Title: Botched Fate

Author: Keily Shinra

Started Fic Date: December 26, 2003 12:12 a.m.

End Chapter Date: December 26, 2003 1:30 a.m.

Scenario: Harry dies at the hands of Voldemort, but not without casting one last, obviously devastating spell…Secret truces, an ongoing war and the miracle brought on by a green-eyed teenager’s love for one man and the rest of the world…

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters. I definitely do not own anything else by J.K. Rowling.

“It certainly is quiet here.”

“That it is.”

“Don’t you miss the hustle and bustle at Hogwarts?”

“Just a bit, but I can certainly do without Dumbledore.”

“You and me both. At least he’s trying to do what’s best for everyone.”

“Not nearly everyone, my dear Harry.”

“Yes, everyone—even you.”

“Harry…if you haven’t noticed for the last seven years…he’s been trying to off me.”

“No, no, no. That was me. All me. You know that.”

“No, I don’t…”

“…What’s wrong? You’re usually never like this.”

“…I’ve grown fond of you, Harry Potter. Very fond, but…sors salutis, Harry. Sors salutis…”

Part 1 – O, Fortuna

Harry had been flipping through many textbooks in the school library, which currently looked overdue for a good fixing. He was in his final year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…and at this point he could really care less whether or not he was going to fail Potions of all things.

There was a set date, he knew…for that final confrontation that he dreaded evermore with each passing day. Not because he was the Boy-Who-Lived and he was You-Know-Who, but simply because…he was Harry Potter and the man he was facing was Thomas Marvolo Riddle (who despises his real name as much as he did Muggles). After accidentally bumping into each other in Muggle London some time in his sixth year (‘That meeting went on well…’ Harry muttered to himself.), he and the illustrious Lord Voldemort were on…better terms. They weren’t good friends, or friends all that much…but there had been an understanding…

…that soon became much too deep.

Harry mused thoughtfully and in amusement, that he had not only escaped from almost certain death each secret meeting, he had also escaped with his virginity intact. Since the death of Sirius, the young green-eyed youth had discovered that he had a taste for men as much as he had a taste for women. He hadn’t bothered with telling anyone for fear of the press hounding after him and for everyone to look at him weird at school. Gossip traveled very fast at Hogwarts. Too fast for his liking.

He shivered. It was winter in England at the moment and the hole in the wall made from the last raid from Voldemort’s Death Eaters was letting the cold in. The library wasn’t the most important room to be safeguarded though. It had come as a surprise to everyone when Hogwarts was suddenly faced with an attack.

His finger slid down the page, his eyes skimming and scanning quickly, until it stopped at a particular spell. It stuck out so much amongst the other spells, charms and jinxes in this book. He read it, re-read it and read it some more. It was a simple spell, with very few words and a simplistic wand technique. But it was very risky.

But he was going to do it. This was probably the worst curse ever in wizarding history. He wondered why it wasn’t an Unforgivable. Harry thought that the end result was unforgivable, if used. The spell had examples of other witches and wizards using this spell in a last-ditch effort. None of them ended well for either parties. Specifically the result of the curse…

…not even death was as bad as this.

He shut the book, having memorized the spell completely.

“…The Fate Curse…”

* * *

Voldemort lay on his bed, staring up at the velvet canopy of his four post bed. He could not sleep, as was the problem for the last two weeks. It was times like these…those restless nights when he lay awake, staring off into space…was he doing the right thing?

At first, he had done everything…in the name of a social change. The idea…of hating Muggles and Muggleborns had been thrown into the wind. He was a hypocrite he was. Back when he was young…his ideas just had to be the one and only…but as he grew older and delved deeper and deeper into the Dark Arts…his visions and ideals grew twisted until it had all blurred over in the end…the true ideology…

…the fight to change society.

Alright, so even when he was young, his mind had a warped sense of social justice, but the way he had been shunned, pushed away by his Muggle family at a tender age had left him emotionally scarred for life. Nothing…could heal that wound over. And even if it did…it will never leave him completely.

These thoughts often ran through his head ever since he first began talking to Potter. He had grown fond of him. Very. But common sense had a fine grip on the both of them. They simply couldn’t just give up everything they had lived with all of their lives for something as small as the infatuation of a teatime acquaintance. Harry admitted a small liking, but nothing more. The Tom in him had wanted it to be more…had seen in emerald green eyes that he wanted it to be more, but was frightened of the consequences…

…and so, for another day, Voldemort let Harry Potter go.

He sighed. He supposed that in all the quiet companionship, the talks, and sweet glances, it never would have worked. Above all else…Lord Voldemort was many things…many things, but pedophile was definitely not one of them. And yet, he still couldn’t help himself. His mind drifted and kept him forever awake, seeing the sweet dreams of a seventeen year-old youth destined to save the world. He stopped meddling in Harry’s dreams long ago…to let him dream kinder things…he liked watching them.

They never talked of saving the world or whatnot when they were together outside in their little café that had been designated their neutral territory. They had conversations about music, politics and even the occasional ‘old man’s’ story that Harry had been more than eager to hear. Those memories often haunted him at night…

Tomorrow night will be different though. It could go either two ways…he will have peace and will never have to think of Potter, his green eyes and how fond he had grown of the child since the first time they had talked and all of the ideas that he had put into his head or…

…he will lay awake in bed, sleepless and restless for the rest of his life, thinking of the Boy-Who-Didn’t-Live.

* * *

“…I can’t believe this happened, I really can’t…” Hermione sniffled as she went through clothes, albums and other odds and ends she found. She wiped her eyes with her robe sleeve. “…I…just…I just…Oh, Ron! It’s just not fair!” she exclaimed, falling to the bed and sobbing into the sheets. The red-haired young man sat next to her and patted her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Ron’s face was red, but not in the way it was when he was usually angry. His cheeks and nose were especially red and his eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

“Mione…come on…if he saw us now…he wouldn’t like it.” He tried lamely, not knowing what else he could say to comfort his friend. “…I suppose…it had to end…somehow…It was prophesied and all…” Hermione looked up at him, tears falling down in small streams.

“I know that Ron. I remember Harry telling us…” the girl said, sniffling still. ‘But…I had thought…we all though…that he was going to come out of this alive. Not...” She couldn’t say it. She choked on the word as she held back another body racking sob. Seven years…all for naught. The world hadn’t ended yet…but it felt like it had. It was all for naught if Harry Potter didn’t survive. She got back up, pulling herself back together to fix the stack of books when one fell down, open to a page that Harry had not long ago been reading from. Her brows furrowed as she picked it up. “Strange…”

“What is…?”

“This book…it’s from the forbidden section of the library, but why is it here…?” Hermione read over the pages in front of her, hoping to dispel whatever she could of recent events from her mind. But it didn’t…it simply made her eyes widen in realization. Leave it to Hermione to solve something quickly. “This! This, this, this!” she exclaimed excitedly.

“This what, Mione?”

“This! This, this! This…this.” She gasped, sitting back down on the bed with Ron as more books toppled over. “….But why would he use this curse for…? He couldn’t possibly have thought…”

* * *

Voldemort did not remember much of yesterday as he slowly woke-up to a lot of white assaulting his eyes. He hissed and pulled the sheets over his blood-red eyes. What happened? He barely remembered? Did anyone survived? Some most likely did.

Did Harry survive?

At that question, his mind was assaulted with scattered bits and pieces of memories of their fated final confrontation…and he was very sure…it had not come out for the best at all. Harry Potter had finally been slain by his hands. After sixteen long years…planning…scheming…hating…then talking…laughing…being normal…Harry was dead and he had come out the victor.

He knew the answer to that nagging question now indefinitely.

No, he wasn’t doing the right thing.

He’ll have to follow through though.

Sors salutis, Harry.