The Second Try

The old man stood upon the tallest tower of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and looked over the grounds. He watched the sun set, the sky taking on a beautiful color. He knew that it would be the last sunset he saw. He watched as the signs of the day faded away and changed to night. He sighed, then silently Apparated to his office. Wearily, he drew out a blue-tinged wooden wand with silver metal around it. With a gesture, the paintings in the room were empty, having been barred from their resting places by the Headmaster. He didn't need their criticisms tonight.

Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and the Boy-Who-Won, sat back on the chair in the office. Honestly, the list of all of his titles could take almost ten minutes to read, but there were only a few that he really cared about. There was one name that he would give everything to have back, even if it were only for a single day. Husband of Hermione Jean Potter. She'd died ten years earlier, having finally succumbed to old age, despite Harry's best efforts.

Harry Potter was dying too, but not of old age. He could live another few hundred years with ease. The magic within him was so strong that he'd had to place hundreds of seals on his magic, locking him down to a mere percentage of his true strength. The magic would sustain him and heal any impurities within his body. Physically, despite his age, he was capable of feats that would leave men a quarter his age crying, without even breaking a sweat.

He wasn't actually dying. He simply had nothing to live for. He'd seen his friends and family die one by one, during the war. He'd only been able to save Hermione, and even then it had been difficult. His and Hermione's only daughter had died as well, when a single man had broken into the house and performed a Killing Curse. Harry had been facing an entire army at the time, but when he felt his daughter's death, he'd literally opened the gates of hell.

A rift had opened beneath the feet of the army, swallowing them whole. Fire had rained from the skies and lightning had struck them. Winds ripped through them. It was more than simple Elemental Magic, however. He'd called forth a storm of raw magical power. There had been no physical signs, only a wall of invisible magic radiating out from the angered man. The writhing, shifting field had destroyed half of the continent, before he'd finally regained enough control to stop the destruction.

After Hermione died, Harry had been utterly alone. He'd become distant and would probably had sunk into depression long before, had he not found the phoenix. Actually, she'd found him, right after the funeral. She was blue and silver. Somehow, Harry detected Hermione's spirit within the creature. He'd named her Mia. The bird had kept him company, giving him a reason to keep going. Finally, Harry had made his decision.

Harry had spent ten years working on his Temporal Magics. The field had no experts (due to the fact that anyone who studied such a thing inevitably went insane) so Harry had been working completely blind. It had only taken him a year before he was considered the Master of the field.

Harry drew the necessary runes on the floor, creating a magic circle the likes of which had never been seen before. The lines glowed as Harry activated the magic. The equations were in place, the target was programmed. The only thing left was a massive surge of magical energy. Taking a deep breath, Harry opened every seal on his magic. The world shook as its last hero literally exploded. The ancient castle and everything within a hundred miles were caught by the explosion.