, then so do I! What could I do', he thought, 'that would save them now?' What could purge from them all the foulness, destroyed flesh, and that evil goop from their bodies? Harry could see, looking at them, that the substance from the break in time had coalesced closely with their inner essence, tying in closely to what kept them alive, shielding them from death, but in the same token, keeping them ever alive.

She knew. He had to know. Soon. The pounding had grown louder and louder. There were more. He was maintaining the shielding; he had been all along. He could feel the different strengths, he knew it would bend and break under the strain. It was a matter of moments. It was always a matter of moments, instances in time. It was always the little things.

The littlest of things. Like Jan. She was such a wan figure, little more than nothing, but had had a lot to say. He had not listened. Not well. He should have. What was it she said, something about not locking himself up? He needed to open. He remembered she always talked of his friends and their love for him and his for them. What was that strangeness about hate and love coinciding? It was a puzzle. It did not fit. The two were opposed. They did not belong together. They did not belong at all.

He tossed and turned these thoughts over in his mind. Memories with his friends came alongside. He would defend them to the end. He had to cure them. He had to find a way, no matter the cost. He saw Ron and he defeating the Troll, he saw the DA, he saw the group sitting around laughing one evening, just the sort of random memories that stay with you and sting so much. He saw the researching, looking for the power to defeat Voldemort, to drive out evil. That had done a lot of…

Harry saw it, a single line in minute writing, "This spell will purge all evil, but at a price; it is the plus and the minus, the all and the nothing." Harry had read that line a thousand times. It had never made sense. Now, it did. It didn't matter what had been. All that mattered was what he did now.

He closed his eyes and opened. A flood of emotions hit him like a stream of daggers. Pent up thoughts and feelings crushed the very innards of his self. He felt as he had not in years. It burned; it shamed him. He felt tears falling and heard himself screaming unspeakably. He was aflame. His mind and physical body burned with this emotional fire. It was too much. He was on his knees. He forced himself to stand, to take the pain that seemed eternal.

He could hear them, calling to him - his friends. He could hear each speaking, like that of someone trying to shout over a roaring engine, helplessly. He smiled in pain. They knew. He knew. It was enough.

He became aware, in a moment, of the order in the chaotic stresses within him. Therein lay a power he had never witnessed, the heat of hatred and the sweet lilac of love commingled freely and produced an unbearable offspring: pure life and death, together. Completely blinded physically, deafened, and cut off from the physical world, Harry could but see his friends, in his mind's eye. All his thought was on them as his world held unbending, still, and silent, the quiet ravaging his innards painfully.

He stood before them, glowing in a holy light of life. The barrier fell. So did the door. In rushed a hundred bodies, sweeping like a stream towards him, bearing down on him to strike from him the power he held over those before him. They were too late. He had made his move.

"Lux Intus!"

Time froze. A white-hot light flashed before him, sweeping from Harry's innermost point through the five bodies lying prone. It buzzed in the air with an electric fizzle that sent shivers through the spines of everyone present. The light went out as it passed out of Luna's body. It went uncannily dark. Harry crumpled. There was an absence of sight or sound. Everyone held still.

* * *

A few months later, the gossip had died down. It had been an incredible moment in the history of wizarding kind. No one had ever seen anything quite like what those witnesses had seen. Those present had been transformed. Many left there with a new outlook. Five had left there with a new lease on life.

Though dazed, the five had known much of what had happened, and were, for all anyone could tell, no worse off for their ordeal. They told others that they owed a great deal to their friend, Harry Potter, but would not elaborate. He had given them life, after unfortunately snatching it away years before, but they knew the true horrors he had faced, the incredible penance for his simple act of closing off from them, from everyone. They honored him above all others, but quietly and privately. They did not care for such public ceremonies as the Ministry prepared and did not come to them.

Now, with time back on their side, they tried to make the best of what time they had, for Harry. They each found something in life to make them happy, to make it worthwhile. Neville and Luna both took up teaching positions at Hogwarts; Neville taught Herbology, Luna taught a revamped version of History of Magic (Professor Binns finally took to his retirement). The pupils of both thought they were the greatest teachers, the greatest of friends.

Hermione and Ron took up positions at the Ministry, helping to revitalize the world that had become so insular, so scared. The bond of friendship they shared was heightened by their combined loss. They kept in close touch with all of the others.

Ginny took the loss of Harry painfully, going sadly out into the world. She did not see the same happiness the others had found in love and occupations, but she might, someday. Harry would have wanted her to. He died so they might live, took on his misery for their happiness. Besides, she would see him again one day; meet him beyond the known world where he would be waiting for their next great adventure. That much she truly did believe.