A/N: I've been wanting to do a HP/SW crossover for years, and have finally gotten around to it. Just to say, this story will be dealing with the original SW characters around the Swarm War era, just AU from the Yuuzhan Vong war on. (Anakin and Chewie will still be dead, but Jacen won't be Sith and the galaxy thrown into yet another gigantic war.) Hope you enjoy it!
~"… there was a raised stone dias in the center of the lowered floor, and upon the dais stood a stone archway that looked so ancient, cracked, and crumbling that Harry was amazed that the thing was still standing. Unsupported by any surrounding wall, the archway was hung with a tattered black curtain or veil which, despite the stillness of the cold surrounding air, was fluttering very slightly as though it had just been touched…. He had the strangest feeling that there was someone standing right behind the veil on the other side of the archway… he edge around the dais, but there was nobody there…. He did not move. He had just heard something. There were faint whispering, murmuring voices coming from the other side of the veil."~
~Chapter 34, "the Department of Mysteries", OotP
It was a victorious procession that went in secret to the ministry of Magic on the eve of the summer of 1996. Finally, Lord Voldemort—the Darkest wizard Britain had seen in six centuries—had finally succeeded in his goal of the past fourteen years.
He had captured the Boy Who Lived.
Stroking his wand in delight, his snake Nagini wrapped around his shoulders, Voldemort turned his cold red eyes onto the smallest, and youngest, person there. Standing amongst such tall, burly men all who were all dressed in black with expressionless masks hiding their faces, Harry Potter looked small and meek, almost pathetic, as he walked—or stumbled and limped was more like it—held in the Death Eaters' grasps. At fifteen years of age, he was small and slight, his wild black hair matted with blood, which ran from a cut on his hairline and crusted along his face; beneath sweat-slick bangs, pained emerald eyes still managed to glare hatefully at him, effectively chasing away the agony he was clearly in.
Voldemort felt a vindictive smile spread across his face, pleased to have caused such physical and mental pain. He had tortured Potter, had made him scream until he couldn't even speak. Blood, both dried and wet, stained his ripped clothing from the deep gashes etched into his torso; his right leg was stiff and painful from another cut in his thigh, and he was sure Potter's body ached from the Cruciatus Curses that had been set upon him.
Silently, the Dark company made its way through the large, spacious rooms and halls of the Ministry, down through the dark corridors and finally into the Department of Mysteries.
Specifically, into the Death Room, where the ancient archway still sat with its tattered black veil fluttering in a nonexistent wind. Voldemort knew that Potter would loath the room, and what its doorway stood for—what it had done—and would undoubtedly cause him an emotional agony the Dark Lord himself would never hope to cause. It was in this room that the boy had lost Sirius Black through the archway, which, as far as Voldemort knew, was a way directly into the Afterlife. Of course he would never try to discover whether that was true or not, and he certainly not going to step through himself. Nobody had ever come back through the archway, so they must have gone somewhere permanently. Voldemort liked to think it was a link to Hell—it caused him so much pleasure to think of souls screaming in pain as they burned in the lake of everlasting sulfur eternally.
Sure enough, as soon as Potter's eyes fell upon the stone archway, his eyes became shadowed with grief, looking at the thing that had led to his beloved godfather's death. There was, also, a hint of understanding there as well, and the Dark Lord realized that the boy knew what was going to happen. He could see fear swimming in those emerald eyes, exhaustion, pain, but there was also acceptance.
Potter wanted to die. Voldemort had broken his will to live.
When finally all of the Death Eaters were gathered around, Voldemort stepped forward, where Potter stood before the archway, so small, so utterly helpless, and smiled. Potter flinched ever so slightly, fearing that smile, disgusted by it. To Harry, it made Voldemort's face so inhuman, so twisted and horrid, truly the stuff of nightmares. Was there even anything remotely human left in the snake-like creature standing before him?
Did it even truly matter?
"As you can see, Potter," the Dark Lord said now, and he began to circle the boy slowly, as if sizing him up. Harry watched him warily, fearful that Voldemort may do something else to his already-torn body, "I have brought you here to make a choice."
"A choice?" His voice was low and raspy, almost unrecognizable, from misuse and screaming, still wary, almost sarcastic. There was never any choice in Voldemort's propositions—it was either one thing, or nothing at all. You did not simply say "no" to the Dark Lord Voldemort. Ever.
"Of course, Potter. A choice." He chuckled, sending a shiver of fear down the young wizard's spine, and then abruptly became serious again. Deadly so. "A choice of deaths. You see this archway—I say to you that either you walk through it on your own violation, or I kill you myself in less… quick… means." He watched Potter flinch again, trembling at the thought of more torture. He smiled again. "So, Potter. Which will it be?"
Harry looked up in Voldemort's red eyes and knew the win-win scenario in the Dark Lord's favor—whatever he chose, it would end in a victory for the Death Eaters. Wizarding Britain would not win. He could only hope that the Order of the Phoenix would give Voldemort more of a struggle than he thought they would be able to. He wouldn't be here to help.
He hung his head, thinking about Ron and Hermione, the Weasleys, Hogwarts, all the places he knew and loved, the people who he was sure were mourning him, believing he was already dead. It hurt to remember them, knowing they would never know what had happened to him besides the fact that he had been captured. But he couldn't be too upset, thinking that if this archway was a path to death, then he would at least be with his parents and with Sirius again. Would that be such a bad thing?
He shut his eyes briefly then swallowed hard. Looked up at Voldemort. "I'll walk," he whispered softly, so quietly that he could be barely heard.
Voldemort smiled again. "Good," he hissed. He stepped aside so that Harry saw the archway. "Go on, Potter. Be with your Mudblood mother and your wretched mutt of a godfather."
The walk to the archway seemed to take forever. Harry could feel the Death Eaters' eyes upon him, his footsteps echoing eerily in the silence. He thought he could feel a cold draft caressing his face as he walked up to it and could hear the voices whispering.
Without hesitation, he stepped through.
A/N: Okay, I've gotta stop here. I don't think this chapter is in the right context of emotion. I gotta stop and get myself into the zone. I should remember not to watch the Reduced Shakespeare Company while I'm writing this—it's hard to feel sad about Harry's predicament when I'm hearing "Their fate pursues them, they can't seem to duck it, and at the end of Act 5, they both kick the bucket." Second chapter will be up soon, and Harry will find himself on Coruscant, and hopefully the emotions will be in better context. R&R!