Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me; it never, never has, and never shall. What now?
A/N: This is, technically, a character study, but it has enough plot to be worthy of 'storyhood'. Also, there's a lot of open-ended interpretation involved. Thought provoking goodies. Slightly implied/interpretable Harry/Voldemort relations. But nothing graphic or outright blatant about it. Potential relations shouldn't bother you while reading. There are no pairings, then. The lyrics in the beginning are taken out of context, whoops.
The Never-Ending Equation
a short story
The universe works on a math equation / That never even ever really even is any end
Infinity spirals out creation / We're on the tip of it's tongue, and it is saying
[...]
"Where we're going I'm dead."
— Modest Mouse, The Never Ending Math Equation
May 2nd, 1998 — Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; Great Hall
There was silence, a trembling sort that threatened to break at any moment, and then Harry smiled.
It was over, it was over. It was finally over.
A great weight lifted from his shoulders and he let out a long, withering breath that he hadn't known he had been holding, before he fell to the ground, arms outstretched. Across the way, the broken, disfigured corpse of Voldemort lay, fingers splayed around the knotted Deathstick. But he was summarily unconcerned with the corpse, or the mob that had suddenly rushed forth to surround it — from all sides — to wonder, or steal it away, or destroy it. He was free, and strangely, that was all that mattered. He no longer had a grand, daunting journey on his hands, no extraordinary destiny: he could be normal. He could finally understand what it meant to just be himself, without the added weight of prophecies made in muggy rooms.
He was about to stand and search for his friends, to take them in his arms, and cry for the victory, for the losses, when he felt it.
Gasping, Harry found that his hands had a will of their own, and were struggling and scratching at his chest. Something was breaking, or beginning to; something was shattering.
Harry had two guesses as to what was breaking, only two, but only one was all that likely.
His first, abstract muse was that somehow, Voldemort was going to get the last laugh, because the dead man had slipped in some sort of obscure curse that would kill Harry. He knew, instinctively, that that was not the case, because he would have noticed that. Wouldn't he have? It would have been hard not to notice a brightly colored curse — curses always came in such strange, wonderful shades — flying in his direction. And because he knew that it was not the case, he dared not think about the truth.
Because only the evil would do such; only the evil.
"Harry! Harry?" It was Ginny, he realized numbly, as he closed his eyes shut, although her voice sounded faint and dream-like, "Harry!"
His hand fell away from his chest, and he could no longer deny it: his soul had been irrevocably damaged, cracked just as Voldemort's had. It was such a shock, that he lay numb and empty as he tried to rationalize the pain: just because his soul was damaged, that didn't mean that he was going to end up like Voldemort, right? A mere slight wasn't enough to kill a part of him, right? He wasn't the madman, he wasn't. Were other peoples souls damaged because of the War? How many people, in the fray of battle, had failed to realize the extent of the damage? His throat went dry and it hurt to swallow as he thought about the implications. Killing monsters shouldn't have done so much damage. It shouldn't have brought so much hurt.
What if, he thought, heart thundering, what if the fracture continues to spread?
What if all those tiny blemishes continued to grow ugly, twisting souls and people in return?
Lost in the terrible what ifs, he was unaware of the fog growing, and the voices fading into the din.
May 2nd, 1998 — Forbidden Forest; The Clearing
"Is he alive — you, check the boy — " Lord Voldemort rasped as he staggered to his feet, and Harry could see the gray of the madman's skin through his eyelashes.
He stayed frozen, blood rushing in his ears, as terror gripped his very soul. It was different than the first time, but maybe that first time, the first time he died, had all been a dream and this was the reality? Someone, someone who wasn't Narcissa, who had rough, calloused hands was groping his neck, jerking his head side to side as they tried to find the pulse point. Panic set in, and he tried so hard not to flinch and cry out when the hands found the proper spot. Silence. Silence for a moment, and then, a nervous whisper that Harry was alive. Hagrid bellowed out in joy, or maybe terror, and a chill crept up Harry's spine. Not just his spine, but the air in the grove seemed to grow cold, the grass frosted and the trees groaned. No one spoke.
Harry tried to pretend to be unconscious longer, longer than before, but he knew that it was a futile attempt. The rough hands that had confirmed he was alive remained at his neck, waiting for the order to strangle the life out of him, and he sweating and trembling something mad. He felt disgusting, covered in a slick sheen of fluid, and a dull, undying ache in his chest.
This shouldn't be happening, this isn't happening. This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream.
"Finish him, then," the Lord whispered, giving a sweeping gesture with his hand. It wasn't real, because Voldemort would never give up a kill, right? Right?
The hands on his neck wrapped fully around and began to squeeze, and his breath came short. It was a dream, a dream, a dream; all he had to do was wake up, and then the pain would be gone, his throat would be untouched, those hands would be gone. It was simple, but he tended not to wake up until it was too late in his nightmares, and surely, surely, his mind would wake up before he died. That was what happened. His fingernails dug into the soft earth, wondering why his nightmare chose to let Voldemort kill him in such a muggle fashion. It was then, that he realized he had to wake up. His breath was coming in short, quick gasps, and Harry could feel his face heating up as the blood frantically swelled in his skull.
Involuntarily, Harry screamed out, "Wake up!"
The hands were gone in an instant, the man thrown across the clearing, unmoving, and Harry rolled onto his hands and knees. He gasped, saliva running from his parted lips, and dazzling spots parading before his eyes. His nose brushed against the damp earth as he wretched, dry-heaving, and he collapsed on the ground. Shaken, bitterly, by the fact it was no longer just a dream. It was real, as real as it could be; an imitation, warped and distorted, of events that had already happened. Or had they? Was it as he previously thought, that the first time had been nothing but a dream, and that this was the bitter truth? That he was going to die, and the bad guy was going to live?
Harry turned back over and scrambled backwards until his back struck a frozen tree, and he stared with wide eyes as the man he had sent flying moaned and tried to stand. Ultimately the man failed, falling to rest on the ground with none of his fellows bothering to help him; a few Death Eaters, Harry could see, were even smiling at the man's pitiful state. Either he hadn't been well liked, or all of Voldemort's followers were sadists. Harry was otherwise occupied in watching Voldemort as the ghastly beast swayed on his feet, enamored by something; perhaps the sight of his followers in pain made him feel all fuzzy inside? Abruptly, the attention was brought back to him, as he stared into dark, cold eyes. Glittering without life.
"How did you survive, I wonder?" the Lord mused in a smooth, rich tone that sent the people in the clearing scuttling backwards. Harry wondered about that. Was that tone Voldemort's mad tone? He was sure that it was generally high-pitched when the monster was angry. Maybe the low tone meant the man was plotting something? Nervously, Harry slid his wand from his sleeve and grasped the hilt tightly, warily shifting backwards. If the man's own followers were wary, than Harry was going to be cautious along with them — who knew what the unusual tone meant?
No, no. Don't worry about the details, he's deep in thought, this is my chance — to end this nightmare, to end it.
He was about to send a curse in the direction of the Lord, when the tip of a blackened, thin wand entered his vision. Voldemort's yew wand. Not the Deathstick.
Why, indeed?
"Is it, perhaps, the blood that we share — or did the failed possession leave way for a deeper connection?"
Harry's heart constricted at the mention of the shared blood, the ritual that brought back the monster. He remembered, vividly, the contents of that night: wandering in the maze; blood rushing; Cedric dying; his blood on the dagger; that sinister cauldron. Nervously, he licked his lips and avoided eye contact with Voldemort. He wasn't afraid, he just didn't want the madman testing out any of his theories. He noted with abstract interest that he wasn't dead yet, which was strange, considering that Voldemort doubtlessly wanted the only threat to his rule dead and gone. So why was he still alive, still breathing? With all of the strange uncertainties gathering in the wings, Harry wished he was back in the dream where he had won. Or that the nightmare would end. Either one was acceptable to him.
"How would you like to die, Harry?"
"What?" He whispered, confused.
"How would you like to die, Harry?" Voldemort asked again, patiently, as he crouched down so that he was face to face with the befuddled youth. His wine eyes were glittering with barely suppressed mirth, appearing human and full of.. life? The question settled in Harry's mind, ticking woefully away as the Lord elaborated on his query, "Would you like it to be painless — or painful? Grand or simple? Quick or long? I'm giving you a choice here, take it."
Harry licked his lower lip, feeling the chapped surface and shuddering; but then, he had an idea. "A duel. If I have to die, I want to die in a duel."
The Lord tilted his head back, eyes curious and bright despite the shadows that fell about them. And then he smiled.
"How rash, how bold," the Lord whispered, "An excellent choice: you have two hours to prepare."
May 2nd 1998 — Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry; Great Hall
Harry was prepared to win again — damned if it was going to be a different scenario; he wasn't about to start asking Voldemort if he felt remorse for his actions. He already knew the answer, a firm, resounding no. There wasn't much of a point to trying for something he already knew would fail. Besides, even if Voldemort could regret his actions, even the slightest twinge, there was no denying the fact that Harry had to kill him. Again. Again. He had to do it again when he had only won by what felt like a fluke the first time, so there was no telling if he would win or not this time around. But he knew he would: he was destined to. He had 'love', words from Dumbledore's mouth, which was a power that the Dark Lord could never know. Love, somehow, would once again prevail over hate and cruelty. His insides were all warm and fuzzy just thinking about it.
Harry thought of Ginny, standing off in the side amongst the Hogwarts students and Order members, who were silently cheering him on. He thought of Ron, who was no doubt standing next to his sister, and Hermione who was indubitably going over all of the possible outcomes of the duel. He thought of Sirius, whose life had been ruined because of the war; of Neville who also suffered because of the war. Of all of the families that were destroyed, of his family that was destroyed, and grasped the wand in his hand firmly. He looked up, expression jaded and fierce. He would win. For all of them.
He would kill Voldemort as many times as he had to in order to defend them all, to ease even the smallest bit of their suffering.
Perhaps he would even suffer for them.
It was now that everything would end.
Again.
Voldemort stood across the way, looking — dare he think it? — regal and calm, the silence before the storm. His head was bowed and his eyes were closed as he muttered what might have been a prayer, but was not. It couldn't have been. It was probably an obscure rite that the Lord had discovered at some time or another, and had made into a nasty habit.
Again.
The Lord stepped up into the stage, solemn and cruel, his aged eyes wet with wisdom.
Harry's eyes met Voldemort's, and they bowed as one.
May 2nd, 1998 — Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry; Great Hall
Voldemort might have been dying on the floor, bleeding out from a brutal strike to the head — brains seeping out of his white skull, gray matter splattered on the tile, but Harry was dying too. His heart throbbed in pure, abysmal agony, a blossom of red spreading between his clasped fingers. Blood ran in warm, searing ribbons from the broken, bruised hole that consumed his chest. His mouth had gone dry, and he could feel the splintering of his soul, cracking like a mirror.
Someone screamed when he fell to his knees and scrabbled at the floor, a mad, raving beast, and he tossed his head back, howling in pain as it moved through his limbs. A prick there, a stab here, a rip over yonder.
More screams, not only his own, but his friends. The paper thin, crackling gold wards that had prevented any interference were bending beneath the hands, such desperate hands, that clawed at it.
Each side was desperate.
But as the Lord died, Harry died with him.
May 2nd, 1998 — Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry; Room of Requirement
"Harry, mate, you alright — ?" Ron asked, waving a freckled hand in front of unseeing, glassy spring eyes.
Harry blinked, wetting his dry oculars, and parted his lips to reply, but found that he still ached. In his chest, there was a dull throb that seemed insistent and undying. He clutched at his chest, over the sternum and felt for the beating of his heart; it was there, but slow and torturous. Panic wracked him, and he hoped that it would send the cardiac muscle into a flurry of flutters — and yet, ever yet, it merely continued on in a dull monotone pace. He beat down a strangled cry, batting his lashes in fury, and grasped the nearest object. It was a silver candelabrum, wax crusted on the edges. He held it for a moment, ignoring the wary looks from his darling friends, and threw it in the direction he remembered the wretched Malfoy coming from. When a sharp cry answered him, he knew he had struck home.
He didn't wait to hear the dumbfounded lackey summon the cursed fire, merely grabbed Ron and Hermione's arms and ran for the door. They followed in confusion as the fire took up a blaze, and the Room spat out five stunned students, and one who was beginning to suspect that something was profoundly wrong.
Why? Why is this happening again? Is this a dream, or was that other time a dream?
Hermione distracted him from his thoughts with relative ease, "You look ill Harry — deathly white."
His vision flashed to his hands, oblivious to the sudden gasp drawn from Hermione's parted lips, and shuddered. His hands had only been that white, that infernal pale, in those years that he had been forced to live in the cupboard, surrounded by darkness days on end. Abruptly, Hermione's gasp registered in his mind, and he tilted his head up. "What? Why —" he groped about for the right question, "Why are you staring at me?"
"Y-your eyes, your eyes," Ron stuttered while Hermione pulled a small compact mirror from her bag, ignorant of the junior Death Eaters gawking in a similar fashion, "They look like... like You-Know-Who's."
"What?" Harry exclaimed as he snatched the mirror away from Hermione's outstretched hand, snapping it open and bringing the reflective surface up to his field of vision. Instantly, he dropped the plastic object to the ground, took a shuddering step backwards; "Oh, oh... oh, oh hell, hell..." he mumbled incoherently, mind incapable of comprehending what had seen. Deep, dark pupils slowly shrinking into a slit as they had met the light; green coloration bleeding out into the sclera, no longer restrained by the walls of the iris. Two pools of moss, whereas the Lord had two pools of wine. Bile rose up in his throat, panic setting in. It burned with bruising claws.
He slid to the floor, his hands clutching at his hair, running through the scalp.
What have I done? What have I done? What am I going to do?
"It'll be alright, Harry, " she whispered, placing an uncomfortable hand on his shoulder — what a good friend, "Everything will be fine."
"No it won't, " Harry reprimanded her, truthful, for he could never tell a lie, "It's not going to be. It's not."
"... in exchange for Harry Potter."
He had to go. He had to, until the madness ended: it was his destiny.
The only outcome he knew.
May 2nd, 1998 — Between; King's Cross
Harry kept his eyes hidden and shadowed as he stared at the twitching, sniveling creature that was a fragment of the Lord's soul. How could something so ugly, ever be beautiful? He listened half-halfheartedly as Dumbledore explained the things he already knew, how he was a horcrux, how he and the Lord were bound by blood. With his eyes hidden from the deceased Headmaster, only he and his friends knew of the terrible state of his fractured soul. He was blackening around the edges, growing worn and tattered, and Harry could tell. He was almost positive that Dumbledore could as well, but was staying silent on the matter. The edges of his hands, 'deathly white' in Hermione's words, were fraying like the hems of worn out pants or splintered straw. That had to be his soul, that had to be. Beginning to crack, to blossom, to blacken; there was no doubt. It was the beginning of a murderer's tainted soul.
Am I going to end up like that?
"Pitiful, isn't it?" Dumbledore rumbled conversationally, as he had undoubtedly noticed that Harry hadn't been paying any attention to his words.
He didn't even bother asking what it was exactly, and found himself correcting his dearly departed Headmaster, "Pitiful, isn't he? Aren't I?"
Finally, he looked up, bright eyes flashing in the Between, brimming with sorrow and a countless tales that would surpass even those of devils from long ago. His old grandfather-figure imparted a sharp breath, twinkling blue depths staring into the unbound eyes before him. Tears dribbled from the old, wrinkled stars, and ran in rivers down the valleys and mountains on the old wizard's face. Harry was pulled into a hug, tight and warm, his face pressed into a beard composed of stardust and heaven, and he sobbed, unhinged. A withered hand, knotted like the Deathstick, grasped his chin, and he was forced to stare into the kind, gentle face.
"I never, Harry, I never wished this upon you," Dumbledore whispered.
Softly, Harry smiled and pulled away from the Headmaster, shaking his head, "I know."
And then he closed his eyes, and fell back into his body.
May 2nd, 1998 — Forbidden Forest; The Clearing
"You're still alive!" Voldemort hissed, pointing the Deathstick at Harry, and with a sharp turn of a bone thin wrist, he found himself pinned to a tree by invisible hands. Cautiously and curiously, the Lord crept forth, his bare feet skating across the loamy soil, the length of his robes barely swirling over the blades of grass. Harry vainly fought against the urge to insult, and when he opened his mouth to spit at the Lord's feet, an invisible hand slid over his lips. He thrashed about for a few moments, his limbs restrained and his knees jerking, before he went slack in the bindings. He looked up, boldly, rashly, into the eyes of the Lord.
Voldemort's head was cocked at an odd angle, expression wide and innocent, even; that of a child who had just discovered the miracle of free will. He looked born, in that moment, as though he hadn't existed before hand. And he had only Harry to witness the miraculous birthing, the magic crackling in the air at the discovery of self. Harry craned his neck away from the outstretched, twisted fingers, trying his best to break the gaze.
"A miracle, isn't it, that you would survive the Curse another time?" the Lord whispered, claws a width away from Harry's cheek, trembling as though touch would shatter the illusion.
Harry sealed his eyes shut, surrounding himself in utter nothing in order to dispel the illusion. It only served to further it as a feather-light chill touched down in the crook between his neck and jaw. Spears of ice shot through him, and he began to shake and shiver. His involuntary reactions only spurred another touch, another, and another — he had no right to! No right to touch what he was.
He could snap those fingers touching him, easily; as though they were brittle twigs, because the fingers were thin, trembling with age, and fleshless. If only he could move his arm, then he could wrap his hand around the one skating down his face, and bend them back until the Lord began to cry out in pain. The fingers would break. They would shatter. Brittle and broken, boneless and bloody.
What's happening to me?
Was it his soul shattering? Was it his resolve failing? Was it his bitterness growing?
Am I becoming a monster — the very thing I seek to destroy?
"How would you like to die?" the Lord questioned.
Harry stuttered as the invisible hand left his mouth, "With a weapon in hand."
"What a noble death: perhaps you wish to enter the halls of Valhalla, brought up by the wings of the Valkyrie, to join the endless battle?" inquired Voldemort, leaning back until his throat was exposed, and the web of purple and blue that traveled it, "Or maybe you simply want to die fighting... which is it, Harry? Do you want to die fighting; to die as a beacon for the Light. 'Look, I died fighting, let this be a message'?"
"No," he whispered back, breathless and weak, "I just..."
The bonds that held him snapped, and he fell to the ground, wrists raw and mind stunned. His wand was presented to him with little elegance, and it was then that Harry noticed that they were all alone. There was no one but the Lord and he. Struck, Harry took the polished holly, stained a deep red, and looked up at Voldemort. If the madman was startled by the splashes of color, he did not utter a sound or a reaction thereof. He merely bowed, and the duel began.
It was a rough battle, mud slinging, magic careening every which way in a cacophony of disaster. Fire scorched the earth in waves, water put it out. Blood met blood, the rich fluid painting a picture of battle upon the loamy canvas. It was a symphony of discord, spun through mindless, wordless carnage that left the Lord and Harry at odds end, breathless and nearing damnation. Bruises blossomed and bloomed upon the expanse of the flat plane that was Voldemort's cranium, and blood congealed upon his neck. Harry felt a heavy clump in his hair, and didn't dare wonder what it was, or be distracted by the splintering bone in his left arm. They fought, sending curses to and fro, lighting the darkening sky with a dazzling display of hues.
It was a perfectible art; the flurry of motions exchanged, almost as though they were playing chest. A gentleman's game, for those that were anything but.
Eventually, one of them was bound to make a mistake, to grow tired; to falter.
Harry did so first. He stepped down at the wrong angle in the wrong spot. His heel dug into the mud and slipped right out from underneath him, and he went falling backwards, head landing with a sickening sound in the bog. In a last ditch attempt, he sent a burst of magic at Voldemort, and their wands connected. The connection was deep, tangible, and whispered at the edge of his mind with long, hooked tendrils. It didn't take long for Harry's end of the connection to overpower that of Voldemort's, inching closer to the tip of the Deathstick, and Harry felt the urge. A simple urge. A sweet one. Spurred on by the strange, strange surreal repetition.
"Have you ever felt remorse — just a little, for what you've done?" he begged, searching for something human, something living in that sad shell of a man.
The Lord merely laughed, throwing back his head, even as the Deathstick shattered, and his own curse tore him to pieces.
Meanwhile, Harry's soul shredded itself into even smaller pieces.
May 2nd, 1998 — Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry; Seventh Floor Corridor
"Why? Why!" Harry screamed in frustration, throwing Draco's wand clear across the corridor, where it clattered to the ground. "Why — why is this day never going to end?"
Again; I have to kill again. Three murders under the belt, how many more until this ends... or I break?
Ron and Hermione shared a look behind his back, grim and underfed, the epitome of worry. He swung around at them, temper spurred and in no mood for questions of worrying and thickness, he was prepared to snarl at them. However, they stumbled backwards, eyes wide and face ashen. Ron pointed, with trembling fingers, at Harry, mouth moving in silence. He already knew the question, the exclamation, the statement, before it left the ginger's lips, and he snarled bodily. He summoned Draco's wand from its resting place to his hands with a flourish, and stared, unblinkingly at his friends. Daring them to make a comment, daring them to tell him something he already knew. They didn't dare.
Again.
"H-Harry," Hermione stuttered uncharacteristically, a slim sheen of sweat on her exposed forehead, "Y-you're scaring us."
Again.
Harry smiled sweetly, "Don't worry, Hermione, I'll put an end to Voldemort. I know I can, after all, I've done it thrice already."
And again.
May 2nd, 1998 — Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry; Great Hall
In war, people died: Harry knew that, he knew it well, by then. By heart, even. But he wasn't expecting this, he wasn't at all.
Seeing Ginny laying there on the cold, unforgiving floor, her hair a halo about her head, and her blood a pair of scarlet wings, something inside of him snapped. Blank faced, pale, shivering something fierce, he took a step away from her sleeping self. He ignored the gasps of horror from Ron and Hermione, ignored the jibe from the Death Eater that had killed her; he focused only on the red, and the man standing over her, solemn, with crimson splatters upon his dark robes. Rage, undeniable rage filled him to the brim and past. It bubbled over the edge, spilling out in crackling, mad magic that twisted in the air and reached out with claws. Flames flickered out, the wind died down, the temperature rose.
No one would have recognized him, if they hadn't seen the scar burning down his forehead.
The Lord knew him first; of course he did, "Ah, Harry, you've been touching things you have no right to."
"And I never gave you permission to call me by my name, Tom," he spat back, brandishing Draco's wand before him with a vengeance. There was anger in his blood.
Voldemort barely reacted, if a subtle twitch of his fingers could be considered a reaction, and sneered, "Nor did I give you permission. A name for a name, an eye for an eye, don't you think?"
"Yes," Harry hissed, baring his teeth, besotted with the red haze that scalded his vision, "An eye for an eye — a life for a life. Who do I get to kill, for what you've done? Have you gotten retribution?"
A pause, then laughter: "Oh, silly boy, a lord needs none."
"You are no lord!" he cried, flinging a brilliant, deep colored bolt at the madman, who flicked it away with twist of his wrist, "You are a monster! You don't, you don't deserve...!"
"And what about you?" the Lord turned the conversation around, holding a mastery of the spoken tongue, "Do you deserve anything better, Harry? For you, too, are as much a murderer as us."
"I'm not, I'm not — " Harry began, only to be strung up, hopes held high, and brought back down to Earth by a hushed, creeping hiss.
"Really, you aren't? Your friends can tell, I can tell — you're just like us."
Fire met ice in sudden, surging clash; heat broiled in waves, writhing in the hold of the chilled fingertips. Frost crawled up along the pillars, and the hems of robes charred. Magic clashed, churned, and warred over control over an area as Harry faced off against the Lord. They circled one another around the body of the girl, sacrificed for nothing, her tender lips and soft lashes never to be warm again. He wept while they warred, almost a repeat of the third time, but not truly, because there was outside interference. It waged on, full course, Light pitted against the Dark. Harry against Lord Voldemort. The castle began to crumble with each tremor of power, dust fell from the ceiling, cracks formed in the walls.
Again.
Silence reigned as the Curse was whispered.
"Avada kedavra."
May 2nd, 1998 — Between; King's Cross
Harry ignored Dumbledore, he ignored the wailing of the soul fragment. He took a step, a single step, in the direction of the black and gold train, endless and long. His heart thrummed in his chest. He was going to do it, he was going to end it. He wouldn't go back this time, he wouldn't go to kill, and ruin himself anymore. He would go beyond, to where people like him went, and weep. He would to solitary, he would go to fix himself. He would repair his battered, bruised soul. He held his resolve firm until it wavered.
"Harry, m'boy, what are you doing?" the Headmaster wondered, resting an ancient palm on Harry's blistering shoulder, "That way leads nowhere you want to go."
"I want to go."
Dumbledore frowned, a slight, degrading thing that made Harry feel foolish and weak all at once, "That way is Death."
"I know," Harry assured the deceased Headmaster, "I know. I want to go."
"You're so young, surely — "
"I am a monster."
Harry went to board the train, sure that this was they way out of that repetitive nightmare.
Cowardly?
Yes.
Logical?
Yes.
Successful?
And again.
May 2nd, 1998 — location unknown; on the shores of a lake
Four o'clock in the morning
He was the first to wake in the wee hours of the second of May — the fifth, sixth, or twenty-ninth time he had experienced it — who knew, really? It was all a blur of choppy sections of memory, where the atrocious acts he had performed were the most prominent amongst them. It had been a dream, a long, endless, suffering dream. A waking nightmare fueled by his fears, an answer to the questions that griped him, and he reached up to trace his scar. His fingers ran along the jagged pink flesh, marveling at the fact that he had someone's soul residing in him that wasn't his own, albeit a sliver and that of a madman. Distracted, Harry cast a quick tempus with Draco's wand, and blinked when the floating numbers informed him that it was four o'clock in the morning. He shuddered, then stewed in his own bodily heat for a few moments, before terror gripped him. It hadn't been a dream, had it? He was stuck on another repeat, wasn't he?
Inspired by the sudden thought, he attempted a summoning of a mirror, or anything reflective; he succeeded after several tries with Draco's unwieldy wand.
Staring back at him was a face he hardly recognized.
His eyes — oh his eyes — the green coloration still spilled forth from the iris, consuming the sclera in emerald hues. His skin was paper white, his face looked hollow and gaunt, as though he hadn't slept in a long while.
His scar, the infamous beast, was a bright, livid red.
And that was just with the shattering of his soul. Just four murders (of the same person, he wasn't sure what that did).
What... what would happen if a piece well and truly broke off?
"'How do you want to die, Harry?'" he repeated the Lord's query, the flavor strange on his tongue.
Did he want to die? And if he did, how?
Moments later, he had his answer.
May 2nd, 1998 — Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry; School Grounds
Seven o'clock in the morning
Harry had gathered up his things, and apparated them into Hogwarts — something, that just a few years ago, would have been impossible, but the strong enchantments cast upon the stone behemoth had been shattered and torn down.
He landed in the dew-stained hills, in the middle of what looked to be a skirmish between the Lord's forces and the resistance of Hogwarts. If he squinted hard enough, he could make out the Weasley family amongst the crowd, Ginny standing proud and alive next to her mother. Twin faces flanked her sides, though not so identical anymore, since one lacked an ear. There was a trembling silence invoked between the two sides, as they stared unabashedly at the Golden Boy who had struck ground. Harry was standing, sleep driven from him, eyes bright and alive despite their apparent unnaturalness. At first, no one had recognized Harry, just like that last time. He looked different enough, ruined enough, that it was a physical discrepancy between how he looked the last time they had seen one another and the present.
Voldemort stepped forth, and they met in the middle, cautious and wary. Two dogs circling one another for a first chance at the bleeding carcass at their feet.
"How would you like to die, Harry?" the Lord asked, knowingly, for the third time.
For the first time, Harry answered properly, head held high not in arrogance, but insurance that he held no doubt, "I want to die of old age."
"What a wonderful answer — " Voldemort mused, tossing back his grotesque face and he laughed, high and clear. It rang out in the clearing, "How very you."
Confusion ran in waves as the laughter spread like bells, from both sides.
It was like we have an inside joke that no one will ever understand.
"And what do you want to do, until you turn into an shriveled, old man?" the Lord mused, tone low and peculiar, impossible to understand by any other tongue.
"Who knows? I have a long while now, to figure out. What do you suggest," he returned, "'shriveled, old man'?"
"Enjoy tomorrow."
May 3rd, 1998
3 o'clock in the afternoon
HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED, VICTORIOUS?
Yesterday, at approximately seven in the morning, the supposed, quoted from the mouth of Barnaby Merriat, 'final battle' was to be waged — but it was not! What to the wonder of all who had gathered, You-Know-Who's followers to the Resistance, Harry Potter appeared right when things were about to get heated! Strangely, instead of striking out instantaneously, Lord Voldemort (permission granted to use THE name, and the use condoned for ALL citizens) proposed a simple question to Mr. Potter. Very simple. He asked Mr. Potter how he wanted to die, and whether it was simple cheek, or more meaningful that we could ever begin to comprehend, Mr. Potter said he wanted to die of "old age". And then, stranger yet, they shared a laugh as though it were an inside joke! Since when have the enemies been fraternizing, and since when has Lord Voldemort ever been so kind, no, considerate (generous)? His first verdict was to give werewolves more rights; Mr. Potter's own self-proclaimed godfather, Remus Lupin, himself is a werewolf who got thrown out of countless jobs and was unable to take care of Mr. Potter when he was a child because of his condition... [...]
[...] ... one has to wonder what Mr. Potter will be doing, and if he intends to assist Lord Voldemort in his reign. What are you doing now, that a revolution has truly begun, Mr. Potter?
"He's enjoying tomorrow," the Lord uttered haughtily, throwing the Prophet to the side. He had always hated the damn thing.
Harry laughed, "Finally."
A/N: Yoink. Happy ending. I'm rather stunned with myself.
Lot's of symbolism in this that won't make sense to you, probably, unless you know about number symbolism. But I didn't intend for this information to be given in the beginning, because it would take away from the open interpretation. Before you go on to read on about the symbolism used, feel free to tell me what you interpreted. I always like hearing those sorts of things. Without further ado, here's some (useless) data;
Four is "completeness"; the square; Earth; the cycle of seasons; the phases of the moon; east/west/north/south, etc. In this story, Voldemort is murdered by Harry a total of four times, which I intended (though you may not interpret it so, given this knowledge) to represent that Voldemort has gone through a complete cycle. Four deaths, four murders, four times Harry's soul is touched by his actions, thus Harry also goes through a complete circle of his own, although considerably more negative than Voldemort's cycle.
Three is considered a positive number in Christian (maybe Catholic as well, since they share roots, but I don't know enough about Catholicism in comparison to Christianity) belief, as the doctrine of the Trinity: God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Spirit. The idea of being one person in three bodies. Yeah, that. But that wasn't what I was going for, more of another cyclical thing: "Number three expresses all aspects of creation, including birth life and death, past, present and future, and mind, body and soul and man, woman and child." (hubpages[.]com) Plus, it's sort of a favorite number for tales, etc. Three wishes, that sort of thing. Harry dies a total of three times in this story, Voldemort kills Harry three times, which encompasses the whole 'life and death' thing rather neatly. Actually, now that I think about it, the Golden Trio? Eh? Eh? [should be shot]
Seven is a "union" between four and three; a bringing together of the divine and the Earth. It's a highly sacred number, the 'lucky' number, and it's also the number of horcruxes that Voldemort made. The number of times he split his soul. In keeping up with the seven theme, there are a total of seven deaths between Harry and Voldemort, three of which that are shared. Also; seven days in a week, seven days for each phase of the moon. All very cyclical, 'what goes around, comes around', wheel logic. The 'seven deadly sins' are not the subject in this fic, thus you should just put that well known symbolism out of your head. Thank ya.
As an added bonus, two is "duality", either negative or positive. Opposites, or ying and yang. Heaven, hell. Man, women. Discord, balance.
Now go back and read it with the symbolism in mind — kidding. You don't have to.
I'm such a dork for numbers, it's weird. I've probably scared you all off.
... one more thing: all the numbers lead to the title. And then my friend pointed out that it's the title of a Modest Mouse song. Killed the mood. Utterly.
[going away now]