Through the Looking Glass ~ COMPLETED

Chapter 41 ~ Aftermath

Harry suddenly awoke, finding himself surrounded by white mist. He was naked and not wearing his glasses. Stunned, he stood up, spinning in place.

”Hello?” he ventured, wishing he had some clothes. Suddenly, a robe and slippers appeared on the ground before him.

”This is strange. Where am I?” Harry said to himself, picking up the robes, putting them on and slipping his feet into the slippers. Then, “Hallo! Is anybody here?”

”Hallo!” a voice called back. “Where are you?”

”Over here!” Harry cried, relieved there was someone else in this strange place. He saw a shadow form in the mist, moving toward him. Harry’s hand twitched reflexively, wanting a wand in its grasp as a person formed. He was tall, slender, rather handsome with black eyes and wavy hair. He looked kind of familiar.

Tom Riddle looked at Harry Potter with some surprise.

”Mr. Potter? What are you doing here?” the wizard asked him.

Harry blinked at the wizard, sure he knew him from someplace.

”Do . . . do I know you, sir?” Harry asked him.

Tom raised both eyebrows as he fanned at the swirling mist with one hand.

”You know me quite well, Mr. Potter,” Tom said, giving him a slight smile for a moment, then the smile fading as he looked at Harry’s scar. It was on the wrong side.

”Er . . . perhaps you don’t know me, Mr. Potter. I am Tom Riddle,” he told Harry, who leapt back in alarm.

“Voldemort?” he gasped at Tom, who scowled at him.

”Do I look like that monster? No, not Voldemort. Tom Riddle, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Or . . . former Headmaster I should say,” Tom said, looking around the mist. “But looking at my surroundings, I daresay I am the master of naught now.”

Harry blinked as the wizard’s response sank in.

”The Headmaster of . . . you must be the Tom Riddle from the other universe, the one Hermione went to,” Harry said, looking at him curiously.

Tom walked past him, staring into the mist, trying to make out something.

”Correct, Mr. Potter, and I believe I am dead. We both are,” Tom replied, turning to look at Harry. Harry looked exactly like the one in his universe, except his eyes had a slightly different look to them, although still green. Slytherin Harry had hungrier eyes.

”Dead?” Harry said.

How could he be dead? He could feel and talk. The flooring was hard under his feet. It was warm here. Death couldn’t be like this, could it? But, then again, there was an awful amount of mist and the last thing Harry remembered was being in unbearable pain.

”Yes, dead. My greed for power led to my demise, but . . . that often happens to people as driven as I am. I should have done more investigation. Ah, well. At least it’s not oblivion, dull as the surroundings are. I hope there is something else,” Tom said as if speaking to himself. “That was all I was looking for . . . something else to fulfill me. And what of you, Mr. Potter? How did you die?”

Harry stared at Tom a moment.

”I . . . well . . . Dumbledore strapped me down to a cot, and then I was screaming, in terrible pain. I felt Dumbledore grab me . . . and then . . . and then I was here,” Harry said slowly.

”Hm. He killed you?” Tom asked, somewhat surprised. He had the impression Dumbledore was a bleeding-heart Gryffindor like the rest.

”I don’t think so. He said something about trying to protect me from something . . .”

Tom nodded. Gryffindors were always doing idiotic things like that, and failing miserably.

”He didn’t do a very good job of it, did he?” Tom said, noticing the mist was starting to clear. He realized he was standing in the station at King’s Cross.

”Extraordinary,” he said, looking about.

”Isn’t this King’s Cross station?” Harry asked him, looking around. There wasn’t a single person present in the entire area. “It’s empty.”

Tom looked at him. Couldn’t he see all the people hurrying to catch their trains? Albeit, they were far more varied in ethnic content than usual. People in odd clothing abounded, fluttering about. What was also odd was the lack of luggage. Schedules and destinations were being broadcast in nasally voices, people shouldering past each other, running for their trains.

”It certainly is not empty, Mr. Potter. There are people everywhere, hurrying to make their connections,” Tom replied, then appeared to listen.

Harry looked around. He couldn’t see anyone.

“Trains will be departing for the following destinations: Paradise, Nirvana, Shangri-La, Christian heaven, Christian hell, Heaven, Hell, ValHalla, Purgatory, Rebirth and all points, all places, all cosmic plans between,” a voice droned.

Tom’s eyes widened and he began to walk away from Harry, who ran after him, not wanting to be left alone.

”Wait! Where are you going?” Harry called after Tom Riddle, who called back over his shoulder, “I don’t know. I’m considering Rebirth. Can't get back in the saddle too soon.”

”Where’s that?” Harry said, catching up to him. Tom pointed to an empty platform.

”Right there. Can’t you see the locomotive?” the wizard asked him, picking up his stride.

”No, I can’t,” Harry said, halting.

Tom stopped for a moment.

”I don’t think you’re properly dead, Mr. Potter. If you can’t see the trains, you certainly can’t board them. I’d try to get back to earth if I were you. It’s clear you don’t belong here. As for me, I need to go. Good luck to you, Mr. Potter. As far as I know, you are free of Voldemort, since he passed into my world and I destroyed the mirror that gave him access. Your life should be relatively pleasant. Now, good-bye. There are more adventures for me.”

Tom walked away and faded before Harry’s eyes, blending in with the world of the truly dead. Harry stood there staring at the now empty space before him. He never thought he’d ever in his life want to be in the presence of Tom Riddle, much less accompany him anyplace. Now, he was alone.

”Now what am I supposed to do?” he said to himself, sitting down in one of the waiting areas, at a loss at what to do.

”Am I dreaming all of this?” he wondered as the mists began to rise again.

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”What are you doing in the Headmaster’s office, you hideous thing?” a cultured voice said with a sneering timbre. “Where is the Headmaster?”

His red eyes narrowed, Voldemort spun and looked at the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black. He raised his wand and blasted a hole in it, a scorched empty space in the middle of the painting. Phineas, however had dipped into the next portrait just in the nick of time, crowding its occupant.

”I am the Headmaster,” Voldemort hissed. “Now be silent, all of you.”

Voldemort flicked his wand at each portrait, covering each of them with a thick sheet. Then he began to walk about the office, trailing his fingers over the books, fixtures and finally the large, mahogany desk, easing behind it and slowly sitting down, trying it out.

”Yessss,” he said, leaning back. “A good fit if I say so myself.”

He sat there for a moment, before rising and walking down the corridor that led to Tom Riddle’s large bedroom. It was luxuriously furnished in Slytherin colors. Voldemort approved before walking into the bathroom. It featured a large sunken tub and walk-in shower. He approached the vanity, his red eyes scanning the contents resting on it and falling on a hairbrush with a number of wavy black hair trapped in the bristles. Alongside it, lay a comb, also with hairs in it.

”These will do for now. I will make my change appear gradual,” the wizard said to himself, pulling two flasks out of his pockets. He opened them both and inserted hairs into them. He placed one of the flasks in his pocket, then took a large guzzle from the other. He watched as his features bubbled, his appearance changing, becoming human . . . and handsome.

Voldemort studied his new reflection, smoothing his hand over his chin, running his hand through his hair and turning his head this way and that, thinking he was beautiful.

There was still the matter of his voice. He could purposely lower it a bit, but he wouldn’t sound like Tom Riddle. Well, he’d say he’d come down with a sore throat or something. What was most important right now, was to see this world’s version of his spy.

Minerva McGonagall.

She had immediate work to do.

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There was quite a stir going on at the Ministry as Snape and Hermione stopped by to drop off Peter Pettigrew.

”He’s supposed to be dead!” an Auror exclaimed as Snape pushed the bound wizard towards them.

”Reports of Mr. Pettigrew’s death have been highly exaggerated,” Snape said, his face frowned with displeasure. “My only regret about turning him in is that Sirius Black will be cleared of his crimes. Pity. And by the way, the Dark Lord is no more.”

Snape turned and led Hermione away from the open-mouthed Aurors who stood inside the Ministry doors, holding Peter. They walked down the stairs and Disapparated.

”Did Snape say the Dark Lord was no more? That he’s dead?” the Aurors asked each other in amazement.

Peter wriggled uncomfortably in the tight bindings, getting their notice.

”He’s dead all right. Exploded, he did,” Peter said sullenly. “Blood and bones everywhere. I can lead you to his stronghold, if the Ministry will cut me a deal.”

The Aurors all blinked at Peter for a moment, then let out a whoop of joy.

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A red-eyed Poppy was just about to pull the sheet over Harry’s head, when he coughed and drew in a deep breath.

”Mr. Potter!” she cried, amazed, pulling out her wand immediately and waving it over him, checking his vitals. The wand tip glowed a brilliant blue, signifying perfect health.

“Mr. Potter, you’re alive!” she breathed. “It’s a miracle!”

Poppy was so happy, she grabbed Harry by the back of the head and kissed him squarely on the mouth. Harry fought back the urge to splutter. The medi-witch had been dreading having to announce to the school that Harry Potter was dead. Thank the gods.

”Where’s Dumbledore?” Harry asked her.

The medi-witch immediately became grave.

”He’s right here,” she said, stepping aside and showing Albus, lying on a cot, covered by a sheet and breathing shallowly, looking very pale. His purple robes lay on a chair nearby.

”He’s been badly injured, Harry,” Poppy said softly. “He’s been asking for Professor Snape, but he’s not on the grounds. And he’s forbidden me to contact anyone else.”

Harry hopped off the cot and hurried to the Headmaster’s side. The wizard’s eyes were closed and his long white hair carefully twisted and laid alongside his head.

”Headmaster?” he said softly.

Dumbledore stirred and slowly opened his eyes. They were dull, but lit up considerably as they turned on Harry.

”Thank Merlin,” Dumbledore breathed weakly. “You survived. Very good. Very, very good.”

He closed his eyes again.

Harry had a million questions for the wizard, but Poppy appeared next to him, placing her hand on his.

”He needs to conserve his strength, Mr. Potter. I’ll take good care of him and keep him comfortable until we can find Professor Snape,” she told Harry gently. “Now, I need you to return to your bed. I want to observe you overnight. If your vitals are still strong in the morning, I’ll release you.”

Harry blinked down at Dumbledore. He looked so weak, so old. As if he wouldn’t survive the night.

”Is he going to recover, Madame Pomfrey?” he asked the medi-witch as she guided him back to his cot and helped him in.

”I honestly can’t say, Mr. Potter. I believe Professor Snape is the one who can answer that question. The Headmaster has been injured by powerful magic, a magic that seems to have torn at his very being. When I examine him, the light fluctuates. That’s an indication that the soul itself has been damaged. But what can cause that kind of damage, I don’t know. I’m hoping Professor Snape does,” Poppy said softly.

Harry lay back down on the cot, and Poppy gently covered him.

”You rest now, Mr. Potter. I’ll be back to check on you throughout the night,” she said, caressing his head in a motherly manner before exiting the room. Harry’s green eyes rested on the frail-looking Dumbledore.

What had happened to him? And would Snape be able to help him?

Harry hoped so.

**********************************

Snape and Hermione returned to Hogwarts and walked across the grounds, Hermione hurrying to keep up with the wizard’s stride as he made his way toward the castle.

”Professor,” she panted, “is Voldemort dead?” she asked him.

”I don’t believe so, Miss Granger, but one thing is certain, and that is he is gone from our world forever. He has no counterpart here to facilitate his return. And that means, the war is over. Many of his followers were quite dissatisfied, but were unable to break away. Once a Death Eater, you were a Death Eater for life. I highly doubt they will continue his cause,” Snape said.

”But, they’ve committed so many crimes. Won’t the Ministry track them down?” Hermione asked.

Snape shrugged.

”If the Ministry is wise, it will grant them amnesty for the sake of peace,” the Potions master replied. “All service the Death Eaters performed could be considered carried out under duress, including acts of violence. The penalty for disobeying Voldemort was a slow, painful death and he wanted results. Not many options for us.”

Hermione took this in, then said in a low voice, “Harry is free, now.”

Snape nodded.

”As am I,” he stated, giving her a half-glance.

For some reason, Hermione felt suddenly shy. Why she didn’t know.

They walked up the stairs of the castle and Snape opened the door for Hermione, letting her in. Filch immediately hobbled up to him, although he looked at the wizard and student somewhat suspiciously as if to ask why they were entering the castle at this time of night . . . together. But he had a message.

”Professor, you are needed in the infirmary immediately. The Headmaster has been gravely injured and asking for you,” the squib informed him as Hermione gasped.

”Injured? How?” Snape demanded.

”I don’t know exactly what happened, but it involved the Potter boy,” Filch said, his nose wrinkling up. Anything that involved Harry Potter was usually hazardous to the health of everyone around him.

”I will be there as soon as I collect my bag. Return to your house, Miss Granger,” Snape said, billowing toward the dungeons.

”But I want to go!” Hermione called after him.

”To your house, Miss Granger!” Snape called back as he descended the stairs. Hermione ran to the head of them.

”But, I want to . . . what about Harry?”

”Twenty points from Gryffindor,” Snape’s silken voice called from down the corridor.

”Damn it,” Hermione breathed as she turned to find Filch grinning at her because of her point loss.

”Straight to your house, Miss Granger,” he snickered. “Mrs. Norris will accompany you, to make sure you get there in a timely manner.”

Hermione scowled at the cat walked up and sat on her haunches, licking her paw as she slyly looked up at the Gryffindor.

”Fine,” Hermione said, stalking off up the marble stairwell, Mrs. Norris following dutifully, her tail straight up in the air.

”That’s a good kitty,” Filch called after them, then turned to hobble off in search of rule breakers. He hoped Snape would be able to do something for Dumbledore. Poppy seemed very upset when she passed the message on.

Blasted Potter. Filch always believed the boy was more trouble than he was worth, and here was the proof of it.

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A/N: Thanks for reading.