Chapter Text
Lily Potter stood there and looked at the dead body of her only son. The tears threatened again to spill down her cheeks and blur her sight, but she kept them back for the time being.
He looked so young and innocent as he lay there.
The tears got their will and started to fall.
God, he’d been such an idiot. How could he? Hadn’t he ever thought of her, what he was doing to her?
No, he probably hadn’t. And look where it got him- dead by the age of twenty-one.
Her crying intensified and she had to catch hold of one of the bars of his cell.
Had it been her fault? She had loved him so much, she and James, they both had. His birth had been difficult; apparently her pelvic structure was somewhat odd and made giving birth to children a dangerous matter, so the Healers had warned her against risking it again for a second child. She had been a bit disappointed, but at least she had had her Harry, and it was enough for her. And for James, too.
Apparently, they’d spoilt him rotten.
Their friends all told them they shouldn’t blame themselves for what their son had become, but they did nonetheless.
If they’d been stricter, if they’d told him ‘no’ sometimes…
She should have seen it coming. She was his mother, she really should have.
He always had had quite a temper. When he was furious, he’d destroy everything that crossed his path. And he was powerful. He’d proved that before he could even walk and talk. In a fit of temper, he’d levitate everything within a four foot radius when he was still a toddler. Later, he broke everything in his proximity in a mindless rush of accidental magic.
By the time he got to Hogwarts, he was used to getting everything he wanted. If he didn’t, he’d scream and rant until he got his way.
Now, in hindsight, Lily could see that.
But back then, she couldn’t. Or didn’t want to. Sometimes she had felt a little pang of worry when she’d given in to his tantrums once more, but when she tried to talk to James about it, he just laughed it off and told her not to worry, that was just the way children were, wasn’t it?
And, of course, Harry could be so incredibly SWEET. When he was happy and smiled it was just like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. It made people WANT to make him happy, just so they could see that sweet smile again. And she, as his mother, was no exception. Neither was James.
When he returned from school for the summer holidays, he used to complain about the children who were slower than he was, which was pretty much everyone. He really did resemble his father in many ways, and not all of them were favourable.
She had tried to talk to him, get him to show a bit of understanding for the other children, but he’d just snort contemptuously and change the topic.
And she had let it slide. Once again.
What had really woken her up to the true state of affairs was when he started talking about “Mudbloods” when he was fifteen, and in his fourth year. That had gotten even James’ attention, especially since Harry had been referring to HER in that way, and for the first and only time in his life, Harry had found himself on the wrong end of his parents’ tempers. What followed had been one spectacularly huge row, during which he’d said a lot of very nasty things, mainly about Lily, but some about his father, too, and he’d shown that he’d somehow come to be under the influence of the hard-core right-wing Wizard-traditionalists.
The next day, he’d been gone.
They searched everywhere, but it was four months later that they discovered, to their horror (and through the paper!), that he’d run to Tom Riddle, or ‘Lord Voldemort’ as he called himself, and joined the ranks of the Death Eaters.
They’d not met him in person for the following six years.
Voldemort had been making trouble for the last thirty-and-some years, but it was a kind of cold war. He was secretly gaining more and more power and followers. There were a few squabbles with the Aurors now and then, but nothing anyone really could pin on him.
Everyone with half a brain (in Lily’s opinion- unfortunately, that seemed to be about one percent of the population) could see that all that madman wanted was power, and lots of it. Unfortunately, he had a very winning and charming personality and managed to persuade people time and again that he just wanted the best for the Wizarding World. Most people just looked the other way and told themselves that everything would work out fine.
Albus Dumbledore was the only one who opposed him openly, and he had a hard time of it. Muggles weren’t regarded too fondly in general in the Wizarding World of the twenty-first century and the tolerance for Muggle-born witches and wizards was crumbling.
Even six years ago, Voldemort had slowly become more aggressive and there had been an increase in strange “accidents” resulting in the deaths of, conveniently, critics of Voldemort’s propaganda.
It hadn’t been until the beginning of this year that the shit had hit the fan. But when it finally did, it did so spectacularly.
The Death Eaters wreaked terror and havoc over Wizarding Britain. People died, and got tortured; fear and panic reigned. Hogwarts and Dumbledore seemed to be the last bastions of sanity in a world gone mad. Children were kidnapped from the doorstep, men and women were killed seemingly randomly on the streets in broad daylight. The Aurors were always too late, underpaid and understaffed as they were. The Ministry tried to deny it all.
And in the middle of it all was her son, performing only the gods knew what horrors. She didn’t want to know.
He was still her son. She still loved him.
And then, three months of chaos later, the Death Eaters tried to storm Hogwarts. They failed. For the first time since the all-out war started, they failed. There were deaths on each side, but those at Hogwarts managed to force them to retreat.
They left her son lying on the battlefield. Their other wounded they had taken with them, but Harry they left behind, still alive.
She had briefly wondered about it, but not overmuch. She had been too anxious to speak to her son again.
At least until she learned WHY he’d been left behind. Mad-Eye Moody had provided the information, since her son only sneered and variously hissed insults at her or ignored her in favour of sulking in his cell.
Apparently, Moody had been duelling with one of the high-ranking Death Eaters when Harry got thrown between them by a spell from somewhere else. Just then, the Death Eater fired a spell at Moody and Harry got hit with it accidentally. It turned out to be a Dark Draining Curse, kind of a slow Avada Kedavra. There was no countercurse for it. They had left Harry behind because he was already dead, it was just a matter of time.
So, Lily sat with him these last two hours, while he wasted away in front of her eyes. He knew what was happening to him, but he showed no remorse. He refused to make up with her or with James. He hadn’t grown up one bit since he ran away. He was still spoilt, still sulking like a child and refusing to take responsibility for anything right until the minute he died.
Lily thought he probably hadn’t believed he really would die. He’d probably thought that if he sulked enough at the injustice of it all, Death would back off and he’d get whatever he wanted, just like he always had.
Death wasn’t impressed.
Lily choked back an hysterical little laugh at her own thoughts. He was dead, and he’d been a brat and nasty to her, but she still loved him. He was still her stupid little boy and she just wished she could see that sweet smile once again. But he was dead.
She let her eyes linger on the still form on the small bed in the cell.
His dark brown hair looked truly black in the dim light and the soft red highlights in it were invisible. A few freckles stood out in stark contrast on his pale skin and his eyes, sky-blue like James’, were closed forever.
She choked back another sob and felt a gentle hand settle on her shoulder. Startled, she jumped and turned, only to look into James’ sorrowful and compassionate eyes. She burst into a new fit of tears and buried her head on his shoulder, seeking the comfort of his strong arms.
***
A few minutes later she got a grip on herself again and followed James to the table at the other end of the big dungeon room, where Dumbledore was waiting. The old man’s expression was grave. Despite today’s victory, they were still on the losing side and they all knew it.
Without much preamble, Dumbledore started right in. Their situation was bad. Voldemort was winning, and they couldn’t let that happen. He most certainly wouldn’t be content with Wizarding Britain, or all of Britain at that. They had to do something.
So much they all knew.
Then Dumbledore smiled a bit and produced an ancient roll of parchment. Gasps could be heard around the table. Could it be…?
Dumbledore nodded. Yes, it was. He’d really succeeded in laying his hands on the formula for the “Ritual of Salvation”. It was an ancient myth that there was a ritual which would, in a time of great need, bring the caster a weapon to defeat the Dark. They’d been speculating about the ritual for months, trying to think what kind of weapon it could be and if they would be able to cast it, if their cause was strong enough…
Dumbledore hadn’t let on much, as usual, but they knew him well enough to suspect he probably was hot on a trail to get to the text. And, apparently, he had.
The old blue eyes were twinkling rather mischievously as he announced that they were ready to perform it, thanks to the translation courtesy of Miss Granger. The young brown haired woman inclined her head at the praise, and Lily considered her for a moment.
She didn’t know much about Hermione Granger apart from the fact that she, too, was Muggle-born and was considered a genius. Why she had been in Gryffindor rather than in Ravenclaw, Lily couldn’t fathom, but it was true that she was very intelligent. She seemed a bit too dry and book-wormy for Lily’s tastes, combined with a strict sense of duty and a firm belief in authority that gave her a rather startling resemblance to Professor McGonagall. And indeed, McGonagall seemed to have assumed the role of a mentor for her.
There was a crash from the fireplace, and the youngest son of Molly and Arthur Weasley stumbled out. He wore his Auror robes and was covered in soot.
“’Scuse me for being late…” He smiled a bit sheepishly while trying to brush himself off. His gaze flicked to the lifeless form on the bed in the cell and then to Lily and James. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but obviously thought better of it and snapped his mouth shut as he moved over to take a seat at the table.
That was as well, because if he’d said anything about her son and about how glad he was that he was dead, Lily would have had to hex him. Lily knew that he and her son hadn’t gotten along at all and the fact that they had had to share a House and a common room hadn’t particularly helped. And since Ronald Weasley wasn’t exactly famous for his displays of tact, it was certainly better if he didn’t say anything at all.
They started to discuss the ritual in earnest and what they would need to do in order to perform it.
~ +++ ~
The wind blew cold over the battle field, a few snow flakes drifting along in its wake.
Distractedly, Harry watched as the snow flakes settled on the hard frozen ground before looking numbly back at the scenery before him.
Behind him Voldemort’s corpse lay on the ground. He had finally killed him. After six long, dreadful years of raging war, he had finally killed the bastard who ruined his life.
Too late. Too late for so many of his friends.
A few feet away Hermione knelt on the ground, heedless of the thin covering of snow slowly soaking into her robes, holding Ron’s lifeless body cradled in her arms, crying softly. Ron’s blue eyes stared sightlessly at the low, light grey sky above them.
Harry’s eyes drifted to the body of Draco Malfoy lying close to them on the ground, and the gaping hole in his chest, a slowly spreading pool of blood swallowing the last remains of white snow beneath his body. Blood speckled the front of his white shirt as well, congealing in reddish-brown dots.
Harry knew what had happened. Ron and Malfoy had been duelling. Malfoy had cast the Killing Curse on Ron. Harry could have told Ron that he was too slow for Malfoy. Seeing her fiancé die had snapped something in Hermione. She’d killed Malfoy. Harry could have told him that he was no match for an enraged Hermione.
As he looked at the scene before him, Harry felt nothing. It hurt so much that he felt simply cold and numb. Like when Sirius died, all these years ago. The first of his loved ones; not the last. His gaze travelled back to Draco’s body.
He was beautiful even in death. His arch-nemesis. His lover, for just one night.
They’d known it. They’d both known it, for years, that they’d fallen for each other a long time ago. They’d never talked about it. Their loyalties were too different, and neither he nor Draco was ready to give up his side of the fight. Not even for each other.
And yesterday, when it became clear that today would be it, that today would bring the end to this war, when everyone was asleep, Draco had stolen into Harry’s little set of rooms in Hogwarts, God only knew how. Harry hadn’t asked. He’d just taken what was offered to him.
For one night, they’d been lovers; for one night they’d not spoken of the fight or of politics or of what was to come. For one night, they’d been happy in each other’s arms, had talked about everything and anything and had made love; for one night they’d allowed each other this forbidden, bitter-sweet pleasure, knowing that today would end it all.
If they’d both survived, perhaps they could have tried to make something work. Or perhaps not. If he’d survived, Draco would have spent the rest of his life in Azkaban, if he’d not have been executed right away. Now the question would never arise.
Harry’s eyes travelled farther to where Fred was kneeling, his arms around his brother, similar to Hermione, only George wasn’t dead. Instead, he was looking sightlessly into the distance. A Dementor had apparently gotten to him before Fred had reduced it to a pile of ash the wind was blowing smoky tendrils off of. It reminded Harry of Snape, who’d looked just as sightlessly to the front some three years ago, before he’d thrown himself off one of Hogwarts many towers.
It had been Voldemort’s little present to them when he’d discovered that Snape was a spy: Snape’s soulless body.
Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange were dead, too. Harry had killed them himself when they tried to keep him from getting to Voldemort.
All around on the trampled, frozen snow between Hogwarts and the Forbidden Forest were dark figures lying on the ground, blood and other things oozing staining the earth, congealing and freezing in the cold Scottish March air.
They’d won, but at what price?
Harry felt cold. Why was he still alive? For a moment he’d thought that he’d die with Voldemort, his scar had hurt so much. But it had passed, and when he’d been able to see again without the red haze of pure pain before his eyes, he’d been standing here in this cold black and white scenery of death.
And now? he asked himself.
What was to happen now? They’d won. Shouldn’t he be happy that they’d won? At least a bit glad that it was all over?
The cold wind swirled the edges of his black battle cloak. He didn’t feel anything. Which was probably a good thing. He didn’t want to know how many more friends he’d lost today. There were hardly any left.
Remus had died two years after Sirius, in Harry’s seventh year when the werewolves went over to Voldemort. They’d torn his body apart.
Ginny and Neville had been killed by Death Eaters when they spent the Easter Holidays at the Burrow in the year after Remus’ death. Neville had died a hero, fighting to his last breath, together they’d taken out seven Death Eaters before they were killed.
Mad-Eye Moody, Tonks and Arthur Weasley had been overwhelmed when the Death Eaters stormed Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Still no one had discovered how Voldemort had found it.
And the list went on… Hagrid, Charlie, Luna, Seamus, McGonagall, Madam Hooch, Madam Pomfrey, Kingsley Shacklebolt… Most of the people he knew, actually.
He’d killed Voldemort, but too late, so much too late…
Harry sighed wearily and turned around to look at the body of He-Who-made-his-life-Hell once more.
The body was glowing.
Harry blinked.
Yes, it was glowing. A little circle of clear white light started to spread out around it. Intrigued, Harry stepped closer. He knew he shouldn’t, it was probably dangerous, but his curiosity was once again getting the better of him and frankly, he didn’t care about what happened to him very much right now.
The circle of light started to spread out wider and shone with a persistent strength. Harry took another step towards it.
It flared up brightly, he heard a faint “Harry, NO!” that might have come from Hermione, then the light swallowed him.
***
Hermione watched in horror as the strange light engulfed Harry and made his form waver for a moment. She’d just noticed at the last moment that something was going on, and she had no clue as to where the light might have come from.
Now it faded and a body hit the ground with an awful-sounding thud. Frantically, Hermione scrambled to the still form.
It was Harry, but he looked… strange. Something about his face was not right. Quickly, Hermione checked for a pulse. There was none and he felt cold and clammy under her hands as if he’d been dead for some time already. The tears started running down her cheeks again, even though she didn’t feel that much at the moment. Her emotions were so overwhelming that there didn’t seem to be enough room for all of them. She’d just lost her two best friends, one of them her lover.
Still, her mind, active as always, nagged her about there being something wrong with Harry’s face. He looked like… like his own identical twin, only not exactly identical.
He had a few freckles on his nose. Hermione knew with absolute certainty that Harry had never had freckles- at least not in places she had seen of him. And his hair… There was something wrong with his hair. It had kind of a reddish hue that he just didn’t have. Harry’s hair was ink-black, as black as Snape’s had been, as black as hair could be. This person’s hair was a very, very dark brown, almost black, but just almost.
And the lines of his face… they were too soft.
They were missing that worn look Harry had gained over the years, which didn’t even leave him in his sleep anymore. They all had that look.
This person looked… young. A kind of young that Harry wasn’t, and probably never had been.
His lips were too full, especially his lower one, giving him a nearly pouting expression. Yes, somehow his facial lines were a trace softer than they should be.
This stranger wasn’t Harry, Hermione’s mind decided. On the other hand, apart from these slight differences it LOOKED like Harry. To everyone who wasn’t as intimate with his every expression like she was, it would look perfectly like Harry. Perhaps she was just making stuff up because she couldn’t believe that she’d lost both her best friends in the course of one day?
But Hermione Granger’s mind wasn’t prone to making things up, no matter what her emotional condition was.
She slipped out her wand and performed a simple little visual recording charm of her own creation. She would be able to create a three-dimensional illusion from it and study it in peace later.
Then Dumbledore came limping onto the battle field, leaning heavily on his cane and looking as worn and tired as they all felt, and Hermione was the one who had to tell him what happened on this terrible day. She didn’t tell him her suspicions about the dead Harry not being Harry, though, because as much as she trusted her mind, she didn’t want to make a fool of herself in case she was wrong.
~ +++ ~
So, this is what dying feels like… Harry thought idly as he was pulled somewhere by the light. There even was a dark tunnel he was racing through with a light at the end of it. And it became bigger.
Let’s just hope it’s not a train, he thought sarcastically.
***
They stopped chanting and the runes they had drawn on the bare stones of the dungeon floor flared up once and then faded.
Nothing further happened.
After a few moments they stopped staring at the floor and started to look around and at each other questioningly.
Hadn’t it worked? Was their cause too weak?
Shuffling started as everyone began to turn to look left and right for that weapon the spell should bring them.
Perchance, Lily looked towards the cell.
And gasped.
Everyone looked up and shot her questioning looks, but she just stared and, one by one, the others followed her line of sight and more gasps could be heard.
A single, slightly ragged beam of light was shooting out of the forehead of the body of her son. It was the same light the runes had emitted for a moment.
It grew brighter, engulfing the whole body, then it faded.
There was a soft groan and Harry’s hands twitched and came up to cover his face.
***
Forcefully, Harry was slammed back into his body. It felt like he’d just fallen from quite a distance and he groaned. He’d reached the light at the end of the tunnel and it had gone blindingly bright for a moment before fading into darkness.
Seems like it was a train after all… he thought with a mental snort.
At least his head hurt like it had just connected with one, or rather, like someone had just shoved a branding iron on his scar.
He brought his hands up reflexively to cover his face as if he could block the pain out with them.
Hold on a moment… His scar had gone numb after Voldemort died. He hadn’t really noticed, since he’d felt so numb overall, but now it was hurting again in that all too familiar way.
What was going on? Presuming he was dead, had he gone to hell to suffer Voldemort’s presence for the rest of eternity? He felt like complaining. After the hell his life had been, and after all he had been through, he would have thought he deserved at least a little peace in his afterlife. Perhaps he’d committed some horrible things in one of his former life-times and now had to pay for it by an eternity of Voldemort?
Well, great, he muttered sarcastically to himself. Perhaps he manages to talk me to death this time.
And why did he have a body, anyway? To make the hellish tortures more effective? Carefully, Harry lowered his hands and blinked.
It was dark. He was lying on something that felt like a small and hard mattress. Not that he was complaining. He’d slept on worse.
There was a damp chill in the air that said, quite clearly, “dungeon”. Over his head he could make out a ceiling made of stone and he had the impression of a stone wall to his left side out of the corner of his eye. Definitely a dungeon.
The chill air raised goose pimples on his bare shoulders.
Hang on. Bare shoulders?
He realised he wasn’t wearing a shirt and only something that felt like pyjama bottoms or hospital attire. Most certainly not his usual attire of jeans, shirt and battle cloak. Most certainly not the clothes he’d had on him when he was standing on the battle field. And most certainly, he didn’t have his usual arsenal of weapons on him. That was a worrying thought. And WHERE in all nine hells was he, anyway?
***
Numb with incredulity, Lily stared at the dead body of her son that had started moving again.
How was that possible? Was it the spell? But why? Why would it revive her son, of all people? Powerful as he was, he was no match for Voldemort, and besides, he was a Death Eater.
The hands lowered again and she believed she saw the gleam of eyes in the dark as he blinked, but it was very dark in the cell, and the room in general, and she couldn’t be sure.
“Harry?” her voice choked out, sounding strange and disbelieving in her own ears.
***
“Harry?” a female voice he didn’t know asked. She sounded like she was in the grip of some very strong emotion, a kind of desperate hope. How that fit together with a voice he didn’t know, he couldn’t begin to fathom. And she’d called him by his first name, too.
Carefully, he sat up, still not sure if his body was working properly after these strange events it had been subjected to. And where was his wand? Had it stayed behind like all his other weapons and clothes? He hoped not!
He turned his head to look in the direction of the voice while he felt around for the familiar piece of wood, unobtrusively, he hoped. After all, he didn’t know where he was, and whether the group of people he could see standing over there and staring at him were friend or foe.
He couldn’t see them very clearly since the only source of light in the room was a fire in the fire place which was in the back of the group of people, reducing them to flat black shadows to his unadjusted eyes.
***
Still not believing her eyes, Lily watched as her dead son sat up. The iron grip of James’ hand on her shoulder told her that he was having trouble believing what he was seeing, too. The others were staring, obviously as shocked by this development as her. Not even Dumbledore seemed to know what to say.
She couldn’t see Harry very clearly since the way they were standing, they blocked out most of the light, but she could see that he was turning his head to look at her once he had sat up.
***
Harry contemplated what to do now. The group of people staring at him didn’t seem to have any intention to attack him right now. On the other hand, he could make out the long, vertical shadows of bars between him and them. Since the side of the bars he was on was smaller then the side they were on, he figured he was the one inside a cell. That didn’t seem so friendly.
But despite the fact that he couldn’t make out their faces clearly, they seemed to be staring at him somewhat shocked. Perhaps his arrival was as unexpected to them as it was to him?
Well, asking couldn’t hurt, could it? Okay, yes, it could hurt, very much at that, but he figured he could risk it. Either he was already dead, so it didn’t matter, or he was not yet dead, which could be seen as a good sign, too.
“Uh… where am I?” he tried politely.