Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux
The Last Horcrux

By Mike [FP]

Previous Making The Last Move The Last House The Price Paid Surfacing Illusions Lost, Not Wisdom Gained Home Is Where Your Friends Are One Last Golden Evening Seeking Shelter From The Storm Neither Life Nor Death Be Proud The Warring Mind and Heart Into The Breach Acts of Last Resort The Last Horcrux Ending 1: Star-Crossed One Last Time Next

Thirteen: THE LAST HORCRUX

July 31, 1998 – The Ministry for Magic, City of London

4:15 AM

Shacklebolt's lynx patronus burst through the wall and presented itself to Harry. The message wasn't one that Harry wanted to hear: We've been found out. The house-elves can still transport themselves but can't carry anyone with them. Advise that you retreat and attempt to reach the nexus from another direction.

“The news could be better,” Twing said as a string of cutting curses chipped away at their conjured barrier.

“So... one of those banging things, do you think?” Ron suggested.

Twing elbowed Ron and said, “Make certain that you cast that deafening spell this time.”

“I didn't know you were about to throw the thing. I didn't even know what it was!” Ron groused.

Harry took one of the two remaining flash-bang grenades from his vest and said, “On three...”

As soon as the flash faded, Harry and Twing stood and fired on the Death Eaters: blasting curses from Harry and 9mm bullets from Twing. Ron deflected curses from Twing and Ginny did the same for Harry. Within ten seconds, every Death Eater in the room lay on the floor, dead or mortally wounded.

From behind them, Hermione said, “I've done all I can for them; I'm not a healer. No one's going to bleed to death, but we have to get them to hospital.”

Another lynx appeared and notified them: Dobby is coming to you. A few moments later, the house-elf appeared next to Ginny.

“Hello, Miss Wheezy. Hello, Harry Potter. Dobby apologises that he and the other house-elves cannot pop the injured to Madam Pomfrey. Still, the evil ones cannot keep us from using magic, not without keeping themselves from doing the same,” Dobby said. He snapped his fingers and two of Hermione's improvised stretchers lifted two feet from the floor. Two more house-elves popped into the room. One levitated the other stretchers, and the other stood in an alert stance.

“We will take Harry Potter's fighters to Madam Pomfrey now,” Dobby told them.

Twing said, “The rooms behind us were emptied but that may no longer be true.”

The alert house-elf said, “Cook will not allow Harry Potter's fighters to be hurt a second time. Cook will defend them with his life if need be.”

“Be careful, all of you,” Harry said. With that, the three house-elves floated the wounded out of the room and toward safety.

Hermione said, “I... I didn't imagine it would be like this. I don't know what I expected, really...”

“Do you see why I didn't want you to come?” Harry asked.

“I'm here now and I won't leave,” she said.

4:30 AM

“One more sodding room...” Harry groaned.

“I am running low of bullets,” Twing said.

Ron said, “Dobby might be able to bring those, even if he can't carry a person.”

Twing shook his head. “I packed every magazine that I had. There are three left including the one that's loaded. Eighty-one bullets – that's all.”

“You're already torn up, Twing. You can't go any farther without that gun,” Ron told him

“This is my place, Ronald. This is what I came for,” Twing insisted.

Harry grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him: “Someone has to get to the army, to the Prime Minister, so they know that he's dead. We don't know if Shacklebolt's still alive. Someone with a bit of authority has to tell the Muggles when it's over. I need you to stay behind – please.”

Twing looked to Ginny. “You're going with him, aren't you?” he said. She nodded.

“If you don't come back, I will be most put out,” Twing said. Ginny laughed but her eyes were watery.

Harry rolled his eyes and said, “Sweet Merlin, will you just kiss her and get it over with?” Ginny flushed crimson and Twing nearly choked on his tongue; “What, did you think I was joking?” Harry added. He turned away from them and faced Hermione; after he landed a playful punch, Ron did the same. All the while Hermione continued to cast spells on Twing's leg.

“This is definitely a lash-up job. I'm afraid that you may end up with a limp,” Hermione told him when she was finished.

“There are worse things. Just as long as I remain dashing...” Twing quipped.

Ron said, “I'm going to have Harry conjure another set of barriers, and then we're going to layer it with Notice-Me-Nots, disillusionments, silencing charms, the whole lot. If you stay quiet, they'll probably have no idea you're here. Don't send bullets at anyone unless there's no other choice.”

Harry shook Twing's hand; he said, “Coming in here without a wand... you're either the bravest person or the biggest nutter I've ever met. I wish I'd had the chance to get to know you a bit, Anders.”

“When you have won, we shall 'go and have a pint', as they say. I look forward to it,” Twing said warmly.

Harry flinched and jumped to his feet. “Wands out,” he hissed.

Ron cast a Supersensory Charm on himself and then quickly dispelled it. “Left side,” he mouthed. Harry moved toward the entry to their left and flattened himself against the wall. Ron ambled toward him and did the same.

A second later, they found themselves crossing wands with Neville and Demelza Robbins. “Bloody hell, Harry, I guess you got the drop on us,” Neville said.

“That was the idea,” Harry said; “Where are the rest of you?”

Neville said, “Magnus has us checking the perimeter of the Room of Doors. Are you lot responsible for the dead Death Eaters we've been finding?”

“That would be us,” Ron said.

“What's in the next room?” Neville asked.

“Fourteen Death Eaters; we've set up a Reflecting Barrier and an Imperturbable Charm, so we can see them but they can't see or hear us,” said Harry.

“They're pretty well set up: barricades, good visibility... there must be a clever one in the bunch,” Ron added.

“Isn't Twing with you? I saw that little Christmas cracker of his earlier, when we were coming through the Atrium. I should think that would do the trick,” said Neville.

“It would, if I weren't almost out of ammunition,” Twing called out from behind the battered barrier.

“Ahh, I suppose it can't be conjured?” Neville wondered.

Twing said, “Shacklebolt tried that last evening. Conjured bullets apparently cause guns to jam and misfire.”

“Bother,” said Neville.

“We've got something else, I think,” Twing said; “Do you have any of those silver balls that Fred and George Weasley assembled?”

“Two of them, I think,” Harry said as he felt inside the various pockets of his vest.

Twing said, “Fred told me to throw them as far as possible –”

“– and be sure to duck. George told me that, I think,” Harry recalled.

“He said that they explode after bouncing twice against a hard surface, something about... eruption fluid? It was something of that sort,” Twing said.

Hermione's brows shot up. “Was it erumpent fluid?” she blurted out.

“Yes, that was it. Apparently it's inside there in a compartment made from a worm, if that makes any sense... and there are two other things in different compartments... when they combine... boom,” said Twing.

“Erumpent fluid will explode well on its own. They must have used flobberworm skins for their stabilizing effects – a genius idea, actually. Do you remember either of the other ingredients?” Hermione asked.

“Ehh... one had something to do with winding, and the other is a powdered root. Sorry, that's all I can remember,” said Twing.

“Winding... winding... oh, they wouldn't! They wouldn't... would they?” Hermione gasped.

“Fred and George would do anything,” Ron pointed out.

Hermione said, “Ashwinder eggs, then. They've put erumpent fluid and ashwinder eggs inside those things. What they won't blow up, they'll burn. I won't even hazard a guess what the other ingredient is, but considering the source I'd expect that it accelerates the other two.”

“Magnus is hoping he'll get to the Room of Doors from the opposite side, Harry. What ever you've planned, you'd best do it quickly,” Neville said.

Ron said, “Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder first, do you think?”

Harry nodded; he said, “Two of these balls should do the trick, I hope.”

“Two will probably collapse the entire building,” Hermione deadpanned.

“One it is, then,” Harry said nervously.

Hermione said, “Let's get the barriers placed for Anders, and we can all take cover behind them.”

Several moments and a dozen or more charms later, Harry and Ron were at either side of the charmed doorway and their five companions were behind the newly conjured barriers.

“On three?” Ron asked.

“Throw the powder first,” Harry said.

The room beyond instantly went black and a few trails of inky darkness floated through the doorway. Amidst the shouts of confusion, Harry counted to three and then flung one of the silver balls into the room beyond. Ron crouched and Harry threw himself to the floor.

The explosion that followed was best described as monumental. Harry was showered by bits of wall and gore. His ears rang. He heard Ron let out a groan and slowly turned onto his back. Most of the wall between the two rooms had been obliterated, and Ron was half-buried in a pile of rubble.

“You do make an entrance, don't you, Harry Potter?” said a high, thin voice through the dispersing darkness; “It was not as flashy as Dumbledore and his pet, but memorable all the same. So... shall we duel?”

“I'll need to clean my robe first. I'm afraid I've gotten your Death Eaters all over it,” Harry said with as much bravado as he could muster.

Voldemort let forth a chilling laugh. “I will allow you a moment to ready yourself, if for nothing more than your ability to joke at a moment such as this,” the Dark Lord said.

“I'm not joking, actually... my robe really is a fine mess. I'll just take it off; it's a lost cause,” Harry returned.

“Suit yourself. It shan't affect the outcome,” Voldemort hissed.

“We'll start when you dispel the darkness, then?” said Harry.

Voldemort said, “Why would I do that, when I can see through the darkness in perfect detail?” and followed immediately with a Killing Curse that Harry only spotted at the last moment; he dodged it by inches.

Harry fired back with a Whirling Dervish charm that caused the darkness to spiral away like an inky fog lifting. He silently thanked George for having taught him the charm; it had been an unspoken apology for having sold the Darkness Powder to Death Eaters the year prior. The exploded room was little more than a corridor now. Voldemort was standing casually in the centre of the Room of Doors, about fifty feet away.

“And now we bow, like civilized men,” Voldemort said.

Harry fired off a quick chain of Blasting Curses, Bludgeoners and Flaming Arrows as he returned, “I don't think so.”

Voldemort deflected most of the spells with a flick of his wrist; two Flaming Arrows were deflected at Harry and the Dark Lord avoided one Bludgeoner by stepping to the side. Harry cast a quick shield and the Arrows bounced away. Voldemort cast a Blood-Boiler over Harry's shoulder that had to be an intentional miss, so Harry dodged; out of the corner of his eye, he realised that the curse was aimed at Neville, who had dashed through the door behind him and clear of the room.

Harry palmed the second of the Weasley twin's silver balls and cast several Stunners, hoping that Voldemort would be surprised by the choice.

“You think to stun me, boy? You cannot possibly be that thick,” Voldemort sneered.

“That's true,” Harry said; he called out, “Aguamenti!” and sprayed the widest, heaviest burst of water he could muster.

Voldemort began to laugh at him. “Water?” he said in disbelief, without firing any sort of spell in return.

Harry cast, “Incendio!”

“Have you lost your senses?” Voldemort laughed. The spray of water burst into a thick cloud of steam that filled the space between them.

“Ahh, now I understand: you're trying to take away the visibility again. Pathetic... a first-year could do better,” sneered Voldemort. As the Dark Lord blew away the sudden fog, Harry threw the last silver ball and dove to one side.

He heard, “What's this...?” and then an explosion louder and stronger than the first. This one was thirty feet further away, though, and he made it to his feet before Voldemort did. He cast everything that came to mind, as fast as he could manage: severing charms, blasting curses, flaming curses, magical ropes, entrail-expellers, slug-vomiting charms, tickling charms, and even an ear-twitching hex before he realised that Voldemort had no ears to twitch. Voldemort managed a thick, dark shield that shunted away most of the spells, but at least two severing charms struck true.

When the Dark Lord stood, the effects of the explosion were obvious. His robe was in tatters and his face and neck were burned. His wand arm hung oddly and dripped thick, black blood. His teeth were clenched and he was breathing hard.

“Oh, that was good... that was very good. Lord Voldemort was actually fooled for a moment. Touche, Harry Potter – touche,” he said from behind his still-visible shield; “It's time for a change of pace... think of me as your N.E.W.T. examiner, if you like. You see, I can demonstrate dark arts the likes of which no Hogwarts student – save myself – has ever seen. Observe!”

Harry felt very fortunate to survive the next two minutes of Voldemort's onslaught. He was pounded by curses of colors, effects and intensity unlike anything in his imagination. One black beam that barely missed him actually smelled evil. He shielded against some, dodged others, and blocked the rest with anything he could conjure or summon. Just as he didn't think he could continue, Voldemort growled and turned away from him. Harry dove behind the rubble pile, where Ginny and Hermione were still pulling Ron free. Magnus had already taken several shots at the Dark Lord from the opposite side, and freeing Ron looked to be a slow process. Being rather short on patience, Harry decided to solve two problems at once: he banished the top half of the rubble pile toward Voldemort's back.

Hermione started, “Harry, I can –”

“Get him out of there,” Harry cut her off. Just as she started to protest, a cutting curse caught him high. He dropped to the floor and rolled behind the remaining rubble.

“It's the same shoulder,” he ground out.

Hermione winced as she probed the wound with her wand. “It's a right mess, that's what it is... I can probably fix part of it. You should be able to move your arm, but it'll be painful to do it.”

“Do what you can. I need both arms,” he said.

As she worked, she said, “We need to get him away from the doors, don't we? You need to open the Room.”

“That's assuming that it will open at all,” Harry pointed out.

“What do we do if you can't get it open?” Hermione asked.

Harry said, “Maybe someone could try using a Killing Curse on my scar... that's pretty out there, isn't it... not much better than trying to have a Dementor try to suck it out. Lovely idea, that was.”

“We were trying to think of every possibility, all right?” said Hermione.

“If you believe the prophecy, I probably have to let him kill me. It's either that or the Veil,” he said.

“Then we'll get the door open,” she said; “Can you move your arm?”

“Yeah, I think so... aaaah! That's... not much fun,” he gasped.

“Here, hold still,” she said.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Something I should have done earlier,” she said.

“What's that?” he asked.

She said, “This is going to sting a bit.”

Harry said, “I can handle a bit of... gaaah! Do you enjoy hurting people? It's a dentist thing, isn't it?”

“Stop whinging,” Hermione said. As she traced her wand across his upper arm, smoke rose from his skin.

He said in a choked voice, “You're giving me a tattoo? This isn't exactly the time –”

“It's a rune of protection. You'll need one on the other arm as well, and one more rune on this side. Now, hold still!” she said.

“Hurry, then. I don't like the sound of things – it's too quiet,” Harry said.

Twing came up beside them. “Magnus needs a rest,” he said.

“What are you doing?” Ginny demanded.

“Giving Magnus a rest,” Twing said. He leant over some of the remaining rubble and took three quick shots at Voldemort, then three more.

“Is that a gun? Is someone shooting a gun at me?” Voldemort howled.

Twing took three more shots and caught the Dark Lord twice in the leg. Voldemort conjured four metal discs the size of serving platters and sent them into the air with one wave of his wand. The next three shots were intercepted by the discs, and the three after that were turned back on Twing; he dove for the floor and groaned when he hit.

“I – will – not – be – attacked – by – a – Muggle!” Voldemort shouted. Harry saw blue flashes from Magnus's position, and Voldemort turned the other way again.

“Are you finished?” Harry snapped at Hermione. The smoke made him want to gag, as much for the thought of it as for the actual smell.

“Almost there...” she said. Her wand tapped the last of the three runes and she muttered an incantation. It sounded vaguely familiar... something-something excandesco, he thought.

“Done,” he said as he stood and aimed his wand at Voldemort. Harry and Magnus began to level fire on Voldemort from opposite directions.

“Death Eaters, to me!” Voldemort called out. He returned to the fight for several volleys and then called again, “Death Eaters, to me!”

“No one's coming,” Harry said.

“Impudent brat!” Voldemort spat. He shifted the metal discs behind him to catch Magnus's fire and advanced on Harry, wand blazing.

One of the doors in the nexus to Voldemort's right suddenly opened, and Neville charged out with the Sword of Gryffindor drawn. From the look on his face, Neville was almost as surprised as Voldemort when the sword struck true. Neville's momentum buried the blade in Voldemort's side nearly to the hilt.

“GRYFFINDOR!” Voldemort hissed. He jabbed his wand and banished Neville so hard into the wall that he left a mark before he slid to the floor. Then he stopped, and pulled firmly on the hilt. The sword slowly worked its way free, dripping with thick black inhuman blood. Voldemort didn't cast a healing charm after the sword clattered to the floor; he cast a sealing charm.

“It's a true homonculus – no organs, no vessels... it's just a blood bag!” Hermione gasped.

“How do I kill it?” Harry said in a panic.

“Drain it completely... I think...” Hermione returned.

Voldemort turned around and angrily thrust his wand toward Magnus's position. The Icelander literally tore through the wall and flew toward the Dark Lord. With a jab and a wave, Magnus struck the wall opposite of Neville and fell face-first. He turned back to face Harry and began walking toward him. He batted away each spell Harry fired with quick waves of his wand.

Harry heard Ron groan behind him. “I've got him out,” Twing said.

“Get him out of the room – out! Out!” Harry shouted.

“I don't know if he should be moved –” Hermione started.

“Get him out now!” Harry ordered.

Twing didn't hesitate: he pulled Ron to his feet, slung him over his shoulder and headed for the far door without a single look back.

“Hermione, Ginny – GO!” Harry demanded.

Hermione stood next to him and began to fire all manner of surprisingly dark curses. She and Ginny took turns casting shields and firing. Most of Ginny's spells were blasting curses but she even attempted a Bat-Bogey curse out of frustration; only three pathetic bogeys took a few flaps around the snake-like slits in Voldemort's face before they disappeared. The net result of all their work was that Voldemort slowed his stride somewhat. Ginny moved out to one side in an effort to force the Dark Lord to divide his attention.

Voldemort stopped for a moment and said, “Ah, of course... you're the one who opened the Chamber of Secrets. Imperio.”

“No... no...” Ginny sobbed.

“Fire your strongest Blasting Curse at Mr. Potter, please,” Voldemort ordered.

“I... won't...” Ginny bit out.

Harry and Hermione fired curse after curse at Voldemort, but it was as though they were standing still. What wasn't intercepted by the whirling metal discs seemed to bounce off of the Dark Lord.

“I owned you before, girl, and I will own you again. You're too weak to resist me,” said Voldemort.

“I - fought - you - for a year,” Ginny managed.

“Kill Potter and the girl – NOW!” Voldemort demanded.

Ginny's arm shook as she raised her wand and turned to face Harry.

“Good! Very good! Now DO IT!” said Voldemort.

“I will... NOT,” Ginny snapped; she turned in a trice and fired three rapid-fire and surprisingly powerful Reductor Curses at the Dark Lord. One made it past his shields and sent him flying backward into the conjured stone barriers. Harry took Hermione by the hand and ran toward the Room of Doors, with Ginny close behind. Harry reached for her with his other hand and she took it.

“You beat him! You beat him!” Harry told her. Ginny gave him a nod and a determined smile.

Hermione said, “I have Magnus; Ginny, get Neville. Let's move them to the corridor. Harry...?”

Harry called out, “I ask for the Room of Magical Energies!”

The Room of Doors shuddered and tried but failed to turn; there was simply too much damage from the two explosions. There was a second round of shuddering, and two of the doors near the spot where Neville had fallen slid apart. The faintly glowing door appeared between them.

“No – you – will – not!” Voldemort thundered. He shot across the rooms as though he was flying, and a wave of raw magic preceded him. Before he could cast a shield of any sort, the wave struck Harry and threw him backward. Ginny ran back into the room and tried to summon Harry clear.

Voldemort hissed, “Goodbye, blood traitor,” and cast a too-familiar purple beam. Harry cast a shield spell in front of Ginny but it didn't fully block the curse. She slumped backward, sliced across the stomach, and struck the floor hard.

Hermione tried to reach Ginny, but caught a cutting curse that her hastily-cast shield couldn't block. She fell to her knees, cradling one arm. Voldemort promptly blasted her wand into a thousand fragments.

That distraction gave Harry a chance to return the favour. Just as Voldemort cast a Body-Bind at Harry, Harry's quick Expelliarmus shook Voldemort's wand just enough to slip it loose. The Body-Bind only caught half of Harry's body. He managed a Blasting Curse that assured the yew-and-phoenix-feather wand would never be used again. Then he immediately moved to dispel the binding.

The one thing that Harry hadn't counted on was that Voldemort had a second wand. Even though it clearly wasn't a perfect match, it was more than powerful enough to deliver a curse that shattered Harry's wand. The pieces of it slashed through his hand and the phoenix feather burst into flame.

His hand was in agony; he couldn't see his palm but it was surely charred. Try as he might, he couldn't move properly, and his attempt left him flat on the floor. His holly wand was gone forever. The elder wand was a foot from the fingertips of his other hand but it might as well have been at Hogwarts for all the good it did him.

“The accursed protection is gone, and your wand is no more,” Voldemort sneered. “You won't be saved by a mudblood this time, Harry Potter.”

“That's what you think,” Hermione said. She was in little better shape than Harry. Her left arm was cut badly from wrist to elbow. Her breathing was labored; he wondered if her ribs were broken. She crawled until she sat awkwardly in front of Harry.

“You can move aside and die later or remain where you are and die now. The order of things honestly doesn't matter to me,” Voldemort said.

“Move, Hermione,” Harry bit out.

“You'll get no satisfaction from me, you monster,” she said to Voldemort.

The Dark Lord declared, “History is written by the victors. Harry Potter will be the monster, not Lord Voldemort.”

“You're not even him anymore... just a tiny piece,” Harry managed to say.

Voldemort scoffed, “That's not how it works, boy. A Horcrux is a segment of the soul: seven Horcruxes, ergo seven equal segments. You've destroyed five, I'll give you that much, but two remain within this form; you cost me the opportunity to create a sixth at Godric's Hollow. I will create one final Horcrux, and let me assure you that no one will ever find it. Lord Voldemort will never die.”

He limped forward and went on, “In fact, I believe that I shall use your death, Potter, as the catalyst for my last Horcrux. Let us do this the same as seventeen years ago... excepting the end, of course. Stand aside, girl – do it now.”

“I don't think so,” Hermione said. She took Harry's arm.

“Release him and stand aside!” Voldemort demanded.

“Make me,” Hermione said, almost petulantly.

Voldemort let forth a high, chilling laugh. “You are certainly spirited, girl. For that, I grant you a quick and painless death. Avada –”

Hermione squeezed tight against the rune on Harry's upper arm, so tightly that his skin seemed to burn with the touch. He felt a tiny bit of her magic reach out to the rune. There was a bright orange flash of light, and he realised that she had released the incantation embedded within it. Something-something excandesco... it was from Ravenclaw's Grimoire, he realised... advexi excandesco. It wasn't a rune of protection at all.

He shouted, “NO!” but there was no air in his lungs to carry the sound. In an instant he emerged from a mass of flames on the other side of the chamber and dropped to the floor.

“ – Kedavra!”

A green light glowed from Hermione's eyes for a moment and her mouth formed into a silent 'oh!' as the curse struck. Harry felt the excratio pensare bond pull against him – the bond that held them together so that they could share a curse. It was oddly comforting to know that they would be together again in seconds. He wondered if his mother had felt the same way about his father. He wondered if they would be disappointed in him.

Then the bond buckled and shuddered and he felt as if his insides were being torn apart. It made no sense: the Killing Curse was instant and painless. There was an incredible rush of – something? - and then he screamed as what was surely pure magic flowed through him and then out again: out his fingertips, his feet, his nose, his mouth. He thought his very soul would follow it, but somehow he was still Harry.

It was then that his head exploded with pain and light. His scar cracked and a sheen of blood flowed down his forehead. A hazy black mist swirled before his eyes and a second shout joined his own.

Voldemort added a third; he shouted, “NO! STOP!”

The shrill scream of the last horcrux continued as the black mist spun and shredded and finally disappeared. Harry felt as though he was free of the body bind, but when he moved to clear the blood from his eyes, he still couldn't manage to lift his arm. He felt odd somehow: too tall and too wide, but there was no reason for it.

Voldemort was far from uninjured himself: Neville's jab with the Sword of Gryffindor had left him listing to the right; he was burned more badly than Harry had realised; and various curses had cut his arms and torn to shreds his right leg. He unsteadily pointed his spare wand; both his hands shook badly.

“You were a Horcrux, you miserable brat! You were my last Horcrux, and you knew it!” he screamed.

Harry fought to his feet. “None left... and now... I'm going to end this...” he stammered.

Voldemort shrieked, “You think you've won? I think not: the prophecy says that only you can kill me, Horcruxes or not – doesn't it? That's what it was all about. I should have realised that from the start.”

“They're Horcruces... twit...” Harry ground out.

Voldemort ignored him; he said, “I can still copy myself again, and again, and again... who will stop me? You? You are a defeated schoolboy without a wand. Well then... I haven't the proper ritual stones for the task just now, so the order of deaths matters not. Goodbye, Harry Potter.”

A quiet Expelliarmus came from the far side of the chamber. Voldemort's wand shook and clattered from his grasp.

“The blood traitor still lives?” Voldemort rasped. He tried to summon his wand with a wave of his hand, but it only shuddered.

Harry managed to reach across his body with his left hand and knock the elder wand loose from his pocket. He rolled to the floor, left arm outstretched, and the wand skittered into his hand. He cast the only spell that he knew for certain the temperamental wand would accept from him.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

Voldemort hissed at the approach of Harry's silvery stag. “You think to ward me off, do you? Ridiculous, boy!” he boasted.

The stag cantered around Ginny, whose wand was loose in her hand; it looked as if she was trying to speak but failing at it. Voldemort leant to pick up his wand, but then stumbled backward and raised his arm to shield his eyes.

“I won't let you hurt her again,” Harry said. He painfully rose to his feet. Just as at Hogwarts, the patronus stag continued to hold its place even though his wand and his thoughts were directed elsewhere.

“What magic is this?” Voldemort demanded, even as he backed toward the side of the room.

Harry drew strength from somewhere. “Ollivander told us about someone who made too many copies of a magical something-or-another. In the end, it wasn't anything like the original. You can try to copy yourself, but it won't work.

“Nonsense – Lord Voldemort's magic knows no constraints,” Voldemort scoffed, though he couldn't let his arm down for fear of looking upon the stag.

Harry closed in on the Dark Lord; he said, “You're not very good at maths, either. I've thought about this for a while now. If you've actually managed to split your soul, then there's a little less left to split each time. You said there were seven equal segments, but I don't think so. The first split left you with half a soul, the next with a fourth, and so on, and so on. You're barely human anymore... practically a dementor. Prongs!” The patronus stag dashed toward Voldemort, who now huddled against the wall.

Voldemort forced himself to look toward Harry and said, “We're at a standoff, it seems. For whatever reason, I can't seem to stand against your patronus, but you can't attack me for fear of dispelling it. What happens now, Harry Potter? My men are surely closing in by now.”

Harry said, “I'm not so sure about that, Tom.”

“You will not call me by that name!” Voldemort snapped.

Harry went on, “Your men didn't come to you before. I suspect they're all dead now.”

“Killed? I doubt that, Potter – stunned, perhaps, but not killed. Your people think like Aurors. My Death Eaters will rise again,” said Voldemort.

“No, I meant what I said. We didn't come today to take prisoners. Think about it. Macnair? Dead. Mulciber? Dead. Rookwood? Dead. Bellatrix? Dead.”

At that, Voldemort said, “You're lying!”

Harry pointed across the room and said, “She went through that door a few hours ago. I figure that she's dead. We're not taking prisoners, Tom. We came here to rid England of you and everyone with you. It's finished now. Somnus.”

“What...?” was the last thing Voldemort said before he slid to the floor, soundly asleep. Harry's patronus staf immediately settled beside the sleeping Dark Lord.

Harry struggled toward Ginny; “Oh, God... can... can you hear me?” he asked.

Ginny coughed furiously and then managed to say, “Sleep? You... he's asleep?”

“I can't cast curses with this wand,” Harry said; “You hang on, Ginny – do you hear me?”

“Where's Hermione? Where is she?” Ginny asked him.

“Dobby!” Harry cried out.

The house-elf appeared nearly beneath Harry's feet; he barely managed to remain standing. “Yes, Harry Potter...? You... that... it's... is He dead?”

“He will be in a few minutes,” Harry said. “I need healers here, now. Ginny needs help. Neville and Magnus are in the corridor.”

“Dobby will do it, but what about Miss Granger...? Miss Granger? Dobby is calling, Miss Granger...” Dobby nudged Hermione's shoulder again and again, and Harry put everything he had into holding down the emotions roiling inside of him.

“She's dead, Dobby. Just... just get the healers, would you?” Harry asked.

4:47 AM

Harry didn't notice when Dobby returned. He barely registered the commotion around him. He waved off one healer – it might have been Madam Pomfrey, but he wasn't sure. He re-cast the Sleeping Charm on Voldemort and levitated his body toward the glowing door. Several people gasped at the sight, but he didn't care. He went back and picked up Hermione in his arms. There was an exquisite pain in his shoulder, but he wouldn't let it stop him.

“Mr. Potter! What are you doing?”

“We were... we were about to collect the body, sir –”

He ignored it all and carried her with him to the door. It was awkward, but he somehow tapped the door the requisite three times, and said in a thick voice, “I ask permission to enter.” Nothing happened.

“I ask permission to enter,” he repeated. Still, nothing happened.

“Please let me in... I have to finish this... please let me in, or it will have all been for nothing... please,” he begged. Just as earlier in the morning, the door became brighter and brighter until the entire Room of Doors was washed in a white light that flickered and danced on every surface.

A gruff voice behind him said, “Ég er ekki nógu hreint til að sjá þetta.”

A softer sorrowful voice returned, “Þetta er ég sem er ekki vert.”

The white fog that had earlier reached out for Bellatrix Lestrange pooled on the floor and swirled around Voldemort's sleeping form. Slowly, almost as if he were on a funeral bier, his body drifted into the fog and disappeared into the Room beyond.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered.

Something urged him to step forward. It wasn't so much a voice as feelings that he sensed. He was being invited in. He heard pleas to stop, but the urging to enter the Room had to be satisfied. He knew there was no going back.

Once inside, the light dimmed enough for him to open his eyes without blinking back tears, but there was still no sense of walls or boundaries of any kind – it was just a white endlessness. He turned and couldn't see a door behind him.

He dropped to his knees but somehow kept Hermione in his arms. Her head settled limply in the crook of his neck. He was running on something outside of himself, he knew; it was almost impossible that he was still conscious.

“I'm sorry,” he said; “I never wanted to kill anyone. I never wanted any of this to happen.”

It wanted to know what his purpose was, what he was asking for. It wanted to know why he had been drawn into the war in the first place. It wanted to know why he brought Voldemort to it rather than killing the Dark Lord himself. It wanted to know his deepest hopes, dreams, fears and wishes. It wanted to know him, he realised. He couldn't fight it, and wasn't sure he would put up a fight if he could. It rifled through his memories but the feeling was of a soft caress. It was taking care of him.

What do you want?

It didn't actually speak to him, but it may as well have spoken – the question was perfectly clear.

“You can't give me what I want. She's dead,” he said aloud.

What do you want?

“I just... tell me she's... that she's somewhere safe, that's she's all right... that's all I need to know,” he said, and somehow he knew that she was.

What do you want?

“How do I set you free? Whoever you are, or whatever you are, this isn't right. You're not supposed to be locked up like this. I... I want to make things right,” he said.

The light became brighter and brighter until he had to squeeze his eyes shut. He could still sense the brightness through his eyelids, and there was a gentle warmth, and a breeze, and then nothing at all – pure darkness. He opened his eyes.

He was in the dark, on his knees, in a ten foot by ten foot metal-walled room with an open door behind him. Voldemort was gone. Hermione was gone. There was nothing left of him. He fell forward into the darkness.

* * * * * * * * * *

August 3, 1998 – King George VI Hospital – High Dependency Unit, Greater London

“Harry...? Harry...? Can you hear me? If you can hear me, I need you to wiggle the fingers on your right hand. Can you do that for me?”

He wasn't sure if his right hand moved or not, but he managed to get a word out. It sounded like, “Urgl,” which wasn't at all what he'd intended to say.

“I don't know what that means, Harry. Try again.”

“Wrgl. Wrtr. Water,” he said.

“Not just yet, young man. Let's see how you fare with sitting up.”

His head felt like it moved more than his body did, but eventually up and down were fixed in place and he decided to open his eyes.

“You are still alive... no thanks to your own efforts,” Madam Pomfrey said.

He looked around the room very slowly. He wasn't at Hogwarts, and he wasn't at St. Mungo's. He was in a perfectly ordinary hospital room.

“Wrrr am I?” he asked.

“You're in hospital. Hogwarts will require major repair and St. Mungo's may have to be torn down entirely, so we've made arrangements through the Minister,” Madam Pomfrey told him.

“Wuhhh day is it?” he managed.

“It's August the third. You've been out for three days this time,” she said.

“Potions?” he asked.

She said, “You're already game for them? Perhaps you're even braver than I thought.”

He let out a half-snort-half-laugh and said, “Nothin' better to do.”

Another healer brought over a tray with several glass beakers that held horrors that he preferred not to think about. Madam Pomfrey put her hand on the first beaker, and then stopped. She stammered, “Harry... Mr. Potter... no words can properly express... what you've done... oh, sod it. Thank you. There, now it's on to the potions.”

August 6, 1998 – King George VI Hospital, Greater London

“I'm sorry, but Mr. Potter is still refusing visitors,” he heard one of the nurses tell someone in the corridor.

“Madam, I am here on official business of the Crown,” someone returned.

Harry sighed and called out, “Let him in, so we can be done with it.”

An owlish looking man with a valise entered the room. After the cursory look around that everyone gave, he said, “My name is Herbert Mallory, sir. I am employed by the Royal Household in the Lord Chamberlain's Office. You are Harry James Potter, born 31 July 1980 at Godric's Hollow in Wales, is that correct?”

“Erm, that's right,” Harry said.

Mr. Mallory gave him a thorough once-over and said, “No offence is intended, but I'm having a hard time squaring you and the award which you are to be granted. Nonetheless, on behalf of the Lord Chamberlain and Her Majesty, I extend the gratitude of the United Kingdom for your service. Due to your... unusual circumstances, there can be no formal investiture at this time.”

“Look, Mister... Mallory, is it...? I don't mean to be a bother, but I've had a rough go the last few days, and I haven't the slightest idea what award you're talking about,” Harry told him.

Mr. Mallory was shocked; he said, “Good heavens, man! No one's told you, not even someone from that, er, particular part of Her Majesty's Government?”

“I've been a bit of a recluse,” Harry said quietly.

“Yes... well... understandable given the circumstances, of course,” said Mr. Mallory.

“So, again – not to be a bother – but could you start from the beginning?” Harry asked.

Mr. Mallory took a paper from his valise and said, “Yes, quite... ahem... For acts of the greatest heroism and the most conspicuous courage in circumstances of great danger, The Right Honourable Edward M. Lowell, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, with the consent of Her Majesty Margaret the First, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories, Head of the Commonwealth and Defender of the Faith, awards to Harry James Potter the George Cross, on this day, the fifth of August, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-eight. Now, it is my understanding that you may wish to receive this award under a pseudonym?”

Harry was overwhelmed; he managed to say, “I'm sorry... under a what?”

“I understand that you may use a different name and propers in, ahem, the world within which most of the Queen's subjects live? The Prime Minister is willing to award the Cross under the name of your choosing,” Mr. Mallory explained.

“Ahh, right. Yeah, I expect I'll be using the other name and such from now on. Harry Potter's a bit too easy to locate,” Harry said.

“And the name...?” Mr. Mallory asked.

“Black,” Harry said; “John James Black, with the same birthday and birthplace.”

Mr. Mallory took out a fountain pen and made a note. “John... James... Black – very good, sir. We will reissue all of the documentation accordingly. Will you be here for long?”

“Another two or three days, I expect,” said Harry.

Mr. Mallory said, “I believe we can accommodate that. I'll have the Cross and paperwork back to you before you depart. There is a small annuity associated with the Cross, Mister... ahem, Mister Black. The Lord Chamberlain's Office will make arrangements with the... other branch of government in respect to that matter. I understand that the Office of the Prime Minister is also awarding you an annuity of some sort, but they'll have to sort that on their own. There is one more rather delicate matter... I don't wish to trouble you, but I've little choice in the matter.”

“I think I can handle it,” Harry said.

Mr. Mallory removed a second page from his valise. “As you say, sir... for acts of the greatest heroism and the most conspicuous courage in circumstances of great danger, The Right Honourable Edward M. Lowell, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, with the consent of Her Majesty Margaret the First, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories, Head of the Commonwealth and Defender of the Faith, posthumously awards to Hermione Jane Granger the George Cross, on this day, the fifth of August, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-eight. Mr. Potter... we weren't entirely certain what to do with Miss Granger's Cross, and were hoping that you could assist us in resolving the matter.”

“Oh, God...” Harry whispered.

“Ahem... Mr. Potter, we can address this at your leisure. As I said, I didn't wish to trouble you further,” Mr. Mallory said quickly.

Harry waved him off. “It's... it's all right. Her parents are all she had. They moved to Canada for the duration. Are you able to get in contact with our Minister?”

“Both the Lord Chamberlain's Office and the Office of the Prime Minister are able to make that contact,” Mr. Mallory said stiffly.

“The Minister should be able to find them,” Harry said.

“Would you rather be the one to bring the Cross to them?” Mr. Mallory asked gently.

Harry said, “No.”

Mr. Mallory placed the papers back into his valise. He made for the door but stopped short. “Mr. Potter? Pardon... Mr. Black? They say you ended the London War. If that's truly the case, then Her Majesty and Mr. Lowell aren't the only ones who are deeply grateful. Thank you, young man... thank you so very much,” he said. With a tip of his hat, he left.

Harry waited until the door closed, and then he silently and bitterly wept for quite some time.

August 9, 1998 – King George VI Hospital, Greater London

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey, for everything,” Harry said.

The stern old healer gave him a tentative embrace and said, “I think that after all we've been through together, 'Poppy' will do nicely.”

“I'll try my best,” Harry chuckled.

“I do hope we'll see you from time to time?” Madam Pomfrey said.

“We'll see what comes, right?” Harry said evenly.

“You've quite a crowd waiting to see you home,” she told him.

“A crowd? I'd really rather not have a crowd,” he said.

She smiled and said, “Some of them are rather insistent – Mrs. Weasley, for one.”

Harry gave a small smile. “She and Arthur are here?” he asked.

She said, “My considered opinion is that you really shouldn't suffer through more than one or two people at a time. Would you like to see Molly and Arthur?”

“Just for a moment,” Harry said.

His first impression was that the two elder Weasleys looked very old. He realised that while he'd been in hospital, they had said goodbye to two of their sons.

Mrs. Weasley shuffled forward and then pulled him into a hug that felt to Harry like she was drowning and he was the last life saver in sight. She mumbled something into his shoulder, and his shirt quickly grew damp. Mr. Weasley patted him on the other shoulder, but couldn't manage to get a word out.

“We tried to save them,” Harry said. His voice cracked as he spoke the words.

“We know that, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said; “Bill, Charlie, Percy, Ron and Ginny all made it through this. As much as it hurts to lose them... whole families came to an end in this war, and in the last one as well. Kingsley tells us that Fred destroyed one of those foul things – is that true?”

Harry's shoulders slumped and Mrs. Weasley pulled back from him. He said, “He was trying to keep Hufflepuff's Cup from Voldemort. It was stuck to his hand and there was no getting it off. He went through the Veil rather than give it up.”

Mrs. Weasley cried, “My brave boy... what did he say? What was the last thing he said?”

Harry couldn't help himself; he couldn't even think of it without a dark bit of laughter. He snorted and said, “Honestly, you don't want to know.”

She said, “What's this? You're the third person who won't tell me.”

After he composed his thoughts, he told her, “You wouldn't approve of the language; let's just say that he told Voldemort exactly what he thought of him. It was... so like Fred. I don't know what else to say about it.”

“That's enough, dear,” Mrs. Weasley sniffed.

“Harry, I don't know what your plans are...” Mr. Weasley began.

Mrs. Weasley took over, “There's a room for you at the house we'll be living in. It's time for you to come home.”

“I'm sorry, but I can't go there,” Harry said.

“Well, what do you mean by that, saying you can't go there? Of course you can go there,” Mrs. Weasley insisted.

Harry said, “I was afraid this would happen. Look... I'm not exactly right in the head after what happened. I need to be on my own for a while.”

“But that's exactly why you need to come home with us: so you can be looked after!” Mrs. Weasley protested.

“I can't do that,” Harry said with a tightness in his voice.

“You know that you're welcome, of course,” said Mr. Weasley.

“I do, and I really appreciate it. You just... you don't know what happened there,” Harry said.

“I'm... oh Harry, I'm so sorry about Hermione. She was a wonderful, wonderful girl, and I know the two of you were very close,” Mrs. Weasley said.

Harry couldn't hold it back anymore. He said, “And there it is: that's why I can't come with you right now. I don't need to hear that day after day after day. She's dead, and you think we were close, but you don't know the half of it. We weren't just close. We were together, completely together. I would have asked her to marry me when this was finished – that's how close we were. She's dead and she shouldn't be dead, because she wasn't supposed to be there!”

Mrs. Weasley's mouth sat open in shock. Mr. Weasley cleared his throat and said, “We had no idea it was like that between the two of you. I suppose that half a year together – and under those conditions, no less – changes everything, doesn't it?”

“You should still come home with us,” Mrs. Weasley said in a hollow voice.

The door came open and Ron burst in. “Are you all ready, then? I figure you must be bursting to get out of here,” he said.

Harry's fists clenched and his breathing quickened. “I don't want to see you,” he said.

“What's this?” Ron said.

“You were supposed to keep her away. It was a simple thing, but could you manage that one thing, that one bloody thing for me? No, of course not!” Harry snarled.

“Keeping her from anything that she wanted to do was like fighting against a force of nature, and you know it,” Ron fired back.

“SHE WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE THERE, AND NOW SHE'S DEAD!” Harry shouted at him.

Ron bowed his head and said, “I hear you, Harry... God knows, I hear you. I haven't been able to put it out of my mind for a minute.”

Harry reached toward the tray next to the bed and grabbed the first thing he could find: a tissue box. He hurled it at Ron's head and growled, “GET OUT!”

“Easy there, Harry...” Mr. Weasley said.

Gudrun popped her head in just then. “What is happening in here?” she asked.

Harry lost it the moment that he saw her. He raged, “YOU GET OUT, TOO! IT'S A LOT MORE YOUR FAULT THAN RON'S! I KNOW WHERE HERMIONE FOUND THOSE SPELLS! SHE AND GINNY WERE THE ONES DOING A RITUAL THAT NIGHT, WEREN'T THEY? YOU SET THIS UP! YOU COULD AS WELL HAVE PUT A WAND TO HER HEAD! YOU KILLED HER!”

“I... I... I don't know what to...” Gudrun stammered.

Harry threw over the tray entirely, then grabbed a metal bedpan and threw it at Gudrun's head. “GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!” he screamed. The blood rushed from his head and everything in the room shook.

Madam Pomfrey bustled in and demanded, “What is going on here? What have you done to my patient?”

“He's gone spare, that's what's happened!” Ron said.

“Out with all of you – out, I say! Mr. Potter will be leaving when I say he's to leave, and not a moment sooner. Good day to you!” Madam Pomfrey huffed.

After a long while, when the Weasleys were gone and the room was quiet and the only sounds were the whirring of the air vents and the slow rocking of Madam Pomfrey's conjured chair, he said, “I can't go back to it, you know? I have to go away.”

“I understand why you can't go to the Weasleys' home, but I'm more than a little concerned about you being entirely alone. Set me at ease: tell me why you think that you'll be all right on your own, why you think you'll be safe on your own.” Madam Pomfrey said.

Harry said, “I'll never be Harry Potter again, I can't be. Be honest with me, now. Do you think I'll ever be able to set foot in the magical world again without stirring everyone up?”

“In a generation or two, perhaps,” Madam Pomfrey admitted.

“I don't want to be that, and especially not now. I don't want to be used, I don't want to be in politics, I don't want to be chatted up – none of it,” said Harry.

“Where will you go?” Madam Pomfrey asked him.

“I have a good idea of it. I'll be sure to give the Ministry a mail drop,” he said.

She said, “If you need anything, Harry, anything at all... I consider myself to be your personal healer. After all, who else would put up with your nonsense?”

“Thank you,” he said honestly.

She nodded and told him, “I think it might be best if Mr. Black were to take the stairs and apparate from the rooftop, don't you?”

* * * * * * * * * * *

September 22, 1998 – John O' Groats, Caithness, Scotland

Harry sat on the veranda and watched the sea go by. The sky was churning, the wind was blowing, and a mist was falling. It suited him perfectly, he thought.

“Mr. Black? Mr. Black?” Mrs. McLaren, the property agent, called out.

“I'm back here,” he loudly returned.

She came around the side of the cottage and said, “Ahh, there yeh are.” She was wearing oversized wellies along with her work-a-day clothing.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

She said, “Well, there's the matter of how long yer plannin' ta stay. A good number of the cottages are boarded up 'round about October, all exceptin' the year-round sorts.”

“Do you think the owners would sell this place to me?” he asked.

“Sell to yeh? Well, I don' know... sort of an investment fer 'em, 'tis this place... not that I can't find others fer yeh, if you're thinkin' of winterin' over,” Mrs. McLaren fretted.

“I can pay in cash,” Harry said.

“ 'Struth? That might carry the day – most wouldna think of danglin' Sterling in front of an owner,” she said. “Yer stayin', then?”

“That's my plan for now, at least,” he said.

She said, “Well, yeh decided ta stay around the good'uns. We take care of those what be deservin' it in John O' Groats, I tell yeh. I'll set yeh ta meet my brother Robbie. He were in the service, too – yeh might find somethin' akin, see? Nothin' else, he might put yeh ta work... not that it's needed when yeh can pay Sterling fer a shore cottage. Now, yeh come by the Brown Bottle on Saturday evenin'? Take care, Mr. Black.”

“It's John, not Mr. Black – just John, that's all,” he said.

“Good ta hear, John; good ta hear,” she said.

He cracked open a book that he'd borrowed from Hogwarts via Poppy Pomfrey, and read and rocked and relaxed. He was nearly asleep when he heard a pop! nearby; his wand was in his hand before his eyes were open.

He called out, “Dobby! Is that you?”

“Good afternoon, Harry,” came a voice from behind him. Gudrun Stefánsdóttir stood along his beachfront, along with a very, very old woman.

“You're not welcome here. Leave,” he said coldly.

“You may go, child. I shall be fine on my own,” the old woman said. Gudrun nodded and promptly disappeared into the earth.

“Who are you?” Harry demanded.

“I am known as many things, but for this purpose my name is Sigurrós Gísladóttir. I am the faúra-gaggja of the Healing Order of Hekla, or as you know us, the grœðari,” the woman said.

“What do you want with me?” he said harshly.

“I wish to discuss a number of things,” she said; “May I have entry to your home?”

Harry dropped his book hard onto the seat of his rocking chair and opened the door from the veranda into the cottage. “Come in, don't come in, whatever,” he said.

Gísladóttir was surprisingly spry; she was inside his sitting room and seated before he returned with a freshly warmed kettle. “Tea?” he asked.

“What sort of tea do you offer me?” she asked in return.

“It's a pouchong tea from Taiwan, which means it's really a jade oolong, I suppose. It's bitter at first, but slightly sweet on the second taste. I take it with nothing, but I suppose you could add a bit of sugar,” he said.

“I have only had the black tea that Englishmen seem to favour, the sort that requires cream and sugar. Your pouchong tea sounds adventurous to these old ears. I will gladly take a cup of it,” she said.

He slowly sipped at his tea, hoping that it would settle his anger from seeing Gudrun again. Gísladóttir seemed content to drink slowly, and Harry had recently taken a liking to silence.

At length, the old woman said, “I can offer to you an explanation as to why you survived on the thirty-first of July. When your young lady was killed by Skí-maðr, you expected to join her, did you not?”

“The bond between us was supposed to let us share a curse. If you share a Killing Curse, then you should be dead... at least, that's what we thought,” he said.

“Ninety-nine times of one hundred, you would be correct in that thinking. There were many magical connections at work on that day, however, and those must be unravelled to find the true cause,” she said.

“I'm listening,” he said.

She began, “Firstly, you and the young lady were bound by this spell, this excratio pensare that Healer Stefánsdóttir explained to myself and the elders. Secondly, you were bound by a ritual that the young lady and her friend performed. This was a Norse ritual of protection, one which still exists in our writings and that was apparently known to one of your important magical predecessors. Healer Stefánsdóttir believes that your mother used this same ritual for your protection when you were but a babe, and that this saved you from the curse by Skí-maðr at that time. Thirdly, you were both connected in some way to these... how shall I say...? The soul anchors that Skí-maðr created – it is those of which I speak.

“So, young man, how does this Killing Curse work – this curse of which Skí-maðr was so fond? Do you have an understanding of it?”

He said, “Basically, the wizard casting the spell uses his will to force the life out of the victim.”

She said, “At a high level this is true, but more must be understood. This curse breaks the connection between the body and the insubstantial self: that which most people call the soul. It is true that a strong desire to kill must be present, but it is the breaking of the connection that is of the most importance.

“If this is the case, and Skí-maðr broke the connection between your young lady's body and soul, then what would happen to her soul?” Gísladóttir asked him.

“It's just gone, isn't it? Some people say that it's destroyed, others say it moves on to, you know... wherever souls go, I guess,” he answered.

“Consider that part of what makes a magical person magical resides in the soul. In the particular case of your young lady, what would happen to her soul?” Gísladóttir clarified.

Harry's brows rose. He said, “She was connected to me... are you saying that it came to me?”

“A horse not led follows the path set before it. The young lady's insubstantial self – her essence – would have followed the spell bond, and so it would have passed from her to you,” she said.

“But then what?” he asked.

“As I said, a horse not led follows the path set before it. If something can be made to come in, then it can be made to go out again,” she said.

Now his brows furrowed. “Isn't that where it should have killed me, then? Why didn't I follow her out?” he wondered aloud.

She said, “Ahh, yes – and that is where we must consider the third party to this exercise: the soul anchor that was housed within you. It was expelled, yes?”

“We're certain of that much. It hurt. A lot,” he said.

She asked, “Do you know the game of Croquet? It is an Englishman's game, correct?”

“Erm... yeah, I suppose it is. I've seen it before, but I've never played,” he said.

She said, “It has been many a year since I have seen the game, but I do recall a few things about it. If one's ball hits that of another player, then one has an option whereby his ball may be placed side by side with the struck ball. Do you know of what I speak?”

He said, “Yeah, my cousin thought that was the best part of the game. He put his foot on his own ball and smacked it with the mallet, and that other ball would just fly across the lawn.”

“Indeed, that is how I remember it,” she said.

“Is this going somewhere?” he asked her.

She told him, “Indeed it is. Let us substitute the essence of your young lady for your ball, and the soul anchor of Skí-maðr as the other. Your young lady comes to a stop against the soul anchor. Your foot, which we shall call the bonding spell in this case, comes down upon your young lady. The mallet is applied, and...?”

“The Horcrux comes out, and then she comes out after that,” he concluded.

Gísladóttir slowly shook her head. “May I be permitted to employ some diagnostic runes upon you? I will swear whatever oath you like that I will do you know harm. As you may know, such oaths are already imposed upon me as a healer.” Harry hesitated, but then nodded.

She bade him lie down on the sofa, and then placed several runestones on or around him. “Healer Stefánsdóttir performed this same examination upon you some weeks ago,” she explained, “but I expect to see a different result.”

“I remember this one. She was looking for the Horcrux,” he said.

She said, “Yes, that is correct. One moment... there. Healer Stefánsdóttir was correct: I, too, have never seen a result such as this. What is the quality of light around you? Describe to me what you see.”

“There's a white light all around me, but it's even brighter above my eyes. Last time it was grey up there. Hermione said it was actually black, from the Horcrux,” he reported.

“It is such a brilliant white that I can scarcely look upon it,” she said. “The soul anchor is most certainly gone. It has been replaced. You are at once the luckiest and unluckiest person I have met in twenty decades upon this Earth.”

Harry began to say, “Replaced? What are you on about...?” but the words nearly died in his mouth.

“Your young lady has not left you. She is to be found right there,” Gísladóttir said, as she tapped upon his scar for emphasis.

“She's a Horcrux? Voldemort split her soul in two?” Harry gasped.

Gísladóttir smiled and shook her head; she said, “Certainly not. One cannot divide the indivisible, anymore than one can destroy the indestructible. If Skí-maðr truly divided that which he thought was his soul, then he had already given up his soul entirely. He had ceased to be human, or even to be alive in the sense that you and I would understand. It is possible to copy one's essence and even to place it in a repository. I would not recommend this to anyone, as a copy is never the equal of its original. I believe that Skí-maðr made several copies of his essence, and that this was sufficient to keep him tethered to this world. One of those copies resided within you, but the ritual of protection performed by your mother prevented that copy from joining with your own essence. Now, recall that your young lady performed the same ritual, and your friend did the same but from the role of sister rather than lover. The same protections that would keep Skí-maðr out would also serve to keep the young lady in. And there you have it: she has replaced the soul anchor with herself.”

Harry was near a panic. He babbled, “And what am I supposed to do with that? If Voldemort's body was any example, I certainly can't make a new one for her, and even if I could, how would she get from here to there? Do I kill someone and let her possess the body? Is she trapped there until I die? Is that it: do I have to kill myself now? What am I supposed to do?”

“This I do not know. I believe that you will know of it when the time comes,” she said.

Harry went on, “Oh, that's so helpful! Hermione's stuck in my head! She's a Horcrux! I'm supposed to just walk around like a normal bloke for the next hundred years pretending it's all right?”

“We will make available to you everything that we know on the subject. I will also allow you to visit us at Hekla. There is no room filled with grœð but it will come to us when asked. If you wish to walk amidst the grœð a second time, then we will make it so,” she said.

“What good would that do?” he asked.

She said, “Perhaps the young lady would be freed to move on? Perhaps you would receive the solution, or the path that leads to it? Perhaps nothing would happen at all. I believe that what ever you would experience, it would be favorable.

“In addition to this, we owe you a boon. You emptied that horrible Room within your Ministry. You were asked what you sought, and you chose to let life freely live – to let justice go out into the world as it belongs. This is an act beyond our ability to repay, but we will do as best we can. What would you ask of us? You do not need to answer now.”

Harry sat back for several minutes, and to his surprise Gísladóttir patiently waited. At long last, he asked, “I don't know if you've met Ron Weasley...?”

“I met the young man during his healing. He and Healer Stefánsdóttir grew rather attached,” she answered.

“Does she still feel that way? I'm sure about him, but what about her?” he asked.

“She does, I fear. It is most troubling to us,” she said.

“Set her free, then. Let them have each other. That's my boon,” he said.

Gísladóttir peered at him with her rheumy eyes as though she was trying to read the contents of his soul. “Why do you ask this? I saw the anger and the hatred when Healer Stefánsdóttir arrived. I was told that you have broken off contact completely with young Mr. Weasley.”

He wrung his hands and said, “Look, if the two of them can have something special... well, I can't stand in the way of that. It's what I was hoping for. If I can make that happen for them, then it's the right thing to do. I guess I'm just a patsy, but there you are.”

“What if I told you that the elders had already decided to release Healer Stefánsdóttir from service?” she asked.

Harry shrugged. “There's nothing I really need, then,” he said.

“Do you wish to come to Iceland?” she asked him.

There was no hesitation on his part. “Yes,” he said.

* * * * * * * * * *

October 31, 1998 – Inn of the Healing Order of Hekla, due north of Skaftafell, Iceland

“This isn't my favourite day, you know? Nothing good's ever come of this day,” Harry said to one of the attendants as his eyes took in the huge wood-hewn ritual room.

Madam Gísladóttir, the faúra-gaggja, arrived just then with six women in tow, all her age or nearly so. She clasped Harry's hands and said, “I know this has been a day of ill omen for you, but it is also the time when the veil between living and dead is at its thinnest. As I know what you hope for, I felt that this was for the best.”

“Thank you for that,” he said.

“We will not allow you to be harmed, though the faúra-gaggja thinks it unlikely,” one of the women said.

Another asked, “Is it true that you were the one to free the grœð from the Englishmen?”

“I did that. It wasn't right, it wasn't something for them to control,” he said.

“Praise be unto you,” she returned, and she gave a formal bow to him.

“There are three who asked to be present today. It is in your hands as to whether this will be the case,” Gísladóttir said. She directed his attention to the left of the room. Magnus, Ron and Gudrun were all standing there.

“I need a moment, please,” Harry said to the seven women. When he was dismissed, he crossed the room.

Magnus took his arm up to the elbow in some sort of warrior's handshake; he did his best to return it without embarrassing himself. “It is good to see you again, Mr. Potter, very good indeed,” he said.

“It's my honour. How did you know about this?” Harry asked him.

Magnus inclined his head toward Gudrun; he said, “Know that Einar, my friend and ally, was the brother of Gudrun. I protect her as though she were my own flesh and blood. She spoke of this to me.

“I see,” Harry said evenly.

Ron drew a deep breath and said, “Look, Harry, I didn't know of anyplace else to find you, and Kingsley won't give out your location to anyone. I just wanted to thank you for what you did, standing up for Gudrun and me. I don't expect anything from it.”

Gudrun said, “It is the same for me. What you said to the faúra-gaggja was more than we expected or deserved. I thank you for it. I will be released from the Healing Order tomorrow.”

“We're making a start of it on the Faroe Islands. I think the both of us need a change, at least for now. I suppose that's something you understand,” Ron said.

Harry pursed his lips before he said, “All three of you can stay here. I don't expect there will be much to see.”

“So, is she really... you know...?” Ron asked; he tapped on his own forehead to make the point.

“That's what they say,” Harry returned.

A few minutes later, Harry was dressed in a simple white robe and stood at the centre of a circle; the seven healers stood on the circle at equal distances from one another. The only light in the ritual room was within the circle. He couldn't see Ron or Magnus or Gudrun in the darkness. The healers began to chant something that Harry assumed was in Icelandic. It was almost as much a song as a chant, and he found his head was swaying in rhythm with it. He was quickly dizzy in the sort of way that usually indicated a person was about to spew. The light within the circle grew brighter and brighter and then a whitish fog began to build around his feet. Soon, he found himself surrounded by the light and unable to find up or down or forward or back.

What do you want?

He said, “You know what I want, but she's dead.”

What do you want?

He said, “If I have to die to bring her back, then kill me. If she wants to, you know, move on... then let her leave.”

What do you want?

He couldn't answer. He could barely find himself in the light. He was becoming nothing; the only thing he could place was his insubstantial self.

What do you want?

He said, “I just want this to be over. I can't figure out how to live. Is that too much to ask?”

The light went away in an instant.

He was in the dark, on his knees, and on his own.

For good or ill, he had his answer.

Previous Making The Last Move The Last House The Price Paid Surfacing Illusions Lost, Not Wisdom Gained Home Is Where Your Friends Are One Last Golden Evening Seeking Shelter From The Storm Neither Life Nor Death Be Proud The Warring Mind and Heart Into The Breach Acts of Last Resort The Last Horcrux Ending 1: Star-Crossed One Last Time Next

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