Rating:
PG-13
House:
The Dark Arts
Ships:
Harry Potter/Luna Lovegood
Characters:
Harry Potter
Genres:
Darkfic Character Sketch
Era:
Harry and Classmates Post-Hogwarts
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Order of the Phoenix Half-Blood Prince
Stats:
Published: 05/01/2007
Updated: 05/01/2007
Words: 2,461
Chapters: 1
Hits: 398

Searching for Valhalla

LilyAyl

Story Summary:
The war has ended. Harry cannot let go so easily, however. He runs in futile circles searching for something to make his life meaningful again while his friends fall apart around him.

Chapter 01

Posted:
05/01/2007
Hits:
398


No moon brightened the sky and clouds obscured all the stars. It was a dark night, and cold. The Auror shivered as he ran to the fallen body. One word escaped the Deatheater's lips before he succumbed to death: Valhalla.

Harry waits under his glamour in the grungy café. A hag cackles in the corner over a sickeningly raw meal. A skinny man slides into the seat across from him. "Who taught fifth year?"

"Umbridge," Harry answers quickly. "That's too easy a question."

"Who else would meet you here?"

"I read your book." Draco Malfoy grins.

I have been asked why I supported Voldemort. The answer is simple; I succumbed. It was easy to succumb. All I had to do was let go and let the darkness of my family and my past wash over me. I welcomed the tide gladly, too gladly perhaps.

"It's nothing, Harry," Hermione said again, exasperated. "Valhalla is the name of a Norse after-life, a place for those who die in battle. That's all."

"It was more than that, Hermione," Harry insisted and he left the study, slamming the door behind him. Hermione winced.

"Oh, Harry..."

Life after the war was perfect, utopic. The Ministry was managed by Kingsley Shacklebolt and the Aurors monitored all the old Deatheaters, the ones who had demanded amnesty in exchange for peace. Harry thought it was a foolish decision. However, he was only the Chosen One; his opinions meant less than his war stories.

"What was it like, Mister Potter? To stand so close to him, to duel with V-Vol-Voldemort?"

"What was it like?" Harry had repeated in a low growl. Ron's hand had restrained him then, a light touch and a heavy reminder. "Hope you never find out," he'd said. The reporter had stepped back and then directed a question to Hermione.

"Is there anything you regret, Ms. Granger?"

A stupid question. But Harry did have one regret, a secret regret. He had stood still and listened to Snape scream and enjoyed it. Snape was made now, rather good friends with Lockhart, and useless.

"...in Valhalla." Harry froze, his thoughts of the pesky reporters and his inaction stilled and he waited for the conversation to continue, but it did not. A small child stared at him balefully from the street corner opposite. Harry blinked and continued walking, cold nestled down deep in his stomach.

When darkness arrives and presses in on all sides, one has two options; resist or succumb.

The war had ended on a Sunday, Easter actually. It was an appropriate day, Hermione had said, but Harry had not listened to her explanations. He remembered being numb, so very numb. It was over.

After reporting in to Tonks, Harry stopped by St. Mungo's. The staff smiled at him as he walked past them. They'd learned already to leave Mr. Potter alone. The room was near the top floor and decorated all in orange. A war hero warranted that much at least. Harry stood and watched, keeping vigil.

Photographs from immediately after the war show three friends, weary, but happy. Everything could be normal now. They would grow up more and get jobs and fall in love and get married. Everyday would be sunlit. In the last photograph of the three together the smiles are strained and worried. Ron coughs and rubs his hand over Hermione's. Harry regretted not taking more pictures.

"Is there anything you regret, Ms. Granger?" Hermione had leaned against Ron and threaded her hand with his. Her reply was famous. "There are always regrets," she'd said, "but the time for looking backward is over. We have to keep moving forward and make sure we regret nothing of the future."

Then Ron got sick.

People then ask why I turned in the end. This answer is also simple; I went mad. I am still mad.

Harry stood on the corner, invisible. He waited all day and heard nothing. Tonks was furious. "Harry, you need to report in regularly and not go out on your own, especially on unauthorized missions. We have regulations for a reason. I'm putting you on a desk." Harry protested angrily, but Tonks held firm. Harry cursed and left the office. Harry cursed and left the office. A box of papers to document awaited him at his normally unused desk.

"Harry, I can't divert time to researching after your trivial fantasies. Ron is dying. Who bloody cares about Valhalla?" Hermione had been surrounded, as she always was, with potions diagrams and obscure texts. He remembered thinking she looked thinner than normal and had seen the sandwich beside her, barely half-eaten. He'd shoved that all aside, however.

"Tell me about Valhalla," He'd demanded again. Hermione had glared at him and shoved her books aside.

"Fine," she'd said tersely, but she'd only told stories of Odin and Valkyries and a world made for warriors.

Harry recalled this conversation as the word 'valkyrie' appeared in a letter from an unknown Deatheater to Eric Greengrass.

The valkyries are ready should the worst occur. I know you fear them, but they will save us.

Harry dashed off a letter to Luna asking her to join him for lunch the next day.

Darkness pressed in from all sides. Harry was sweating. His wand pointed at the Deatheater. He remembers the war. The Deatheater shifts and Harry strikes. The body falls in slow motion and an angel appears. She takes the Deatheater and flies away. The wind whips around Harry and whispers, Valhalla. Harry woke up and did not fall asleep for the rest of the night.

Hermione ignored him until he apologized. He asked her how the research was going and she shook her head. "I can't do this anymore, Harry. I'm going mad. The poison makes no sense. Maybe that was the intention all along--drive us all mad. I'm need help. Mungo's are just a bunch of twits." Harry rubbed her shoulders and promised her he'd find the best.

Luna was already sitting with water when Harry arrived at the little café. She wore a simple blue robe cut wide across her shoulders, fully revealing her neck and throat. Harry stared at her for a moment before making his way to the table. "Hello Luna."

Luna smiled at him. "Hello Harry. How is Ronald?"

Harry frowned and sat down at the table. "Not good, Luna. Actually, I told Hermione I'd find someone to help her out. Any ideas?" Harry picked up the menu and glanced over it.

"Hm. There was a girl a year ahead of me who was quite talented. She really admired Professor Snape. I'll write her for you. She's at Dartmoor. The sporndials make it an excellent place for potions work."

"Wonderful. Thank you." He dropped the menu and gestured to a waiter.

"You're welcome, Harry. Now, what do you need from me?" Harry did not try to defend his motivations.

"What do you know about Valhalla?"

"It is an afterlife. Many of the old purebloods are Odinists and believe in it quite strongly."

"It is more than that," Harry insisted. The waiter approached the table and Harry ordered before he could say anything. Luna just shook her head and the waiter left.

"The war is over, Harry," Luna said once the waiter was out of ear-shot.

"I know that." Luna just stared at him and then took a sip of her water.

"Have you read Draco Malfoy's book?"

"Malfoy is dead."

"Oh? Well, it is a rather good book for a dead man, I suppose. You should still read it."

Harry combed through all of Flourish and Blotts and found nothing. When he complained of this to Luna, she was unsympathetic.

"You're mad, Harry," Luna said as she walked with Harry around the pond at her home. The sun was slowly dipping toward the western horizon and Harry would soon leave for the streets again.

"What?" Harry asked, startled by her sudden statement.

Luna stopped and turned toward him. "Shall I be mad as well? We'll be a matched pair." She brushed her knuckles against his and grasped his fingers.

"I am not mad," Harry murmured and he pressed his forehead down against Luna's.

"Obsession is a sort of madness."

Each day Harry catalogued each correspondence in the box on his desk carefully. Each night he walked the streets, alert for any mention of Malfoy's book.

When the war ended we had to decide what to do next, what shape the world would not take. When everything ends, what is left but madness?

"I heard you were looking for me, Potter." A skinny body pressed up against Harry's back.

"You're dead." He did not turn. Draco's fingers slipped beneath his cloak and splayed over his hips. Harry closed his eyes briefly.

"I am never dead until I die," Draco said and he pulled back suddenly and was gone before Harry could whirl around. Harry did not discover the folded paper in his robes' inside pocket until the next day.

Harry held Ron's wrist to still his trembling. Hermione tapped the needle and pushed it into Ron's arm. "Do you think it will work this time?" Harry asked as Hermione pressed the potion in.

"I don't know, but Turpin and I can't think of anything else. I hope it works." Harry hoped so as well and he wished he could cure Ron now just as easily as he had sixth year. Bezoars were useless this time.

Harry accepted the package from Hedwig and fed her an owl treat. He slit the dark paper and folded it back. Candles illuminated a small book within.

The years just after the war had been the hardest; so many funerals and Neville yelling at him. "You never loved her, Harry. Never. And I-- I did so much, but she only wanted you. It's always you." Ginny was oblivious to this argument and continued to smile peacefully in her coffin, dressed in her favorite yellow robes. Then the press dwindled and the funerals faded and they were just ordinary people on the brink of a new world, searching for meaning.

"He's in Valhalla." Harry wanted to scream. No one said where to go; they only named the place. Harry pulled the oft unfolded and refolded paper from his pocket and looked at it in the light of the dim candles of the Knockturn bar. You'll find me at Bloodroot every other Thursday at eight. Be early.

"Tonks, I think we need to put a full team on the assignment of uncovering Valhalla."

"What's that?" Tonks asked and so Harry explained the references and his hunches. Tonks dismissed the idea. "That's all just hearsay, Harry. Get me proof."

Hope is a timid thing, and frail. This hope is no different, but it strong enough. Of course, belief in any sort of hope is madness. Therefore I am mad.

Harry waited at the Bloodroot. "Who turned into a beast third year?" A raspy voice asked from behind him.

"Our professor, Remus Lupin," Harry replied. Draco Malfoy slid into the seat across from him, disguised.

"So?" he asked. "Have you read the book?"

"Not all of it; not yet." Draco stood.

"Then don't waste my time." He left. Harry pulled the book from the deep pocket inside his robes. The cover was a dark blue and the title lettered in silver. He turned to the beginning. I have been asked...

Luna smiled at him over her tea. Her strange earrings glittered in the sunlight. "How is Ronald?" she asked. Harry shook his head.

"It didn't work." Harry kicked the fireplace and fell into the chair beside it.

Luna blew on her tea, her lips formed a perfect pink 'o.' "You should talk to Snape. He made the potion after all." Harry blinked.

"Snape is mad, Luna."

"So are you, Harry." She smiled as Harry scowled at her words and asked if he would like more tea.

Snape was by the window of his room. Harry approached quietly. "Professor?"

"Stop sniveling, Bulstrode," Snape replied brusquely. "For God's sake, you are a Slytherin." Harry bit back a groan.

"I need to know about potions, sir." The forced politeness was a must when dealing with Snape now.

"Ask Lockhart," Snape replied airly. "He was all the answers, I'm sure."

"Lockhart has forgotten, sir."

"Nonsense. He's just feigning stupidity. You all are."

"Good-bye, Professor." Harry started to leave the too-bright room. Snape turned back to the window.

"Ungrateful brat and tell Miss Granger to stop messing about my stores. I have records now and Dumbledore will hear of her behavior." Harry stopped.

"Records?" he repeated. "You mean your notes. The ones we found in your desk."

"If I had meant that I would have said that. My journal, you idiot child." Harry did feel like an idiot. For three years they'd assumed that the notes they'd found were everything. He asked where he could find the journal, but Snape asked when Lockhart would be returning. So Harry left and apparated directly to Hermione's study.

A week passed, then two. The days blurred together as Harry searched in earnest for Snape's journal. He felt like he was searching for Horcruxes again. When he found the journal, hidden in a secret room between the walls at Snape's home, he was elated. Hermione and Lisa studied the journal and Harry spent more time with Ron in nervous excitement.

Harry was there when Ron stopped breathing and he was there when the Healers crowded the room and he was there when Ron's eyes opened and his lips turned blue and he was there when Ron flopped back again the bed and he was there when they announced his time of death. Harry did not move until Luna came and grabbed his wrist and pulled him from the room.

The darkness pressed in from all sides and Harry did not know what to do. He stopped going to work and he did not visit Hermione. Luna brought him food each day, but she never stayed. On Thursday, Harry returned to Knockturn Alley.

"I read your book," Harry says and Draco Malfoy grins. Harry swallows, suddenly unsure.

When darkness presses in from all sides, one has two options; resist or

"What is Valhalla?" he asks.

"A place for warriors. A place for war." Harry's mouth is dry.

When everything ends, what is left but madness?

"How do you get there?"

"A valkyrie will come to take you there," Draco replies. The café is growing dimmer and the candles cast strange shadows onto Draco's borrowed face.

"Take me." Draco's grin stretches until it looks as through it might snap his skeletal face. He stands and bows mockingly.

"This way, Potter." He leaves the café and Harry follows him.

He can do nothing else.