Author: YamiPaladinofChaos PM
[Pre HBP] Washed on the shores of a desert island after a narrow escape from the Dark Lord, Harry Potter's new power sets him on a journey down a path to divinity and insanity. The lines between Good and Evil blend, after all, when one is God.Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama/Angst - Chapters: 13 - Words: 34,262 - Reviews: 354 - Favs: 181 - Follows: 158 - Updated: 07-01-05 - Published: 11-12-04 - id: 2132141
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Disclaimer- I don't own Harry Potter.
Summary- After being tortured and narrowly escaping death once more, Harry Potter is left stranded on a desert island after his fifth year. With a new power that changes everything and his sanity slipping away, can Harry save the world? And will he want to fight to save it, when he makes his own paradise?
AN: Even more so than normal in my stories, the romance, namely the H/Gness is light… possibly just hinted at or even unrequited. Oh and one more thing. If you don't like super-power Harry that is nearly almighty… you might want to leave. Unless you're curious what Harry acts like when he literally is almost a god while half-insane. Or perhaps a god and fully insane. I'm not sure.
On a desert island isolated in the Atlantic Ocean, a young boy of almost sixteen awakes slowly, clad in nothing except a ragged robe revealing his scarred chest and tattered shorts, barely concealing his male parts.
The boy lifted his head up, and promptly spewed out the seawater he had swallowed in grandiose amounts, hurling it from his bowels violently, coughing in between, feeling sand in every pore. He tried to speak, but found his throat cracked and dry, regardless of the seawater or because of it, he did not know.
He did not know anything.
He struggled to move, and found his limbs numb and unresponsive.
He felt nothing, save the waves lapping hungrily at his feet and back, the cold taking him over.
He passed out.
This time, when he struggled to move, he succeeded, narrowly managing to get up, raising himself up with pale, cold arms.
He promptly fell back down, exhausted.
He didn't know where he was, how he got there, or even who he was, but he knew that the waves would drag him back soon.
So he crawled.
In his tired, narrow vision, he spotted a solitary tree, a silent sentinel watching the island and the waves and him. It was small and stubby, probably as tall as he was, without any fruit to bear or any helpful features save one. It had shade.
That was enough.
He crawled, and crawled, scraping his bare stomach against the sand, but ignoring it, just trying to reach the shade, to get out of the sun and sleep again.
After an eternity and two lifetimes, he reached the shade, coughing and sputtering and weak and practically dying, but alive.
He leaned up against the tree, feeling the hot sun against his body, warming him, and closed his eyes, falling back asleep.
The waves lapped against the shore silently, disappointed that their prey had escaped, or rejoicing that their passenger had gotten away safely, no one could tell.
The young man slept calmly, at peace, contrasting the painful and likely recent injuries it seemed his body had gone through. His raven hair covered his face, obscuring the half-open eyelids with emerald jewels sparkling underneath like a veil.
And just barely visible, if under close inspection, was a red mark, a scar, in the shape of a lightning bolt.
But not just any people.
And not just any wizards, but the Order of the Phoenix.
There were many of them, of all shapes and sizes. Two redheads, one male, one female, mates, the female looking distraught and afraid, the male attempting to comfort her gently. "Its okay Molly," Arthur Weasley soothed, "I'm sure he's fine."
"But Death Eaters Arthur! That poor boy… first Sirius and now this…" Molly Weasley sobbed into her husband's chest.
On the other side of the room, avoiding gazes from anyone was the lone wolf. Remus J. Lupin looked dead to the world, staring blankly through gray eyes, his light brown hair now almost completely shot with gray. He looked like a man going on sixty, not a man going on his early thirties. But none of that mattered to him.
He had failed.
He failed him.
He failed to uphold the unwritten, unspoken oath he had sworn on July 31st, 1980. He failed to save the last legacy of the Marauders, the first, and last generation of the Marauders.
He failed to save his family.
His pack was gone.
All around, panic is the preferred mannerism, chaos the state of order. Severus Snape looks pleased and apathetic at the same time, Nymphadora Tonks looks weary, Alastor Moody has closed his eyes (a very rare occurrence, seeing as how paranoid he is) in silent respect to a fallen man, Minerva McGonagall blows her nose and sniffles behind a handkerchief, Bill Weasley watches in concern as his strong mother breaks down, while thinking of the others he should be looking after, who will be destroyed at what they learn.
And in the center, the normally eye of calm, the rock of strength, the dependable constant that always triumphs, is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. But there is no strength emanating from him, none of that calm that others draw calm from, that even the most distraught can not find comfort in, but an overwhelming, all encompassing, encroaching weariness and utter sadness.
He is not the Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the Head of the Order of the Phoenix, or the only one Voldemort has ever feared, but an old man, perhaps a grandfather or even a father who has lost a child of his own, the most dear to him.
He looked around, and glanced at Severus Snape, his loyal ally and friend, and today, no smile came from the knowledge that he was possibly Severus' only true friend. "Severus… your report?" He asked. His voice was no longer genial and calm and his eyes twinkling, but saddened.
Severus resisted a sneer on his face. He could still remember the vicious punch Molly Weasley gave him the first time he reported news on the boy with a sneer. "The Dark Lord is secretive and even the Inner Circle is no longer able to talk to him. He has been spending all his time with Potter. The only person in contact with the Dark Lord is Pettigrew." Although Snape didn't say it, he believed that the Dark Lord relied on Pettigrew because the worm was no threat. "I believe that the Dark Lord has killed him off."
Molly Weasley broke out into a fresh sob, and Bill Weasley glared at his former Potions Master, while his father tried to bring comfort to his mother.
McGonagall looked tired and sad, as did all of them. Except Albus Dumbledore.
He looked beyond tired, beyond sad. He looked near death, it seemed. His endless vitality was gone, replaced with a weariness befitting his true age.
With a heart as heavy as lead, he stood to give his terrible news that broke his heart when he heard it, that took all the century and a half of experience he had to keep himself together. "My… friends…" Dumbledore said softly, almost a whisper, and the Order stopped moving, caught and spellbound by his words, "I am afraid Mister Potter is indeed gone missing, and is most likely dead at the hands of Lord Voldemort."
And so he went alone, to tell and break more hearts. In front of him, his two youngest children sit in fear and silence, while another child dear to him waits alongside them.
"Dad?" Ron whispered.
His youngest looked up, unshed tears making her brown eyes larger and more bright than ever before. One of their, maybe their only, best friend looked up at the same time, tear tracks running down her face.
"I…Harry's… gone." Arthur whispered, but just as he finished, as the words departed from his mouth, Ginny broke out into a sob and tears spilled out from her eyes, while Hermione broke out into a fresh bout of crying.
Ron stood in shock, having gotten up to greet his father. His face was pale, his eyes wide, his hands shaking.
"I'm sorry." Arthur said softly.
Ron shook his head violently as the two girls sobbed louder. "No." Ron whispered. "NO!" He yelled angrily. "I won't believe it! He's not dead!"
Hermione sobbed louder, with Ginny joining her, the two making a mournful song of agony.
Arthur only watched as the three of the strongest children, of the strongest people he had ever had the pleasure of knowing, fell to pieces, lost without a leader.
She had denied it, and denied it, hid her heart, put up a front, did anything and everything she could to stop the magnificent addiction she had to Harry Potter.
He had her from the moment they met, six years ago at Kings Cross station.
She was in love with him.
And now he was dead.
It wasn't fair! She raged within herself. Harry had gone through so much. To die, alone and just in the wake of Sirius' passing was too much.
He died at the hands of Tom.
He died alone, at the hands of Tom.
Tom wouldn't have let him die easily.
He shouldn't have died like that.
"He's not dead." She whispered softly. "He's not dead." The mantra was her rope of life, that single line that kept her from falling into a pit of despair.
The door creaked, and Ginny turned over to see her brother creeping in, lost and alone. "Gin." Ron rasped, his voice hoarse from countless minutes of screaming and raging.
Without making a sound, as she did in younger and happier days, she ran into her older brother's arms and sobbed her heart out, letting her tears flow.
Ron held her, feeling her tears soak his shirt, tears he refused to shed himself.
"He's not dead, he's not dead, he'll come back, he always comes back," Ginny kept whispering into his shirt, either to reassure him or herself, he was unsure.
"Ron?" Hermione whispered hoarsely, moving closer to the siblings.
Ron shook his head, looking at his sobbing little sister. The strongest of all of the Weasley children, despite being the smallest, she survived You-Know-Who and was still a strong, vivacious girl, resisting her brothers attempts to smother her.
Ron admired her for that. He always felt smothered by his brothers, by his family's financial status. Ginny did not.
It was why he thought Harry would be perfect for her. Harry was everything he wanted in a brother-in-law. A great bloke, his friend, trustworthy, and could keep Ginny from harm.
And Ginny was perfect for him. He watched as his little sister turned into a young woman, watched her stand up to Harry in a way no one else ever could, ever would. He watched her try to forget him.
That annoyed him. No one except Harry was good enough for his sister.
Ron couldn't give anyone else his admiration, his respect, at least enough to be trusted with his baby sister. No one except Harry had that kind of right.
And he had thought things were going well. His sister had shown Harry her true nature, and he had begun dropping hints for Harry that he was okay with it. He knew Harry quite well, and knew how much he respected and admired people's strength. He had hoped Harry would do more than respect and admire Ginny.
And now, for all intents and purposes, in all likelihood, Harry James Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, was now dead.
Ron felt his tears escape his eyes, anointing his little sister with them as the last of his best friends, it seemed, sobbed nearby.
And from the shadows, Arthur Weasley watched, feeling helpless, as all parents do, when their children face a trial that a parent cannot help them in. He could not go in there. To go in there would be to offer words of comfort.
Words cheapen the moment. Anything he said would cheapen or make the apparent death of Harry Potter certain. And either of those possibilities could do immense damage to his children.
And so he watched, helpless, only able to pray that by some miracle, Harry James Potter had survived the wrath of Lord Voldemort, and would make his way back from the abyss of death, as he did many a time.
Except this time, it was more and more likely he was dead, and no evidence, no friends, no last-minute cavalry could come and save him.
Harry James Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, was lost.