Privet Drive burned…
…The Dark Lord laughed...
…Death Eaters cheered...
…the forces of Light cowered…
…and Harry Potter, like the hope he represented, was dying a slow, painful death.
Albus Dumbledore, looking older than anyone had ever seen him, could only watch impotently as the last Potter died on the grass, the boy’s heart torn from his chest by a vicious curse. He turned his tired gaze to the cackling Dark Lord. “How…how did you do this?”
A smirk crossed Riddle’s nearly non-existent lips. “Really Albus, you still haven’t figured it out? Well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter anymore, so I’ll indulge your curiosity…just this once. The wards were based on the sacrifice of the boy’s mother, and powered by the blood connection between Potter and his Aunt. Blood I have shared since that little ‘Welcome Back’ party my Inner Circle held for me a little over a year ago. I had delayed attacking the boy until I could learn the full extent of the protection you gifted him with, but when young Severus informed me of the meager protection you put in place…well, it was just too good an opportunity to pass up on.”
Beneath the pain, Harry was more than a little peeved off. ‘For Merlin’s sake, why is it taking so damn long for me to die!?’ As his life faded, he could actually feel the wards his magic was powering fail as well. The connection to his Aunt was gone, and the connection to his mother was flowing away as fast as his blood was leaving his body.
Harry had no way of knowing that the connection he held with Lily Potter was not a true bond between mother and child. That his own magical ability was gifted to him, not from his birth parents, but by his adopted parents. He had no way of knowing that the Potter’s loving attempt to bring him into their magical world, coupled with Voldemort’s hateful attempt to force him out of it, had sealed away the centuries, no, millennia of memories he held dear.
Wait…
Harry blinked.
Okay, now he knows.
The Lords and Warriors, light and dark alike, turned as one as the Boy-Who-Wasn’t-Going-to-be-Alive-Much-Longer groaned and, with extreme effort, pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He seemed to consider his chances of getting back on his feet, but ultimately decided that he much preferred sitting down. Any brief flicker of hope that the Order of the Phoenix had of Harry’s recovery faded as they saw the still-gaping wound where his heart used to be.
Voldemort frowned imperiously. “What manner of sorcery is this?” He was honestly curious; if he could figure out how to duplicate the magic, it would reduce the already slim possibility that he would need to transfer to another body later in ‘life’.
“No sorcery, Tom; you got me…got me good. It’s just t-taking a while for me to die…on account…of you only getting one…of my hearts.”
“What are you babbling about, boy?”
Harry chuckled briefly before shuddering from the pain the laughter brought him. “I just…wanted to leave you…with two things; the bird…” He flipped the Dark Lord the bird with his left hand. “…and the…the knowledge that, when I get my new b-body, I’m gonna…kick your bony AAAAasSSssss…” The sixteen-year-old’s arm, the one propping him up, gave out, and he collapsed to the ground. Moments later, he was dead.
Many of the Order, Dumbledore included, seem to lose all of their energy, and the Dark Lord sneered at their weakness. “Giving up so soon? I was hoping you would put up at least a token battle before I-”
“Master! Potter!”
If Harry were still Harry, he no doubt would have been aggravated by being the center of attention once again. On the other hand, the man now lying in Harry’s place didn’t seem overly concerned with the stupefied stares he was getting. Stretching languidly, the man stood sleepily before grimacing at the grossly ill-fitting clothing he was wearing. After a moment of thought, he reached into his pocket and pulled out eleven inches of feather-stuffed wood. “Now let’s see if I remember; I take this doo-hicky, wave it like so and…ah, there we go!” The twenty-something year-old grinned proudly at his new threads; polished leather shoes, neatly pressed black pants and long-sleeved shirt, and a dark green tie and coat. “Wands; handy little buggers, but they’re no sonic-screwdrivers.”
“What in Morgana’s name is going on here, Potter?”
‘Harry’ looked up, noticing the pale snake-like figure and his legions for the first time. “Oh, hello. Do I know you?”
Voldemort eyed him craftily. “Don’t you remember me, child?”
“…Montymort?” The green-eyed man frowned. “No, that’s not quite right. The Riddler? Tomson? Shake-and-Bake?”
Stroking one inhumanly long, pale finger across his chin, Voldemort studied the boy before turning to the Order. He couldn’t help noticing their renewed vigor, the light of suicidal hope in their eyes…the Headmaster moving closer to the Boy-Who-was-Reborn. “Every time we meet, we have that much more in common. I look forward to our next meeting.” A sharp motion with his wandless hand, and the street was emptied of Death Eaters.
“…What a nice fellow.” Turning to the assembled light wizards and witches, ‘Harry’ reached into his pocket, pulled out a small paper bag, and held it out to the cautious Headmaster. “Jelly Baby?”
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(Posted Tue, 31 May 2005 18:31)
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