Chapter Text
Harry's thoughts are unsettled, wavering between the real world and the one he seems to be in now. Memories—either his own or perhaps deceptive echoes of another life—flow through his mind. The vision of Viktor, both strong and vulnerable, is imprinted in his thoughts, leaving behind a feeling of warmth and the painful remnant of a love that might never have belonged to him.
The lingering sound of his children's laughter seems to fill the air, a haunting reminder of a life lived on separate paths that never meet. The lack of their joyful faces continuously reverberates within him, intensifying his sorrow. "Viktor," he utters into the darkness, his voice unveiling a glimmer of hope. Once gentle, recollections of their closeness are now tainted with strife, merging with the enveloping darkness. Harry, distressed and conflicted, feels the weight of his uncertain reality, drawing him deeper into despair.
"I can't tell what's real anymore," he murmurs to the quiet night, his voice broken. He reflects on both happy and painful times, questioning whether he will ever find peace with a man who seems concealed in darkness. The room remains quiet, his uneven breathing the only sound interrupting the silent night, as if the world is pausing, observing, intertwined in the interplay of shadow and light enveloping Harry. The darkness appears overwhelming, whispering mixed truths and falsehoods, blending perceptions of reality and illusion.
The air is dense with unspoken thoughts and reflections of another life that casts doubt and desire on his being. Thoughts of his children, Viktor, and the battle at the Ministry surround him like haunting visions, reflecting pain and longing, leaving impressions of sorrow and want on his spirit.
While he is engrossed in his sombre reflections, the world outside moves forward, unaware of the man stuck between realms, his heart tangled in conflicting emotions. Yet, within the darkness, a glimmer of hope exists, hinting at love, redemption, and undiscovered truths. The night observes silently as Harry delves deeper into his thoughts, his journey through truth and illusion accompanied by contrasts of shadow and light.
The dark night engulfs the room, murmuring unseen secrets to Harry as he hesitantly leaves the bed. The air sticks to his skin, remnants of Viktor's touch still apparent, leaving him in subdued awe of the residual joy. A quiet shiver runs down his spine, a blissful aching lingering sensation down low, as his skin tingles in the fresh air of spring.
The large windows reveal the nighttime activities of the garden, where the willow tree shares its old stories with the gentle breeze. The moonlight dances with the leaves, colouring the world in hues of silver and vibrant green, signalling the world's renewal.
A chuckle escapes Harry, reflecting on the realisation that this alternate interplay of fates and lives has been his reality for almost a year. The distortive nature of time leads him to question if this complex existence is just an illusion, a dream within a dream.
His hands, feeling both powerful and fragile, are tangled in his hair, pulling sharply, grounding him to his painful reality. The shadows of his children, their laughter and tears, resonate within him with a painful mix of love and desire. The truth of their absence accompanies him throughout this alternate existence, echoing in the rustling leaves and the whispering wind.
Harry watches the weeping willow move in the night, its branches seemingly sharing stories with the silent moon above. The intertwining branches reflect both hope and sorrow, resonating with his feelings and thoughts, tangled in his fate and dreams.
Harry exhales softly, his breath carrying his silent thoughts into the shadows. He finds some comfort in leaning on the desk, the cool touch of leather grounding him, accompanying his nightly reflections. The world's silence is broken by the sound of Viktor's breathing, a sound that reaches Harry's heart, breaking down his built-up fears and withheld tears. However, the intimacy of this moment feels overwhelming, and Harry, his eyes filled with unvoiced love and desire, looks away from Viktor, who has become a constant in this alternate existence.
During this quiet exchange between his spirit and the moonlit night, Harry's fingers, symbolising strength and vulnerability, grab parchment and quill, his companions in navigating his thoughts. The parchment, a blank space for his unheard dreams and silent cries, seems to shine with a special light, assisting him in finding the right words to express his feelings and thoughts.
Harry's gaze travels through the moonlight, seeking the words that resonate with his being, the silent melody of his spirit. Under the moon's silver light, the parchment becomes the recipient of his silent thoughts, a companion in his journey through love and desire. The quill moves silently, depicting his inner self amidst reflections of silver and shadows, a silent representation of love and loss under the moonlight.
Harry struggled to concentrate on Kingsley's words, but his thoughts kept wandering. The dim lighting in Cedric's office did little to help, and the ongoing conversation about the mission became background noise. Instead, his mind got tangled up with that letter he'd given Penny, the one meant for Viktor.
Why had he written to Viktor, anyway? Every word he'd written seemed to carry more weight than intended. Egypt, and the adventures they might face there, seemed like a one-way trip in his mind. And that gold amulet on the desk, with its subtle green light? It seemed to buzz, as if it had something to say, just to him.
"I know you might feel a bit knackered with all this information, Harry," Kingsley said, snapping him back to reality. "But it's crucial, you understand every bit of it. This mission is—"
But Harry was already somewhere else, remembering good times with Viktor. How things had shifted from gentle moments to tension-filled exchanges. He let out a soft laugh, surprising himself and everyone in the room. It sounded out of place, a bit of nostalgia in the middle of a serious discussion.
Kingsley gave Harry a pointed look, the room's mood shifting. "Harry, I need your full attention," he said. There was a firmness to his words, but Harry detected a trace of sympathy.
"I—" Harry began, his mind still replaying moments with Viktor and that glowing amulet.
"And Viktor," Kingsley continued, watching Harry closely. "How's he handling... everything? Should he really be on this mission?" There was genuine concern in Kingsley's voice, reminding Harry of the closeness they all once shared.
Harry swallowed hard. Thinking about Viktor's and his recent troubles wasn't easy. He sensed Kingsley's supportive presence beside him.
"He's... managing," Harry finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But telling him he can't join might not be the best move."
Harry's thoughts darted back to the days when things were simpler, contrasting with the pressing matters of now. Having memories from another world, another Harry, was both troubling and reassuring all at once. He sighed, distracted by the ever-present green glow of the amulet on the table.
The atmosphere tensed as Viktor walked in. After a nod and a handshake, his eyes locked onto Harry's and then shifted to the amulet.
"That," Viktor boomed, pointing at it, "should've been with me or Draco."
Harry stood, frustration clear in his voice. "Viktor, enough with the coddling. And why bring Draco into this?"
Draco, leaning against the doorway with a smirk, chimed in, "Because a mission without me? Good luck with that."
Harry approached Draco, concern evident. "You were injured, Draco, and after losing Theo..."
Draco let out a scoffing laugh. "Didn't know you noticed. Didn't know you cared, Potter."
Their eyes locked, and Harry pulled him close. "Of course, I care," he murmured.
Draco, teasing, said, "Getting a crush on me, are we? That would really mess up your life." Harry laughed and gave him a friendly jab in response.
"Has Hermoine cleared this, Draco?" Harry asked, a bit of worry in his voice.
Draco laughed again. "No way! She's only letting me go if she gets to tag along."
Harry's face tightened, and he paced to the corner, clearly bothered. "This is too much! It's too dangerous for all of us!"
Cedric spoke calmly, yet firmly. "Harry, it's not up to you. It's been decided."
Kingsley clapped his hands to signal it was time to leave. "Let's get going." And with a mess of chaotic emotions, they all left, their footsteps and unspoken thoughts lingering in the now quiet room.
Harry popped another cooling charm, the desert just scoffing it off. "Feels like the desert's giving us the silent treatment," he mumbled, his eyes flicking to Viktor. A subtle sting in his chest, the fallout of their once blooming affair, was ever-present.
A few hours back, Viktor had been mid-bicker with a camel herder, the guy's head shining like a beacon under the sun. Hermione had jumped in ever the peacemaker, while Draco had looked like he might hex the man for his undue familiarity, as the letch whispered to Hermione.
"Why didn't we just fly to the temple on brooms? Or perhaps even a flying carpet, given the circumstances?" moaned Ron, the colour of old pea soup, struggling with the bumpy ride. His whining pulled a chuckle from Harry, lightening the group's air for a moment.
"Not a flying car this time, then, Ron?" Harry jabbed, memories of the Ford Anglia and the Whomping Willow bringing a brief, comforting flashback. But, the comfort was short-lived, and his brain got back to buzzing with silent grievances and echoes of worn-out friendships.
Viktor was leading, stiff and frosty, not the warm man Harry had quickly fallen for. A tinge of sorrow flashed in Harry's eyes, watching him, their past fiery meetings now shadowed by discord.
Hermione's voice sliced his reflective bubble, "The book mentioned magic won't get us to the temple," she stated, her face screwing up in thought over the enigma wrapping their goal.
"Oh, splendid," Draco scoffed, loaded with irony, "because a trek in scorching heat on a lumpy animal is just what I'd pick! God of chaos, my arse!"
Viktor's expression had the mirth of a gravestone, his gaze skillfully evading Harry's while he struggled with the whims of his camel amidst the sands that couldn't seem to sit still. "Draco, save your whining. Your clever words won't rewrite the script here," he snapped. Harry, pretty tuned into his frequencies, could feel the taut vibes bouncing off him, the divide opening up like a cavernous yawn between them.
"He does have a point, Draco," Harry weighed in, his tone hanging somewhere around monotone, his thoughts drifting back to the sunnier days spent with Viktor, days of chuckles and affection, now swapped out for this emotionless void and tense run-ins.
Cedric, Mr. Observant, slid Ron a reassuring smile. "Stay strong, Ronald. We're all paddling the same canoe."
"Yeah. Haven't we already done that, though, Ced?" Ron returned a frail smile amid his blatant discomfort, "Maybe we'll stumble on a motion sickness remedy."
Ever the diplomatic Hermione was playing the role of tension-diffuser. "By the laws of probability, we are bound to find a clue soon," she proclaimed, tagging on some cheer she clearly wasn't feeling. "Imagine what we might find in the temple!"
Harry flicked his eyes her way, valuing her effort but weighed down inwardly. Nonetheless, a communal laugh breaks through, a short-lived escape from the testing trip and thickening air. Harry experienced a transient flash of the tight-knit bond that used to be their foundation, now riddled with cracks and gaps.
Draco slung a smirk Ron's way. "Perhaps we'll bump into a cure for your idiocy as well."
Harry, battling his internal sorrow, found a grin. "Now, that'd be a find worth every miserable step of this trip."
An apple flew from Ron's hand towards Harry but ended up missing him by a country mile, the motion nearly tipping Ron off his irregular beast.
The camels shuffled forward, surrounded by the seemingly endless, scorching sands, their destination a mystery. There was an obvious strain among the group, every exchange dancing around untold thoughts and hidden feelings.
Harry's head was a chaotic jumble of thoughts, each one more befuddling and overpowering than the previous. A momentous decision loomed, but the resolve to make it ebbed away with each ticking second. The terrain played tricks on the eyes, but among the illusions, a gargantuan cactus came into view, matching the image from the book of Isfet.
"Um… folks, I think we're at the starting line," Harry's words broke the quiet, drawing every gaze. Cedric, shielding his eyes from the merciless sun, walked over, scepticism lacing his words, "You sure, Harry? I see nothing but miles of sand."
Harry's nod was definitive, his eyes glued to the distant cactus. "We have to head east, toward that cactus." Uncertainty hung heavily in the air. Cedric's eyes were still scrutinising the horizon when Viktor joined them. A cursory look and, he affirmed, "I see the cactus."
This abrupt comment had Cedric spinning towards Viktor, his hand outstretched, "Hand over the amulet, Viktor." The handoff was quick, a slight lift of Viktor's brow as he relinquished the amulet. "It's vanished," his voice was subdued, contrasting his rugged demeanour.
With the amulet now adorning his neck, Cedric stared off into the distance, "Got it." Draco's incisive and intrigued voice sliced through the fleeting silence, "How's Harry seeing it without the amulet?" The query lingered, unanswered, before Cedric's directive intervened, "Harry, take the lead."
The gang was moving cohesively, but Harry sporadically felt Viktor's watchful eyes on him.
"Cor, this sun's relentless. Would kill for a Butterbeer now," Ron was trying to lift spirits, and some soft laughter acknowledged his effort. Hermione played along, "Could really do with one. Remember our first one at the Three Broomsticks?"
A momentary smile graced Harry's face, relishing the blast from the past, "Yes, and the look on your face, Hermione, priceless!" The group found solace in the remembrances, but the unsaid loomed large, wrapping everyone in its silent threads.
They pressed on, memories whispering, sands of time carrying unvoiced worries and hidden fears. Again, Harry felt Viktor's intent gaze, the silence between them heavy with remnants of bygones.
Finally, at the cactus, everyone was submerged in thoughts, bound by a mutual goal. The road ahead was murky, riddled with untold enigmas, but their shared quest for the temple of Isfet maintained their unity amid potential heartbreak.
Alighting from his camel, Harry was entranced by a colossal sandstone wizard statue from ancient times. The eroded sculpture boasted two glowing emerald eyes, prompting Harry to muse, "Blimey! Surprised no one's pinched those emeralds yet."
Ron, eyes narrowing in the glaring sun, was perplexed, "Harry, what are you rambling about?" Harry's finger aimed at the statue, his voice a lone echo in the desert, "It's Isfet's statue, right?"
"It must be the guide," confirmed Cedric, admitting he saw the statue too.
Quickly, Harry retrieved the book of Isfet, perusing the central pages for the forthcoming step. The ensemble gathered, the desert secrets whispered by the wind, the atmosphere thick with joint expectancy and concealed riddles.
In that tense moment, Viktor's gaze collided with Harry's, the air heavy with all the words neither said. The ghost of their old bond seemed to flutter in the hot, desert breeze, a silent spectre of a love now substituted by an uncomfortable silence.
Trying to cut through the awkwardness, Hermione mentioned, "Remember the giant chess game we had to get through in our first year?" Ron, offering a feeble grin, replied, "Yeah, who could forget that? Felt like a pawn in more ways than one."
Harry, his nose still in the book, was clearly wrestling with his thoughts, the air almost tangible with the unsaid and the worries that lay beneath. Each member of the group seemed wrapped up in a mix of the past and current concerns, the sands of time swirling around them, whispering hidden tales of Isfet.
The winds mingled echoes of yesteryears with upcoming uncertainties and the unvoiced fears. But there was a hushed strength in their collective mission, an unspoken vow to confront the unseen, side by side. They lingered, immersed in their separate worlds but bound by one fate, while the Egyptian sands bore witness to their silent, internal skirmishes.
The air felt tense, the moonlight barely revealing the details of the mysterious book of Isfet. Harry skimmed the pages, clearly annoyed and cold. So lost in the text, he missed the sound of his friends setting up camp on the sand.
The nearby statue appeared to mock him. He felt the urge to throw the book at it, but before he could, a comforting warmth surrounded him. He looked up to meet Viktor's dark eyes. A lot went unsaid between them. Viktor murmured, "You should eat something, Harry."
Aware of Viktor's touch and his proximity, Harry found solace in a surprisingly gentle kiss between them. A break from the tension of their past encounters. A campfire was started behind them, casting a warm glow, and their moment together stood in contrast to their surroundings and recent tensions.
The night held a charged energy, their kiss a dance of unspoken feelings. Viktor led Harry to a distant tent. Inside, it was surprisingly spacious and luxurious, far more than one would guess from the outside.
The air was warm with the smell of garlic, bread, and chicken. A respite from the relentless desert and the quiet Egyptian night, the place was decked out in Moroccan elegance. The table was laden with carefully prepared dishes bathed in golden light, colours, and textures harmonising in an aromatic dance. It was a cosy setup within the surprisingly spacious tent, with Viktor subtly guiding Harry through the meal, a silence heavy with unspoken words and emotions hanging between them.
In the shadowed tent, the flickering fire highlighted Harry's tense expression as he grabbed some garlic-soaked bread, a small smile touching his lips as he tasted the food. "Viktor, this is delicious. Thank you," Harry said, his mind obviously elsewhere, on finding the path to Isfet's temple.
"What are you thinking about, Harry?" Viktor inquired, his voice resonant and deep, his eyes perceiving Harry's distant gaze, his thoughts clearly a tangle of contemplations that Viktor couldn't grasp.
Harry's eyes darted to the book of Islet on the table, pages dense with runes. "It's this book, Viktor. I can't find the solution. The path to Islet's temple… it's eluding me." Viktor clenched his jaw, his disappointment tangible, having hoped for a peaceful evening. Instead, Harry was lost in thoughts, far away from the roasted chicken and far faster than any Firebolt could travel. "Harry, we need to…," Viktor began, but Harry cut him off.
"I need to use the amulet! The amulet will have the answers!" Harry exclaimed, eyes lighting up. He stared at Viktor, "Do you have it?" Viktor's eyes, muddled with emotions, gave away his frustration. He left the tent wordlessly, leaving behind a tangible sense of anger. Harry, feeling remorseful for his insensitivity, cursed himself. The pleasant evening was overshadowed by his obsession with the mission.
The tense minutes crawled by before Viktor returned, his expression unreadable, and threw the amulet on the floor. "I'll be staying in Cedric's tent tonight," he declared coldly, exiting again. "Viktor, I… I'm sorry," Harry started, but Viktor had already disappeared. Regret and jealousy coiled around Harry's heart as he pictured Viktor with Cedric. Harry was being foolish, Cedric was happily married after all. The tent felt more confined, the silence more pronounced, and the lingering taste of garlic turned bitter.
The tent was thick with tension, every corner seeming to reflect the strain between Harry and Viktor. The golden amulet, shiny and mysterious, sat in Harry's hand, casting a green light on his face.
Lost in thought, Harry felt the amulet's power tugging at him. Memories of happier times with Viktor - the laughs, the looks, the hushed conversations - pulled at him, reminding him of what once was but now seemed fractured. The simple things, like a touch or a shared smile, once comforting, were now replaced by a distant unease.
"It feels like a lifetime ago," Harry remarked to himself, a hint of dry humour in his voice. Those moments of shared joy seemed so distant, like they belonged in another reality, which Harry supposed they did.
As he slipped the amulet's chain around his neck, feeling its cool touch, a strange voice intertwined with whispers of old tales began to fill his ears. Suddenly, the world became a blur of shifting colours and shapes.
"Viktor," the voice echoed with nostalgia and bitterness. "He used to be your healer. Now he's just another source of pain."
Seemingly drawn by some unseen force, Harry shuffled along, his feet crunching on the frigid, rough sand. The repeated thud of his steps led him straight to the base of the statue, its likeness to some old deity seemed to chuckle, a ghostly giggle mixing with the breeze. The amulet seemed to tangle up with his thoughts, spinning yarns of hidden civilisations and magic-imbued realms, nattering on, revealing…
Then, amongst the secret whispers and leftover fragments of bygone days, a whisper broke through, "Harry…" The voice was gentle, a known comfort, a throwback to days when eyes met filled with words left unspoken, expectant with quiet promises. "Is everything just lost to time and the remnants of the past?" the voice inquired, its pain mingling, fleeting comfort in a waterfall of lightbulb moments and nostalgic flashes.
Before him, the world unravelled, baring a terrain soaked in the essence of days gone by, the air humming with the mutters of those who came before and the chuckles of forgotten deities. With its mysterious green eyes, the statue seemed to know things, long-forgotten things, and the breezy whispers carried enchanted stories.
"Will the breezes spill the beans on what's to come?" Harry wondered, his thoughts a mix of sudden musings and touching flashbacks playing in his head, his heart a melting pot of desire and broken memories.
The surrounding air continued to buzz with whispers of days long gone and lingering traces of old magic, the amulet forever muttering about unseen realms and untold mysteries. The residual laughter and shadows of past closeness lived on in his being, a ghostly tune of love, loss, and remaining hope.
Harry, caught in this temporal maze, roamed through the echoes, his soul whispering to the breezes, "What's to be done? Do tell?"
The sound of someone laughing echoed, though whether it was at Harry or something funnier, he couldn't tell. He tried spotting his friends in the camp, but the moonlight didn't favour him.
Looking up at the somewhat overdone figure, Harry pondered. Was this some sort of joke? Was the statue trying to give him a panic attack?
"Okay, out with it," Harry said, trying to sound tougher than he felt. "What's your asking price for directions to the temple?"
The statue's voice sounded like someone trying hard not to snicker. "Think you're smarter than the last who sought my guidance. Is that it Harry Potter?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Instead of answering, the voice laughed, probably at its own joke.
"That's enough," Harry huffed. "Just name your price. And spare me the theatrics."
The voice went cryptic, which was annoying. "You might not be ready for this price, Harry Potter."
Harry felt the melodrama of the situation thickening, which made him think of his children and the powerful form of Viktor.
"Just promise they'll be okay. Promise you won't hurt them."
The voice laughed again, and Harry imagined it with a smirk. "I had hoped the great and powerful chosen one would have been braver than this, Harry Potter."
Bubbling with annoyance, Harry snapped, "Promise me, damn it!"
The voice, unshaken by Harry's sharp tone, retorted, "The only price for the path to be revealed is for you to ask for it."
Harry's thoughts sprinted, wrestling with the choice, the weight of two worlds teetering on his shoulders. "Fine. I ask you to reveal the path," he grumbled, the air around him dense with a creeping unease, the statue of Isfet shadowing him, its silhouette twisted by moonlight. The air was restless, the sand a persistent nuisance, clouding his view, sticking to his face.
The play of shadows around him hinted at forgotten mysteries and silent agonies, the echoes of which danced with the blowing sands. Harry was engulfed in recollections, past joys clashing with current chaos.
"Viktor…" Harry mumbled, images of good days fluttering in his mind, now contrasted by their prevailing hostility. The remnants of soft whispers and laughter were eclipsed by the tempest of their current tumult.
The sandstorm growled, and the sand bit into his skin, rooting him to this unforgiving alternate reality. His mind was a battlefield of anger, regret, and a hidden stream of yearning. Yearning for the Viktor he, or rather his alternate self, once cherished.
"I never wanted this…" His whisper merged with the wind, pain threading his voice. His longing was almost material, surrounding him, painting him with warmth and raw hurt.
The drones in the wind echoed his surroundings, whispers of hidden things and shadows seemed to be woven into his very being in this different world. His heart was in a vice grip, his children's faces flashing in his mind, a relentless echo of loss. Merlin, he missed them.
All around him, laughter hovered like pesky flies, ever elusive, poking and prodding at his sanity. It felt like a game of cat and mouse, where he was perpetually the mouse. His friends' faces morphed into nothing more than ghostly outlines in his memory, silent companions in his lonesome journey.
However, amidst his whirlpool of thoughts, a giggle stuck out—a giggle that was both unnerving and alien, making his spine tingle. The sound, so innocent yet filled with spite, reverberated, grating, a sidekick to the overarching nefarious laughter.
"Please, stop this. What must I do…" Harry muttered, his voice a blend of defeat and a tinge of grit. His hand wrapped tightly around his wand, the wood offering a whisper of hope in the surrounding gloom.
His eyes, sandy and tired, held a glint, a minuscule flame of defiance dancing in the ocean of his emotions.
"I hope you are ready, Harry Potter," the ghostly voice echoed around him, yet Harry, surrounded by his haunting thoughts and heavy air, threw his determination back at it. "I am ready," he declared, his voice rough but staunch.
His mind danced at the precipice, the darkness whispering sweet nothings, wooing him into its folds. The giggle lingered, cold and mocking, pushing him into the engulfing obscurity.
"Now, Mr Potter, you must not…" The rest dissolved into nothingness, and Harry's awareness drowned in shadows, leaving him isolated in darkness, his thoughts his reluctant friends.