Title: Black and White
Characters: Harry Potter, Sam, Jake(-ish)
Warnings: Language (only a few times)
Spoilers: Up to 2.21, All Hell Breaks Loose: Part 1
Word Count: 2,437
Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter series or Supernatural, nor do I own the song below
Summary: When Harry's vision come back stronger than ever, Harry can't fathom what's triggering them. Voldemort dead, after all. Of course, he wasn't expecting it to be a … demon?
Show me what it's like to dream in black and white
So I can leave this world behind tonight
Holding on too tight, breathe the breath of life
So I can leave this world behind tonight
~Unknown Soldier...Breaking Benjamin~
The second he regained consciousness, he started spewing curses. When he noticed his surroundings, the curses stopped abruptly.
"Bloody flipping hell." He whispered as he forced himself into a sitting position, his eyes continuously scanning the room. The whole interior was wood. Wooden floors, wooden walls, wooden tables. Every couple of feet, there would be a wooden chair laying haphazardly on the floor. Wherever he was, Harry certainly wasn't where he'd just been. This was not supposed to happen. It was his wedding day. Why couldn't he have one normal day? Just one. "Okay, Harry, first things first. What were you just doing?"
Well, that was a stupid question. He was with Ron, nervously pacing the room as he waited for the wedding to start. His wedding. The wedding he was going to miss. Oh Merlin, Ginny was going to be so pissed.
No use in worrying about that now. He pushed himself to his feet, momentarily unbalanced. His head spun in circles and he groaned, rubbing his forehead in distaste. His head usually only hurt this bad when he was having a vision.
Recently, there had been a lot of those. When he killed Voldemort three years before on the fields surrounding Hogwarts, the visions completely disappeared for awhile. He finally believed he was getting a respite from all the hell he'd been forced through for all those years. Then, out of nowhere, a vision—much, much stronger than any vision he received from Voldemort—kicked in on his 21st birthday and sent all his 'I might finally be semi-normal' notions all straight to hell.
These visions were nothing like the one's Voldemort sent—now, he sees people he's never so much as passed on the streets be murdered before his eyes, their lives ended brutally as their eyes pleaded for the pain to stop. He can remember every detail of those...dreams. Harry can feel their pain and the sick happiness they feel when the agony finally fades, allowing them to discover the bliss of death. Every once in awhile, though, Harry sees someone...different. Two men, one about his own age and the other a few years older, who helped rather than harmed.
His days after those dreams are always cheerful, because at least there's someone out there who's taking care of the things he can't.
Harry let out a breath he doesn't remember ever holding, his hands absently trailing down his leg as he searched for the only weapon he could really use without fail. He hissed, his eyes flashing briefly in anger as his hand meets only the stiff cloth of his trousers. His wand wasn't there.
That meant something disarmed him and he was virtually useless. Defenseless. The urge to start cursing again swelled up in the pit of his stomach, but he ignored it for the time being. It wasn't the right time to start panicking; he needed to assess the situation and figure a out a way to avoid...casualties. Before Voldemort's fall, he'd been in plenty of sticky situations and the fact that he's still alive today has to count for something.
His eyes scanned the room one more time before they catch on something potentially useful. "Well, here we go then." He rubbed his hands together, staring at the ceiling with pure determination in his green eyes. "Let's get a bird's eyes view of this place, shall we?"
And, yes, he realizes he was talking to himself. Shut up.
Only minutes later, he's crawled his way up onto the fragile roof, his entire body pressed flat against the rotting wood. Despite the dismal conditions of the decaying building, he knew he wasn't going to break through the ceiling as long as he kept his center of balance evenly distributed. Years of spying on Death Eaters and fighting them gave him plenty of experience in that sort of situation.
The edge of the room was craggy and bitter from lack of upkeep over several decades. The boards splintered off and the fine shards embedded themselves in his war-calloused hands, attacking him as through he were some kind of fresh meat.
His thoughts returned to the ground a few seconds later where several people, both male and female stood in a group. Other than that the town looked completely abandoned.
From his place on the roof, he could just barely make out there words, and what he did catch was virtually useless.
"...soldiers...war...apocolypse?" He blinked a few times, taken aback by the words coming from the large soldier character of the bunch. Well, that sure wasn't what he was expecting to hear.
One of the girls, the brunette, said something, but her voice was too soft to pick up. He groaned and measured the distance from the roof to the ground. Not far. He could be down in seconds.
"I know...sounds...crazy!" Harry snorted quietly, shaking his head in exasperation.
"It doesn't just sound it."
Harry began making his way down the side of the building, their conversation getting clearer the further down he went. He was getting entire sentences at least.
"I don't really care what you think, okay! If we're all gathered here together then that means it's starting and we've gotta—" He winced at the voice, rubbing his head at he landed on his feet he was still hidden from the group, but he could see their features clearly now.
Lookie there. The one all the other are looking at like he's insane is one of the people from his dreams. A quick look at the others helped him tie it all up into one conclusion. At some point in time, he'd seen all these people in a dream. Brilliant.
Harry shook himself from his thoughts as he lowered himself to his knees and watched the group cautiously.
"...I've heard enough. I'm better off on my own. FYI, so are you." The moody soldier stormed away, inconveniently towards Harry's tentative hiding place. He doesn't understand anything yet. Being caught off guard was his worst nightmare.
Unfortunately, he had the feeling that they shouldn't split up—it was stupid, irrational, and would probably get someone killed. For the moment, though, he hung back, and let the soldier pass by within two feet of him.
When the group lunatic—because what else was he supposed to call him?—finally turned back around to look at the other members of the group, Harry stood, brushing off his pants.. It brought him into clear view of the other people who were just as trapped as him.
"I really don't think he should go off alone."
The four others stared at him, briefly shocked at his appearance. The lunatic recovered first, heading off in the direction Jake went a few seconds earlier.
The blade glinted in the fading sunlight, it's metallic surface reflecting the image of the suffering ghost town around them. Dread crept up on his, nudging him to do the right thing...because he's a warrior. He'd always been a warrior. From his first fight with Voldemort when he was fifteen months old, he'd been fighting every battle. This one was no different.
He clutched his own dagger close, tiptoeing around the makeshift arena Jake and Sam created during their bloody fight. This is no different. But murder is murder, no matter what way you put it.
Jake never saw Harry creep up on him. The soldier was too focused on killing Sam while the seasoned hunter was distracted. Just before the blade descended upon Sam, a different dagger pierced Jake's heart from behind. The surprise on Sam's face as Jake fell to the ground, dead before his body even touched the dirt, instantly soothed Harry—Sam would do. If Harry was right, then Sam would make it through.
Harry stared at the man he just killed, disgusted. Even if Jake was planning to kill Sam, the soldier was just trying his best with what he had. The demon responsible for this mess was sick for putting innocents in the middle of this disgusting plan of his, dooming them from the day they turned six months old.
He wisely turned his thoughts away from the fact that he was one of those babies, because he wasn't really. Either way, he was always going to die Whether by Voldemort, of this Demon, his death was supposed to happen.
"Shouldn't turn your back on someone plotting to kill you, Sam." He muttered, then winced as he realized some of Jake's blood was dripping down his fingers, cascading off the tips into the dirt beneath his feet. "Thought you would know that."
Harry didn't mean to sound condescending, but he was tired.
For a moment, Sam's eyes connected with his. What Harry saw there was difficult to bear. There was so much sadness and pain, yet Sam still seemed to emit so much light and hope at the same time. Harry broke the connection wearily, running his unbloodied hand through his hair until Sam merely sighed and nodded in acceptance. Sam's gaze wandered towards the nearby road that lead to their freedom, and Harry could read the calculations Sam was making like an open book.
"It won't work." Harry jerked his head in the direction of the road. "He won't let us leave until theirs only one of us left."
Sam's entire body immediately recoiled in on itself, his stance became defensive in moments. Harry just smiled sadly and shook his head. "I'm not going to kill you, Winchester."
"Really." That single word stung for a seconds until Harry remembered that Sam didn't know him, and that explained it all.
Harry twirled the knife around so that the blade faced himself and extended it towards Sam. "Yes," He judged his next words carefully, but in the end, word choice didn't really matter. "I want you to kill me."
If it weren't such a serious situation, Harry would have taken the time to laugh at the utter shock that filtered across the younger Winchesters face.
"Yeah?" Sam said softly, though there's a hard undertone to the words, as though their made from steel. Once again, Harry found himself admiring Sam Winchester. "Why would you want that?"
Harry hmmed quietly, gently waving the dagger in small circles. Sam took it wearily and Harry snorted as the ever-so-charming Winchester checked it for any binding sigils. "How 'bout a story, then?" Harry ignored the incredulous look Sam sent his way. "There's this boy whose parents both die in a fire when he was a baby. Of course, that's after the murderer took their lives but failed to take the little boy's. So, the boy goes to his remaining family. Turns out, they hate the boy's guts, so they shove the baby into a broom closet and ignored him for the rest of his life."
Never has he given out his story before—not to Ginny and he never thought he would be giving it out to a stranger. "The boy grew up thinking his name was freak." Harry refused to look at Sam, instead opting to look down at Jake's cooling body. "Imagine his surprise when he gets a letter from a boarding school that has a name he hardly recognizes as his own on it. Surprise, surprise. He finally gets to disembark from his relatives."
"School doesn't turn out to be as great as the boy pictured. He learns the second he walks through the doors that there's a murderer out there, seeking revenge on him. Seven years and the same number of attacks on his life later, he kills the son of a bitch, but it's all pointless by then, because he doesn't really have anything." And the lies begin piling on. He does have a lot of the things he always longer for—a fiance, solid friendships, and a life to live. I'm so sorry, Ginny.
Yet, his most well-kept secret is his status as Master of Death. He buried the piece of information so deep in his head, not even the late Albus Dumbledore would be able to find it. He had the power to come back to life—it wasn't easy and would take several months to do, but it's a better option than Sam had.
Black and white. Life or death.
"Why should the person who has nothing triumph over the person who has a family to go back to?"
"You want to die." It was stated so certainly—so firmly—that Harry almost missed the compassion that lurked behind the words.
"Not really." Harry shrugged, "But better me than you." Harry knew he had Sam lured in; he would do it. "Just make sure to kill the demon for me, right?"
"I don't want to kill you." Harry's watched as the expressions flowed across Sam's face—he saw the complete revulsion at the very thought of it.
"Look, Sam. I'm going to tell you something." Harry said bluntly as his eyes flickered from Sam to the knife in Sam's hand. "I'm going to die no matter what. I have no experience against...demons? You have a hell of a lot of experience and a brother who can back you up. If I walk out of here alive, either I'll be offed by the demon for trying to kill it or your brother for killing you."
"I—" Somehow, despite Harry's compelling argument, the Winchester stubbornness managed to take hold. Bloody brilliant.
"Do it."The english wizard stared directly into Sam's eyes, compelling him mentally. He didn't bother using magic; Ginny told him years ago that he had very earnest and persuasive eyes.
When Sam finally nodded in consent, Harry nearly sighed in relief.
Harry didn't really feel the pain when the knife pierced his flesh and bone. Somehow, he knew the pain was there, but he just couldn't feel it. In a way, it was relaxing. A small small tugged at the corner of his lips as Sam lowered him to the ground slowly. Even as Harry's vision dimmed, he could see the horror cross the hunter's face. "Don't you dare regret this, Sam Winchester." The darkness pulled at his eyelids. "Stop the apocalypse, Sam, because it's coming fast." He didn't have the slightest clue where the words came from.
(~) (~) (~) (~) (~)
And a few years later, when Sam thinks back to that conversation, he wonders how the hell Harry knew about the damn apocalypse.