scyllascriptor:

follow-the-bvtterflies:

dracos-amortentia:

What if Harry just obliviated Voldemort and none of the death eaters knew it happened so Harry just went about living a normal life and Voldemort was confused as to why all these people in weird masks kept trying to talk to him

Gilderoy Lockhart Potter, you are named after a Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher, who taught me the most important skill I ever needed to know.

Harry had a hope. It was a small one, perhaps even subconscious. When “Obliviate” tumbled out of his mouth, half-intended, half-… something else, he was more surprised than Voldemort (but only for a moment). 

Obliviation teeters on the edge of a Curse, you see, and all Curses are of semi-sentient nature. Obliviation is hungry. It is a void, a pit, and an abyss that consumes without end, and hungers for memory. The stronger that memory the more eager the spell is to consume. The more attached one was to that memory, the faster it would slip loose. That is why muggle memories of magical sights excise so cleanly, and why Gilderoy Lockhart’s method had worked for so long.

The Obliviation saw Voldemort’s mind laid bare, and hungered. Voldemort saw the blast of golden nothingness, and quailed. The only defense was to shed  attachment, desire, ambition, and most of all trauma. He could not do that, not in ten thousand lifetimes and certainly not in a tenth of a second. 

Gold light enveloped green, feeding on the hateful source of that Curse. Green died out. Obliviation shined around Voldemort and ate, and ate, and ate, and found a final end when the mind was void of any real ‘memory’, anything he valued or desired.

A pale, disfigured, man stumbled backward and sat down. Everything around him was loud and terrifying. He could scarcely breathe, every gasp or inhalation choking him with smoke and ash. He saw a young man with kind eyes looking down at him. “Young man – I – Young man, I think I’ve been hurt.”

“It’s alright, sir. Do you know where you are? Who you are?” Asked the green-eyed lad. So kind, so very kind.

“I- … No. No I don’t. Good lord… No I don’t!” He tried to stand, but found he was nearly frozen with chill. “What on earth is happening?”

“You’ve had a bit of a knock on the head. It’ll be alright once we get you seen to.” The young man said, helping the poor fellow to his feet. Harry had a hope, a small and nearly subconscious one, that this time Tom Riddle could start fresh. Perhaps a few people could understand that he was no more Voldemort than Mr. Lockhart was … who he was before. That the twisted thing at Kings Cross would not be anyone’s future. 

What few Death Eaters were left felt their Dark Marks writhe and dissipate. The Curse that forged them forgotten, the power that bound them unraveled.

In the years after no one dared try and ‘reeducate’ their Dark Lord. His therapy went well, and carefully. He knew he had done terrible things “before”, and could not find that terribleness in himself any longer. He had made what amends he could, but whatever sins had been secret were gone forever. He never hid away, and would apologize freely, sincerely, to anyone who asked it. Over time everyone had grown used to him, though it was still a great shock when they would see him sitting at a table in Diagon Alley sharing tea with a young man with kind, green, eyes.