Part Two
Part Two
-
The sky was dull and grey, and perfectly matching the mood of the house. A storm waged against the windows, making the glass shudder in its frame. Aside from the rolls of thunder and the creaking roof, that was the only sound in the house. Otherwise it was completely silent.
Lightning flashed in the sky, illuminating the room only a bit brighter than the candles were able, throwing her face into relief. Hermione watched it, staring with listless eyes at the bowing trees. The room dulled, and the candle next to her bringing out the unusual lines on her face for her age, made from stress and constant worry. Although her face was blank and emotionless, her mind whirred with thought after thought. She once held her intelligence with high esteem... now she cursed it, for her mind would never let her rest.
It was one year to the day since Harry had died under the hands of his ruthless uncle. That wasn't the only change in her world since she had been able to call herself a naive child, but it was the biggest. After he died, the world started losing hope and Voldemort began to gain. If she was honest, she was starting to lose hope too.
Hogwarts was closed. The Burrow was gone. Grimmauld Place was compromised. The Ministry was this close to being run by Death Eaters. The Order was torn apart. They had lost so many.
Arthur, Mad-Eye, Charlie, Percy, Remus, Professor Sprout, Professor Hooch, Diggle, Jones, Dodge, Podmore. Even Fletcher, though that was no loss. Dumbledore was gone - ironically of a heart attack, which caused him to fall down the stairs and hit his head hard enough to put him in a coma. Kingsley ran the Order, what was left of it anyway. It was fuller of the new generation than the old, for many of those who weren't dead were simply too old to fight on the front lines anymore.
With the Burrow gone, destroyed in the fight that had killed the three Weasleys, Molly moved her remaining children into a repaired Shrieking Shack in the ruins of Hogsmeade, also doubling as the new Headquarters. Dumbledore and Flitwick, working with Bill, had been able to place heavy protection on the decrepit house only weeks before the Headmaster's accident. Neville, heavily scarred and missing an eye from his fight with Rodolphus Lestrange, was one of the Secret Keepers, with Molly being the other. She was not a front-line fighter, so even if Neville fell, she would be safe back at the Shack along with their Secret.
With both Dumbledore and Harry gone, the people had turned to the only one seemingly putting a dent in His forces, the one known only as the Midnight Vigilante. No one knew who it was, and no amount of cajoling, threatening, bargaining, mocking, and pleading had made them show themselves. The Midnight Vigilante would merely appeared during the night, kill several Death Eaters at a time, and then disappear at the light of day, sometimes leaving a message behind but never any clues as to whom it could be.
Although His army was slowly whittled away by who knows who over the past seven months, He was still getting more and more powerful every day, Muggles dying by the hundreds.
Hermione looked behind her at the bed that housed her sleeping husband of only a few weeks, and at her flat belly beneath her hand. She raised her eyes to look out of the window again.
Wasn't impending motherhood supposed to be a joyful time?
She didn't even realize she was crying.
-
"Oh, well would you look at this? What an interesting gathering." Pure golden eyes glowed brightly in the darkness lit only by the light of the moon. "Everyone I planned on meeting tonight, and even some I didn't, all together in one place. How very convenient."
The dozen or so black-robed figures moved uneasily, wands lit and held into the air, eyes hidden behind bone-white masks searching futilely in the dark. Most of them were obviously hopeful recruits, as shown by their smaller statures and shaking hands. Being as they were just outside of one of the smaller Muggle towns, this was apparently an initiation of sorts. To fill the gaps created by their Lord's newest pest most likely.
"Show yourself," a harsh voice demanded, coming from one of the larger of the figures.
"Hm. Nah. This is the only time I can play, really, so I try to make it last. Besides, watching the little Eaters-to-be squirm is rather fun." The eight hopefuls stiffened at the mocking tone, their hands steadier. "I must say that the so-called Dark Lord seems to be drawing from smaller pools, isn't he? This is the weakest batch I've seen yet. Rather useless, really. I bet they couldn't manage to hurt a dead fly."
"Crucio!" A beam of red light lanced out, dissipating into nothing but sparks as it hit a wild thorn bush.
"You missed," the voice remarked lazily. "Pity. That would have made you first." The recruit whom had shot the spell off trembled.
"Who are you?"
"Oh, you mean you haven't guessed?" The eyes and voice came from behind them this time, making them whirl around rather comically to face it. "I believe the papers are calling me the Midnight Vigilante. What a clichéd moniker. I prefer The Hunter, myself." The acrid smell of urine filled the air, and two of the hopefuls disappeared in the crack of Apparition. "Damnit. I hate when they run." The Hunter sighed despondently. "But what can you do?"
Wicked laughter echoed in the clearing. The remaining Death Eaters wished briefly that they’d had the sense to run while they could, but it wasn’t long before they couldn’t think anything at all.
-
Midnight Massacre
Jorgen Bloomsager reports
After nearly two weeks of silence, another twenty are dead this morning, states the final report from the Ministry of Magic’s Auror Division. In an unusually bloodless display from the one known as the Midnight Vigilante, bodies of young witches and wizards appeared overnight in St. Mungo’s morgue. Although intact, St. Mungo’s lead mortician went on record to say, “The bodies were twisted and mangled. Several had major internal damage, to say nothing of the damage to the skeletal structure. The bones were separated internally without breaking the skin, and at least two of the bodies had complete skeletal shattering. The youngest of the group was seventeen.”
Has the vigilante tired of killing trained Death Eaters? According to Lead Auror Investigator, Markus Durham, the new massacre consisted entirely of a Death Eater recruit team lead by five senior members of the Dark Forces, most likely interrupted during initiation.
Already rumors are circulating through the Alley, presumably from an unknown recruit who was able to escape the massacre. Rumors of a dark voice that spoke before the atrocities commenced, mocking them with ease. Of what sources now claim is an unknown man who calls himself The Hunter.
Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour has gone on record to say that the capture of the Midnight Vigilante, now known as The Hunter, is among one of their top priorities. A reward has been offered for the capture of this unknown man for interrogation by the Auror forces.
But the question now is whether The Hunter can be captured, and if so, would those who are allied against the Dark Forces divert some of their attention to this no doubt difficult task?
Only time will tell.
-
The sound of china clinking against metal and of wood creaking from age and ware was overpowered only by the sounds of the heated whispered arguments that floated throughout the room.
“We can’t spare the forces!” The loud shout caused a sudden hush over the room as eyes turned to see the commotion.
“The bastard needs to be stopped!” Ron grit his teeth, glaring fiercely across the table at Neville; Neville, himself, kept his head high and his stance firm, eyes locked on his old housemate.
“I understand where you’re coming from, Ron, but we can’t spare anyone to go on a fruitless search for a man who, however deplorable his methods, is actually aiding us by cutting down His forces. After this is over we can look for whoever this Hunter is, but right now he have little enough man power as it is.”
Ron growled, looking around the room for support. He was dismayed to find that less than third seemed to agree with him. The rest were either nodding in agreement with Neville’s words, or looking uncomfortable, hesitant to pick a side between one of their lead defenders and Secret Keepers and their main strategist.
“I don’t believe this! This guy is making a fool of us all, and all of you seem happy to let him do it! He’s basically mocking us, showing off that he’s managed ten times the damage to His forces in a month than we’ve been able to do in over a year. Do none of you care about that?”
“Ron.” He turned at his wife’s quiet call. Hermione wasn’t looking at him, but staring down at the wooden table will dull eyes. “Neville is right. We can’t spare anyone to hunt down a man that no one has even seen.” She looked up then, eyes rimmed pink and dark from sleepless nights and weary tears. “I can’t condone his methods. He’s hurting innocent people with his displays, causing panic and fear despite whatever his true intentions may be. However, he is helping us, in a horrible round-about way. We have to let it stand for now.”
“Hermione, how can you even say that?” Ron fisted his hands upon the table, his eyes hard and unyielding. “You say you can’t condone his actions, but you agree that he should be left alone to do as he wishes?”
Hermione closed her eyes, tears falling down her face, her pain etched for all to see.
“I’m pregnant,” she blurted. Silence followed her announcement, astonished eyes turning towards her now. “Eight weeks.”
“Hermione,” Ron breathed. His hand reached out to clasp hers, clutching it like a lifeline. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I couldn’t.” She sobbed, her body trembling forcefully. “I wasn’t sure until…. Please, Ron, let this man be for now. I don’t want to raise our child in war! I don’t want to have raise it in fear and pain and suffering. This Hunter is helping for now, doing what we can’t. And why shouldn’t we let him? He’s powerful enough to evade capture, powerful enough to take down dozens of them at a time! His actions, horrible and unforgivable, could help us to end this for good. Please, Ron, I can’t…. We’ve already lost so many, I can’t lose my baby too!” She collapsed into his arms, broken and crying uncontrollably. Ron clutched at her back, drawing her face into his shoulder as she cried herself into a fitful sleep.
In the hush that followed her impassioned speech, Ron looked up at Neville, eyes dark and dull.
“Fine,” he said hoarsely. “We’ll do it his way for now.” He picked his wife up into his arms and carried her to their room, all the while watched by all he left behind as the room was shrouded in an all-encompassing silence.
-
“You know, this is starting to get dull.” Golden eyes stared absently at a plain white wall. A small rubber ball appeared from nothing and landed in a slim, tan hand.
The ball made soft thudding noises as it bounced against a hardwood floor a few times, then – thud, thud. Thud, thud. Thud, thud.
The rhythm repeated as the ball bounced off of the floor and the wall, landing in the same slim, tan hand, only to be repeated once more.
Black eyes stared at him stoically.
“Oh, don’t give me that look. You can’t deny this is dull. Mister Lord Air-For-Brains is keeping all my shinier, funner toys away from me and is instead sending out the dull, useless ones. Such a waste of life, though. If only those snot-nosed little urchins had realized already that ole’ Flight From Death isn’t going to win… although, since the Aurors are incompetent, and the Order doesn’t seem to be doing much better, I’m not surprised.”
A slow blink.
“You know, you’re right. I have drawn this out long enough, I suppose. Might as well just off the bastard before one of the Ladies gets impatient and does it for me to force me to get back to work. I’m kind of going to miss this place, though. Only place I can get a decent cup of tea.” There was a pause, and a chair rocked back and forth. “Too bad, though, that I can’t say goodbye.”
A head-tilt.
“What, really? You think I should?” Silence. “Huh. Well, I guess it couldn’t hurt anything. Who do you think I should go as? Me, or me?”
A blank stare.
“What? It’s a valid question, I’ll have you know. All righty, then. Guess I’m off to see the big, bad Shack. Ah, memories…. Ooh, I wonder if anyone will try to kill me right off the bat, that would be interesting, wouldn’t it?”
Silence.
“…You know, you really could do with a sense of humor.”
-
The humming was unusual. The clinking and rustling coming from the kitchen at two in the morning was not, but the humming – that was new. Hermione paused at the bottom of the steps, wand clenched tightly in her fist.
All the others in the house had long since gone to bed – the ones who were not off on missions or elsewhere, at any rate. As the last to have gone to bed, she knew this to be true. None of the members away were due back for several days. Bill was still in France, visiting Fleur and in negotiations with the indigenous pure and half Veela. Tonks and Kingsley were at the ministry on night shift. Zacharias and Cormac were still in America, trying to gain support there. Everyone else were either upstairs sleeping, or at their own homes.
The sound of a chair scraping lightly against the floor snapped her out of her reverie. She swallowed heavily and made a quick decision. Whoever this was, was either powerful enough to get through the Fidelius, or was a member who had returned for some reason or other. Somehow, she didn’t think it was the latter. She steeled her resolve. Good or bad, it was too late now. They were already inside. She drew herself up, activated the silent alarm charms placed throughout the Shack, clenched her wand firmly, and stepped into the kitchen.
The sight that greeted her was not what she expected.
A man of about twenty-five was sitting in the chair at the head of the table, facing the door. His boot clad feet were crossed at the ankles atop the table, chair leaning back so that only two legs remained on the floor. He held a steaming cup of what Hermione presumed was tea, given the still steaming kettle on the stove. He was dressed in Muggle clothes; dark slacks, black button-up shirt. He had what seemed to be a solid gold whip coiled through a belt loop, and she counted no less than four other Muggle weapons – including what looked to be a rather dangerous serrated dagger.
Most fascinating, however, were his eyes. Pools of swirling, molten gold surrounded by wisps of ink black hair that went just past the nape of his neck, set in a striking face. She felt frozen into place as they stared straight into hers. With an amused smirk and a raise of his teacup, the stranger broke the silence.
“Tea?” Hermione stared blankly at him. He cocked his head to the side and gestured vaguely to the stove. “Made it fresh.” He sighed when she still didn’t move. “Are you going to stand there all night?”
Even if she had wanted to, she was stopped from answering as a red streak of light flew past her in a direct line for the intruder. Relief filled her as Ron appeared at her side, a dark look directed at the man, and Neville stepped past them both into the kitchen, the dim light making his scarring stand out more than usual, giving him a daunting air. Out of the corner of her eye she could see more Order members descending the staircase, tense and wands at the ready.
Her breath caught. The spell seemed to stop in midair for a scant second before fizzling into nothing. Neville’s glare narrowed, and his wand flicked several times. The next five spells met the same fate.
“Quite a welcome you have there,” the man said dryly, sipping at his tea. “Tea?”
Neville’s teeth clenched. “Who are you?” he snapped. “How did you get in here and what do you want?”
“No one of consequence, really,” the man said, moving his hand as if to wave the question away. “I can find anything, if I know what I’m looking for, so that fancy little secret spell doesn’t really work on me. As for what I want?” He put a hand to his chin, looking up at the ceiling in mock thoughtfulness as he rocked his chair back. “Chocolate biscuits. Some cinnamon for this tea. Snake Lord’s head on a platter. You know, what any person wants, really.” He lifted his cup in a salute and took a sip. He then frowned at the remaining liquid and looked up. “Do you have any cinnamon?”
Neville growled. “What is your purpose here?”
The man stared at him for a moment, a calculating look on his face. “Why don’t you have a seat?” he said a last. A wand appeared in his hand out of nowhere. A swift flick had all the remaining chairs pulled away from the table, ready for seating. “Your friends in the hall should join us too.”
Neville stomped across the room at sat at the chair at the end of the table, directly across from the stranger. Other than keeping his want trained on him, Neville made no further moves. Hermione exchanged a look with her husband before they followed, sitting to one side of their de facto leader. With Kingsley at the ministry, Neville would make all the decisions. Slowly, but surely, the rest followed, some sitting, others choosing to stand at the back of the room. Not one of them had lowered their wands.
“Please,” Hermione said softly. “Who are you?” The hard look in the man’s gold eyes softened slightly as they rested on her.
“My name doesn’t matter,” he answered, standing up. He ignored the tensing of those in the room as he moved around, fetching another cup and saucer from the cupboard. “I haven’t used it for a long time, after all. I don’t rightly know if I ever will again. Sad, really.” He went about setting up another cup of tea, which he placed in front of her. Absently, she took a sip, despite her husband’s frantic attempt to stop her, and looked down at it in surprise. Dash of cream, three sugars – exactly how she liked it.
“Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned,” he said almost in exasperation. “Honestly, if I wanted any of you dead, you’d be so by now.” He filled his own cup and went rooting through the cupboards, exclaiming in triumph after a moment. “Aha! Cinnamon.” He looked very smug as he sat back down and shook a liberal amount into his cup.
“What are we to call you, then?” Ron asked coldly, glaring daggers at him.
“Well.” He seemed to think about it for a moment, stirring the spice into his tea absently with his wand. Hermione watched the movement with wide eyes. “I suppose you may call me Hunter.” A grin curled his lips, gold eyes gazing heavy-lidded at those in the room.
“The Hunter!” Neville hissed, jumping up. Almost as one, several spells shot across the room, sparks shoot haphazardly as they met the invisible shield and fizzled out in mid-air. The amused look on the Hunter’s face only served to enrage them all the more. This went on for several more minutes, the kitchen filling with light and smoke.
Finally, Hermione had enough.
“Stop! Stop!” She stood up from her chair, hands fisted at her side. “Enough already! It’s useless, pointless, and you’re going to set the house on fire!”
The spellfire ceased, members looking at her one by one in a mixture of shock and wariness. It was understandable. It was the first time Hermione’s temper had erupted in months; a long time since she’d shown any emotion but misery and exhaustion.
“There will be no more of that,” she said firmly, sitting down once more. “Whoever he is, he’s already proven he’s not going to hurt us. Let’s just settle down and listen to what he has to say.” The Hunter grinned at her.
“Thank you, Hermione.” Her eyes widened at him in shock.
“How do you know her name?” Ron growled, an arm wrapping possessively around his wife’s waist.
“I know who all of you are,” Hunter answered, sitting back in his chair nonchalantly. “Well, most of you, anyway.” He eyed a few of the people in the back of the room. “It may have been a very long time for me, but I made it a point to remember you.”
“What do you mean?” Neville asked with narrowed eyes.
“He means that for him, he’s been gone for a long time.”
All eyes turned to the doorway. Luna gazed back at them with her wide, silvery eyes, a strand of blond hair twirled around her finger, and blinked.
“Good morning,” she said. “Are we having breakfast early?”
Hunter threw his head back and laughed, receiving startled looks from more than half the room. He grinned at her, patting the place next to him.
“Come join the party, Luna old girl! Tea?”
“Oh, yes please,” she answered, taking the offered seat. “No cream, five sugars.”
“Absolutely!” The only sound in the room was the preparation of tea; the Order could only stare, wordless, as the Hunter and Luna settled themselves at the end of the table like two old friends. “Here you are then, love.”
“Thank you, Harry.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“Luna… what….” For the first time that evening, Neville lost his unflappable cool, staring at her in astonishment.
“You’re going to catch flies, leaving your mouth open like that,” Hunter said absently. Neville’s mouth shut with a loud click.
“It’s impossible,” Hermione murmured, staring at him with glazed eyes. “Completely impossible… but I only know one person who made their tea that way… but it’s impossible!” She began to shake, her words becoming hysterical. “It was open-casket. We saw you bury. You were dead!”
“Breathe, Hermione,” Hunter soothed, going as close to her as her husband’s wand permitted. “It’s all right. Breathe.” She inhaled shakily, looking at him with tear-filled eyes.
“Harry’s dead,” she whispered. “You’re dead.”
“Yes,” Hunter smiled at her sadly, even as wands were lowered or dropped in shock, “I am.”
‘Have you gone mad?” Ron exploded. “There’s no way this arsehole is Harry! Harry’s dead, Hermione! We were there when they buried him!”
“I know that!” she snapped back.
“But the Ladies sent him back.” Luna hummed merrily, swinging her feet back and forth in the chair as she nursed her tea. “His job wasn’t finished.” Her eerie eyes gazed at them. “They only sent him back for a little while, though.”
“She’s right.” Hunter – Harry – stood up fully. He placed his hands in his pockets with an absent shrug. “I don’t have much longer here before they take me back. Really, I only came to say goodbye. I didn’t get a chance to last time.” He looked around the room, at the people he had once known and the few he didn’t, before turning his eyes back to his two oldest and greatest friends. “I also wanted to say I was sorry. For leaving you how I did.”
“It wasn’t your fault!” Hermione snapped, standing up abruptly.
“Dying – no, that wasn’t my fault. But not living… yes. I made my choice, and this is the result. I wasn’t going to come here – even if I did want to say goodbye. It wasn’t part of the plan. However, playtime is over and it’s time for me to finish what Tom Riddle started. Which I’m going to do tonight.” Hermione looked stricken.
“But… but I have so many questions! How are you here? Was it really you who killed those people? Did you do all those horrible things? Please,” she begged, “please, explain this to me!”
Harry looked at her for a long moment, golden eyes swirling. He sighed. “All right.”
He sat down, and told them a six thousand year-old story.
-
Voldemort raged. Follower after follower fell screaming to the floor as he released his fury upon them. Over and over again he was outsmarted by The Hunter, his forces culled in crippling waves. Each time, the cretin showed up and decimated his servants with humiliating ease, send them out in messages to mock him. None of his followers could tell him anything about this man, for all who’d gone after him had returned… in pieces.
His rage was cut short as the doors to the antechamber were thrown open, a golden flash following a sound like a firework. Voldemort and his servants stared at the man who strode in calmly, one hand in his pocket, one clutching a pure gold whip, coiled against his shoulder.
In the dim light, gold eyes flashed maliciously.
“Hello, Tom. I have a little score to settle with you.”
-
At exactly eleven forty on the morning of September the twenty-first, one year and two months after the death of Harry Potter, eight months since the Second Great War started in earnest, a large silver box, tied with a red ribbon and a note, appeared on the desk of the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. At eleven forty-five, a small contingent of Aurors were sent out to validate the letter’s claim. At noon exactly, the press was notified, and by three that afternoon, almost every witch and wizard in Europe had received a special edition copy of the Daily Prophet.
The headlines read thus:
You-Know-Who Destroyed! Nameless Hunter Saves Wizarding Kind!
-
Harry fidget nervously before the door, wondering where his Gryffindor courage had flittered off to in his forty-eight hundred years in Purgatory. His hand twitched, almost reflexively, towards the doorknob. He flinched as Urg nudged him from behind, and gave the demon a brief scowl.
“Four o’clock, he says,” he muttered under his breath. “How the bloody hell am I supposed to know when exactly that is, considering there’s not a single bloody clock in this entire bloody dimension?” Of course, he well knew that he was on time – or had been, at the very least, considering how long he’d been hemming and hawing in front of the door – seeing as Urg was the one who had lead him there. Urg had always known where to take him, and when to be there… as was his purpose.
Urg, well-used to his bitching by now, nudged him again.
“Fine! I’m going, already!” Steeling himself, Harry put his hand on the doorknob, took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside.
Only to stop. And stare. And perhaps wonder if Urg had been wrong about where to take him for the first time in… well, ever.
Three old women awaited him in a dimly lit room. They didn’t look up from what they were doing when the door opened, giving him time to observe them.
The first woman, who looked to be the youngest of the three, sat at an old spinning wheel, spinning what looked like strands of delicate silver thread from a tall distaff leaning against her shoulder. The strands sparked eerily in the dim light, spinning slowly on the old wheel that clicked gently with every turn. At the other end of the spinning wheel sat the second woman, who took those strands with thin, delicate fingers, measuring them against what looked to be a thick wand or a really thin staff. As the thread wound around her rod, they turned into molten gold and drew thick and strait. These pieces, some short, others long, were placed into an ornate woven basket at her feet, filled to the brim with thousands more of the thin gold sticks. The last woman, easily the eldest for all that her back was turned to him, seemed to reach haphazardly into the basket, drawing gold thread after gold threat, each glittering, mesmerizing golden strand held up to her eyes and peered at critically before, with a resounding snick of thick, silver scissors, the thread was cut with a sound of finality.
As Harry stood there, it dawned on him just whom he was standing before.
The Three Sisters. The Norns, the Parcae, the Moirae, the bloody Fates had won his soul. How ironic was that? His life, ruled by destiny, and the weaver and the measurer and the ender of that life had played the game for his soul.
“Close the door, child.”
Harry jumped, not realizing how lost in his thoughts he had become, and quickly shut the door behind him. Hesitantly, he stepped forward toward the women, who did not look up as he neared.
“An interesting case, you are.”
“Yes, an interesting case.”
The three women turned to look at him then, and he had to stifle a shiver at their glowing, colorless eyes. They gazed upon him for long moments, before speaking again, in a way that reminded Harry of a certain pair of twins, so long ago as that may have been. They spoke almost as one, continuing and completing each other’s sentences as though they were of one mind, of one thought. He found it creepy.
“We see you know who we are, child.” They stared at him expectantly, then. He stared back.
“Um… yes?” Somehow, he thought they looked amused, and that scared him for reasons he couldn’t understand. “You’re the Fates.”
“Yes, child, that is one of our many names. We are Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos. Just as those are one of our many names.”
As each spoke their name, they stood, stepping closer to him slowly. He stiffened as they circled him, feeling like carrion in a desert with hungry hyenas about. With each step, their age seemed to melt away, wrinkles and pockets smoothing; melasma fading, paling into creamy skin. Their worn, faded clothing centuries old seemed to shift, and move, and lift, turning into delicate silk and lace that seemed to float as if woven form the very air. He blinked, or it seemed as though he must, for next he looked there were flower garlands in their hair. Their eyes, however, remained the same, unending white filled with burning lights.
Oh, he knew who they were all right. Anyone who spent a long time in Purgatory would hear of them eventually. The Fates where spoken of in hushed whispers, in dark corners, eyes shifting about as though their very mention could summon them. They were revered as much as they were feared, mentioned in awe and wonder. They were the First, the Originals. They created life and death, and thus were life and death. They were beyond even the touch of the gods, likewise awed and feared by them, for without the Fates, the gods would not exist.
They were the only true Immortals. A force unto themselves.
He also knew they had never before joined the Auction.
He watched them, then, dread giving way to curiosity. The three women, looking now young and beautiful all, circled him still, surveying him and murmuring too quietly to each other for him to understand, touching his arms as though admiring a piece of art.
“Why me?”
They stilled, gazing at him with those eerie eyes.
“Come with us.” The youngest – Clotho, he thought – grasped his hand lightly, tugging him to follow them deeper into the room.
Sconces lit as they walked, revealing the room to be more vast than he had originally assumed, lighting up shelves and chests and drawers. They drew close to a case of glass and silver, markings and runes carved along the edges. Inside the case, on many separated shelves, were small, delicate glass stands, each holding its own golden thread, only different to the ones from before. There were only a handful of them, perhaps six or seven at the most, but these were different. Woven within the gold seemed to be strands of silver, looking thicker yet somehow more delicate than the golden strands Atropos had snipped.
“What do you see, child?”
“Yes, what do you see?”
Harry looked at them uncertainly, then back into the case. “I see golden threads, with bits of silver.” The sisters exchanged looks between them.
“That won’t do.”
“Oh no, that won’t do at all.”
“This may hurt a bit.” And before Harry could do more than flinch, Atropos had lifted a glowing hand and placed it over his eyes.
Harry screamed. It felt as though his eyes were melting in his head. He pulled away from the Fate’s hand, clawing at his face. The burning stopped as suddenly as it had started, leaving him hunched on the floor, wiping what he was sure had to be the leftover remains of his eyes from his cheeks. Slowly, he opened his eyelids, expecting darkness, only to flinch and squeeze his eyes shut from the blinding light.
It took a moment for the spots dancing behind his eyelids to fade, and he blinked his eyes open again, looking up at the sisters who stared down at him with faces blank yet somehow amused.
“What did you do?” he asked, voice hoarse from his screams.
“You could not see with eyes as yours were. Mortal eyes.”
“Mortal eyes were not meant to see the powers of the gods.”
“Look again, child. Tell us what you see.”
Harry stood slowly and approached the case, seeing part of his reflection in the glass. He gasped, a hand rising to trace the undersides of his eyes. Where once were green irises, his mother’s eyes, were now pupil-less pools of swirling, molten gold. His attention was taken away from his reflection as he gazed within the case again. Before, he could only see simple golden threads – now the threads shimmered, and glowed in pulsating white light, energy waving and flowing about them. What he thought were glimpses of silver were really shards of glittering diamonds and opals, a myriad of colors shimmering upon the surface.
“What are they?” He leaned closer to the case, entranced by the dancing mists.
“These are the Lifestrings of the few that are worthy. Special beings that hold importance in our worlds.”
“Few hold this honor, this privilege. The lives of those within this case are kept separate from all other entities, so that they may continue in longevity to do the duties we have set them to.”
“Look there, our chosen – above you.”
Harry looked up, at a golden strand higher than the rest, and also different. This strand held the same shards of precious stone as the others, however, a single, continuous loop of shining obsidian surrounded the strand, capping it at its ends.
“That is yours, child.”
He turned to them in shock.
“What… why?” He clutched his hair in frustration. “Why me? I was told you three never joined the auctions, never played – that souls were useless to you. Why now? Why me?”
The sisters laughed.
“It is simple, child. You are unique – your soul is unique. When we shaped you, we did not realize we were putting within you our wishes, our weariness, our hopes, and our fears. We knew, the moment Lachesis held your Lifestring within her hands that you were ours, that you belonged to us.”
"It is our duty to cut the strings of fate and life. It is the same for the gods, however at the same time it is different. The gods carry their strings within them, within their very souls. When their twine is cut, it is reformed into a new god. After all, there can only be so many.”
“The gods are forgetting their purposes, becoming too numerous. If this continues, they shall over take us all and a war of great proportions may erupt. It could mean the end of all life. They know that we do not venture from our home, and they would not dare come here. We three are too old, too busy to bother chasing them down.”
“We needed a warrior – a hunter – one who could do this job for us.”
"That, our vassal, is what you are for. You have so few Destiny Lines that this will make it easier for us, and you are the only one in existence we crafted with a number small enough. Because of your fewer lines, you have the ability to affect change. And now, you have but two Lines left.”
“We we need you to retrieve the errant deities whom have outlived their purpose and bring them here, so that we may retrieve their strings. In return, we will gift you with the power and strength necessary to bring the gods back, train you in their use. After all, if the god were to be stronger than you then you would not be able to fulfill your job and you would be useless to us.”
“Will will also grant you the return to your time, your world, to exact your vengeance on those who have wronged you.”
"You have a choice to make, our chosen. You could help us willingly, living an eternal life of power and glory, the salvation of the world you left behind - or we can erase your consciousness and reshape it to our own use, leaving your world to ruin. Which would you prefer?"
Harry thought for a moment. He breathed deeply, taking this all in, or as much of it as he could. He knew he would spend a great deal of time later, when he returned to his rooms, letting it sink in. It would be a while before he fully understood the gravity of what he was about to do, but he figured, in the end it would be worth it. He just had to get one thing clear first.
"Will you let me keep Urg?" The sisters exchanged looks and looked at the Kitork Demon standing a step behind him to the side, silent and nearly forgotten.
"You may keep it."
"Then okay. I'll hunt gods for you. Sounds like fun."
Harry shivered at the identical eerie smiles on the faces of the three women before him, suddenly feeling not-so assured with his decision.
-
Epilogue
"You can't hide from me, Tiburtus! What the hell was Lachesis thinking, creating a god of a river anyway? It's a fecking river! It's not even a big river!"
Harry cursed again as yet another bush in the Forest of Silver Trees latched onto his sleeve and caught.
"Those sisters had better pay my tailoring bill," he muttered, unhooking the black thorn from his coat. He stomped the rest of the way towards where he felt the so-called god hiding, which just so happened to be.... "A well? Good gods, man, you must be desperate!" A voice echoed up from inside, as well as a torrent of water. Harry scowled, pissed off and completely soaked.
"I will not let thee carry me off towards my ill-deserved fate, ye beast of burden! Ye horrid hunter of thine eternal!"
"Oh, cut the crap. And you're paying for a new shirt! This was my favorite shirt." He took a glowing golden whip from his belt and cracked it on the inside of the well, getting a muffled "Ow!" as the whip went taut. Harry yanked the seething god up from the well, and scowled at him fiercely.
"If you morons wouldn't run, I would have to waste my time hunting you. Now come on, I'm late to a poker game." Harry turned and followed the path out of the forest, dragging a cursing and yelling river god behind him.
"I should have just stayed dead," he complained to a following Urg for the thirty-six thousand, seven hundred and fifty-ninth time since he agreed to the job. “Sure, I’ll hunt demons for you,” he said mockingly. “Sounds like fun. Bah!” He threw his arms into the air, making the runaway river god yelp as he was accidentally yanked forward. “If I ever meet myself, I’m going to hit me over the head with a brick and hang me with my own whip for agreeing to such a stupid, annoying, clothes destroying task!”
Behind his back, Urg rolled his eyes at his bitching and followed along in anticipation of his poker winnings. His charge really, really sucked at poker.
The End