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Immortalem Bellum	By : Xen Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 12035 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This story is not suitable for minors, and henceforth anyone who is not of age must leave. All recognizable Harry Potter characters and content belongs to J.K. Rowling and associates and I make no money off this.

Chapter List
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Author's Notes: Greetings! I wrote this story as an experiment, to discover whether my writing style could develop towards writing smut, and as such the story will be an integration of heavy smut and plot. The story begins from the end of The Half-Blood Prince, and contains a few changes to canon plot, namely that Harry and Cho Chang never went out, and Harry never fancied her. Hermione is a succubus/futanari, the details will be made clear by the story itself. While reading the story keep in mind that Harry spent almost ten years living under a cup-board under the stairs, without knowing what friends and kindness are, and any such person will find their mind covered in deep scars. While Rowling decided to forgo this little fact, the Harry portrayed in this story will show some effects of such isolation. The story portrays Hermione as sexually Dominant, and may feature Harry and Hermione having sexual relations with other characters, some consensual, some not so much. However, the main pairing will be Harry/Hermione.
With that out of the way, have fun, and do not forget to leave a review- all criticism is welcome, provided that it is criticism and not hate.
Thank you for your time.
Dead eyes.
Once upon a time, those very eyes, so full of life, had stared at him- stared through him. but that had been a long time ago- had it only been a few hours? Since when did a few hours seem like a century? Maybe since the old man had died. Maybe the Earth itself had stopped moving- sensing the hole the death of one man had created. Maybe nature had realized that someone consequential had moved on, and there was no one brave enough, or great enough, to step up and fill the void.
His heart ached like there was something physically wrong with it. Why the fuck is everything so heavy? There was a familiar weight in his heart and mind, but its intensity was strangely unfamiliar. He was an orphan- to be honest, he was an orphan marked for misery. And all his life, he had been alone. He knew loneliness better than he knew the people around him. It was a shame, but shame was all he had for a life. It was all he had been given, and all he would carry with him to his grave.
"Harry?"
With a start, Harry remembered he wasn't alone. People- Sheep. He wished he were somewhere else. Right then, he wished he was miles away, far from the corpse of the man who had played with Harry's life for the greater good, far away from eyes watching his every move, far away from the people he was meant to save. "Harry?" He didn't want to turn around. He didn't want to face her. He didn't want her to know he could have saved Albus Dumbledore- and maybe there was a universe where he had, but he couldn't- not in this one at least. She touched him then. Her warm delicate hand on his shoulder.
It made Harry want to scream.
She didn't know. How could Harry make her understand what she did to him? She, of course, took it lightly. She always had had the privilege of touching him, hadn't she? She applied a gentle pressure, trying to make him turn away, away from the tragedy split open in front of him and towards her, but Harry was numb to everything. He couldn't hear the roaring murmurs, the cries and the wailing of the mourning crowd around him. He couldn't see the accusations, how fear was turning the crowd.
Maybe something had exploded over his head, and left his ears ringing, because that's how he felt.
Harry didn't know. He just wanted to stop existing for a while. Something was tittering nearby, like pebbles falling on one another. It took Harry a moment to realize he was shivering, and his teeth were chattering in the cold. But he was dressed well enough, wasn't he?
He spared a glance at himself, taking his eyes off the body for the first time perhaps. Yes, he was dressed well enough, considering where he had been with…. him. Why then? For a foolish moment, Harry thought he was dead too, and his ghost had come back to haunt the corridors of Hogwarts, but the hand on his shoulder, and the mountain of ache and weight inside of him reminded him he was alive.
He wished, standing in the crowd, he wished with all his magic and all his might, for the old wizard to be alive. But no stars were falling. He glanced upwards, into the gloomy dark clouds, seeing myriad shapes, great white beards and big green skulls, twinkling blue eyes and crimson slits, men and monsters alike, dancing and battling, courting chaos.
She pulled again, a bit harder this time, and Harry relented, letting her guide him away from the horror that was the Headmaster's dead form. His eyes were wide open, yet unseeing, and he let her take him wherever she wanted to. His body felt horrible, an outlandish mix of hollow and cold, and Harry wondered for the tenth time that night, if he was dreaming.
They stepped into a long corridor, and she took him by the elbow choosing to walk beside him, but he barely noticed. Something had died in him along with Dumbledore, and he didn't know how to fix it. He didn't know if he could fix it, or even if he wanted to. The world was a fiercely cold place, and Harry was lost. Not for the first time though, he'd been lost all his life.
A cold biting draft filled the corridor, and the gust buffeted his face, its cold itching to eat away at him, and he pulled his arms around himself. "Harry?"
He heard her again, and finally, he turned his head round to face her. For a moment, Harry didn't register what he was seeing, but as the moments trickled by, he realized her knees were in his face. It was a puzzle. His mind wasn't going straight. When she called his name again, he realized her voice was coming from above him, and the cold hard ground beneath him meant only one thing- he was on his knees.
Not on your knees, Potter, he realized. He was sitting by his buttocks, knees drawn up to his chest, and arms wrapped tightly around them. What? Wasn't he walking a second ago?
Hope.
The word echoed hauntingly in his mind. Dumbledore's last word- the last word to tumble past his lips as the great wizard himself tumbled past the parapet of the highest tower, and into the arms of his next great adventure. "H-Harry?"
Where do all the stars go Harry? He asked himself, the voice in his mind his own, and yet strongly unfamiliar.
There was a difference in her tone this time, and a few seconds passed before Harry realized she was crying. He looked up at her then, really looked at her. Where do all the stars go Harry? He decided then, he would have to get up. He was disturbing her, somehow. It wasn't like he'd planned on it. He opened his mouth and said the words, that he was alright, but even he realized that something was horribly wrong. His lips moved, and his tongue flapped, but no sound came out.
And he was cold- from the inside. He needed more clothes, but somehow, in the wake of Albus Dumbledore's murder, his warmth didn't seem appropriate anymore. Hadn't the earth stopped its turns to mourn for the headmaster of Hogwarts, and hadn't time itself slowed down? And if not, then why did he feel that years had passed, and he was old enough to follow Dumbledore, and lay himself down to rest.
Where do all the stars go Harry?
His cheeks stung from the cold, and two particularly harsh lines of cold ran down his face. Harry didn't know when his tears had started falling. When she moved to wipe them off his face, he shrank unto himself, preferring his own hands to bear the weight, and in turn, the proof of his grief. He stood up then, shakily and uncertainly, this time not needing her assistance to be guided to the Infirmary.
The way there was a blur. Harry had wanted time. He needed to visit the Headmaster's office, needed to follow one last instruction his mentor in the big war to come had given him, but his time wasn't his yet. The infirmary was, in Harry's opinion, too crowded to be called an infirmary. Try the fish-market.
Whatever space hadn't been taken up by the wounded, was filled with concerned parents, ready to whisk their children away from the castle, now that the great white Knight was dead. Harry felt rage boiling inside of him. There was a hard spot in Harry's chest, bubbling with the need to scream. Dumbledore's castle deserved better; Dumbledore's legacy deserved better. All that he would get, however, was the cold, unforgiving embrace of oblivion. And the disappointment and dismay of cowards. Before he could say something, though he hadn't the foggiest what, he felt her brush against his back. It broke that particular chain of thought, and Harry moved towards the gaggle of redheads in the far corner of the Infirmary. Much to his relief and amazement, it was the least crowded portion of the wing.
Two beds had been arranged side by side, and with chilling horror, Harry realized both were occupied by Weasleys, their flaming red hair visible from any corner of the large room. William Weasley lay on the bed to the right, and George on the left. He stopped a few steps away from them, stopping her with him. She looked at him, tears running down her face. Her hair was a mess, and her eyes bloodshot and swollen.
He wanted to say something, wanted to wipe the past day with hastily formed words and emotions as sharp and brittle as icicles, but all that came out was a sigh. How could this be, he wondered. He couldn't breathe a word to the one person who mattered the most. If only, he thought, if only I can get rid of this weight.
It hurt to breathe, and Harry wondered not for the first time that night, if he too were dying. Maybe Snape had managed to curse him- something slow and venomous, knowing the man.
His eyes caught Ginny's, and he felt irritation well up within him. She'd been hounding him all year, trying to garner his attention, going as far as to break a few hearts along the way. It irritated him to no end- the ridiculousness of it all. He had nothing against her, but couldn't she see he had nothing for her either? Fred and Ron stood behind her, facing towards the beds, one of their hands on each of Mrs. Weasley's shoulders, hoping to provide some semblance of comfort.
He suddenly felt suffocated, and it took him a moment to realize someone was hugging him. He flinched physically, tried to withdraw unto himself, and when it didn't work, resigned himself to the suffocation. Minutes later, when he was released, he tried to see who it was. Mrs. Weasley. Wasn't she standing over there?
It slowly dawned on him that he was probably not in the best of mental states. He needed to lie down. He needed to sleep- but there was so much to do. He needed to visit his office. He wanted to get as far away from his office as possible. But the needs and the wants of Harry Potter were always polar.
He didn't register what was being said, if it was being said to him at all, but through the haze a few words sifted through, and Harry surmised the Weasleys were going to be alright. He felt a slight weight lift from his shoulders- a bucketful from an ocean, but it was some small mercy.
There was nothing more to be said. His shivering wouldn't stop, and cold gusts of wind tortured his skin. He felt her beside him, warm and inviting, and Harry wondered for the millionth time why he couldn't do more than just exist around her, a friend who could never be more. Sighing, he turned away, in search of a corner to rest against. Sliding down against the wall beneath the window, Harry pulled his knees towards himself, aware that every eye was on him. He felt the footsteps coming towards him but didn't bother to react. It was Ron, trying to make sure Harry was okay. Harry wanted to scream when Ron asked the question.
How could he be okay if everything was so cold? Couldn't they feel it too? Why was he the only one suffering? Minutes passed, as Harry sat there shivering, and he watched with wide eyes as she conjured a blanket for him, carefully draping it around his shoulders. It was too much.
He got up in a daze. "Harry?" He ignored her. Instead, his feet carried him forward. He stumbled twice, first into Dean, who had just arrived to check in on Ginny, and a few steps later into Madam Pomfrey, who gasped when she saw him. She said something, and Harry could see her lips moving, brow furrowed, but words didn't reach him. For a moment Harry felt nothing would. He stumbled again on the threshold of the infirmary, and faintly, he could make out someone following him, and he hoped to Merlin it wasn't her. He couldn't have her see him break.
Dumbledore's office had never seemed so far away, and twice Harry stopped to make sure he wasn't lost. The gargoyle looked like it had taken a few hexes, and Harry wondered which death eater had dared to venture so close to Dumbledore's nest.
It was at this point Harry realized another problem. He didn't know the password – couldn't remember it from his last trip to the office. Frustration boiled within him; the walls started to spin. He staggered towards the gargoyle, and collapsed against it, letting loose a tearless sob. A small part of him was relieved that his throat was working, but it was miniscule and lost instantly. He sat there in a corpse like fashion, not knowing what to do. His eyes lay open yet unseeing, and mind thoughtless and lost.
And then he saw her. She'd been following him- he'd expected her to. When she saw him, she stiffened, and stood staring for a few seconds. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and even as the first few spilled over, resolve swirled in her brown eyes, and she strode towards him with a determined shade to her face. Harry didn't- couldn't gather the courage to follow her face.
Her knees came into his view, and Harry could see small scratches, fresh with blood, at the side of her left leg. She stood like that for a moment, as if strengthening her resolve, then she was kneeling beside him.
Slowly, her left hand came up, and she gave the gentlest of caresses to his left cheek.
It was madness. It was fire. It was ice. It was all kinds of mad, mad, beautiful madness. It was magic.
He didn't know how this was possible. He didn't know what she was doing- couldn't fathom for the life of him how she could affect him like this. But here she was, comforting him with just a gentle touch. His cheek felt...alive- unlike the rest of him. Like it had never been part of that night's ordeal. It felt different, new, pure. His eyes flew to hers, disbelieving.
Physical contact had always meant pain to him. It had always brought pain and misery and suffering, so much that he had developed a taste for it- started appreciating what he had. He could still hardly bear to let people touch him. But she had never been people to him. She had never been just anyone.
She gave him a slow smile- chaste, like her. He felt like he was bubbling from within. Her hand touched his cheek again, and her other hand came to run through his hair, once- and very gently. "I know it hurts Harry. But it's going to be okay."
No, it's not going to be okay, he thought. It's never going to be okay.
"I'm here Harry. You're not alone."
He couldn't take his eyes off her. She looked radiant. Eyes red and raw, a small bloody cut on her upper lip, face streaked with fresh and old tear marks and soot, and hair a mess. She looked like she had been through hell, and she was still there with him.
"I... -" he didn't know where the strength came from, or why it did, but was relieved all the same. Harry could tell she was too.
"Yes?" she asked in a gentle tone, as if he was delicate enough to break from a raised voice.
He didn't know whether to be affronted that she thought of him that way, or to be relieved that someone had seen him for what he was. "I need to get inside…. there's a- there's something I need to…"
Hermione stared at him with something akin to admiration. But her words ran full of worry. "Why won't you rest Harry? Why won't you ever rest? You're going to break yourself at this pace."
Harry wanted nothing more. He wanted to run away- he wanted relief- he wanted escape. But there wasn't any. Was there? The prophecy hung over him like a black cloud that wouldn't go away. There was so much to be done- so much he had to do. It had to be him. Oh, he wanted to break too- maybe then he would get his rest. Maybe then the wheels of the world would start turning on someone else's shoulders- but as long as they turned on his, there was no rest to be had. "There's no one else who can Hermione." He spoke slowly. "There's no one else who will."
It was with sudden clarity that Harry remembered it now. "Turkish Delight." His throat was parched suddenly.
The gargoyle leapt aside, revealing the spiral eagle staircase. He didn't know how he would make it up the stairs, but he took the steps nevertheless. He wondered for the briefest of seconds if he should ask her to come, but she was there, right behind him. The staircase moved with an ominous grinding noise, filling him with dread. He didn't know what he would find at the top of the stairs, and he wasn't sure anymore if he wanted to. Where do all the stars go Harry?
The office was empty. Harry didn't know what he had been expecting, maybe the old man to have been seated in is high chair, looking over at Harry from behind his half-moon spectacles, or maybe the pearly white ghost of Albus Dumbledore, waiting with that smile on his face and- sorrow and regret etched into his ghostly eyes turned immortal by the absence of life. The seat was empty. The office was empty. The portraits were empty. And if not for the phoenix sleeping peacefully on the golden perch, Harry would have declared the office dead- as dead as its previous owner. But staying on as a ghost wasn't Dumbledore's style, he wasn't afraid of death. Dumbledore saw it as his ticket into the next life.
He stepped inside the room, soundlessly. Hermione followed with barely a sound. He didn't want to look around- he daren't, lest he disturb the silence of the room. Dimly he remembered the wooden cabinet, built into the inner walls of the office, where Dumbledore kept his pensieve. He walked in a straight line, no longer stumbling or running into things, straight towards the cabinet. He stood there for a moment, his hand resting on the knob. Behind him, he could hear her gentle breathing, and it relaxed him a tiny bit.
The knob was cold to touch, and rusty in its turn, giving Harry the smallest of struggles in its refusal to twist, but he preserved. The cabinet door swung open with a creak, each little sound magnified by the dead silence of the room. The magical basin was waiting for him, but there were no memories inside. For the first time, Harry saw the basin naked in all its glory- an oval bowl so heavily engraved and carved with runes that it was near impossible to distinguish one from another. He knew she would drive herself insane trying to figure them all out- and then making her own pensieve, superior to Dumbledore's in every way. The thought almost brought a ghost of a smile to his face.
Then came the guilt- this was wrong. He knew he shouldn't have been there. It felt like grave robbing, only he was robbing the cognitive grave of the most powerful wizard the Wizarding world had known in centuries. Harry was stealing secrets- secrets Dumbledore had gone to utmost lengths to keep from him. Dumbledore had forbidden him from looking at these memories. But Dumbledore was dead. And Harry had to live- despite part of him wishing desperately that he was dead too.
A dead man's secrets. A betrayed man's final words.
On their way back to the castle, Dumbledore had been delusional, intoxicated by the poisonous potion he had consumed to obtain the necklace that now resided somewhere in Harry's pockets. And he had rambled. Maybe the potion was designed to unravel the mind- to break open what its unfortunate victim had kept closed. In his final moments, Dumbledore had truly gone insane- driven to the extreme ends of anguish and guilt. He had begged Harry to forgive him, only…he wasn't talking to the Harry he was clutching onto to remain upright- the one right next to him. He seemed to be in a daze, seeing another Harry- one who at least knew how Dumbledore had wronged him.
A few vials sat at the end-wall of the cabinet in wooden stands that held those vials safe, with tiny pieces of parchment stuck to them, and the now deceased Headmaster's scrawl running over them and pale memories swirling inside in a wild hypnotic dance of silvery grey strands. But he had already seen all of those, and none of them were labelled with anything suspicious. He stood there, reading the labels on every vial, nevertheless, hoping to find some clue. When he didn't find anything unusual, he tried a few revealing spells, but apart from the tiny flare of magic that appeared on the corner of the bottom shelf, Harry found himself unable to get past Dumbledore's enchantments, not that he had expected to.
I am most deeply regretful Harry…but you must carry on… You must see our mission to its end, for you have paid a great and terrible price to keep it going until now, and the heavenly- the heavens know you must pay more. Remember my words Gellert, my great friend- Harry cannot learn of…'Desiderio vitae meae'! Say the words and destroy the box! Next to the pensieve- Gellert, you must! You must make sure Harry never finds that box, you must make sure he never learns the truth. I can see now that it was a folly- perhaps my most foolish one to keep those memories intact...This, he will never understand. Gellert, when Ariana goes to sleep, I will tell Aberforth we are leaving. It is for her own good, we will make the world a better place for witches and wizards, free…Dumbledore's last words, before they had landed on the Astronomy Tower, rang through his mind once more. He had understood little of what the headmaster was speaking.
Gellert who? Grindelwald? Dumbledore's great friend? It seemed unlikely to him. A part of him had been certain the Headmaster had gone insane under the potion's effects. And who the hell are Aberforth and Ariana? He realized he knew so little about Dumbledore's personal life, despite being the student who got the most time with him. A pang of guilt struck his heart, and immense regret rose within him. So much time spent together, and all of it spent preparing for war.
'Desiderio vitae meae'!
The words rang through his mind again, and on a whim, he said them aloud, but to his dismay, nothing happened. It seemed like a…He tried again, trying a pronunciation similar to what Dumbledore had murmured. On his third try, he uttered it correctly, for there was a grinding noise and on the side of the bottom shelf, where the basin rested, space seemed to expand in on itself, if such a thing were possible. One moment, there had been nothing there, and the next moment, there was a wooden box with a roll of parchment above it. It hadn't appeared there out of thin air, not at least when he was looking. It was like it had always been there. On the parchment, even from where he stood, he could easily recognize Dumbledore's neat and tidy scrawl. His heart leapt to his mouth at the thought of the headmaster leaving behind a message for him. Had he known his days were numbered? Or was this a result of Dumbledore's usual meticulous planning and forethought? But that could not be, Harry realized. He knew the Headmaster had no plans to share the content of this box with him.
His hand reached for the note of his own accord. With hands trembling more than he would have liked to admit, Harry grasped the dry parchment, cut trimly into a rectangular shape. But the strength to unfurl the parchment wouldn't come.
"Go on, Harry," she whispered encouragingly.
The note had curled up on itself, and Harry straightened it out with his thumb. To his gnawing horror, the note held a paltry sum of two sentences. "I wish you never have to see these Harry- may you never have to take on the burden of this insanity; and I fear what you may become if you do. Remember always, though, that I had your best intentions in my heart, but the fate of the Wizarding world needed me to do what I did."
His throat felt dry, and a lump of fear settled in his stomach. Whatever Dumbledore had in store for him, it didn't bode well. The note slipped from his fingers, fluttering down to the floor.
"Do-um…do you think this is a good idea Harry?" She spoke shakily, as if afraid Harry might snap. "Dumbledore…. didn't really want you to…. go through them…"
It made Harry pause. What could the box contain that would make him worry about Harry's sanity? He took a moment to wonder if he was ready, and when Hermione called his name again, Harry didn't reply, instead responding by grabbing the box and yanking open the lid. Inside lay a thick vial, filled to the brim with swirling strands of memories. For a moment Harry hesitated, wondering if the memories belonged to Dumbledore himself- of some sin he had committed in his youth that had haunted him up to his final hours, then took out the vial, pulled the cork off and tumbled the contents into the basin.
He gave Hermione one last glance and found her staring at the memory strands floating in the basin apprehensively, before he grabbed the marble slab the pensieve was set in by his right hand, shifting his body to make space for her, and dived face first into the memory.
He was going to be sick. He was going to be sick enough for a lifetime. He vomited violently all over the carpet on the floor. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, and he couldn't figure out where all the vomit was coming from. Even when the semi-liquid stopped pouring out of his aching throat, the retching didn't. His head swam with all the current of a hurricane, and his heart had given in to the monster within him. He lay there, on his arms and knees-…. defeated- in the office of the very man who had lived and breathed to ruin his life.
If this was the truth, he would rather be dead. When the retching didn't stop, Harry realized he was sobbing hysterically- he was screaming. His heart was beating so hard it was going to explode. Something was pulsing through his body with every beat of his heart, and for a moment, Harry was afraid he was going to die. Someone was laughing somewhere. Maybe it was the wind.
He collapsed into a puddle of bile and vomit- his own. Some part of him wanted to protest, to maintain his dignity in front of her, but his revulsion and hate and defeat were too heavy for him to keep his laden body off the floor. His body had given way to the cloud of something that had been building up in his gut- his face was red with rage, eyes as dead with fury as the ones he had been staring in not so long ago. He tried pushing himself up with his arms once, but they wouldn't respond. Eventually, amidst the wrecking sobs that refused to subside, Harry Potter gave in to the darkness.

Author's Note: Apologies for the short chapter, but this is where I felt I should end it. Now some of you may feel that if Dumbledore did not want Harry to find the box, he shouldn't have kept it with a letter on top addressed to Harry. But look at it this way, Dumbledore was burdened with guilt, and he never shared the contents of the box with any other person. A part of him wanted to be absolved of that guilt and confess to Harry what he did, for I have not shown Dumbledore to be a bad/evil character, merely a highly determined and 'will-do-what-it-takes' type. The Voldemort in this story will be more sinister and- well, more like the most powerful Dark Lord the Wizarding world has ever seen.
Hope you liked it. Leave a review if you like!
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Immortalem Bellum