Chapter Text
Damnation
The Great Hall when silent as green flashed, the power behind the Killing Curse so hearty it crackled, emerald lightning along the stone floors. The gathered crowd held their breath when the light cleared, the world stilling for just a moment. The two dueling figures did not move for a beat before the strange wand in Voldemort’s wand was flung from his grasp, the ancient tool flying towards the far end of the Hall.
Harry Potter snatched the wand from the air, watching as Voldemort slumped to the ground. He looked so human crumpled on the stone, body limp. His serpentine eyes were empty but open, the crimson pigment fading as green swirled beneath the surface as the Curse did its work. Harry lowered both wands, chest heaving as he felt a great weight settle on his shoulders. The world tilted and colors blurred in his vision.
With screams echoing throughout the Hall, Harry’s legs buckled and he dropped to his knees, strength waning. He remained conscious only long enough to feel hands grasping at his jacket and touching his face, begging, screaming, bargaining, before the darkness claimed him.
———————————————
Harry gasped, eyes peeling open as his chest expanded and his strength returned. He sat up with a groan, peering at his dim surroundings. There wasn't much to see but fog and darkness in all directions. It was a graveyard dipped in silence.
Dirt smushed beneath his fingers as Harry pushed to stand, soft and plush as his fingers sank, and he straightened, brushing dirt and rocks from his hands onto his jeans. He stood on a wide dirt road surrounded by a field of dying grass, the sky above him dark and starless. A new moon must’ve risen because he saw no light at all, only more and more ominous fog. It rolled across the ground like ghostly hands grasping at anything in its reach. Harry’s bangs rustled in a phantom wind.
The soft sound of steps on damp earth had Harry whipping around, he thrust his hand into his back pocket - he found nothing. Wandless, Harry stared down the version of Voldemort before him: Tom Riddle. It was not a monster that met his eyes, but a man standing half a dozen feet from him. No older than Harry himself, but quite a bit taller, Tom Riddle had a porcelain face framed by brown curls and smoldering hazel eyes. He looked as confused as Harry felt.
“What did you do?” Harry asked carefully. “Where are we?”
“You tell me.” Voldemort’s voice was smooth as a melody, that harsh hissing rasp absent. “I did nothing.”
“Likewise,” Harry said dryly. “Where's my wand?” Harry was without his wand, yes, but it seemed Voldemort was too.
“I wouldn't know, considering mine is gone too,” said Voldemort. “Which I am still attempting to comprehend. What is it you’ve done?”
“Me?” said Harry, tempted to laugh. “Nothing. I won our little duel - why would I transport us to a remote location without my wand after beating you? You have more motive than I do.”
“You did not beat me,” Voldemort seethed, voice sharp. “I am not dead yet.”
“Says who?” Harry said. “Who’s to say we’re not both dead? The Prophecy did clearly state that ‘neither could live while the other survives’ and all that. And this seems close enough to hell to me.” The darkness seemed to press closer as he spoke. They both shuddered.
“We are not dead,” Voldemort snapped back. “I swore to never taste death.”
“And yet,” Harry gestured around them. “Here we are. We’re standing in what feels like limbo, completely wandless in the middle of a graveyard, and you’ve miraculously got your human body back. That does sound like some kind up fucked up afterlife, no?”
“We are not dead.” Lethal anger filled those vengeful eyes, red flashing to life for a split second amongst the brown and green.
Harry took a hurried step back as Voldemort lunged for him, grabbing Harry by the collar and shoving him down. Harry’s face hit the dirt and he gasped; oddly, he felt no pain. It was Voldemort that cried out and released him, stumbling away and covering his face. Harry twisted to look, surprise sparking as he saw the red bruise marring Voldemort’s nose and swelling in his lip. Voldemort only looked angrier.
“Wait–” Harry scrambled to his feet.
“I’m going to kill you!” Voldemort barrelled forward and Harry jumped out of the way, but Voldemort grabbed his arm and dug in manicured nails, cutting in deep. Harry watched in amazement as blood welled on Voldemort’s arm instead, Harry’s skin left pristine. Voldemort screamed and released him, clutching his arm and baring perfect teeth. It was an ugly expression on his otherwise angelic face.
Voldemort started forward again, but Harry grabbed the hand careening towards his face and retaliated, twisting Voldemort’s arm back and downwards. Instead of Voldemort’s elbow screaming as it twisted, Harry's did. Harry released Voldemort with a shout, crossing his arm over his chest and panting as his elbow protested, pain shooting down to his fingertips. Voldemort was just staring at his arm incredulously. Harry paused, heart racing, arm throbbing.
“Look, it’s pretty clear we can’t attack each other, yeah?” Harry said, meeting Voldemort’s suspicious eyes dead on. “So let’s not do that again.” Voldemort wiped a hand over his running nose with a grunt.
“What magic is this?” Voldemort asked, soft and deadly. Harry shook his head.
“Beats the hell outta me,” Harry said. He winced as his elbow throbbed. “But now I’m glad we haven’t got wands.” Voldemort glowered at him, but he seemed to agree.
They stood there for a moment, watching each other, monitoring their surroundings, before Harry began fidgeting and awkwardly shuffled around. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyes flicking to Voldemort then away and back again. Voldemort, quite obviously, was not impressed or pleased by Harry’s restlessness.
“What now?” Harry asked, clearing his throat. “We can’t just stand here forever.”
“And where is here, exactly?” Voldemort snapped.
“Well I made a guess before, but you didn’t much like it,” Harry said. “It does seem like death could be a plausible explanation.”
“And this is, what, the afterlife?” Voldemort laughed coldly. “I think not.”
“Maybe,” Harry said, shrugging. “It's not what I'd imagined hell would be like, but I'm not surprised it's this dark emptiness trapped with you of all people.” Voldemort’s hands curled into fists as he looked around.
“There is a road,” Voldemort said.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
“I meant,” Voldemort sneered. “If there is a road, there is a destination.”
“Not necessarily,” Harry said. “We could be cursed to follow the road for the rest of eternity. Figures I'd end up cursed even in death.”
“Being stuck with you may be a legitimate version of hell,” Voldemort muttered. “Why must it always be you?”
“You dug that grave yourself,” Harry said. He felt the urge to laugh as Voldemort seethed, confusion melding with his anger.
“How so?” Voldemort asked softly. His voice was soft, yes, but far from gentle. It had always been such an interesting aspect to Voldemort for as long as Harry knew him; even with a serpentine face and raspy voice, he always seemed to be talking with velvet softness. Malicious softness, but softness nonetheless.
“The fact that our souls are literally tied together?” Harry raised his brows. “It only makes sense that we’d die together.”
“Wait,” Voldemort raised his hands to pause. “What do you mean by that? Do you mean the Prophecy?” Harry frowned.
“You don’t know?” Harry asked.
“Know what?”
“We share blood and a soul,” Harry told him, slowly now as he watched Voldemort’s reaction closely. “That day in Godric’s Hollow, the day you were blasted into smithereens, your Killing Curse hit the both of us. My mother, before she died, placed a shield around me with her blood that dampened the Curse just enough to stop it from killing me; that shield then rebounded what it couldn’t block and struck you.”
“That does not explain–”
“I’m getting there,” Harry snapped. Voldemort crossed his arms, but said nothing more. Harry sighed. “Your soul was ejected when you were hit by the Curse, though you remained alive because of your Horcruxes. As for me, the Curse reached me only barely, fracturing my soul instead of destroying it. So I was left with a hole in me, and you were left without a body.
“Putting those two things together, a slice of your weakened soul was absorbed into mine, keeping you alive with some semblance of life to support you, and keeping me alive but absorbing a transplant soul to fill the hole in me.” Harry rubbed his brow, tracing the rough texture of the lightning strike running down his face. “Essentially, I carry a piece of your soul around with me. Calling me a Horcrux wouldn’t be wrong, per se, but considering I’m my own person and wasn’t infused with your malice and evil, I’d say I’m only loosely a Horcrux.”
“That would explain the pain,” Voldemort said. The words were hardly a breath, so quiet and awed. “When I killed you, I felt like a piece of me had died too, like the loss of a Horcrux. I brushed it off as nothing because I had succeeded in my goal regardless, but…”
“Yeah, that would do it.” Harry nodded. “And, uh, there’s more.”
“There’s more?” Voldemort exclaimed. Harry winced.
“Remember your resurrection?”
“Of course,” Voldemort snapped. “What has that got to do with anything?”
“Well you put my blood in that potion,” Harry reminded him. “So my blood runs through your veins. So I have a piece of your soul, and you share my blood, so, magically speaking, we’re practically one and the same.”
“Unbelievable,” Voldemort said, seething. “So our lives are tied, is that what you’re insinuating?”
“I’m not insinuating, I’m telling,” said Harry. “We’re connected by a lot more than just a Prophecy.”
“How could I not know?” Voldemort whispered. “How could this be true and I was unaware?”
“How d’you think you saw into my mind? Sent me visions and tortured me with endless headaches?” Harry scoffed. “Our connection wasn’t exactly subtle.” Being connected to Voldemort greatly aided Harry’s search for Horcruxes with Ron and Hermione - Harry could sense them. He was drawn to them because he too shared a piece of them. Like called to like.
“My Horcrux,” Voldemort said softly. “I should have known you were one of mine.”
“Don’t say it like that,” Harry shuddered.
“But you are.” Voldemort advanced a step. “If what you say is the truth, then you are mine. You are a piece of me.”
“Like hell I am,” Harry said. “Look, you killed the shard of your soul that was in me in the Forest. I’m not anything to you anymore.”
“Then why are we here?” Voldemort asked. “Why are we together, both of us whole?”
“I feel the same as I was before,” Harry told him. “It’s you that’s different.”
“Perhaps,” Voldemort said. His smile was angelic. “I do feel more like myself than I have in decades.”
“So,” Harry said. “Are you more Voldemort, or Tom Riddle? Because you sound like the evil bastard I know you are, but you look like Tom Riddle back when you were my age.”
“I suppose you could say both,” Voldemort said. “I feel like myself, but I can’t say for sure whether that is more from my childhood or my adulthood. You could say I am two versions of myself combined.”
“Yikes,” Harry said. “That’s gotta be rough. Two people waging war in your head - I know what that’s like.”
“Don’t empathize with me,” Voldemort snapped.
“Okay, jeez,” Harry held up his hands in surrender. “My bad.” Voldemort’s scowl only deepened.
The fog around them shifted, wind blowing through again and rustling the grass, the sound of echoed screams passing by. Harry squinted into the distance, catching sight of ghostly waiting figures beyond the road and off into the grass fields. The road was wide enough to fit two carriages side by side, but the darkness beyond stretched as far as the eye could see. Though, with all the fog, Harry couldn’t see all that far or make out who the far off figures were, or if they were real at all.
“So…” Harry looked back at Voldemort. “Do we follow the road, or…?”
“We do nothing,” Voldemort said. “You may do as you wish. I cannot stop you with force, and I doubt anything I may say would sway you from doing as you wish, but I have no interest in following you anywhere. Horcrux or not, I will not tolerate your presence beside me.” Harry shrugged.
“Fine,” said Harry. “I'm just gonna go this way, then.”
“Fine,” said Voldemort. “And I'll go this way.” Harry just rolled his eyes and they set off in opposite directions.
The fog was so thick that Voldemort behind him disappeared in moments, the shadows embracing him, a cloak of shadow and a lover’s hands roaming in the dark. The mist was a living thing as it clung to Harry’s skin, his clothes, his hair, as he walked; there was no such fog in the land of the living.
Harry walked, stepping over sharp rocks and smooth stones that marred the path, and followed the road for what felt like miles. His legs burned and his chest heaved, but he did not feel the need to stop. Though his muscles screamed and his joints protested every step, Harry did not tire. His head was clear, thoughts racing, as he continued with no signs of stopping. Even his ever weakening body begged him to stop, Harry brought ‘mind over matter’ to its limits. He stopped only when he found himself at a fork in the road.
Oddly, the two roads seemed to speak to him. The first path called his name - Harry, Harry, Harry - with a sense of familiarity beckoning him down cobblestones, each step a familiar one. Every rock was smooth and neat, no cracks or wear visible as he surveyed the path; it was pristine in its wholeness.
The second path whispered in his ear - Harry, Harry, Harry - coaxing and wicked as broken promises clung to the jagged stones waiting for him; fissures ran down the road and grass grew between the cobbled stones, age and abuse echoing louder the longer he stood. Harry could only stare in contemplative silence, but the two roads waited for him, never impatient, knowing he would have to choose eventually.
Harry, despite the familiarity and sense of belonging, felt the first path was a perfect lie. Though it felt like home, hands beckoning and song sweet, the road was too perfect; every rock was smooth and groomed, patterns raked into the ground like a manicured lawn. If it was really a path well worn then would it not be battered and abused, mirroring Harry’s heart? It was too smooth, too soft, too alluring to be the truth. Harry rather thought that road to be not dissimilar to sirens, merfolk in the deep oceans that lured sailors to their deaths.
Stepping down the second path had goosebumps flaring across Harry’s arms, hair standing straight up as a shudder wracked through him. Age clung to the worn path, earth scuffed and dust rolled as the fog ghosted along, carrying clouds of dirt as it went. The rocks were sharp beneath his sneakers, holes worn into them let in tiny pebbles that stung his soles and toes. Still, the air was clear and his head told him he was right. He followed the path into the dark, slowly descending as a gradual hill fell into the depths. Harry had to lean back and slow his pace to keep balanced. Every step was an effort to remain standing.
“Harry.” A voice blew past him like a gust of wind. Harry froze. “Harry…”
“Who's there?” Harry called. “Come out!”
A lone figure materialized in the fog, lumbering towards him. Her head was snapped to the side, gaunt jilted and backwards as she seemed to stumble on every step, joints weak and limbs flimsy. Harry grimaced as she drew closer still, approaching Harry with graceless determination. The fog concealed her features completely.
She stopped at the edge of the aged road, cloaked in mist, and reached out a hand.
“Come…” said the girl. She looked barely older than Harry himself.
“I'll pass on that.” Just from staring at her Harry was feeling green. “I don't want to talk to dead people.” Even though he'd already (accidentally) done so with the Resurrection Stone.
“Come…” She repeated. “Come to… Mummy…” The fog shifted, swirling like a disturbed pool, then cleared. Harry jerked backwards with a shout, chest tightening. It was his mother.
Lily Potter stood hunched, head cocked to the side with dull eyes that might've once been called green, her crimson hair a limp sheet falling over her shoulder. She was pale - deathly pale - as though no blood resided beneath her paperlike skin. Her mouth barely moved as she spoke, too stiff and slack where it remained open. Harry's stomach gurgled as she reached for him again, broken nails black and blue.
“Come to… Mummy…” groaned Lily.
“This isn't real,” Harry breathed. His chest convulsed. “This isn't real.” He stumbled backwards, desperate to escape, but shouted and jerked forward onto his hands and knees as pain seared down his back. Harry looked behind to find his father on the other side of the road.
James Potter was as sickly as his wife, brown skin dull and lifeless with eyes stuck open as they bulged like an insect under boot. His hair, so much like Harry's, was falling out in great clumps to leave bloody patches of exposed skull. Harry felt bile rising as he tripped to his feet, back aching as the deep scratches from his father's nails piercing his flesh throbbed with agony. No doubt the wound, if sickness even existed in such an evil place, would quickly catch an infection that may very well have Harry joining his parents as wraiths and zombies.
Looking between them, Harry was relieved to find they couldn't step onto the road. Even as they stretched and reached, their feet remained planted solidly in the grass beyond. Harry shuddered and carefully positioned himself in the center of the path, between them and carefully out of reach. Dammit - he should've chosen the other path.
“Definitely hell,” Harry said to himself. His throat was so tight he felt he'd choke. “Oh god…” Out of the mist more bodies appeared, all stumbling and groaning and reaching.
Sirius. Remus. Tonks. Cedric. Collin. Lavender. One by one all the people he'd failed ran at him, teeth gnashing and hands grasping, as though they desired nothing more than to have Harry join them. That, more than anything else, solidified that these were not his people. His family. His friends. They would never want Harry to follow them in death - they would want him to fight, to live.
Harry ran.
On and on the fog went, endless as he fled the monsters. The path twisted and turned and jerked from side to side, as if to trip and shake him off into the promise of pain beyond the packed dirt and stones. His pursuers never seemed to tire, but neither did he.
Harry charged down the road, glancing behind him for only a moment to see the zombies and ghouls only just far enough to be wrapped in the deathly mist, before he barrelled straight into something solid. Pain slammed into him and he went down, but the wall followed with a cry of its own as they fell.
Palms scraping along the path, Harry scrambled away with labored, terrified breaths. His hazy mind took far too long to identify that which barred his path. Voldemort, in all his human glory, sat nearby looking just as surprised.
“Watch where you're going!” Voldemort exclaimed, anger twisting his young features. Harry couldn't help the choked breath of relief that passed his chapped lips.
“It's just you,” said Harry. “I thought you were one of those things.” Voldemort's eyebrow twitched.
“I thought the same.” They stared at each for a moment, then Harry shook his head and climbed to his feet. Voldemort moved to do the same.
“Harry… Why didn't you save me?” Cedric’s moaning voice ghosted across the wind and Harry shuddered, turning slowly as his zombie hoard caught up.
“You failed me!” cried little Collin Creevey, forehead bashed in and bleeding from his ear. ”Why didn't you protect me?”
Voldemort gasped - Harry whipped around to see ghostly figures were closing in from the other direction too. To Harry's great relief, he recognized none of them.
“Tom…” whispered the voice of a boy, no older than fifteen. His gold eyes were the only things left intact amongst the gore and mist clinging to him. “You left me. How could you leave me behind?”
“Ty,” Voldemort was breathless. “This isn't you–”
“You promised us the world,” groaned another. “Now you've destroyed it…” To Harry's horror, the ghoul limping towards them greatly resembled a Malfoy.
“Abraxas–”
“You killed me,” groaned Tom Riddle Senior. Voldemort's eyes blew wide at the figure approaching. “You murdered me… Did you feel no grief for your father? For your family?”
“I hate you!” Voldemort screamed, covering his ears and shutting his eyes. “Leave me alone!”
Zombies closed in on all sides, the voices of Harry's lost friends overlapping those of strangers, cries and shouts overlapping into a mob of tears and shredded voices. Harry clapped his hands over his ears with a scream that tore from his throat like a great wave. Voldemort merely stared, pale and bloodless as the chaos consumed them.
“STOP!” Harry's shout cut through the voices. “You're not real!” The ghouls flickered.
“Don't you recognize Mummy?” cried Lily.
“Don't make me laugh!” Harry said, choking on building tears. “You're nothing but a monster! Don't you dare taint her memory with your lies. You're just a figment of my imagination!” She staggered back, her wounded form dispersing into fog, joining the darkness beyond.
“None of you are real,” said Harry. “I won't let you hurt me! You're just a part of this hell - this torture - so get lost you fucking monsters!”
The crowd shuddered, zombies groaning and dispersing, fading with blood and unshed tears; Harry screamed at them, shouted their names and the memories he had of them, happy memories powerful enough to fuel a Patronus. Harry only felt the beating in his head and pulsing in his chest as he watched them all disappear in the face of his unyielding voice and mind, dissipating into nothing. The only voices left were those surrounding Voldemort, still taunting and calling. Men and women and hooded creatures - Voldemort could not fight them off as he fell to his knees and cowered, more vulnerable and tortured than Harry had ever seen him.
“Leave!” roared Harry, rounding on them. “I don't wanna hear your mindless chatter! You're nothing, you're frauds, fakes - you're feeding on memories and fear and whatever else you can get your grubby little hands on and I won't stand for it! So get lost and leave us ALONE!”
Screams rocked through them, piercing Harry's ears like a blade until blood trickled down his neck, but they cracked and melted away into mist, forms disintegrating until they too were only dust rolling through the mist and wind. He and Voldemort were left alone on the beaten road breathing heavily, staring at each other.
“How did you do that?” Voldemort panted. Blood welled up and fell from one eye like a tear; it left a red streak smearing down his porcelain face.
“They're not real,” Harry said. He scrubbed at the blood on his neck, grimacing as it stuck to his fingers and smeared under his fingernails. “I don't know - I just confronted them head on. Apparently they didn't like that.”
Voldemort lowered his eyes, breaths growing steadily slowly and calmer as he stood, regaining his footing, in silence. Harry couldn't help but feel bad for him. Voldemort never would have dispelled them himself, Harry realized; he would've been tortured by them forever.
°Oh how right you are, little Potter…° ghosted a voice in the wind. °You two have broken the rules of this place with your repugnant efforts to fight°
Harry gasped, whipping around to scan the darkness. He found nothing.
“D'you recognize that voice?” Harry asked, his heart a beating drum in his ears. Unlike the usual voices, it seemed to emanate from all around them. Voldemort slowly shook his head.
°You should not be able to dispel the horrors of others° the voice swept past them, kissing the back of Harry's neck with shards of icy glass. He yelled and flinched back. °You spit in the face of those who seek to punish the guilty, and you disobey the natural order. Though, it is not surprising, you have done so your entire life, denying your destiny and laughing in the face of Kismet. You are quite the little rule-breaker, Harry Potter°
“What?” Harry exclaimed, “What's Kismet?” The pinprick pains in his neck oozed sluggishly.
°The Watcher of Time, Custodian of Destiny, and the Hand of Fate° said the voice. °Kismet is the Crafter of Prophecies. That includes the Prophecy that you disparaged and dishonoured all your life, using your gifts for unjust actions°
“I followed that Prophecy exactly!” Harry said. “Voldemort marked me as his equal, I got power he didn't know of, and we both died!”
°You are ignorant, little Potter° said the ancient echo, almost amused. °You think your misguided motions impressed anyone? Impressed Kismet or any of the other entities that rule eternity? No, child, you have done nothing as you should have°
Harry didn't know what to say as shock and shame crashed through him, followed by blinding anger and frustration. But doubt crept in also. None of it made sense - did Dumbledore lead him astray? Had they misunderstood the Prophecy?
°Do not gloat, Tom Marvolo Riddle° boomed the voice. Voldemort cried out, clapping a hand over his heart, that smug look melting away into pain. °You are far worse than misguided - you have sinned beyond most would find possible. You have tortured and broken and loved none, thus you have been judged irredeemable. That is why you are here - eternal damnation for your sins° Voldemort choked, his throat closing.
“What about me?” asked Harry. His hands balled into fists. “Why am I here? I've not done any of that! All the violence I committed was in self defense!”
°That is true and cannot be disputed° allowed the voice. °But your fate is tied to his, just as you aptly said°
“That's not fair!” A ghosting laugh raised the hairs along Harry's arms and brought goosebumps to the surface.
°Fair? You know nothing, child. There are greater forces at play than your feeble imagination could possibly conjure. Epoch, the ruler of time and history; Ataraxia, calm serenity and peace incarnate; Kismet, judge of fate and destiny; Oblivion, sovereign of the forgotten and destroyed; and Perdition surrounding you, administering eternal damnation to deserving sinners; such rulers of your life and death were crafted by Magic itself, woven into the earth, the air, the stars and dust that carry on through eons. They oversee the afterlife to reward and punish all who pass. Never would one use the word fair when speaking of doled out sentences, there is only justice°
“How can it be just if it isn't fair?” Harry snapped. “That seems pretty fucking contrary!”
°Because even in the name of justice, sacrifice is never fair. And that's what this is: sacrifice°
“Sacrifice?” Harry blinked, taken aback.
°You have always been, and always will be, a sacrifice, Harry Potter. That is the horrid truth embedded in every fiber of your being° said the voice, suddenly soft. °You deserve a peaceful afterlife ruled by Ataraxia, no suffering or despair or retribution, joined by those you love; yet you are tied to a great evil and your soul has been tainted. You are not pure, little Potter, not without sins, because you are burdened by his. Through no fault of your own, you must share his evil. It is blasphemy, but inevitable. A necessary sacrifice°
Harry turned to Voldemort - they stared at each other, unmoving and uncertain. Harry couldn't comprehend the feelings swirling inside him, they overlapped too strangely to decipher or voice. But he did understand the hatred.
°You, Tom Riddle, deserve eternal damnation; and you, Harry Potter, deserve a peaceful rest; you cannot be separated, souls mingling as one split in two, an abomination to everything Magic has so carefully crafted, so you are forced to walk amongst your beloved dead…°
“Those are not our beloved dead,” Voldemort whispered. Harry turned to him in surprise; he didn't know Voldemort had any dead he cared about enough to miss.
°They are echoes of your fears and nightmares, products of your own terror and agony. If you dreamt nothing but happiness, felt nothing but enlightenment, this place would be a bountiful garden. But it is not so. You may dispel the horrors for a time, but they will return. You are filled with fear, both of you, even as you face every battle with unwavering determination. You are not strong because you are sure, you are strong because you are afraid. Fear is the best motivator of all°
“How dare you–”
A gust of frozen wind whipped through again, now harsher, knocking Voldemort off his feet and damn near taking Harry down with him. The voice laughed coldly, the sound resonating in the chatter of Harry's teeth. Voldemort groaned on the floor - Harry could only watch him pant and gasp when the assault finally stopped.
°You are in the realm of Perdition, punisher and ruler; know that there is nothing you can do to halt or fight in such a place°
“Is that who you are?” Harry asked. “Are you Perdition?” He couldn't feel his fingers in the numbing cold.
°Yes° said the voice. °Perdition… the place of eternal damnation for sinners and guilty. Such is the way of this realm, this hell beyond death°
“I was right,” Harry said. “This is hell. We're… we're stuck here, then. Forever.” The truth was a weight settling across his shoulders, so heavy he might've crashed to his knees and wailed in despair if not for the eyes of Voldemort watching him from the dirt.
°Perhaps° said Perdition. °But perhaps not°
“Are you saying there's a way out?” Voldemort demanded. He was on his knees like a child praying for forgiveness. “We could leave?”
°You are not deserving of the opportunity, little Riddle, but the travesty of Potter's ability to dispel the torture of others cannot be allowed to remain in this place° Perdition seemed vexed by this, but continued. °If Potter's ability can be used by others, if he can find other sinners and weaken their punishments as well, this place and its integrity will be jeopardized. That is why you are being allowed to speak, to choose, to beg for this chance on your hands and knees. You are being offered a choice, though both options will be a death sentence eventually. Know in your heart and soul that this is not a reward, it is merely punishment in a new form°
“It's a trick,” Harry muttered. “It has to be–”
“What are the options?” Voldemort ignored Harry; desperation bled into his voice. “Please.”
°First: you may both be sent to Oblivion immediately. There will be no more suffering, no more pain. Oblivion is the end of everything, the embodiment of nothing at all, and you will be erased° Phantom hands gripped Harry's throat, tightening like a snake poised to kill. °You will cease to exist. There will be no soul, no life, no feeling - it will be like you never existed in the first place, forgotten and unknown and destroyed by Oblivion to sever the wicked connection you share. You will lose everything about yourself and become one with the nothingness that surrounds us. You will not suffer, but you likewise will never experience peace°
“That's not so bad,” Harry said slowly. He swallowed against the grating pain in his throat. “At least we won't suffer, right?”
°That is true, little Potter°
“Absolutely not!” Voldemort hissed. His eyes were wide with fear, pupils dilated and lips bloodless. “I swore to never taste death - to be erased would be the worst kind of fate.” He looked up to the shrouded sky, face set in a stone grimace. “Name the other option.”
°For your second option, you will be sent to relive your life starting at the point of greatest change, dropped into a place you are unsafe, unloved, and without allies. You will be forced to relive and endure all your painful memories as your past becomes your present° Perdition said, °Time will rewind and you will have no choice but to suffer the torture in consequence. But… you will do so alive°
“Alive,” Voldemort echoed. “I'd be resurrected? I wouldn't be dead any longer?”
°For the most part, yes°
“That one,” Voldemort said immediately. “I choose to be alive.”
“Did you hear nothing it just said?” Harry hissed. “We'd be in danger! And if we're unloved and without allies, that means everyone we care about is dead. What's the point of being resurrected if the people in your life that make it all worth it aren't there?”
“Life is always worth it,” Voldemort told him. On his knees and looking up at the sky, for a single moment Voldemort was just a scared man begging for his life. Prostrate, begging for a second chance he didn't deserve. “Life is precious and not to be taken for granted. Even if it means pain will follow, there is always a reason to live.”
“What does ‘for the most part’ even mean?” Harry argued. “Maybe it's worse than being dead–”
“I don't care,” Voldemort replied. “Life is worth all the pain in the world.”
“You're being stupid,” Harry said. He didn't understand the pleading in his voice as he continued, chest tight. “At least we know where we'd end up if we choose this, what, Oblivion, in the second option Perdition didn't specify where we'd end up - the past, sure, but when? My lifetime? Yours? Neither? The context is non-existent!”
“This is not a discussion,” Voldemort replied. “Perdition - whatever you are - we choose the second; we want to go back in Time.”
°So it is decided, you will return to the land of the living°
“Hold on just a minute–” Harry's protests went unheard.
°The past awaits… Be warned, you have chosen poorly°
“No!” Harry exclaimed. He swore colorfully as hope, real hope, filled Voldemort's expression. It was childish wonder on his awed face.
°The Prophecy twinning your destiny is lifted, and Kismet’s hold on you is broken° Perdition's voice rang through the darkness, each word a crescendo as it grew distorted and twisted. °Your souls will be set right, no overlap or melding or sharing to be seen; your lives and bodies will again be your own, untainted. This will ensure you are separated after death, your fates judged and ruled individually. But be warned - in exchange, any harm done to one will be reflected on the other for as long as you live. Your souls and blood are remade and restored, but now your bodies shall be mirrors. Your safety depends entirely on your ability to coexist, which makes your chances of survival dwindle greatly. Your punishment will be sealed by the Mark of Damnation - may you never forget why you are there°
“This is insane!” Harry shouted, “How am I to work with him? He's spent years trying to kill me!"
“Rude,” Voldemort sniffed. “As if I would knowingly harm a piece of myself…”
“Oh fuck off,” Harry snapped. "That's never stopped you before!"
°How the situation is handled is up to you° said Perdition. °The judging is final. You are cursed to walk again the earthly plain in a tragic past, accompanied by great toil and suffering. Your pain is your penance - may you bear it well°
Harry didn't have time to scream before the fog swept in, cocooning his body and dropping him into an endless abyss of mist and smoke. Harry lost himself in it as the darkness took him.