The favorite story that most enjoy to tell and retell and tell again is the heroic tale of the young man—the dashing hero—that saved the world with a few good guesses and the blessing of fortune upon his head. A story that’s full of quick scrapes and evil doers that get their comeuppance—get shoved into a dark, wet jail cell with the perfect view of the great sweep of blue sky that they’ll never be able to see unhindered by rusted metal bars. And the hero?—what comes of him in these tales? Ancient little fairy tales that were created in the gutter of the old, twisting alleyways of some fallen empire—formed to ensue hope in the hopeless, dreams in the sleepless, and joy in those bedridden by the plague. The hero—through all of his achievements—manages to ride off into the sunset to live… happily ever after? Unfortunately, life never seems to follow the fairytales set down by man. The year that Harry Potter graduated—the year that he walked away from Hogwarts with his diploma in his hand—was the year that changed everyone’s take on life. Everyone’s value for humanity. Everyone’s everything; if you will—for that was the year that Voldemort officially fell. The year that Harry Potter, in all his knight-in-shining-armor-and-glasses glory, stepped up to the base and actually managed to defeat the man that so many referred to as their Dark Lord. And he was gone—officially, completely, entirely—only to survive on by way of a title he didn’t even conjure in history books that demeaned him more than any every would, had it been like before… when there was a possibility that he could still be lurking in the shadows of an old house atop an old hill in an even older town.
And while he was placed into the ground—six feet of solid mother earth separating his corpse from the world above—the entire wizarding world was high in the euphoria created by this skinny boy with shaggy black hair and glasses. Harry went on to enter the Ministry—intent on following in his father’s footsteps, but hoping to avoid a fate like James’—and he was immediately the favorite out of everyone who set foot upon those Magical grounds. It was understandable—he had, after all, destroyed the greatest dark wizard known to mankind with a few good guesses and a lot of luck. And so, as his career furthered and his time spent in the Ministry turned into experience, his rank quickly rose. By the time that most of his colleagues were retiring, and their own children were stepping into their shoes at the Ministry—graduating from Hogwarts—he’d taken on the position of Minister of Magic—a rank placed onto his head only because most thought it right for him to get it… A rank that wouldn’t have ever been within his reach had he not been the one that the Dark Lord sought out one dark, windy night.
It was because of this stress placed upon his skinny shoulders that the boy who was now a man of fifty neglected to inform anyone of the strange occurrences that seemed to be happening within the innermost reaches of his thoughts. He thought that once the Dark Lord was gone—dead—and that was certain, for no one buried him without making sure he wouldn’t ever wake up again—the voices in his head would end. Would stop. That he wouldn’t hear his mother scream when he lays down on his pillow at night—that he wouldn’t imagine his old Headmaster’s death over and over again… that he wouldn’t have to bite back a sadistic smile at the memory of Lucius Malfoy’s execution. The reason, while unknown to the wee Potter lad, was simple—the night that Voldemort went to the small cottage, was the night that he and Harry Potter became combined. They shared thoughts—emotions—visions… They were, without a doubt, a single person. That, though one couldn’t live while the other did—neither could live without the other. And when Harry finally killed the Dark Lord, he killed half of himself. Half of his sanity was ripped from his psyche—half of his heart stopped beating—half of his humanity seemed to deteriorate… And though he murdered the man who carried the darkness that had terrified the wizarding world for more than half a century, he knew he created another monster.
It remained dormant—under control—for all these years. Through all of his stress and climb up the social ladder at the one place most would pin as the safest location in all of magical England, it was silent. But now—as he finds himself in a place of power, the darkest shadows of his mind are stirring—twisting the hero that he once was into madness he thought he destroyed… For Fate is fickle like that, and Destiny chooses to write her own stories, and not follow the examples of mankind with a happily ever after… No—for Fortune loves nothing more than to wriggle with glee at the end when the hero finally falls, and becomes what he’s always feared. A madman.
Mod Journal | Game Community | OOC Community
Retired Character(s):
Virgil Goldstein
Unplayed:
Hermia Montague (pre-premise shift)
Ignatius Weasley (pre-premise shift)
