Work Text
The Sum of All Fears
Prologue
"...Harry Potter,” he said very softly, a voice that could have been part of the crackling fire. “The boy who lived.”None of the Death Eaters moved. They were waiting: everything was waiting. Hagrid struggled against his bindings, Bellatrix was panting in expectation, and Harry inexplicably thought of Ginny, her bright gaze, and the touch of her lips on his...Then he thought of himself, his youth that would never end, his life that would never reach maturity, his end, his love, and his friends who would continue on without him. He thought of the sacrifice he was making for all of them, and then he grieved.Not for the rest of the world, but for himself—so young, knowing so little, dying so soon. An accomplished life for the base value of accomplishment: he had been born to die, and here he was, a few breaths away from reaching his full purpose, and what a morbid, sad purpose it was: to give up.Voldemort raised his wand. His head was still tilted to the side, like a curious child wondering what would happen if he went on. Harry met the red eyes and wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed his fear, before he thought better of it and took off running, trying to escape and survive, as he had always done.And then he felt anger.At everything, everyone, himself, and Voldemort.It was a part of him.A piece of the monster which existed in Harry, a parasite, a disease, burrowed so deeply into his soul that Harry realized, in that moment, there was no more Just Harry. He would never just be Harry. Souls were complex and indivisible: seventeen years with a sickness inside him, and there was no longer separation. That thing, that sliver of Voldemort was as much Harry as the soul he had been born with, and he loathed every single thing that brought him to this conclusion, while also bringing him a clarity he had never fully achieved before.The red eyes staring into his also belonged to him. The hate, the rage, the power—it was all his too, just like the wretched sliver of soul living in him. There was no more reason to fight against it. No more reason to reject a part of himself that would allow him to survive, to live, and never be used again. To own himself, even if it at the cost his innocence – what little of it was left.As quickly as the anger and realization hit him, it was gone, rushing out like a long-held breath.At his core, he was just tired.
It was suffocating. He didn’t want to be responsible for anything, didn’t want to have to defeat anyone else. He felt no desire to kill, or destroy, or possess. He couldn’t take it anymore; his head throbbed with his own presence... His? Voldemort’s? Theirs? Whose?The pain became unbearable, his heart splitting open just as his head did every time he approached the monster who killed his parents. In those infinitesimal seconds, he found himself at war with himself, and suddenly, he didn’t know what to do.He didn’t want that part of himself. He couldn’t accept it. That unclean, impure part of himself, contaminating his very self.All at once, he feared his own soul more than he feared Voldemort – not the threat of a Horcrux as he had when they were in the run, and hunting the awful things down, but his own soul. He never stood a chance. That thing was his, it was him.He wasn’t evil. He wasn’t, he wasn’t, he wasn’t.Panic rose, and the green gaze met the red one again, seeing there, reflected in the mirror of his soul, his future.And then it was too much.Even before the spell was spoken, he felt his soul fall apart.Harry Potter needed to be protected from himself.And that’s how Shadow came to be.He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light, and then… nothing.
-x-
He was lying down, the only thing he was aware of was silence.He was completely alone… or so he thought.A bright white light seemed to permeate the entire place, not quite illuminating it, but a part of this strange space made up of only himself, the white light and a strange little something he finally glimpsed, stirring slightly, only a few steps away, the only point of color in that incessant white, even if said color was pitch black.Little by little, things seemed to take shape – a curve in the distance, a faint path made up of fainter light, something clearly put there to entice him to follow, quite literally becoming a light at the end of a tunnel. Was it a light at the end of the tunnel if there was no tunnel and everything was made of light? He didn’t know, but he also very much did not care, intrigued only by where in hell he was, and why was the space trying to make him follow a certain path?What awaited him in that light path? Death, perhaps? Maybe Dumbledore, with his explanations? Dumbledore, who always explained everything but never revealed the whole truth. The man who had let him hate the person he should have respected, who had trapped a tormented man like Snape in his love for his mother, who had forced him to kill and destroy his soul for "the greater good." There wasn’t much difference between what the old headmaster had done to him and to Snape in the end. Both used, manipulated by their respect for him, to be good tools, blindly loyal, trusting fully in someone who never revealed who he truly was or how he felt.Did he still want to be someone’s tool?The small bundle of darkness suddenly grew a little darker, more defined against the white, floating in the air as if to draw his attention more than the light with its diffuse forms, and he decided to move toward it, not caring, for once, what he should do, or what others would expect him to do. He acted out of simple curiosity, nothing more, nothing less.As he approached, he realized he could almost feel what that small bundle was feeling. Because that pitch black thing was him. Defenseless and almost destroyed, black as a void, and clearly broken beyond any repair, in clear pain, and sadness and despair, but it was him. And it had been abandoned now that it no longer had a use, locked in a cupboard all his own, not to be seen or heard, just as he had been taught so well by his relatives.He had done what he should do, had completed his chore and now, they didn’t need to see him anymore, or care how broken it made him.All at once, his insides churned with anger and hatred.How fair was it that a part of him ended up like that? He was fighting this war for them, after all. For the good of wizard kind, for all that he had been taught was the right thing to do since he stepped foot in this world, and yet, if he brought this little bundle out with him, if he brought it back into his soul where it belonged, they’d call him evil, and mad, and judge him a new Dark Lord on the rise, wouldn’t they?So quick to judge and get to a verdict, this world of his was.This little piece of darkness was not Voldemort’s, not anymore. This was his, and why should he bow and scrape to get anyone’s approval if he hadn’t yet gotten it, even with all he had given up for this ideal world he was supposed to – and did – die to save.Why throw him headfirst into all these struggles, abandon him whenever he made a single wrong decision, place the weight of the world's peace on his shoulders when he had never had the time to even figure out how to live?Was that the whole purpose? Was that why he had been kept away in the summers, had been separated to all the people he cared about, been made to be treated like scum under his relatives’ shoes so that anything he got after that would seem a kindness, an improvement?A month ago, he couldn’t even bear the thought of anything like this being true, but it was very hard not to feel resentment towards the people, the system, which allowed him to go through what he had.Who was the enemy to be defeated, really? Voldemort? Voldemort was a symptom, not a cause. Voldemort wasn’t the one denying other creature’s their rights, and accepting slaves as their due. He wasn’t the one who passed the laws which made possible for him, and Merlin only knows how many other children like him, to go through their early lives despised and hated and abused – the world was wrong.He didn’t like to think about it. He didn’t want to think about any of this, but what was one supposed to do when one is dead in white light, seemingly trapped with a sliver of his own soul that his old headmaster had trained him to kill only for being dark?What was the great difference between him and Voldemort, anyway? Time? Did Dumbledore think he was truly so malleable or so forgiving that dying wasn’t going to reorganize his priorities, that he wouldn’t be resentful or angry?His very own version of having his worldly possessions set on fire on front of him on the whim of a man who had been so long in power he apparently forgot how desperate one got when feeling powerless.Would the Headmaster say their difference was love? Was he still capable of love?He thought of his parents, and Sirius, and Remus, and Ron, and Hermione.Yes, he did love, but at what price did they love him back? His parents’ and godfather’s lives? His friends’ youth? It was too high a price to pay, even just to exist, let alone to continue existing for a cause that would never bring him any reward. So few risked everything for him, and so many demanded that he give more than he could bear.What did he want to do? The space was clearly awaiting for his response, in this space of existing. He felt an increasing desire to approach those mists wrapped in light, but he wouldn’t leave his sliver of soul behind.It didn’t matter. He admired the bundle’s movements for a few more moments. If he was himself, and the bundle was also him, it would be impossible to go on living when the other part died, wouldn’t it?The thin gentling curve was getting further and further away, as if accepting he didn’t want to move on to the next great adventure.He had business to finish, a megalomaniac to defeat, and a life to live, free of this burden he had never asked for.Taking a few more steps forward, his hand slowly lifting to touch his own soul, he finally noticed a tall figure, bathed in the brightest white of the space, watching him, not far away. A solitary tear fell down the old face, dropped from eyes that no longer held any twinkle, disappearing into the long white beard. He returned the piercing gaze and looked once more at the bundle. Weak, tainted, impure.And so very, very his.“You cannot help him, Harry.”He turned, a cold look in his eyes at hearing that name. Harry needed to be protected. Harry wasn’t there to defend himself. It was up to him to protect them both now. He looked at Dumbledore, who was no longer shrouded in mist and light but stood beside him, his face drawn in defeat.“We need to talk, my boy.” The green gaze never left the blue. What would he say now? More excuses, more half-truths, more advice to steer him where the headmaster wanted and not where he wished to go?“I don’t think I want to talk this time, headmaster. It never seems to bring me any close to any answers, and I’d like explanations. Just simple, clear explanations. What happened back there? What’s happening here?”Would he lie? Did he even know? Was this even Dumbledore or just another aspect of this place of nothing?Dumbledore adopted his tired air once more, and the young man’s gaze didn’t waver.“I... I don’t know, Harry. The night Voldemort killed your parents, he accidentally created a Horcrux he didn’t intend to. You,” the old man paused, clearly expecting a retain, but he didn’t give him one. He obviously knew that or he wouldn’t be here, dead, “You are the seventh Horcrux, something Voldemort hadn’t counted on. By allowing yourself to be killed, by sacrificing yourself, the part of Voldemort that lived in you should have been destroyed. But perhaps I was wrong...”Dumbledore looked at him more intensely, and Shadow held his gaze.“How wrong, Headmaster?”“Perhaps, Harry, the separation between your soul and Voldemort’s isn’t as clear as I thought. Perhaps his essence infiltrated part of your own soul, and so, what he destroyed there was only another part of yourself. And he still lives... within you.”Shadow looked at him and smiled, a cold, brittle thing he knew Harry didn’t often wear on his lips, but he couldn’t help it.“We’ve known since fifth year, Headmaster, that he was a part of me.”The man looked desolate, as if no hope remained.“Then, my boy, we are doomed.”“No, we’re not,” Shadow said firmly, “Whatever is or is not left in me is mine, Headmaster, and no one apart from myself can claim or try to command it. That,” he pointed to the darkness within the white, “is me as much as I am. I still want to win this war. I still want to destroy Voldemort. My life will still be mine alone.”“Then you’ll still fight for all of us, Harry?” Dumbledore asked with a faint smile, hope slowly growing in his gaze, but the smile that greeted him back was devoid or hope and filled only with determination.“No, Headmaster. I’ll win this war for me.”He looked at the form churning before them and finally reached out, darkness enveloping him like a lover’s embrace, and in a blink, he was gone.