When people called Paris 'The City of Lights' they probably didn't have this in mind. Though the cityscape did have a magnificent red glow beneath dark clouds of smoke and ash.
To say that Paris was burning would be like saying all Mozart did was write music.
It was understatement of the worst kind, because, in the distance, the Eiffel Tower was melting.
Harry could clearly see it from his place beside his mentor, overlooking the heart of France.
This was the price of standing up to Voldemort.
Gale force winds blew towards the center of the city. The hot air rising pulled in cooler air from the surrounding region.
People running to escape were ripped off their feet and flung into the heart of the storm. Street poles melted on every corner and there was no solid glass to be found.
A family burst from their home, running out onto the asphalt only to promptly fall into the liquified street.
They tried to push off the ground with their hands only for their hands to sink in and burn, their flesh was peeled from their bodies by the heat.
Three city blocks were pulled off their foundations and toppled towards the conflagration.
A car slid down a street before it was caught up in tarmac, the former solid had become a hot flammable liquid.
There were charred and twisted bodies everywhere, some still moving while they were little more than skeletons. In other places the heat was more merciful and it fried the lungs of its victims first.
Harry tried to convince himself that what he was smelling was just the city and that he couldn't smell burning flesh.
This wasn't even Voldemort's power, not truly. This was a natural result of when fires merge in a dense area of flammable material.
Sure he had set the fires, an easy thing to do considering he was the greatest pyrokinetic alive, perhaps ever to live.
Then he ensured that the city's mechanisms to prevent such a thing failed… but from there all he had had to do was step back.
Here, Hell was on Earth.
"Can you stop the winds Harry, we must act fast," Dumbledore slid his sleeves up and drew his wand. Harry struggled to hear the Headmaster over the sound of melting metropolis.
He shook his head and grabbed the old sorcerer's arm.
"Sir," Harry pleaded.
"We can levitate the rivers. The Seine and Marne, there."
Harry followed the pointed wand and looked out at dry river beds, the firestorm had boiled the rivers off even as water rushed to replace the gaps.
"There's no water, Professor."
Harry had never seen the unflappable wizard so panicked, not even when Harry emerged from the Chamber of Secrets with Tom Riddle's Diary.
"Go help the muggles, I'll create a trench to hold back the flames." Dumbledore's mind must have been whirling, coming up with new plans as fast as possible to try and help; to try and end the disaster.
"We have to stay together. If we split up he'll kill one of us and then the other, especially if we exhaust ourselves with the rivers or digging trenches," Harry argued.
Hordes of people were rushing past the two wizards, some stopped to look at the magicians. The Statute of Secrecy had been the first thing to go when Voldemort went to war.
He could distantly hear, over the din of collapsing buildings and rushing people, pitched and angled just perfectly to reach him, the voice of a little girl. "Are we getting dead yet?"
Harry cursed his understanding of french. He swallowed his empathy, it was thick and bitter.
"We have to catch him, sir, or he'll do it again. Berlin, London, whose to say he'll limit his targets to Europe."
"He'll do it again, Harry." Dumbledore croaked, he was nearly sobbing.
Harry put a comforting hand on the wizard's shoulder and watched.
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Harry Potter pushed his glasses higher up on his nose as he bolted towards Privet drive, away from his cousin Dudley riding on his new racing bike.
Harry had been confused why Dudley had wanted a bike at all. He was fat, and hated exercise with a prejudice; unless he happened to be punishing somebody, usually Harry.
Harry was, despite his frail body, deceptively fast. Too fast for Dudley to catch unless he was cornered. That was, until the bike.
Thankfully, it had its limits. Harry dodged through a yard, where Dudley couldn't follow, towards his Aunt and Uncle's house. If he made it there he could lock himself in his cupboard. He would be safe.
Well safe from the bike at least. Dudley wouldn't pursue him inside the cupboard.
His glasses fell from his face despite his attempts to keep them on; he blamed the odd shape of the frames. They were ill-fitting and just barely held together by tape, so could never form a very snug fit.
They hit the pavement and Harry snatched them up as fast as he could, only to turn and see Dudley practically upon him.
He desperately wished he was in his cupboard and closed his eyes tight to brace himself…
No pain ever arrived.
He was in his cupboard. He heard distant shouting, but he was definitely in the cupboard.
He was certainly glad to be amongst his little spider friends again, but not like this. Not in some… freakish manner. Dudley would tell on him without a doubt, and that was sure to net another beating.
And it did.
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By the time Harry woke up the next morning, the bruises of his Uncle's belt had faded. The sore spot on his head from Petunia's frying pan stung softly but not distractingly.
This was a regular occurrence and, while this used to mean more beatings to try and make the marks stick – to get the message across, obviously – now that he was in school, he figured that the Dursleys were thankful he healed so quickly.