Harry woke up feeling like he'd been crucioed a dozen times, his arms and legs broken, ribcage crushed, organs squeezed through a colander and his head flattened by a boulder.
He had rarely felt so bad in his life. And he'd been through some excruciatingly painful moments in the past.
The young mage simply lay on the ground, groaning and gritting his teeth to the point they were about to break. He wouldn't scream. Screaming would do no good in his position. But he couldn't move, it hurt too much, and even his thoughts were slow from the pain he'd awoken to. At least he was still holding his Mage's Staff and could feel the other magical artefacts on his person.
Holding his breath the young man reached for his magic hoping to use it to ease his agony and this time he couldn't hold in the scream that tore through his throat into the surrounding darkness. The chaos! Utter chaos had taken control of his magic and even his shields, woven through years of concentration and meditation, were beginning to give in. Knowing he'd regret this later, and briefly wondering if he'd finally go crazy of all the pain, Harry flung himself into the centre of his magic and mind. He had a second of lucidity after which the world dissolved into war and chaos and battle for control. His magic was fighting him – almost as if it did not recognize him – and Harry fought back despite the tormenting agony he was experiencing. The young man was vaguely aware of the screams that were escaping from him but inside his mind and among the pain the outside world and screaming lost their importance. The pain, the battle, the chaos... he could not concentrate on anything else.
The mage fought with every inch of strength he had in him. He was willing the magic to trust him, to remember him, but it wasn't listening. His immense power was working itself into a storm that when Harry would finally tire and retreat – and at this rate it would happen soon – the magic would release itself from his body and tore into the world like a hurricane of destruction. Even in his current state the declared Saviour knew he could never let that happen. He couldn't let his magic hurt innocent bystanders.
His magical core was starting to rip itself apart and the boundaries of his mind had nearly disappeared into the chaotic storm raging inside him. Just few more seconds and he would literally lose both his mind and magic and then nothing would stop the storm from being released. An insane squib could do nothing to help. And that was his only reason for living anymore, right?
In desperation Harry flung his consciousness towards the Living Emerald on his mage's Staff. He was connected – bonded – to it, and it had protected him in the past. The jewel had a will of its own and power of the Earth, accumulated during all the millennia it had spent in the pressure in the bedrock, smothered by the Earth's natural magic. This magic he now trusted to help and save him when he himself was powerless.
Harry let go.
The world turned green. Rumbling echoed in Harry's ears as the magic in the Emerald answered him and washed through his mind and magical core, bringing order into the chaos. It flowed through his body, forcing his tortured limbs and organs past their limits and shaping them to its pleasure, using his veins and arteries as conduits for magic, making it feel like molten fire was coursing through them. Had the tortured man had even a shred of sense left in him he might have wondered what kind of being the Emerald was turning him into. As it was, nothing could reach him in the world of green and earthy power, nerve-racking torment and ear-drum blowing rumbling.
The young man screamed, unable to hold the pain inside. His cries echoed in the cold December night until – mercifully – darkness lay claim on him.
oooOOOooo
The morning sun's first rays were what the ruffled mage woke up to. It was freezing – he was freezing – and a thin layer of snow coated the earth. How he was still alive, Harry could not understand. He tried to move his battered body but the pain was great enough to draw a whimper out of him. He blinked away tears, focusing on the Staff pulsing under his left hand. He was almost afraid to reach for his magic but he wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing.
He nearly broke down in tears when the warmth filled him and assured him with its familiarity. It was slightly different but recognizable still. The magic of the Emerald had interwoven with his and it was thrumming happily within him, the steady power of the Emerald now completely his, not only connected to him and at his use but his.
Well, this is a development, thought Harry distractedly.
Bracing himself for the pain he craned his neck to take a look around. It was a clear winter morning and he was in the middle of a small clearing surrounded by pine trees. They were frosted with snow and the sight was magical even to the tortured Lord.
Magical and familiar.
Oh, hell.
No bloody fucking way.
His neck gave painful twinges as he tried to take a look in every direction. Suspicions confirmed, an involuntary chuckle managed to escape his pursed lips. The man bit his lower lip in an attempt to keep the laughter inside – it would only cause him to hurt even more – and glanced at the Emerald. It was glowing faintly and, apparently sensing his eyes on it, gave out a flash of deep forest green instead of its normal green shade.
"Y-" Harry had to cough and swallow a few times to make use of his voice. His throat was raw from all the screaming but it was not like he was a stranger to this kind of pain. His nightmares had pretty much taught him to ignore sore morning throats. Giving it another try, he whispered: "You think this is funny? Wait till..." He swallowed again, painfully. "When Nicolas hears about this, he's gonna finally die. Of laughter."
The bloody jewel twinkled at him.
Well, maybe he deserved it. It wasn't every day a wizard Vanished his house. While attempting a memory charm, no less.
It was hilarious. Pathetic, but hilarious. Even he could admit it. It, however, didn't make it any less painful.
After an agonizing ten minutes the man had managed to drag his body into a sitting position. His shirt was wet with sweat and his breathing had turned into panting at the first movement. While sending a Patronus to fetch help might have been the best option, Harry really did not fancy being found in such a helpless state. He still had enemies that would jump at such a chance at getting him, not to mention the press that would anyway have a field day when they found out about what he'd done to his house.
Blaming it entirely on his Gryffindor side – as he usually did with these stupid stunts – the mage, already wincing in anticipation of the pain, took a deep breath and Dissapparated with a boom any mortar would have been proud to produce and that woke the sleeping creatures in a mile radius.
He appeared in his bedroom at the Grimmauld Place 12 accompanied with a loud crack that sounded as if a cliff had broken off a mountain side. And he appeared in his bedroom three feet above his bed, disrupting a cloud of dust into the air as he crashed down on the said bed. In his confused state Harry took a deep breath to clear his mind from the pain Apparating had caused and dissolved into a sneezing fit that sent paralyzing jolts of agony along his spine.
The Staff still in his left hand he thrust it in the air and groaned between sneezes: "Clean."
The dust vanished and finally he was able to breathe again. Ignoring the pain he focused only on taking big gulps of air and calming his racing heart. This, Harry decided swallowing against the threatening tears, cannot be healthy.
Eventually he calmed down enough to be angry at whoever had played this prank at him – not that he could do anything about it at the moment. But oh, wait till he got some rest. Teddy and Mike would be so screwed.
Procuring three vials from his belt he chunked them all down in quick succession and immediately felt better. There went his strongest healing, relaxing and pain-relieving potions but with the holiday season he had time to brew more. After the revenge.
Putting up his usual wards and shields around the room, Harry sank into a deep meditative state where he could slowly direct his magic to where it was most needed to boost up the healing properties of the potions. It was a simple technique an Australian medicine man had taught him years ago and sometimes he simply used it to rest. Especially after nightmares during the war. This last year he'd kept himself too exhausted to dream, and it wasn't as if he deserved to rest.
But the same thing was true about meditation as it was about riding a bike – once you knew how you didn't forget. So three hours later it was a slightly aching but otherwise healed man that slowly drifted to the real world from his mind and magic. As he blinked his eyes open he realized for the first time just how dark it was in his bedroom. He wandlessly drew open the thick, long curtains that had been drawn to block the light and stretched luxuriously while wondering if Kreacher had already prepared lunch. It was impossible for his arrival to have gone unnoticed. Hell, the muggles had probably been calling the police all morning about that crack.
Ruffling his hair the mage slung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up, finally getting a good look at his surroundings.
He blinked at the sight.
Then he closed his eyes, counted to ten and opened them again. When the sight wasn't disappearing even after rubbing his eyes he had to admit something was definitely wrong.
And not wrong as in a prank – as he'd thought earlier – but something entirely different. Teddy and Mike were good but this was far too complex for seven and nine year old children. And Fred and George had been tiptoeing around him for a year already and, unless this was some sort of tasteless and unimaginative comeback after a year of peace – which he doubted – there was no way the twins would do this to him.
The room was exactly as he remembered. Dark and musty, check. Obscure artefacts and paintings, check. Tasteless colouring and furniture, check. It was as if he'd never redecorated the room. The only thing connecting it to his chamber was the old Hunting tapestry that he'd kept on the wall after restoring it. Now it hung low on a different wall, one side folded and colours faded. And the curtains... They were not the familiar dark green but purple.
He hated purple almost as much as he hated red.
Tightly controlling his breathing the Lord again shut his eyes, erratic thoughts crashing against his skull. This is all a bad dream. Bad, BAD dream, figment of my imagination, brought out by all that pain. Hey! Maybe I went finally crazy from all the pain! Not really encouraging but a better option than the ones he was forcefully keeping at the back of his mind.
Just to be sure he pinched himself and reached into his mind, checking all the shields and boundaries. Every one of them seemed fine, if a bit shaken after last night's fiasco. It would take more meditation to put them back to rights and at the moment Harry couldn't care less.
He was pretty sure he'd have some sort of warning of going crazy what with being an Occlumens and all, so that theory was pretty much bogus. And if he hadn't lost his mind during all the torture when captured, he sure as hell wouldn't lose it over a failed spell!
The spell. The young man opened his eyes and cast a hopeless glance around. Had he caused this? He had Vanished his house after all, maybe his magic had somehow warped the reality to resemble his memories? It had after all been only 18 months since he'd changed the furniture.
Then how did his house and all the dust come about? And where the bloody hell was Kreacher?
Smacking himself on the forehead Harry took down the warding in the room with a flick of his left wrist. His body tingled as the magic flowed back into his body instead of simply disappearing. He had to grab a hold of the night table to stay upright during the rush. What was that?
I don't know how many more surprises I can take.
The thought was slightly desperate but not surprising. Even after rest Harry felt stretched thin. His mind would need time to recover from the pain, and these continuous new things that kept occurring were not giving him time to acclimate to the already existing changes.
A soft pop announced the arrival of Kreacher and the mage looked up, relieved to finally see someone familiar. However, the words died in his mouth as he took in the appearance of the ancient house elf.
Kreacher not only looked old but compared to when Harry had last seen him he actually looked half-dead. His skin was hanging around his bones and it was of an unhealthy grey colour. His normally big eyes were in drawn in slits, a nowadays rare scowl on his face and more than anything he was filthy. Dust coated the top of his head and his pitiful outfit that might have long ago been a pillowcase. Old stains marked his arms and his bare feet were covered in dust bunnies, making it actually look as if he was wearing tiny greyish bootees. For all purposes the creature looked as though he'd been laying on his deathbed for years and had now dragged himself to see who dared to disturb his dying.
"Kreacher?" Harry could care less if his voice shook. The initial worry over his servant also pushed back the doubts and suspicions and drew his mind to present. In two strides he was beside the house elf and kneeled to take a better look. "Are you all right? You look awful! Who did this to you? Do I need to get you to a Healer?" Without thinking he reached to grasp Kreacher's wrist – a familiar gesture for them both – only to have the elf backpedal fearfully. The mage could see mistrust evident in his every movement and a small part of his heart clenched in pain.
"Kreacher?" He did not try to approach, already catching up to the situation with his mind.
"You..." The elf eyed him disdainfully. "You is Master?"
Harry stared. Had the elf lost his memory? No, he hadn't. The young man looked around indiscreetly, different theories popping up one after another in his overworked brains as the differences compared to before fully registered. His eyes were drawn back at the house elf as he spoke again,
"The blood traitor is dead? You is... is too young to be traitor's son. Who is you?" The elf raised a finger threateningly and though Harry knew the elf could not harm him he raised his arms in peace offering while wondering who the hell the elf was talking about. Nothing in the creature's questions connected with his knowledge of history and this only served to spring more questions and theories into his mind.
Going with his strongest theory, he asked: "What day is it, Kreacher?" Harry kept his voice soft and calming, his wartime practicality stepping in to prevent a full blown panic attack from taking over.
"...Weekend." Kreacher seemed surprised at the answer coming out of his mouth then half-smirked, the expression clearing half of his face free of wrinkles. Harry sighed in exasperation. Getting answers would not be easy even with the whole must-answer-masters-when-asked-a-direct-question-thing the house elves got going on.
"What date is it?"
"Kreacher does not know."
Oh, this was getting so difficult. All he wanted to know was if he'd travelled back in time by some mystery quirk in the memory spell and everything seemed to be against him. Knowing that in Kreacher's current condition – though feeling slightly guilty about sending the half-dead elf out – only direct orders worked, Harry ordered: "Kreacher, go to Diagon Alley and buy me today's newspaper. Then go to Leaky Cauldron, order today's special to go, wait for it to be ready and then return here with the paper and the food." He gathered his thoughts and added: "Also buy a bottle of firewhiskey from the Leaky Cauldron and bring it here. You are not to open the bottle not break it, alter the newspaper or open the food packages."
The young mage reached for his money pouch on his belt – currently holding half of Potter and Black monetary fortunes – and retrieved a handful of glittering gold, silver and bronze coins. He conjured wandlessly a small bag to put the money into. Holding the bag on his hand out to the elf that stared at him, obviously struggling to not obey the direct order, Harry continued, "You are to return as quickly as possible and bring the items to the master bathroom to me. You will use this money only to buy what I've specified and use it only on my orders.
"Be quick about it."
With that he thrust the bag to the elf and moved to one of the two doors leading out of the bedchamber. He opened it just as he heard the soft crack announcing Kreacher's departure, the creature leaving just in time not to witness the mighty groan Harry elicited at the sight of the bathroom.
Just like his bedroom had been yesterday, the bathroom was covered in dust and on top of that the bathtub looked like it had never been cleaned and rust coated the water pipes. It was one of those moments that Harry thanked the universe for giving him the gift of magic. Not that living under the same roof with Aunt Petunia hadn't taught him the ways to clean in the muggle way but magic took so much less time and energy.
Three minutes of wandless Scourgifies and Tergeos left the bathroom at the least in a decent condition and the tub usable. He'd left the cabinets alone after sensing some magic in them that he did not want to disturb. Starting to strip his clothing and weapons on the floor while an Aguamenti filled the tub, the mage wondered how he'd get himself out of this mess. If he was crazy there would be nothing he could do about it but...
But if he per chance wasn't... And this all was real...
He wouldn't know whether to cry or laugh.
Pushing away the implications that line of though brought into his mind, the tired wizard poured healing, muscle-relaxing and calming potions into the water, giving it a bluish tinge. He'd already used his strongest potions before meditation but these would prevent long-term effects the torture could have on his body. He'd also put aside a Pepper-Up potion for Kreacher. It would have to be diluted because house elf body absorbed foreign substances much better than human bodies did. Like drinking butterbeer had elves slurring after a bottle. Wincing at one particularly nauseating memory involving Dobby the Free Elf, bunnies and butterbeer, Harry really had to wonder about his sanity if he was thinking about drunken elves in such a situation. For the sake of his peace of mind the man pinched his arm again but did not wake up. Not that he'd actually expected to. And he was certain that this world he'd woken up to wasn't an illusion because only a stronger mage could trap Harry in his mind without serious repercussions. Apophis had learned that little fact through the hard way.
A simple heating charm on the water and soon Harry was soaking in. It felt heavenly, and for many minutes he merely concentrated on the tension leaving his body and the last remaining aches disappearing. Lazily tracing the tribal patterns on his right arm and up to his face, Harry couldn't help but concentrate the significance of the tattoo that covered his back and right arm and on the front reaching all the way down to his navel instead of his current situation. The lines swirled over his throat touching his right cheek and finally encircling his eyes and spiralling on his forehead.
The tattoo was the marking of a mage. He'd received it when he had touched the Living Emerald for the first time and nothing could erase it. And only muggle make-up could hide it – that was how he had been always covering it. The reason for hiding it was difficult for an outsider to understand. To Harry the tattoo was personal, a sign of acceptance the magic had granted him as someone special. It had absorbed his lightning bolt scar, made it part of the pattern, and thus given him more personal space than he could ever have gained otherwise. But it also would have drawn even more looks and unwanted attention than his old scar so when he'd killed Voldemort and the Emerald had come to him the next night, he'd took the chance to hide a part of him away from the public's curious eyes. Questions were thwarted by a simple lie that his scar had vanished with Voldemort's destruction, as it in a way had.
Ironic. Voldemort was killed and thus proving himself worthy of power Harry had to result in using make-up for the rest of his life.
And what a crazy life it was and had been.
The wizard reached up and released his long hair from the leather strap, letting his raven black wavy locks fall on his shoulders. Who'd known the way to tame his hair was to let it grow? It had been at first a challenge issued by... by Sev because Harry honestly hadn't understood the reason for long hair. So his very own Potions Master had brewed him a hair-growing potion to take before bed and in the morning the result had been astounding.
One of the few times I caught him wordless, Harry remembered fondly. He expected the now familiar pain to settle into his heart and soul but, for some mysterious reason, it stayed absent. Maybe the spell did work... with additions.
Not really wanting to go into how much of a wreck he truly was, the man dipped his head underwater. If this crisis had one positive side then it was that he'd been shocked out of his depression. But maybe he was just too much in shock to be feeling like it right now, and when the shock relinquished its hold he would drop back into the black pit of hopelessness. But if this is the past...
"Don't even go there," he ordered himself angrily, pushing the irrelevant thought aside. First proof.
Or else he'd go insane with all the "what-ifs" pounding against his skull.
For a while Harry simply ran his hand through the locks. It would be impossible for Kreacher to lie to him and when he asked for today's paper, it would be today's paper that he received. No getting around a direct order but the wizard sincerely hoped he found a way to restore Kreacher's memory or a quicker way to win the elf on his side. It had taken him three years of bonding to get the creature to trust him and he didn't fancy going through that again. It wasn't that he didn't like the house elf – he did, Kreacher's attitude towards him was (had been?) almost refreshing – but Kreacher was also one who'd always been there to support him no matter what because he was the elf's master. And Harry knew he treated the servant with respect that deserved undying loyalty. Which had now been replaced with mistrust and dislike.
His eyes landed on his clothing and with swish of his hand everything had been sent to the non-place. All except for the Staff that had shortened and was hovering in the air within his reach. As he watched the Emerald now began to glow the usual green that was the same colour as his eyes. Tilting his head in wonder at the display the mage again distracted himself by pondering on the familiar enigma of his Staff. He'd spent days after days just holding it, familiarizing himself with it, trying to understand it. It felt tough to touch but moulded itself to his hand. The Staff changed its length at his command but also sometimes for no apparent reason at all. And while Harry most of the time kept the Staff in the non-place where it could not be reached by anyone else, it was capable of coming and going as pleased it.
The Living Emerald was sentient; there was no question about that. Of course it could not talk but Harry had gotten pretty good at interpreting the meaning behind different glows, shines, twinkles, glimmers, gleams, flares and glittering – kind of like light signals. During the past year the Emerald had truly been the only one to see the true extent of his pain. Everyone had known that he took Severus' death hard, but even those who had known about the real nature of their relationship couldn't understand that Harry had felt like his soul and heart had split in two and the wound was slowly bleeding him dry every day since his partner in life had been killed.
It was that knowledge – knowledge of his own death closing in – that had had him try the spell usually practised in psychological treatment to trauma patients for them to process their experiences. Only Harry had meant to make it permanent and thus changed the wording a bit. That was probably what had caused this entire situation.
But maybe the spell did work on its own way. Giving me a challenge, something else to concentrate on... Giving me another chance at life? An opportunity to heal from a wound no visible magic could heal? Or then I'm just the worst mage in all the universes.
A crack sounded close to his left and before Harry's brains could really catch up with his instincts he had the Staff in his hand and Kreacher pinned under his knee, the green glow of the Emerald twisting his face into a grotesque mask. The wizard could feel the brittle bones of the elf cracking under the pressure and jumped backwards, crouching so that his nakedness was not as evident. Not that he minded his Kreacher seeing him without clothing and all his scars and marking revealed to the world, but this wasn't the same Kreacher he'd been honoured to know. Or at least not yet. Or never would be. Or had the chance to be.
Cursing his flinging thoughts and knowing he needed real sleep desperately, Harry concentrated on the house elf that had sat up on the black tile floor. Constant vigilance was flashing across his thoughts with bright neon letters and he really wanted to scold himself for being so careless.
"You will always appear at least five feet away from me if it is possible." Harry's voice was tight and commanding. He was dangerous and something just suddenly popping within his reach could easily fall victim to his instincts. "Leave the items on the floor and go clean the kitchen. Now."
The house elf didn't even bother to rise to his feet before disappearing in a noticeable pop that in itself was enough evidence of how shaken it really was. Sighing in frustration the mage Vanished the water from the floor where it had splashed along his quick exit from the tub and stood up to his full height at 5'10. He caught his reflection from the mirror and, Kreacher's bringings momentarily forgotten, he could only stare.
He had not noticed it in the bath but the tattoo had changed. Earlier it had looked like grey lines drawn on his skin. Harry had always though the grey signified his neutrality. Not pure white and Light but not black and Dark either. Grey was not exactly an area of magic but it was the closest Harry could recognize himself as. But now... Now the tattoo had changed. Even it had not stayed the same.
Instead of the dark grey colour, the tattoo now looked like purest silver melted right into his skin. As Harry moved the tattoo shone in the dim light as if it had been polished. To touch it did not feel different but it sure as hell looked like it.
I have to hide this, Harry immediately decided and then proceeded to feel a pang of regret at the thought. The tattoo was beautiful, and it did not seem fair to hide such a piece of art from the world. But it was his piece of art and part of him. Following the swirls over his right shoulder with a finger, the mage grimaced and shook his head. He was so easily distracted when tired. While this change was significant and he would look into it, there was the little problem of reality changing as well and it took precedence. The tattoo posed no apparent threat while the current situation...
Giving the food and whiskey one look before reaching down and picking the paper up, the tired man sat on the edge of the bathtub and shook the paper open.
First his eyes were drawn to the name of the paper. Daily Prophet. While it was true that during the last year he really had not followed the news as much as he should have, he probably would have noticed if Daily Scroll changed its name. Prophet really sounded pretentious and even the unimaginative "Scroll" was better.
His throat drying but determined to keep reading the young man looked at the date. December 23rd.
Huh? Where did 22nd go? Then the mage's eyes fell on the year and all thoughts about missing a day of his life vanished into the shock that settled in.
1990.
The wizard bent over and grabbed his knees in an attempt to stop the dizzying sensation that was trying to take over. He'd already realized that this probably was the past so why was it such a big deal to have it confirmed?
Because it's black on white now, not just a strong suspicion. There really isn't a chance of this being just a prank... Or even the past. Kreacher would not be able to bring me a forged paper.
Looking at the grumbled newspaper the young man collected yet again the pieces of his scattered thoughts and pulled them together. He would so much rather been meditating and healing his damaged mind but he needed to know. He could not concentrate if he did not know. And what didn't kill him would only make him stronger. Severus' death had been bad enough and whatever was on that paper could hardly compare.
Filling his lungs with the soap smelling air Harry smoothed the paper and turned his eyes on the main article.
COUP OR PRANK?
by Mullinda Tripling
Yesterday morning the everyday business at the International Confederation of Wizards Headquarters in Geneva was interrupted by a piercing alarm. Seconds later the present Mugwump, 102-year old Italian Julietta Bavanoche, was seen running through the hallways as if chased by nundus.
"I did not even know she could run," office worker Miss Banner told this reporter. "We were all shocked to see her in such a hurry and worried about the alarm. A minute later all the exits were sealed and everyone summoned to the Meeting Hall."
The Meeting Hall is situated in the centre of ICW Headquarters and most often used as a gathering place for all the members and representatives from all around the world. The yearly ICW Summer Summons takes place in the Meeting Hall.
"When we arrived... I've never even heard of such a thing occurring!" Asian Division Head, Japanese Nakama Ichigo, commented. "The Supreme Sphere that holds the record of every ICW member that ever lived was glowing green instead of normal pure white! It should not even be able to do that! The creator, the first Supreme Mugwump Pierre Bonaccord, designed it to glow white as a sign of neutrality and only stop doing so when the Mugwump seats are empty. This is unheard of!"
The Supreme Mugwump Albus Dumbledore, the current Headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, arrived in Geneva thirty minutes after the initial alarm – at this time the news of ICW shutdown had already reached Swiss Ministry of Magic – and an hour later this reporter was informed that the Sphere had independently removed Headmaster Dumbledore from the position of the Supreme Mugwump.
The name of the current Head of ICW – and of the possible culprit – could not be interpreted nor the Sphere restored even after multiple attempts by numerous wizards. Is this some elaborate Christmas-time prank or a direct attack against the respected Albus Dumbledore? An attempted coup no one claims responsibility for?
More on the situation in Geneva...page 4
Minister Fudge: "Shameful prank!"...page 6
ICW History – International Successes...page 22
The mage stared in shock.
There really did not exist an exclamation strong enough to describe Harry's feelings at that moment.