Seekers
It was not a sound that woke Harry, it was the silence. The silence, and the insistent buzzing under his skin that meant something had tripped his ward-line.
A silent scowl drifted over his face as morning light drifted through his cracked eyelids. Really? They couldn’t even have the decency to wait until the afternoon?
It was the day after full moon, which meant that he had spent the whole of last night awake, waiting for Greyback to come and play. But perhaps the werewolf had finally wised up and gotten bored of their monthly hunt, or perhaps the Ministry were finally doing their jobs and had put the mutt down. He wouldn’t hold his breath, though; they hadn’t even been able to hold him the last two times that Harry had wrapped him up with a pretty pink bow and sent him to their door.
He hadn’t thought that Fenrir would come after him in the morning, but maybe he was trying to catch Harry by surprise. As if he was ever off guard anymore.
Or maybe it wasn’t the werewolf at all.
Closing his eyes again in case whoever it was was closer than he anticipated, Harry reached inwards, drifting past ironclad Occlumency barriers and into the heart of his soul. His magical core roared in response, tingling through him, hot enough to burn the world to ash.
Hmm. Tempting. But it was a little early for world-burning, even if they’d pissed him off.
Aided by long months of practice he leashed the raging power with little effort, letting a tiny trickle flow forwards. It seeped into the earth beneath him and spread out, searching out other magical beings. The slight tingling sensation would be no more noticeable than the alarm ward they had already tripped, so theoretically any intruders shouldn’t feel it. Then again, things had gone a little too peacefully lately. He might be overdue a drastic failure.
For once his capricious luck held. Half a second later his magic washed back to him with his pursuers none the wiser, bringing echoes of the world with it.
He frowned. Such a wave of almost unformed magic couldn’t tell him specifics, like who they were, but the backwash didn’t have the fierce lupine edge he had come to know well. Not the werewolves, then.
It told him that there were an even dozen of them, that they had tripped an inner ward and not the outer layer – likely they hadn’t thought to check for it, because normal people weren’t paranoid enough to have multiple layers of shields – and that they were still far enough away that he doubted they could actually see him.
His arm tensed enough for him to feel the wands still in their holsters, and he relaxed. A single flick would arm him, but moving that sharply might alert whoever was approaching and surprise was an advantage Harry didn’t want to give up for no reason.
Still, no reason to leave himself vulnerable. His fingers twitched, as if in a dream, and he felt his magic hum to attention. Protego, he thought. He didn’t say it – didn’t have to. The invisible shield flickered to life anyway, like an extra layer of skin.
Content that it would defend him against pretty much everything short of the Unforgiveables, Harry lay back and listened, taking in his surroundings with his magic rather than his eyes. The wards still hummed around him – extra layers of them now, preventing people from apparating out as well as in, dampening port-keys. They were thorough, and had managed to bypass the outer wards without breaking them.
Definitely not the werewolves. For all their enhanced senses, Fenrir’s pack were decidedly unsubtle and would have crashed through his shields without a thought.
They were probably all comatose after the full moon anyway.
Harry sighed to himself. He would rather it have been the werewolves, if he was perfectly honest. Twelve wouldn’t have been out of place with the wolves but it was a lot for ordinary wizards, and far too many to be one of the few cells of Death Eaters still loose. Twelve meant Aurors, probably at least two among the twelve, and he hated dealing with Aurors. They reminded him too much of his own mistakes and the brokenness of their world – the world they wouldn’t let him leave.
They were in position now, a circle with him at the centre, a good ten metres within the wards. Harry didn’t care enough to dispel them. With the unusually peaceful full moon he had energy to spare and a good spar would settle his over-eager magic.
Whispers filtered in, and he frowned as recognition seeped into him at one of the voices. “Harry Potter.” It was an incredulous statement, as if the wizard didn’t truly believe it was him.
Not someone he knew well, but he was fairly certain he had heard that voice before. That would be a complication, if one of them had come after him before. They might know his tricks. Well, some of them.
“Why don’t you just grab him?”
That voice he didn’t know, but it made him want to smile nonetheless, the part of him that was Slytherin almost purring. He did like it when they underestimated him.
Another vaguely familiar voice sounded irritated as he said, “Because it’s Harry Potter. There is a reason there are twelve of us, Stone. He’s confronted more Aurors than you’ve likely ever met in your life and yet he’s never been captured. It’s not as simple as just grabbing him.”
“But he’s asleep,” the unfamiliar one – Stone? – whined.
“And grabbing him would wake him up.” The ‘you idiot’ was implied.
“Stun him then.”
The third voice hesitated for a moment. “We had to get through more wards than I expected already,” he said slowly, already demonstrating far more intelligence than his companions. “A lot of wards, especially for someone sleeping in a random bit of the woods. Even old Mad Eye wasn’t that paranoid.”
The tinge of sadness suggested that Harry was correct in believing that this was an Auror. He sighed, little more than a heavy exhalation. Didn’t fact that there were twelve of them surrounding him proved that his measures weren’t paranoid at all?
“I wouldn’t put it past him to have more wards covering him.” The Auror continued. “And I don’t want to get closer for fear of alerting him.”
Too late for that.
And Stone was back. “Are you afraid of him?”
Not an Auror, Harry decided of Stone. Though he had to be a leader of some kind because the others were staying quiet whilst he and the probably-Aurors argued.
A female voice cut in then. “Honestly, Stone. Being wary of someone doesn’t mean you’re afraid of them. And maybe you should be afraid, a little. This is Harry bloody Potter, after all. You can’t tell me that you haven’t heard the stories.”
Harry wondered which stories they might be. They were always amusing to listen to, now that he had accepted the way the wizarding world had turned on him. Really, he should have learnt that lesson back in second year. Oh well.
“Rumours will say anything,” Stone dismissed. “Look at him! He’s just a lost lamb in the middle of the woods. He’s barely even an adult, he’s all alone, he’s asleep. Hardly dangerous.”
Why did they all talk so much? He was getting a little bored waiting for them to make a move.
“Something’s not right. It shouldn’t be this easy.”
“Everyone gets careless, Proudfoot.”
Proudfoot. Ah. Now Harry could place him. He had been one of the Aurors stationed in Hogsmeade in Harry’s sixth year, and they’d met once or twice at the ministry, but they had never duelled. And if Harry was pulling up random anecdotes like that, then he was either really bored or really tired, probably both. Which would not end well for the idiots surrounding him.
“Yes, but not everyone survives years on the run, without contact with the main wizarding world, evading countless capture attempts by Snatchers, Aurors and Seekers with seeming ease, whilst simultaneously randomly delivering up ex-Death-Eaters and apparently playing hide and seek in the woods! Not every nineteen-year-old went up against You-Know-Who and survived! This nineteen-year-old survived a Killing Curse!”
Proudfoot probably would have said more, but Harry was getting bored. He knew his own accomplishments. Anyway, the Auror was starting to get loud enough that feigning sleep was a blatant sham.
Sitting up with an exaggerated yawn, he stated, “That would be two Killing Curses, actually. One of which I sort of did die from, but that’s irrelevant. Get your facts straight. Also, he’s been dead over a year, and the Taboo with him; it really won’t hurt you to call him Voldemort.”
The flinch at the name was part satisfying and part infuriating. “Potter!” It was more of a yelp than any real statement, especially as wands flew up from the twelve surrounding him, pointed straight at his heart.
Trusting his shield, Harry simply raised an eyebrow. “Auror Proudfoot. To what do I owe the… pleasure?”
Sarcasm radiated from his words, but he couldn’t help that. He was tired and grumpy, and his magic wanted to lash out at the whole world until it gave him some peace. But he didn’t want to hurt anyone, not even stupid Aurors who should have learned by now to keep their noses out of his business.
It wasn’t Proudfoot that answered him. The man next to him – a pale, balding man with a disturbing resemblance to Peter Pettigrew – sneered as he said, “Surely you know by now that there is an outstanding warrant for your arrest, Potter? Not to mention the bounty on your head…” There was a greedy light in his eyes that Harry recognised all too well, and his grating voice revealed that this was Stone.
Harry snorted. Like the warrant was anything new. “How much is it now?”
He was genuinely curious; it had been several months since he had discussed it with anyone and the Ministry tended to raise his price every other week. The presence of twelve men around him suggested that it had jumped quite significantly.
“Enough that you won’t get away.”
Harry rolled his eyes. He was too tired to play this game, and Stone was boring. At least Proudfoot had showed some sort of intelligence, some common sense. That was rare amongst wizards. At the very least, the Auror seemed to have realised that there was a reason he was still free despite having pretty much the entire Wizarding World after his head.
“Some Seeker you are,” he muttered, glaring at the badge on the man’s robes. A snitch with chained wings, the symbol of the newest department of the esteemed DMLE and an insult to quidditch players everywhere. Not that anyone had any respect for the British Wizarding World anymore. “As if the Ministry didn’t have enough flunkies already. Do they seriously have no requirements of their employees now?”
Maybe it wasn’t smart to be so blatently insulting when he was surrounded by Ministry personnel, but if they didn’t want to deal with him then they shouldn’t have joined the hunt in the first place. They certainly shouldn’t have woken him up. And he was of the firm opinion that Stone’s group were idiots. At least Aurors had NEWTs. He would be surprised if Stone had one in anything other than terminal stupidity.
There was a sharp intake of breath from behind him, and his magic prickled. He didn’t need it to warn him. His instincts were screaming at him.
“Stupefy!” The spell was little more than a whisper on the air, so quiet that he might not have heard it if it hadn’t been completely predictable. But at least they were starting with stunners and not darker magic, and though it felt very wrong Harry remained exactly where he was.
For a brief heartbeat a golden glow flared to life around him as his shield did exactly what it was supposed to do. The hex reflected off it, skittering over his shoulder to sail harmlessly into a tree.
Harry didn’t even turn to look at the perpetrator. He just locked eyes with Stone and raised a single eyebrow. “Control your men or I will be forced to stop this lovely conversation to do it for you.”
It was a threat and one had no intention of masking. Stone turned an ugly shade of red.
Proudfoot’s fingers flicked, once, twice, and then it was his turn to be stared down by Harry. “And for a moment I thought that you were intelligent, Auror Proudfoot. You might as well have just ordered them aloud.”
The Auror looked startled, as if he really had forgotten that Harry had spent almost a year in Auror training. Harry knew very well that the Ministry were too lazy to change their procedures, so the little flicking gestures almost certainly still meant stun on my orders. The only question was whether Stone’s Seekers also knew, because whilst he could deal with more than a few stunners at once (simply avoid most of them and let protego handle the rest), he doubted that the wandless shield could take twelve.
But no. Stone looked confused for half a second before managing to bring the sneer back to his face, so he was either unaware of the little movements Aurors used to communicate or he wasn’t observant enough to have seen them. Either way, it worked out well enough for Harry.
Rising slowly to his feet – still wandless to take the edge off their guard – Harry risked a glance around at the now-visible circle. Three others wore badges with a Ministry crest on them – Aurors – and the rest wore a grey version of Stone’s chained snitch – Seekers under his command. To his relief, none of them were people he knew well, though two of the other Aurors looked at least vaguely familiar.
“A rare sight, Aurors deigning to work with Seekers,” he mused, not averse to ferreting out information where he could get it, and addressed Proudfoot. “I don’t know whether I should be flattered or disappointed. Or maybe just pitying.”
Proudfoot looked vaguely embarrassed; Stone angry. The female Auror on his left looked amused, though, in a way that, bizarrely, reminded Harry vaguely of a nicer version of Snape. “Our apologies, Mr Potter,” she drawled. “Unfortunate though it is, we Aurors cannot always choose our partners.”
Stone turned an interesting shade of purple, and Harry let a smile tug at his lips. “No matter, Madam…” He raised an eyebrow.
“Savage.”
“No matter, Auror Savage. It will make me feel less guilty for dealing with them.”
“So confident, Mr Potter?”
“If his subordinates can neither contain their tempers nor constrain themselves to nonverbal spells, then I see little reason not to be. And it is fun to see how many different colours a human face can turn.” It was a game he’d played with his uncle since he’d turned five, and after meticulously hunting down every death eater he could lay his hands on he was not going to be intimidated by wizards who couldn’t even do stupefy nonverbally.
Wicked delight flashed in Savage’s eyes, even as a little disappointment trickled onto her face. She had not found the Harry Potter she had been expecting, the simple Gryffindor martyr that was so easy to turn against, and despite her surprise and sudden regard she was going to have to take him into custody. He knew very well what sort of war she was waging with herself right now.
His damn empathy chose a very inconvenient moment to rear its head, and he lowered his voice. “Worry not for me, Ms Savage, nor for yourself. Your conscience should be clear. You are following orders, after all.” He couldn’t help the bitterness that crept into his voice.
“Enough of this.” Proudfoot finally grew a backbone. “Lower your shield and surrender your wand, Mr Potter, and you shall not be harmed.”
Harry snorted. “Like I believe that. I am afraid that it will not be that easy.” And, since the resemblance to Dumbledore there was disturbing him, he then gave them an infuriating little smirk perfectly calculated to drive a certain someone over the edge.
Completely predictably, the first curse came from Stone. It was dark purple, definitely nasty, and, from the contemptuous look Savage gave it, probably only borderline legal. Harry ducked, snapping his right wrist, and his wand practically jumped into his hand. Power hummed through him, his shield strengthening with half an unconscious gesture.
“Let’s everybody just calm down!” Proudfoot yelped. Harry nearly snorted; it was very clear that the time for diplomacy had passed, around five years ago if he was honest. Still, no one shot anymore spells at him, so whilst he neither lowered his wand or dismissed the golden shield surrounding him, he didn’t attack either.
He was more civilised than some people, and the glance he shot at Stone said as much.
“Potter…” There was real hatred in the voice, and Harry’s eyes widened a fraction. Sure, most of magical Britain disliked him, feared him, reviled him even, but there were very few who hated him like that. Like it was personal.
Acting purely on familiar instinct, Harry’s fingers twitched and Stone’s sleeve was yanked up. At the same time his wand flicked into motion and he snapped, “Finite! Revelio!”
Stone wasn’t nearly quick enough to dodge, and the Aurors who had begun to cast when he had moved were soon distracted by the skin on Stone’s exposed forearm beginning to shiver as if snakes were thrashing under the surface. Then it was over, a dark stain on the Seeker’s arm. Stone yelped and recoiled as if burned, but not quickly enough to hide the damning skull-and-serpent tattoo.
Figures. Harry shot the Aurors a contemptuous look, muttering, “And you lot wonder why I might resist arrest?”
The blood had drained from their faces. Proudfoot’s wand was wavering back and forth between Harry and Stone, seemingly unable to decide which was the bigger threat. Savage didn’t seem to have the same problem, ignoring Harry in favour of glaring daggers at Stone, whilst the other two were looking wide-eyed at their leader as if incapable of independent thought.
Stone, however, didn’t waste a moment. Suddenly deprived of allies he was desperate, and desperate Death Eaters were dangerous.
Harry had expected him to lash out, but even he was reluctantly impressed at the venomous hiss of “Fiendfyre.”
Flames shot from the Seeker-turned-Death-Eater’s wand, roaring and writhing, forming serpents and dragons and chimeras all twisting and shrieking for blood. The semi-sentient flames spewed in an unstoppable torrent, hungering for destruction, and even Stone looked a little horrified at what he’d wrought. Especially when the cursed fire continued to gush from his wand, the beasts he had conjured already turning on him.
A little, forbidden part of Harry was fascinated, his eyes glittering as they reflected the hellfire. It was deadly, even malevolent, and yet it was also oddly beautiful.
If you ignored the potential of being burned alive, that was.
It was clear in the first few heartbeats that Stone had no control over the curse; it was as likely to consume him as any other. It was so typically idiotic, exactly what he had come to expect of most of Voldemort’s less-well-known followers, to use a spell that was near uncontrollable without caring for anything but destruction. Fiendfyre could and most likely would raze the forest – and beyond – to ash.
It’s a little early for world-burning, indeed. Why did he always have to tempt fate?
It was equally clear that the Aurors were not going to deal with the cursed flames. Proudfoot was just gaping at it, Savage was cursing and backing away, and the others were whimpering like children. Weren’t they supposed to have been trained to deal with spells like this? And, as he had come to expect, the Seekers were worse than useless; they had likely never even heard of the dark spell before, let alone be expected to control it.
Harry had never imagined that he would ever be grateful to Vincent Crabbe, but if it hadn’t been for the fiendfyre that had destroyed the diadem years ago he might have been just as useless as the Aurors. Instead that incident had prompted him to learn to protect himself and so now he calmly raised his wand and began to chant the counter charm, tracing intricate patterns through the air.
The curse roared in response, flaring hotter, higher, as a trace of it was drawn inexorably towards him. A flaming serpent snapped for his face but a flick of his wand caught its tail, and suddenly he could feel the magic.
It was wild, and thrashing, and blazing. It was desperate, with an overwhelming need to destroy. It was breathtakingly powerful. Control was anathema to it, and though it was not sentient it fought against him like a wild animal. Fiendfyre had not been created to be tame. It was hungry, and it wanted to devour the world.
No, Harry told the magic, throwing every ounce of his will into it. No.
The fire hissed and spat, but the Boy-Who-Lived held firm. He had held out against Lord Voldemort himself; he would not fail against mere fire.
Slowly, reluctantly, the flames drew back, shrinking towards Harry as if bound by invisible chains. The trail of red still gushing from Stone’s wand snapped, and as the cursed fire died that wand wilted to ash.
And then it was gone, and the world was still again.
Harry breathed raggedly. It had taken more out of him than he had expected, and a part of him was shocked at the sudden absence of such powerful, raging magic.
Shocked, too, at what he had learned. Contrary to what he had always believed, Fiendfyre was not actually fire at all, but more an unleashing of pure energy, pure magic, pure destructive intent. Which would explain why it could destroy Horcruxes.
Now he understood, as he hadn’t before, how the Dark Arts could be addictive. Because for all that he had been fighting for his life, and for the lives of the Aurors, that had been incredible.
Clearly he wasn’t the only one to think so, because the Aurors were staring at him with expressions that he wished weren’t so familiar. Awe mixed with fear. A lot of fear. Harry sighed; at least this time he had actually done something to earn that look rather than it stemming from rumours or his status as the exiled Boy-Who-Lived. Even Stone was staring at him, terror and shock tangling with defiant hatred. Harry felt like whining that he’d put the fire out. They didn’t need to look at him like that; it wasn’t like he’d cast the damn thing.
The only one who wasn’t looking at him was Savage. Instead, her eyes were fixed on something to his left, a patch of scorched earth where fire had been only moments ago. “What is that?”
Keeping a wary eye on the rest of them (even wandless Death Eaters were dangerous, and although the Aurors seemed to have momentarily forgotten who it was that they had come here to arrest in the first place Harry had not), the Saviour-turned-fugitive swivelled to see what she was talking about and blinked in surprise.
He knew that he had extinguished the fiendfyre properly. It was definitely gone, he’d felt it. But where it should have left only blackened dirt and scorched stone there was what looked like a hole in the ground, edged by glowing runes. A hole, and yet not a hole. Instead it seemed like… empty space filled with a strange substance, like an ancient tattered cloak.
Whispers emanated from it, and a chill stole into Harry’s heart. There was no archway, no chamber, but all the same it reminded him strongly of the Veil in the Department of Mysteries.
Steeling himself, Harry ventured closer. Recognising that they were out of their depth, the Seekers might as well have been rocks for all the initiative they showed, whilst the Aurors stiffened but they didn’t go for their wands. Likely they were just as curious as he was, and yet were perfectly willing to let him take all the risks. Typical.
Ignoring the bitter taste in his mouth, Harry halted just a pace away from the hole. It was difficult to look at, its edges waving as if under a bad disillusionment, but from this close he could make out other things beneath the fluttery shroud. Snatches of green grass and grey stones, oddly familiar. Quidditch hoops against a blue sky. Towers and turrets and walls.
Hogwarts? But that made no sense. They were nowhere near the school he had once called home.
And this was the place of his memories, not what Hogwarts had now become. What little he could see of the grounds were lush and green and unbroken, and the castle was unblemished. Towers that he knew had been utterly destroyed rose again. There were no battle scars on the glimpses of smooth stone.
Then came a voice, a voice he had last heard somewhere between life and death. “Harry Potter…”
It was Albus Dumbledore’s voice, and yet not. It sounded like the Headmaster’s voice, but distorted, like Trelawney’s had when she had given those damning prophecies. As if something else had borrowed it, changed it. And, of course, there was the fact that Dumbledore was dead.
Again, Harry was reminded of the Veil. But the voices in the Department of Mysteries had been indistinct murmurs, never words. And that Veil had shown nothing but empty space. So what was this?
The curtain-like substance rippled once more, and this time he caught a glimpse of people. Clearest was Dumbledore, though he looked older than Harry had ever seen him, as if he had continued to age after death. Alongside him were snatches of people that Harry also recognised, a bizarre mix of the living and the dead – Minerva McGonagall, Alastor Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, flashes of red hair that had to be Weasleys. They were stood in a strange pattern, but before he could make out any details the curtain fluttered back and hid them from view.
“That- that looks like-” Savage stammered, and Harry narrowed his eyes. From the impression she had given him so far, he hadn’t believed her capable of sounding anything less than confident but now she sounded equal parts awed and afraid.
She was the only one. The other three Aurors were all looking to her, confusion on their faces. “Auror Savage? You know what this might be?” Proudfoot asked reluctantly.
“It- I-” She looked frazzled, eyes darting between her colleagues and the strange hole. “It- but- I can’t-”
Suddenly, Harry knew why. “You were an Unspeakable,” he voiced quietly, and her instant look of shock and panic confirmed it.
“How did you know?”
Harry sighed. He should be used to people underestimating him by now, but somehow he hadn’t expected it of her. “I guessed. I’ve met Unspeakables before, and the only way you would react to something like this is if it were something that wasn’t supposed to happen. The fact that you couldn’t tell your fellow Aurors… It wasn’t so hard to figure out. And I’ve seen something similar before in the Department of Mysteries. The Death Chamber.”
Face pale, she drew herself up, regaining her dignity. “Ah. It reminds you of the Veil also, then?”
“A little. But the Veil I saw was all whispers and secrets and emptiness. This… I can see through it. To things that should not be possible.”
“What do you see?”
“Hogwarts.” Harry frowned. “But not the Hogwarts I know. No battle happened there. And I see people who should be dead standing beside people who still live.”
Savage nodded, though she looked a little awed.
“It’s another world, isn’t it?”
If she had been surprised before, she looked downright shocked now. Harry rolled his eyes. Did common sense surprise people so much? He was an expert in the strange and seemingly impossible by now.
“Honestly, this is the kind of thing that could only happen to me. But the Veil is a connection between worlds, of a sort, and it’s the only explanation that makes sense, the only way Hogwarts could look like that and have those people still there. I suppose the wild, pure magic of the Fiendfyre might have provided some kind of anchor for a – what would you call it? – a portal like that. And the way they’re standing on the other side looks like a ritual.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he snapped, as her eyes grew wider and wider. “Just because Voldemort kept me a little too busy to sit my NEWTs doesn’t mean I’m actually stupid.” And after a war, even Auror training had not been interesting enough to keep him from studying up on some of the things he had missed out on. When he didn’t have to focus purely on his own survival, magic – especially obscure magic – was fascinating.
“It’s only been theorised,” she began, her voice hesitant at first but growing stronger. “No one has ever been able to prove that it’s even possible to connect to another world, and the sheer amount of power that it would take… well, no one has ever been stupid or desperate enough to try. The alternate dimension theory was first proposed by the Founders of Hogwarts, as much as we could tell, and the Unspeakables have studied such things for decades. You’re right – many of the ideas we do have centre on the Veil as a kind of conduit between worlds, but even the Veil itself isn’t technically supposed to be possible. We don’t know where it comes from or if it was made at all, and it is impossible for us to replicate. We have never managed anything similar.”
Harry grimaced. “Welcome to my life. I have to fill the quota of at least one ridiculously unlikely event a year or the very universe would explode.”
He wasn’t even sure it was sarcasm at this point. Either way, Savage didn’t seem to care about his flippancy. “The best we can figure is that even if connecting to other worlds is possible… with the similarities to the Veil, such a portal would only ever be one way, and temporary too, and risky beyond belief to create. Someone would have to be either suicidal or desperate to induce such an event. And it would have to be drawn to something, and have an anchor as you said. The fiendfyre would work, but then it would have to be seeking something here.”
“Harry Potter…”
Oh, joy. “It’s calling my name,” he informed the former not-so-Unspeakable.
“Of course it bloody is,” she muttered, echoing his own thoughts. “Are you ever normal, Potter?”
He smirked back. “That sounds boring.” But he was only focusing half of his attention on the conversation now. The ‘portal’ seemed to be shuddering, the veil-like material fluttering much more wildly, and he could make out the strain on alternate-Dumbledore’s face. Whatever they were seeking, they wouldn’t be able to hold it for much longer. If they tried, it might very well kill them. “It won’t stay open much longer.”
Harry had always been very good at making impulsive decisions. He had mellowed somewhat since the War, finally learning the lessons the Headmaster should but never had taught him in school – that sometimes he needed to think before acting. But he wasn’t sure he had long left to think about.
And he couldn’t believe that things were bad enough in this world, his world, the world he had given everything for, that he was actually considering jumping through the portal. Caution be damned.
Then again, he had spent the last night waiting for a moon-crazed werewolf to hunt him, was woken up this morning by a collection of Aurors and ex-Death Eaters, and had minutes ago been nearly obliterated by fiendfyre. Even for him this day was already ridiculous.
Maybe the other world would be better than this one. Maybe it would treat him better. Maybe he would finally be able to get away from being the bloody Boy-Who-Got-Blamed-For-Everything.
All he knew was that the magic of the portal was calling out to him. Not only in that strange voice that was part Dumbledore and probably part ritual magic, but also with a humming, sparking cry that spoke to the magical core inside of him. It was like a cry for help, and he had never been good at refusing those.
And, honestly? What was left for him in this world? Those friends who were not dead had mostly abandoned him, he had no family, he was hunted night and day and wasn’t even sure what for anymore. The Ministry was fractured and yet still not trying to heal itself, and since no one else in the whole bloody world seemed to care why should he?
Harry’s eyes hardened, darkened. Such a portal would only ever be one way. It was horrifying that that was actually comforting. But the magic of the portal felt right, even when common sense would probably tell him that it was wrong, and he had always been unbearably curious. For the hope of a better world…
Savage seemed to read the decision in his eyes. “For what it is worth… good luck, Mr Potter,” she murmured, inclining her head.
Shouting broke out, and curses whizzed past his head as the other Aurors suddenly caught on. But it was too late. “Thank you, Madame Savage.” With a reckless grin that only came from pure Gryffindor idiocy, Harry hurled himself away from them and through the gateway.