A/n: This will be one of the few Author Notes along the story. I just wanted to point out, because I'm getting PMs suggesting it, that this is NOT a Filius/Harry pairing. They are both listed in the summary because they will be the main characters, but no romantic relationship between them whatsoever. There will be other pairings however, but no slash nor incest.
Thanks to joe6991 (Author of Wastelands of Time)for letting me borrow his words, which now form the title of this story.
If you're interested in discussing this story visit www(dot)darklordpotter(dot)net [without the "dot"s, obviously...] I do my best to answer each and every review there, but I won't be answering in here; it gets too complicated. I do answer PMs here.
Well, thanks for reading and hope you enjoy. Drop me a review every now and then and let me know what you think.
Have you ever been accused of living in a bubble?
It can often happen when a person ignores the causes and consequences of historical events that in one way or another shaped our society into what it is today. Certain moments in history like the holocaust, the two World Wars, the fall of the Berlin Wall and the Cold War are facts that almost every single person in the world is aware of. To be ignorant of such major events is to beg be called an uncultured moron, or, in other words, to be accused of living in a bubble, safe from everything but what influences your every-day life.
Back when I was eleven-years-old I was unaware of most of these main events and moments in history. I was a moron. I lived in a bubble, and an ugly one at that. But it also turned out I was unaware of much more than I thought possible at the time. I was an even bigger moron, you might say. Because I didn't know a society completely different from what I knew had been hiding all along in plain sight. And as I grew up my perspective of the world shifted; what I considered myth became the norm; odd satellite readings became hidden cities; malfunctioning electrical equipment became a synonym of power; unexplainable meteorological changes meant gatherings and celebrations; and, perhaps most important of all, the history I knew turned out to be science-fiction.
For who would have known that Jesus himself was a sorcerer? Who would have thought a demon incinerated the library of Alexandria, years after the Muslim conquest in 652 AD? Or that John Cabot, the famous Italian explorer, had disappeared along with his five ships in an expedition to find a western route from Europe to Asia when he encountered a gargantuan sea dragon in the western coast of Greenland? Or that Jack the Ripper was nothing less than a brilliant potions researcher who liked to keep his ingredients fresh and available, and did so by murdering women and taking their organs, in full compliance with the magical to non-magical laws of the time?
I certainly hadn't known. But my Professors, friends and even my enemies educated me, and very slowly, almost painfully, I adjusted.
But perhaps the hardest part for me to understand was that I – Harry, just Harry; I weed the garden on Mondays – was something of a celebrity, unique you might even say, and my story was known by children before attending school, like I had known about Edison and Da Vinci. What I had thought was just a scratch on my forehead, product of a car accident, was in fact a symbol that the youngest of kids from the oldest of citizens recognized and celebrated.
I went from lowliest juvenile delinquent to prodigious child overnight.
And that was how my education in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry began, with lessons in history, culture, magic and life. Years flew by and, in their wake, there came chaos. It seemed that from the moment I survived the deadliest curse magic had to offer I was doomed, destined to live and fight a nightmare. And that night, while my 'betters' made plans for the future and left me to live a hard childhood, at that moment, my country – my poor, naïve and deluded Britain – celebrated the end of the nightmare that had yet to begin and praised the baby that would one day become a man they would fear and hate.
One by one, year by year, foe after foe, I lived and matured. My first time was almost an accident and luck chose my side. The second was forced upon me, for I would have never turned my back on a friend in need. But the third was the first time I purposefully chose action over passiveness, truth over deceit.
And I conquered.
The very first time I stood up for myself and mine I fucking conquered, and by a wide margin too. I still remember the horrified screeches of the minor demons as they faltered against the onslaught; the rush of my steady and bottomless power that manifested in a bright white light; the glorious shape of my will trotting over a frozen lake.
The physical manifestation of my will changed, but it would never waver.
Year after year the nightmare wore on. Its influence slowly but surely spread, and my country – my poor, deluded Britain – was plunged into darkness. The Lord of the Light fell, betrayed by his most loyal ally, who couldn't resist temptation. The only unbreakable structure, the Bastion of the Light, was pierced and destroyed. The Ministry of Magic was consumed by greed and corruption. Those who joined the bringer of chaos lived and reinforced the madness, while those who opposed him were cut down, one by one, my friends among them, until Great Britain died, and the Magical Empire of Britain was born.
I lived the nightmare. I fought the nightmare. I fucking breathed the nightmare.
The former Ministry of Magic labeled Lord Voldemort a terrorist when he first began his campaign – all those years ago, the one time I didn't live, before I was even born – while those who joined him called the Dark Lord a freedom fighter. But as the madness trudged forward and divided the land, the balance changed. Somehow I became the terrorist, a mad man attacking the peaceful citizens of the Magical Empire of Britain, while Lord Voldemort was hailed a war hero and a leader by the same power structure that had originally opposed him.
But when the balance changed no one called me a freedom fighter. There was nobody brave enough, loyal enough, or mad enough to be on my side. My side was me, because I was all that was left. My name – the same name that people used to shout with awe and pride – was now whispered with fear, with heart-gripping terror. And there were rumours of the new Dark Lord striking against their way of life, killing their Ministers and Most Noble citizens, defying the might of the greatest Empire, the Magical Empire of Britain, for no reason other than lust for absolute power and a severe mental illness that went beyond psychosis.
I have many names and titles – Harry Potter; Harry James Potter, the Dark Lord; the Bane of Britain; You-Know-Who – but the ruthless, blood-thirsty bastard of a man society used to call Dark Lord Potter has had many more names than the ones I had by the time of the Empire. You have probably heard a few of them yourself. After all, they aren't exactly a secret. Well, most of them at least.
However, in this story – the story I am about to tell, the story of my life – the Emperor Voldemort and his Magical Empire of Britain aren't important. Why, you might ask? Because that is a reality that never happened, not for you. I did live the nightmare, I did fight it, and I did breathe it, but you never have, and you never will. Because I made the leap – I changed the course of history.
Arrogant as it may sound, it is true. And if you've done half the shit I have, then you have every right to be arrogant. There's a point where humility blurs into stupidity, and the insane man grips to arrogance like a lifeline, while the sane one drowns in despair.
So you see, my dear reader, you live inside a bubble. You don't know what happened in that time – that other Time – and you don't know what happened in this one. You don't know how you came to live this life, in this moment, in this society. You don't even know who did what and when, least of all why, because you weren't there and, if we're lucky, you never will.
And that's why you're here, right? To know, to find out?
Like any other arrogant narrator, I shall begin with myself; hello, I am the Boy-Who-Lived, The Chosen One, an extraordinary wizard living in extraordinary circumstances; or I am Harry, just Harry, an ordinary wizard living an ordinary life – take your pick. I weed the garden on Mondays and kill Dark Lords on Tuesdays. On Wednesdays I make lunch and become a convict, and, if I'm lucky, I'll be the Dark Lord Potter by Thursdays. Weekends are my days off.
But on Fridays, when I feel like it, I save the world.
Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Harry James Potter, and I would like to tell you the story of how I became a legend.