The universe is a machine that runs itself. The chain of events perpetuated by thinking individuals constantly breaks and reforms itself, with each choice begetting more, and so on. However, there is always a plan, always an ultimate goal and a pathway to that goal. Despite what the scientists and intellectuals of every reality might say, entropy and chaos do not factor in to the universe's great design. Everything always proceeds according to the Scenario.

Always.

Something as vast as the universe, though, cannot run perfectly. There are always errors, those that slip through the vigorous system of checks and balances. Each reality exists continuously, permanently, so that even when the story concludes and the characters take their final bows, it is still happening somewhere. And so, every story may turn out a little differently in each of its infinite runs.

It is...somewhat entertaining to watch these characters react to their changing situations, unaware that they have experienced their lives' events far more often than they would think. But of course, they haven't; each character is a shade different from the other versions of themselves that populate the diverse realities of the universe, and so cannot be said to be the same.

How would Great Britain's timeline have played out, if Harry Potter had been left alone to continue his quest for the Horcruxes? A hypothetical question, but one that can be given real weight and observed quite seriously, if one has the tools. And so one does.

Here, let me show you.

Rain pounded the tent like the fist of God, though said fist of God would probably only need one punch to blow aforementioned tent and all its occupants to Heaven.

Though in this case, Harry was sure at least one of them was going to hell. At least the scenery would match his hair.

Ronald Weasley stood opposite him, glaring down with angry, sky-blue eyes. His fists were clenched and he was breathing heavily, chest shuddering with the movement. Harry knew he probably looked the same way, though likely a bit less intimidating.

Hermione Granger stood between them, brown eyes rimmed with tears. Her hands were shaking, and the wand she had used to force them apart remained upright. She looked as if about to say something, but refrained. Why, Harry wasn't sure. It couldn't be worse than the things they had just said.

"Leave the Horcrux." Harry's voice sounded cold, more so than ever before, and for a minute he wasn't completely sure it was his.

His best friend pulled the locket over his head and threw it onto the nearby chair, turning away contemptuously. He fixed Hermione with an azure stare.

"What are you doing?"

She bit her lip, struggling to meet his gaze.

"What do you mean?"

"Are you staying, or what?"

"I..." Hermione trembled, her gaze dropping. Harry felt a surge of relief, she was going to stay, she would pick him over Ron-

"I'm sorry, Harry."

Harry felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. His eyes immediately went to Ron, who was now grinning with a savage triumph, and then back to Hermione, who looked as if she would like nothing more than to disappear into the ground.

"Hermione..." Harry's voice was thick with desperation. "Why?"

Ron walked over to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Hermione seemed to sink into his embrace, leaning against him with a slight sigh.

"Well..." her voice trembled and hiccupped, "Well, you see, maybe it would be best if we all just took a breather from this Horcrux business...we're not getting anywhere, maybe we should regroup. The Order, maybe they'll know what to do...Dumbledore can't have left them completely without answers."

She looked at him pleadingly, brown eyes begging him to see reason. Ron looked slightly disgruntled, but didn't say anything. Instead, his arm tightened around Hermione's shoulders.

Suddenly, all the past months made sense. The exchanged glances, the huddled whisperings. He'd thought they had been concerned about him; instead, they'd been concerned about each other. A bitter smile came to his lips; that was a little better, if they'd spent their time snogging instead of discussing how crazy he was.

"I see how it is." The words that came from Harry's mouth chilled even him; the glacial calm that belied his anger was unnatural. Dimly, he was aware that he was changing; the reaction wasn't one he would have had a year ago. The hunt for the Horcruxes was changing him. That was the only explanation.

He didn't want to admit that perhaps the change had started even before then, when the visions of Voldemort had become more visceral, more real. He didn't want to admit that he might be turning into the thing he had dedicated his life to destroying.

"Go on then, both of you." He waved a hand. "Go on back to the Burrow; you can have a kip sucking face when Voldemort kills everyone-"

Ron's face reddened and his hand clenched, but Hermione put a hand on his arm.

"Don't, Ron...Let's just go."

He looked as if he wanted to say something, but nodded stiffly, wrapped his arm more tightly around her shoulders, and guided her out of the tent. As he left, he dug in his pocket and produced the Deluminator.

"Take it." He tossed it roughly onto the tent's table. "You'll need it, probably, the way you're carrying on."

Hermione paused at the tent's entrance, then rummaged in her bag and removed the battered, well-worn copy of fairy tales Dumbledore had given her. She placed it gently on the desk.

"Well, then..." her voice trembled. "Good luck, Harry."

Harry sat down, feeling his rear contact the chair hard. "Whatever." He didn't watch them leave, and only dimly heard the twin cracks of Apparition that signaled their final departure.

In a way, this was probably the best outcome. Alone, he would be able to move freely and without hindrance. He would be free to discover Voldemort's Horcruxes and destroy them, and should he be discovered, only he would suffer. No one else would be hurt, no one else would have to die for him.

So then, why did he feel so empty?

Dumbledore would probably have called it love, and Harry supposed he was right. The love of friends, the bond of friendship made everything easier. Despite his reservations, he had indeed found the burden easier to bear when Hermione and Ron had been at his side.

And now they were gone. Ron was right; he had no ideas. All he had was one Horcrux he could not destroy, three he could not find, and no one else to lean on.

Tears blurred his vision, and he slammed a fist into the table. How was he supposed to win now?

The rain continued to pour down ceaselessly on the tent as Harry sat inside, leafing through a pile of old books. The quest to destroy the Horcruxes continued on, if only on old paper for now.

Horcruxes are creations of darkest magic, and as such are resistant to all but the most powerful of spells, many of which are even darker in nature. Objects that have been known to destroy Horcruxes include basilisk fangs and enchanted weaponry, while the spell Fiendfyre is suspected to be of similar effectiveness in dealing with Horcruxes. Unfortunately, basilisk fangs are very rare these days and weapons with the power to dispose of such dark creations are also ancient enough that they have been lost to time. Fiendfyre, while possibly one of the more tangible options, is notoriously unpredictable and difficult to control, and there have been many recorded instances where even experienced and capable dark wizards have been consumed by casting it.

"...Great." Harry set the book down with a thump and collapsed onto the desk. "Lovely. Tell me what I already know, why don't you."

He didn't really fancy using Fiendfyre, especially since it was apparently as likely to destroy you as it was your target. As for magical weapons and basilisk fangs, he had neither. The sword of Gryffindor, the only magical weapon he knew of, was at Hogwarts where the chances of obtaining it were only slightly higher than Voldemort spontaneously combusting. The only source of basilisk fangs that he knew of was likewise at Hogwarts, with the same chance of obtaining it.

So, summing it all up: he was absolutely no closer to destroying the Horcruxes than he had been before his friends left. In fact, his chances were substantially lower; without Hermione's magical know-how and even Ron's second pair of willing, if rather unskilled, hands, he probably wouldn't be able to carry on the quest.

His stomach growled, and he groaned. That was probably the source of his doubts; he was better used to hunger than Ron, but there was a point where that didn't mean anything, and he was there. He needed to get something to eat, maybe then he'd be able to sort this mess out.

"Stupefy!"

The red bolt of light soared from his outstretched wand and hit the doe just as it made to bound off. Its eyes rolled up in its head and it collapsed to the ground in a heap.

Harry lowered his wand and regarded the fallen animal somewhat skeptically. He hadn't actually been sure that the spell would work, but apparently it had. Now all he had to do was kill the animal, gut it, clean it, and then somehow make it edible. A monumental task, compounded by the fact that he knew absolutely nothing about how to go about accomplishing it.

I guess I should kill it first. If it wakes up there'll be a problem.

Hesitantly, Harry knelt down by the body, gazing at the deer's head. He raised his wand.

"Diffindo."

A tear appeared in the deer's throat, and blood gushed out, darkening the grass around it. The deer twitched and convulsed, legs thrashing around in desperate, instinctive motion, before finally going still.

Harry sighed and considered the body. He lifted his wand again and muttered, "Wingardium Leviosa!"

The deer rose into the air, and Harry grunted as his arm suddenly felt heavy. Quickly, he began walking in the direction of the tent, wand out, with the deer floating behind him. If anyone saw him there would be many awkward questions to be answered.

Fortunately, no one did. The trip back to the tent was uneventful, and once within the defensive charms that ringed it he felt much safer.

He stashed the deer in one corner, absently murmuring a charm that would slow down decay and prevent it from stinking up the tent. It looked so out of place among the desks and books that littered the leather cave.

Once again, he plopped down on a chair and opened another book, one of the thickest so far. Hermione had left quite a few, possibly to assuage her conscience so that he wouldn't be completely alone. So far, though, they hadn't helped.

Another look through Magicks Most Evile revealed nothing save a depraved and ingeniously twisted usage of toadstools, which Harry quickly decided was useless and disgusting at that. He tossed the book aside.

One more book lay in the pile, and with a halfhearted hand Harry pulled it over, staring blankly at the cover. It was a small book compared to the dusty monsters Hermione had left him; only about two hundred pages, as opposed to the odd-thousand page tomes that seemed to be the norm.

It was entitled Familiars: Separating the Myth from the Magic. Harry opened the book, and read, increasingly fascinated:

The modern-day wizard knows little of familiars, believing them superstitious nonsense conjured by the fearful peasants of the medieval world as a way to incriminate 'warlocks' and 'witches'. Nowadays, the word has come to mean a magical creature that keeps a wizard company, such as Emeric the Evil's Long-Toothed Viper or Frederick the Forgetful's Fair-Furred Fox.

However, the stories of magical constructs being summoned by enterprising wizards have more truth to them than many would think. It was a common practice, in medieval times, for wizards to infuse specially prepared ingredients with their magic to create a tangible creature that would help them with their tasks. Records indicate that while many wizards restrained themselves to summoning small dolls and puppets to assist them in rituals, more reckless or powerful wizards accomplished greater feats. Torvald the Terrible was said to have summoned up a massive golem made of pure rock and given it the gift of his magically-strengthened blood, which allowed the construct to shrug off even the most powerful spells of destruction. Equally impressive was Chiron the Courageous, who, through the aid of Transfiguration and a potent serum, changed an ordinary horse into the white-winged Pegasus of legend, which allowed him to smite his foes from the skies...

Harry closed the book and set it aside. A familiar, as described by this book, was a truly impressive creature. Having one would make it very difficult for the Death Eaters or their puppet Ministry to subdue or kill him, and it might even prove of use against Voldemort himself. The described rock golem would be able to last at least a few minutes against even the darkest spells, while a Pegasus would keep out of Voldemort's reach and give him more time to formulate attack plans.

Still, this plan had flaws. The book did not mention how to create familiars, being more focused on debunking the myths that had sprung around them than detailing a step-by-step method for constructing them. Even if Harry could somehow summon a familiar, chances were that it still wouldn't solve the problem of how to find and destroy Horcruxes. In fact, a familiar like the rock golem or the Pegasus would make it easier for the Death Eaters and the Ministry to track him on account of being so distinct.

It would be nice to have one, though... he thought, hazily. His head slipped, and fell down onto the book. His conscience soon followed.

He finds himself in a place he has never seen before, observing people he has never met. He is not unfamiliar with this situation; the Pensieve and his connection to Voldemort have made sure of that. It is always jarring to be pulled out of one's body, though, and the lack of control always bothers him.

He is standing in the courtyard of a rather ornate building, Japanese in nature, watching as a life-or-death struggle unfolds before him.

One of the combatants is a tall, lithely-muscled man who moves like a tiger. Each movement carries a feline grace, and the power of his blows is evident as he pushes his opponent back. His blue bodysuit and similarly-colored hair blend into the darkness as the crimson spear in his hands lashes out, seeking holes that would open for a final blow.

The other is...a woman. Petite and slim, almost tiny compared to the warrior she battles, she is a very un-soldierly figure. Her blond hair is done neatly up in a bun, and her green eyes are set into an impossibly young face. However, the metal gauntlets and armored plates of her ornate dress are clearly meant for battle, and the elegance of her movements puts the lie to her delicate appearance. She appears to be unarmed, but on closer inspection her hands grip the air like the handle of a sword, and Harry decides her weapon must be invisible.

The two exchange blows again and again, and then the blue-haired man leaps back. He says something which Harry does not hear, and the woman replies. Whatever she says makes the man smile, and he drops into a low stance, bringing the crimson spear into position to strike. In response, the woman simply brings her weapon up to guard.

The man charges, stabbing his spear towards the woman's feet. She makes as if to block it, but hesitates. Somehow, the spear reverses mid-flight and seeks out her chest, point lurching forwards.

There is a splash of blood as the weapon connects, and the woman gasps. The spear is protruding from her back, whetted with crimson. The man frowns and pulls his weapon free. His opponent drops to her knees and gasps something out, to which the man's frown deepens. He shrugs, his lips moving, and then leaps over a nearby wall, disappearing from sight. The woman moves as if to pursue, then stops, clutching her chest.

Harry notices a third figure, a boy dressed in a blood-stained T-shirt and ripped jeans. His hair is as red as Ron's, and gold eyes stare out in shock at the injured woman. He has not moved since the fight begun, and only now takes a step forward, towards the crouching girl.

The girl stands up, with no trace of injury, and Harry frowns. She most definitely suffered a wound from the spear, maybe even a fatal one, and yet she is fine. Magic has to be involved, for her to recover so quickly. He didn't know of a spell that could do that, but there probably was one. The girl didn't show signs of being a wizard; she didn't even carry a wand, but magic wasn't limited to wand-wizardry, according to Hermione.

The boy takes another hesitant step towards the girl, then shrinks back in fear. Understandable, Harry thinks. The girl and the man she fought are most definitely not average humans.

He speaks to her. The words are lost to Harry, but it's clear he's asking her what she is. The woman cocks her head, puzzled, and responds. Somehow, Harry is sure she's telling him he already knows. Her answer seems to confuse the boy even more, and he looks puzzled, asking her another question; no doubt repeating her words. This pattern continues, yet the girl does not seem to get impatient with the redhead, merely answering his questions as they come forth. Unfortunately, the redhead looks more and more confused as time passes; his face blushes furiously, and Harry feels a smile curve his lips.

Then, as if a previously-disconnected audio wire has been hooked up, sound bursts into the scene, just in time for Harry to hear the redhead say, "That's wrong. My name isn't Master."

The girl cocks her head, her lips curving into a gentle smile, and says, "Then I shall call you Shirou. Yes, I like the sound of that better." The boy's face turns even more crimson.

Harry laughs, confident that neither of them can hear him. The boy reminds him of Ginny, not so much because of a physical resemblance than because of the reticence and awkwardness in his manner, so similar to how a younger Ginny acted around him, back in second year.

He doesn't blame Shirou for it. The girl he's talking to is beautiful, in every sense of the word, but also gentle and elegant. Hearing those words from such a person would make anyone blush; Harry knows that's how he reacted to Cho Chang whenever they met. Granted, Cho wasn't nearly as pretty as this girl, but...

The boy says something, but cuts himself off and flinches, staring at his left as if it burns. A red tattoo is emblazoned there, glowing crimson. It appears to be a stylized version of a sword, though the design is vague enough that any interpretation appears possible. Shirou mutters something, presumably along the lines of "What the hell is this?" and the girl replies.

"That is called a Command Spell, Shirou. It is the three claims on a Servant's obedience, and the life of a Master. Please do not use it thoughtlessly." Her face is stern again, with no trace of the gentle warmth previously present.

Shirou starts to ask something, but the scene is abruptly silent again, and Harry wonders if whatever is transmitting this vision is in good condition; it's acting like a half-broken television set.

The girl's posture stiffens, as if something is wrong. She turns and says something to Shirou, focusing her attention on the wall where the blue-haired man disappeared. Shirou responds with a fervent denial, shaking his head. The girl takes this in stride, staring intently at the wall. She replies again, and this time Shirou seems taken aback, mouth open in surprise.

Harry shakes his head. There was a point where surprises ceased to matter and you took them in stride. By now, Shirou should have reached that point. Apparently not.

Then the girl does something worthy of surprise: she leaps forward lightly and bounds over the wall, disappearing behind it. Shirou stands there, mouth open, before apparently realizing what just happened and rushing to the gate.

Harry moves to follow, but the scene begins to darken before his eyes. The ornate building and its courtyard fade away, and dimly he realizes he is waking up...

The instant he returned to the waking world, Harry knew something was wrong.

Light filtered through even the closed flaps of the tent, signaling the start of a new day, possibly even noon. He didn't know how long he'd slept, but it felt like quite a while. That didn't change his perceptions.

The forest he was currently situated in was one of life. At any given time of day there would always be plants rustling, birds chirping, foxes barking. Right now, there was none of that; only deathly quiet.

He fumbled quickly for his wand, sighing with relief when his hand touched the worn wooden handle. Standing up, he adjusted his glasses and stepped carefully towards the tent entrance.

"You sure he's here? I don't see anything."

"He's in the area, you bloody idiot. You saw the map too."

Harry tensed, fingers tightening on his wand. If they somehow managed to bypass the defensive spells, he'd try to Stun them and hope he could get away before they recovered. Judging by the voices, there were at least two of them; maybe even more.

"He's probably got up some defensive spells; there's no way to pinpoint him then." With a chill, Harry recognized the voice as belonging to Augustus Rookwood. The Death Eater sounded bored, even as he muttered something under his breath. "Flagro."

Harry recognized the word as a spell, but didn't understand what was happening until the unmistakable crackle of burning grass reached his ears. He looked around; even through the tent tongues of orange fire were still visible.

"There." Rookwood sounded satisfied. "He'll have to make a run for it if he's here. Hear that, Potter?" He raised his voice, an audible sneer present in his words. "Come on out, boy! You've got nowhere to hide!"

Smoke was beginning to waft into the tent, and Harry's eyes burned. He glanced around desperately, clenching his wand. The fire would soon begin to eat away at the tent, and he would have to make a run for it anyway.

He made his decision. The tent flap rustled as he pushed it open and walked out into the open air. Flames licked the area around him, and not ten feet away stood Rookwood and his partner, a short, nervously-twitching man with yellowed teeth and straggly blonde hair. They made no sign of recognition even though he was directly in their sight line, so the spells must still be working. Harry dimly remembered Hermione lecturing him on magic and its limitations ("Magic's mostly to provide wizards and witches with convenient ways to accomplish tasks; Incendio's just a regular blast of fire and Aguamenti is plain water. Unless the spell specifies it, magic-summoned fire will behave just like regular fire, so don't expect it to neutralize charms just because it's there. Have you two ever read the textbooks?"), so the fire wouldn't damage the charms...just him. There was no help for it.

He took one step forward, just within the boundaries of the charms and pointed his wand at Rookwood.

"Stupefy."

The bolt of red light flashed from his wand and arrowed outwards, striking the Death Eater in the stomach. He toppled to the ground, and as his partner switched around in alarm, Harry put another Stunning Spell into the man's chest.

Before the man's body had hit the ground, he had already turned and with a shout of "Aguamenti!" had sprayed water over the flames threatening to burn his tent. As they withered and died, a gesture of his wand caused the tent to quickly compress into a cloth square slightly larger than his hand. He picked it up and threw it into a jacket pocket.

Then, Harry started to run.

A green streak caught Harry's eye, and in desperation he twisted aside, barely avoiding the spell. He turned and pointed his wand back, shouting "Stupefy!" Red light blasted from his wand, flying off, and he heard a grunt and the thump of a falling body.

Another spell, this time a Stunner, nearly struck his arm, and he cursed as he missed a step, almost tripping. He now regretted not killing Rookwood and his partner when he had the chance, but there was nothing to be done about that.

Branches slapped at his face as he rushed heedlessly forward, legs pumping and arms waving. As far as he could tell, there were ten men pursuing him. Aside from Rookwood, he hadn't recognized any of them, though some were wearing the robes of Aurorers. That didn't change a thing.

He was getting tired; he'd already been running for about half an hour and yet for some reason they were still unable to catch him.

"Get back here, Potter!" Rookwood's harsh voice cut through the air. "We'll make it quick if you give up now!"

Liar, Harry thought, but saved his breath, pushing past another branch.

"Where are you trying to go, eh? There's nothing here!"

He'd worry about that later, after he'd lost them. Harry turned and shouted, "Stupefy!" Once again his wand spat red light, and once again in the lucky streak that had been his since he was born, another Death Eater cried out and abruptly ended his pursuit.

Great. Now there were only nine of them. Nine well-trained, ruthless, and methodically violent wizards who were bent on capturing him and dragging him before the thing who'd tried to kill him seven times, by now.

Suddenly, abruptly, the forest ended, and Harry almost stopped before he realized that action would greatly shorten his life-span. Still, as he resumed his dead-on sprint, he couldn't help but marvel at the sight that had appeared before him.

The ruins of what obviously had been a temple sat serenely, apparently unaware and uncaring that it had displaced a great deal of vegetation. Though trees grew around and about, there was an almost perfect circle of empty area that surrounded the temple, most likely due to magic. The temple itself was built with marble pillars and columns, though fallen and dusty with age, that set it out as a Roman-style building, even though it was very unlikely the Romans had gotten this far.

All of this went through Harry's head as he ducked behind a fallen pillar, wand at the ready. With cover, he might be able to whittle down his attackers, but Stunning them would only do so much, and if the fight dragged on long enough they might recover, and he'd be back to running again.

Kill them.

All of a sudden it seemed so easy to. He'd already hit them with Stunning Spells; the Killing Curse behaved much the same way, and he was confident enough in his aim. Even if he only took down one, that would be one less than before and it would make the others wary, perhaps enough to let him escape.

And yet...there was something about this impulse that made him uneasy. Perhaps it was simply that he'd never thought about it until now. More likely it was because the tiny voice in the back of his head telling him to do this sounded uncomfortably like Voldemort's hissing, serpentine tone.

Harry shook his head. He would not kill them, not yet. Not until he had figured out how to play this. This might cost him his life, but then again, maybe not, and he might not be pleased with how this ended if he did use the Killing Curse.

Leaves rustled, and Harry instinctively moved to the side as a red bolt flashed past. They weren't using Killing Curses; Voldemort must still want him alive.

"Take it like a man, Potter!" The high, cracking voice wasn't familiar to Harry, but the words were. "You're not six years old, are you? Come on, then! If you're the 'Chosen One', why don't you come out and fight us?"

"Yeah, wonder why?" Harry muttered to himself sarcastically. He could hear them circling around him, trying to pinpoint his position as they slowly tightened their noose.

He was running out of options.

Suddenly, something jarred his teeth. An audible hum thrummed through his body, making his hair stand up on end. His pulse throbbed as the strange energy washed into his blood. He winced instinctively, eyes closing for a split second.

The sensation felt strange; even as his blood boiled and his stomach churned, Harry also felt reinvigorated. It was as if the energy was replenishing his diminished physical reserves even as it made him extremely uncomfortable.

Another red jet streaked past, and Harry winced. Instinctively, he turned and shouted, "Stupefy!" Red power coalesced from his wand and blasted away in the general direction of the first shot.

The wizard cast about for options, then spotted the cavernous opening of the temple yawning just a few yards away, more inviting than ominous now. Immediately, reasons for not seeking solace there shot through his head; it was unsecured and unknown to him, which meant enemies might be lurking within and that escape from such enemies would be hampered by his lack of knowledge of the layout.

And yet, the strange fire in his blood demanded that he go in there. In fact, one foot was already sliding forward, heedless of his hesitation. Harry risked another look back into the foliage, then hissed with vexation and followed his instincts.

"I'm screwed." He lamented, even as he disappeared into the temple's opening.

The temple was actually underground, Harry realized, as the floor turned into stairs that sloped steadily downwards. Darkness washed over him, and he almost tripped.

"Lumos." He muttered. Blue-white light shone gently from the tip of his wand. The beam revealed marble stairs, not surprisingly, and he kept moving, stepping cautiously down. When the stairs ended, he leaped off and turned around, expecting to see Death Eaters hurrying down after him. He didn't, but that did nothing to ease his mind. The temple might have other entrances, in which case he had to hurry.

The dusty marble confines of the temple trapped and magnified the sounds of his shoes thudding against the floor. He winced; the noise was far too loud. He pointed his wand at his shoes.

"Diminuendo." Harry stomped one foot on the floor, which made no sound. A smile curved his mouth up; listening to Hermione had its selling points then. The smile disappeared.

The marble corridor opened up into a larger chamber, which the light from his wand couldn't fully illuminate. He frowned.

"Lumos Amplios."

Blue-white light flashed, forcing him to blink, and when he opened his eyes again the tiny beam at his wandtip had become a glowing orb the size of his fist, illuminating the room quite handily.

As if in response, the ground glowed as well, dark red light flaring up to clash with the blue colors of Harry's wand. Slowly, the light began to curve around him until it had inscribed a complete circle with him in the center.

Runes, long and intricate, burned into existence within the circle. They flickered and changed, crossing the spectrum and back, until a pause stopped the whirling kaleidoscope of colors. Then, as if a mind had been made up, the runes turned a bright, emerald green: matching the light of the Killing Curse...or Harry's own eyes.

"Huh..." Harry muttered, transfixed. He stepped forward, peering down at the glowing symbols. Slowly, a figure took form, shimmering blue and gold above the runic flame. As the figure solidified, he glimpsed a long, flowing blue dress and blonde hair hanging to each side of the figure's head.

"Ha! There he is!" Footsteps clattered into the chamber, and Harry spun in a panic, wand at the ready. The various lights present in the chamber illuminated the heavy, thick-set face of Rookwood and the various visages of his companions.

"Got him!" one Death Eater howled victoriously, and a blast of red light shot out from his wand. Time seemed to slow; Harry threw himself to the side, but even as his body was beginning to move, the bolt took him in the chest and with a vicious jolt he was thrown to the floor.

Damnit...

"Good work, Reames." Rookwood grunted, moving forward. "Right, let's grab him and get his carcass out of this bloody place."

Reames moved forward to grab Harry's prone body, but stopped as an armored foot clashed against the floor. The figure moved swiftly, stepping between the Death Eater and his target. One gauntleted hand thrust out to bar the man's way.

"Hold." Emerald eyes the same color as that of the prone boy's stared out mercilessly from a porcelain face, halting Reames in his tracks. The other Death Eaters tensed, wands coming up in preparation for a fight.

Rookwood uttered an oath and raised his wand. In return the woman held out her other hand. Wind began to blow inside the confines of the chamber, and the figure pointed that gauntleted hand at Rookwood's chest.

"You will tell me what is occurring here." She demanded. "Why was I summoned to this place, and who summoned me?"

Rookwood met her stare unflinchingly. "Ministry of Magic!" He barked. "This boy's a wanted murderer, so back off if you know what's good for you!"

The woman shook her head, long blonde bangs swinging with the motion. "I refuse. Which of you summoned me? I will make your death swift if you confess now." Her gaze bored into his eyes, steady and solid.

The Death Eater felt a smirk curl his lips. What luck! He could tell her, with absolute truth, that Potter had summoned her, watch her kill the boy, and bring the body to the Dark Lord.

"He did." He growled triumphantly, gesturing at Harry's prone body. "Bleeder's a vicious criminal with no respect for the law."

The woman arched a delicate eyebrow, and Rookwood noticed that on top of her dress, she was wearing a breastplate engraved with blue markings. Her skirt was likewise armored with thick plates of metal that kept the flowing fabric down below her knees. Her clothing wasn't the only thing he noticed; she stood straight-backed and proud, feet planted firmly on the marble floor of the temple. The wind her right palm was generating began to blow a little more fiercely, causing her dress to flap in the strengthening breeze. She turned to look at the silent boy – rumpled and shabby, without a weapon or indeed anything remotely capable of manipulating magic at hand – and the band of vicious, unscrupulous men brandishing wooden sticks apparently capable of numerous spells and curses.

"I do not believe you."

Rookwood's smirk fell. It looked as if he was going to have to work for his glory, instead of simply collecting the body. Still, the woman was wearing metal armor. How hard could she be to kill?

"I don't need you to." He snapped. "Avada Kevadra!"

The Killing Curse blasted forth from his wand, green light burning through the air. The other Death Eaters, relieved that something was actually happening now, joined in, firing more Killing Curses at the irritating Muggle standing in their way. One had the presence of mind to direct his spell at Potter's unconscious body, hoping to somehow claim the credit for the troublesome boy's death.

The armored woman's reaction was not what Rookwood expected. She did not attempt to dodge any of the spells, but deliberately stepped into the path of the curse meant for Potter. Green light collided with polished metal plate and accomplished absolutely nothing, dissipating instantaneously. The remaining spells that managed to hit her suffered the same fate.

"You have struck the first blow, blackhearts. I shall strike the last." With that chilling declaration, the armored woman suddenly leapt forward, skirts billowing out behind. She crossed the distance in a single bound and landed with the poise of a cat, lashing out with the wind in her right hand. It took Reames in the throat and opened up a long gash that spewed blood. As he collapsed, frantically clawing at the wound, his killer turned, the whispering of her wind-weapon rising to the shout of a full gale. One armored foot kicked a Death Eater's legs out from underneath him and slammed down into his skull during his fall, actually cracking the bone open and letting loose a torrent of blood and cranial fluids. Another Death Eater died before the messy mixture could splatter the marble floor, slashed open by a flick of an armored wrist. The remaining wizards scattered, wands flashing and desperate incantations bursting from lips. Flashes of every light imaginable alternated with cracks and whines, but no matter what spells were tried, the woman weathered them without flinching. One wizard tried the Imperius Curse, but she simply shook her head as if a fly was buzzing by her ear and struck the man's head from his shoulder.

"Keep on her!" Rookwood ordered, changing tactics. With a flick of his wand, a massive snake emerged from its tip, launching itself at the blonde warrior. He followed it with a stream of conjured boulders, making each rock heavier and larger than the last, hurling them all towards the troublesome woman.

She daintily side-stepped the flying snake, twisting so that her wind – sword? - split the snake into two writhing halves. Without missing a beat she pivoted, swinging her blade of wind out in a horizontal sweep that split the first boulder in much the same way. Another flurry of blows demolished each successive boulder until chunks of grave littered the bloodstained floor.

Rookwood paused for a split-second, attempting to regain his strength, and in that second the warrior leapt at him and past him. He tried to turn, to follow her path, but felt a stinging pain in his midsection, and looked down to see blood flowing out from a rent in his robes. Not understanding, he clutched at the wound, much as Reames had done, trying to close it, to somehow fix it.

With a disgustingly liquid slurping noise, the wound opened wider, and long ropes of gray matter began to spill from the wound. The Death Eater had one moment of horrified comprehension before his body slumped to its knees.

The last thing he saw before darkness shrouded his eyes was the last of the Death Eaters screaming in agony as an invisible blade slashed through an area just below his waist, then flicked upward to impale him through the chin.