Chapter Text
It begins at what should have been the end.
The part in the story where you would hope to see everyone live
happily ever after
should be right about here
-but it’s not.
That’s a different story, and this isn’t an ending.
It’s just the beginning…
May 2, 1998
Twigs crackling under worn soles, Harry takes step after dragging step into dimly lit, fathomless woods, every tread burdened by the knowledge of what is to come. His unique brand of luck has finally run out. There are no alternatives, no last minute ideas -no phoenixes coming to save the day. This is it. An entire life of uphill battles, for nothing .
It was always going to end like this; he just didn't know it.
The odds of surviving have always been abysmal at best, but he had persevered, in spite of a world determined to see him drown because all he’s ever really wanted is to live . For a moment he’d believed he would. Each Horcux defeated had planted treacherous roots of hope, only for Dumbledore’s last message to rip them to shreds.
If he wasn't completely screwed, Harry might find the irony amusing. All these miserable years searching for a way to defeat his nemesis, only to find out in the end that the one way to truly destroy Voldemort is for him to die as well. Worse, realizing that Dumbledore, whom he’d trusted more than anyone, had known the truth all along. Beneath that twinkly-eyed mask was a cruel puppeteer who’d set this despicable stage, happily leading him to his demise.
‘For the greater good .’
The greater good of whom though? Certainly not Harry, nor the Order. So many lives lost for those honey coated commands Dumbledore would toss out like his lemon drops. Pondering the man's actions, Harry has an epiphany he was never meant to make. A simple question that makes everything click into place to reveal a much darker truth.
How much of his life was planned out?
Year after year of almost dying under the careful watch of the Headmaster... was that intentional? Suddenly everything makes so much more sense as he looks back on his school years in this bitter new light. What a simple yet elegant plan that old codger had orchestrated. How convenient that no matter which one of them had died, the Dark Lord or Harry, his unknowing host, Dumbledore could deem the year a success.
It is with this agonizing realization that the last of Harry’s love for the Headmaster twists into a deep and irreparable loathing. Wounded deeper than words can mend nor gestures soothe, a burning trail of betrayal drips from his cheek. If there is an afterlife and that duplicitous, backstabbing old goat is looking down from the other side? Harry will make him wish he'd just disappeared into the ether.
Walking further within the woods, Voldemort’s sibilant voice interrupts his internal wrath. Breath coming in shallow pants, he chokes back the primal urge to flee before it’s too late, and steps into the dreary clearing on leaden legs.
“Harry...? No! What are you doing here?!” Hagrid bellows in despair, straining against his bonds.
“Be quiet!” hisses a Death Eater with dark blonde hair, aggressively silencing Hagrid with his wand.
“Harry Potter. The boy who lived… come to die,” Voldemort croons, wand sweeping theatrically. Red eyes bore into Harry, pausing to savor his moment of triumph. He doesn't hesitate for long.
“ Avada Kedavra! ”
As the green light of the killing curse explodes towards him in an electric wave, Harry opens his arms and welcomes death like an old friend.
Violently heaving in a deep breath, Harry launches upright, hands clutching his chest, lethal emerald the last he remembers. Disoriented and blinded by glaring light he stumbles forth, hands raised to shade his eyes, then freezes.
It looks as if he’s in Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, only someone’s painted the whole thing white. Endless tracks stretch forth until the details blend into the colorless abyss. For a moment nothing about his surroundings makes any sense until cold clarity hits.
He’s dead.
Listlessly, he trails down the unending path for lack of anything better to do, the stagnant scenery making it feel as if he hasn't taken a single step. Over and over he passes the same column when a subtle difference catches his eye. With slow, measured steps, he makes his way towards the solitary bench in this endless train station. As he meanders over, he sees something squirming beneath it. Curiously, he crouches down for a better look.
Emaciated bloody hands snap forth.
Rolling backwards, he stumbles over his own legs to get away from what looks like a newborn baby -if that baby had been skinned alive. Whimpering it reaches for him once more and Harry feels himself pulled between the urge to help the wretched creature, and the desperate call to flee from its haunting figure. In spite of the overwhelming horror, its pained cries and an odd sense of familiarity have him taking a shaken step closer.
“You can’t help him, Harry…” An eerie voice rasps, distracting him from the creature’s mournful wailing.
Whirling around, Harry comes face to face with a monstrous creature. Tall and skeletal, its figure is clothed in a darkness that stretches eternally behind it. Light drains from their surroundings as it drifts closer, bringing a dementor-like chill that silences the wretch beneath the bench but Harry is strangely unbothered. Unlike with dementors, there's an absence of anxiety to the entity’s presence that makes a grim sort of sense.
Why fear Death when you're already dead?
Skeletal features creak into a distorted grin, as if it can hear what he’s thinking.
“You brave, brave boy… My WONDERFUL boy… Come walk with me,” it croaks, motioning him forward almost gleefully.
Hesitantly, Harry moves towards the dark specter, which turns to drift at his side, darkness spreading behind them.
“What is that thing?” Harry demands, pointing back at the deformed shape weeping under the darkening bench.
“A part of Voldemort, sent here to die,” It reveals, gliding along.
“So there really is a piece of him inside me,” Harry solemnly mulls, rubbing at his scar.
Shaking its veiled head, it denies , “Not anymore. It was destroyed moments ago by Voldemort himself.” Empty eye sockets bore into him. “You were the horcrux he never meant to make.”
Taking comfort in the knowledge that at least he’s finally free of Voldemort, Harry pauses and asks, “So what now?”
“That’s up to you,” It replies. “We’re at a train station, yes?” Slowly, almost reluctantly it points out , “So you have a choice to make. If you stay here, you will NEVER be allowed to pass on. You will be my Master for all of eternity, having proven yourself worthy of my gifts. However, if you so desire, you may board the train today… But ONLY today.”
Harry stares down the never-ending tracks. His leg lifts, taking a step forth without his say so. His entire being urging him to go , to leave this terrible life behind. Surely anything would be better than this.
Why should he be stuck here forever? Hasn't he sacrificed enough for an old man’s folly? Is he really expected to eternally damn himself for a world that’s never wanted him in it?
He’s so tired of sacrificing everything for others, but how many more of his friends' lives will be lost if he’s selfish at this moment? Shoulders drooping from the weight of his burdens returning tenfold, he makes the choice he was always groomed to make. Tears pouring unchecked, he looks down the gleaming tracks into the white light of a tunnel he’ll never reach the end of.
Agonized, he clutches his chest and croaks, “Where would it take me?”
“… On,” The cloaked being answers, staring intently at Harry’s unsuspecting back.
A louder wail from the shriveled up piece of Voldemort interrupts the pivotal moment. Harry turns, and feeling sorry for it, makes to walk back to it when an icy hand grasps his shoulder.
“Unless you want that scrap to latch onto you again, I suggest you avoid touching it,” It hisses, “Were you to let it bond with you once more, its removal would be… Unpleasant. If not impossible.”
Harry sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Is any of this real or is all of this just happening inside my head?”
“Of COURSE it’s all happening inside your head!” Hunching over it brings its ivory face so close that Harry would feel its breath, if the monstrous being had any need to breathe. Tilting its head it grins widely and asserts, “But why should that make this any less real?”
Harry has no answer to that, but he’s already made his choice. Resigned, he steps away from its daunting figure and continues back to slump down onto the bench near the wretched form of his foe. Eyes gleaming, he watches as the only train he’ll ever see passes on without him.
Unbeknownst to Harry, empty sockets bore into him long after the train has faded into the ether with a relieved yet pitying expression.
“What now?” Harry mutters numbly, idly noticing that it’s eerily silent.
“Now it is time for us to part ways. You won’t remember much of this little meeting of ours for some time, but worry not. I shall be here to see you at each of your crossroads, my brave little Master…” the Reaper murmurs ominously. It bows deeply before Harry, who is taken aback at the motion. Before he can ask what his eerie companion means, the entity fades away with a soft hiss of displaced air. Its shadow remains and begins to rapidly consume the world around them.
Glancing down, Harry meets eyes with the pitiful scrap of Tom Riddle's soul. He stares up and through Harry with dull, hopeless eyes, limbs quivering as if recently struck by the cruciatus.
Heart clenching, Harry can’t bear to watch him another moment. In spite of Death’s stern warning his hand reaches forth, knowing he shouldn't, but unable to stand idly by as this creature, no, this person, who’s been with him through every last bit of Harry’s hell hole of a life dies.
If he’s going to be stuck here for all eternity, at least with Tom he won't be alone.
Riddle’s eyes widen as Harry’s fingertips draw near, his tiny hand straining desperately for Harry’s own -and then the white-washed world blinks out of existence.
Burning ash drifts through the air, bodies scattered across crumbling stone, the courtyard emptied of all living beings besides the two most powerful wizards of their time. Over and over curses fly in vibrant streaks of red and green unstoppable energies that explosively collide, neither giving way. Not a word or spell is uttered, finess having abandoned long ago for brute force and willpower.
The duel could have gone on like this until their very cores depleted and devoured one another, but a woman’s mortal scream rings through the air. For the first time Harry sees Voldemort stumble, fear widening his nemesis's eyes, and knows Nagini is no more. Without pause he pours his desire to stop this man once and for all into being. Fiery red erupts from his wand, meeting flickering green, and at last the red begins to consume his opponents energy.
Crimson hits the intended target and Voldemort falls, scattering to join the ash drifting around them as his wand arcs through the air towards Harry. Reaching out, he catches the Elder Wand as it flings itself into his waiting grasp and the world seems to crawl to a halt.
Voldemort is gone. For the first time in his life, he feels free, and with the Elder Wand...
‘Powerful...’
The wand is dangerous. He can feel its unfathomable power vibrating eagerly within his palm, practically begging to grant his every wish and whim. He should destroy it while he has the chance. Just break it in half over his knee and let that be the end of it. Put the pieces of it back in Dumbledore’s rotting hands to be forgotten in time.
On the other hand , there are still Death Eaters that need to be stopped. It seems unwise to just toss it aside after it’s spent centuries carving a bloody path to reach his hands...
‘ No better, more trusted hands than one’s own... ’
Grip tightening, he strides forth, determined to find any Death Eater’s that have the audacity to remain in Hogwarts' once vaunted halls even after their Master’s defeat.
A party is held in what remains of the great hall, one of the least damaged areas of the castle. Congratulations are given by all, which Harry returns in kind, tight hugs exchanged with his closest friends and teachers; but one person is missing.
Upon accepting death, Harry had also accepted that he’d never see his friends or beloved again -yet here he is. Alive, with a future full of infinite possibilities that he never dared dream he could have. However, the only future he desires is one that he can share with Ginny. He can picture it now. A life where brown eyes gaze at him with tender warmth, and red hair leads him ever higher as they fly across open skies. Ginny will no doubt become a professional Quidditch player, Harry attending every match to cheer her on. He’ll work as an Auror, doing what he does best -chasing down rogue Death Eaters.
If she allows it, they’ll have many wonderful children, little ones with their mother’s hair and his eyes, and he’ll treasure them all. It’s a beautiful vision, but he’s getting ahead of himself. He needs to start with a proposal, and if all goes well, the rest will follow.
The problem is he can’t seem to find her. Not one of the many people around him have any clue where she is. A cold chill runs down his spine.
What if she isn’t anywhere?
What if she’s... gone?
“Lookin’ for the Weasley girl?” Whirling around, Harry nods emphatically at the older man in plain hooded robes. “Seen her run up to Gryffindor tower earlier,” he informs him, his voice vaguely familiar.
Perhaps Harry should question him; be at least somewhat suspicious, but he’s so relieved that he ignores the odd feeling. Thanking the man, he winds through the crowd and skips up rubble-ridden stairs.
Should he immediately drop to one knee? Take Ginny somewhere romantic and then propose? What would she like best?
Harry wants to do this in a way that thirty years from now she’ll still be smiling over it. He never in his wildest dreams thought that he’d live long enough to have these kinds of choices. It’s so hard to decide! Also there’s a distracting, overwhelmingly acrid aroma that’s been getting thicker the higher he goes.
Perhaps someone has the common room fire going?
Brows furrowing, he opens the portrait and a thick cloud of smoke billows out, momentarily blinding him. Blinking through watering eyes, Harry banishes it with a wave of his wand, and freezes.
Pulse pounding, he staggers over to the fire where Ginny’s burning, bubbling head lies within the pyre, only recognizable because some of her features and red hair remain. Her sockets are empty, those brown eyes he’d loved so much having burst from the heat. Gaze locked upon her ruined face, a distant part of him notes that the position mirrors the way Sirius had once fire-called him. But Sirius’ face had looked nothing like poor sweet Ginny’s did now.
“No… No, no, no…Ginny!” Harry begs, collapsing to his knees. “Don't leave me!” he weeps, casting an overpowered aguamenti. Water floods the room, sending bits of her swirling and swaying around his kneeling form making the mess worse. Horrified, he scrambles to scoop up the pieces, and gets a pulpy handful of steaming ash and scorched hair that’s still hot enough to burn blisters into his palms. Hissing, he instinctively flings the steaming gray matter back into the swirling pool.
Bile rising in his throat it dawns on him that the caustic smell filling the hall had been the rest of Ginny's flesh roasting in the pyre. It was her ashes filling his struggling lungs, her flesh in his shaking hands, her everything soaking into his clothes.
Retching even as he struggles not to further contaminate his love’s remains, he lowers useless hands into the disgusting ashy red mix that feels like it’s staining his very soul, and begins wailing with unrestrained grief.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there, howling out his despair amongst the soggy gray remains of her once silky red hair. Eventually someone starts shrieking nearby, but Harry can’t hear anything, because his everything is shutting
d
o
w
n
.
.
.
Water sloshes violently nearby and then he’s being yanked to his feet. Ron’s face is inches from Harry’s, his mouth is moving, a mix of spit and hot air hitting his face. Ears ringing, his friend’s screams pierce through the veil.
“Who did this?!” Ron roars through his own tears, eyes desperately averted from Ginny’s half melted face floating amongst the soupy muck. Face a pale green, Ron grasps Harry’s shoulders bruisingly tight and shakes him, “WHO. DID. THIS?!”
Forcing herself through liquefied remains, gagging with every squelching step, Hermione yanks Ron away, commanding wetly, "Ronald please! Stop it! He’s in shock and you’re making it worse!”
Blinking through burning tears, Harry’s sluggishly moving mind recalls the man who had been oh so helpful, and feels something cold and cruel settle within the gutted cavity of his chest. It is then, as his head is lolling to rest on his shoulder, limp under the weight of grief, that he sees it. Dully reflected in stained glass, bent at the waist, a specter roars with silent, yet somehow glass rattling bellows of despicable glee, and Harry knows without a doubt, this is the man responsible. Head whipping around he searches the room for the source of his gloating reflection, but only the glass holds the man’s smirking visage.
Darkened blue orbs meet despairing ichor and the monster gleefully mouths words that Harry can’t make out, but taunts him nonetheless.
The being that rises from the remains of his beloved, taking slow, staggering steps through blood and wet ash towards the window, is so far removed from the one who happily entered this room -one would be hard pressed to say they were once the same person.
His hand seizes with all consuming rage, unable to hold his arm steady, but the Elder wand aims to please. With an earth shattering boom the entire wall blasts apart, glass and debris slicing him in various places he doesn't have the mental capacity to feel. More and more heavy stones begin tumbling over the edge, and the sickening sludge drains through cracks that spread like cancer through the room's foundation until the whole tower gradually begins to tilt.
Hermione shouts at the unexpected blast, clutching Ron’s arm. Cracks growing, the couple sprints towards the door, Ron cursing all the while. Knowing he’s fucked up, Harry stumbles after them, but can't bring himself to make haste as his eyes lock onto Ginny’s empty sockets as her severed head rolls towards the edge leaving a red trail in its wake. The nightmare grows worse as a wailing Mrs. Weasley shoves by rushing after it.
Desperately she snatches up Ginny’s ruined head and crumples to the floor, bawling hysterically as she curls around it. Ron shouts something, his words lost to the deafening fall of rubble, and runs after his mother, Hermione on his heels.
It’s a futile rush.
The ceiling gives one warning creak and begins to cave as well. With mere seconds to react, Harry bolts forth and shoves his friends to the ground. Shielding them with his own body, he clutches their forearms tightly as both floor and ceiling give way. Screams ringing in his ears Harry holds firm as they begin to freefall thousands of feet above the ground. Willing the Elder Wand to protect them, he twists with all his might into the sharp crack of apparition.
Staggering down once beautiful halls, Harry further pollutes the rubble, leaving sodden prints in his wake. Bystanders whose faces don’t even register, pull back in instinctive terror, as if his rage and despair are palpable, thinning the air around them. Of the people who entered Gryffindor tower this last hour all but two made it out alive. Mrs. Weasley isn't one of them.
Ron is never going to forgive him.