The WPP

Prologue:
“He’s Still Alive”

Hermione Granger walked between the countless graves in the cemetery, her fingers brushing each of the gray headstones as she passed.

Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic, stood behind a podium, facing the many wizards and witches who had gathered at the Ministry of Magic. Everyone had been stuffed into one large assembly hall, and although large it was, it wasn’t big enough to seat several thousand people, the majority of the magical population of London and its surrounding areas.

Hermione paused at one circle of graves. The graveyard had been designed so that all graves ran in circles, beginning with the outermost, largest circle, and continuing so that all the circles were enclosed in each other, each smaller than the last. Hermione was standing at the very center of the necropolis, in the innermost circle of graves.

Scrimgeour took a deep breath. The speech would in all probability be the most important of his career. It would decide the future of his term in office. It was vital he said the right things, made the correct impression. And so he began…

Hermione sank to her knees, sighing softly, and reached out an arm to stroke the name on the first grave: Ronald Weasley.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I welcome you on this day… a day to rejoice and… and a day to grieve.’

Hermione swallowed hard, pushing back the lump in her throat as she touched the words engraved on the next burial place: Ginerva Weasley.

‘It is a day filled with pain, as we remember those we have lost...’

Tears spilled down Hermione’s cheeks, leaving streaks of wetness on her skin. She hastened to wipe them away but the motion seemed to make them fall faster. On and on the graves went, naming people Hermione had loved, people she had wanted to spend her entire life with…

‘… those who gave their lives to fight the wretched battle of good against evil, right against wrong. It is a battle all worlds, all peoples must fight before the end.’

…Remus J. Lupin…

‘However we should not grieve forever, for this is not a battle in which we have suffered defeat, but one from which we have emerged victorious.’

…Nymphadora Tonks…

‘Our loved ones have not died in vain. They are to be honored for bringing us our freedom!’

…Arthur Weasley…

‘On this day, we can surely say, that Lord Voldemort, He Who Must Not Be Named, is dead!’

…Fred Weasley…

‘And to thank for this victory we have only ourselves and our kin!’

…Bill Weasley…

‘We have overcome fear, pain, suffering, oppression, and we have come out on top! We have won!’

…Rubeus Hagrid…

‘This day marks a new age!’

…Minerva McGonagall…

‘An age in which witches and wizards of all bloods, of all families, of all histories, will reign supreme!’

…Alastor Moody…

‘An age devoid of discrimination between those borne of muggle families or magical!’

…Kingsley Shacklebolt…

‘In this age we shall work together, to make the wizarding world a fearless place.’

…Harry James Potter…

‘No longer shall we live in dread of death, of crime, of suffering. The wizarding world shall once again be a secure place!’

Sobs racked Hermione’s body as she came to the final grave, and she traced Harry’s name over and over again with her slender fingers. The grave at her feet, the grave on top of which the headstone she was touching stood, held no body.

‘In closing, I would like to give my condolences to the families who have lost so much, who’s kin lie in the memorial graves behind the Ministry establishment. Do not grieve for long my dear people… your nearest and dearest have not gone on to a worse place, but to a better one.’

Hermione looked up at the blue sky, tinged with white clouds, as her tears subsided slowly.

Scrimgeour made sure to meet the eyes of various members of the audience before he stepped off the stage. He had no idea which of the spectators had lost their family members, so he was merely guessing. However judging by the cheers and claps from the various occupants of the assembly hall, many of whom were simultaneously sobbing and whopping, he had obviously done the right thing. The Minister allowed himself a small sigh of relief. His office seemed secure, for the moment at least. He said a small prayer, thanking the Lord for Harry Potter’s death (technically disappearance, since his body had not been recovered, but Rufus was no stickler for details) for he was quite sure, that had the teenage boy been around, many would be vying for him, the Great Harry Potter, to take up office as Minister, forgetting how young he was (and how obviously foolish). As Rufus sat down next to Percy Weasley, his Junior Minster, amid a torrent of back-patting and congratulations on his fabulous speech, he realized that he should have added something in his speech about the boy. Oh well, he thought, no one’s going to miss it. It’s almost as if he never existed.

Hermione bit her trembling lips. He’s still alive, she though fiercely, he has to be alive.


***

10 Hours Later
12 Miles Away

There was a graveyard nearby…. at his feet lay a body… someone was screaming, shouting… a women… a vicious laugh and a sudden strike of pain… a fluttering veil… blinding flashes of light… more pain. Then suddenly the images, all linked to one another like a badly sewn quilt with uneven patches, were pushed away, covered, as if a wave of water had crashed over them and swept them away. And then there was water… lots of it… he was swimming, kicking his legs, trying to move… he had to breathe… no he couldn’t… breath… NO!… breathe, breathe, breathe! He stole the breath, took it beyond all reason, and a cold feeling engulfed him… choking him… strangling… laughing at his foolery… he couldn’t move, couldn’t escape, couldn’t run… all he could do was shudder involuntarily as his body went limp… and regret, regret the stolen breath… before darkness triumphed.

Travis Walker Martin awoke with a gasp, and sat bolt upright in his bed. He was sweating profusely and shivering in his thin nightclothes. Just a dream, he tried to assure himself, his breathing hard, it was only a dream. You were dreaming, an old dream, dreaming about drowning… about drowning… about drowning…

Travis pulled his legs closer, curling up as he lay back down beneath his sweat-soaked covers, still shivering, still afraid.

The night was still dark and quiet, the silence was thick. Travis swallowed, wanting his heart to stop hammering at his ribcage, wanting to feel safe again. He pulled his blanket tighter under his chin.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror hanging a few feet away from the bed: Pale face, under thick brown hair and soft blue-gray eyes. I look terrified, thought the seventeen-year-old, and the thought helped to calm him. A shuddering sigh escaped him as he sank down into his pillows, the tension in his muscles relaxing. It only took a few moments until he his eyelids began to droop, and sleep stole over him.

And then he shot into a sitting position once again. He hadn’t been dreaming about drowning the entire time. He’d seen something entirely different at first. Something about flashing lights, a lot of noise… and something else too… Travis tried to hold onto the memory but it slipped away quickly, almost eagerly, as most dreams eventually do. Travis’s heart began to race once more as a shiver stole up his spine. What had that dream been about? Who had been in it?

People he didn’t know or couldn’t remember, that much was for sure.

Of course he couldn’t be sure since he couldn’t fully remember the first dream…

Travis tried to force himself to dredge up a few images or sounds even but all that did was give him a headache and so he turned to the second dream he’d had… the one about drowning… and dying.

Travis struggled to find an explanation for the nightmare, (logical thinking was always calming): a horror movie, ghost stories, a family drowning, overeating... anything! But there was no logical explanation and he was forced to believe that his mind was just acting up, drawing out old memories that had been pushed back into the deepest corners of his mind. Memories that had been thrust so far back that he had no conscious recollection of them, and so his subconscious was feeding the long forgotten items into his dreams. Travis sighed again. Except that I’ve never drowned… or almost drowned… so where could it have come from?

Travis’s forehead wrinkled in concentration as his thoughts turned to his parents. But no… they didn’t die drowning… It was a roof collapse… no water.

The boy shrugged after a while. His fear had subsided and he was nodding off again. No one ever said dreams had logical explanations…

This time, as he fell back into his pillows, he really did fall asleep.

***

Part 1 “Oblivion”

In dark room, on a dark night, a man sits on a desk, writing feverishly. He is young, but not so young. Stacks of clean, white paper surround him and emit a strange glow, as if urging him on, insisting he hurry. His pen skates across the pages, leaving smooth writing that is slanted to the left. Beads of sweat collect on his forehead and he only stops at the sound of footsteps outside his door… and then again, returns to his pages with ever greater intensity. Lines crease the skin around his eyes and mouth; he is worried and upset.

At first glance, he seems to be quite alone in the room. However, there are creatures that share the space with him, creatures invisible to him. They take a great interest in his writing and drift over his shoulder, reading the marks. This is what they see:

I need more time… time I don’t have. But this has to be said, it has to told, written down. Someday I may want to remember it. Someday I may want to bring it all back. Someday… not tomorrow, or the day after, but someday when I am ready to accept the truth. Not all of what I’m writing is even my own recollection. Some is what I’ve heard and been told. But all of it’s true. Right down to the last word.

My room is quiet and dark. Mum and Dad don’t know what’s wrong with me. They can’t understand why I’ve asked them to leave me alone, holed up here. They have no idea what I’ve spent the last couple of months doing. I’m not going to tell them either. Not that I’m allowed. Not that I’ll remember it tomorrow morning. Or even later tonight. The thought is depressing but I’ve made the choice myself. There is nothing else I can do or want to do. I’m not about to give up my life. Not for anything.

I’ll start at the very beginning. Or what seemed like a beginning. It didn’t really start with me… well, it did start with me… but it didn’t. It started, really started, with the people who’d lived through the war, the people who had fought in it and survived.

The creatures exchange glances, move away from the man. They know what this signifies, what must soon come to pass. They remain in the room, but slowly glide here and there, remembering the events of the past months, for the events shape the creatures’ destinies and the destiny of all mankind, as much as they shape the destinies of the men and women to whom they occurred.

***
Chapter 1
“Chinwag and Compunction”

Walking through Diagon Alley after Rufus Scrimgeour’s speech at the Ministry of Magic was a very difficult business indeed. The number of people that had swarmed to the area had to be record breaking. People were Apparating into the middle of the alley, leaking out of shops, talking loudly, yelling, laughing, sobbing. Such a range of emotions in one area was hard to find.

But the case was the same in Hogsmeade, at the Ministry of Magic and even at Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

People everywhere were gossiping to their hearts content, men and women alike, for whoever says that men don’t gossip is ignorant of the ways of men. They talked about the downfall of the Order of the Phoenix which had lost so many valuable members, they spoke of the speech Scrimgeour had made, they reminisced of those who had been lost in the battling and of their resting place behind the Ministry of Magic, and finally, they chattered endlessly about Harry Potter. No matter what Scrimgeour thought, the boy was not going to be easily forgotten. The Minister for Magic had seemingly allowed something to slip his mind during his speech and that was this: During Harry Potter’s ten years of being after the most evil sorcerer to have lived had fled, during which no wizard or witch had ever set eyes on him, and his care was handed over completely to magic-hating muggles, he had not once been forgotten, his existence had not once slipped the minds of the millions of magical folk in the world, for the simple reason that he had banished the one wizard they feared most, (at least for sometime, if not forever) Lord Voldemort. And now that Voldemort was truly gone, once and for all eternity, there was no doubt about it: Harry James Potter would probably never leave the mind of any living witch or wizard for generations to come. So the once thing that Scrimgeour had hoped for did not come to pass: the magical people of England did not forget that Harry Potter was precisely who they had wanted to rule them, once it became as clear as rain that the boy had killed Voldemort, of course. And this was the exact topic of discussion at a large gathering of witches and wizards at the Leaky Cauldron. Needless to say, the pub was full to the brim and also needless to say, the bartender was a very happy man indeed, as his pocket was ready to rip at the seams. The conversation was loud, the folk roused:

‘Right easy to say it is, Scrimgeour was hoping that no one would bring up the topic! The look on his face during that speech was enough to tell ya’!’ said one red-faced man, waving his hand about ferociously and succeeding in soaking himself and those around him in Firewhisky.

‘Of course that was what ‘e was ‘oping! Why, ‘oo’d want to be told to step down from the Minister’s spot, right when things got a smidgen easier to ‘andle! No Voldy-mort means no trouble and that means that ‘e’s got a much easier job now, don’t it!’ replied another man, this one tall and thin, his face resembling a bowtruckle’s.

‘Of course there will be trouble, Abe!’ called a women seated at once of the tables. ‘They’ve still to round up many of the Death Eaters and that will be trouble enough. No the Minister just wanted to ensure that the people didn’t get ahead of themselves and elect a boy in a moment of elation. Rightfully so, of course.’

‘Ah, but Melinda,’ said Abe, wisely, ‘the Death Eaters won’t be much trouble now, will they? They’ll be scared and ‘iding away, ‘oping that they aren’t killed on sight, ‘eh? They’ll be easy to bandy up, all the Minister’s got to do is send in ‘is Auror’s and the job’s done.’

Melinda obviously didn’t agree and probably would have said so if another woman hadn’t interrupted.

‘You know what I heard?’ she said excitedly, standing up on a chair to be heard, for she was a very small woman. ‘I heard that Scrimgeour ordered the killing of Harry Potter, right after old Voldy snuffed it! Didn’t want no competition! Verrrrry clever, that Scrimgeour, we’ve got to hand that to him!’

‘Fool of a woman!’ cried a third man, with a long flowing mustache. ‘Scrimgeour, order the killing of a boy!? Despicable! The man wouldn’t even think of it! I daresay you got that bit of information from the Quibbler! Piece of junk, that paper is! Nothing in it is true or my name is Harry Potter, and of course, it’s not!’

This seemed to anger the woman who had made the remark about the “assassination” and she immediately grew very red in the face. No doubt there would have been a fight if a tall, handsome young man hadn’t stepped in.

He stood up, slapped a Galleon onto the bar counter to pay for his drink and then said, in a loud, clear voice, ‘Oh, get over it!’

They did.

And he left. He wasn’t seen in the wizarding world again for more than two years.

The chattering group in the Leaky Cauldron began another discussion �“ this time about the recently decorated war hero, Sebastian, who, after Harry Potter, was one of the main reasons the “good guys” had even won the war. According to the Minister for Magic at least, who made sure to leave the “Harry Potter” bit out whenever he spoke of the “great war hero, who risked his own life to bring the tragic war to an end”. Rumors had gone around about Sebastian though; no one really knew why Scrimgeour had decorated him so lavishly… in fact, he was one of the first war heroes ever to be named by the wizarding government… for some reason, people couldn’t get rid of that feeling: that something fishy was behind Sebastian's title. Was he even a “hero” at all? Harry Potter though dead, hadn’t been mentioned once in any of Scrimgeour’s speeches or bestowed any badges or titles or awards. He had only been given a memorial grave behind the Ministry of Magic. And he had killed Voldemort.

Not a single one of the pub’s occupants seemed to realize that the man who had just walked out was the man they were now eagerly gossiping about.

***

Of course, all the commoners weren’t as easily calmed as those in the Leaky Cauldron. Though, over the next few weeks, they did get over the fact that Harry Potter had died and that they would have to settle for Scrimgeour continuing his work as the Minster, it didn’t mean they forgot their hero. That would never happen, no matter how much Scrimgeour or any other person wished and prayed and hoped. The fact that Harry Potter’s body had never been recovered fueled their memories and discussions. The Boy Who Lived was more talked about than ever before. Details and rumors about him were tossed around in everyday conversation. In the end Scrimgeour grew tired of trying to draw away his people’s mind from The Chosen One and back onto himself. His Junior Minster, Percy Weasley, assured him that there was no danger in discussions. After all, it wasn’t like the boy was alive or could be revived. The last war had ended with a massive explosion which had taken the lives of everyone in the vicinity of the blast �“ Potter had been the cause of the explosion �“ he had been at the heart of it, this everyone knew. His chances of survival were less than the chances of those around him. And since all around him had perished it was obviously clear to everyone �“ Minister and commoners alike �“ that Harry Potter had perished too.

***

Aya Miyazaki had also been honored as a war hero, though not as generously as Sebastian. And like Sebastian, no reason was given to the magical community as to why she had been honored. All that had been said was that she, like the other “heroes”, had sacrificed endlessly to win the war and had been “brave beyond all reasoning”. Her friends and family were quite positive, however, that during the war Aya had continued her work as an Unspeakable, doing nothing out of the ordinary to aid the war effort. And so they, like so many others, had been befuddled that the Minister for Magic should label her a war hero. Very few people knew what Aya had been decorated for, and none of them was about to give any explanations. She was a hero. End of story. Soon after Scrimgeour’s speech at the Ministry of Magic, however, she said her goodbyes to friends and family, left for work in the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry �“ and wasn’t see again for more than two years.

***

And so the wizarding community was provided with more gossip material: Why should the two most respected and revered war heroes stop attending ceremonies, speeches and the likes, most of which were in their honor? Why should interviewers from the Daily Prophet, who had been hounding them ruthlessly since the end of the war, be suddenly unable to find them? Why should they, of all people, want to disappear? And where could they possibly go? Was this a voluntary departure, or had they been murdered?

Luckily for Aya Miyazaki and Sebastian, as familiar as their names (or in Sebastian's case, his first, and only, name) had recently become to the wizarding world, not many people could recognize them and so, it wasn’t all that difficult to disappear.

It was exactly what the Minister for Magic had been hoping for however: Something to draw his people’s minds off that goddamned boy.

***

As the creatures in the young man’s room drift here and there, an owl lands outside the one window in the room. As if he has been expecting this, the man jumps up, knocking over his seat in his hurry and yanks open the window. The owl, a beautiful snow-white owl, hoots in a mournfully low voice, hops into the room and sticks out her leg. This owl is followed by another, small as a tennis-ball. It seems almost half-dead. The man reaches out, and tugs off the two large scrolls tied to each of the owls’ legs. They immediately bound back towards the window, spread their wings and take off. He watches them for a moment. The owls will return to their owner, someone this man has spent many of the past days with. The fresh memory of the owls’ owner does not seem to bring him any joy. Instead, he looks even more worried than before.

He takes his seat again and the creatures watch as he unfurls each of the scrolls. Both are thick, containing many pages, and a strange glow emanates from them. A small scrap of paper falls out of the roll the snow-white owl had held. The creatures move towards the man to read the paper, as he picks it up off the floor. This piece of paper is not glowing. The writing on it is elegant, joined script, curling and slanting like perfect calligraphy.

I though you might need this �“ these papers contain pure memory. This is the most accurate account you can have of what has happened. Do not lose them. Keep them secret at all costs. Everything could depend on them later.

- S

The dark-haired young man turns back to the glowing booklets. One has the same elegant writing on it that is on the note. The other is covered by small, smooth, neat writing, curved and loopy, but not slanted and also not as elegant or graceful as the writing on the other pack of parchment.

The creatures lean forward, slowly but eagerly, and watch as the young man flips through the pages, his blue-gray eyes wide. He only skims through the vividly-told story the packages hold but skimming is enough �“ these papers are obviously extremely important. He gently sets them down next to his own stack of papers. Together his story, along with the two sent to him, will give him everything he needs �“ or may need in the near future…

***

Chapter 2
“The Longest Prophecy”

A prophecy must be made to Man, for the gods have known from the beginning that there approaches an end to their rule…

Thirteen major signs will precede the advent of the final battle of Ragnarok, whence all that is shall cease to be.

The first shall be the most important, and it is a sign for all men who do not believe, for the Gods know and accept all that is in their futures, and men shy away. The first sign of the end is the gathering of the Greatest Warriors, the leaders of the fabled Einherjar. Thirteen they shall be, from all worlds and of all ages and they shall form the head of the one Army of the Dead, which shall march on the day of destruction and chaos.

The Thirteen will be drawn against tests like no other, and before the end, be faced with a pair of decisions, between right and wrong and between good and easy, and what is decided when the Thirteen are faced with this, shall have a hand in their fate, the fate of the people they represent and the fate of the final existing world.

A man, a beast, shall be born and grow with a black heart and he will have nothing more on his mind than the destruction of good and the prevalence of evil. A horrific monster is he, one who shall be loved by all who set eyes on him, for his beauty shall be unearthly, and his charm unmatchable. The true of heart shall see in him pure evil and yet they too shall have to defy temptation to keep from going astray. Behind the Monster shall be great power. He shall cure lepers and infertility without lifting a finger. He will have the power to bring the dead back to life, to give old age youth, to give the poor, riches, to make the miserable joyful again. His power shall be such that men of strong hearts and souls will tie up their mothers and daughters and sisters to posts in their homes for fear of losing them to the Monster, for his power shall be greatest over the female kind and his beauty shall appeal most to them. And yet no man will have the power to destroy him.

A world shall be corrupted, its leaders shall lose sight of their beliefs and will give in to despair and tread down the path of eternal destruction,

They shall enlist the aid of a magic like no other, one that shall destroy by the millions and bring heartache to the world of man. And yet, when the time shall come to destroy their new magic, they shall not. And this is the fifth sign of Ragnarok.

And the sixth sign of Ragnarok is most grievous and most painful. It involves a betrayal of immense magnitude. The Betrayal of Four will be the pivotal point in the advent of Ragnarok. Then, things shall lie in a balance, ready to tip to the side with greater power, and either Ragnarok’s approach shall be sealed, or the people of the world shall live on forever under oppression.

Dependant on the Balance, the Betrayal shall be followed by the merging of two worlds, pushing all living beings to the brink of a war and though no war shall have been declared, still fighting shall ensue. The world shall be drowned in an abyss of darkness and despair and it will take extraordinary power, goodness and hope to retrieve the living from the battlefield that they have created for themselves.

And yet, this fighting shall only be a skirmish, this darkness only a sample, for dawn shall still exist.

The eighth sign of Ragnarok shall be the final dawn,

And following the final dawn, Fimbulvetr shall come, the winter of winters. Three such winters shall follow each other with no summers in between, and no light. Conflicts and feuds shall break out, even between families. Brother shall fight against brother, sister against sister, father against son. And all morality and goodness will disappear. This is the beginning of the end.

Tyranny shall rise and an age-old prejudice shall finally reign and the fighting shall not all be on battlefield, but in hearts and souls and homes as well and magical knowledge shall spread to the ignorant third world and because they shall be unable to understand it, they shall fear it like nothing else.

And when all suddenly seems lost, when the One Power has taken throne and leads over the people with cruelty and triumph, two more powers shall be revealed. They shall, together, be the Three Vying Powers and their coming and fueding shall beckon to the beginning of Ragnarok, inviting it forward.

And even as this dawnless age unfolds, hope shall spring in the hearts of some, for a lost hero shall return and take on the mantle that is his due. His return shall be the twelfth sign of Ragnarok.

And the thirteenth shall be, The Great Call. A day shall come on which the sun shall be eaten and the moon scoffed. Three cocks shall crow and Heimdall shall blow his mighty horn and its call shall bring all the Gods to the final battle. Fenrir, Jormungand and Loki shall be released and they shall cause devastation like no other.

And thus, Ragnarok, the Doom of the Gods, and of Men, the end of all that is, shall begin.

But take heed and remember, all actions and decisions are important, each person has a hand in their own fate. A Prophecy can be changed…

***