06 August 4705 - Mo Fo Po

For the next three days, there's going to be a massive proclivity of tightasses on campus. Permit me a generalization about people whose soul occupation it had been for a time to get me in trouble. The CUPIC, or College and University Police and Investigators Conference is here at GMU, so if you thought the place was swimming with fake police before, boy howdy are you in for a treat. Maybe I should preface this.

I don't like campus police. I have known one in all my days of a college student I could converse with, and a lot of my friends didn't even like him because he was unhelpful in the face of real policework that needed doing. Most colleges that I see get the fake kind of police, who are not licensed by anyone for anything more than guard duty, and are for all intents and purposes the same as the rent-a-cops you see patrolling malls and taking away my plastic kazoo because by mall regulations it counts as a radio and they passed a regulation back when carrying shoulder-mounted boomboxes was popular saying that you can't play radios out loud in their mall because it might accidentally advertise something that wasn't in the mall and you would be competing with them.
That kind of cop.
They're everywhere. You can see their smugly-not-disguised crown victorias rolling smoothly from parking lot to parking deck.
I have only ever known campus cops to be the harbingers of misfortune, never safety or salvation, on a college campus. They're the guys who spoil your fun, not the guys who come to the call-boxes when you're being chased or stalked or injured. In a lot of cases, they are set up as an intermediary between actual emergency services. One more thing to get in your way, and I mean in the way of the ambulance that's coming to make sure you don't die so you can pay the fee.
And here my sardonic tone is spreading to other places because of these ayholes. I have had a number of negative experiences with campus police, and not one positive.

There are three days of cupic, whom I wish had chosen a dee word for their conference. I would love to see signs posted everywhere for CUPID next to symbols of police shields or other dead-serious things. Maybe delegation. Then again I'm not sure I would want a gathering of minds like this to delegate jackshit. Keep care of the status quo, gentlemen, and by all means keep vagrants like me from chalking up the walls with poetry. Matter of fact.

I'm going to call them cupid. A magic marker should do for the change, and I have one in mind for the task. They couldn't deny our very own campus's police the opportunity to attend the talks, right? So they won't be around to stop me, at least not for the seconds at a time I need to make the graffitotag. Look out, guys, Eros is on the way!

And speaking of cupid.

Epilogue: Nineteen Years Later

Harry surveyed his throneroom with mild and idle disgust. Dingy stains from undoable magic caked the walls and floor. A chandelier hung disused over the center arch, and a scrabbling house elf avoided his gaze as he quickly hid after trying once again to re-light a wall candle that had years ago been extinguished. Though not visible, Harry could sense his collection beneath him was intact, a burlesque duplicate of Dumbledore's office from years before, he thought. Not seven feet and three secret steps below his throne lay the finest assembly of magical artifacts ever collected by a private citizen. Some were refuse left by the fallen Ministry, some trophies of Harry's various conquests, and still not forgotten, though overshadowed in comparison, a single chest bearing many locks rested at the corner of the whole reliquary. It sat humbly among the other relics, overshadowed, but not entirely forgotten. Each lock would open the chest to a different secret container, and all but the last of these was empty, a deterrent to would-be thieves (though little more deterrent was really needed considering) from taking the articles Harry had collected in his achievements as a young man.
Photographs of his parents, newspaper articles bearing his image and those of the Order of the Phoenix, other pictures of friends now long gone, a DA coin, locks of hair from Cho Chang and Ginny Weasley, even his first pair of glasses from his days in the muggle world, as well as a small archive of anything Harry thought to be his first of anything that was reasonably durable. First robes, first cauldron, first batch of spellotape. And next to these a small muggle spice rack arrayed with phials bearing the swirling silvery crystal memories of his other first achievements.
There had been a time Harry would have liked to have cherished his memories in his own head, and remove them only to ensure his friends could know what had happened in case he fell. He would always put them right back after he was out of danger. His parents, his godfather Sirius, his other fallen defenders and guardians: all of them were too precious to him to be let forgotten by something so simple as his being killed. And though Harry had lived through being killed twice, he didn't feel like taking any chances with their memories. Now they all sat corked and sorted in phials lining a muggle spice rack, though. The time passed that Harry imagined he needed to keep holding on to his memories of his loved ones. The time had come where Harry saw his rotten sentiment as a desperate weakness.
And with a prickling of his lightning scar, Harry's mind turned from his small fortune of artifacts to reminiscing over the time he had nearly lost everything just to hold onto them. The day he decided to let go of his past for good.

It had been years. Harry was starting out his Auror duty for the reformed Ministry under the direction of Minister Shacklebolt. He had already captured four dark wizards in his first month on the job, three of whom were former Death Eaters, all of whom, Harry recalled, had been quite surprised to see him. He hadn't recognized any of their names, though. He was mindful of his bounty as he trudged through the misty moor. Shacklebolt had handed him an assignment he was not eager to fulfill. Maybe he could take her in quietly. Maybe if Luna Lovegood just saw Harry, she would snap out of it.
Multiple mugglecide was not a light offense, however, and though Harry had always thought Luna was around the twist, he had never thought of her as being capable of killing another human being, magical or otherwise.
For all his searching, his other dark wizards had been much more difficult to track. As Harry rounded a small hill, he saw a blackened tower in the style of a rook, patterned after Xenophilius Lovegood's own sitting in the middle of the valley. A single glowing glyph shone above the tower's crenellations in the form of the mark of the Deathly Hallows, which Luna's father had once worn himself to attract other interested seekers.
What a garish anachronism, Harry thought to himself. Everyone knew that he was the master of death and collector of the Hallows, so why bear that as a crest? This gave way to speculative curiosity as to why Luna would make herself so visible in the first place after her violent and flashy campaign in London only days before. As usual, something was not adding up and Harry would get to the bottom of it. He chose the direct approach, knocking on the front door and announcing himself.
"Luna Lovegood. I am the Ministry Auror Harry Potter. You are to come with me quietly as I take you into custody-"
As it happened, there was a part of Harry that was glad of the interruption. He so infrequently ran through the formal arrest protocol because he thought it gave his quarry more than ample opportunity to kill him or worse: make him look like a fool. The lion's share of Harry's thoughts on the matter were causing him to duck and shield himself from the blast that sent the door, knockers and all, flying off its hinges. The noise was gone and he could see into the tower mezzanine only a few feet. He felt pressure and then a mighty vacuum gale hoisted Harry by the robes and into the portal. With a thud Harry fell on the ground floor and the door snapped loyally back into place behind him.
"Harry Potter."
Why did they always start off by repeating his name to him? Like he would forget who he is. Harry played along, desperate for any angle he could use to get Luna to come along quietly. Mournful of her falling as a wizard. Harry's bosom welled with utter disbelief in what he was seeing. His eyes traitorous to be taking in the sight of Luna Lovegood, Hogwarts graduate, entrepreneur, Ravenclaw sister, and longtime friend arrayed in a flowing black and purple pleated nightgown. Just below her nape was emblazoned the symbol of the Deathly Hallows again, a tattoo that seemed to float a millimeter above the skin rather than right on it. She looked much as she had when Harry had known her, only the two meter tall skewer she grasped with the skull of one of her recent victims attached, still with scalp and hair done up in braids with pink bows on the end that Harry imagined must have been done post-mortem.
"Luna Lovegood."
"Oh, Harry, it's so good to hear you say my name. A lot of my company isn't very talkative nowadays. The Quibbler is doing quite we-"
"Luna. I've come to arrest you. You've killed a lot of people."
"Yes, Harry."
The tone of Luna's voice had dropped ever so slightly as she responded to Harry, giving him the impression of the same remorseless savagery of any number of dark wizard legacies. The effect made the hair on his neck stand on end. Luna continued.
"We have to use the finest parchment paper. I had asked one of my fetches about switching to vellum but she said that I remembered it being a bad idea the last time I tried it. You should really try a fetch on as a pet. I find they make excellent companions and they can be a great help when I have a lot on my mind."
Harry contemplated his next question carefully, trying to remove all sense of sarcasm from it before he spoke. Long ago, taking that tone wouldn't have put Luna off visibly though he came to know how she rarely showed her feelings. This time it could be a deadly mistake. Harry was no longer willing to assume that Luna was idly rambling about some fictitious cryptid.
"What is a fetch?"
"Oh, I never showed you? Luna, come down and meet Harry." Luna called upstairs. A homunculus came down, seemingly assembled from features of Luna's own body. It was as large as a house elf, and where a face would be it had only a single large orblike eye, half-closed and for all the world a facsimile of Luna's own. It had stubby legs and lengthy, scrawny arms that it used to fumble its way gradually down the stairs. When it had reached the bottom, it gave a little bow and then climbed Luna's waiting arm to perch on her shoulder. The effect was downright chilling. On top of why he had come in the first place, here was the image of Luna with more of her features applied to another creature and resting on her shoulder.
"Luna, homunculi are controlled magical creatures. You haven't registered this fetch with us."
"Oh, don't be silly, Harry. Luna here is like a part of me. You might just as well ask me to register my hands or my wand."
"Having a creature bonded like this can be taxing on a wizard's or witch's mind. You may have injured yourself without knowing."
"Oh, I quite agree. That's the funny thing about free will. You don't feel any different without it."
"Luna, this fetch could explain what you've done. I can get you to St. Mungo's instead of Azkaban. You need help."
"This? Oh, you think I've only one."
"Wait, what do you mean?"
"Luna here is my fourteenth fetch."
And then Harry realized that whatever had been of his friend was long gone now. A vague memory of his classes on magical creatures bubbled to the surface, reminding him of a homunculus that was called the fetch. Wizards had made them as a failsafe against going into comas or insane from various kinds of mentally taxing magical studies. A wizard could bond himself to a fetch, and then reform the needed mental energy in an emergency, much like Dumbledore used to use the pensieve to relieve his mind from time to time. Fetches had the downside of being mortal, and when one dies, whatever the wizard placed therein dies with it. Luna had apparently been through the cycle thirteen times, and so even reforming her from this fetch would have little effect. She was gone for good.
"I'll ask you once more to come with me quietly."
"Don't be a fool. You'll love it here. I've so many interesting guests." With this, the head Luna had skewered rotated slightly to face Harry, and he was horrified to see Sirius' face staring at him. But Sirius had died long ago, and wasn't a muggle to begin with. Harry's hesitation was more than enough opportunity for Luna, who raised her wand and cast before Harry knew what to make of things.
"Magnascourgify."
Harry was thrown against the wall and felt the skin all over his body sting with lye. He couldn't open his eyes against the intense feeling of clean, but managed a retort just the same. His hex went wide and Luna sent another his way.
"Ferronox."
The stinging was now joined by the sense that Harry had been hit squarely with an iron skillet, which felt to be still pressed against him. His scar stung and he fought in vain against the coming darkness. Physical pain gave way to his sea of regrets, most of them for Luna, but still one or two for himself, not ready to die a third time.
Harry awoke abruptly. He was standing hunched over Luna, who was lying on her side on the floor and made a ferocious noise as she coughed. Her homunculus lay in a puddle against the wall by the stairs. Luna herself looked badly injured. Had he done all this? Luna turned her head to Harry with a weak smile.
"I'm so glad it was you, Harry. I had waited so long and it was so dark in here."
"Wh- what is all this? How did you get this way?"
"I should not have underestimated a Ministry Auror, or the greatest wizard I ever knew, for that matter. Come closer, Harry."
Still cautious, but eager to hear some explanation from a former friend who seemed to have come around in her defeat, Harry leaned in and Luna brought her face next to his to whisper.
"I always fancied you."
Harry pulled away just enough to be able to look Luna in the eyes. They were so close to his and so sincere. Why did she have to regain her senses like this? And had this secret been driving her mad for the last few years? No more answers were coming from her eyes or anywhere else, but Harry's curiosity faded in place of admiring how fetching Luna looked in the firelight. He never had taken much notice of her before, but here and now she looked absolutely beautiful. Such loving eyes.
He barely noticed her kissing him at first, and then he quickly noticed nothing else at all. Luna leaned back to the ground, and Harry rose.
"There's one more thing, Harry?"
"What is it?" tears now welled up behind Harry's eyes to await Luna's grim last request.
Rather than form words though, Luna quickly and violently slapped the side of his head, grabbed and yanked off his ear. Harry recoiled away and clutched his bleeding head as he watched Luna curl up on the floor.
"Harry's ear, Harry's here. Can you hear me? Lovely tasty, you'll be the best forever." Luna stroked and kissed the ear she held in her hands for another few moments muttering things Harry couldn't make out and didn't want to imagine before she went limp.
Harry was overcome with grief and pity and fury and curiosity and pain. For whatever reason, Luna had gone genuinely insane and killed a number of muggles. She had found one that resembled Sirius Black and altered it to look even more convincing as a distraction. She had pretended to come around and confess a love for Harry just so she could rip his ear off. Never again would he let his sentiment slow his reaction time. He resolved to put his memories somewhere safe for good, and carry on as a Ministry Auror without sentiment, and without regret.

His throne room came back into view. From that point, Harry's memories became a mangled mass of blood and destruction. Witnessing Luna Lovegood go insane had released something inside him, an ambition Harry had not known in life. He finally knew who he was.
With the legacy of his father as the inheritor of the Hallows, and the power of the greatest dark wizard of all time, Harry had seized the throne of the Dark Lord. His ministry position had given him access to information about all manner of dark wizards and witches across the countryside, and with the Hallows at his command, he could not be stopped by any of them. They joined him eagerly as more and more of his former friends abandoned him. With his final curse, Voldemort had joined himself to Harry completely, giving him the last little push needed to secure his path to greatness.
Voldemort had been a fool, Harry thought. A mere prelude to something much greater. How could this Voldemort, this "thief of death" compare at all to the master of the Hallows? And Harry had been that much even before he inherited Tom Riddle's powers. Before he was even out of his teens.
England was in shambles. The muggles of other countries thought that a series of terrorist attacks had crippled the industrial infrastructure of the nation and left it in darkness. The entire countryside lay in waste, darkened and war torn. It was coming up on Harry's birthday again. He would be thirty-seven years old. Harry planned to give himself a little birthday present, and announce to the wizarding authorities of the world that all death would be visited upon them unless they accepted his rule. How could they refuse? All magical death filtered through him anyway, and he had died already more times than he could count.
His kingdom a wasteland, everyone who knew him was gone, and Harry would move on the rest of the world in short order. All was well.

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