Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor Rise of the Guardians.
AN: beta'd by BlueRubyBeat. Thank you so much!
Dull, lifeless emerald eyes peered at the red moon.
A lone figure was sitting amongst thousands and thousands of decaying bodies. His cape, torn beyond repairing, fluttered with the wind.
The color red dyed the soil on the ground. The metallic smell was overwhelming. There was not a single noise, except for the cackling of the green fire and the soft fluttering of fabrics. The war…no, massacre was horrifying leaving no mortals alive. All had perished except for the one immortal:
The Master of Death - Harry James Potter.
1000 years had passed since he received his title.
1000 years since he ruled over the world.
1000 years of peacefulness and harmony.
1000 years of joy, happiness, laughter and fun.
All ended abruptly when the plague happened.
No one knows what happened. No one knows who started it, but when they noticed, it was already too late. Too many had been infected.
The muggles first, then the magical creatures, and then the wizarding kind.
All of them, every single one of them, swallowed by insanity. Madness.
Then they started killing one another. Killing and eating, tearing out the hearts, just for the sheer joy of it. Laughter and tears, screams and hopelessness.
By the time Harry noticed, half of the muggle population was gone.
Only 5 hours had passed.
How was that even possible?
He tried, oh yes, he sure as hell tried. He was the Master of Death for God's sake!
But… it was no use.
Whatever it was, it was eating up the livings' sanity, tearing their mind apart, leaving nothing but sick madness behind.
Five day had passed.
Five days of hell.
Five days of insanity.
Here he was, sitting on bodies, gazing at the pale metallic red moon, humming slightly.
He giggled. Maybe, maybe it had taken his sanity as well. Maybe he would join the others as well.
Oh he sure wished it was true. Why had they not taken his sanity? Why? Why leave him alone? Why must he suffer through this? Why can't he summon the dead? Why should he be the only immortal or mortal that lived?
"Why…Why?!" He asked the moon. He hugged his legs and buried his face in his arms. He wished to cry, to let go of this guilt, the guilt that was slowly eating him. This horribly pain in his chest.
To lose everything he knew, everything he loved and cherished, in just five days…was too much for him.
Why was he still sane?
After 66 years and 37,629 attempted suicides, Harry Potter finally gave up.
He strolled through the ruins, carefully-not very carefully, stepping on the skeletons as to avoid the red soil and cement permanently stained by blood.
The crushing-bone sound and the soft humming echoed among the ruined buildings.
Everything else was still, eerily quiet and unnaturally still.
Harry kept on walking and skipping on the skeletons, humming the first song that came to his mind: "It's a small world".
He sang with an eerier smile plastered on his face.
Softly and gently, hair raising, spine chilling, he sang.
"It's a world of laughter, a world or tears…" Step, crush, step crush.
"It's a world of hopes…" He stopped walking, his shoulder started shaking, his arms holding his stomach and then a full blown laughter erupted. He laughed and laughed and… he would have cried if not for the fact that his tear duct has dried years ago.
Then as sudden as his laughter came… it stopped.
"…it's a world of fear.
That it's time we're aware
It's a small world after all."
"…it's a small world after all
It's a small world after all…"
He stopped and spread his arms on both of his sides,
"It's a small world after all
It's a small, small world…"
He looked at the moon and his grin widened.
"There is just one moon and one golden sun
And a smile means friendship to everyone
Though the mountains divide
And the oceans are wide
It's a small, small world
It's a small world after all
It's a sm…"
He walked toward the horizon, with no destination nor goal in his mind.
He just walked and hummed and sang and walked and walked and…
He could hear the sound of the chirping birds, the splashing of the rivers, and the soft melody of the wind.
He could feel the warm sun, shining onto his face asking him to wake up.
He could feel the wind blowing playfully at him, urging him to play with them.
He could feel…
There's something wrong with this image.
Harry James Potter, aka the Master of Death, opened his eyes and bolted upright.
His eyes widened dramatically.
Green, the first color he saw, but could not acknowledge. Movements! A lot of small foreign movements!
The noises… the colors...
He stood up, slowly and painfully.
He turned and looked around him. All his brain movements stopped.
Trees! Living green trees!
He looked down and saw green grass. He kneeled down, body bended so he can touch and feel the living green grass.
Yes…YES! He can feel them. He CAN!
He closed his eyes and spread out his rusty magic. Concentrated… concentrated…
And something brushed with his magic. Soothing, calming, and curiously.
Magic! Foreign living magic!
He could feel his heart beat pounding in his chest.
Was it possible? He would not hope. Was he… was he in another world? Or maybe was he in the past?
Then he started laughing.
He stood up, and started to run.
He laughed, giggled and ran.
All the while looking around him, touching the green, smooth leaves, the rough barks, feeling the grass crushing under his bare feet as he ran listening to the birds as they sang.
For 77 years of loneliness and despair, he had never slept nor ate. He did not feel any physical pain nor did he care. He dared not dream, nor hope.
For 77 years, he had not seen a single speck of life nor seen movements except for his own.
For 77 years, he had not seen any green nature nor felt any wind.
77 years with no sun, only the red moon.
77 years of talking and singing to himself.
77 years of the color red, grey and black.
And now…there was no word to describe his overwhelming feelings that were building up in his chest.
Happiness, joy, disbelief…
Was this even possible?
Was this real?