The Denarian Apocalypse - Book 4 of the Denarian Series

A/N: Ahoy, my friends. It's been a long time since I've posted a story. Originally, I had been meaning to work on an original series and work towards becoming a legitimate author.

Frankly, it was too much work for very little gains and I wasn't having fun.

I love writing. It's my favourite hobby. It's with that in mind that I decided to write another story. I was tossing up between a new Denarian story and the continuation of Resistance of Azkaban but in the end I decided to go Denarian. Frankly, the effort I put into the first three has made me quite attached to series and I already had a few good ideas as to where I wanted to go.

Let's get the house in order.As of now, The Denarian Variation - the one shot I wrote that was inspired by Changes - is officially an omake and not a continuation of the series. This story will borrow a lot from what I had planned for it but I decided to set things much earlier. As to the state of that characters (i.e., did Amanda pop a baby out), well, that's still in question.

One year after the events of The Denarian Lord

The moment he took a step out of elevator he knew that something was wrong. He paused, his light-hearted emerald gaze sharpening and becoming as hard as flint. A carpet of rich crimson lay before him at the top level of this hotel. He had made sure that the entire floor had been cleared out and rented to him- as well as the floor directly above and below him as well. It had been for the best. His experiments could get a little noisy and although he didn't have any immediate plans to start tinkering with the fabric of the universe there was always a chance that inspiration would strike at the wrong time and it was practically inevitable that something would blow up.

"Can you feel that?" Harry Potter murmured to nobody in particular.

The Denarian Lord had finally reached the peak of his height. He was tall and lanky, approaching the end of his teens and moving onto adulthood that he had mentally reached long ago. His dark hair was messy and uncombed but he preferred it that way and his face showed no signs of the furious wars that he had once waged. His face betrayed boredom but his eyes was sharp and cold, hints of the terrible power that lay within him- power that was rivalled by few in the world.

"Something is wrong." The illusion of the Fallen Angel Meciel appeared seamlessly in his vision. She was hauntingly beautiful, with luscious dark hair and striking silver eyes. Robes of white and grey silks clad her body, swaying and fluttering around her in an almost hypnotic manner. Bonded to her host in a way that neither of them truly understood yet, the last of the Denarian Lord surveyed the area carefully.

"I know," Harry responded. He raked his hand through his hair casually, a force of habit that had never truly gone away. "There's..." He hesitated. "I can't really describe it. There's just something wrong."

"This feels familiar..." Meciel murmured. A pale misty trail of light began to eat away at her as she faded away from his sight, her voice echoing in his ears. "Where have I felt this before?"

Harry was pensive. It was unlike Meciel to forget something, Meciel, whose mind was utterly inhuman and capable of feats that surpassed that of every human that had ever existed. He was right. Something was wrong. For a moment, he considered simply turning around and leaving. Curiosity edged him forward and with no apparent sign of trouble apart from his short pause at elevator doors, Harry placed his hands in his pocket and walked forward.

His door was open.

Harry considered the polished wooden door carefully. There was no outward sign but at that very moment Harry drew on the power that lay dormant within him. Once, Harry had channelled this very power through an ancient artefact that had connected with the full might of the Archangel Meciel within the Void, allowing him to funnel enormous amounts of potent Hellfire, the chaotic energy that had fuelled his magic. That artefact was gone now. The indestructible denarius coin had turned into molten sludge, worthless and ruined beyond all repair. Meciel's prison had shattered, taking most of her power with it, and she had sought refuge within Harry's very soul.

Harry calmly slipped past the open door, his wand casually held in his hand. Books lay scattered on the floor, pages ripped and torn. Crumpled pieces of paper with scrawled writing covering them had been thrown all over the room. A bookshelf had been turned over and there were empty bottles of alcohol all over the floor.

It was exactly how he had left it.

Harry's senses, enhanced by the presence of the entity that dwelled within beyond human comprehension, stretched over the room. The power needed to truly harm him was beyond most and Harry had literally regenerated entire limbs and organs before in a matter of moments. If somebody had come here seeking to kill him then they were going to be sorely disappointed. With his soul and mind entwined with Meciel to the degree that it was, Harry wasn't even sure that the loss of his head would be able to kill him.

There was neither flutter of wind nor any sign of movement yet Harry froze as somebody appeared before him. A cloaked figure loomed above him, twice as tall and half as wide. Unnaturally slender, Harry couldn't peer past the darkness that enshrouded its face. Its tattered, frayed clothing was less of a robe and more of an item of convenience, something to hide itself from the world rather than preserve its modesty. Symbols dripped off the tattered cloak, scrawled on in swirls of crimson that Harry instantly recognised as blood. The symbols themselves were faintly familiar as well.

"Aren't you bold," Harry said quietly. His lips twitched as idly twirled his wand in his fingers, a rather unfortunate habit that he had picked up through his many encounters with Lord Voldemort. "There aren't a lot of people who could sneak past me like that. I suppose you've come to kill me."

The slender figure remained motionless and Harry felt a flicker of wariness pass over his face. Despite his confident smirk, something was setting him on edge. There was nothing obviously threatening about the intruder apart from a somewhat-creepy appearance. Harry's power roared through him with the rumbling and power of a volcano while the intruder gave off nothing.

Nothing at all.

Harry paused at that and narrowed his eyes. He could see the intruder but that was it. There was no smell emanating from it and Harry could see the bloody dripping from its tattered clothes. He couldn't hear the rustle of fabric or the sound of harsh breathing. Harry's eyes were drawn to the floor and a faint frown appeared on his face.

"You're not casting a shadow," he observed quietly.

It was almost like one of Meciel's illusions. Harry couldn't sense anybody nearby with the power to project something like this past his defensive spells. In fact, the wards hadn't even been broken. It was as if the figure had simply slid past them as if they hadn't mattered at all.

Motion flickered at the edge of his vision and Harry's wand blurred. As the unnaturally tall intruder slowly raised his arm, the wall behind him abruptly exploded under the force of potent destructive magic. Shards of debris whistled through the air as, at the same time, the windows exploded under the concussive force of Harry's spells and a furious storm of fire whipped up from the centre of the room. The intruder didn't even seem to notice as it pointed at Harry.

"Who are you?" Harry demanded, peering over the top of his wand.

The intruder said nothing but the fire raging throughout the hotel room suddenly died. Harry's eyes widened as the world around him shattered like the planes of glass on a mirror, falling apart in a tinkling display of colour. Reality twisted and bent as a new reality emerged from behind, something that was indiscernible. It was not black as it was absent of colour. There were no straight or curved lines, instead it was somethingelse. Gravity held no effect on it yet there were forces in play that Harry simply could not describe, forces that were not so much impossible as they were irrelevant in the real world. Sound assaulted his ears yet it was something that he could not perceive, something that did not exist on any frequency in any place.

"Whatare you?" Harry asked quietly but his voice was lost in the orchestra of silence and noise. His wand wavered and with a start Harry realized that his hand was shaking.

Harry had pitted himself against the ancient might of the Blackened Order of Denarius and succeeded. He had fought a Drakon, a being of immense power that even now he would go out of his way to avoid meeting another one. Enemy after enemy had fallen before him. In the ruins of Hogwarts, Harry had ascended into something beyond human and had crushed the most powerful Dark Lord of all time. It was with a start that Harry realised that in all that time he had never once experienced the kind of primal terror he was feeling now.

Except, there had been a time…but that was impossible!

'This can't be!' Meciel muttered.

The space behind the figure was suddenly filled with a vast power that felt as if it could shatter the stars themselves. Harry's eyes widened as power, twisted, alien and unrecognisable but power nonetheless, flowed into his enemy. It was with a terrible start and a sudden moment of clarity that Harry realised that the one before him matched and surpassed the power of an archangel. The figure regarded Harry and something drifted into his ears- not so much a word or a phrase as it was a simple and terrible law of reality.

You. Will. Die.

From an outside perspective, it was as if the entire hotel simply disappeared under the force of a bright white light. A loud earth-shattering boom roared into the air and large twisted columns of metal fell from the sky, the once soaring building crushing down onto the sandy beaches of the resort island. A terrible plume of smoke rose up into the sky as a wave of roaring flames began to surge through the remains of the island, swarming over manmade and natural objects without mercy, killing hundreds within the first few moments of emerging. Nothing remained of the building and the hotel room, not even rubble.

Of Harry Potter there was no sign.

Two Years after the events of The Denarian Lord

It was with a disgruntled snort that Mr. Borgin watched the back of his last customer leave his store with a subtle air of satisfaction about him. The oily-haired wizard leered at the retreating Pureblood, his gnarled fingers clenching and unclenching as he imagined wrapping his bony hands around the neck of that smug aristocratic face and just squeezing...

Something snapped and Borgin glanced down. The wand he held in his hand had cracked under the pressure. Borgin eyed it with disgust and threw it aside with a huff of disgust.

"Ollivander wand my arse!" he growled under his breath. No authentic wand would have buckled under that amount of pressure. While bootleg wands could be just as useful as an official Ollivander wand, they were usually much frailer and tended to break much easier.

It wasn't like he could do anything about it, though. His benefactors had been extremely generous to him in this time of hardship. Under the leadership of Rufus Scrimgeour, the Ministry of Magic had flourished and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had cracked down on the sale, purchase and possession of illegal magical objects. Borgin had almost lost everything and it was only with the support of his fellow Purebloods, many who had accumulated debts to him over the years, which had kept him from sinking into poverty. It was unfortunate that many of the families he had made connections to and supplied were also coming under scrutiny and he knew that soon he would be required to bail out those who had bailed him out in short order.

Borgin began to stack the new items he had just bought. With a wave of his wand, the blinds to his shop were closed and the sign on the door flipped around. Borgin had only just begun to dust and settle his affairs for the night when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He whirled around, his grubby wand clenched in his sweaty hands.

"Who are...?" Borgin began with a nasty growl but his bravado slowly died away as he stared up at the looming figure in front of him. He gulped, especially as he noticed the symbols of blood dripping from the robes. "How can I help you, respected customer?"

The figure completely ignored Borgin, who shivered uneasily. There was nowhere else in the world where he would not rather be than here in the shop at this moment. It was the keen eyes of a practiced salesman that spotted the object of attention for the unnaturally tall figure.

"It's a beauty, isn't it?" Borgin offered after a few moments. The silence in the room had become stifling and he needed to do or say something to break that dreadful tension. "They say that that locket used to belong to Salazar Slytherin himself. Rumour has it that there are enchantments nestled within the gems its master unimaginable power..."

He made no mention of the last three owners of the locket, all who had been killed under mysterious circumstances. Borgin wasn't privy to the Auror reports himself but rumour had it was that all the life had been sucked out of the victims. One of them had been a recent graduate of Hogwarts and had been found shrivelled and wrinkled like an old man. How the locket had escaped detection Borgin didn't know. He also didn't know how the obviously cursed object always made its way back to his shop, avoiding the attention of Auror and law enforcement officials alike.

"I...er...I normally sell that it for 26 galleons but...for you, my friend..." Borgin's stammer trailed off as the cloaked figure abruptly turned his head towards him. "...you can have it for free." He finished weakly. "Consider it a gesture of good faith."

The figure acted as if it hadn't heard him and continued to stand there. Borgin wasn't quite sure how long he watched the mysterious visitor. The light emanating from the window had dimmed and the sounds of Knocturn Alley were slowly fading. Inch by inch, Borgin began to inch away from the one covered with symbols of blood and towards the back of his shop. He had a specially-made portkey for occasions such as this. The figure watched him but seemed to ignore him. To Borgin, it was as if it were waiting for something...

Then something changes and Borgin was frozen to the floor. Fear enveloped him. It was worse than Dementors. It was worse than the Dark Lord. The sheer presence of the one standing in front of him swept over his relatively fragile little mind and, without any effort at all, it broke him. Borgin collapsed in a gibbering, stuttering heap. His heart was racing and an intense pain swept through him. A heart attack assailed him and he writhed on the floor, a stroke wracking his body in a fit that he barely felt. There wasn't enough of Borgin left to see the world around him fall apart like a shattered mirror, nor did he recognise the flash of deathly green light and the brief rush of black and white.

It took Borgin less than a second to die. It did take his body a few moments to recognise that though.

Somewhere far away, another robed figure appeared from nowhere. This one, however, collapsed to the ground in a boneless heap and curled up, hugging his knees as tight as he could and muttering under his breath. A white mask covered his face, polished and well kept despite the haggardness of his robes and cloak, and a golden locket was clutched in his hand.

"Yes...no...what...it...what...pain..." the man mumbled without rest. "...you are hunted...yes...I will not fail...you protected me...thank you master...yes...of course...I shall...yes...you will be free, on this I swear..."

As the man rocked on the ground, maddened, insane but still alive after his deadly encounter, the mask slipped from his face and the battered, gaunt face of Rodolphous Lestrange was revealed. His eyes were bloodshot and his manic smirk was toothless but the last loyal Death Eater had succeeded where others had tried and failed.

His Master would be reborn.

He would save the Dark Lord.

The locket in his hand glowed, almost looking satisfied. Yet, below the tangible surface lay and undercurrent all too similar to that of a man screaming in agonising and eternal pain...

Three Years after the events of The Denarian Lord

Although Albus Dumbledore thoroughly enjoyed the presence of children, he would be lying if he were to say that he did not enjoy the brief moment of respite that the summer holidays bought with them. Running and managing Hogwarts was an exhausting feat and there was a reason that the position of Headmaster of Hogwarts was always taken up by wizards and witches of acclaimed repute. No lesser man or woman would be able to handle to job.

"There we are," the ancient wizard murmured under his breath as he signed the scroll before him with a flourish. A snap of his fingers bound the scroll and sent it zooming towards the small pile at the end of his desk.

Albus took the chance to lean back in his chair and a soft sigh escaped his lips. It had been a long time since his body had been ache free and every few years a few more seemed to emerge. His eyes twinkled behind his half-moon glasses as he surveyed the grounds of Hogwarts through his open window. A fresh breeze gently blew through his room and swayed his long, white beard. The sensation was refreshing and Albus couldn't help the gentle smile that crossed his lips.

Between his responsibilities of Chief Warlock, his position in the International Confederation of Wizards and his status as Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Albus rarely had had the time to simply sit back and enjoy the simple things in life. Recently, he had almost considered giving up some of his titles. He would remain Headmaster of Hogwarts as long as he possibly could, of course, but was there really a need for the extra workload he took upon himself? With Lord Voldemort dead, Albus was allowing himself to relax for the first time in decades and he could not blame himself for wanting to release a few of his burdens.

In his modest opinion, his contributions to the world had clearly earned him a small rest.

But then there was Harry...

Albus felt the familiar sensation of a terrible weight falling down on his shoulders. Only three people knew that Harry Potter had not in fact perished in the final battle against Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Albus had discovered the broken, battered but still breathing body of Harry Potter and had spirited him away, allowing the Denarian to heal the terrible wounds he had received. It was of little surprise when he discovered that Harry had left without so much as a goodbye less than a week later.

For some reason known only to Harry, the Denarian Lord had seen fit to allow Amanda Carpenter privy to the news of his survival. Albus knew that one of the tomes he had given Harry had been passed on to the newest Knight of the Cross but was still unsure as to what Harry was planning. He entertained notions that Harry had meant for young Miss. Carpenter to use the knowledge within the tome to grow stronger and Albus knew that Harry would never allow somebody to get close to him if they could not match- or at least approach- his strength. Amanda had blossomed in her last year and had become a powerful witch in her own right. As a student of Harry Potter and a Knight of the Cross, she seemed to be the person most likely to find the enigmatic Denarian and, from what Albus had heard, she was still seeking him out between her job as a Knight.

The third person who knew of Harry's survival was the former servant that the Denarian Lord. The denarius that the Fallen Angel known as Verrine dwelled in had been given to one of the students fatally wounded in the battle of Hogwarts. While the girl had made a startling recovery, Albus had kept a close eye on her. He had spoken to the Fallen only once and was satisfied that the situation was under control. Apparently, Verrine had been left with a specific set of instructions about the care and maintenance of her host and Laura Madley, now a Fifth Year, had grown up into a beautiful young girl, enhanced with the gifts that the Denarians gifted their hosts while still retaining free will. Verrine had heard news of Harry's survival from Albus himself, who assured the Denarian that any harm inflicted onto her new host would be returned to her three-fold, if not by Albus then by Harry himself when the Denarian Lord saw fit to hunt Verrine down- and Albus assured her that Harry wouldfind her if she tried to run.

Although Albus knew Harry was alive, he had absolutely no idea where he was. Neither Fawkes nor his own considerable contacts had heard so much as a peep out of him. It was to be expected that Harry wanted to be alone but Albus had assumed he would have made contact by now. He was only faintly aware that something had happened to Harry in the final battle and he had been sure that Harry would approach for his help, help which Albus would have given freely. That he had heard nothing from the Denarian Lord didn't settle well with Albus. Although there was no proof that something was wrong, Albus sensed that danger was looming on the horizon. He had nothing to support that except his instincts, which had only ever steered him wrong a few times during the last century and a half.

"Am I a pessimistic fool, Fawkes?" Albus murmured.

Fawkes, the powerful Summer Fae, let out a warbled chirp from her perch. Albus seemed to understand her and smiled gently.

"Perhaps you are right," he said and stroked his beard. "Perhaps..."

If Albus hadn't been looking out the window at that particular moment then he wouldn't have seen the flash of light that emanated from the Quidditch Pitch. He paused in mid-sentence and a pensive frown crossed his face. What had that been? From her perch, Fawkes stretched her head and seemed to be as puzzled as Albus was.

Abruptly, a loud piercing shriek sounded from behind him. Albus whirled around as his eyes widened in alarm and strode across the room. On one of the many bookcases that lined his study lay a row of silver spindly instruments. One had begun to spin around on its axis as it wailed. The message was clear to Albus, who drew himself up and willed away the aches and pains of his tired old body.

They were under attack.

Another instrument suddenly joined the first, spinning madly and emitting large puffs of smoke. Albus could only watch with a thunderstruck as one by one the instruments on the shelf began to activate. A deep and powerful sensation fell upon his shoulders and Albus froze in terror. A deep primal fear had settled over him. Every cell in his body screamed at him in panic.

Albus was a powerful wizard, perhaps one of the best to have ever wielded a wand. Yet he was as human as anybody else and everything human within him was telling him that he should be terrified of what was coming. His mind began to spin out of control despite his best efforts and his heart raced, his veins throbbing and his head beginning to pound.

Suddenly, a burst of golden light enveloped his vision and something soft and warm nestled on his shoulder. Albus sought out his lifetime companion, who was just as terrified and afraid as he was, and together they sought out each other strength and resisted the deep and terrible urge to lie down and hide away from whatever was coming.

"Thank you, my friend," Albus whispered, opening his eyes as the world refocussed before him. Fawkes let out a tentative warble but refused to leave his shoulder.

The instruments kept wailing and whirring as Albus turned back and strode to the window. There was something out there. Albus had felt it beneath his panic attack. Something powerfully vast and so terrible ancient had come to Hogwarts. For a moment, he feared the worst and the smirking face of Harry Potter flittered into his mind, his eyes wreathed with the roaring flames of Hellfire. But Albus had encountered Meciel before and this power was not that of a Denarian.

No. It was something different.

He stared out at the grounds and suddenly knew that somethingwas staring back. He didn't even flinch when the instruments behind came to an abrupt stop and was barely aware when they fell apart and collapsed to the floor. The sky shimmered and cracked as the almost impenetrable wards of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were torn asunder with contemptuous ease.

"Fawkes," Albus said quietly. He reached into his robes and pulled out his wand, the Elder Wand, and allowed his magic to enter his tired old body. "Shall we go and see who has come to visit us?"

Fawkes warbled and together they disappeared in a flash of heat and flame.

Albus reappeared on the Quidditch Pitch and Fawkes let out a terrible screech as they came face to face with the intruder. Albus himself was quite a tall man but the robed figure before him was even taller, a thin frame cloaked in tattered rags that dripped bloody from the runes painted onto it. It had turned its head towards him as soon as Albus had appeared and the Headmaster knew without a doubt that this was the one that had been watching him. The very existence of this thing brought out feelings of terror and fear from within but Albus was prepared now and easily suppressed them.

"I do not know what you are and who you represent," Albus said and power hummed around him. A heat began to arise from the Eldar Wand in his hand, as if the wand was anticipating the fight that lay ahead. "But this is my home and I will not be so easily defeated within it."

The figure stared at Albus silently and the Headmaster watched in horror as the power of his unknown opponent began to destroy the very fabric of reality around him, time and space and colour and sound shattering around him like a broken mirror. The figure did not move but something brushed over Albus, words that were less like words and more like unbreakable laws of the universe.

Yes. You. Will.

The sky exploded and the ground shuddered and Albus Dumbledore summoned the full might of his power and brought it to bear as he began to duel for his life.

Minerva hurried forward with her wand clutched tightly between whitened knuckles. The heavens roared in defiance and lightning flashed the sky, the terrible thunderstorm that had appeared out of nowhere continuing to rage unabated. Hail and rain fell down to the ground and every drop that hit the prim Transfiguration Professor was like the lash of a whip. A vast firestorm raged throughout the forbidden forest, terrible black flame raking through trees and denizens alike, writhing and twisting as if it were alive. A hazy mist had fallen over the school grounds and it was difficult for the professor to see where she was going- but she persevered.

As she approached the twisted and collapsed remains of the Quidditch Stadium, a sound began to rise over the unbearable din of howling wind. Minerva broke out into a run and brandished her wand, removing a pile of flaming rubble and approaching the source of the noise. Minerva McGonagall could only watch helplessly as the battered and bloodied body of Albus Dumbledore twisted and flailed before her very eyes. Sulphur reeked through the air as fire exploded from his eyes and a smaller but no less dangerous firestorm wrapped itself around the venerable Headmaster of Hogwarts and enveloped him. The last thing that Minerva saw of Albus was his back arching off the ground and his mouth open and roaring with endless screams before he was seemingly consumed by the bright, unholy fire.

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts and the most powerful wizard of the age, had just been murdered before the eyes of Minerva McGonagall within the very confines of his own school.