Harry Potter and the Defiance of the Hero

Harry Potter and the Defiance of the Hero

Chapter 17 - Stories Are What Make a Universe

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And heaven in a wild flower:
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

~~William Blake

May 30^th
115 days until the Autumnal Equinox

"Jesus... this kid's a train wreck! What... what happened--is happening to him, Poppy?"

The infirmary in the Hogwart's hospital wing had been in a state of emergency and panic for the better part of the last four hours. Potion vials were smashed and broken underfoot on the floor, blood stained sheets were in piles around the bed of the patient, and a thin smoke hung in the air from the many cauldrons brewing various potions.

It had calmed down somewhat in the last half hour or so, and in that time a few expert magical medical practitioners had been called in from St. Mungo's hospital, and various nearby locations around Europe.

"Nundu poisoning," Madam Pomfrey said, waving her wand up and down the almost unrecognisable lump on the blood stained bed that was Harry Potter.

"Nundu poisoning did that!" Mark Denton exclaimed, pointing to the bloody hollow hole where Harry's left eye had been only a few hours ago.

Madam Pomfrey bit back a sharp insult at this remark. Denton was supposed to be the leading expert in the world in revolutionary healing potions. "No," she said through gritted teeth, repairing the skin around Harry's knuckles. "A Nundu claw did that!"

Denton fell silent and then quickly began to flip through a large folder of parchment he held between his arms. "Where is the Nundu now?" he asked after a moment, almost timidly.

"All over the castle grounds," a voice from behind Denton whispered. "And it was Nundus - plural."

Mark Denton turned to face James Potter, who was standing between the two nearest beds with his arm wrapped protectively around his wife, Lily. He nodded to the Potters, and continued to search through his lists upon lists of potion formulas.

"We haven't yet seen the symptoms of Nundu poisoning," another woman said, standing with her wand drawn and white magic glowing before her on the opposite side of Harry's bed to Madam Pomfrey.

Her name was Susannah Shaw, and she was the chief healer at St. Mungo's, and had healed Harry months ago after his painful heroism on Azkaban.

"It won't be long," Madam Pomfrey sighed. "By all rights I believe he should be dead now. Madam Shaw?"

Madam Shaw shook her head sadly. "I don't see how he is alive--no. I think there are other... circumstances... working to keep him alive. And I don't know what I mean when I say that."

Madam Pomfrey nodded. "Where is that heat coming from?" she then asked.

"It's pulsating from this odd scar upon his forehead," was the reply. "And now that I think about it my apprentice did mention something about that scar whilst the patient was in St. Mungo's... I'm not sure if the usual rules apply to this boy."

Quiet footsteps echoed on the stone behind all of them, and a voice said, "You are quite right there, Madam Shaw," Albus Dumbledore arrived, stroking his beard and observing Harry with pain-filled eyes. "But he is alive, and that is enough for now. Work your magic's, ladies--we need, Mr. Potter. Nothing is of more importance."

James felt Lily shift beneath his arms and he felt a stab of white hot anger himself directed towards Dumbledore. Hasn't he done enough? Let him rest, old man!

"Albus," began Madam Pomfrey. "We cannot stop the Nundu poisoning, only slow it down. Now that will kill him and I doubt that any magic can prevent that."

Dumbledore was slowly shaking his head. "A young healer is on her way here at my request from East Africa," he said calmly. "Her great-grandfather once treated me for a mild case of Nundu poisoning over one hundred years ago. I do not know to this day how he did it, but it can be done."

"You were cured of Nundu poisoning!" Mark Denton exclaimed. "What... how...?"

"A rather long tale, I'm afraid," Dumbledore sighed. "1892--and several wars ago."

Madam Pomfrey clicked her teeth with indecision. "He may not have more than a few hours, Albus, and that's just his other injuries. The Nundu breath will weaken his body beyond the point of recovery."

Dumbledore remained silent for a few thoughtful moments. "Can anything be done for his eye?" he finally asked, ignoring the elderly matron's implications.

She stared at him for a moment, sweat on her old brow and fatigue heavy in her eyes, and then turned to look at Harry. "I'm not sure... perhaps... I'll have to clean it out and hope there's something left of the eye to work on, but from what I can see here he may need a replacement--but that will have to wait, there are more serious problems to deal with first."

"Then we'll leave you to it," Dumbledore announced, glancing at James and Lily meaningfully.

"We're not leaving," Lily said, dried tear streaks on her cheeks and fresh ones in her eyes.

"I need to speak to both of you," the Headmaster said pointedly. "As sure as the phoenix flies...."

Both James and Lily understood that - an Order meeting. They got up to leave.

****

?

"Existence is a fickle thing; don't you think so, Harry?"

Lying in a field of pure black roses, a throbbing pain in his forehead that he associated with his scar, and a blinding ache in his left eye... which was there and fully functional.

"Where am I now?" he asked regretfully, tiredly, painfully. His voice seemed to float on waves through the air, echoing for miles, but above all it sounded tired... sad.

"Where are any of us?" a familiar voice replied, as Harry pulled himself up into a sitting position. "Just you and me now, partner--your body's dying."

Cold fear grasped Harry's heart and he felt for just a moment like a million Dementor's were all simultaneously sucking his soul from his body, ripping it away without remorse or mercy. It's the demon, he thought, the evil one, the Destroyer-

Laughter.

"That last one's not me, buddy," the deceptively human face said. "That handle belongs to little old you. Got a nice ring to it, don't you think? Harry Destroyer Potter! That one will be remembered long after your mortal body is pushing up white roses."

"Who... what are you, demon?" Harry asked, feeling dead where he sat. He could see no injuries on his body whatsoever, and he remembered the fight with the Nundus, but he could definitely feel the injuries.

"If you have to ask then you're not ready to know," the laughing, grinning-demon replied.

And then pushed a sharp silver blade entwined with black roses through Harry's chest.

****

May 31^st
114 days until the Autumnal Equinox

"It was in the Prophet this morning," Dermas Trask spat, throwing a rolled up newspaper onto the large circular table in the centre of the Room of Requirement - which twenty people were seated around. Harry's squad and the Order of the Phoenix, who were meeting for the second time in as many days.

"Then Voldemort will know Harry's out of it," Sirius growled. "How did this get out?"

"Probably one of the many Death Eater spawn that walk around this school," James Potter said. "My money's on that arrogant bastard Draco Malfoy."

"We were foolish to think we could hide something as big as this," Sophia Tréla said. "Two Nundus, of all things, attacked this school and the Commander destroyed them. Half the students in the Great Hall saw us carrying him up to the infirmary yesterday."

"Voldemort knows, so he'll make his move," Tonks whispered. "The Ministry... or here to finish off Harry?"

Severus Snape sneered. "Those beasts that attacked yesterday were part of the... force... within the Dark Lord's fortress. I'm not sure if he has any more, but we've not been summoned in over four weeks--so he may call us soon... I will be expected to report on Potter's condition."

James and Lily Potter visibly paled, and all eyes turned to Dumbledore who sat in the largest chair around the table, which denoted his stature. "Tell him the truth, Severus. Harry is near death and poisoned by the Nundu breath. There is no known cure for that, save one, and that is a closely guarded secret. He will believe Potter will suffer a slow, inevitable death under the poison's sickness--and leave Hogwarts alone."

"As you wish, Headmaster," Snape nodded, and wrapped his arms across his chest in the folds of his black robes.

"There may still be a threat to this school, Albus Dumbledore," Art Nuan, one of Harry's team members, said.

"Mr Nuan?" the Headmaster waved his hand in the man's direction.

"The Commander has been incapacitated," Nuan explained, stroking his goatee beard. "The bounty hunters after his head will see this as a window of opportunity."

Dumbledore nodded with understanding. "Thank you, Mr. Nuan. That raises some previously unforseen problems. Nymphadora, could you please inform the Minister this afternoon that three Aurors will be needed to guard the hospital wing--please tell him he may contact me in my office if there are any problems."

"Will do, Dumbledore," Tonks agreed, grimacing slightly at the mention of her first name.

"Excellent," Dumbledore nodded, and then fell silent as his eyes flickered across to every person in the room. When he spoke, his voice was quiet... low, and deadly serious. "We're on our again, friends. Our best chance at winning this war is now fighting for his life in a blood-stained bed on the other side of this castle. International aid is not forth coming, not that it ever would have been, and Voldemort's forces have grown to somewhere in the region of one thousand.

"The French are training and have provided two hundred and fifty good Aurors," he continued. "The Minister is in talks with Spain and Italy for a European alliance, but that could, and probably will, take months--if it happens at all. The heart of the resistance against Voldemort is in this very room right now. I want you all to do what you do best, give it your all, and never stop fighting."

They never would.

Across the castle, in the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey along with Madam Shaw was administering potions to Harry provided by the healing expert Mark Denton. Over night, large purple sores had appeared over all of Harry's body - a sure sign that the Nundu poison was killing him.

The large purple sores that were appearing all over his body were extremely sensitive to the touch, and the slightest knock burst them open and a bitter smelling puss oozed out, infecting once clear skin. If Harry didn't get treatment for them soon he would resemble a bloated purple sack before the day's end.

Thankfully, Madam Pomfrey had slowed the illness to a crawl as Dumbledore's specialist healer made her way across international boundaries towards Hogwarts. Something that had become increasingly difficult lately - keyed Portkeys were not working properly, and no explanation was forth coming.

It was also fortunate that the Nundu sickness was not contagious - it couldn't be passed from one human being to another, but that did nothing to help Harry now.

Lifting his closed right eyelid, Madam Pomfrey shone her wand into his pupil, looking for a reaction. She got none - but did see that the white of his eye had turned blood red. Never a good sign.

"These sores are bursting faster than I can clean and remove them, Poppy," Madam Shaw grumbled. "We need a better way of doing this."

"Just work as fast as you can, Susannah," Madam Pomfrey replied. "Denton is working on a potion to clear the sores alongside Severus - we just have to keep him alive a little longer."

Madam Shaw nodded. "You need to sleep though."

"I'll sleep when he's out of the woods. Until then I can manage."

****

?

"That hurt...." Harry sighed, standing now in the field of black roses under a lightning streaked sky - rubbing his chest where the blade of the demon had pierced him a moment or an eternity ago. There was no wound, but the demon remained.

"Well shucks, I apologise, Potter," the demon grinned and mocked him. "But there is far worse ahead of you. Oh golly, yes. Enough to drive the best of us... mad."

Black roses swayed in a wind that didn't exist, their roots buried in a ground that wasn't real - couldn't be real. There were hills in the distance, dark hills where nothing grew except stone. Across the field Harry could see a thin stretch of beach where black ocean waves crashed full of seaweed that was also roses.

Hearing that grinning voice mocking him, Harry's fear of the monster lessened and he jumped forward, throwing himself at the demon. He fell through the air and hit nothing but dirt. The demon had disappeared in the time between the time between milliseconds.

"Bang! You're dead," the demon said from behind him and Harry stood back up, turning to face it. It held its hand out in the imitation of a Muggle gun. "Too slow on the draw, partner."

Harry frowned and took a few steps forward, but he felt something was wrong. Looking down at his chest he saw his white polo shirt slowly turning crimson, from a small hole in his chest that had at first gone unnoticed.

Harry looked back up at the demon. It was still smiling as it pretended to blow the smoke away from the barrel of the 'gun' it had made out of its fingers and slip it back into an invisible holster on its belt buckle.

"My rules in this world, Harry. Soon my rules in all worlds - if there are any left in a few short months."

Harry stumbled and fell, the pain in his chest immense. "Am I dreaming?" he asked, not expecting an answer. It gave one.

"We're all dreaming - some of us deeper than others, and none deeper than you. You'll die a thousand deaths before we're through.... Hey! That rhymes. I'm a poet and I did not know it... but I guess this is no time to rhyme. Ha ha!"

And fade to black, Harry thought.

****

June 1^st

113 days until the Autumnal Equinox

At around two in the afternoon on this day, a small dark-skinned witch walked into the infirmary at Hogwarts, hooded and cloaked with a small trunk levitated before her. Albus Dumbledore was at her side conversing quietly in a language neither Madams Pomfrey nor Shaw could understand.

This witch was a healer from East Africa and as soon as they reached the bed Harry lay in the healer pulled back her hood to reveal flowing dark hair that fell all the way down to her waist. Brown eyes examined Harry professionally and without flinching, even though he was now almost completely covered in purple sores from head to toe.

Mark Denton's potion had only kept the disease from spreading faster than it could have done, by tripling Harry's antibodies. They were all good and dead and overrun now and another potion would do nothing.

"Healer?" Dumbledore asked questioningly, in a language that wasn't his own.

The healer shook her head, and put a soft hand on Harry's bare and purple blotchy chest. He was barely breathing. Working quickly and silently, the woman opened her trunk and began to crush small roots with a pestle and mortar. She reached over to Harry and squeezed one of the larger growths on his chest, which promptly popped and began to ooze a clear liquid.

Without hesitation, she scraped up this puss and mixed it in with the crushed roots and then added a small amount of amber coloured liquid from a flask in her trunk. Mixing it carefully, the solution began to take on the consistency of a fine, muddy paste. Dumbledore, and both matron's, remained silent and thoughtful during this process, knowing Harry's only hope lay with this healer.

With her delicate yet skilled fingers, the healer rubbed the paste onto Harry's upper lip and around his mouth and nose. The purple blotches there that were cutting off most of his ability to draw breath began to visibly shrink and then disappear entirely.

Madam Pomfrey gasped. She and Madam Shaw had been unable to remove any of the sores over the last fifteen hours - they seemed resistant to magic, but this paste worked miracles.

There was a small smile on the healer's lips and she turned to Dumbledore with a glint of hope in her eyes and said words that only the Headmaster understood. She and Dumbledore conversed for a few minutes, and then he turned to Madam Pomfrey.

"There is little hope," he said. "The healer will now work on removing the toxin from his system - it may take many weeks. Both of you will have to be by her side as she works to heal any other wounds that may develop."

"How is this done, Albus?" Madam Pomfrey was afraid to ask.

Dumbledore smiled sadly. "Not through magic," he said. "The cure will only respond to a strong will to live. Only if Harry want's to come back will he have the chance to. If that will wavers even once before the poison is out of his system, we'll lose him."

Madam Pomfrey nodded, although she only just grasped what Dumbledore had said. When she looked back at the silent African healer, the young witch was already crushing more ingredients in her small wooden bowl.

****

June 4^th

110 days until the Autumnal Equinox

DEATH EATERS DESTROY DIAGON ALLEY -
MINISTRY CAUGHT OFF GUARD

Special Correspondent Felice Garnet

Clouds have gathered before the brief spell of
sunlight our world was given for two short months.
Wizarding Britain's most well-known cornerstone,
the shopping district Diagon Alley, lies in ruin and
flames this morning after an attack last night by
You-Know-Who and his Death Eater army.

Hundreds lie dead on the once proud street and fire
rages across and around the surrounding area in
London. Muggle emergency services have been called
in to quell the blaze, as nothing magical could survive
the intense heat of the flames.

This attack, in which forty Aurors have been killed, brings
about the renewed beginning of the Dark War - a war we
all secretly hoped was finished forever. It was not to
be. He Who Must Not Be Named has not been stopped
in his war to gain power, and now it seems no one can
stop him.

Harry Potter, a boy who became famous overnight for
duelling the Dark Lord and forcing him to retreat, lies
dying in a hospital bed in the Hogwart's infirmary -
severe amounts of Nundu poison coursing through
his veins.

The poison will undoubtedly claim Potter's life soon
and with his death our thread of hope will be cut,
and circumstances could return to the dark way they
were as early as February this year.

The Ministry lost one fifteenth of its armed forces
last night in the battle for Diagon Alley, which
was led by You-Know-Who himself. This is the
first time in over two months that the Dark Lord
has been seen.

With the only threat to his taking power dying
slowly at Hogwarts, it may only be a matter of time
before You-Know-Who turns his attention towards
the Ministry of Magic itself. Such a blow would
undoubtedly lose us this war - and that now is
definitely a reality.

What once looked so hopeful and promising is now
wilting like an old rose. Our hope blowing out like a
candle in the wind. No time, no hero, no chance. Pray,
Wizarding Britain, it may be all we have left.

Dermas Trask had seen a lot of terrible things in his lifetime. He grew up relatively alone in Ireland with his father, who taught him mastery over the blade - and he had seen a lot of terrible things.

He was a teenager during World War II when Britain, when Albus Dumbledore, stood against Grindelwald. He had seen his fair share of violence then. Relatively peaceful for a time after that, but then there was Voldemort. Dermas had been in the Order of the Phoenix, alongside Dumbledore, and he had seen what the Death Eaters could do first hand.

He had seen what Voldemort could do first hand as well - when the Dark Lord had killed his fiancé years ago right in front of him. He had seen attack after dark attack until he had finally fled out onto the collection of islands on the west coast of Scotland.

Dermas had seen humanity at its worst, briefly at its best, and at all the shades in between. He had seen amazing acts done with magic, with thought, and even with good old fashioned human intelligence.

Shit, he thought, I've even seen a kid fight a pair of Nundu's and win!

But the attack on Diagon Alley was one of the worst things he would ever see, and that was because he arrived when it was too late to make a difference, as the shops were burning down around him and the rest of the Order of the Phoenix. One thought was stuck to his mind for the rest of his life, and that was it hadn't been a battle in Diagon Alley - it had been a slaughter.

****

?

Harry stood up once again in the field of black roses, wherever or whatever it was, and wasn't very surprised to find that the pain in his chest was gone and that there was no bullet wound.

He thought for a moment that he might be alone, but then sensed the dark presence behind him and turned fast, palms glow-

"Magic don't work here, boy," the demon drawled, rolling a galleon down his knuckles.

Harry found to his surprise and shock that the beast was right. He could feel his magic bubbling away inside of him, but it was unreachable - had nothing to act with in this world. Useless....

"My scar hurts...." he managed, his own voice sounding distant and drowned out by a deep throbbing in the air.

"Ah yes," the demon cried. "That amazing scar. The centre of it all - the cause of, and solution to, all of our problems."

"What do you-?"

"No, no, no, no, NO!" the demon grinned, but it felt like a snarl. "Some boundaries even you can't cross, Harry. Leave it well enough alone and you may take another breath."

Grimacing in pain, pain felt from the wounds his body had sustained, Harry tried to smile. "If you can kill me you would have done so already."

The demon's grin faltered just a bit - blink and you would have missed it, folks - but then his face rearranged itself into that arrogant, confident smirk. "Now that--was being quick on the draw, Potter. You didn't shoot me clean, winged me a bit... and that is disturbing."

Harry felt the power of the black roses that stretched for miles in every direction - felt their evil - and suppressed a shudder.

"What do I call you?" he eventually asked, bracing himself for another stab wound in the chest.

"Ah! Now that is a different question from 'what are you'... well done, Harry. I'll answer that one."

Time stretched on around them. Black roses grew and then wilted to die in mere seconds. The mountains in the distance were eroded away to nothing and the clouds rolled across the sky in an endless stream of thick storms.

"While we're young," Harry coughed, rubbing his scar and shivering as the world changed dramatically around him.

"I'm not sure where to begin," the demon said, honestly perplexed. "I guess... I guess I'm a bit of everything."

"What's your name?" Harry asked, biting back the fear he felt. All at once wanting to know, and dreading the answer.

The demon laughed. "My name? MY NAME? Well... Potter. I've gone by many names, handles if you like, through many different stories over the aeons - each one striking fear into the hearts of thousands, of hundreds of thousands.... even, of billions."

"...what...?"

"Flagg, the Walkin' Dude, was once my name - perhaps will be again in those particular worlds - billions of stories are what make the universes, Harry, remember that... even if you remember nothing else. Billions, trillions of chapters in one long book that contains the very Meaning of everything. One would go mad with even a glimpse of that final, ultimate story."

Harry gasped at the implication, but remained strong. "Your name?"

The demon smiled. "Of course, I apologise, Harry. Got meself a little sidetracked then," it rolled its eyes in a 'what are you gonna do' kind of manner. "Flagg more than once. Saruman in another world a very long time ago. Killian in a world with few heroes that is bereft of magic. Kerrigor a few millennia ago. Galbatorix I was, the Slayer."

"My God..." Harry breathed, feeling as if he had been punched hard with the mention of each new and terrible name.

"Yes," the creature of many names laughed. "Your God! I've lived through tales that your world, and many others like it, considers mere fiction. My list of names stretches back to the Beginning, and now it looks like my last name may be in this story, in the End."

"What... what does that mean?" Harry barely managed.

"Patience, Harry, patience is something you'll learn," it snapped, its grin never faltering. "Voldemort I'm not, but I admire his work. The Dark One I could have been but if I ever was I've forgotten. 'What was, what will be, and what is, may yet fall under the Shadow' is what they used to say in that world. Sephiroth upon a time, and Sin from that string of worlds. The Witchking, Warlock Lord, Marlor, Smith, Judas, Liquid, Legion - I could go on for centuries!"

"You're Evil," Harry stated. "That's your true name."

The demon fell silent and his unblinking eyes fixed Harry's with a stare that could freeze blood. "Pleased to meet you, Harry Potter. You can call me Allarius... and as Richard Fannin--another one of my many handles--once said; care to shake the hand that shook the world?"

****

June 15^th

99 days until the Autumnal Equinox

Thomas Fright was dead - KIA - another name on the long list of casualties this war had endured.

Voldemort and his Death Eaters had been attacking ferociously over the last fortnight, striking many Wizarding/Muggle villages up and down the United Kingdom, and even in France. The Ministry was in a state of constant alert, two hundred Aurors guarding it at all time. No attempt had been made against the Ministry yet, but one had been made on Bartemius Crouch's life - he had escaped the assault with a fractured collar bone.

But there was another attack, in the village of Hogsmeade, in which Thomas Fright had been gathering information for both Harry's squad and the Order of the Phoenix. He had stumbled on to a secret Death Eater meeting in the Three Broomsticks - in one of the upstairs rooms - and had been taken down by a stray Killing Curse.

Fright had taken four Death Eaters with him, and his body was cremated as per his last will and testament.

Harry was completely unaware, trapped as he was in sickness and nightmares - his soul wading in and out of the space between all worlds. His body was still in a poor state, but it was getting better... not quickly, and time was something this world did not have in abundance.

The healer from Africa had been working for eighteen hours a day on Harry's poisoned body, rubbing a special salve into his skin and administering an amber coloured liquid every ten minutes. Madam Pomfrey, for the first few days saw no noticeable improvement in Harry's condition - but slowly the large purple sores and welts that covered his body faded to a greyish colour and then began to disappear entirely.

Once the swelling in his face had gone down she had put a black eye patch over the mushy hole in his head, and did think she may be able to repair the damage, perhaps leaving one or two marks on and around the eye, but fixed nonetheless. There was no time to do it now though. Occasionally Harry's skin would rupture, an effect of the Nundu breath, just split open and begin to bleed. Madam Pomfrey had to be quick to heal these ruptures.

So slowly, too slowly, Harry was getting better as the world around them fell quickly. Madam Pomfrey knew he was needed, but they could do nothing more than what they had been doing. This was, however slow it worked, the only cure to a Nundu's breath.

****

?

"We're going to be great enemies, you and I!" Allarius smiled, as Harry woke up again--his head throbbing viciously.

"Where'd I go just now?" he croaked.

Allarius chuckled, to Harry it sounded like a saw blade on metal. "You fell back into the mortal world, partner. Back into that diseased husk of flesh you call a body."

Harry coughed up blood, feeling weak and tired. "Why do you keep... keep calling me back here?"

Allarius hunched down in front of him, winking as he did. "Figured that out as well, didja? Well... minds like yours always do in the end."

"WHY?" Harry roared, and then fell into a coughing fit - blood and spit coating his hand as he attempted to stifle it.

"For many reasons, World Wanderer ... do you like that name? Made it up meself... Anyway, as I was saying. You intrigue me, Potter. I was called to these worlds because of the connection you share with the Dark Lord--you see, it's eating away at the magic of existence. This connection cannot be broken, and it's... its burning a hole through the fabric that separates one world from another, to reach you... if that makes any sense...?"

Harry shuddered and was almost sick. "It makes too much sense. I have to-"

Allarius laughed. "What? Stop it? You're dead, Harry. You've already lost before you even knew the game. Tough shit, better luck next ti- oh... there won't be a next time. How amazingly wonderful!"

"I don't believe that," Harry said unwaveringly, pulling himself to his feet.

"Believe it or not, that doesn't matter, it'll still kill ya!" Allarius laughed and pulled one of the black roses out of the ground. "You see this?" it asked.

Harry nodded. "A black rose."

Allarius looked offended. "So much more, Potter, so much more. This is a physical manifestation of the evil in your curse scar link - on Voldemort's end... and perhaps a touch on yours, hmm? - these are what are tearing down the Boundary, polluting the Stream, and toppling worlds."

"Toppling worlds?"

"Soon all worlds along your level of existence will begin to feel the consequences as the magic, the glue, that holds them all together is broken. It is inevitable, and it was all done because of... love... your love. It has done more than hate and evil ever could. Take a bow, Harry. You've succeeded where evil has failed for all of time."

Ginny, Harry thought. My sacrifice into the Stream to save her and Hogwarts... knowing what I know now and, oh God, it is terrible, I would have still done it.

"What consequences?" he asked Allarius.

Allarius flashed its familiar grin. "Destruction... floods, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions. Saddle up, pup, it's a special on Armageddon - buy one get one free."

****

June 27^th

88 days until the Autumnal Equinox

Gerald King had lived his entire life on the southern coast of South Australia - just twenty miles west of the road that led to the capital city of that state, Adelaide. Sixty seven years of age, Gerald had been married twice and had three kids currently building themselves great careers in various industries around the country. Gerald had provided well for his family - good education was most important.

On this particular June day, there was nothing - no warning, no sixth sense - to warn the population off this twenty mile stretch of coast road, somewhere in the vicinity of 10,000, that today would be their last upon the earth.

For the first noticeable time ever, as Gerald King drove his 4WD down the dirt track towards his cattle ranch, roughly two miles from the CBD of this small seaside community, the ground shook and all hell broke loose.

Gerald's truck was turned on its head and he was crushed between the seat and the dashboard - feeling no pain. A deafening crashing sound rumbled in his ears - so loud that his eardrums began to bleed. Gerald's only thought was, and he had never been a religious man before this, that God himself had pounded his fist nearby upon the flat ground.

In the space of two minutes, on the morning of June 27^th, the first earthquake of such magnitude in recorded history broke on the Australian seaside community, and inland for several hundred miles - killing near one hundred thousand.

Gerald King would be the only survivor in a fifty mile radius from where his truck rolled on the road - to be found by emergency services some fifteen hours later.

About a month later, as he was living with his daughter over east in the city of Sydney, spending his time researching earthquakes, and some of the other unnatural phenomenon that was battering the earth lately - Gerald would learn it was naturally impossible for an earthquake of such magnitude to move on Southern Australia, and that no known force could create one - it was no where near the edge of the earth's tectonic plates.

Bloody weapons testing, Gerald would say to the end of his days. Americans probably - first rule: deny everything! I tell you, dark days ahead... dark days. Gerald was right in that final respect.

July 1^st

85 days until the Autumnal Equinox

Just four days after one hundred thousand people were killed in Southern Australia, another quake of awesome power destroyed everything in a long three hundred mile line in North America. Thankfully this was mostly desert and mountain ranges, but several hundred people lost their lives anyway, and the disasters didn't stop there.

July 15^th

70 days until the Autumnal Equinox

Munich, Germany.

Hurricanes of such power that they could destroy all traces of life and leave just upturned dirt pounded the small city, with winds seemingly coming out of nowhere. The previous day the weather reports forecast a sunny day with a moderate to light afternoon breeze.

If this was a moderate to light breeze, then a heavy breeze would herald the end.

The city and a lot of the surrounding countryside was razed to the ground by a force of nature that was no longer in balance with the laws of the universe. Elements mixed and clashed with those of other worlds through holes in the fabric, the curtain, that usually kept every world separate and magic in balance - no longer.

July 17^th - July 19th

66 days until the Autumnal Equinox.

Floods washed over the coasts of Spain from unexplained rising sea levels.

Volcanic eruptions that destroyed one of the Hawaiian Islands.

In the north of Scotland the temperature dropped unexpectedly to minus 49 Celsius - freezing hundreds who had not expected it, and were out in the brief summer sun they were given during that time of the year.

Special on Armageddon, folks. Free, can only be used once - but you get your money's worth.

All of these disasters were mirrored along every other world in existence. The End was showing itself, and there was redemption for none as long as the saviour was gone.

Hey, that rhymes.

****

July 20^th

65 days until the Autumnal Equinox.

Harry Potter lay almost completely naked in the Hogwart's hospital wing - where he had lain for the past seven weeks, slowly healing. Discarded potion ingredients and dozens of potion vials littered the floor around his bed and the occupant upon it.

The healer from East Africa was still there, still working her medicines on this boy - who now resembled the whole and complete self he had done before the Nundu attack. Pale and fragile, all of the purple sores had faded away, leaving what looked like a very frightened and tired boy in their place.

Madam Pomfrey wouldn't have believed it eight weeks ago - wouldn't have bet a single galleon on the odds that he would recover, except perhaps against him - and yet here he was. The healer had told Dumbledore he could wake up at any minute, as the final traces of the magical poison dissipated from his body.

The only people in the castle were James, Lily, Michael, and Melissa Potter, along with Madam Pomfrey, the African Healer, Dumbledore, and a handful of Order members and Harry's squad members. The rest of the castle's usual residents had been sent home for the summer at the end of the school year a month ago.

"You healed his eye," Lily Potter noted, as she entered the infirmary on the morning of July 20^th.

"I did as good a job as I could," Madam Pomfrey smiled tiredly. "It'll work, but I'm afraid it won't be the same dazzling emerald green that it was. It's a pale green now--his right eye is going to stand out when compared next to it."

"Under the circumstances that's more than I'd hoped for," Lily whispered, looking like death warmed up herself. "Where's the healer?"

"With Dumbledore," Pomfrey replied. "Trying to secure a Portkey back to Africa. You know with all this unnatural weather we've been having lately it's almost impossible to key the Portkeys accurately."

Lily nodded - she understood. The world was going to hell in a handcart, and she felt it was all to do with Harry, just Harry. "I would've liked to have thanked her," she said absently.

"You know she barely said two words the whole time she was here, and those were to Dumbledore."

Lily wasn't listening; she was gazing at the small body in the bed that was her son with respect and confusion. "Where do you think he's been these past seven weeks?" Lily whispered. "I only know he's alive because his chest is rising and falling - but where has he been, what's he been thinking. Does he... does he know that we're losing the war again?"

"I think those questions will be answered soon enough," Madam Pomfrey said. "He's going to wake up soon - very soon."

****

?

"Why is it getting harder and harder to pull you into this world, Potter?" Allarius asked, suspicion and anger laced into his voice.

"Maybe you're losing your touch," Harry whispered, his voice a dry croak and his body - his soul - weak and ruined.

"Or maybe you're more powerful than I thought...."

Harry managed a small, mad smile that rivalled Allarius'. "That's the mistake every one of my enemies has made. They always underestimate me."

Allarius laughed, his grin growing. "Existence is cruel, Harry... but I didn't invent it."

Harry stood up for what would be the final time in the field of black roses, glancing warily at the demon. "No, you're just here to make sure it's destroyed."

Allarius, still smiling, crossed his hands before him. "What can I say to that? Slap the cuffs on, Harry. Guilty as charged. Looks like the gallows for ol' Allarius."

"Why?" Harry asked with a strain.

"Well..." Allarius clicked his heels together and spun his cloak around in a billowing cloud. "I guess I just get a kick out of hearing a billion voices screaming in unison."

Anger - unexpected and cold - surged through Harry's body, which was feeling better these days, something he hadn't told Allarius and not something the demon had mentioned. Moving so fast his hand blurred, Harry reached down and pulled the nearest black rose out of the ground, cutting his hand open but ignoring the pain.

"What-?"

Dirt fell away from the roots of the plant and Harry held it out before him like a sword. "SEE THIS, DEMON!" he bellowed, and was more than a little surprised when Allarius fought against looking at it.

"Potter, you-"

"AH!" cried Harry, and felt a familiar surge of power break through his palms and race up the stem of the rose. There was a dazzling flash of light and Harry was no longer holding a black rose, but a white one.

Allarius screamed.

One boy.

One demon.

And one hope in the form of a white rose.

Destiny had nothing to do with this one - it was all Harry's show now.

Stepping forward, closing the gap between himself and the captivated demon, Harry thrust the pure white rose forward, like a blade, and cut through Allarius' chest.

Shock... and a measure of fear crossed Allarius' usually calculated face. He gazed up at Harry as if seeing him for the first time - and seeing his equal. "Good draw, partner," he said, black blood falling from the corner of his human mouth.

There was a large whooshing sound and Harry turned to see a large tear in the air - much like the one that led to the Stream - that was flooded with white light. This wasn't a way home though, no. It was just another marker on the road home.

Within this tear, this portal, Harry could see himself, lying with his left hand on his chest in what looked like the Hogwart's hospital wing. He knew what needed to be done. Harry turned back to the creature with many names, Allarius for now, and saw that it was trying to pull the white rose from its chest.

"You might want to get that looked at," Harry said, grinning sadistically, stepping back slowly towards the portal back to one of the mortal worlds.

(But there is far worse ahead of you. Oh golly, yes. Enough to drive the best of us... mad.)

"I'll be seeing you again," Allarius snarled, with no sign of that evil grin upon his face. "You'll have to cross over into your own world soon, and when you do I'll meet you halfway--in the space between everything. There you'll die, there you'll burn!"

Harry was still grinning like a madman as he disappeared in a flash of dazzling white light.

Allarius screamed in pain and untold fury and the black roses around him were flattened into the earth.

****

July 21^st

64 days until the Autumnal Equinox

Aurors were awake and asleep in twelve hour intervals each. The war against Voldemort and the Death Eaters had been raging particularly hard over the last two weeks, and hundreds had died on both sides.

Auror numbers were slightly less than that of the Death Eaters, and that was simply because there was no one to stand against Voldemort - who had killed fifteen Aurors himself in the last encounter in Southern England. All the latest reports from the Ministry were not encouraging, and the Prophet was running at least two pages of obituaries every day.

Dumbledore had tried to duel the Dark Lord, but his age kept him down. Even after there last encounter where Dumbledore had nearly died, the old Headmaster had managed to force the Dark Lord into retreat, for a time.

Four hundred - or there abouts - was the educated guess to the remainder of the Death Eater force. British and French Aurors, seven hundred at the beginning of June, were now dwindled to only two hundred. The morale of the Auror forces had something to do with that - they didn't believe they could win. Not against Voldemort and with Harry Potter dead.

Yes, dead.

He hadn't been seen in over two months by anyone outside of Hogwarts - and public belief was that he had died of his wounds at the end of May.

It also didn't help matters that the very world seemed to be tearing itself apart.

Disaster upon devastating disaster seemed to be claiming the earth on a daily basis. None of these so called 'natural' disasters, conformed to long held truths about the nature of the planet. Severe earthquakes in Australia, temperature drops of dozens of degrees at ground level in a matter of seconds, large pockets of gaseous steam surging up out of the earth--boiling sea water and scorching land.

And that was the least of it.

Fear of the unknown and a respect for the awesome power of nature and the forces that wielded it was prominent in the minds of billions in this world. Time would tell what happened - who the players were, and whether the board would collapse in on itself before the game was over - as it soon would be.

Muggles and Magical folk alike were... terrified... and many saw this as the coming of the End - that the apocalypse was upon them and nothing could be done to stop it.

It was around this time that existence's only hope opened his eyes in the hospital wing of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.....

Harry James Potter, a boy ruled by prophecy, fate, destiny, and what he made on his own, opened his eyes

(eyes - plural)

and at first saw nothing but bright white light. His body ached as if he hadn't moved in weeks, months, years... aeons. But he remembered everything, even that last look of pure hate that had been stuck to the demon's face at the very end there.

Allarius, he thought, coughing - the first sound his body had made in over seven weeks - I'll be seeing you again.

Slowly, but surely, he began to feel all the aches in his body as one long crack raced up his spine and arms and legs as he moved a few inches. That small effort stole all the strength from him, and he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

My eyes, he thought. I can use both of them.

"Harry...?"

What?

"Harry?"

Yes, I'm Harry. Who are you?

"His eyes opened - just for a second."

They did, both of them. I have two eyes.

"Where's Dumbledore? What! St. Mungo's."

To Harry, the voices sounded like silent whispers echoing down a long and empty tunnel. He fell asleep and awoke three hours later.

"I'm sorry, James," someone said. "We could not wait any longer. To do so would mean the end of us all, and that includes Michael and Melissa. Harry is strong... he can take this."

"He shouldn't have to!" Lily Potter screamed, looking like she was ready to strike the ancient Headmaster, whose arm was in a sling. "He need's time to heal properly. You can't just fill him full of potions and call it healed!"

Harry felt a burning sensation in the back of his throat that he associated with nutrient potions, and when he opened his eyes this time he found it easy to do, and felt revitalised beyond anything he had been over the last two months.

"Harry..." Lily breathed.

"Welcome back, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said calmly, but there was a band of sweat across his forehead, above which lay a bloodied bandage.

"It's good to be back," Harry said, marvelling at the effects of magical potion. He never could have managed those words without their aid. "How bad is it?"

"Bad," Dermas Trask said from the other side of the bed, and Harry pulled himself up into a sitting position. His body was actually in a fairly good condition - all of his wounds had long since healed from the Nundu fight. Any other aches and pains he might be feeling were numbed by the potions.

"How bad is bad?" he asked.

"Since you were poisoned... five hundred Aurors have been killed, four hundred Death Eaters are at large, half of the Wizarding communities from here to Spain are in flames, Dementors are ravishing Muggle Britain, and Voldemort can't be stopped." Dermas fell silent after that.

"And that's not to mention all the natural disasters that have-" Madam Pomfrey began, but Harry waved her off.

"I know about that," he said, and didn't elaborate any further. He just knew, and was perhaps the only one in this world who knew why it was happening.

"Harry..." James Potter began, but then thought better of it.

Harry's pale and emerald eyes flashed as his gaze connected with his fathers. "I know what's been happening, and I know why... I'm sorry to say I did this, but I'll fix it... and live with it no matter what happens. Now what's the move?"

Lily gasped. "Harry," she whispered. "You need to rest. Nundu poisoning is nothing you can just walk away from. A week more bed rest at least."

Harry was shaking his head before she was finished, and now he looked at Dumbledore. "Just give me the potions that'll keep me on my feet, and we'll head to the Ministry now, Headmaster."

Swinging his legs off the edge of the bed, Harry pulled himself to his feet - swaying only slightly as the previous round of potions kept him conscious. He was already taking back control after being out of it for two months - as if time meant anything.

"Dermas, assemble the team and meet me at the Ministry. Dumbledore, am I right in thinking Voldemort believes me dead?"

Dumbledore nodded and was about to speak, but Dermas Trask did first. "Harry... Thomas Fright is dead."

That one stopped Harry for a few moments, but then his eyes glazed over emotionlessly. "Regrettable," he managed. "Nevertheless... the Ministry in full battle gear within the hour. Where are my clothes and armour?"

"They're... in our quarters," Lily whispered sadly, not recognising the boy - the man - before her anymore. Anything of her Harry that had been in there had been killed by this one, the real one. "I'll go get them."

Harry nodded and twisted his neck sharply causing it to crack. "I'll jump in the shower while you're gone then."

Seven minutes later Harry stepped out from under the warm spray of the showers in the hospital wing. He dried himself off quickly and wrapped the towel around his waist. As he did so, he chanced a look in the mirror across the way and then took a deep breath, walking over to it.

Let's see the damage then.... he thought, all of his other thoughts on the equinox.

Reaching the mirror, Harry looked down at his chest first - making sure to avoid seeing his face for now - and saw that he had a new scar running up the left side of his chest. Just a thin pale band against the other pale, sick looking skin there.

Nundu slash, he remembered, feeling a sharp stab of pain there as he did. Shaking his head, he moved on - and slowly raised his head to meet his own eyes.

My left eye looks like it belongs to a ghost, was his first thought - but he was just thankful it was still there. His cheeks were sunk and his eyes hollow, his hair clung to his head and his vision swayed in and out slightly as he focused on himself. I should be resting, he told himself. No time.

Looking into his eyes, Harry ran his right hand across the small, barely noticeable scar underneath his repaired eye. It felt rough and... and scarred. It felt like what it was. His once emerald green eye, so much like his mother's, now held only the slightest hint of pale green. His right eye stood out profoundly against it.

Not much to look at, Potter, he thought - and the voice in his head sounded eerily like Allarius. But you've still got your health... ha ha!

There was a knock on the door and Dumbledore brought in his clothes and armour along with a few vials of energy sustaining potion.

Show time.

To say the Ministry was one of the last few standing symbols of the Light in Britain would be true, to say the Aurors that guarded it were tired and weak would be true, to say the prisoner in one of the far cells was soon to be freed would be true, and to say that the last thing anyone that day expected to see was Harry Potter walking through the Atrium would definitely be true.

The government was still running - barely - and the Atrium was not as busy as it normally would have been, and had more than enough Aurors in it as well. Yet all of them ceased to move as Albus Dumbledore appeared alongside Harry Potter (who looked dead on his feet) on the Apparation point.

Their footsteps echoing loudly on the stone of the floor, Harry and Dumbledore - both battle wearied warriors of incredible stature - made their way over to the golden grille of the elevator, and up to the Minister of Magic's office.

Standing - leaning - against one of the panelled walls in the lift, Harry swallowed another potion and cast the vial aside thoughtlessly, wiping away the sweat on his brow. He was tired, needed rest and a time to readjust to being among the living again, but that potion would keep him going a while longer now.

"I'm sorry, Harry. You need to rest," Dumbledore said, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder.

Harry shrugged it off - thinking of all the problems that lay siege to him. Least of all the Voldemort of this world. "No time," he said with his eyes closed. "Never enough time."

Few paper messages flew overhead and that was a sure sign that the Ministry was falling apart, if nothing else was. Dumbledore pondered these thoughts and many others for a few moments, wondering what was going to happen to their world and what was already happening to it. He felt certain the answers lay in the broken mind standing only two feet away.

Looking back up at Harry, Dumbledore saw he was waving his hand back and forth in front of his face - staring at it as if he had never seen it before.

"My glasses...." he said. "I... never noticed. I don't need them--my sight's fine!?"

Dumbledore managed a small, tight smile that could no longer reach his eyes. "You have Madam Pomfrey to thank for that. Intensive reconstruction for several hours a day over the last four weeks. That magic must have also cured your need for glasses."

Harry was silent for a moment, glancing at the buttons on the panel by the door. He could read them clearly from where he was, and that was good, wasn't it? He coughed to clear his throat and stood steady until a wave of fatigue and dizziness passed.

"They were a liability," he finally said, and then no more.

The golden grille slid back on the floor to the Minister's office and Harry first saw people he hadn't in seven weeks. Dermas Trask, Sophia Tréla, Grace Arnair, Sirius Black, Art Nuan, and Nymphadora Tonks - all of them dressed in their basilisk armour, complete with the engraved white rose.

"Hello," Harry said, using one hand to steady himself against the wall. "I see... I see everyone's here."

There were a few nods, none of them mentioning the absence of Thomas Fright. Harry saw that most of their eyes widened at their first sight of him. He decided it was either the way he looked, or the fact that none of them had expected to see him upright again.

"You all look like you've seen a ghost!" he said, smiling. None of them smiled back.

"Everything's too serious now for jokes, Harry," Sophia said tiredly, her French accent thick.

Harry saw that there was a long, fresh cut reaching down from her left ear to her jaw. He flicked his healed eyes up to hers. "Sometimes you can only joke about these things. I know it help keeps me sane.... but you're right. Let's get on with it, shall we. Where's the Minister?"

It wasn't the reunion any of them had expected, least of all Harry - who felt as if he had seen all of them only a day or two ago, or what could have been up to a thousand years.

Existence is a fickle thing, he thought as he followed Trask down the corridor. But at least now I know why.

Gingerly, Harry pushed his fingers underneath his fringe and felt his infamous scar. There was a cold tingle of power, and nothing more. It was strange to think that this seemingly insignificant mark on his face was bringing down existence at its boundaries.

Bloody Voldemort, he thought, and then amended that to, Voldemorts!

****

All the markers had been called in now. War was coming to a head on two fronts. Harry had survived, against all odds and doubts, he had found the will to live and return to his body.

Existence was about to pay hell for his choices on March 21^st of that year, but Harry had sworn to himself and to everyone else - for no one anywhere was safe from this coming catastrophe - that he would give his life to prevent it, if it came to that--and Harry thought it just may.

There was time, despite his injuries there was time. Sixty four days lay between now and the Autumnal Equinox - where the one chance for everything would be played out, with the chance of a coin-flip on either side. Harry against Allarius.

A demon born of the darkness in Harry's curse scar link. How that had happened was a question for later. All that mattered now was that it be prevented, perhaps rearranged to have never happened. Time would tell, as Destiny and Fate had long since abandoned this game.

Time is all we have left, and yet there's none of it! Irony, sometimes, knows no bounds.

It was like a counter on a bomb - ticking down until.... BOOM! Harry carried that bomb on his back, and he had no idea at this point, as the only hope for us all swayed and almost fell at the door to Bartemius Crouch's office, of the terrible price he would have to pay in time to fix the damage he had unknowingly caused.

Magic was everything in this dangerous string of universes - it was the focal point for the existence of all other strings - if this one were to snap, to fall, it would be like taking away the foundations of a fragilely built stack. Game over.

Nothing was certain anymore - if it ever had been - and time would tell.

If the worst should fall, would it end with a bang or a whimper?

Harry understood - better than anyone or anything thought. Underestimated to the bitter end, this tired mortal boy would battle for the very right to exist once more in the space between universes, the Stream - which transported one between worlds - and the Boundary - which now resembled a torn and burning piece of thin fabric.

And somewhere in it all was a dark, physical manifestation of Evil itself. Beelzebub, that you? Evil that was actively working against the last hope for us all. Evil that had marked Harry as its biggest threat, who wanted everything to end.

I guess I just get a kick out of hearing a billion voices screaming in unison.

It would get that kick before we're done.

****