There was a primal fear that seeing an Endbringer up close put in you. It wasn't the kind that made your heart race before a duel, or the kind that stiffened your hands before exams. No, this was deeper, and arguably much more concentrated, going beyond reason. It was the terror of standing before something that should not exist, something dragged out of nightmares and made flesh, something that wanted you gone for no discernable reason.
Harry had faced monsters before. He had stared down the fangs of a Basilisk, felt the icy hands of Dementors clutch at his soul, and watched Voldemort rise again with murder in his eyes. But even Voldemort, in all his arrogance, power, and limited immortality, had been human. He had bled, he had raged, and he had feared, even if he had hidden those moments behind cruelty.
Leviathan could do neither of those things.
It loomed over the drowned streets like the famed Godzilla from his world, a being of pure muscles and scales. Yet, it moved with impossible speed, every step gouging deep craters into the ground, and every lash of its tail sending buildings toppling. Entire neighborhoods were destroyed at its whim, while capes—young and old, hero and villain—were swept aside with hardly any effort. Water followed in its wake, slamming into those durable enough to withstand its earlier attack only to be drowned by its second.
Harry stood on a rooftop some blocks away, fingers clenched so tightly in his fist that his knuckles ached. Magic thrummed at his fingertips, his only anchor.
Yes, there was fear.
But it wasn't just the fear of dying, all-encompassing and ever-present though that was. No, this was the fear of failing. The fear of standing here, staring at this monster, and realizing that even after all he’d endured, all he’d fought through, he might not be enough to deal with it.
And worse, the fear that he’d run away. That he’d Apparate back to the safety of the infirmary, back to the patients and the healers, and leave this fight to the people who had chosen it.
And he knew—knew—that no one here would blame him. Earth Bet had long since made its grim peace with Endbringers, and everyone understood that most could not stand against them. Suicide rates had spiked after the first one appeared, after all, and still did as too many quickly realized they couldn't live in a world where the monsters could attack at any moment. They would rather gamble on a maybe-Hell than endure the certainty of this one.
And who could blame them?
Harry’s throat worked as he forced himself to keep his gaze fixed on Leviathan’s towering frame, the monster worthy of the name. If I were one of them, he thought, if I didn’t have magic, if I were forced to rely on others every waking moment just to survive, would I still be this stubborn? Would I still insist on saving people, despite knowing the odds?
The answer didn’t come easily, and that unsettled him even more than the Endbringer itself.
Harry Potter had always been certain. Even walking into the Forbidden Forest to meet his own death, he had been certain it was the right thing to do. Even when staring down Voldemort with nothing but blind faith and hopes in the words of an old Headmaster, he had still believed he could achieve his aim.
But now, in this world, against this enemy, he wasn’t so sure.
That doubt was arguably worse than fear.
Harry let out a deep breath, forcing his thoughts back into line. There would be time for introspection later. Yes, later. There will be a later, he promised himself. I’ll make sure of it.
Now wasn’t the time for doubts. Now was the time for action. And however cliche it sounded, it was still true.
His shoulders straightened, and he reached inward, feeling his magic almost respond in kind, almost ready to spill out at a moment’s notice. It was as if it knew the scale of the fight ahead, and was urging him on.
This wasn’t a duel with the dark lord, no skirmish with the Death Eaters, or a childhood prophecy hanging over his head. This was bigger, worse too. And yet, it was familiar in its own way.
One boy against the impossible.
“Alright, then,” Harry whispered, breath fogging in the cold spray of water that reached even here, and readied himself for a fight infinitely more dangerous, against a foe infinitely more powerful than Voldemort had ever been.
And then he Apparated again.
When he reappeared, he was right above the monster. Some would call him foolish, that he was too close to the monster, and his body was too squishy to withstand any blow should he be caught unaware. And they were right, especially as Leviathan’s next impact shook the very air itself, and he caught a spray of water on his face. But it was also the perfect place to launch his first attack.
He raised a hand, magic roaring to life, and answered the Endbringer’s water with the fury of Fiendfyre.