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Alone inside the depths of the burning stadium, I smiled as I sat in meditation.
I smiled, and in my eyes, the whole forest was reflected as my gaze kept growing. A world burning. A world silenced. At the same time, I saw the entire site and each separate part of it as its own component, the burning timbers as part of the spectral trees, the destruction as part of the magic being cast by negative emotions channeled by the attackers, the broken branches and charred bones on the floor forming spectral shades of the werewolves that had been scorched to ashes by Hestia's spell. I could feel the heat from the flames, and the cold from the sundered spirits that had to depart from the earthly plain before they could even recognize what was happening. I saw the forest wreathed in ghostly flames that were endlessly morphing into a myriad of shapes, and knew that those were part of its possible future, that those flames were laying down several of the many, many paths of possibility that lay ahead in the next hour.
The zone beneath the massive Dark Mark floating above in the night sky was a place of power. Dark emotions — greed, lust, hatred, all hung around it as visible things, molds and slimes that were strewn over it like moss with malevolent eyes. Ghostly things, restless spirits, moving around the place, drawn to the sense of fear, despair, and anger that hung around it like a thick mist, mindless shades that were always to be found in such places like rats in granaries.
The other thing that I saw was a grinning, empty skill. Skulls were everywhere, wherever I looked, just at the edge of my vision, silent and still and bleached white, as solid and real as though a fetishist had scattered them around in anticipation of some bizarre holiday. Death. Death lay in the zone, tangible, solid, unavoidable. Past. Present. Future.
Maybe even mine.
I shuddered and shoved the feeling away. No matter how strong the vision, how powerful the image gained through such spectral insight, the future was always mutable, always something that could be changed.
My blackened creations from the World of the Dead were out and rampaging. I wondered if Amelia had worked them out. To an observer, it might look like inferi, raised through the darkest forms of fleshcraft and necromancy and made to dance like puppets. That they were not real, just flesh masks worn by a sad product of a twisted recreation of the living, brought in to deliver a psychological blow in the hearts of the Death Eaters.
Fools!
The spirits were sundered. The people were dead. They were not coming back. But the emotions, the pain, the suffering… it was still infused in this zone. Deep down. Seeping into the very pores of the soil. Waiting. Whispering.
All I was doing was giving them an opportunity to scream, a roar for blood, for vengeance, for retribution, that was both silent and deafening.
Voldemort and his followers called themselves the Death Eaters. It would be interesting to see them being eaten by Death.
Many, many people were going to die tonight. A lot many already had died in the explosion, and now the dead would consume the living. And it would all be because of me, and yet, I observed it all with just a passing interest.
It was like a significant amount of my zeal, my passion was muted. Dulled. Even in my own head, I sounded… different. I couldn't tell if this was the situation, or the necromancy affecting me in more ways than I had expected.
Was this how Voldemort felt all the time? Detached? Was that why he would exist as a wraith for thirteen years without losing his mind? The man had practically lived close to six decades before the inevitable night of Halloween 1981, and had seen it all, and done it all, and maybe even written a textbook on the Dark Arts for all I knew. Truly, nothing around me seemed to really irritate, or annoy or anger, or even fascinate me. It was like I was growing apathetic to everything.
So I turned towards the only thing that held my attention.
Something intangible, something I couldn't name, was calling out to me. Beckoning. Here was power, power that I had thrust aside to become the Incubus Lord, choosing to embrace life and manipulate emotions, the fresh source of all magic, ignoring all the festering darkness that could be mine for the taking. This was the sort of strength that could reach out and change the world to my will, bend it and shape it to my desires. A strength that could cut through all the petty trivialities of law and civilization and impose order where there was none, guarantee my security, my position, my future.
Albus Dumbledore had defeated Gellert Grindelwald, and Harry Potter had vanquished Lord Voldemort through myriad twists of Fate and Destiny as a mere baby. And what did the wizarding world give them in return? They gave Dumbledore a neutral seat of little significance, awarding him with a great prestige with all bark and no bite. And behind doors, they called him a dotty old man and an ancient defect, and he was content to ape the part of the crazy fool. And Harry Potter was glorified one week, and vilified the next, depending upon what suited the public perception.
The world called them heroes.
I called them glorified slaves.
And I had no wish to become one.
I could use this opportunity to kill Lucius Malfoy, now, right now. I could call down fury and flame, summon the relentless spirits that I had used Amelia to summon, and use them to wreak havoc upon the living. The Death Eaters wanted to use this World Cup to demonstrate their might. I could use it to destroy them for good, render the British Ministry impotent, and use the chaos to imperius the right people and rule the world from the shadows. I could reach out and embrace the dark energy festering around, draw it and use it for whatever I wanted, the consequences be damned.
Why not do that now? With the air so rich with necromantic energy, the entire area was within my sight. I could sense Barty Crouch Junior, trudging through the paths, seeking his prey, courtesy of Hestia's Imperius. The Incubus needed such props, but the Necromancer did not. Just a tinge of power into the shadows, and I could craft Shadowmen to rise from the darkness and impale Lucius Malfoy between the eyes. All it would take would be the sacrifice of some more innocents, faceless people that would not even matter in the long run.
It would be for the Greater Good.
With most of the Death Eaters gone and the rest stuck in Azkaban, it would be short work to find the baby Dark Lord and snuff him in his cradle. It would be cathartic grabbing that little head, looking into those shocked eyes as I gave the soft neck a hard twist. He would perish, and I would rise up in this world as the new World power. The Greatest world power. Necrolord Primus Lord Voldemort —
The moment the thought formed inside my head, my focus evaporated. Lord Voldemort? I wasn't Voldemort, I was Harry Potter. I was a wizard. An incubus. I was in control of my own power. I was not going to let it control me. I would not let the horcrux control me and turn me into a twisted facsimile of Voldemort.
The anger, the greed, the lust for darkness, all of it evaporated instantly. The burning hate subsided, leaving my head clear enough to think again. I opened my eyes, and looked around, feeling weirdly small and alone.
I blew out a breath. "Well, Harry, that's just going to have to be enough. You are Harry Potter, not Lord Voldemort."
"But are you?"
I stilled. That voice….
I looked around. Nothing. Wait, nothing? Gone was the burning stadium. Gone was the Quidditch World Cup site around me, the clutter of dead bodies painted with blood and gore. Instead I was in…
Wait. Where was I?
"This is, as they say, Your Party."
I spun around, and screamed, stepping back in sheer horror. The figure that stood before me… it was a face that had haunted me in my darkest nightmares. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid, scarlet eyes, and a nose that was flat as a snake's with slits for nostrils. His whole body was pale, without a single strand of hair anywhere, and oozed a strange energy that somehow made his presence feel more, as if it strained gravity and bent space, making it impossible to look anywhere but at him.
"You… You can't be real," I blurted out.
"Yes," Voldemort responded simply, twirling his wand in his fingers. I fumbled around for my own wand, and found it missing. Then I remembered that it was in my holster, attached to my physical form, and this place was anything but physical.
"Of course it's all in your head, Harry Potter, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?" He shook his head in amusement. "Isn't that what Albus Dumbledore tells the real Harry Potter when he perishes in the Forbidden Forest after being struck by Lord Voldemort's killing curse?"
I paled.
The crimson eyes shone malevolently. It was like staring in the eyes of a rabid wolf.
Or a snake.
"You… you are the horcrux."
Ah, good, good," said Voldemort. Or the horcrux-Voldemort, I supposed. "At least we don't have to play the game where you attempt to play the part of the oblivious fool and pretend to be the Gryffindorish Harry Potter. I must say, it has been quite interesting, and illuminating, at the same time. I always knew that the forbidden art of the Horcrux had unforeseen results, but then I had never expected to be stuck to the soul of my prophesied nemesis, either. Quite ironic, isn't it? My own horcrux, my tether to immortality, granting my nemesis my power of Parseltongue, and unwittingly anchoring him to the living by protecting him from my own killing curse. Serendipitous, one might say."
I clenched his fists. I had planned for many things, but never in my wildest dreams had I ever imagined that the horcrux would gain access to my true memories. Recognize me as a being that was beyond the Harry Potter universe, one for whom it was nothing but a fictional story to be read and devoured as a snack for the mind.
I didn't know what my face looked like right now, but it definitely made the horcrux smile.
"Yes, Outlander, I know you. Or at least, I know enough to know that you are an imposter. A cruel twist played on Fate and Destiny by a hand so mysterious that even I cannot fathom it."
"How?" I demanded, clenching my fists. "When did you — that night, when I had the dream… when the horcrux activated, showing me Voldemort…."
The rest of my words died as Voldemort let out a high-pitched, cold laughter that sent a chill down my spine.
"For a moment there, I almost thought you were clever," said Voldemort, smiling sardonically. "No Outlander, no, it wasn't the dream that manifested Me. I was always there, lodged as a spiritual embolus to young Harry Potter's soul. Me, Necromancer of the Thirty-Third Degree, immortal, Dark Lord Voldemort, could not penetrate the barriers that protected the innocent Harry Potter's soul. Not even the slight corruption in the form of Parseltongue could thin the barrier for me to penetrate into his psyche. With the other Me awakening and gaining a physical form, I saw a chance and took it. I opened a way for the insidious Incubus Magic," his lips curled in distaste, "to flood through my metaphysical form and affect the Other Me. Surely, you have seen and felt the effects from the nightmare?"
I noted the wand in his hand. It wasn't the white yew wand, but a tall, tapering creation with beads encircling all the way to the tip.
The Elder Wand.
"How are you… like this?" I asked. I mean, I was obviously in a disadvantageous position, with the horcrux holding the cards. Or at least, it held enough cards to afford being this chatty. I might as well figure out what it was that it had over me.
"Finally, an interesting question," said the serpentine man. "This wand, I recognize Albus Dumbledore wielding it, but I don't remember arresting it from him at any point. Clearly, such a thing happens in your future, or in those… books," his lips twisted in distaste. Clearly he found the idea that there existed a world, a reality where he was a fictional character written by an author for the entertainment of children and adults alike quite abhorrent.
"Still," he said, "this form of mine is quite interesting. Serpentine, powerful. I think I like it. Same goes for this wand."
"It isn't real," I said.
"So is this world," said Voldemort, snapping a little. "And yet here you are, living in it, twisting the destinies of everyone around you like a puppeteer. I have been watching you, Outlander. Ever since you reached into my power and began absorbing my affinities, you accepted this form of my awareness within you. I am… an imprint. And yet, I am Him."
I swallowed. "So I'm going to be stuck with having you in my head now?"
"Not quite. But with your soul drowning with the potent dark energies, and the zone you have created for yourself, the boundaries between my consciousness and yours have been…. Lessened, shall we say, for the time being. Especially with you choosing to employ that which I have gifted you."
"Gifted nothing," I said in a no-nonsense tone. "I absorbed the affinities from the Horcrux perk."
"Semantics," said the Dark Lord. "Regardless, you made the conscious choice to welcome me in. In fact I have been looking forward to meeting you. You are a great deal more interesting than most. The games you have been playing all this summer, a rather aggressive style. I like it."
"And you seem to play a very relaxed game," I said softly, crossing my arms. "One might even think you aren't trying to win. I'd have expected you to whisper my little secrets into the Other-you."
"Regrettably," said Voldemort with a long-suffering sigh. "That is one of the few limitations of the Horcrux. "When you sunder your soul, the very act creates a disparity between the two parts. I cannot, should not, will not, ever bond with the Other Me to become Whole again."
And wasn't that interesting?
"And yet, my incubus magic could affect the real Voldemort."
Yes, I am aware of the irony of calling someone else fake.
Red eyes shone malevolently, and prepared for a possibility of being attacked. I didn't know what options were available to me should the horcrux attack me, but then again, what was real and what imaginary in this place?
"Yes," he said at last. "I have to ask, Outlander. What are you? To be able to transcend into another universe, past the boundaries of Reality… to be able to walk the Path of Twilight, where light and darkness both mix, Necromancy and Incubus Magic, not to mention the ability to alter Fate itself…. It is almost like you were given this destiny to throw this Reality into chaos. Such power…. It terrifies me."
That wasn't something that I'd have ever anticipated hearing from the Dark Lord Voldemort. I mulled over the revelation silently.
"Harry Potter walks, or perhaps, would walk the Path of the Incubus, while I walk the path of Necromancy. Life versus Death. Emotion versus puppetry. Love versus Hate. It's an eternal struggle. But your presence can tilt the balance. I am curious, Outlander. You are no light child, so why stay as Harry Potter?"
"What do you mean stay as….." I began, only to trail off, as it hit me.
"You are not Harry Potter," said the Dark Lord. "Then why do you restrain yourself to be him? The Twilight-Walker can choose which path to travel at a mere whim. You have, on multiple occasions. With my affinities, with my knowledge, with my instincts, you could very well ascend to Necrolord Primus, become what I once aspired to, but ignored in my mad desire to escape Death. Why be Harry Potter when you could be —"
"Lord Voldemort?" I echoed his unfinished statement.
The eyes glinted.
Twilight-Walker, that was what Voldemort had called me. Something told me it had something to do with the title of The Road Not Taken — a power that would allow me to elevate myself in both directions. Back in Bones Manor, I had used the upgrade available to move up from Incubus to Incubus Lord. Had I chosen the Necromancer route, it would definitely have elevated me to Necrolord Primus.
But one question remained. Well, two actually.
"Thanks for the offer, but no thanks" I said after a moment's thought. "You are not one to share power, Lord Voldemort. You'd use your powers to twist me into becoming a slave to your whims the first chance I get."
Voldemort let out a cold, cruel laugh. "If only. Unfortunately, a horcrux is only meant to be an anchor. A concept I'm certain you are quite familiar with. Your unique powers allow you to dip into my origin, not the other way around. I am certain the more you devote yourself to Necromancy, the more you become attuned to all I am and all that I have been. My memories, my knowledge, my experiences, everything that made me who I am, all of it, will become a part of you. All of it will become, in essence, you."
I blinked. "You don't sound too pissed off about that!"
"Why must I be?" asked Voldemort, shrugging. "A living container should never become a horcrux. Doing so will make it mortal. If Harry Potter gets hit by the killing curse, I die. If Harry Potter falls off the stairs, hits his head and dies, I die. If some Death Eater cuts Harry Potter's head off, I die. Every way, I suffer an insignificant demise."
But you would still be gone, absorbed."
Into me, I didn't say.
"No," Voldemort corrected. "I will become You. A reincarnation, as it is. I have watched you, Outlander. Despite your power, you are young, and you are without experience. Join me, accept me, and let me become You."
Yeah.
This couldn't be good.
I tried to keep my voice steady and calm. For all my recent performance, I couldn't forget that everything I had done was by drawing on the horcrux's knowledge. Whether that was because the horcrux itself was willing to lend me its support, or it was forced by the Tether System, was anybody's guess.
"You can take my legacy forward. Already you have your first Necro-beast and your first Lyctor. You can become the Necrolord Primus. All you need to do is choose."
A decent person would have rejected the offer out of hand.
I'm not always one of those.
I could offer excuses, if you like. I could claim that I grew up with psychological and physical abuse that ended with me getting twistier than a spaghetti while growing up. I could also go the other route and claim that I was just as bad, just as evil, and wanted to play God. That I didn't care for these fictional characters that I had read from a story. For God's sake, I was still lying to them about my entire 'future Harry Potter' story, and for all I knew, I was going to further embellish things along that route. That after having the women throw themselves at me, and with the government almost in ruins, and the Death Eaters suffering a serious setback, I could take the opportunity to betray both sides and transform into the Dark Lord that would rule this world.
With my power, my increased affinity and Voldemort's skill and knowledge, not to mention Meta-Luck, I was fairly certain I could even defeat Albus Dumbledore, assuming I couldn't kill him off by deception and treachery. That I was already willing to walk the path of Necrolord Primus except I wanted to take the safer and far more difficult way of activating the title of the Road Not Taken.
All I needed to do was say yes.
"No, Voldemort," I told him. "I don't want this. I don't want to become you."
He studied my face with calm eyes. "Liar," he said. "You want it. I can see it in your eyes. I have felt it in your ambition. You have tasted the true might of Necromancy. A magic far greater than anything else. Why twist the minds of others and play puppeteer, when you could rule over life and death itself?"
I gritted my teeth. "You see what you want to see. And what I want is to travel my own path. If I can become the Necrolord Primus by myself, I will. I do not need to accept your aid."
"Fool!" hissed Voldemort. "You have been taking my help from the moment you activated the Horcrux and assimilated my affinities into yourself. Who do you think helped you save the werewolf from becoming a necrotic mass of spasming flesh? Who do you think gave the knowledge of the primordial runes for you to attempt a resurrection? How else do you think you could raise that woman as a Lyctor if not for me? Everything you have done this night, everything you have achieved, it was me, Outlander. My skill, my knowledge, my instinct, you just happened to be the tool that used it."
"Yes, too bad, I know, but you don't exactly have the honest salesman vibe, either. Those crimson eyes are way too creepy for establishing trust and rapport, you know."
Voldemort studied me. "Your derision will not unmake the truth. Accept the Horcrux, embrace its power completely, and you could Ascend to something far greater than mortal."
"And with that, I would gain a power too great and terrible. And over me, you would gain a power still greater and more deadly. I know how it works, Voldemort. The first taste is free. The price goes up down the line."
He watched me with that iridescent crimson stare.
"Now, if you are done, I'd like to leave. Some of us actually have to do things for a living."
"Fascinating," said Voldermort. "A word of warning, Outlander. The longer you stay at the crossroads, the longer will the Other Me absorb your own gained skills, just as you have been gaining from him. The longer you stay undecided, the more power he gains. And the longer you dawdle, the greater the surety of his eventual victory. Be very sure you understand what you have chosen. It could very well change everything in the future."
And then he was gone.
And then in the darkness, the Screen pinged up again.
Switching Paths…
Activating Path INCUBUS LORD
Registering Affinities…
Binding….
Welcome, Incubus Lord!
If you have been paying attention, then surely it must not surprise you that what came next was Pain.
A lot of it.
I tried to take a breath in the darkness, and a searing burst of agony radiated out from my chest. I held it off on the next breath for as long as I could, but eventually I couldn't put it off anymore, and again, fire spread across my chest.
I repeated that cycle for several moments, my entire reality consumed by the simple struggle to breathe and to avoid the pain. I was on the losing side of things and if the pain didn't exactly lesson, it did, eventually. Become more bearable.
"Well, well, look what we have here," came a familiar voice in the darkness, one that I couldn't recognize but one that irritated me even without that. "Looks like Saint Potter fainted at the sight of a little death."
Ah, I recognized. Him.
Slowly, agonizingly, I opened my eyes, and stared up at the looming presence of Draco Malfoy, his two goons standing behind him, and further behind, stood Pansy Parkinson and…. Daphne Greengrass.
"Ugh, why are you here?" I asked, feeling frailer by the moment, as my body tried its best to recover from the use of potent necromancy for so long.
"I was feeling a bit peckish. And it was about time. So I decided to pay you a little visit," said Draco Malfoy.
"Uh, what are you —" I began, attempting to get up.
Draco stopped me midway, digging his wand into my chest.
"They say vengeance is best served cold, Potter," said Malfoy. "I think they're onto something there."