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go fic: Once More With Feeling (Part 3)
{still continued}
Every time Crowley thought humanity couldn't possibly find another way to make the infernal bureaucracy look like a bunch of gormless incompetents, they went and came up with something worse.
The Horcruxes waited patiently on the kitchen table, and all Crowley could do was stare. It was simply unbelievable. The human soul was a precious and fragile thing, and it was very important in terms of a person's final destination. Below was all for tarnishing souls, or weighing them down with the shadow of guilt, but there wasn't a demon anywhere who would've thought to carve one into bits, for whatever reason. If the Devil was the type to shriek with amusement, the baubles Harry just dumped into a pile would've had Him in absolute fits.
Aziraphale looked decidedly ill, which probably shouldn't have been a surprise.
"Seven pieces," muttered Crowley. He couldn't decide if he was disgusted or impressed. "Where are the others?"
"These are the only one's left," said Harry. He shrugged uncomfortably and studied the ground until Remus patted his shoulder and handed him a cup of tea. Harry tried to refuse it, but Remus pressed it on him in a way that said he would pour it down Harry's throat if he had to. "I'm not--"
"You haven't eaten all day," said Remus sharply. "Drink it."
Harry pulled a face as he did; Crowley suspected Remus made up for the lack of meals with an ridiculous amount of sugar.
Aziraphale cleared his throat. "And these must be destroyed before you can proceed?"
"Yeah," said Harry.
"Well, you should get to it," said Crowley anxiously. "Time's running a bit short."
Hermione made a noise like a stepped-on cat, and Harry sighed. "Sorry, but I rather don't know how."
"You said there were others. What happened to those?" asked Crowley.
"There was a ring, a snake, and a book," said Harry. "The snake... well, it's a long story, but the snake took care of itself. A friend of mine took care of the ring, but he's dead now, so I can't ask him how he did it."
"What about the book?" asked Anathema.
"I did for the book," said Harry quietly, exchanging a look with Ginny.
"Can you do what you did before?" asked Crowley.
"I would, but I don't have any basilisk's fangs just now."
Crowley winced. When you got down to it, basilisks were the reptilian answer to the Hellhound. Horrible creatures, basilisks. Crowley didn't really go in for being thankful, but he had to admit, he was quite thankful he'd only seen a basilisk once, and from very, very far away.
Harry took another sip of tea and turned to Anathema. "Read it again."
"Division of a soul most dark, an end must occur before the end," recited Anathema. "Destruction of the contents, not the trinket. Evil must work with evil."
Crowley didn't like the sound of that at all.
Dong.
He didn't like the sound of that doorbell, either.
Everyone froze, except Remus, who reached for his wand. "I can't imagine who that could be," he murmured. "Anyone who can find this place wouldn't bother using the door."
Dong.
"Death Eaters?" asked Ron.
"Unplottable," replied Remus, whatever that meant.
"Just ignore it," said Hermione. "Let them think no one is home."
Dong.
"No!" Anathema shouted suddenly, consulting the book. "I think you'd better answer it."
Harry was the first to bolt for the door. Everyone else followed suit as quickly as more than half a dozen people could pile through a single-person doorway at once, except for Crowley, who did the sensible thing and willed himself into the entryway.
"FILTH! LOVERS OF HALF-BREEDS AND MUDBLOODS! BEGONE FROM THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS!"
Crowley wasn't sure what to say to that. This house was certainly full of surprises.
"Remus?" asked Harry wearily.
Dong
"Right," said Remus, as he started down a dark, side hallway.
"BLOOD TRAITORS! HOW DARE YOU DEFILE MY HOUSE WITH YOUR--"
Harry opened the door and blinked at a small, bespectacled man in a smart, peaked cap. He had a large package under his arm.
"I'm horribly sorry to be knocking so late," he said, tipping his cap apologetically. "I heard someone shouting -- I'd hate to have caught you in the middle of supper. Well, but there's quite a few of you, isn't there? I hope I'm not interrupting. Parties are common this time of year, with the holidays, and all. Don't mind if I step inside for a bit, do you? Dreadful weather we're having. Like I said, I'm sorry to be knocking so late, but I must admit, I had a Devil a time finding the place."
Crowley twitched. He'd seen this bloke somewhere before.
"Funny thing is, I about parked my truck on top of it, only I didn't see it when I got out," he continued, shaking his head. "Don't quite know how I missed it, seeing as it's the largest house on the block. And a nice place it is, now that I'm having a look at it. I've been waking up and down the street for almost an hour, and the fellow next door gave me the oddest look when I asked him where I could find number Twelve, like he'd thought I'd gone 'round the twist. And I hate to say it, but I nearly gave up -- thought maybe I'd have better luck by the light of day. But as soon as I got in my truck, there is was, plain as the nose on my face. I still can't believe I walked right past it. Should've seen it straight off."
The house creaked. No one said a word.
"Well, best be getting down to business, so you can get back to your party. Lots of parties, this time of year." He paused, hefting the package, and produced a clipboard. "I've a delivery here, for a Mr Harry James Potter, Boy Who Lived and Chosen One, also known as the Adversary--"
"That's him," said Adam, giving Harry a nudge.
"Right," said Harry. "What is it?"
"Don't rightly know, sir. I don't get paid to ask questions, you understand. I just make the deliveries," he said, offering Harry the clipboard. Harry accepted it reluctantly. "I'll need your signature, sir. Right there at the bottom." Crowley peered over Harry's shoulder as he signed, and noticed someone had thoughtfully spilled tea over the return address. "Frightful weather, really. I don't remember it being half as cold this time last year. And this wind! Why, it's simply out of this world."
Crowley snorted. This fellow didn't know the half of it.
"Well, that should cover it. I believe everything is in order," he said, tucking the clipboard under his arm. "You're my last stop tonight, so I'd best be on my way. I must say, traffic's been a fright, what with everyone visiting family for the holidays, and more lorries than usual. I hate to think of Maud -- that's my missus -- waiting up for me with naught for company but the Christmas ham. Especially in this wind. Happy Christmas!"
"Happy Christmas," replied Harry, a bit woodenly.
Harry carted the box into the kitchen and dumped it next to the Horcruxes without ceremony. Remus returned, brining an extra lamp with him. The Horcruxes glittered balefully in the yellowish light, and Crowley peered at them with renewed interest as the others crowded around the box.
"What are you doing, my dear?" asked Aziraphale quietly.
"Looking," said Crowley. His hand snaked out, and he gave the cup an experimental poke. It wobbled benignly.
"You're touching," warned Aziraphale.
"If he can't destroy these, he can't defeat Voldemort," said Crowley.
Aziraphale pursed his lips. "If he can't defeat Voldemort, they can't have an Apocalypse."
"That's the problem with you, angel -- you're always so quick to sell Hell short," said Crowley, lifting the locket. "I don't think they'd call the whole thing off over a technical difficulty." It was heavy and etched with a stylistic 'S', and the chain spilled delicately over his fingers. "Believe it or not, Below is fairly resourceful. When they can't get what they want, they muddle through with what they have. For my money, if Potter can't put paid to Voldemort, they'll put paid to Potter, and possess Voldemort, instead."
"And we'll still have an Apocalypse."
Crowley set the locket down, it hit the bracelet with a soft chink. "I could be wrong, but do you really want to chance it?"
"Touch all you like," said Aziraphale. He smiled. "Evil must work with evil."
"Whatever. Get them out of here."
In the end, Adam opened the box, because the other's wanted to sit around and argue about it.
Ron thought they should shake it first. Hermione thought it should be checked for curses or hexes. Ginny thought it should be opened slowly, in case there was something alive inside. Neville didn't think they should open it, at all, and Harry quite looked like he wanted to chuck it in the fire. After five full minutes of this nonsense, Adam dragged the box a bit away from where the others sat cross-legged in front of the fire and attacked the tape with the sharp wing of a dragon-shaped candlestick.
When Adam peeked inside, he wasn't surprised. The contents rattled together as he heaved the box over and tipped them out onto the floor.
Ron was the first to notice; he waved the others off and shifted closer to Adam. Hermione followed shortly, as did Ginny and Neville. Harry was the last, moving slowly. His wand slid out of his lap as he settled in, and it rolled into Adam's knee. Adam scooped it up and considered it.
"Is this how you--" Adam broke off as the tip lit up rather brightly.
"I thought you were a Muggle," said Hermione, leaning forward to peer at him.
"How did you do that?" asked Harry, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Adam shrugged. "I just wanted it to do something." He shrugged again and sat the wand on the floor, next to Harry's knee. "It wasn't nothin'. We need to worry about this right now."
This was the same crown, sword, and set of scales that turned up at the last Apocalypse.
"What are they for?" asked Ron. He reached for the closest item -- the crown -- but Adam batted his hand away.
"They're for tomorrow," said Adam. "And you can't touch 'em unless you're supposed to." He paused, drumming his fingers on his knee. "This one's for you," he said finally, handing Ron the sword. This dampened Ron's enthusiasm immediately; he left the sword where it lay and shifted around awkwardly. "And this one's for you," continued Adam, offering Hermione the scales. She silently tucked them into her lap and resolutely studied the floor. Adam frowned at the crown for a bit, and Ginny sighed.
"Well?" she asked.
"You, I think," said Adam, pointing to Neville.
"Oh, no," said Neville quietly. Ginny looked ill. "That can't be right."
"No, it's yours," said Adam firmly.
"Of course!" said Hermione. "Why didn't I think of it? The one who was spared, right? Think of Voldemort's prophecy. If it hadn't been Harry, it would have been Neville."
"Anathema's book said there'll be five," said Ron. "Who's the fifth?"
"I guess that'd be me," said Adam, and Ginny looked away.
"The one who came before." Hermione lingered over this, glancing at Adam and the scales in her lap by turns. "The one who came before. Oh." Her eyes widened. Her hands came up to cover her mouth, and the scales tinkled quietly as they slid into the valley created by her bent knees. "Oh. You. This happened before. Aziraphale said there was almost an Apocalypse before, and it was you." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You were the Antichrist."
"I suppose I was," said Adam quietly. "Didn't seem right, though. Them wantin' to end the world before I was done discoverin' it."
"Did they possess you, too?" asked Harry. His wand was still on the floor, and he inched his hand toward it.
"No. It was different last time," said Adam. "They did it by the book."
"The Bible, you mean," said Hermione. "You were born for it."
"It didn't seem right," Adam repeated, shrugging.
"What are we supposed to do?" asked Neville, turning the crown over in his hands.
"You'll know when the time comes," said Adam. "If you don't, I'll just tell you, like I told my friends the last time."
Crowley was alone in Harry Potter's kitchen with three bits of Voldemort's soul, and the Apocalypse was scheduled to start in less that fifteen hours.
He began with the locket, because it opened. It wasn't much, but it was something.
It was very large and very gold, except where it was tarnished from long years spent pickling in someone's attic, and Crowley was not impressed. If Crowley ever decided to preserve part of the soul he didn't really have inside an object, he'd certainly pick something a bit less tacky. Crowley was familiar with nice things. He had a watch that worked so deep under water a kraken could use it to tell time and pens the average human had to pay for in instalments. Crowley was also familiar with cursed artefacts. He'd seen the Hope Diamond and the odds and ends pulled from Tutankhamen's tomb and the mummy that may or may not have sunk the Titanic. Those things had style. This thing was just unfortunate.
As far as instruments of doom went, Crowley gave it two stars out of five.
A large, squiggly 'S' marred the front, and Crowley traced the marking with his thumb. On the subject of cursing, Crowley would've cursed any jeweller who suggested such an embellishment. It was quite heavy, which could've been put down to the chunk of megalomaniac soul stashed inside, but Crowley figured this was because more gold had been used to make it than was needed to get the job done. It was cool to the touch, and no pictures were revealed when Crowley thumbed the clasp.
The clock ticked. The Apocalypse slithered closer, and the locket's empty frames watched him like vacant, unblinking eyes.
Crowley turned the locket over in his hands. Gold wasn't the strongest metal around, but from what Anathema said, hammering the gaudy thing into a bookend wouldn't solve anyone's problems. Crowley suspected Harry wouldn't want Voldemort on his mantle any more than he'd want him around his neck.
And if Harry did want Voldemort on his mantle, well, there was always the cup. Crowley didn't even want to get started on that cup. All he knew was that somewhere -- possibly even beyond the grave -- there was a goldsmith that deserved a sound flogging.
The locket hit the table with a solid chunk. Crowley took a deep breath he didn't actually need and prodded at the thing with his mind.
At the end of the day, demon magic was just angel magic dressed in black and stood on its head. And if Aziraphale was right, wizard magic was also angel magic, only cut in half and twisted by genetics and time.
Crowley prodded it again. Harder.
A chill crept over his skin. He narrowed his eyes, and forced himself to focus. The locket began to heat, glowing like it had been thrust into a fire and charring a black ring into the table. Crowley remembered to breathe again. Something wet slid off the end of his nose, and he realised he was sweating for the first time since the last Apocalypse, during that stilted moment of silence when the only thing standing between he and Hastur was a Sainsbury's plant mister.
There.
With a shift of thought, his mind touched something inside. It was a mist. A notion. An idea. But it was alive, and it was really, really irritated.
Crowley pulled back with a hiss.
"Aziraphale!"
The resulting silence was stubborn, and Crowley blessed. He manifested himself into the sitting room, because Aziraphale had probably taken a break from the Apocalypse to fondle the bloody books.
"Aziraphale!"
Aziraphale looked up somewhat guiltily. He was perched near the fire with Remus, and just as Crowley suspected, an incredibly decrepit and ponderous tome sat open on the small table between them. Its pages fluttered sadly in the face of Crowley's outburst.
"Holy water," said Crowley, nearly choking on the words. "Do you have any holy water?"
"Well, no," replied Aziraphale, looking somewhat at loose ends. "I rather don't carry it with me." Crowley pushed his sunglasses up to favour Aziraphale with what passed for the evil eye Topside, and Aziraphale paled considerably. "If you must have some right this minute, I suppose I could make some."
"Yes, I suppose you could, at that," growled Crowley. "There must be taps in the kitchen. Come along, there's a good angel."
"There's no need to get cross," said Aziraphale shortly. "I can't even imagine what you-- oh. Oh, my."
Crowley shifted uneasily and let his sunglasses drop back over his eyes.
"You have good intentions!"
"Sure," muttered Crowley. "Rub it in, why don't you?"
That night, Adam slept in the second room that wasn't actually the toilet, in a bed that was really meant to be Ron's.
Evil never sleeps, and when faced with evil, good usually can't find time for a kip. But Adam, who didn't consider himself either, pulled Ron's bright orange blanket up to his chin and slept like the dead.
And that night, Neville had a cup of tea with Ginny, and Neville said a few things he'd been afraid to say before. Maybe it was the right time. Maybe he was just tired.
And also that night, Ron sneaked in to Hermione's room. Maybe they had a few things to sort out. Maybe Ron didn't have anywhere else to sleep.
And there was one more thing, which happened just as what started out as a spot of cold and wet turned into a dark and stormy night. In the second room that wasn't actually a toilet, a very anxious and very nervous Harry Potter stopped worrying long enough to fall asleep.
Maybe -- just maybe -- someone across the room thought he needed a bit of rest.
Crowley couldn't help but watch Aziraphale make the holy water. He tried to look away, but his gaze always returned, drawn by the same magnetic force that made people stare at fatal lorry accidents and ask to see another person's surgery scars. When it was over, Crowley felt like he'd missed something important. He'd expected a song and dance of Biblical proportions, but -- efficient as ever -- Aziraphale did whatever needed to be done with minimal hand-waving and a distinct lack of speaking in tongues.
"There," said Aziraphale proudly, setting a large ceramic basin on the table. The basin was hand-painted with tiny pink flowers -- Crowley considered himself lucky it wasn't tartan -- and inside it, the holy water lapped innocently at the sides. "I still don't understand what you mean to do."
"I mean to use that to destroy this," said Crowley, pointing from the basin to the locket.
"Obviously," said Aziraphale. "How?"
"I'll have to let it out," said Crowley.
"And then what, you'll throw the basin of water at it?" asked Aziraphale.
"Yes, because you can't make more."
"I'm not concerned about waste," said Aziraphale. "I'm simply concerned. What if it evades you? What if it attacks you?"
Crowley lifted an eyebrow. "I didn't know you cared," he mumbled.
"Mmm," replied Aziraphale. His expression was irritatingly neutral. "I don't suppose you could start with the locket already submerged?"
Crowley waved his hand over the water, but didn't see scale nor webbed toe of the toad he tried to manifest at the bottom of the basin. The water rippled placidly. "No good."
"What if I did it?" asked Aziraphale. "If you tell me what you did, I'm sure I could manage it."
"Evil must work with evil, remember?" Crowley shook his head. "Besides, my powers and its powers understand each other. All your goodness and light will just upset it."
Aziraphale waved him on, and with that, Crowley set to work.
There.
It was easier the second time, now that Crowley knew what he was looking for. The locket heated, just as it did before, and Crowley lifted it by the chain as it started to scorch the table, dangling it over the basin. He prodded at it, with complete and dogged persistence. The thing inside stirred, and it was still irritated. Crowley prodded the thing directly -- which caused a spot of biospatial feedback so strong it rather felt like a shovel to the forehead -- and slowly, the thing started to follow the steady pull of Crowley's thoughts.
The thing began to leak out, whispering like a blood-red fog, and Crowley dropped the locket in the basin. The basin shattered, a veritable wall of holy water erupted toward the ceiling like a geyser, and Crowley barely managed to get under the table before the kitchen started to rain.
One down, two to go.
For Adam, the worst part of the battle was the waiting. He'd never been good about waiting.
He'd also never been to Scotland. Of course, between his father's reluctance to travel and his own car's sour disposition, Adam had never been much of anywhere. Aside from two day-trips to London with his mother, and the occasional visit with his father's family in Luton, the bulk of Adam's trailblazing was mostly concerned with the two-lane road that connected Tadfield with Norton.
As it turned out, Scotland was rather boggy and wet. At least it was in the north, but Adam figured most anywhere would be boggy and wet an hour before dawn. Early mornings, in Adam's opinion, were right up there with waiting, and shouldn't have to be done by anyone, ever. At least Scotland was interesting. Harry's school was a castle, which -- if you asked Adam -- was exactly what a school should be. School was another thing people shouldn't have to do, but if they had to do it, they should do it in a castle, not a boring, poky bungalow that rather looked like an abandoned shopping centre.
There was a loud bang, followed by a series of colourful explosions; red and blue and yellow and orange. Hermione was screaming. Ron bellowed something about linked wands and guarding the rear. Remus strode into view, framed by the bruised horizon. His wand burst with something darkly purple, and in the sleepy half-light, Adam caught a glimpse of what made him dangerous. Ginny, who'd decided to come despite being denied a part in the important bit, stood up to a man in a hooded cloak and hit him with a spell that knocked him arse over tea-kettle.
Adam sighed and leaned against a turreted wall.
Anathema was safe, tucked inside Harry's brilliant house. She wanted to come, but the others decided against it. Harry didn't think it was safe to drop her in the centre of a magic battle when she couldn't defend herself. Adam couldn't defend himself either -- at least, that's what Hermione said, and Anathema agreed, once she discovered Harry was leaving her behind -- but Adam wasn't interested in that kind of talk. He always did all right. Things seemed to work out for Adam, in the end.
One of those creatures came around. Adam considered it; he didn't see them the way the others did. Neville said something about a skeleton in a coat, which would've been better than what Adam saw, which was a vague and dark grey haze. Of course, Hermione insisted he shouldn't be able to see them, at all. It drew closer, and suddenly, Adam felt cold. Ice formed heavily in his stomach, and his skin started to crawl.
Adam told it to go away, and it did.
There was another bang, the loudest, most determined bang Adam had ever heard in his life. The castle lurched away from his shoulder, and Adam stumbled as the ground shook under his feet. He pushed himself up with his hands, wet grass slipping between his fingers. The battle was cloaked in a strange, greenish fog, and everything was silent.
Adam straightened, and brushed grass and dirt from his hands and knees.
At least he didn't have to wait any more.
It was Christmas morning. The Apocalypse had been under way for about two hours, and in the sitting room of Twelve Grimmauld Place, one angel, one demon, and one part-time (but still professional) descendent were completely pissed.
Firewhiskey had a smell that stung the eyes and it tasted like petrol going down, but Anathema had to admit, it got the job done.
"I'll be fine," mumbled Crowley, in a drunken attempt to placate Aziraphale, who was upset about missing the end of the world as only an angel would be. "They might not even notice."
Anathema sighed lazily, and relaxed deeper into her armchair. It was mostly comfortable, except for one loose spring, which poked at her arse if she moved the wrong way. Aziraphale and Crowley were across from her, piled practically together in the centre of the smallest couch. It was very black, which made them look very pale.
"They will," said Aziraphale wretchedly. "I sus... sup... susp... I rather think they're still mad about the last time."
"Maybe it wasn't your fault," said Crowley, as sensibly as someone could after knocking back a good quantity of something decidedly worse than tequila. "Maybe you had a late start, and it was done with by the time you got there."
"That's a lie," said Aziraphale. He pulled Crowley's hand into his lap and began absently toying with his fingers, behaviour Crowley seemed content to pretend wasn't happening. "I won't make things worse by adding a lie."
"Could be true," said Crowley. He leaned forward, reaching for the bottle, and Aziraphale slumped without the support of his shoulder. "Could be that if we left now, we'd get there to find it's all over."
"How will we know?" asked Anathema. "When it's over, I mean."
The house groaned, and gave a violent shake.
"What was that?" asked Aziraphale.
"That wasn't the end," said Crowley, putting the bottle to his lips. "That was just the beginning."
They rode forth on something Hermione called a Thestral.
Thestrals were apparently what you got when you crossed a horse with a dragon, and Adam apparently couldn't see them because he hadn't witnessed death. They only had four, even though Ron swore he brought five, but for some reason, Adam seemed to think four was exactly the right number. Adam doubled up with Harry, because that made the most sense, all things considered, and he went out to meet the Apocalypse with his chin on Harry's shoulder and his hands at Harry's waist and Dog bringing up the rear.
The sky was dark and dangerous, and it rippled under the weight of the armies of Heaven and Hell. Harry said he could feel them, but the others apparently couldn't see them because they weren't Adam.
The battlefield, which had been a snowy but cheerful field when they arrived, was now a bleak stretch of scorched earth and blood. The aftermath of magic hung heavy and close; it made Adam's skin itch, and the air smelled like the sulphur-sting of a just-struck match. Remus and a woman with pink hair kept watch over a thicket of captives who screamed in silence and struggled against invisible bonds.
Ron took the front, with War's sword flat across his knees, and he lead them -- as if lead himself by something unseen -- toward what must have been what was left of Voldemort: a blackened trench strewn with scraps of charred fabric and the splintered remains of a wand. Adam studied the spot with interest as they approached, and once they were in spitting distance, Harry lost his mind.
"We should kill them," said Harry quietly. His body stiffened; he didn't seem to be breathing. "We should kill them all."
"You don't really want to do that," replied Adam. He tightened his grip on Harry's waist. "That wouldn't be right."
"They should die," said Harry. He twisted around, glancing back at Adam with vacant eyes as the others formed a line in front of him. "Die."
Ron was pale, and his hand slipped to the hilt of War's sword. Hermione, with Famine's scales slung over her knee, watched Harry openly, biting at her lower lip. Terrified, Neville shook, holding Pollution's crown on his head with one hand and clutching at his Thestral with the other. Dog paced an anxious circle over Voldemort's grave.
"Harry," said Hermione. Her eyes were wide and wet, and Ron looked away from them both.
"They should die," said Harry firmly. He laughed, but it was low and rumbling and mirthless. "A sacrifice befitting the end of the world."
"Harry." Ron paused, working his mouth like the words were caught in his throat. "Harry, you don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying. It will be just the four of us, when this is over," said Harry. He glanced back at Adam again. "Five," he added, and his lips brushed Adam's temple as he turned back to his friends. "Everything will belong to us. Everything."
"No, Harry," said Neville. "You shouldn't talk like that."
"They should die," insisted Harry. "Them," he said, pointing to Remus and the pink-haired woman. "And them," he added, indicating a slowly growing gathering of people who'd come to gawk at the carnage. "And them." He waved toward the hulking shadow of the school, which from what Hermione explained earlier, was full of women and children and old folks; the type of people who had no business playing at war. "Everyone!"
"That's not you talkin'. That's not you at all," said Adam. "You don't want that. It wouldn't be no fun, only havin' five people in the world."
Harry twitched. He slumped, and his head dropped back onto Adam's shoulder. "No, you're right. You're right." He took a deep, shaky breath, the sort of breath that came after being underwater, or after holding it in for a long time. "Wrong. You're wrong. I want them to die."
"No," said Hermione. She was crying now, tears cutting wet tracks through the dirt on her face.
"You've been tryin' to save these people all your life," said Adam, twisting his fingers in Harry's shirt. "It wouldn't do to go killin' them now." Harry nodded, shook his head, nodded again. "You don't want to kill no one," continued Adam. "You didn't want to kill him, really," he said, slipping his arm under Harry's to point at the bit of earth that had once been Voldemort. "You didn't want to kill him, at all. You only did it because it needed doin', and you had to be the one to do it."
"Everything will belong to us," said Harry. Again, he didn't seem to be breathing. "Everything.
Adam itched. On a different astral plane, someone was desperate to throw the first punch.
Ron threw the sword on Voldemort's grave and started to ride away.
"Where are you going?" demanded Harry. Barking, Dog nosed at the sword's hilt.
"To die," said Ron simply. He checked the Thestral with his knees, guiding it toward Remus.
Hermione hurled the scales so hard they should've broke when the hit the ground. The crown followed shortly; it landed on it's side and wobbled in a lopsided circle before rolling into Dog's leg.
"They should die," said Harry. His voice was both wooden and sad. "It's just you and me, now. Just you and me."
"It would be just you," said Adam. "If you do this, I'll have to die, too. You'll be the only one. That doesn't sound good to me, at all. That sounds lonely and boring, and you don't really want to be lonely and bored."
"But it would be mine."
Adam hesitated. He hated messing people around.
"Mine."
Adam caught Harry's hand and squeezed. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and thought.
The sky rippled again, and Harry simply stopped.
"Ron?" asked Harry tentatively. "Hermione? I'm fine. Everything's fine. Neville? I think it's time to go home."
Adam smiled.
The sky rippled once more. Lightning struck the ground to the right of Voldemort's grave, just as a spot of ground to the left began to bubble like a saucepan left on the stove too long. Everything glowed with a bright and sickly light, plumes of red and gold separated by a stretch of blackened earth.
"Oh, no. No," said Adam sharply, before either of the figures of flame could get a word in. "It's over." Suddenly, Adam was really angry. "It's over, and you'd best just go away, 'cause you've no business comin' around here. I told you the last time I wasn't gonna destroy nothin', and he's not gonna destroy nothin', either. And you can't make him destroy nothin'. I'm not gonna let you. It's not right, you messin' people around like you do." Adam frowned. "You'd best just go away. And you can take those with you," he added, pointing to the sword, scales, and crown jumbled on the ground. "They shouldn't be here any more than you should, and I'm tired of lookin' at 'em. It's over, and we're goin' home."
He squeezed Harry's hand again, and that, apparently, was the end of that.
Newt had a problem.
This, in and of itself, was not unusual, because Newt was the sort of fellow that always had a problem. Problems so often frequented Newt's daily life that they'd almost become a constant. If it wasn't the cheque he sent to the Electric getting lost in the post, then it was a mix-up at the dealer's involving the Wasabi's new water-pump, or Newt's library books disappearing during the ten-minute drive to the library, or Newt's wallet not being where he swore he left it last, or Newt being mistaken for an escaped criminal when he was making a withdrawal at the bank, while he just so happened to have one of Luke's toy guns in his jacket pocket.
No, Newt having a problem was not unusual. This time, it was the problem that was unusual.
Visiting Shadwell was a tradition, of sorts. Newt didn't remember exactly how it came to be a tradition, much like he didn't remember much of his career with the Witchfinder Army; it simply was the way it was. Twice a year -- shortly before Christmas, and on the first of April, which was Shadwell's birthday -- Newt made the somewhat arduous drive to Milton Keynes to give Shadwell a token gift and exchange a stilted round of pleasantries. He never stayed long, because Shadwell couldn't abide people in his house for more than fifteen minutes at a time, and he never brought Anathema, because Shadwell rather thought she should be burned at the stake.
Things started off normal enough. Newt arrived Saturday afternoon, with every intention of returning home well before Anathema served supper that evening. Madame Tracy answered his knock, just as she always did, and from his armchair in front of the fire, Shadwell demanded to see Newt's nipples before Madame Tracy was allowed to let him through the door. Madame Tracy made him a cuppa, which he drank while Shadwell smoked one of his invisible cigarettes and nursed a can of sweet condensed milk, Shadwell gruffly thanked him for the gift -- a utility knife this year, with a miniature bell attached, in case Shadwell happened across any witches -- and Newt said his farewells.
Which was when the problem started: he stepped out Shadwell's front door, and stepped into Shadwell's kitchen.
Undaunted, Newt tried again. And again. And again. He could see his freedom when the door swung open -- Shadwell's neat and snow-covered lawn, the windswept pavement, his car parked along the street -- but he was unable to reach it. His left foot hit Shadwell's doorstep, but his right foot came down on the kitchen's faded, fleur-de-lis lino. He tried taking it at a run, taking a funny sort of leap toward his car, but he only succeeded in sliding headlong into Shadwell's dinette. He tried exiting through the back, but instead of walking into Madame Tracy's vegetable garden, he walked into Shadwell's sitting room.
Newt had seen a film like this once.
Somehow, the whole of his world had narrowed to Shadwell's bungalow in Milton Keynes, and there didn't seem to be anything Newt could do about it. He suspected leaving through the window would only bring him back in through the chimney. He also suspected indulging in that sort of behaviour would prompt Shadwell into another nipple inspection.
With this in mind, he told Shadwell the weather wasn't fit to drive in, slumped down onto Shadwell's lumpy, plastic-covered couch, and asked Madame Tracy for another cuppa.
It was now Christmas morning. He still couldn't leave Shadwell's bungalow, and as far as Anathema and the children were concerned, he was probably in quite a bit of trouble. He wanted desperately to phone her, but his mobile was in the car, because Shadwell didn't hold with wireless communication. He also apparently didn't hold with wired communication now that he was no longer in the Witchfinder Army; as far as Newt could tell, the bungalow didn't have a regular phone.
It did have a rather large telly, which got every channel known to modern man and which Shadwell seemed to watch in shifts -- possibly for evidence of phenomena. Newt had tuned out sometime during the Fawlty Towers reruns, and was currently ignoring his fifty-seventh cup of tea.
"Ach!" said Shadwell, uttering the first word either of them had said in hours. "Would ye lookit that, ye great Southern Pansy!"
That was a blonde and thirty-ish field reporter from Sky News. She was wearing a bright yellow rain-slicker, and she was using a large, tartan umbrella as a shield against a deluge of what appeared to be frogs.
Alive frogs.
"This is Molly Mitchell, reporting live from the A40, just outside of Denham," she said, in a tone so calm and light one might think air-assaults of frogs were a perfectly normal occurrence. Just over her head, a flock of geese flew through the amphibious rain. Backward. "Local residents say the frogs have been falling for over an hour--"
"Witchcraft!" barked Shadwell. He leaned closer to the telly; Newt suspected he was trying to count the field reporter's nipples. "Froogs fallin' oot o' the sky! On yer feet, Private!" Newt stood, knees popping, and Shadwell gave him a quick once-over before stomping toward the kitchen. "Wumman, whair are ye?"
"I was just in the garden, love," said Madame Tracy, coming out of the kitchen, and Newt wondered how she'd escaped the house. "What's all the excitement!"
"Witches," said Shadwell. "Thair be witches 'n Denham."
"Oh, that's a bit of a drive, dear," said Madame Tracy calmly, laying her hand on Shadwell's arm. "And the weather's a fright. Perhaps when the wind has let up a bit."
"Are ye mad, wumman?" asked Shadwell. "Thair are froogs fallin' oot o' the sky!" Newt wisely didn't mention the geese. "Witches! Whair's me book, and me bell, and me candle! I tole ye not to 'ide 'em awey, wumman!"
"Well, let's see." She sighed softly. "I put most of your army things in the box room," said Madame Tracy. "I was just sure you wouldn't be needing them, now that you're retired."
"But the froogs!" shouted Shadwell, pointing at the telly.
Madame Tracy followed the trajectory of his finger, and blinked.
"What frogs would you be talking about, love?"
Molly Mitchell was still on the telly. She was still wearing a bright yellow rain-slicker, but her umbrella, now folded, hung limply at her side. She looked slightly confused. Perhaps because of the distinct lack of frogs, alive or otherwise. Frogs no longer filled the air, and the stretch of the A40 Newt could see was decidedly frog-free. The sky, which was previously black and tumultuous, was now clear and calm, if a bit grey.
Shadwell looked at telly, then at Newt, then at the telly. His shoulders slumped. "I'm needin' a tea, wumman."
"Of course, love."
As Tracy disappeared into the kitchen, someone knocked on the door. Newt answered it, because Shadwell seemed disinclined to move. He rather seemed disinclined to do anything but stare at the telly in disbelief.
It was Anathema.
"I'm sorry," Newt began, because it was Christmas morning. "You'll never believe--"
"It's fine," she said. Smiling, she stepped inside. "Everything is fine."
She hugged him. Just as the door closed of its own accord, Newt saw something -- the flutter of feathers, the rustle of wings.
He wisely didn't mention that to Shadwell, either.
The door swept open with a wet scrape, and a man stepped inside. He escaped the blustering chill of Christmas afternoon only to be confronted with a sweltering blast of an over-eager furnace and the saccharine tones of a fast-food jingle.
If asked, he would tell you he was at Burger Lord because it was the only place open, other than Denny's.
"Hello-my-name-is-John," said the cashier through his plastic smile. "How-may-I-help-you?"
The man paused. His hooded cloak was a bit much -- even for this weather -- and its heavy folds bulged over what might have been a scythe. His eyes darted from the pict-o-gram menu suspended from the ceiling and the cook flipping burgers behind the counter. A greying cowlick struggled against the cook's paper hat, and he hummed as he worked, dancing to the beat of a percussion section that was wholly his own. The man looked back at the menu, and Hello-my-name-is-John waited on his decision with the patience of a saint. His smile never slipped.
"... y'aint nuthin but a hound-dog," the cook sang, "cryin all the time..."
The man sighed, a sound like dead leaves crumbling into dust. "I'LL HAVE A TRIPLE BLASTER SUPER THUNDER BIGGUN, MAYO ON THE SIDE, EXTRA-EXTRA FRIES, AND A CHOCO-CREME CAKE." He debated the beverage selection, and decided his robes were a bit tight around the middle. "AND A DIET COKE."
"... y'aint never caught a rabbit and y'aint no friend of mine..."
One of these days, the man thought darkly. One of these days.
On the dawning of the first day of the Earth's second new lease on life, Crowley had breakfast in Venice. With Aziraphale.
After, they stopped by the Palazzo Ducale, because Aziraphale likes decaying art almost as much as he likes decrepit books. Of course, the whole visit could be blamed on books; Aziraphale had insisted because, at the time, the Palazzo was displaying a copy of the Vulgate that appeared to be three days older than Moses. He promised to swoon over the book and leave, but Aziraphale's attention span being what it is, he got distracted by a series of paintings by Hieronymus Bosch, the artistic world's favourite religious weirdo, and Crowley wasted another thirty-three minutes of his (admittedly eternal) life.
Aziraphale smiled at Ascent of the Blessed and Terrestrial Paradise, and grimaced at Fall of the Damned and Hell. Crowley rolled his eyes at the lot. At Hell, in particular.
The average artist's rendition of Hell depicts a dark, cruel wasteland where lost and tortured souls suffer through various types of raging infernos, bottomless chasms, and nameless beasts both vicious and foul, and decapitated sinners wading through boiling rivers of blood while deflecting advances from naked succubi. Medieval illuminators were the worst; in your typical fourteenth century painting of Hell, you can't move without tripping over a demon flashing his bits.
Crowley, of course, finds this extremely amusing. Demons don't have bits unless they make the effort, and they don't hang around Hell if they can help it, The weather is much better topside. That's the funny thing about humans, really -- reality is never as bad as the stuff they create in their own heads. Crowley has often thought he should paint a picture of Hell, because he knows exactly what a picture of Hell needs.
Less demons, and more cowbell.
Hell is empty. All the devils are here.
The future, of course, is anybody's guess.
Nothing is set in stone. Anything is possible.
Maybe, Harry Potter went on to be respected and revered, perhaps holding a powerful political position amongst his people. Maybe, Harry Potter slipped into obscurity, perhaps moving to the States to raise dairy cows in the wilds of some place like Vermont. Maybe, Harry Potter decided on an ordinary life, where after an ordinary day at his ordinary job, he went home to his ordinary wife and kids and his extremely ordinary dog.
Maybe, after Adam Young went home, he phoned Pepper, wished her a Happy Christmas, and asked her if she'd like to see a film after supper.
Maybe he didn't. Maybe he sent an owl to Harry Potter instead, and asked him if he'd like to come down for a cup of coffee, because you could get a good cup of coffee at this one place in Norton, and since it was Christmas, the wastrel with the guitar probably had the night off.
Everything is possible.
Right now, Adam might be watching Tomorrow Never Dies with a tub of popcorn in his lap and his arm across Pepper's shoulders.
Right now, Adam might be sitting in a coffee shop in Norton, with one hand curled around a steaming mug of hot chocolate and the other hand on Harry's knee. And after, Adam might drive them back to Lower Tadfield and to The Pit, because Adam wants to show Harry something brilliant. Because it's Adam's favourite place, and Adam wants to share it.
Forever.
{Revelation 22:21}
At this point, I'd like to say I'm sorry. In addition to Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, and JKR, I extend my sincerest apologies to John Milton, William Shakespeare, St John the Divine, Monty Python, and of course, Christopher Walken. It was all in good fun, and no harm done.