Torn Asunder: The Story of the End of the World
AN: Hello all, it certainly has been awhile. I find myself in a set of circumstances that allows me to do some writing but while there are several of my other stories out there still unfinished I don't have the necessary references/inspirations to continue them at the moment. This is my first foray into the world of HP but as I do love the other great works written in this genre I hope that this will give you some small measure of satisfaction. For those of you who aren't familiar with some of my other works be advised that I have a grittier subject matter preference than many are used to and I try to establish a sense of realism to my works. If you are squeamish, underage, uncomfortable with violence, a prude, or just like to whinge please move along. If you have constructive criticism please let me know either through message or comment. Please, enjoy this as a slight distraction from the real world.
Also I don't own any proprietary characters/concepts/places in this fiction.
Chapter 1: A Terrible Birth
"Fear is what drives us. Fear of the Muggle. Their world is vast and their arsenals stocked. For thousands of years they've attempted to wipe us out for who we are! We, the heirs of Magic have been hunted and burned! They've imposed their laws on us and they've driven us from our ancestral homes! How long must we be under their thumb? How long must we suffer indignity at their hands? We have seen what they do to themselves in their wars; we have seen what happens when they intervene with our world. They have purged whole lands with fire and steel! Of course we fear them. They have infiltrated our world with poisoned blood. The Mudbloods steal our teachings and pay lip service to our ways but in their hearts they are still Muggles! They have desecrated our traditions and have always been ready to reveal us to their terrible brethren. They flaunt the Statues of Secrecy and gamble with the lives of our children with their scheming underhanded ways. Now they spill blood in the streets demanding more from us. They clamour for the end of our ways of life, for the end of our culture, and the end of Magic itself!"
-Lucius Malfoy, Speech before the Wizengamot, 2000
In the ruins of a once great and vibrant castle a pair of figures stand underneath crumbling stone arches their features masked by the shadows cast by moonlight. They stand before what had once been a courtyard; the grass has grown wild and free, a thick matting of life in what is now dead. The stonework of the walls is pocketed with holes, some big and some small. Ivy festers in these wounds spreading decay along the once majestic structure. Small piles of marble lay scattered about the clearing, some still bearing the intricate carvings that once adorned them but most lay only as rubble strewn about by a storm. The ruins seem to swallow the light of the moon.
One figure turns to the other.
"Are you sure you wish to proceed in this?" While framed as a question the speaker already knows the outcome of the response. The moon and the night merely highlight the ethereal qualities of the speaker's voice. As if the words weren't only meant to be heard with one's ears, or at least human ones.
"You know that I must. This war has gone on for too long and it must end." This voice speaks with a tone of desperation, of suffering. The deeper sound of the voice echoes with the memories of screams and pain; of fire and blood. The fevered pitch of one who was both resigned to fate yet struggling against it.
"Alright. Take your place in the center. Where the old statue of the Lady once stood." Without a further word they both stride into the clearing. The first figure waits until the second has reached the cracked marble pedestal where once the Lady of Knowledge once gazed about holding her silent vigil. Upon reaching the pedestal the second figure stands up on it and turns around to gaze back at the first.
"Remove your clothes."
With only the slightest hesitation the figure on the pedestal starts to disrobe. First to be cast on the marble and to spill on the ground was a fine cloak woven from Unicorn hair and dyed a deep blue from soaking in the poison of a Chimera. As the hood falls off the moonlight seemed to be devoured by the mess of ravens black hair which framed the weathered skin of the man that stands there. His green eyes burn with fire in the night and the moonlight illuminated the pale scar that runs jagged down his forehead. As he pulls off his vest the glisten of dragon scales make their presence known to the world. Taught muscles ripple as they are exposed to the night's chill as his tunic falls to the ground, the runes in the fabric flaring brightly in the moonlight. Boots of supple Centaur leather fall in place neatly with black Acromentula silk trousers. His belt falls to the grass; a slight clinking of glass and metal comes from the pouches along its length. Laid on top of the pile is a small wand of holly.
The naked man stands there in the moonlight warmed only with the inner fires of determination and desperation. The chill of the night seems to deepen; frost nipping across his weathered and scarred skin despite it being summer. His chest is a latticework of scars; his arms and hands show the lingering kiss of heat and flame. While not massive his muscles are toned and defined; a testament to years of use. To his chagrin the chill affects his body in other ways as his wedding tackle tries to shrink into his body.
The first figure stares admiring the fine specimen of man as an artist does a sculpture; or how a lion does to a gazelle. In the chill of the night thin and pale fingers reach up to undo the figure's cloak's wooden clasp. As the dark green fabric falls away the courtyard seems to shudder at the smooth and pale skin of the woman standing there. Her pale blonde hair falling down behind her in disarray, the tips of her hair woven with stones, beads, and shards of glass reaching down to her waist; her otherworldly eyes of the palest blue glittering in the night with an alien intensity. The loss of her cloak revealing a thin and lithe body covered with a simple white dress of homespun wool; when this dress falls away it reveals the woman underneath.
Her limbs seem long for her lithe body yet it suits her; pale scars climb like a maze up and down her arms. Pale flesh in the moonlight that seems to embrace the moon and reflect it back out for the world to enjoy. Her small pink nipples and areolas are hard in the night chill tipping her small breasts. Her stomach is adorned with concentric circles of green and black tattoos interwoven with hints of blue and red. As she breathes the colours seem to ripple and dance underneath her skin with a life of their own.
As she starts to pace around the courtyard she chants in an eldritch tongue its meaning and tone an unfathomable mystery to the man. He can plainly see her petite femininity and while he has wondered about her body for years, for he is after all a male, his eyes are not focused on the swell of her breasts, the roll of her hips, or the mound of her sex.
His brilliant green eyes are focused on the harsh reflection of the obsidian dagger in her hand.
Pass after pass she makes around the courtyard in a circle around the pedestal moving ever closer. The moonlight gathers around her and is molded into form by the magic of her words. The moonlight descends upon the grass in her wake with barely contained power. Green life is enveloped with incinerated without emotion and turned into the roiling cacostratum of raw magic bent to the will of the piteous powers at this woman's beck and call.
Every so often the woman drags the edge of the blade over her arms, her stomach, or her neck. Even in the night the man can see the drops of crimson adorning her like a gown of rubies. As she cuts herself her cries to the wild night are not ones of pain, but ones of ecstasy. She's now close to the pedestal making the final circuit. The man can hear the pants and moans beneath the chant of her voice. Finally she stands before him in the moonlight. Her lifeblood slowly tracing its way over her skin. Her breasts are highlighted and her nipples brightened by claret, her legs are traced by streams of red tears which seem to come weeping from the tattoo on her stomach. Her fingers are slick with her brilliant red blood. She walks towards him, her hips swaying in the manner which brings men to their knees begging and her eyes glistening with the magic of the night and the lust of her body; her sex is swollen with desire. She takes one bloodstained finger and puts it between her lips, in one smooth and sensual motion she sucks the blood off of it. Her eyes never leave his.
Despite his horror he feels himself start to respond to the sheer sensuality of the bloodstained woman before him. The fires in his loins at odds with the frost climbing up his legs; the blissful agony peaks in his mind and paralyzes his senses. This is beyond any of his wildest and most depraved dreams and his breath turns ragged and husky as his desire mounts.
Finally she stands in front of him, their naked bodies' mere inches apart from each other. She can feel the heat of his breath as the frost begins to creep up from the ground and cover the soles of her feet. He can feel… nothing. While he can see that her breathing is as ragged and intense as his he can feel nothing from it. No heat, no wind, no sound. He gazes into the deep pools of her eyes completely entranced by the terrible beauty of her being.
The moment seems to go on forever until she says something that he recognizes but doesn't quite break the spell of his enthrallment.
"Happy Birthday Harry."
With those words she kisses him deeply her blood and saliva mixing over his tongue as she bends his mouth down to hers.
With those words, her blood soaked skin pressed against his own, her nipples tiny nubs against his chest.
With those words, she fells his sex rigid against her stomach.
And with those words Luna Lovegood moves with inhuman speed and plunges a blood soaked obsidian dagger deep into the chest of Harry Potter. As he gasps in agony and surprise she exhales a shudder of emotion as her orgasm crashes over her burning away the chill of the night.
As she wrenches the dagger from his chest Harry falls forward onto his knees nearly knocking her over in the process. As his hands cover up the wound he can feel the slight trickle of blood leaking through his fingers. He can feel the pierced muscle of his heart and feels that the trickle is turning into a stream. His eyes still locked with hers with a look of uncomprehending betrayal as his enthrallment is broken in the most hideous of manners. Suddenly he gasps out in shock and Harry's eyes widen as a surge pain and energy shoots through his body; his gaze is wrenched from the pale blue orbs above him to the glowing sphere of magic before him.
Harry feels his vision fading, the thrumming of his heart the only thing he can hear. He sees the ball of energy slowly making its way towards him; the light is all that he can see.
Luna stands over him, beckoning to the ball with her hands; her chant is sung quickly now and with a twinge of desperation. The slightest inkling of doubt enters her thoughts; making her wonder what will happen if she can't draw the power in to Harry in time? Her chanted words get more guttural and harsh as she puts more effort and magic into the spell.
"The damn thing isn't moving fast enough," the thought races through her mind; "Harry is fading too fast and that the ritual is taking too long!"
She rails against the night and her eyes grow wide in panic. A sudden burst of inspiration hits her and she twists her right hand up and traces one of the sigils of power that her mother taught her before she died. As her fingers move through the air they draw lines of emptiness in their wake. The sigil complete and it begins to pulse in time with Luna's heart.
As the sigil begins to pulse with a quiver of power the blindingly bright sphere of magic lurches forward in time to the beat. It crawls toward the sigil and the stream of blood now spilling out on the ground from Harry's chest. With each beat it shudders and inches closer and closer.
"Almost there," she thought "just a few more seconds Harry, just hold on for a few more seconds!"
As Luna's heart beats louder and louder reflecting her urgency the sigil pulses brighter and brighter. Suddenly the sphere quivers and breaks apart into glowing shards of magic.
"NOOOOO!" she shrieks but it is too late.
Only a tiny sliver of energy jumps out and into the wound in Harry's chest; the rest leaps up into the pulsing sigil and melds with its otherworldly magic. The sigil crackles and splits, red light spilling forth from the wound rent in the air.
Luna yanks Harry back but trips on his discarded cloak in her blind panic. She falls to the ground her feet tangling in his clothes and he unceremoniously falls prostrate on top of her pinning her down. She thinks that at any other time such an occurrence would be a cause to celebrate but right now it is a problem as her ritual has taken an unexpected turn. As she looks up in a mixture of amazement and horror the gash in the air flares brightly and then disappears as if it were never in existence.
On the pedestal lays a man dressed in a bleached woolen tunic and brown woolen trousers. As Luna crawls out from underneath Harry she notices that the man clutches a leather sack in his left hand and a staff about five feet in length in his right. The man's eyes are rolled up in his head and it is obvious that he was is not conscious. His breath escapes fast and shallow and soft moans escape his lips; the murmurs of a madman.
As she stands up overlooking the sight she can't help but wonder what to do. The ritual worked perfectly up until the very end. Harry lay bleeding and unconscious. And there was a new player in the game.
Luna looks up towards the sky, her skin smooth and clean without a trace of blood and bathed in moonlight and wonders what the Powers have sent her this time.