Chapter 8: Legacy of the Ascended

As soon as Harry closed his eyes, he felt the familiar tug of magic, pulling him inward. When he opened them again, he was standing once more on the strange floating rock suspended in an endless cosmic void—the manifestation of his mindscape. But this time, he wasn't alone.

A humanoid figure stood nearby, radiating a soft, silvery light that shimmered like stardust. Her presence felt ancient, timeless, yet not hostile—an echo of something once great.

"Hello, descendant. I'm glad you found the chair," she said, her voice calm and melodic.

Harry blinked, confusion washing over him. "Wait... what? Who are you?"

"I am Arya, a holographic interface designed by my creators, the Anquietas. My purpose is to preserve and pass on their knowledge to future generations—our descendants."

Harry stared, incredulous. "You're sure you've got the right guy? I'm not even from this universe. The odds of me being descended from your people are... next to none."

Arya simply smiled. "You activated the chair. That alone requires at least fifty per cent genetic compatibility with our species. Furthermore, you're passively charging the Potentia. Only those who are on the path to Ascension can do that. You are of Alteran blood. That is not speculation—it is certainty."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. He didn't like being told who or what he was—especially by glowing, ancient holograms. Still, curiosity itched at him. "Fine. Let's say you're right. Explain how someone from an entirely different universe ends up being your 'descendant.'"

Arya gave a nod, pleased. "You're familiar with the parallel universe theory?"

He nodded reluctantly. "Yeah. Basic sci-fi. Every decision creates a new universe or whatever."

"That's the simplified version. The truth is, only major decisions—those that affect the fate of millions or reshape planetary events—create divergent timelines. Your original universe must have had a similar evolutionary track. The Alterans likely existed there, too, even if your people never discovered their outposts. Your genes are the proof."

Harry took a moment to process that.

Arya stepped forward, her hands lifting. The void around them shimmered, transforming into a grand, sweeping visual: stars, planets, ships, and cities of light and energy.

"The Anquietas, our people, were the first evolution of humanity in four galaxies. They lived as one unified society, seeking enlightenment and evolution. But as in any civilization, division arose. Two factions formed—those who became the Ori, deeply religious and dogmatic, and the Alterans, scientific and secular."

The images morphed into war, persecution, and escape.

"When the Ori sought to purge the Alterans, our ancestors chose exile over war. They left, travelling across galaxies, eventually founding civilizations like this outpost. As time passed, they evolved further—some ascending into pure energy, becoming beings of thought and will."

The vision faded. Arya turned back to Harry.

"When the last of the Alterans left this outpost, they created me in the hope that, someday, a descendant like you would come. That their legacy would not be lost."

Harry sat down slowly on a conjured stone. The weight of it all began pressing in.

"To be descended from a civilization like that... It's humbling. However, I'm unsure if I can carry their legacy. I'm already carrying too much. Voldemort's memories. A Goa'uld's insanity. Hecate's whispers. The last mind transfer nearly killed me. I'm not sure I can take more."

Arya regarded him with empathy. "If you permit me, I can examine your mind. Perhaps there's a way."

After a long pause, Harry nodded.

Arya closed her eyes. A warm, feather-light touch slipped through Harry's thoughts. He let her in. Memories flashed—his cupboard, Hogwarts, war, pain, victories, losses. Voldemort's life. Hecate's madness. The Goa'uld's cold arrogance.

When she opened her eyes, Arya looked... startled.

"You've lived a remarkable life, Harry. Wounded, but not broken. Your magic has worked miracles to keep your mind intact. Still, I can help you. What you hold—three separate consciousnesses—can be refined. You don't need their voices, their traumas, their ravings. Just their knowledge."

Harry leaned forward. "How exactly?"

She smiled. "I'll remove all the redundant and damaging memories—Voldemort's monologues, his tortures, his obsessions. I'll extract only the useful magical knowledge and blend it seamlessly into your memory. You'll retain the power, without the nightmares."

"And the Goa'uld?"

"The same. Their ego and cruelty will be gone. But I'll preserve enough cultural and contextual knowledge for you to understand and use what you've gained."

Harry hesitated. It was dangerous. It was invasive.

But... it was also a chance. A chance to finally sleep without nightmares. An opportunity to be whole again.

His magic nudged him gently, reassuringly.

"Do it," he said at last.

Arya nodded, and a chair—identical to the one in the real world—materialised behind him.

"This process will take several days. The chair will support your body. For you, it will feel like only minutes. Are you ready?"

Harry sat. "Let's begin."

"Close your eyes, Harry. When you open them again, it will be done."

He obeyed. As the light around Arya intensified, the void dissolved.

Harry felt a hand on his shoulder.

With a groggy sigh, he opened his eyes.

Arya stood before him once more, smiling warmly.

"Welcome back, sleepyhead. It's been ten days since you sat on the chair. Everything went smoothly. Your mind is now a beacon—ordered, resilient, and filled with the legacy of our ancestors."

"I don't feel any different," Harry said.

"You will," Arya promised. "Day by day. Piece by piece. Now... It's time to wake up. There are those waiting for you."

As the dream faded, her voice echoed one last time:

"Until next time, Harry. Good luck."

Harry opened his eyes.

This time, in the real world.

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