Son of Magic

Chapter 24

13th December, 1941

The Night Before the Duel

Harry & Alphard's Dorm Room

Much to Harry's deep displeasure, sleep was not something he was capable of any longer. So instead of falling into blissful unawareness, he stood staring at his dorm room window while resolutely ignoring the persistent hissing for attention from the serpents that served as its frame.

And what did he do with all the newfound free time? He brooded, of course.

Almost everything that happened to Harry in recent days had been inevitable, including the changes he had to undergo after his last trip to purgatory.

He'd not been naive enough to believe that he'd return from limbo as the same wizard that had wistfully embraced his last restful slumber, but he'd also not anticipated this. His entire being—soul, mind, heart, and everything in between—had been taken over by a disquieting, perpetual calmness shrouded in exhaustive knowledge and ruthless awareness.

Violent charges of uncontainable, rebellious wrath. Flowing streams of unceasing melancholy. Forceful bursts of all-consuming, mind-crippling insanity. Resonating aftershocks of soul-crushing loss and loneliness. Sinful, yet not wholly undeserved pride. Blood-boiling excitement and mind-numbing lust. Uninhibited gluttony. Bittersweet, enduring love.

Those were elements, traits even, that Harry had learned to understand about himself—about life. They were all small, dark, unshakable parts of himself that he'd come to expect and had fought so hard to learn to live with. But he had learned to live with them, mastered control over them even—learned to bury and set them free as he saw fit.

Harry had experienced plenty of extreme highs and soul-breaking lows. Frankly, it was all so very exhausting, but he'd gotten accustomed to the ever-present pang of anguish he felt for every single mistake he'd ever made—for every loss he'd ever experienced—for every one of his spectacular failures. He'd uncovered a long time ago that things like that never really went away, that you simply carry and bear those crosses and learn to live with the wrecking darkness they brought with them, all the while waiting, hoping, praying for a single moment of respite.

That he'd learned to live with—learned to appreciate even.

But this was different—completely broken in all its superficial rightness.

Where there once was anger, now resided a warm and inviting sense of calm and wholeness—a rightness incomparable to everything that's anything at all.

The Harry before his last trip to limbo would have been beyond troubled, avidly angsting over the possibility of hurting someone he wasn't meant to hurt or making some decision that could lead to disasters of the apocalyptic variety.

That anxiety—that panic and anger—had always been what kept him from simply acting on his every impulse. That instinctual terror for someone else's safety and the consequences of his actions had become his moral-compass when he'd grown much too old to give an actual damn about anyone.

Those feelings were what kept him from turning completely into Death. And as much as he loved his other half, Death wasn't exactly suitable for polite company. Turning into Death was...not an option. That simply wouldn't bode well for anyone.

And Death may not be the paragon of virtue these days, but that's hardly anything compared to what he used to be. And once upon a time what he used to be was worse than anything beyond anyone's imagination. And while Death had thankfully tempered down his sadistic tendencies and penchant for destroying entire civilizations and began settling on causing mayhem upon those select few he felt deserving of his wrath, that didn't erase the devastation he'd once caused.