Summary: A suicide mission manages to win the war for a twenty-year-old Harry Potter, even if he does die in the attempt. For some reason though, he doesn't seem as dead as he should be – and the world he's woken up in has more than enough of its own problems.

Warnings: Violence, bad language, abuse of the Latin language and excessive use of OCs.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise isn't mine. Anything you don't is mine. On that note – I'm willing to let you use any of my characters if you ask and have back stories for quite a few, if anyone's bored and looking to write anything about an OC. -charming smile-

Author's Note: So, the new prologue's up and chapter one should be done in a week or two. Looking for a beta – if anyone's interested, message me? Reviews are appreciated, and questions, etc, welcomed. Thanks to everyone who answered my questions – it was all taken into account.

Mirror Me: Prologue

"I can't breathe," Zabini said in a conversational tone, his face drawn and tight as he swayed beside Harry. The magic in the Great Hall was uncomfortable, Harry thought muzzily, so thick it was almost tangible, scraping over skin and lips, ripping the breath away from your mouth, so you'd think you were dying in a whirlwind of magic.

"Do us all a favour-" Felding ground out, her jaw clenched as she steadied herself against the stone walls, "-and shut up Zabini. I couldn't give a fuck if you can breathe-" She paused, inhaled roughly, her eyes screwed closed in concentration, "-or not."

Jacobs let out a choking half-sob, shaking in a ball on the ground. "Modi, fill us with your strength," Harry could hear him muttering to himself. "Let loose the valkyrie, follow the hounds, follow-"

Felding snarled incomprehensibly at him, and Harry met her eyes warningly. She threw a bitter look his way, and then laughed, her voice rough. "When's the goddamn-" Pause, and a staggered breath, "-ritual over?" she demanded, and stumbled as a particular harsh buffet of magic knocked into her.

"Soon," Harry said, his knuckles white – but he refused to flinch, even as streams of red slashed across his face, even as he felt the blood being blown sideways across his cheeks. "Very soon."

"Are you so eager to run to your death, Felding?" Jacobs choked out, and then he let out a hysterical laugh. "Oh Modi, hear me, hear my prayers, hear-"

"Shut up, you fucking berserker," Felding growled, and Harry wanted to order at her to shut up; weren't tensions already running high enough without her trying to pick fights? He knew what she was feeling though, could sense his own helplessness twisting in his stomach, going against his every instincts, and it had to be worse for her as a werewolf. He wanted to be out there fighting, facing the Death Eaters, but instead they'd formulated some goddamn trap, some deal with a bloody demon of all things, and one who had looked at him with a very odd expression on his face-

"Ready Potter?" Flint said from somewhere nearby, his troll-like face sneering down at him, and Harry felt tense shoulders relax slightly as the magic flickered out as if it had never been there, only leaving a traced circle in the middle of the room, faint outlines of blood, and all they'd have to do now is set it off…

Harry shook his head slightly, rubbed calloused fingers over his wand-holster, felt the adrenalin begin to pound in his veins. "Now?" he said, and there was no disguising the finally, the desperation to go and do something-

"Now," Flint nodded, turning his back to find the nine members of his own squad. "Move out!" he bellowed, and Harry echoed the order, seeing Jacobs stop his sobbing, jerk as if he were possessed, and rise to his feet in one smooth movement, his eyes almost red with fury and battle-lust, Zabini shudder and turn away from staring at where the centre of the whirling, scratching magic had been just seconds ago, Felding let out a breath of what could only be relief, running her tongue over her teeth as her mouth stretched into a wicked grin, Abbott, Kerr, Tonks, Bailey…

Sprawling out of the hall like bloody drunken pirates, Flint already having claimed the east and Moody staggering off to the north, Charlie Weasley meeting his eyes before moving to the south, that only meant-

West. Back to the old Gryffindor tower then.

Left, left, that's it Jonathon, come on now, just a few more steps-

Snow crunched under his feet, and Jonathon felt shivers wrack through his body, cascading through the thin robes he wore. His feet were bare, his face pale and exhausted, wan with tiredness as he stretched out a trembling hand.

An icy wind blew past, and he clambered over the ruins of what had been a wall, his numb fingers scrabbling at the rough-edged bricks, and he stopped, froze, his grey eyes widening and staring off into the distance, not again, please, please not again, no, no, no-


"'m listening, 'm listening," the boy whispered in a cracking voice, hoarse and husky as a shaking sob forced its way out of him, "Odin save me."

Sh, sh, sh, just move forward Jonathon.

Jonathon shivered violently and softly incanted a warming charm again – it had no more effect than it had before; strengthening the blood flow for a moment before dropping away, leaving pins and needles prickling all over. He raised a hand to his mouth and blew on it, brushed dirty, ragged strands of blond hair out of his face and swayed on the spot.

Jonathon, move forward!

He took an uncertain step; winced more out of habit than any pain as his numb foot knocked against a stone sticking out sharply. Stepped forward again, and again, and when he looked back his footprint was bloody against the clean snow. Red on white. Red on white. Redonwhiteredonwhiteredonwhite-

Don't look back Jonathon.

Too late, he wanted to scream. Too late, it was always too late. His father was too late, his brother was too late, and He- and He- It had hurt so-

Don't look back Jonathon.

No. No, he wouldn't look back. Straightened his back, tried to look the person his father had made him, before It had happened. Two years ago – was it two years ago? He'd been how old? Numbers didn't mean anything. Nothing meant anything, and he was looking back, stop it, you fool.

Come on Jonathon, just move forward. You're nearly there.

Where's there? He wanted to scream. Who are you, what am I doing? Fourteen, something said, and he cocked his head, pausing. Fourteen what? He'd been fourteen when It had happened. Fourteen. What was fourteen? There were the smashed remains of a mirror lying on the ground, a gilt frame with the imprint of rised still present. Looked down, saw his reflection looking back. He was almost pretty in the snow, a fae child, half-starved, half-dead and pretty in his death. Paint a picture, title splayed underneath 'Snow White'. He snickered to himself, neatened his hair with his fingers.

Keep moving Jonathon.

He took another step forward.

"Double up," Harry ordered, his eyes narrowed and calculating. He could hear the explosions shaking the walls, had the squad positioned around where those bastards would break through. Guerrilla warfare. Had to lure them in- lure Voldemort in. He wouldn't resist a chance to gloat-

"Got your back, sir," Zabini said sliding into place, his arm brushing Harry's, before snatching it back and giving him a wary look, as if he expected his squad leader to go mental on him. Harry ignored him, scanned the rest of his squad, a slight frown on his face-

"Felding, Jacobs, pair up," he snapped, and the two moved forward – they'd be the hard-hitters; probably die in the initial outpour, but they were good and they knew they were good. Felding laughed softly, husky warning, at something Jacobs had said, no longer so aggressive now that she was out of the tense ritual and back where she belonged.

"Everyone else, back and split up in the corridors. Make sure they see you when you retreat." He could feel his breath becoming more ragged, excitement rushing in his veins as another explosion rocked the castle. No fucking demon here, no elaborate traps and blood rituals, just him and his squad, and Death Eaters waiting to die-

He nodded to Zabini, and they both slipped back into a passageway, a portrait watching them with raised eyebrows, before moving away with a squeak as she took in the glower Harry sent her way. Zabini muffled a snicker beside him, trying to relax, but his face was pale and sickly-

"Why are you here Zabini?" he had asked, and Zabini straightened defiantly, but flinched as he met Harry's eyes.

"I plead temporary insanity," the black boy had said, trying to crack a smirk, and Harry had smiled.

"Temporary insanity's no good in this squad, Zabini. You need to-"

"-Go the whole way," Zabini muttered to himself, and his wand was in his hand. "Never thought I'd be willing to die for-"

Another explosion, and Zabini changed his mind over what he was saying, offered Harry a faint, grim smile. Protego, caeco, comburo, concido, sectumsempra… Harry twirled his wand, leaned against the wall, and his eyes glowed with suppressed emotion. Be calm, be cold, save the fury for battle but remember-

"Lead them back to the Hall," he breathed, and Zabini nodded jerkily. "We can't get caught up in the fighting. Whoever falls-"

"Get back," Zabini finished. "I know. The squad knows. We're not going to fail."

"Good," Harry said, and then another explosion echoed through the air, louder than any of the others, followed by the cracking sound of walls collapsing bit by bit-

"Ready," Harry murmured. "Ready…"

This used to be Hogwarts. No, turn right here.

Hogwarts? He'd heard of Hogwarts; dead, defeated, just like Albus Dumbledore-

Albus isn't dead. Another step Jonathon. Everyone who faced Him died. Everyone who defied him was punished. His feet hurt now, even if his left foot had stopped bleeding, and he didn't want to do what the Voice said. He'd left his home, left the people that had looked after him – oh Heimdall protect him, what would Alex think, and his father, and the rest, who had helped him when- when- No, don't think about that. Nononono. Take a step, just like the Voice said. The Voice said it would stop hurting soon, that everything would stop hurting and he'd stop seeing those- those Things, with the eyes and the smiles that never touch their faces, just felt like they were smiling inside, watching him with too-eager eyes, waiting for him to fall, but he didn't want to fall, he didn't-

It would all stop soon. It would all be alright. He could go back to Alex, and he could go back to Blaise, and the others who loved him and looked after him even though he was insane-

-Was he insane? No, no, it was everyone else, they just didn't understand the things he saw, and how they haunted his every step, how they knew who he was, what he was, inside out. His hand trembled, and he bit his lip, but it was so cold that he couldn't even feel it.

Now left Jonathon. Just keep on following the stones.

Had these once been passageways? Corridors? He saw a portrait lying, broken on the ground – of no worth to those who had raided it, those who had overcome the weak- the weak- He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember a lot of things, except a face, like his, but old and tired, and another face, determined and passionate, but they hadn't come, they hadn't done anything, they had watched him scream behind the masks, and he'd known who they were, and he thought he could see the pain in his father's eyes-

His father? Yes, the first face was his father, but his father had laughed, and smirked, and been so proud of him, been so proud of Alex, and that- so tired-

Just another step Jonathon. Just a step at a time.

He stumbled forward, caught hold of one of the ruined walls and pushed himself up again. He was so cold, and he had a room in the Vidar Squadron's quarters, his own room, and Jonathon had painted a griffin on the wall, and none of the others had been able to guess what it was, except Luna, Loony, who saw things just like he did-

You're here, Jonathon.

Where's here?

There were shouts up ahead, where Felding and Jacobs were; curses and screams filling the air, and Harry could hear Felding laugh-

"Sir?" Zabini asked, tensed on the balls on his feet. "Should we-?"

"No," Harry said, and Zabini signed out to Tonks, who signed down to Bailey, signed on-

They knew how to work, and they knew- they were ready-

Felding was retreating down the hall, backed down, darted into the corridor Harry and Zabini were, and there was blood trickling down her face; she cuffed at it irritably, snarled, looked at Harry, and there was more blood on her teeth and how did it get there-

"Jacobs is dead, sir," she grunted, and Harry nodded slightly.

"Get back then – alright on your own?"

Felding shrugged, stepped out of the corridor to move backwards, and-

Blood spattering across the floor, warm grey brain smashed in the remnants of a crushed skull, and she hadn't even had time for a yell of agony, didn't even notice the curse-

Harry rolled out, aimed up; concido and the Death Eater fell, faceless behind a mask-

Zabini yelled a 'protego' and purple light flashed harmlessly against a newly raised barrier, sparks leaping off scorching a painting, and the monk who had been watching with morbid interest gave a shout, fleeing as the canvas began to boil and spit-

Frango and the crack of breaking bones was eerily loud, only overcome by the bubbling scream coming from a black mask, cut off as his neck twisted and snapped-

There were more advancing though, and Harry raised his hand in a signal, and then he and Zabini were moving together, flinging themselves behind a suit of armour, and then further back, into a corridor. Their feet slapped against the floor, and they rounded back, fell headlong down a set of stairs before they could move; he could hear the taunting shout of Tonks, somewhere off to his right, Bailey – it had to be Bailey, he was the only one who used the earthquake curse, and Harry could feel the bloody floor shaking – forward, aiming for the second set of stairs-

A shout as a group – a murder, they called them now; 'a murder of Death Eaters' – caught sight of Harry and Zabini, but the stairs had moved and they couldn't get across. One tried to levitate across, but her spell failed halfway and her scream seemed to go on for an eternity before it cut off.

Zabini raised a hand and waved, and Harry didn't have to look to know the Slytherin was smirking. They took a few steps back, and then Zabini cast a blinding light charm that let them vanish into another passageway, wait there as the Death Eaters swore and cursed, but the stairs were beginning to grind again, moving backwards, and there wasn't much time-

The stairs snapped into place, and the Death Eaters began to move, but Tonks was behind them, throwing a fireball; she'd got into a dead end from the looks of it, and Abbott was limping, his leg dragging behind him, but a Death Eater turned, snarled something, and Abbots was flung back against the banisters, spine cracking-

"Back," Harry commanded, and he tried not to wince as Tonks collapsed; he couldn't see what happened, and she was his friend for fuck's sake-

No. "Back," he said again, and Zabini stumbled backwards, his breath ragged. Not far from the Great Hall now, and he could hear the shouts of the rest of his squad, as the stairs met up again with the passageway ahead.

Not far now.

It looked as though it was a hall of some sort; the walls were crumbling, but they stretched out widely, no passageways, and Jonathon closed his eyes as a black-haired boy laughed, sitting next to someone who could be his brother. Beside them, a small blond boy was charming his food to dance, before nudging the other two, and they cracked up as his sausage bounced away onto a red-haired girl's plate. "Wicked, Peter," one of the boys exclaimed, and the blond blushed slightly, but there was a smug smile on his face-

The Great Hall the Voice said, and Jonathon wondered if this was supposed to make some sort of sense to him, because it didn't, but he nodded anyway, shivered as a gust of wind blew by. He moved over to the centre, and he could swear that it was warm or something and his feet pattered against grass, actual grass, not cold snow, but in the centre there was just a clear patch of dust, solid, heavy dust-

You have to make a circle Jonathon

But how was he supposed to do that? He didn't have anything on him but a knife, and you couldn't make a circle with a knife, unless you just drew it, and actually that would sort of make sense. He tugged the knife out from underneath his robe, and knelt down on the ground – shivered again. Inserted the point into the dust, and dragged, and then he was drawing a circle, but bending down like this made his back hurt, and it was cold and why was he drawing a circle in the middle of a ruin?

"Circle, circle," he muttered to himself, and then snickered softly. He finished the wavery circle he had made, looked at it proudly, then frowned. It wasn't pretty, like his griffin had been, or his dragon or the stars and the universe and the everything he had tried to show people. It was boring and boring and oh Odin, the Eyes were there again, and they were looking at him, whatwashegoingto-

Jonathon. Don't step out of the circle.

Maybe it was a magical circle. It would protect him, and-

He drew out his wand, and muttered a few nonsense words, his forehead drawn into a frown. No, no, it wasn't magic, because if it was magic it would have glowed, and it didn't, and the new spells Jonathon made up always worked, whatever Mik had grumbled about insane brats-

Cut your hand Jonathon.

"Why?" he whined. "That'd- That'd hurt, 'n, 'n, I don't-"

It won't hurt Jonathon. Don't you trust me?

Did he trust the Voice? It had helped him run away from those big spider things, and had told him how to stop the tree from hitting him, and- and-

Nervously, shaking with more than just cold now, Jonathon raised the knife to his hand, saw the dust marring the gleaming surface. The Voice said cut, the Voice said cut-

The knife bit down, but the Voice had been right, and it didn't hurt – the cold had numbed his hand, and all he felt was the sharp pangs of pins and needles for brief seconds, before it faded away. He stared at the bright scarlet of the blood in awe, cupped his hand to keep it from flowing out onto the ground.

Drip it onto the circle Jonathon.

And this was Blood Magic and Blood Magic was bad, but he did it anyway, watching the drops patter down onto the ground, staining it dark. "Wh-" Jonathon began, bit his lip, tried again. "What now?"

We wait.

Nearly there, Harry thought, and ducked as a curse flew over his head. Bailey and Kerr had joined up; Landon and Franz were dead, and no one was sure what had happened to Yates or Tanner. Dead probably – no one would stop to take prisoners in a battle, not until the end.

He growled as he saw a blond head – Malfoy, not even bothering to wear his goddamn mask as he shouted some order at someone – and Kerr saw the direction of his gaze, smirked nastily, and then Malfoy's head was flying backwards and Harry almost had to bite back a look at the priceless expression-

They skipped a few steps backwards; threw a fireball, and then they were scattering, Kerr and Zabini determinedly holding a shield as Harry and Bailey took out a few more. From the sounds of it, Flint's lot were already there – Harry chanced a look back, and yes, they were, and he could see Charlie Weasley there, his eye a mess, looked as though he was blind in his left eye, but it didn't really matter now-

Moody- no, it wasn't Moody, but one in his squad, seemed like Moody had been taken down, and there at the back of the Hall, advancing in his black robes, edged in silver, surrounded by the Red Guard, the elite Death Eaters, was Voldemort.

"You're late," Flint snarled as Harry backed off to the centre, and Harry shrugged slightly, firing off a nasty hex.

"Sorry, got a bit caught up on the stairs," he said dryly, and Kerr let out a choking yell as a spell slipped past his shield, engulfing his wand arm in flames.

"Doesn't matter. It's time to end it now, anyway," Flint muttered, and let out a grunting laugh as he managed to fire off a boiling curse, and Harry looked at him, "-Smith. Always hated the bastard. You know the trigger?"

"Yeah," Harry said, and with a grimace of distaste, he stepped back into the circle the ritual had formed, saw the glowing lines of emerald – green and silver of all things, did that bloody demon have a sense of humour? Voldemort was stepping forward, a smug look on his snake face, and Harry grinned faintly at the absence of Nagini – they'd killed the bloody snake, wiped out all of the horcruxes; but Voldemort didn't know that Fred had destroyed the last one, if he did then he wouldn't be here-

"You have lost, Potter," Voldemort's voice carried across the fighting, and one by one the Death Eaters stopped their spells, and the aurors withdrew slightly, to stand around Harry in a protective circle. "Your prophecy is nothing but a dream. You have lost."

Harry stood taller, squaring his shoulders and looked wry. "Is this the part where you offer me a final duel, to prove that you're better than me, once and for all?"

Voldemort laughed, high and cold. "Do you think me a fool, boy? No, you will die. I have no need to-"

"He doesn't ever shut up, does he?" Zabini murmured quietly, and the remnants of the squads laughed huskily. Flint raised an eyebrow, his troll-like face drawn into a nasty smirk.


Voldemort didn't seem to have noticed they weren't paying attention to his gloating victory speech, and with a deep breath, he spoke. "For those who died."

And the roof began to fall.

Huge cracks spread across the ceiling, chunks of rocks dislodging themselves. The enchantments flickered, failing, and Harry fancied it was almost as if the sky itself were falling. He saw some Death Eaters try to raise shields, only to find they couldn't – the Anti-Apparation ward had come down around them, blocking magic for a crucial few minutes, and there were shouts of panic beginning to spread-

"Potter! What-?" Voldemort shouted, a look of terrified comprehension coming over his face even as he turned to run, but the corridors of Hogwarts were collapsing and the very foundations were shuddering, the magic that bound the school writhing out of control-

"Ended it, Riddle!" Harry shouted. "We've ended it."

A stone lodged itself in Kerr's skull, Zabini collapsed, crushed under a rock and a hint of blue sky settling over his face, Bailey, dead, but he saw Voldemort fall and that was all that mattered, but his scar, his fucking scar-

Harry collapsed, his wand still in his hand, as something struck him from behind, and his scar felt like it was on fire, blood running down his face, splashing onto the floor, across the burning lines of magic-

Jonathon's body convulsed, a scream building in his throat because it hurt, oh Heimdall it hurt, and the Voice had lied and-

"Aberforth, what have you done?" Albus Dumbledore roared.

Modi – Norse God of battle wrath; the leader of the berserkers

Odin – Chief God of the Aesir

Heimdall – Norse God of light and protection.

Vidar Squadron – Points to anyone who guesses the primary purpose of this squad.