The Fall Of The Dark Lord

The Fall of the Dark Lord

Chapter 2: The Dreams

 

Harry sat up in bed stifling a great cry. It was the same dream again and again. Every night the same thing: the night his parents died. It always ended the same way: with the bright flash of the Avada Kedavra curse. He never saw passed it…never saw what happened afterwards or how he’d survived.

The dreams were getting worse every night. When he’d first come to Hogwarts they were only occasional, and they had only consisted of sounds and light, like what he experienced in the presence of the Dementors in his third year. But now he could see the entire night…everything that had happened. The first time he’d seen the whole thing he’d been traumatized. He couldn’t even find the strength to pull himself from his bed. He could only stare at the drapery and recall his father fighting Voldemort, and his mother begging for his life. It had taken a week to pull him out of that state. Ron and Hermione couldn’t understand what he was going through, and he refused to tell anyone about what he saw.

This dream had been the worst of all—the realest. He’d actually felt his parents’ pain—had been only inches from his father during the battle. He was dangerously close to falling back into the pit he had been in not more than a month ago. He fumbled for his glasses, putting them on with trembling hands. He struggled with his robes and went down to breakfast.

The hall was deafeningly silent. It had been that way all year long. The tragedies that had occurred since 1994 had left no one unaffected. Even the Weasley twins, when Harry had the chance to speak to them, weren’t the same. They were serious, not their old happy selves. The deaths of their father and Percy hit them hard. Ron had taken it well; his personality had remained intact for the most part. It happened two years earlier, when some of Voldemort’s followers attacked the members of the Ministry of Magic. Many had died, including the attackers. When they had no escape from the Ministry they simply went kamikaze, venerating the Dark Lord to the end.

It was 1997 now; Harry’s seventh year. The graduation banquet was set up for the next evening, and commencement was in three days. It would have been exciting, accept that the fear of Voldemort was so great that any happy moments were sucked away, leaving everyone gray-faced and withdrawn.

Harry sat down next to Ron and Hermione. Hermione was wearing her silver Prefect badge. She was head girl—naturally. Even in these dark times she was still the brainiest person in the whole school. What he couldn’t figure out was how he became head boy. But he was, plain and simple. He was second in the class only to Hermione.

He stared blankly at his plate.

"Harry?" Hermione asked, "Harry!" She snapped her fingers in front of his face to break the trance.

"Wha—what?" Harry mumbled, glancing at her and Ron who looked at him with worry.

"Are you okay? You’re not going to conk out on us again are you?"

"No…no I won’t let myself do that again."

"What’s wrong then?" Ron asked, "We didn’t ask before, because we figured you’d tell us eventually, but what happened? Why did you—leave?" Ron could think of no better way to describe Harry’s severe bout of depression those few weeks ago.

He decided to tell them. It wouldn’t make the torture of reliving the dreams any worse than it already was. "It’s the dreams…They’re getting worse. At first I just heard them, and saw the light but…last month—I saw them die. I watched them die. Every night I watch them die over and over again and I can do absolutely nothing to stop it from happening!" Harry hadn’t looked up from his plate. "Last month I saw everything…what He did to my father—I couldn’t take it. I saw it happen over and over again, even when I was awake. I see it now!"

"Harry," Hermione said, placing a hand on his shoulder as Harry put his hand to his eyes.

"What’s wrong Potter? Having bad dreams?" a cooing voice said.

"Go suck a toad Malfoy!" Ron growled.

Malfoy and his flunkies Crabbe and Goyle laughed, "Is the ickle baby having nightmares?"

"Get away from me Malfoy," Harry whispered, putting his hand down on his wand, "Now."

"Oh, the poor baby wants me to leave him alone."

"I’m warning you…"

"What are you going to do, Potter? Kill me?"

Harry leapt from his chair, whirling around with wand in hand, stopping the point between Malfoy’s eyes. He squeaked in utter surprise, staring down the length of the wand. Any noise that had been in the room abruptly stopped as all attention was directed to Harry and Malfoy.

Crabbe and Goyle backed away. Malfoy looked at Harry with worry, his fear growing even more when he saw Harry’s face. None of them had ever seen such a look on Harry before. Never, not in any of their confrontations. Never a look of such hatred and malice. His brows were forked together, his eyes piercing from beneath them, and his clenched teeth were bared in rage.

"Now, Potter—I mean Harry—Don’t do anything foolish!" Malfoy stammered.

"Harry," Hermione said, "Put the wand down." She tried to push his arm down to his side, but it wouldn’t budge. It was locked in that position, his fists clenched and white-knuckled.

"Leave," he growled.

Malfoy fell backward onto his rear and then scrambled to his feet and away to the Slytherin table. Harry remained frozen in the same position, arm and wand outstretched, eyes fixed on an enemy that was no longer there.

"Harry! HARRY!" Ron and Hermione yelled in unison.

It was like he snapped back from some other world. His face returned to normal, his muscles relaxed and his wand clattered to the ground. He fell back on his chair. The whole room was watching him.

"What did you think you were doing!?!" Hermione shouted, "Are you trying to get yourself expelled? For God’s sake, we only have three more days!"

"Why did you do that, Harry? Everyone’s gonna think you’ve gone bad, just like You-Know—"

"Don’t even say it Ron. Don’t even suggest it. I don’t know what I was thinking," Harry answered.

* * * * *

The day went well after that, mainly because Malfoy was too afraid to torment him. Finals went well too. For once in his life Harry knew the material. He crashed into bed praying for one good night’s sleep out of his last year at Hogwarts. But in any case, if he was forced to see that night again, he was determined to see what happened after Voldemort cursed him. He would not let himself wake up until the very end.

 

It was inevitable. He hadn’t escaped from the dreams any other time that year, or any of the years since Voldemort’s return. The dream came, as it always did. It started the same way it always did, with his father being unable to sleep, and then the argument between his parents, and then the arrival of Voldemort.

It was the same every night. He came walking into the house over the broken door, his bleached face distorted into an evil smile, and he spoke. The voice haunted Harry; all the voices in the dream haunted him. He could always remember the voices when he woke up, but never what they had said.

Voldemort always spoke to his father before the fight, but Harry could never remember what about. He thought it had something to do with him, but he could never remember, and then his father would attack, but Voldemort not only blocked the spell, but rebounded it, shattering his father’s wand in the process. He was left defenseless. Voldemort then proceeded to torture him, each time asking for something his father refused to give—his loyalty?—but in each case his father refused—and then…

Voldemort went on to his mother, who was trapped inside their house. She begged for Harry’s life, Voldemort growing angry—at first he displayed no interest in her—only in Harry. Remembering this when he woke each time tormented him—she died because of him. Voldemort may have let her live otherwise. Finally he killed her, casting the Avada Kedavra to her back—to her back! And afterwards he would pry Harry out of her arms and carry him to their kitchen table.

There he would lay his spidery hand on Harry’s infant head—perhaps inspecting the prey before he destroyed it—Harry didn’t know. Something more curious to Harry was that he’d already had his scar. It was there! Before Voldemort tried to kill him. It was much more faint than it was now, but the shape, the lightening shape was there.

By then the protection spell his mother had endowed him with took effect, and Voldemort roared in pain as his hand was burnt where he had touched Harry’s bare skin.

Then something strange began to happen. The house seemed to be shaking uncontrollably. The windows of the house broke, and the shards flew about. Voldemort couldn’t control what was happening—had one of his spells gone wrong?—Harry didn’t understand.

Finally Voldemort turned on the infant Harry, screaming at him as if the strange happenings were his fault, and then he raised his wand. "Avada Kedavra!" Harry heard Voldemort yell. It was the one phrase that, unlike all the other dialogue in the dream, he wanted to forget and couldn’t.

This was it—Harry would wake up, just as he always did—No! He wouldn’t let himself! He had to know! He wouldn’t wake up at the sight of the green light.

The light shot from Voldemort’s wand straight at the—defenseless?—Harry.

He didn’t wake up. For the first time he saw what happened. His scar—no, it wasn’t a scar—it was a birthmark—had grown to a deep shade of red—like blood. The light hit it directly, but the light didn’t enter his body like it had when Cedric Diggory was killed his forth year! No! It was reflected—it had split the birthmark open, leaving the deep cut that would become his scar—the light flew back at an unsuspecting and utterly terrified Voldemort. It hit him in the chest and was absorbed. He fell backward in convulsions—the curse wasn’t powerful enough to kill him—it had lost some of its edge to Harry.

And then the house gave another great jerk and the walls and ceiling came crashing down around them, but Harry wasn’t crushed—a bright white shield of light formed around him as the debris fell, and kept him safe in a protective shell.

The dream darkened, but it wasn't over yet.

 

As soon as the first sequence of the dream had ended, Harry found himself standing in the dream at his current age. The scene of his house in ruins had faded to complete black. He was confused. He’d seen Voldemort’s end—or was it his beginning?—and yet nothing seemed any clearer to him, other than the fact that he did seem to have defeated Voldemort—somehow—on his own. He walked forward, his footfalls echoing through the darkness. He hugged the backs of his arms. A chill in the air had pricked up his spine. For a dream he felt oddly—conscious. Each time his foot hit the ground he noticed that circles of light extended from his feet, like ripples in water, accept that there was no water, only darkness.

"Harry Potter," a voice said from behind him.

Harry whirled around to meet—himself? Harry couldn’t believe it. The boy looked like him, but at the same time didn’t look like him. Harry stood, back bent, arms crossed, shivering; the obvious signs of his lack of self-confidence showing through, but this other Harry—this apparition—stood tall and straight-shouldered with his arms at his sides, fists loosely closed. He stood with confidence. Even his countenance seemed—un-Harry-like. And the scar! It wasn’t like his—it was dark—red—like it had been at the end of the dream!

"Who are you?" Harry asked the apparition.

"I am you," it answered plainly.

"You can’t be me. You don’t act like me…don’t stand like me."

"But I am you. I am the part of you that you have forgotten."

Harry shook his head, "I don’t understand."

The apparition shook its head as well and looked at Harry with cold piercing eyes, "You’ve always tried to suppress me. You want to forget me—to rid yourself of me. But you forget how you need me. I am one of the deepest and most vital parts of you."

Harry was getting frustrated with the apparition. It wasn’t making itself clear and refused to directly tell Harry what it was trying to say. "You don’t make any sense! Who are you!?!"

The apparition closed its cold eyes and lowered its head. When they snapped open again it moved one foot forward extending its arm and placing two fingers upon Harry’s scar. Harry gasped as a strange tingling sensation spread from his scar though his brain and down his back. "Remember me. Set me free. If you want to save any of them set me free. Otherwise you will lose them all."

The apparition broke the contact and backed away. It paused for a second and then turned to disappear into the darkness.

"WAIT!" Harry shouted. "I don’t understand! What part of me are you? How do I set you free? Who will I lose!?!" Harry ran after the apparition as it quickly began to disappear. "WAIT!" Harry caught the apparition by the arm.

It turned quickly, freeing itself from Harry’s grasp. It’s scar had grown darker and was it—beating!?! Its cold eyes glared before it reached for the silver clasps of its robes. The material fell to the ground. The apparition stood clad completely in black clothes. Harry started to speak but the apparition glared and screamed, "REMEMBER!"

With that the apparition leapt into the air, and as it did so it transfigured into something huge—something winged—but it was too dark for Harry to see what. The creature rose into the darkness before swooping down over Harry’s head, letting out an ear shattering screech, and then it flew away into the darkness.

 

Harry opened his eyes.

It was still dark. He sat up in bed confused as ever. He shook his head. "Remember what?" He whispered, running his hand though his hair. Then he brought his hand back to his scar, running one finger over it. "Primus…"

 

Harry walked down to the dark common room and sat on the couch next to the fire. That word, "Primus" kept running through his head. It sounded so familiar, like a word he’d always known and had forgotten the meaning of. Where had he heard it before, and why did his scar tingle every time he thought of it?

As he sat pondering he heard the door to the girls’ dorm room open, and out came Hermione, hair combed and clipped back in a barrette, which had been her new style. She was completely dressed and ready for her classes, and it was only 5:00AM. She came down the stairs and stared blankly at Harry.

"Were you too excited to sleep too?" she asked, sitting down across form him.

Harry quirked an eyebrow; she was already dressed! Right down to her Prefect badge. How could she get ready that early in the morning? Harry had just thrown on a black turtleneck and jeans so that he wasn’t sitting in the common room in his boxers.

Hermione sat down next to him. "Did you have the dream again?"

"Yes…and no…it was different. I saw to the end—I saw how I survived…"

"You did!" Hermione gasped excitedly, "How did you do it?"

"I don’t know—I still don’t understand how I did, or even what I did…" He paused and looked at her, "Does the word ‘Primus’ mean anything to you?"

"Primus…" she repeated, scratching her head, "I think it’s Latin for ‘leading,’ or ‘leader’…maybe ‘first’…Why do you ask?"

"I’m not sure. I think Volde—" he stopped himself as he saw Hermione stiffen, "I mean You-Know-Who, said it in my dream. I can always remember what happened, but never what anyone said. And I know it’s important." He sat forward putting his elbows on his knees. He took off his glasses and covered his eyes with one hand, "For the first time I saw passed when He tried to kill me. The Avada Kedavra hit me, but then it bounced back towards him—and the house—it caved in, but He didn’t cause it—I think I did."

"What do you mean, ‘you did?’ How could you?" Hermione asked moving closer.

"I don’t know. If I knew I would tell you! But I don’t understand it myself."

"Have you gone to Dumbledore? I’m sure he could help you—Or maybe Professor Trelawn—never mind bad idea."

"No, I haven’t gone to Dumbledore. I don’t like talking about this—but—I just feel like something bad is going to happen."

"Harry…"Hermione started to speak, her voice was emotional, and then stopped lost for words.

He put his glasses back on and covered his mouth with his hand. "After the house caved in," he spoke though his fingers, "the whole scene faded into darkness, and then I was there, as I am now; 17. It was completely empty, and then—then I confronted another person. He looked exactly like me, but it wasn’t me—it couldn’t be me—he acted—cold." He looked at Hermione with confusion sitting on his face.

"Who was it then?" she asked, that strange note still in her voice.

"I asked him, and he simply said, ‘I am you.’ I don’t believe it though. I don’t want to, he was just too—empty."

"Did he say anything else?"

"He kept saying that I had to remember, and that I had to set him free…I had to set him free if I was going to save any of them."

"Save who?"

"He wouldn’t say. I tried to find out, but when I stopped him from leaving he turned into—something—and flew away. Oh God, I’m so confused…" He lowered his head, digging his fingers into his messy hair. "And his scar—it was different from mine—it was blood red—it was horrible…"

"It’ll be okay, Harry," Hermione whispered. He felt her arms around him, her head against his shoulder—was she crying? "It’ll be okay. I’ll do everything I can to help you find your answers, just please, go to Dumbledore. I think he needs to know about—about whatever’s happening to you. It might be You-Know-Who’s doing…"

Harry looked at her. She was crying. She was crying for him. As far as he knew no one had ever cried for him. "Hermione?" She looked up at him, tears running down her cheeks. He could hardly keep from laughing. He smiled and wiped away one of her tears. The entire idea of someone crying for him seemed so ridiculous. He shook his head and put his own arm around her, "Hermione, why are you crying?"

She hit him in the chest—not hard, "I’m worried about you, you ninny! So is Ron! You’ve been a zombie for weeks. I’ve been half afraid that you’d kill yourself."

"I’d never do that."

"How were we to know that? You haven’t been yourself."

"I’m sorry."

"Just promise me that you’re not going to change again. Promise me that you’ll be our old Harry—My old Harry."

My?

Harry looked at her again, "Hermione?"

She looked up again, her thin brows forked with worry. He wiped another tear away, but didn’t bring his hand down, leaving his fingertips gently touching her jaw. He leaned forward and lightly kissed her, not knowing whether it was a good idea or a bad idea. She inhaled with surprise, but didn’t pull away. He broke it off after only a few seconds. She didn’t yell at him, which he’d been expecting, in fact she was blushing slightly.

"I promise," he said, "that I will not change. I’m back, and I’m not going away again."

 

They sat their until the rest of the Gryffindors started to come down, Harry comforting Hermione—which was rather backwards since she had been the one trying to comfort him. He knew things between them had changed, and he was suddenly worried about what Ron would think. He’d always thought Hermione and Ron would wind up together, but now it seemed things were turning the other direction.