Harry Potter and the Champion of Darkness

Chapter 2: Dreams of Darkness and Desire

"He should be fine, Albus," said Madam Pomfrey, as she exited the Hospital Wing. "For having lost so much blood, he shows no sign of iron depletion or... well, any of the symptoms that would be normally associated with blood loss."

Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, along with Ron and Hermione were waiting outside anxiously, after a very adamant and insistent nurse kicked them out. The air with thick with nervous tension and anticipation; it was as if the very soul of evil had crept into the hallway and was peering over their shoulders for the perfect opportunity to strike.

It unnerved Ron in a way nothing else could.

All Ron remembered was awakening to Harry's anguished screams and not being able to breathe. His lungs were constricted by Harry's pain, and, after managing to crawl over to Harry's side, had dropped unconscious from lack of oxygen.

He had awoken as a result of Professor McGonagall's reviving spell, not too much later.

"Truly, Poppy," said Professor McGonagall in her firm, but concerned voice. "What happened?"

Dumbledore remained respectfully silent; the usual twinkle in his eyes was displaced by a troubled frown.

"I do not know for sure, Minerva," said Madam Pomfrey. "It is obvious that it was not a knife, or a tangible object... once all the blood cleared, there was no opening."

Hermione glanced up to Dumbledore, wearing a look that pleaded with him for answers.

"He is as healthy as a horse right now," said Madam Pomfrey. "I just want to keep him overnight, just to be certain."

Dumbledore nodded curtly at the plump nurse, his ancient, white beard nearly touching the floor. "As you wish."

For the first time tonight, Dumbledore looked down to Ron and Hermione. "Please, come with me before returning to the Gryffindor Tower."

Ron and Hermione both agreed in silence, as he turned back to Professor McGonagall.

"Minerva," he said, his stern face seeming to deliquesce into a frown. "Might you please try and convince some of the house elves to clean up the mess in the Gryffindor Tower? I fear that House Elves do have their hesitations about cleaning up blood."

Minerva blinked with concern, but managed a curt nod. "Of course, Professor."

And with that, the five people went their separate ways, with Professor McGonagall heading down the North hall, aiming to reach the kitchens downstairs, and Madam Pomfrey returning to the sanctity of her hospital.

The three remaining wizards began to descend down the southern passage, in the direction of the Headmaster's office.

"I was there, Professor," said Ron slowly. "I saw how much blood Harry was loosing before I passed out... how could he loose that much and be alright?"

It was not Dumbledore who spoke, but Hermione. "I have a hypothesis."

"There's a shocker," said Ron, dourly, but with good nature as the hint of a smile crept out upon his pale face.

Hermione pushed a strand of wavy, brown hair out of her eyes, causing Ron's heart to flutter for a moment in his chest. Ron had to admit to himself, he loved Hermione's hands. They were such slender things that seemed alive with personification. There was an assertive and forceful personality about them, as if every move they made was planned, calculated and carried out with the most efficiency. Nothing about Hermione was ever lax or laid back.

"I suppose this is just a guess, but it wasn't Harry's blood, was it?"

While Dumbledore's back was to Ron, he caught a distinct corner of his mouth twitching into a slight smile.

"My guess is the same as yours, Ms. Granger."

Ron's brow furrowed with bewilderment as he adjusted his golden glasses absentmindedly.

"Then, whose was it?" he asked.

Dumbledore lead the two students down the stairs at the end of the southern passage, passing by several full sized portraits of former Hogwarts staff. A handful of the old professors seemed to be surrounding a table, caught up in a teachers meeting. Ron had often wondered what life must be like for those images in a painting. They seemed to have personalities and feelings; they seemed to follow daily routines as other people. Ron had often mused that the beings within a picture likely saw him as a picture as well, and nothing more. Trapped in their own little worlds, with but a stationary frame in which to view the world Ron lived in. Perhaps his passing by was just another person passing by a portrait on their perspective of the world.

"I am not certain that it was anyone's in particular," explained the venerable headmaster. "I believe Harry's scar was, once again, warning him of danger."

Hermione thinned her lips. "He seemed to think that You-Know-Who might be dead."

Dumbledore chuckled, and just like that, the air around them seemed to become more alive and more enjoyable. "Well, wouldn't that be nice?"

Ron and Hermione both could not resist a smile at that, as they approached the Gargoyle leading into Professor Dumbledore's office.

"Canary Creams," said Dumbledore stoutly.

Ron's heart skipped a beat upon hearing the patented name for one of the Wizard Wheeze's products. "They didn't..."

At that, Dumbledore laughed, the full mirth of his personality beginning to shine through his weary exterior once again. "Oh yes, they did... I became the first Headmaster of Hogwarts with feathers since 1488, when the school was run by a Brazilian wizard who was a parrot Antimagus."

"Oh!" gasped Hermione, putting her hand to her mouth. "I remember reading about him in Hogwarts: A History. Didn't he run the school for nearly one hundred years?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, he certainly did. He had a unique method of teaching, and, while he was headmaster, he introduced Druidism into the curriculum."

"Huh?" asked Ron, scratching his chin as they ascended up to the Headmaster's office. From canaries to druids, thought Ron. Interesting transition. "What's Druidism?"

"Druidism is a school of magic that is no longer taught; I fear it was rendered obsolete by most modern magic, for it did not use a wand."

Ron blinked at that. "Whoa, so it was kinda like Narhassa magic?"

Dumbledore turned the door handle to his office, yet did not open it.

"Not at all," he said, turned back around to face Ron, with a mild expression in his eyes. "The powers of Narhassa were undisciplined and unearned, and that was their weakness. Druidism is a result of years and years of fine tuning your body, mind and soul."

"Isn't such dedication to your art a noble thing?" asked Hermione as Dumbledore finally opened the door. "Does not ones commitment to any type of magic reflect the power one wields?"

Despite the potential gravity of the situation before them, Ron could not help but afford a simple smile to Hermione. Ron often wondered if Hermione ever saw little things with Ron that made her feel happy, no matter how the present situation looked. It was the way she spoke; always with a flowing, well thought out dialogue, as if everything about her was rehearsed for the big show, that was her life. While Ron had been in a one-way relationship of love with Hermione all throughout the second half of fourth year and most of fifth year, he never noticed the little things about her. He always saw just the big picture, and how much it hurt not having her. Now that he had her, however, he made sure to respect every move, word and gesture within his best friend.

He now noticed all the little things that made her so special.

Dumbledore strode around to the other side of his desk, petting a still very scrawny and bald Fawkes, who was resting upon the Headmaster's chair. He popped the frail looking phoenix atop the desk and sat down. As it always seemed to be, there were just enough chairs on the other side of Dumbledore's desk for Ron and Hermione, no more, no less.

"A powerful Druid was more than a match for any wizard in a duel, however, any wizard with a wand can finish their education in seven years," explained Dumbledore, with a kind, insightful tone, "however, to truly become a master Druid, one must spend closer to thirty years, and have a much deeper dedication."

Dumbledore straightened his collar and gave his long, white beard a scratch before continuing.

"The reason Druidism was finally removed from the curriculum is because it cannot be taught effectively in a classroom. Most Druids teach students in a master/apprentice relationship."

Ron sat down in one of the fluffy, maroon chairs on the other side of Dumbledore's desk. While he had to say the whole idea of Druidism was fascinating, he really was not concerned with ancient schools of magic right now.

"What happened to Harry, Professor?" asked Ron, changing the subject with a quick jolt.

Dumbledore sunk into his chair on the other side of the desk, looking very withered and tired. It was very late at night, no doubt, but Ron could not help but notice how frail the Headmaster seemed to be, as of late. It was no doubt that the whole attack of Narhassa situation had taken much out of him, however, he just seemed too paper thin for Ron to feel at ease.

"It is my belief," began Dumbledore, "that if Voldemort is truly vanquished from this world, Harry's scar will fade away... it's duty will be done."

"Professor," asked Hermione sagely. She had taken a seat next to Ron. "Why would Harry think Voldemort was dead? He seemed so sure of it."

Dumbledore twirled a bit of his long, white beard around one of his gnarled, wrinkled fingers.

"That, I cannot be sure of, Ms. Granger," said the red-robed wizard with his soft voice. He then looked to Ron with sincerity. "I brought both of you up here, right now, because I made a promise, Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger. The promise was that I would never 'possum' you off again. If you wish to here my most sincere belief, I shall tell it to you."

Ron nodded, but did not speak.

"Very well," said Dumbledore, his face taking on a sort of listless, wrinkled quality, much like a portrait of himself after it had been crumpled up loosely and unfolded again.

"It is my belief that Harry's bleeding scar is the gravest warning he has ever received. Somehow, I am willing to believe that Voldemort's power has increased to a pinnacle, not faded out into nothingness. I do not know how and why, however, I am hoping that Professor Snape might be able to aid me in understanding."

"Well, what should we do about it?" asked Ron coyly, lowering his eyes and folding his hands lazily upon his lap. It was clear that lack of sleep was beginning to get to him.

Dumbledore rocked back in his chair, tapping his two index fingers together apprehensively. "I believe that Harry should go to America and visit Mr. Camaradi, as he was asked, and Hermione should go with him. I have been more than happy to connect the Floo network of Hogwarts to Mr. Camaradi's house for a few minutes tomorrow. I do not believe there is anything he can do in the way of discovering what sinister power lies behind his new pain, nor do I want him to try."

At the mention of the trip to Southern California, Ron visibly blazed over scarlet again. He could feel a huge weight in the pit of his stomach still, regardless of the promises that Harry and Hermione made to him. It did not matter.

I don't want them to 'beg' Sean to 'let me come along.' I don't need anything from that little prat!

His girlfriend would be spending two weeks in paradise with his best friend and her ex-boyfriend. She would be swimming, doing that thing called 'surfing' that Sean mentioned once or twice, and going to amusement parts and riding on coaster rollers, or whatever they were called.

And he'd be spending Christmas Eve by himself, with only several copies of "Witches Sans Britches" to keep him company. He had stumbled upon Seamus' sacred and well-esteemed stash of gratuitous magazines last year, when he was searching for his wand. So, at least, he'd at least have some variety.

Nevertheless, the prospects still seemed rather bleak.

"But surely, Professor," said Hermione morosely, as if begging him for some arduous task to be assigned in the discernment of all that is evil, "there must be something we can do?"

Dumbledore considered her words carefully, while tapping his fingers together apprehensively. To Ron, it seemed as though he were mulling something over in his head.

"Yes," he said finally. "You can keep an eye on Harry for me... I am worried about him."

Ron raised the corner of his mouth in a smirk, and unconsciously gave his golden glasses a flick.

"When shouldn't we be worried about Harry?" asked Ron.

However, the venerable Headmaster showed no sign of hearing the slight muse. "We must be worried more than ever now. Harry has made many enemies and I fear for his safety, should Voldemort have risen to a level of power that can offer a challenge to me."

Ron and Hermione both swallowed in fear. A Voldemort that could successfully attack Hogwarts and fight Dumbledore on even ground was no foe that Ron wanted to face.

* * * * * *

Harry was back, once again, on the ledge next to the proud peak of Ben Nevis, the place of his dramatic showdown with Voldemort and Seth Redetyor over the esteemed power of Narhassa. It was not an uncommon dream for him to have, and nor did it take him by surprise to be dreaming of it now. What did take him by mild surprise was that he knew he was dreaming.

The bitter cold was real as the wind gusted off the peak and ripped into his flesh, chilling him deep down to the bone. He could hear faint voices, coming from just above him, at the summit.

Harry willed himself to fly up into the air, feeling that while he was in the dream, he might as well control it. It was a strange feeling, being able to fly and not needing a broom to do so. He cleared the lip of the summit and, once again, saw the circle of Narhassa students, surrounding the massive Griffin that marked the way into Narhassa's layer.

Yet, what had been such a gothic and scary sight was now colored in a gray hue, for it was in the past, and no longer pertinent. As if registering that thought, the Narhassa students faded away, and were replaced by a single figure, at the peak of the mountain, kneeling in front of the giant Griffin.

He, also, was grayed over... and Harry realized now that he was looking at the past, but the not-so-distant past.

"Speak of me what you will, my lord," said Voldemort stretching out his hands reverently to the Griffin and slowly dropping face first to the ground, spreading his bony hands into the dirt.

Huh? Thought Harry.

And then, Harry could feel it... a dab of moisture upon his scar with slowly began to run down his face again.

Blood.

"You have done well, Lord Voldemort," hissed a voice though Harry's head, chilling him to the marrow in a way that Voldemort could never do. "You seem to be a most competent Dark Lord and shall make a fine Death Knight."

Voldemort lifted his head from the ground. "I have spent countless years of my life, seeking what only you can offer."

"Yes..." said the voice, stemming from all around Harry. "Your hate and ambition burns as great as the sun, and your soul and heart burn as cold in your simple desire."

"Eternal life," said Voldemort, his swirling red eyes oscillating as he spoke.

"And you shall have it... Dark Lord Voldemort. You must, however, bring me the one who harbors Narhassa, for only with her essence, might I return again."

Voldemort frowned slightly, the corners of his lipless mouth pulling down with disappointment. "Harry Potter?"

The voice shuttered, as if Harry's name drove icicles of fear within it.

"The name is of no meaning to me. I seek the one who vanquished Narhassa, and took her power for himself or herself. Within her soul lies the remnant of my essence. When I am fully restored, the world will be ours... all those loyal to me will understand what it means to control the world."

"Harry Potter has the powers of Narhassa?" gasped Voldemort, his red eyes fluttering with what Harry could only deduce as fear. "My lord, you must understand... in order to attain this connection with you, I am forced to open my mind completely. I do believe Harry Potter is watching us, and listening to us now, as I cannot offer any resistance to him."

The voice remained perfectly silent for a moment.

"It is of little consequence. If he tries to tap into Narhassa's power, using the information he learns tonight, he will poison himself with every use... insanity will grip him as it did the foolish Slytherin. He will be the most formidable being since Salazar Slytherin, but it will come at the cost of everyone and everything he holds dear."

Voldemort shuttered with nervous angst. Never before had Harry ever thought that the Dark Lord could appear out of his league. The words were pounding an immense amount of interest within his chest, making it difficult for him to draw breath. Killing Narhassa had drawn her powers within him? thought Harry. But, wasn't that what the Sorolith was supposed to do?

Harry's mind wandered back to the ancient artifact that was formerly Lucius Malfoy's most prized Dark Arts piece; the father of the girl Harry had once loved had stolen it from him. It had two primary, amazing powers. One, it was capable of drawing the soul from a defeated or willing target and turning it into pure energy, whether it be in small amounts, or all at once.

The second function was the reason why Lord Voldemort and Ron Weasley were now still very much alive. The ability to create a simulacrum bond, or a link that served between the caster and a random host in which the caster could become a parasite if he needed life energy to sustain himself, was a saving grace for Voldemort, whom had infused a boy, long ago, with such a bond.

That night, fourteen years ago, when Lord Voldemort underwent a backfired Killing Curse, he was kept alive by that bond, his soul feeding off the life energy of a boy named Seth Redetyor, his properly prepared simulacrum, like a parasite for the next few years.

"What should I do, then, my lord?" asked Voldemort, with severe hesitation.

"You need a champion, Dark Lord Voldemort...I shall provide you with one; one who will deal with Harry Potter, and bring him back. The champion is the only one who can destroy this boy... he or she who is touched by my essence will be unaffected by Narhassa's powers."

"A champion?" asked Voldemort.

"Yes..." hissed the voice from the shadows. "After the champion is reborn, nurture it though its undead infancy, rebuild its strength, and then... set it upon its objective."

Harry swallowed nervously. Nurture him though his undead infancy? This does not sound pleasant.

"And just who will this champion be?" asked Voldemort skeptically.

At that, the shadowy voice laughed chillingly through Harry's mind.

"That is for you to decide, Dark Lord Voldemort. The best choice is one who has strong feelings for the objective... a best friend, a worst enemy... or a person who brings out love, hate or shame within the objective. The champion's power will be that much greater if he inspires a reaction within this Harry Potter."

Voldemort nodded slowly, processing this information. A slow, malicious glint appeared within the Dark Lord's eyes. "I have the perfect champion in mind."

"When you have made your choice, bring me a personal item of this person. With my final bit of power that has been awoken, your champion shall rise... stripped of the very soul that made him mortal. He will have the heart and brain he possessed in his human life, but no morals or inhibitions. He will serve you well."

Voldemort glanced around, with a very uncharacteristic paranoia. "My lord," he hissed emphatically. "Potter can hear you!"

Harry suddenly felt a surge of pain shooting through his head, causing him to stagger. The dream world around him rippled surrealistically.

Something trying to make me wake up... thought Harry. He focused deeply on keeping his eyes shut, forcing himself to remain in the dream world.

* * * * * *

The last thing Harry remembered before bolting upright was the voice inside his head:

"Leave the boy to the champion... if you choose wisely, he will not stand a chance, Narhassa powers or not."

Harry bat the sweat out of his eyes, his mind racing with questions that had no answers. Who was Voldemort talking to? What was this talk about a champion? And finally... did he really have all of Narhassa's powers and somehow not know it?

The hospital wing seemed as a prison cell for his mind that longed for answers. He needed someone to talk to, right now. With a dab to his own forehead, he felt a trace of blood, though it was hardly as cascading as before.

He could not wait until tomorrow, he needed to speak to Ron.

Harry stretched out with his feelings, and could perceive a swirling force within his head, like the noose of a rope that bound him to another being. By sheer willpower, he gripped this force within his head and, like a climber spanning a chasm, he willed himself across the rope to the other binding point.

His vision momentarily clouded as he entered Ron's head: it was clear at once that Ron was asleep and in the middle of a dream. Harry closed his eyes as the hospital room faded from his mind, and instead, he found himself splashing down into a deep, warm ocean.

He surfaced quickly, peering about and seeing the shoreline to his left. Without any effort, he willed himself to the shore, for in this dream, he had as much power and control as Ron did himself. It never ceased to amaze him how great their bond was at this point.

"Shh," hissed a voice from his left. "I'm spying on Harry and Hermione."

Harry turned around to see Ron, no longer looking as his twin... but as the gangly red-headed boy Harry had known since first year. He appeared a few years younger than he should have been, perhaps eleven or so. He was dressed down very lightly, with a light, sleeveless T-shirt and shorts. He beckoned Harry closer, apparently not knowing who he was.

"Why are you spying on Harry and Hermione?" asked Harry. He knew what he was doing was very underhanded; they had made an agreement to always announce their presence to each other within a dream, however, Harry's own curiosity (perhaps his inner Slytherin) got the upper hand.

The young Ron shrugged, his ginger hair reflecting the sun of the warm beach. "I think something's going on."

"Huh?" gasped Harry, but before he could ask, Ron beckoned to Harry and rushed off down the beach.

"Come on, I think they are here," called eleven year old Ron.

Harry followed after Ron, now beginning to feel very guilty for invading this dream of his. Though, Harry had to admit that this was taking his mind off of the encounter with Voldemort and the evil voice atop Ben Nevis.

Ron held up his hand, stopping him as Harry caught up to him by willing himself to follow. "Look, down there..."

The beach took a severe dip down into a slight valley, which was psychedelic for Harry to behold seeing as how the ocean bent along with it, so the valley would not be flooded. It was a fact that the laws of physics ceased to exist within Ron's little world.

Harry spied three people sitting upon the beach. One was himself, though it did not look like himself. He willed himself to see the person clearer. It was, in fact, an older version of himself... perhaps what he'd look like a year or two after Hogwarts. Hermione was sitting next to him, looking older and more mature.

And so beautiful looking that it nearly hurt to watch her.

And the third figure who sat next to Hermione was none other than Sean, who seemed much thinner and paler in this dream. He seemed so weak that a stiff wind could tear him limb from limb. His skin was tanned, though even still, it appeared sickly and frail when seen in combination with his greasy red hair.

"They are having such a good time, aren't they?" asked Ron with a sigh.

Harry shrugged. "I... don't know."

"It's so sad," said little Ron, a slight smirk breaking out onto his face. "They'll never need me."

This froze Harry solid.

"What do you mean?" asked Harry.

Ron frowned, his smirk fading away from his youthful face. "I was never really part of this group. Hermione hated me for hating Sean, and Sean hated me for loving Hermione... and Harry hated me for both reasons."

"What!" exclaimed Harry, his eyes widening. "I... er... Harry never hated you for any reasons!"

Ron stretched out his hands, spanning them across his body, as if calling out to a greater power. "Harry is always too busy being the hero... I suppose the world needs heroes, but when I want to tag along and take some respect, he always insists I remain behind."

The skies began to darken.

"Meanwhile, I am the one who always gets hurt... I was nearly killed first year during the chess game for him. My leg was broken third year by Sirius, and now, I was nearly killed by You-Know-Who."

Harry swallowed a nervous lump in his throat.

"And, how does he and Hermione repay me? They go enjoy a vacation, here, without me. They love each other, and I am on the outskirts of that."

The dark-haired boy shook his head at the insanity of it all. Was this really how Ron felt? Did he really think of himself as being held back, taking all the hits, while Harry walked away with all of the respect?

Does Ron really think that I am in love with Hermione?

Before Harry's questions could be answered, or even asked aloud... the laws of physics suddenly turned themselves on in Ron's world, as the ocean stopped bending around the valley righted itself. With a roar, a crest of white water rushed in upon the three figures down below.

Ron turned around, walking away, leaving Harry, Hermione and Sean helpless against the oncoming water.

"The closer I get to Harry and Hermione," said little Ron sourly, as he trudged away. There was no small amount of schadenfreude present within Ron's distant, somber voice. "The further away I seem."

And then, Harry felt himself being pulled out of the dream world, as if a line was attached to his own forehead and someone was reeling him in like a fish. He fought to stay; he wanted to tell Ron his true feelings, without Ron and his friendship, there would be nothing worth living for anymore...

But Ron had awoken, and there was no dream world left for Harry to remain in.