All Things (Harry Potter)
Title: All Things
Author: amatia
Fandom(s): Harry Potter
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Recipient: gryvon
Request: Harry-centric. Even after the end of the world, they still turned to him for help.
Summary: Voldemort has won, but Harry's managed to survive. A slice of life in that darkness before dawn.
A/N: I kept telling myself that since it's the apocalypse, the story doesn't have to have a happy ending. But I just couldn't be that mean, and shot for hopeful, but not necessarily happy.
All Things
The long war has ended, and the sky is always dark. Smoke still rises from the ground. Hidden deep beneath it, Harry has a long scar from his shoulder to his hip, and hardly any magic to speak of. There’s gray in his hair years before there should be.
Ron and Hermione are with him. Somehow, they have all survived the war, and now a network of complex secret-keeper spells is what keeps them safe. It’s cold underground. A magicked fire provides some warmth, but not enough, so they bundle in old Weasley-knit sweaters and thick socks.
The fire serves another purpose as well. It screens all the letters that come in, destroying anything with even a hint of Dark Magic. Because even though Voldemort has won, messages still arrive day after day, from the wizards that remain around the world, asking Harry for help.
“What help can I be?” he asks Hermione, placing yet another plea into the nearly overflowing basket that holds them all. “I can hardly do magic anymore.” He takes a sip of tea. “Nowhere near the strength needed to take back the sky.”
“But you will, one day,” she replies, and leans her head against his shoulder.
Harry snorts. “The two of you have such faith in me, I don’t understand.”
“Nonsense,” Hermione says firmly. “Just ask yourself, Harry, are you willing to live in a world where You-Know-Who is in charge? Anyway, Ron should be back soon, and we can have some supper.”
Ron has gone out into the caverns that their stone house has been hewn from, looking for anything magical. There was supposed to be magic in this spot; it was why they’d chosen it after the second prophecy, months before the war had come to an end. “Just in case,” Hermione had said, in that small terrified voice that Harry had rarely heard her use. At that point, he’d only been inclined to agree that things weren’t exactly in their favor anymore.
With a pop, Ron appears in front of them. “Sorry, mates,” he says solemnly, and Hermione snuggles closer to Harry with a sad sigh. Ron sits down on her other side. “I’d kill for a game of Quidditch right now,” he mutters.
Hermione rolls her eyes, smacks them both on the arm, and gets up off the battered couch. “I’ll see about supper.”
*
Sometimes the feeling of hopelessness is overwhelming. He wants to hide under the blankets on their bed until the sun shines again, and the chances of that get slimmer with each passing day. Hermione usually sends Ron in to deal with him when he gets like this. “Come on, Harry,” Ron says, climing into the bed and bumping his nose against Harry’s. “You’ve still got us, right? And you know this isn’t going to last forever.”
“That’s what the prophecy says,” Harry mutters, but doesn’t roll away from Ron’s warm embrace. “I’m sorry I act like this.”
Ron chuckles and holds him close.
“I dream about them sometimes,” Harry says after awhile. “The people that write. I don’t know if it’s real or not. It could just be from reading all the letters. But they say different things.” He sighs. “Do you think they could really be talking to me through my dreams?”
“I think that’s a question for Hermione.”
“What question?” Hermione asks, coming around the corner with an armful of blankets.
Ron lifts his head. “How’d you hear that?”
“It’s not like this place is Buckingham Palace,” she huffs, and sits down on the bed. “Harry, you okay?”
“I dream about the people who write the letters,” he murmurs. “But not… fuzzily, like dreams usually are. They make sense. I feel like they’re trying to talk to me.”
“It’s possible.”
“You’ve got the ‘I wish there was a library’ look, Hermione,” Ron says fondly.
“I can’t help it.” Hermione tucks her feet under theirs for warmth. “There’s no reason to rule out the idea that you can communicate with people through your dreams,” she says to Harry, “but we all know that doesn’t end up so well all the time.”
Ron’s peaceful look turns to alarm. “You think-“
“No,” she cuts him off. “I think that as far as the Occlumency goes, your loss of magic might work in your favor, Harry.”
“That’s reassuring,” he groans.
Hermione climbs farther up the bed and slides her arms around his waist. “Sorry,” she whispers, “but it could be one of the reasons why we’ve remained safe down here.”
Harry sighs. “It’s not your fault,” he replies, “and it’s not yours either, Ron. I’m even getting kind of used to it.”
*
That night, his dream is so vivid that he wakes up shouting for it to stop. Cold sweat drips down his face and soaks his pajamas, and he’s breathing hard yet it feels like he isn’t getting any oxygen at all. Hermione, too, sits up, and there’s terror in her eyes. On her other side, Ron barely stirs. “Harry, what is it?” she whispers.
“Just a dream,” he manages, clutching at the blankets.
Hermione gently pulls them from his hands and leads him out of the bed and into the loo. “Tergeo!”
“Thanks.”
Hermione leans against the sink. “Well, what was it?”
“People screaming. Clutching at me. Asking for help when I have no help to give.” Harry covers his face with his hands and sucks in a deep breath. “Can’t you make it stop? A potion or something?”
“I don’t have the supplies for that, Harry.” She sounds geniuinely apologetic. “Did you try talking back to them?”
“It didn’t work.”
“Then maybe these dreams are just dreams.” Hermione puts her hands on his shoulders and pulls him close. “That’s something, isn’t it?”
Harry knows she means to be comforting, but he thinks it’s almost worse. He studied enough dream theory at the beginning of the war to know this is his subconscious screaming out that this helplessness is worse than anything he’s ever felt before. Then it hits him. “What if I reply? To all the letters, I mean. What if we put together a strike force?”
“I don’t think you’re thinking clearly,” Hermione replies.
“No, I’m thinking clearer than I have in months, Hermione.”
“But the last strike force we organized…” It had been their last defeat before going into hiding, and Harry had watched several of his friends die.
“No, that’s not what I mean. We have to mobilize everyone against Voldemort.” He sees the confusion in her eyes. “And by everyone, I mean every single wizard who’s ever written me one of those letters.”
“And what? Have everyone tie their magic together?”
Harry nods.
“It might work,” she says slowly, thinking as she speaks, “but we’ve got to find a way to harness the magical energy of this place first, it’ll be the only way to have enough power to cloak all the messages we’ll be sending out.”
Harry keeps nodding. “Yes. Should we start now?”
“I think you should get more sleep, but…” Hermione shrugs, turns and opens the door. “Ron! Wake up!” She smiles at Harry over her shoulder, and he feels new determination blaze through him. “We’ve got work to do.”
Author: amatia
Fandom(s): Harry Potter
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Recipient: gryvon
Request: Harry-centric. Even after the end of the world, they still turned to him for help.
Summary: Voldemort has won, but Harry's managed to survive. A slice of life in that darkness before dawn.
A/N: I kept telling myself that since it's the apocalypse, the story doesn't have to have a happy ending. But I just couldn't be that mean, and shot for hopeful, but not necessarily happy.
All Things
The long war has ended, and the sky is always dark. Smoke still rises from the ground. Hidden deep beneath it, Harry has a long scar from his shoulder to his hip, and hardly any magic to speak of. There’s gray in his hair years before there should be.
Ron and Hermione are with him. Somehow, they have all survived the war, and now a network of complex secret-keeper spells is what keeps them safe. It’s cold underground. A magicked fire provides some warmth, but not enough, so they bundle in old Weasley-knit sweaters and thick socks.
The fire serves another purpose as well. It screens all the letters that come in, destroying anything with even a hint of Dark Magic. Because even though Voldemort has won, messages still arrive day after day, from the wizards that remain around the world, asking Harry for help.
“What help can I be?” he asks Hermione, placing yet another plea into the nearly overflowing basket that holds them all. “I can hardly do magic anymore.” He takes a sip of tea. “Nowhere near the strength needed to take back the sky.”
“But you will, one day,” she replies, and leans her head against his shoulder.
Harry snorts. “The two of you have such faith in me, I don’t understand.”
“Nonsense,” Hermione says firmly. “Just ask yourself, Harry, are you willing to live in a world where You-Know-Who is in charge? Anyway, Ron should be back soon, and we can have some supper.”
Ron has gone out into the caverns that their stone house has been hewn from, looking for anything magical. There was supposed to be magic in this spot; it was why they’d chosen it after the second prophecy, months before the war had come to an end. “Just in case,” Hermione had said, in that small terrified voice that Harry had rarely heard her use. At that point, he’d only been inclined to agree that things weren’t exactly in their favor anymore.
With a pop, Ron appears in front of them. “Sorry, mates,” he says solemnly, and Hermione snuggles closer to Harry with a sad sigh. Ron sits down on her other side. “I’d kill for a game of Quidditch right now,” he mutters.
Hermione rolls her eyes, smacks them both on the arm, and gets up off the battered couch. “I’ll see about supper.”
*
Sometimes the feeling of hopelessness is overwhelming. He wants to hide under the blankets on their bed until the sun shines again, and the chances of that get slimmer with each passing day. Hermione usually sends Ron in to deal with him when he gets like this. “Come on, Harry,” Ron says, climing into the bed and bumping his nose against Harry’s. “You’ve still got us, right? And you know this isn’t going to last forever.”
“That’s what the prophecy says,” Harry mutters, but doesn’t roll away from Ron’s warm embrace. “I’m sorry I act like this.”
Ron chuckles and holds him close.
“I dream about them sometimes,” Harry says after awhile. “The people that write. I don’t know if it’s real or not. It could just be from reading all the letters. But they say different things.” He sighs. “Do you think they could really be talking to me through my dreams?”
“I think that’s a question for Hermione.”
“What question?” Hermione asks, coming around the corner with an armful of blankets.
Ron lifts his head. “How’d you hear that?”
“It’s not like this place is Buckingham Palace,” she huffs, and sits down on the bed. “Harry, you okay?”
“I dream about the people who write the letters,” he murmurs. “But not… fuzzily, like dreams usually are. They make sense. I feel like they’re trying to talk to me.”
“It’s possible.”
“You’ve got the ‘I wish there was a library’ look, Hermione,” Ron says fondly.
“I can’t help it.” Hermione tucks her feet under theirs for warmth. “There’s no reason to rule out the idea that you can communicate with people through your dreams,” she says to Harry, “but we all know that doesn’t end up so well all the time.”
Ron’s peaceful look turns to alarm. “You think-“
“No,” she cuts him off. “I think that as far as the Occlumency goes, your loss of magic might work in your favor, Harry.”
“That’s reassuring,” he groans.
Hermione climbs farther up the bed and slides her arms around his waist. “Sorry,” she whispers, “but it could be one of the reasons why we’ve remained safe down here.”
Harry sighs. “It’s not your fault,” he replies, “and it’s not yours either, Ron. I’m even getting kind of used to it.”
*
That night, his dream is so vivid that he wakes up shouting for it to stop. Cold sweat drips down his face and soaks his pajamas, and he’s breathing hard yet it feels like he isn’t getting any oxygen at all. Hermione, too, sits up, and there’s terror in her eyes. On her other side, Ron barely stirs. “Harry, what is it?” she whispers.
“Just a dream,” he manages, clutching at the blankets.
Hermione gently pulls them from his hands and leads him out of the bed and into the loo. “Tergeo!”
“Thanks.”
Hermione leans against the sink. “Well, what was it?”
“People screaming. Clutching at me. Asking for help when I have no help to give.” Harry covers his face with his hands and sucks in a deep breath. “Can’t you make it stop? A potion or something?”
“I don’t have the supplies for that, Harry.” She sounds geniuinely apologetic. “Did you try talking back to them?”
“It didn’t work.”
“Then maybe these dreams are just dreams.” Hermione puts her hands on his shoulders and pulls him close. “That’s something, isn’t it?”
Harry knows she means to be comforting, but he thinks it’s almost worse. He studied enough dream theory at the beginning of the war to know this is his subconscious screaming out that this helplessness is worse than anything he’s ever felt before. Then it hits him. “What if I reply? To all the letters, I mean. What if we put together a strike force?”
“I don’t think you’re thinking clearly,” Hermione replies.
“No, I’m thinking clearer than I have in months, Hermione.”
“But the last strike force we organized…” It had been their last defeat before going into hiding, and Harry had watched several of his friends die.
“No, that’s not what I mean. We have to mobilize everyone against Voldemort.” He sees the confusion in her eyes. “And by everyone, I mean every single wizard who’s ever written me one of those letters.”
“And what? Have everyone tie their magic together?”
Harry nods.
“It might work,” she says slowly, thinking as she speaks, “but we’ve got to find a way to harness the magical energy of this place first, it’ll be the only way to have enough power to cloak all the messages we’ll be sending out.”
Harry keeps nodding. “Yes. Should we start now?”
“I think you should get more sleep, but…” Hermione shrugs, turns and opens the door. “Ron! Wake up!” She smiles at Harry over her shoulder, and he feels new determination blaze through him. “We’ve got work to do.”