Good oneshot. Although Moody feels like a Deus Ex Machina.

 

A/N: All glory to Grinning Lizard, who made the prompt.

July 31st, 1991​

3…2…1…

Happy eleventh birthday, Harry Potter thought to himself.

Suddenly, there was a loud CRACK from outside. Harry looked about, to see that his relatives were as confused and startled as he was.

And then there was a click, and the cabin door opened, and a man strolled in like he owned the place.

The first thing that Harry noticed about the man was that he was huge. Harry estimated him to be about eleventh-foot tall, and maybe thirty stones in weight.

The second was that, despite the storm raging outside, he was dry from head to toe. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail, his face was clean-shaven, and while Harry was no expert he could tell that the suit the large man wore was quite expensive.

The third was the unusual stick in the man’s hand. Initially Harry thought it might be a truncheon, but dismissed the idea immediately; it was too long and too thin for that. In fact, were things otherwise Harry would have thought it a conductor’s baton.

A thousand questions flooded into Harry’s brain at once. Who was this man? How did he track them? How did he even get onto the island in the middle of nowhere…?

And then he heard Uncle Vernon’s gasp of horror. There was a mechanical sound, and suddenly Harry realized the long package his uncle managed to purchase wasn’t a fishing rod after all, but a gun, a shotgun… he opened his mouth to shout his warning…

The stranger took a look at the weapon and flicked his baton. As if grabbed by an invisible hand the shotgun flew out of Uncle Vernon’s hands and into the stranger’s. He took one look at it, as if mildly curious, before tightening his grip and crushing the barrel. Vernon gulped audibly and behind him, Aunt Petunia whimpered.

The large man paid no attention to them, however. Instead, he turned to Harry and smiled.

“You’re Harry, right?” He said. “Of course you are. You look just like your dad, but with your mum’s eyes and red hair.”

It took a few seconds for Harry to process the information.

“You know my mum… my parents?” He asked. Somehow, he wasn’t nervous to talk to this man; it was as if he had seen this giant of a man before. “Sir?”

“I do.” The large man kneeled down so that he can level his eyes with Harry. “And the 'sir' is right. Professor Rubeus Hagrid, of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, at your service.”

September 1956​

“I don’t understand, Headmaster. Why me? There must be others who are more experienced, more suited to this task than I.”

Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore, newly appointed Headmaster of Hogwarts, turned to look at his former student. Minerva McGonagall was one of the brightest he had ever taught, well-versed in magic in general and Transfiguration in particular; he knew that he would be leaving the Hogwarts Transfiguration program in good hands.

“Call me Albus, Minerva.” The old wizard said, peering at her over half-moon glasses. “It is true that the other professors are more experienced than you; I beg to differ, however, as to your suitability to this task. Due to the hardship he’s been through in his youth, he connects far better with people younger than he is.”

“He is a child at heart.” Minerva said.

Albus smiled. “I find that endearing, actually. Sherbet lemon, Minerva?”

The witch accepted the candy, though Albus suspected she only did it out of politeness. Shrugging slightly he continued. “I know that I am asking a lot from you. Your mission, Minerva, should you choose to accept it, will be difficult and time consuming. I cannot promise a return greater than my gratitude—and his, of course—for you.

“Were things otherwise, I would have done this myself—but things are not otherwise, and I need you. To help me, and help him.”

Minerva sighed. She knew she would probably regret this, but how could she refuse the man who saved Britain, Europe, and her parents from the tender mercies of Gellert Grindelwald?

“Very well, Albus. I accept.”

September 1956​

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Hagrid.” Minerva said to the large man sitting in front of her. He nodded, slightly uneasily. She waved her wand and summoned two long, thin boxes out of her office. Hagrid looked up as she opened one to reveal a pink umbrella.

“Professor Dumbledore asked me to return that to you,” Minerva said, and immediately Hagrid snatched back the umbrella. Minerva didn’t blame him; witches and wizards were closely bonded to their wands, and even though he wasn’t a fully-trained wizard the same could be said for Hagrid and his pink umbrella, which contained parts of his old, snapped wand. She gently tapped the second box, calling his attention to it. “However, more importantly, there is this.”

Over the holidays, Dumbledore had asked to borrow Hagrid’s wand, as well as a certain personal effect from Hagrid’s late father—a lock of hair from Hagrid’s mother, the giantness Fridwulfa. Minerva thought it was all for some research project, but the Chief Warlock brought them along on his trip to the ICW conference in Prague. A month later, a parcel was delivered via owl and it now sat on the table between Minerva and Hagrid.

“Professor Dumbledore has explained to me the situation that led to your expulsion. Former Headmaster Dippet has since come to regret his rush decision to expel you over the so-called Chamber of Secrets incident. Professor Dumbledore, likewise, believes in your innocence. He will continue to plead your case with our government, but in the mean time he wishes that you renew your education in magic.”

“T’s been ’ears since I used magic, though,” Hagrid said, not meeting her eyes.

Minerva shot the umbrella a look. “Don’t lie, Hagrid.” She said sternly. Despite being seven years her senior, the large man cowered in front of her. “Now, as I was saying, the Headmaster wants you to renew your studies, which means that a new wand is in order.”

She opened the box to reveal a long, slightly crooked stick.

“Eighteen and three-quarter inches, alder, with your mother’s hair as its core.” She said as Hagrid looked it up and down.

“It’s… beautiful.” The assistant gamekeeper muttered.

“It’s yours now.” The Transfiguration professor replied. Hagrid looked up, and upon seeing her nod in the affirmative lifted the wand from its box. “Due to the Ministry’s close monitoring of British wandmakers, the Headmaster had to have this made on the continent. Not as refined as an Ollivander product, but Gergorovitch is a gifted wandmaker in his own right and among the best of Europe. But enough of this.”

She stood up, and Hagrid hastily climbed to his feet as well. “I know that you haven’t officially used magic for nearly two decades. Thus, we will start with first year material. Let’s begin with the Match-to-needle transfiguration…”

October 1956​

“It’s Levi-O-sa, not Le-vio-SA.” Minerva said for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“Sorry, Prefessor.” Hagrid mumbled.

Minerva sighed. This was taking a lot longer than she hoped, and she suspected that if she didn’t get to the core of the problem right now, it would only get worse in the long run. Might as well…

“I think, Mr. Hagrid, we’ll have to start with correcting your accent.”

July 1962​

Minerva stepped out of the shadows toward the man she had been asked to follow. Immediately, as if by some sixth sense the man turned; upon realizing who it was, however, he relaxed.

“Professor.” Hagrid said, pulling out a large hanky to wipe his face.

“Just Minerva would do, Rubeus.” Minerva answered softly, coming to a stop next to her Hogwarts colleague. There wasn’t much else she could say, however.

“I’m fine, yeh know.” Hagrid said in a choked voice. “I’m very happy. I just want ta let me dad know that…”

“That Dumbledore had your case overturned, that you’ve passed your OWLs, and that you are now a real wizard.” Minerva finished for him. “I’m sure he’d be very proud.”

Hagrid simply nodded. “I couldn’t have done it without your help, Prof—Minerva.” As Minerva smiled he drew his wand. “One more thing and I’m good to go.” He took a deep breath. Orchideous!”

A bouquet of flowers appeared out of thin air and into Hagrid’s hands, and he laid it on his father’s grave. Tears began flowing out of his eyes, but Minerva put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s go home, Rubeus... to Hogwarts.”

June 1977​

“Rubeus!” Minerva shouted, causing the wizard to stop and look back. She jumped off the broom she had commandeered from that scoundrel James Potter. “Rubeus, what is this I heard about you accepting a position from the Salem Witches’ Institute?” She demanded.

The large man looked at her with some surprise. “News does travel fast, doesn’t it?” He said.

“This is Hogwarts.” She pointed out.

“True,” Hagrid conceded. “They did offer me a job and a pay raise, yes.”

“Well?”

“I ain’t going to leave at a time like this,” He said, as if surprised that she would make such a suggestion. “Besides, I still have a score to settle with Riddle.”

She saw his eyes darken at the mention of his one-time schoolmate. Those same eyes softened, however, as he turned to her. “But most importantly, Hogwarts’ my home. And she needs me now. I can’t abandon her, can I?”

Despite herself, Minerva smiled. “Of course you can’t.”

Hagrid’s face split into a broad grin. His eyes fell onto the broom in her hand. “Why Minerva, I hadn’t seen you on a broom for ages, since you were on the House Team!”

The two friends laughed and talked Quidditch as they walked back toward the castle.

May 1982​

Hagrid shut his luggage case with a click. Looking about his cabin, he checked to make sure he had everything he needed or wanted to bring with him, which surprisingly wasn’t a lot. Most of his things he had boxed away; the castle elves would come by later on, to pick up his things and put them in storage. With a small chuckle he picked up his luggage, then his hat, and reached for the door.

That was, he would have, had it not been for someone standing by the door.

“So,” She said, gesturing at the half-empty cabin. “You’re really going. This time.”

He said nothing, and the Transfiguration professor took the silence as an affirmative. What more could be said? The war was over, and they had won, but at a heavy price: James and Lily were dead, the Prewett twins were dead, Dorcas Meadowes, Marlene McKinnon… the list went on.

She understood Hagrid’s urge to get away from all that. She had entertained the idea herself.

“Little Harry is in good hands,” Hagrid spoke up at last. He had been the first to arrive at the Potter cottage, and was the one who dug the infant orphan out of the destroyed house. “I’m sure Lily’s sister will take good care of him. I made sure of that.”

Minerva nodded. She had some reservations about leaving the child in a muggle’s care, but Albus made some very convincing arguments. Besides, the Figgs would move in to the neighbourhood soon, and they would definitely keep an eye out for things.

“Where will you go?” She asked, breaking the uneasy silence.

“The mainland, at least at first. There is this colony in the north that I think my…” He looked down, his hand tightening around his wand, “…my mother may be staying with.”

“After that?”

“Around? There is so much to see in this beautiful world, yet I have hardly ever set foot outside Britain.” Hagrid took a step closer and met Minerva’s eyes. “I’ll just be away for a while. My heart will always be here, at the school, with…”

“…Hogwarts.” She finished the sentence for him.

For the longest time the two of them simply stood there, looking at each other, uncertain. Something seemed to pass between them, and at long last Hagrid pulled her into a one-armed hug, but let go of her extremely quickly.

"Take care of Floppy for me?" He asked.

Minerva was never a dog person, but she rallied. "Of course."

“Good bye, Minerva.”

“Good bye, Rubeus.”

March 1983​

Dear Minerva,

I suppose congratulations are in order to the new Mr. and Mrs. Urquhart…

August 1988​

Dear Rubeus,

I wish you well on your journey. Elphin would like me to thank you for the gift, it was most thoughtful…

…Arabella wrote the other day. She said that young Harry was doing quite well in school, a polite, well-liked young man…

…Albus sent along his best and we do hope to hear from you soon…

June 1991​

Dear Rubeus,

I am delighted to hear that you have accepted Albus’ offer.

Silvanus’ retirement comes at a bit of a surprise, but then again, he had been contemplating it for a few years…

July 30th, 1991​

“Harry Potter isn’t answering the letters. I’m not sure if he even received them.” Minerva confided in Hagrid, who nodded.

“I will go check on him.” He took one of the letters from her desk, and frowned. The address on the envelope was changing, indicating that Harry Potter was on the move at the moment. However, even as he watched, the heading changed to:

Mr. H. Potter

The Floor, The hut-on-the-rock

The Sea

His eyes narrowed. He had a bad feeling about this.

“I’ll go check on ’im now.”
---
A/N-1: Basically, I stole the prompt for CrackedMind and wrote something. About 2.3k words in a day's time.

A/N-2: Idea is, essentially, at Dumbledore's request Minerva tutored Hagrid in magic and other things, so he became a wizard after all. I'll admit that Averis' story in WbA influenced this quite a bit. This Hagrid is more refined than the Warrior-Wizard of Averis' creation, however, kind of like a male version of Madame Maxime. He will make quite a different impression on Harry. Can be an intro to an AU Harry-mentored-by-gentleman!wizard!Hagrid-story, with a subplot of Hagrid/McGonagall friendship/UST, but as a oneshot it is, I must admit, somewhat lacking due to a lack of plot.

A/N-3: Unfamiliar names: Elphinstone Urquhart is Minerva McGonagall's husband (according to Pottermore info); Silvanus is Kettleburn, the CoMC teacher before Hagrid.

 

That was a thumpin' good 'un at tha'.

You're putting the rest of the thread to shame, Oruma.

 

Oruma, your awesome. Though I was writing it at a snail's pace, what I wrote wouldn't have compared.

Am I still allowed to post it, or is it against etiquette to?

 

@GL
My intention exactly.

@CrackedMind
Post it, please. It's been done before, i.e. two or more people writing with the same prompt. I mean, it only shows that that's a good prompt & the original prompt-er is awesome.

 

Loved the story, Oruma.

 

Day of Vengeance​

“NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!”

With a howl Molly Weasley pushed the girls aside. Her wand blurred with motion as she began attacking the last, best lieutenant of Lord Voldemort. Bellatrix’s smile faltered and turned into a snarl as she withstood the storm of spells brought forth by the furious witch. And yet, at heart, the Weasley matriarch was not a fighter; her fury could only do so much. In the end, she was no match for the demented Dark Witch, who held superiority over her in terms of speed, skill, and experience. Bellatrix recovered within seconds and began her counterattack, forcing Molly to back off and raise shields.

“What will happen to your children when I kill you?” Bellatrix laughed as she sent two jets of fire on either side of Mrs Weasley, restricting her movement for just one second as the green light of the Killing Curse descended upon her. Molly froze as death flew toward her—

—Until it was intercepted by a stone pillar rising out of the floor.

“You will not kill her, Bella. Not today.” Andromeda Tonks, nee Black, strolled forward in a fashion that could almost be called leisurely, despite the fact that she was on a battlefield and facing her homicidal maniac of a sister.

“You have killed far too many, as it is.”

“Mudbloods and blood traitors, all of you.” Bellatrix retorted with a sneer. “I am the last, true Black! And it is my duty—nay, my right—to cut away the rot that threatens the tree that is the House of Black, to destroy the blight that is upon our world.”

Molly retrieved her wand and climbed to her feet shakily. Ginevra and the brunette stood on either side of her while the blonde drifted away in an attempt to outflank Bellatrix. Andromeda shook her head at them, however, stopping them all in their tracks.

“This is Black business.” She said, turning back to her estranged sister. The years of freedom had restored some of the beauty of the Lady Lestrange; that was, until one gazed into her eyes and discovered the madness within. Steeling her resolve, Andromeda raised her wand in the traditional manner before beginning a duel. “Very well, then.”

But it wasn’t going to be a duel, a fight; this was vengeance, pure and simple.

“I have nothing further to say to you, Bella. We fight—to the death.”

TGYH-TGYH-TGYH​

Andromeda drifted into the Great Hall of Hogwarts like a ghost. Around her people ran back and forth, taking advantage of the temporary ceasefire to fortify defensive positions, treat the wounded and move the dead.

The dead. Among whom included her daughter and son-in-law.

Her beautiful Nymphadora, so full of life and laughter, and quiet Remus Lupin, caring and courageous. They knew the risk of continuing to defy the Dark Lord; they knew the risk of heeding the call and joining the battle. They had gently placed their infant son in her arms, and told her that it must be done, because they wanted to make for their child a happier, safer world to live in.

And now they were dead, leaving the newborn Teddy Lupin behind.

Teddy. Orphaned before the age of one. He would never get to meet his parents, never hear them tell him how proud they were of him, never see them laugh and cry with him. He would never get advice about girls from his father, or tips about metamorphing from his mother. He would never have any siblings to share adventures with, because his parents left on the next great adventure along with his namesake.

His namesake. Ted. Her husband.

Ted Tonks was a good man, a wonderful father and a loving husband. And a good chef, too, both magically and non-magically. Which was a good thing, considering that among other culinary miracles Andromeda was capable of frying porridge. Together they had thirty wonderful years until it was cut short.

Cut short… like Sirius’ life.

Andromeda had never believed that Sirius would betray his best friend, the Potters. He was the last, good one of her family, she was sure of it. Unlike Remus, whose own difficult life had taught him to be cynical and forced him to ‘accept and move on’, she never did. Thus she was secretly overjoyed when she heard of Sirius’ escape from Azkaban, and later when Nymphadora brought home the news that Sirius was innocent just as she suspected, and while they couldn’t yet clear his name he was now under Dumbledore’s protection. It had rekindled a spark of hope in her, that was, until he was killed in battle by her sister and his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange.

Sister. Andromeda wondered where Narcissa was.

Many had wondered about the life Narcissa turned out to have. Many, if not all, thought of her a bigot because of her family ties, in addition to her husband’s position as Voldemort’s right hand man. Andromeda knew better—she had simply taken the path of least resistance.

Oh, there was affection between the two of them, certainly, but Narcissa married Lucius largely because he was wealthy, and because he was acceptable to her parents. She didn’t hate muggles and blood-traitors; frankly, she didn’t give a damn one way or the other. She just went along with it, smiling and nodding whenever her husband spouted his usual pureblood-supremacist rhetoric. The only thing in the world that truly had Narcissa’s affection was her only child.

Andromeda wondered what became of the boy.

She had never met Draco Malfoy, of course, but saw pictures of him plenty enough in the newspapers. She could not believe it when news got out that Draco Malfoy helped brought above the murder of Albus Dumbledore; she could not believe him a killer. And because of the similarities, she couldn’t help fearing that he would tread the same path and share the same fate as his uncle, Regulus.

Poor, foolish Regulus, who was young and would never grow old.

Remus had returned home last month, saying that he met Harry Potter and his friends at William Weasley’s house. They asked him to pass along a message: Regulus Black regretted joining the Death Eaters, and defied the Dark Lord despite knowing where it would lead. In death, Regulus had found redemption.

Redemption. Not applicable to the unrepentant, like Bellatrix Lestrange.

She swore, in front of her daughter and son-in-law there and then, that she would have vengeance.

TGYH-TGYH-TGYH​

“I have nothing further to say to you, Bella. We fight—to the death.”

The two sisters looked into each other’s eyes, even as around them the battle began to end; rejuvenated and reinforced, the defenders had turned the tide and subdued most of the Dark Lord’s forces. Aside from Voldemort himself, the only notable Death Eater remaining was Bellatrix Lestrange.

In a fair fight, Andromeda knew that she was no match for her sister. She was younger and never suffered a stint in Azkaban, but these did not negate the advantages Bella had over her—she was a more dedicated practitioner than Andromeda in the Dark Arts, she was far more experienced and most importantly of all, she was ruthless and was unhindered by such things as a conscience. There was no way Andromeda could win, but perhaps—

“Avada Kedavra!” Bella screamed, going in for the kill immediately.

There was no way Andromeda could shield or dodge this. They both knew it.

But Andromeda didn’t have to.

“Avada Kedavra.” She incanted the exact same curse, almost at the exact same time. Bella’s eyes widened as the emerald lights of death passed each other on their way to their targets.

The last thing Andromeda felt was the spell crashing into her. Oddly, it was like a breeze passing through her entire being. It really didn't hurt at all.

The last thing Andromeda saw was of the Killing Curse hitting her sister, freezing on her face forever the expression of surprise and horror, and Bella’s body beginning to topple.

The last thing Andromeda heard was the shouts of shock from around her; none expected a suicide attack. Strangely, Andromeda thought that among those who gasped she heard the voice of Harry Potter. He was alive?

The last thing Andromeda smelled was the smell of ozone, reminding her of the first time she tried to boil water the muggle way, burning it so badly the smell wouldn’t go away for days despite liberal amounts of refreshing charms. Ted, however, said that it was funny and endearing.

The last thing Andromeda thought was that she was sorry she couldn’t live for little Teddy, even though he needed her. She didn’t have the strength to carry on, having lost so much. She soothed herself with the thought that Harry Potter would defeat Voldemort and care for Teddy in her place. The boy would do right by his godson, Andromeda was sure of it.

With all her remaining strength, Andromeda closed her eyes and dropped into the tender embrace of death. She had done it; through an act of violence she had made the world a better place. But more imporantly, she had paid her due to the dead.

This wasn’t a duel, or a fight. This was vengeance, plain and simple.

When you go out for vengeance, dig two graves.

Fin​

A/N-1: All glory to Peace, who gave the prompt and was the one whose entry interrupted my 2-story combo.​

A/N-2: Clocked at 1.5k. I wrote most of this this morning, actually, because I was unsatisfied with the bits I wrote the night before. Still a bit unsatisfied with how the prompt sentence was put in; should I place it somewhere else in the story?​

A/N-3: Mostly canon compliant, but with Molly defeated (AS IT SHOULD BE) and Andy taking over. The brunette by the way is Hermione, and the blonde is Luna. I don't think Andy Tonks had met either of them, though, thus the un-identification. I thought of having them actually duel, but then thought that Andy Tonks wouldn't really stand a chance against Bella, either, thus the take-you-with-me ending. I considered using Augusta Longbottom, but Andy Tonks was far more emotional and effective a character to use.​

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A/N-0: Again, all glory to Peace.

(I don't really have a good name for it. Suggestions welcome.)​

There was a loud bang and the bin behind Potter exploded; he attempted a Leg-Locker that backfired off the wall behind Draco’s ear, which smashed the cistern beneath Moaning Myrtle who screamed loudly; water poured everywhere and as Potter slipped Draco saw his chance.

“Cruci—”

Potter looked up, his eyes flashing, and in that one instant Draco saw not cold fury in those green eyes, but something strange like pleasure, or perhaps satisfaction.

“—cio!”

Potter screamed, twitching on the floor as his senses frayed under the attack of the Cruciatus Curse. Draco, horrified, broke his concentration at the sight in front of him, which proved to be a mistake when he was suddenly lifted into mid-air by the ankle. Before he could undo the jinx Potter had hit him with, the Gryffindor lifted his wand and Disarmed his long-time school enemy. A Body-Bind Curse stopped Draco’s struggling as Potter sat on the floor, panting, recovering from exhaustion and the pain.

“Myrtle,” He said, drawing the screaming ghost’s attention. “I need help. Can you please go and find the professors? As many as you can, please.”

Moaning Myrtle gave him a shaky nod before flying out of the bathroom. The moment she was gone, however, Potter jumped to his feet. He walked over to stare at the upside-down Draco in the eyes.

“Draco, you daft little bastard.” He said, shaking his head. “Do you know what the Ministry would call what you just did? Unforgiveable. Do you know what term they use for that? Life.”

Potter maintained a conversational tone, yet somehow managed to instil in Draco’s heart more fear than he had ever done in the last five years combined. Potter must have sensed this, too, for he smiled, a cold, merciless smile. His heart pounding in his ears, Draco’s eyes widened, which proved to be the opening Potter was waiting for. “Legilimens!”

Draco wanted to look away, to call up his Occlumency shields and block off Potter’s assault, but it was too late—

“I have you now, you son of a bitch.”

TGYH-TGYH-TGYH​

“What you did was most unwise, Harry.” Dumbledore said, his voice grave and his tone serious. “Using Legilimency on Draco when you know for a fact that he is a practicing Occlumens; he could have reversed the spell and glimpsed information from you instead.”

“It was a calculated risk, Professor,” Harry replied simply. “Besides, I won.”

Dumbledore frowned at the boy who, in his heart at least, he considered his apprentice, successor, and grandson. “I find it difficult to believe you would stage all this.”

“Really, sir?” Harry gave him the Headmaster of Hogwarts a look of genuine surprise. “You’re not suggesting that I let Malfoy curse me with the Cruciatus on purpose, sir, are you?”

“Well—”

“—because you’d be right, sir.” Harry cut him off. He stood up and began pacing. “I did.

“Consider: I know he had a mission at Hogwarts since summer. I know it wasn’t to kill me, before I even got off the Hogwarts Express. He simply punched me in the nose when he caught me, for Merlin’s sake! That narrowed things down considerably. It was Hogwarts, in general, or you, in particular.

“The two attacks since then, as well as the conversation I overheard between Snape and him, did more than confirm my suspicions; I was certain that Malfoy was going to kill you. And you… you knew it too.

“Malfoy might have refused to tell him, but Snape—alright, Professor Snape—is a sly bastard. He knew, I don’t know how, and what I overheard at the party was nothing but a ploy, to gain Malfoy’s trust.

“And if Professor Snape knew, chances are that you know as well. And there, pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. Why, I wondered, why would you suffer such a threat in the school? Unless you know who he was gunning for, of course.

“Slughorn had the poisoned mead, I’m sure you want to say, and that Katie had the cursed necklace. The thing is, Professor, just because the attempts are feeble doesn’t make them any less valid, and vice versa.

“In fact, I’d have to say that you are being quite irresponsible here. Ron and Katie could’ve died, because you knew of a plot and did nothing!

“Well, regardless of what you may think, Professor, I wasn’t going to let him try and hurt anyone else again. I took matters into my own hands. I stalked him for a chance of confronting him.

“Yes, I staged it all. I staged it so that I would confront Draco Malfoy when he was alone and emotionally unstable. I had been stalking him for weeks, if you want to know, so that at last he would reach his breaking point and attack me on sight. I know he is a better duellist than most give him credit for, but I am even better; I ensured that when we fight, he’d have no choice but to turn to the Dark Arts. I made sure to take a curse that was Dark but not immediately life-threatening. I made sure to have an impartial witness—in this case, Myrtle—at the site of my choice, so that if things did go pear-shaped someone could go get help.

“There were, of course, things that I didn’t foresee. I didn’t exactly plan for him to use an Unforgiveable Curse, for instance, though I took advantage of it. Oh, yes, I could’ve dodged. I chose not to, because I knew I could recover faster than he expected—little Draco’s curse had nothing on Voldemort’s.

“I took advantage of his panic to subdue him. I took advantage of that growing panic again, and used Legilimency on him, and in the process gained us a lot of intelligence. I took advantage of the appearance of staff members who, while neutral, were sympathetic to me. Madam Pomfrey confirmed the effects of the Cruciatus on me and Professor Flitwick found the spell on Malfoy’s wand through Priori Incantato.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore looked at the boy as if he were a stranger. Whatever happened to that naïve, impressionable lad? “What do you hope to accomplish through this?”

“To be honest? Just to turn him to our cause. Though unlike you, Professor, I don’t trust former-Death-Eaters-turned-spies. In this case, I fully intend to control Draco through a liberal application of blackmail.

“Unless he agrees to my demands, the Ministry will have him before the night’s over, and it will be on the Quibbler’s front page tomorrow.

“Don’t sound so surprised. I know that Scrimgeour, while on our side, is not to be trusted. But that doesn’t mean we have to be enemies; we can join forces so long as our interests are aligned. As we speak Ron’s owl, Pig, is carrying a missive to Percy, who as junior undersecretary has direct access to the Minister for Magic. I will have the Ministry’s backing in power and in legality.

“Oh, and yes, the Quibbler. It’s not a laughingstock these days, Professor, not after my interview and most certainly not after Voldemort’s appearance at the Ministry last year. I had Luna prepared an article ahead of time, and gave her the details before you summoned me to your office. Mr. Lovegood will have it ready to print and distribute unless I give him the signal not to.

“I don’t think the public will take very kindly to a conspiracy of junior Death Eaters, or a marked Death Eater (yes, I’ve checked Malfoy, he is marked) cursing the prophesized Saviour of their world. And I think Voldemort will be even less amused when he found out Draco had spilled his guts (albeit involuntarily). I wonder what he’ll do to Malfoy’s parents?

“Don’t get me wrong, Professor. I don’t want to ruin the lives of so many of my potentially-innocent schoolmates. I don’t really intend to expose Malfoy and have his parents murdered, either.

“In fact, I intend to help Draco along—I know he was preparing a strike team to attack and I know how he intends to smuggle them in. I’m going to smooth things out so he can convince more to attack. I’m going to have my own team ready, to take the other side to pieces when the attack comes. And then there’ll be a counterattack just as Voldemort least expects it.

“I will have every Death Eater that shows up at Hogwarts captured if possible, or killed if necessary. And then I’ll lead my own team over, to take down as many as we can before I face Voldemort directly.”

“You think you can face him and win?” Dumbledore asked his protégé, incredulous. “But what about the Horcruxes?”

“What about them?” Harry said with a shrug. “I vanquished Voldemort before, despite his Horcruxes. I can do it again. And while he is out of the picture we will finish off his soul anchors and his followers, so that even if he can come back he’ll have nothing to come back to.”

"Do you really think you're ready to face him?"

"I wouldn't know, Professor. Nobody ever trained me for it." Harry smiled a tad bitterly. "Then again, I don't need to, now, do I? After all I have the power of love, right?"

Dumbledore had no answer to that, but Harry neither needed nor wanted it.

"It's not something I can train for, I understand now. Just the same, I planned as well as I can, so that even if I failed there are others who can take up the fight."

“You are far more Slytherin than I thought, Harry.” Dumbledore said after a long moment of silence.

Harry glared at him before bursting out in laughter. “Oh, please, Professor.” He actually wiped a tear from his eye. “I learned from the best. I learned it all from you, the quintessential Gryffindor.

“Now, Professor,” the young man put his hands on Dumbledore’s desk and leaned forward. “We can really use your help.

“So tell me: Are you in? Or out?”

Fin​

A/N-1: clocked at about 1.7k, 4 hours.​

A/N-2: It is a coincidence, really, that I chose the same incidence for the story (Harry-Draco fight in bathroom) as Peace had. The idea is basically Harry taking the Crucio and rolling with it like a boss, outmaneuvering Draco, Dumbledore and the Dark Lord (try to, anyway) in one same stroke. ​

A/N-3: I may edit and add chess references into it later on, maybe have Harry and Dumbledore talk over a game of chess and at the end of the story, have one of Harry's pawns reaching the other side and promotes into a Queen, as Harry himself seems to have done. Suggestions?​

A/N-4: I should really work on Healing Hands but damn, this is almost addicting.​

 

Firstly Peace; and now to Oruma, the kings of the TGYH thread! Quality stuff each time.

 

A/N-0: All glory to Zenzao. I hope you like the Stone I chose and the main character I used for this story.​

The Stone​

“May I have a moment of your time, Headmistress?”

Minerva McGonagall turned and found an unfamiliar wizard racing up the main staircase of Hogwarts. For a moment she wanted to correct him, that she was only the deputy headmistress… until with a pang she remembered that Dumbledore was dead, murdered right here in the school by someone he had given a home and his trust. She vowed to herself again that she would make Severus Snape pay for what he had done.

Pushing that thought aside, she studied the newcomer’s appearance. He had shoulder-length white hair, and one eye pointing inward, which gave him a slightly bewildered, cross-eyed look. But more than that, there was an air of oddness about this man, enhanced by the silvery-purple robe he wore. “Yes, Mr…?”

“Lovegood, Madam, Xeno Lovegood.” The man said, retrieving from his pocket what looked like a paper bird. It flew into her hand and unfolded itself, and she realized that it was a business card. “From the Quibbler. May I bother you for a few minutes?”

McGonagall tightened her jaw, but nodded. “Very way. This way, Mr Lovegood.”

They had taken perhaps a dozen steps when the man stopped again. “I’m sorry, isn’t the Head’s office that way?” Lovegood pointed upward.

“I remain the deputy headmistress until the Board of Governors confirms my appointment. Thus, at the present time I am still using my office.” McGonagall explained. “Any other questions, Mr Lovegood?”

The man shook his head and they reached her office without further incident. After a few more words of pleasantry and offers of tea, McGonagall and Lovegood sat down on either side of the table. At last, Lovegood put down his cup.

“I’m here today, Madam, for two reasons. The first is as a journalist: I would like an interview with you, to discuss Professor Dumbledore’s death and its impact to Wizarding Britain. How will it affect our society's response to the current crisis? How will Hogwarts recover and continue in the post-Dumbledore era? As the Ministry continues to encroach on the school’s autonomy? With the headmaster’s phoenix gone, what will sustain the heliotrope population on Hogwarts’ eighth floor?”

McGonagall was sure she misheard something in that last sentence, but before she could ask the man spoke again.

“The second issue I want to discuss with you concerns my daughter, Luna.” The man’s shoulders slumped slightly, and his eyes lost a bit of their focus. There was a more urgent undertone in his voice, something McGonagall recognized as belonging to a worried parent. “I want you honest opinion of the school’s future. While my family had been Hogwarts alumni for generations, I’m not sure it is safe for my daughter to continue her education here—especially since she was a close friend of Harry Potter.”

Ah—now McGonagall realized why he seemed so familiar; his daughter was that odd little Ravenclaw who went with Potter to the Ministry last summer, and to Slughorn’s part last Christmas. She didn’t doubt his claim of them being close friends. She sighed.

“This is going to take some time, Mr Lovegood. To begin with…”

TGYH-TGYH-TGYH​

The interview took an hour and a half. Xeno Lovegood considered the time well-spent, though, seeing that the deputy headmistress had answered his questions to her best abilities. He promised to add a positive editorial in the next issue of the Quibbler in support of her, endorsing her position for headmistress as well as appealing for peace and trust in the school’s future. The Scottish witch was grateful and was going to walk him to the front gate, but he politely refused the offer, telling her that he wished to visit the Ravenclaw Tower and speak to his child before leaving the school.

Once out of the professor’s sight, however, Xeno turned and proceeded to a different tower—that which housed the Head’s office and residence.

He had visited the headmaster several times during the year. The first time was a complete accident; he had, through his less savoury contacts, found out about an attack on a muggleborn wizard’s family. He immediately headed off to alert Dumbledore, only to find that the old man, too, had been warned of the attack, and had already sent the family into hiding. It was when the older wizard shook his hand and thanked him for his concern, that Xeno Lovegood saw that the Headmaster’s right hand was darkened and shrivelled.

The first thing that came to his mind was that it was curse-damage—and seriously Dark magic at that, if a wizard of Dumbledore’s calibre was injured so badly by it. What shocked Xeno the most, however, was the scratched, black stone on the gold ring the wizard wore. Those were not scratches, and it was no ordinary rock; he knew that inset on that gold ring was the Resurrection Stone, second of the Deathly Hallows.

Ever since then, Xeno had continued correspondence with Dumbledore, even meeting him in the Headmaster’s office several times, with one excuse or another. He consoled himself with the fact that his excuses were legitimate reasons in their own rights; they discussed the future of Hogwarts, the controversy over reclassifying the three Snorkack sub-species, the Ministry’s policies toward protecting muggles and muggleborn wizards, and so forth. The end result, however, was that he confirmed the ring was indeed inset with the second Hallow, and he wore down the Headmaster’s guard against him.

Xeno had a bad feeling when he noticed that Dumbledore’s cursed hand wasn’t healing after all those months; he had a suspicion that it was probably terminal. What he didn’t expect was the assault on Hogwarts and the subsequent murder of the Headmaster. And yet, while he mourned the passing of the great wizard, it also presented him an opportunity he was unlikely to get again.

The Resurrection Stone was his for the taking, if he dared.

TGYH-TGYH-TGYH​

Xeno, like most pureblood wizards, had grown up reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Like the others he loved the stories, but never took them as anything more than children’s stories. It all changed, however, when he met the wonderful witch who would one day became his wife. As a muggleborn, she was absolutely fascinated by the history and culture of wizards. While reading his old books one night she asked him about the Deathly Hallows.

Initially he laughed her off, telling her that they were probably products of powerful wizards that had exaggerated reputations. She wasn’t so sure, however; working as a researcher she had seen some really powerful magic, and she recognized the Deathly Hallows with magic unlike any other—something possibly out of this world. She eventually convinced him to her thinking, and they split their time between the newly founded Quibbler and their search. It continued even after Luna’s birth.

Sadly, when his wife was working on a scrying charm, the spell backfired and caused an explosion that claimed her life. Xeno threw himself into the Quibbler for the next two years, making sure that the paper stayed afloat and preparing his daughter for Hogwarts. The quest for the Hallows was not forgotten, however. In fact, his desire for them—or one of them—grew day by day. The one that granted its owner the power to speak to the dead…

TGYH-TGYH-TGYH​

Standing in front of the stone gargoyle guarding the Head’s office, Xeno Lovegood gathered his wits and went over his plan one more time.

While he had genuine concerns for the school's future and for his daughter's safety, the true objective of Xeno's meeting with McGonagall was to determine the current status of Dumbledore's office and his possessions.

In all likelihood, Dumbledore would leave his personal effects to the school and Harry Potter, especially a magical artefact such as the Stone. Xeno had a rapidly closing window of opportunity to get the Hallow, and the best chance he had was right now. The next Head probably wouldn’t move in until after Dumbledore’s funeral, at which time the old wizard’s personal effects would be moved; it also meant that the old password he had might still be active, granting him easy access to the place; and as he had no idea who or where the Stone might be willed to, now might be the only time he had a shot at it. And Dumbledore (Merlin rests him) was no longer alive—while his portrait was no doubt present it wasn’t a flesh-and-blood wizard. Even if things went south and it sounded the alarm, it would be better than facing the real Dumbledore’s wrath.

It was all a matter of timing, really. He had to get the stone before Dumbledore's errand boy did, and he had to do so while under the ancient professor's eye the whole time. But it was possible. He could do it. He must do it.

And afterwards, once he was done with the Hallow, he would give it to Harry Potter. If it helped his fight against the Dark Lord, all the better; but if not, Xeno knew that the boy deserved to have it, and use it as Xeno wanted to.

Because they both deserved closure.

Because they both deserved to say goodbye to their love ones…

Xeno looked up at the gargoyle and took a deep breath. Now or never, he thought.

“Sherbet lemon.”

Fin​

---
A/N-1: Clocked at 1.5k words, written in about a day. The prompt is the bold passage. Oh, and look! 4-story combo!​

A/N-2: Initially I hoped to obscure the identity of the MC and the Stone until later, to add an element of suspence, but it didn't work; the plot banked on the fact that the MC was getting the Stone from Dumbledore's office (which would be a big clue) and that Dumbledore is dead (an even bigger clue). Thus, rewritten as it is. ​

A/N-3: Turning the prompt on its head (I don't believe this particular stone is the one Zenzao had in mind, nor the MC who he expected) is a damned lot of fun.​

 

Very nicely done, Oruma. I like the unexpected direction you chose due to the wording of the prompt.

 

So is this the "Thank God Oruma's Here" thread now?

 

Neville narrowed his eyes. "I'm here to save the world," he said quietly. "From you."

It wasn't the most conventional field of battle, but Greenhouse Three was a good a place as any for a confrontation of epic proportions. Standing a few feet away from Neville, Harry Potter frowned and folded his arms.

"Do we really have to do this... I'd hate to-"

Neville interrupted, seeming to have to work up the nerve to restart the conflict. "There is no redemption..."

Harry sighed and raised his wand lazily. "I guess there's no other choice."

"Put it away," Neville spat. "You won't need it." And finally, Neville charged forward, eyes alive with a madness that Harry couldn't comprehend.

Neville reached the brown, nondescript planter and yanked the mandrake out of the soil by its leaf. It cried out, agonising wails making both boys wince in pain despite the protective earmuffs blocking most of the effects. Its body kicked and struggled, demanding to be put back in the pot, demanding to be released...

With one hard swing, Neville smashed the mandrake into a table. Odourous mist erupted from the wound on the mandrake's side and it screamed, worse even than the shrill cries of hundreds of Twilight fans at the movie premiere. Harry's glasses shattered, glass falling harmlessly to the floor. Neville swung the mandrake again, this time into a full wash basin.

The mist oozed, mixing into the water creating a foul lime green syrup. The plant struggled harder, the area around Neville's submerged hand becoming foamy and turbulent, but Neville's righteous hand held firm, and before long, the water stilled and became clear. Neville pulled his arm back and the mandrake emerged from the water, limp and quiet.

Neville panted, his rage fading fast. Harry slowly walked over to him.

"It wasn't that bad. You didn't need to drown her." Neville's reaction almost seemed betrayed.

"That thing killed my mimbulus mimbletonia!"

---

Done in 25 minutes or so.

 

I refuse any responsibility for the above story. That line was supposed to go in a fuckawesome Neville-murders-Ron-and-frames-Death-Eaters-to-inspire-Harry-to-be-a-hero fic, which I never got around to writing (well, I did, but there was this thing, and stuff, and I got annoyed).

But seriously, that was a bit crap.

 

Idk, I thought it was a little funny. :| I mean, at least he wrote something.

 

There are several currently unanswered and unlikely to be fulfilled challenges over the last few pages. As GL said, go snatch one and put it to good use since the original challengee hasn't answered the call.

 

Help yourselves to some, two for the price of one!
*There are a few more further back in the old posts, but these are all from around September, IIRC.

Length: 750 - 1200 words
Line: "They drilled too deeply in the depths of Gringotts, the early goblins did. Unearthed something they could not contain, were not ready for, until it was too late." Averis Alive
---
Length: over 750
Line: "Ollivander's Wands est.382 BCE has been my home for decades now." some garbage
---
Length: ~1000 words
Line: "I'm The Goddamn Batman."
"And I'm Harry Fucking Potter."
---
Length: 650 - 1100 words
Line: One too many muggle fantasy films had finally done the inevitable to his sense of reasoning, Harry thought through the light buzz of fire whiskey-- he was going to saddle and ride that bloody Horntail even if it killed him. Zenzao
---
Length: 400 - 800 words
Line: "Dragons?" he repeated numbly, looking at Ludo Bagman like he was mad. "You want to import dragons half way across the world into British territory?"
---
Length: 1000 - ???
Line: "This is what happens when you cross me, Sirius."
---
Length: 700 - 1300 words
Line: "Bloody Dementors?" Sirius asked, looking out over the battlefield. "I wind up in an entirely new world of magic, and some fucker has still managed to introduce Dementors to this plane of reality? Really?"
---
Length ~1000
Line: "You know what the thing is about betrayal? It can go both ways."
---
Length: 500 - 1200 words
Line: "This is what Dumbledore sends his hero? An old bird and a... what in the hell is that?" Red
---
Length: 500 - 1000 words
Line: "Please, Auror Tonks, sir. I can explain about all the eyes."
---
edit: Blue ones have been used, but if it stikes your fancy, go for it.

 

Ahem.

The cavern shook as the dragon walked slowly towards the fallen wizard, its bloodied wings unable to support its weight in the air. From the ground the wizard made a half-hearted attempt to rise, but it was futile; fire bursted from the dragon's maw sending him rolling to the ground and striking his head heavily against a thick stalagmite.

A myriad of emotions ran through him; though he could not see the dragon, he was aware of its steps on the cavern floor, its labored breathing and he could even feel the heat on his skin as it was slowly melted off. Luckily, he had prepared himself for a dragon and the spells that he had cast would ward off the worst of the burn. Belatedly he realized that he had been unaware of the sheer strength behind a dragon's breath.

He took a few moments to send a Patronus, numb his skin as best he could and clear his clothes of muck and grime from the dirty cave. Hermione and Ron were somewhere underneath Gringotts handling their own business, most likely being chased by the goblins. He had broken off from them about the time the dragon appeared, set on eviscerating each of them. It was his choice to draw the dragon's attention, and he did well to save his friends and, to some extent, himself.

Gringotts had been all too simple for him to infiltrate in an Invisibility cloak, and Hermione and Ron had led him in with the crowd during regular business hours. Back at Hogwarts their absence would be covered by Neville and Luna, and though Dumbledore was no longer around, his portrait had advised them to take this journey.

Though Voldemort was out in the open, as the commercial hub of the Great Wizarding Nation of England, Diagon Alley had not been negatively effected. In fact, the world seemed to go on as usual; the apothecaries were selling out, Gringotts was making more money in the effort, and for some reason that Harry Potter couldn't explain, the threat of Voldemort went nearly unnoticed.
It was enough to make his spine tingle, and it was only his swift reflexes that saved him from a most untimely death.

After all, he was only robbing Gringotts of one of the darkest artifacts known to man. Of course, he had every intention of destroying it rather than harness its dark power, though he doubted the Goblins would care one way or another. Harry almost chuckled at the thought, but instead he slid awkwardly across the floor in order to use it and his wand as a barricade against the fire.
For a few moments it worked, and almost long enough for him to escape, but his worn out trainers slipped against the dirt in the tunnel and he slammed painfully to the ground.

Luckily, Harry had been thrown some distance from the dragon and recovered quickly enough that he could launch a coordinated attack. He smiled, and rather than attacking the significantly more determined dragon, he waved his wand and decimated most of the ceiling near the monster.

A jet of fire blasted through the wall of falling debris and almost struck him again, sending him scurrying as quickly as his injured body would let him, headed in the opposite direction. He didn't turn to look at the on-coming dragon, he didn't pause to considering which way he was going and he certainly didn't worry about Ron and Hermione.

He just ran.

Eventually the long and winding path became thin enough that Harry was sure the dragon could not pass. He took a moment and stood stock still, breathing heavily. He assessed the damage on his limbs and struggled to ignore the many lacerations and wounds that littered his burned body. He wouldn't be able to just sleep this off, but he decided that none of the wounds were life threatening.

Then he realized he had just fought a dragon by himself and that the same dragon was still waiting for him back towards the only exit he knew of. He shivered involuntarily and rubbed his hands together for warmth; unfortunately, his hands had been burned and let out a screech of pain as his raw skin ached.

He groaned when his voice echoed down the perilous-looking hallway, presumably alerting any potential predators of his presence. It was then that his countenance grew even more weary; knowing his luck the goblins would think he was another goblin in distress and come running with their maces and pitchforks raised.

Perhaps it would be spears or axes, Harry thought wryly, though to him it really didn't make a difference; whatever the Gringotts goblins decided to throw at him, Harry was absolutely certain that it would not be something he would want to stick around for. Thus, he set off down the hallway, as he would rather face ten goblins with weapons than one dragon.

For nearly thirty minutes he walked, though to Harry it felt like much, much longer. He had never been one to complain, but if anyone had been around to listen, he would have most definitely vented a little.

Eventually the long and thin tunnel emptied into a vast cavern, and as he stepped over the threshold he could immediately sense that he had walked into a place of worship; altars of all shapes and sizes lined the immaculate marble floor, and Harry knew without any lecture from his history professor that goblins took their religion seriously.

Harry's eyes grew when he recognized the carcass of a fully grown mountain troll divested of its loin-cloth and gutted from throat to pelvis. It didn't take a genius to realize that these goblins didn't adhere to the Ministry's guidelines on goblin magic.

If Harry could recall correctly it was as simple as: Goblins may not, under any circumstances, use magic, so either these goblins were brave enough to risk death at the hands of Ministry wizards who most likely tracked that kind of stuff or something had changed their perspective towards magic's use enough that they had decided to sacrifice a troll.

His first thought was Voldemort, but he wasn't completely sure he could attribute the goblins' sorcery to the self-proclaimed Dark Lord. Harry just didn't see the point in giving the bastard the credit.

Disgusted, Harry turned away from the stench of death that lingered in the room. A moment later he had to stifle his scream as he came face to face with what seemed to be a very old, very ugly and very sick goblin.

Before Harry could come to terms with what he was seeing, the goblin grasped him by the forearm and spoke in the roughest voice he had ever heard.

"Harry Potter," he began, and the raven-haired seventh year student gasped.

The goblin laughed suddenly and then stamped his staff to the ground once, sending a cloud of dust rising into the air. Harry watched in bewilderment as it coalesced into another, much younger goblin. The two goblins spoke briefly, and then the elder raised his staff and the other goblin disappeared as quickly as he had come.

The goblin considered him for a moment before he continued speaking. Then, he said, "It is not by coincidence that you have been led this deeply into the bowels of Gringotts."

Harry remained silent, watching the goblin, who still had one grizzled and gnarled hand grasping his arm, and eagerly anticipating the moment that he could escape the goblin's clutches.

"It is not often that a wizard finds himself here, but you are not the first. No, no. Not even the first that I have seen. Me, myself!"

"But how does this concern me?" Harry asked, lingering on the word 'me'. "You know, myself!"

The goblin laughed once more. "You are a fool, but it is not your fault. The humans cannot see something that lies so quietly underground, and so they do not tell their young to fear the demons; the soulless beings that we, the Goblins, were blamed for!"

He let go of Harry's forearm and banged his fist against his armored chest. "It was not our fault! We had no idea what to expect!"

He began murmuring to himself in a language that Harry could not understand, so, for some strange reason, Harry found himself making an attempt at calming the goblin down.

"Sir," he called, and then immediately regretted it as the goblin's eyes locked onto his without another word. Harry swallowed and then took a deep breath before saying, "What do you mean you had no idea what to expect? I have no idea what you're talking about!"

He punctuated this statement by slinging his arms in the air, a movement that surprised the goblin and sent him into a defensive stance with his staff pointed at Harry.

"Do not move, wizard," the goblin said, and his enraged voice cut through Harry like steel. He stood absolutely still as the goblin watched him. It was minutes before the goblin lowered his staff, but when he did he no longer looked angry.

"Long ago, many goblins built a city here underneath London so that they could protect themselves against the rock and stone-fearing humans. For many decades we dug unimpeded, stocking the raw materials and making a tidy profit on gold and silver. But..."

Harry was surprised to see the goblin look off into the distance, his dark eyes gleaming with some emotion that Harry was honestly afraid to place. Minutes passed, and just as Harry was about to say something, the goblin slammed his staff against the closest wall and spoke.

"They drilled too deeply in the depths of Gringotts, the early goblins did. Unearthed something they could not contain, were not ready for, until it was too late."

Harry wasn't prepared for the ominous rumble that came from just down the hall. To his petrified mind it sounded like footsteps, and he could feel the ground shake as whatever beasts were held in this labyrinth slowly but surely came there way. After a few more seconds Harry shook himself out of his stupor, grasping the goblin by the forearm and bellowing, "We need to move!"

However, the goblin gave him a disinterested look and remained stock still. Harry ran as fast as his legs could carry him back in the direction he had originally come without stopping to look back for the goblin or the massive beast that was sure to eat him alive. Eventually he reached the area where the dragon was but luckily it was resting its eyes, long rings of smoke wafting lazily from its nostrils to the marred ceiling.

Harry took a deep breath and slowly made his way around the dragon, taking great care not to disturb it; unfortunately, it took him so long to sidestep the dragon that as soon as he made it to the otherside he could feel the tremors that had followed him from the goblin. Panicking, Harry started running again but it was too late.

From around the corner came a monster that barely fit in the corridor, sporting long tusks from its maw and a tail that looked very hard and extremely sharp. It was similar in shape to an elephant, yet its skin was a dark brown and its looked mad with bloodlust. Harry screamed in fear and continued running, not even pausing when the dragon was smashed by the behemoth's front legs and its head reduced to a black, bloody smear on the cavern floor.

Harry ran for a very long time, sparing no concern for the dead dragon or the most-likely consumed goblin, but eventually his wounds took their toll and he was forced to come to a stop and take a long overdue break. Luckily, as he was bent hands on his knees trying to suck down breaths of air, Ron and Hermione appeared looking fearful but otherwise unharmed; Harry waved his arms and Hermione noticed him, running towards him with tears in her eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asked him, and before he could answer began running diagnostic spells on him. "He's been burned all over, Ron!"

Ron chuckled to himself, though it looked strained. "Gave that dragon what for, eh, Harry?"

Harry just shook his head and pointed back the other way. He struggled to draw breath, but eventually he felt that he could manage. "There is a behemoth..."

His words fell on deaf ears as the behemoth chose that moment to come running full tilt down the path; Hermione shrieked in fear and Ron's eyes grew to the size of galleons, but Harry didn't waste a moment and grabbed both of them, pulling them both away from the beast.

"What the hell is that?" Ron asked, his long legs leaving him striding ahead of Harry, who was bloody, burned and lagging behind.

"It's a behemoth," said Hermione as she ran. "One of the Chaos Monsters that were destroyed at the time of creation." Then she screamed. "Harry!"

Crashing headfirst into the ground was Harry, who had been beaten quite thoroughly by the dragon and was suffering for his efforts. To add to his troubles, now he had a gash on his forehead to boot. He refused help getting up and stood quickly, jogging as best he could away from the behemoth.

Harry was in pain, yes, but the alternative was being stomped on by a five thousand pound rampaging Chaos Monster, whatever that meant. He wasn't going to allow Ron and Hermione to get hurt just because he slipped up.

The behemoth crashed through the cavern just as they reached a tunnel. Ron immediately spotted a cart, and the three of them spilled into it as quickly as they could. It leapt to life and sent them barrelling down the tunnel.

"What the hell was that?" Ron asked rhetorically. "Behemoths aren't supposed to exist!"

Harry sighed. He had a lot to talk about and no time to worry about the behemoth.

"Hermione, I met a goblin with a golden staff down one of the tunnels, and they were sacrificing trolls to do magic, and if I'm not mistaken, they are hiding more of these behemoths underneath Gringotts. I don't know if they want war, but you saw how that behemoth reacted. He wanted to kill everything in his path."

Ron and Hermione were silent as the cart continued its winding journey back to the first floor of Gringotts.

"The worst part is that for all the fighting a dragon and discovering the goblins are going to destroy the world, we still didn't get the thing that we came for."

Hermione suddenly smiled and slapped Ron lightly across the chest. "Show him!"

Ron held up the Cup of Hufflepuff and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Then he gasped as his body ached and the adrenaline began to wear off.

It was long trip back to Hogwarts, and most certainly the infirmary, but he would make it with the help of his friends. After all, he was doing so much for the school, Madame Pomfrey would understand if he came back battered and bruised. He could rest well knowing that the Cup was in good hands, and he could return to classes tomorrow, and even see Ginny that evening if he chose...

Well, on second thought, maybe he'd just rest and recuperate instead.

 

I got overexcited and went way over the word limit...

Here goes nothing.
---

The image of a women with overly large owlish eyes framed by even larger glasses and draped in shawls rose from the silver, translucent pool of memories that made up the pensieve. Her ghostly hands covered in all manner of bangles and bracelets rose up to cradle the the sides of her head as her eyes lolled in their sockets, pupils disappearing leaving only transparent, gleaming irises exposed. Her mouth opened and she began to recite the kinds of words that would bring lives to an end, give a boy a destiny and fell a dark wizard. A prophecy.


Her message delivered, she slumped forward, head falling to her chest, frizzled, brown, hair obscuring her face. She looked up slowly, confused eyes blinking owlishly, scanning her surroundings. With that she fells back into the pool of memories. Silver liquid and ghostly substance falling to the penseive's surface leaving neither a ripple nor a splash.


The Headmaster and I watched on as this occurred. Albus Dumbledore was tall and thin, not in a frail way as one would expect of someone his age but in the way of a man that held a quiet strength. A veritable pillar that has withstood the rough tousling of many storms but still remains upright. He possessed a white beard long enough to tuck into his belt, if he ever wore one. Instead he donned a long, flowing robes of royal blue, smiling moons and grinning stars doting the fabric. Half-moon spectacles resting upon a crooked nose and behind them were periwinkle blue eyes holding back one hundred fifty years of experience borne from both mistakes and their consequences. At the moment, the eye's were weary with a tiredness that spoke volumes of regret. I could feel these eyes on me.


I observed my reflection on the silvery, white surface of the pensieve. Messy black hair of a person having just woke up, the fringe parting slightly to reveal a jagged lighting bolt scar that screamed an angry red against the backdrop of pale skin. I ran a hand over it absentmindedly sweeping upwards through my unkempt mane, a nervous tick I'd picked up from Dad, stopping it once it reached the back of my neck. I let the hand fall awkwardly to his side and turned towards my mentor. Green eyes clouded with thought met the older blue pair.


“I don't understand,” I said.


“You asked me why I have been teaching this year?” replied Dumbledore gesturing towards his desk indicating they should take seat. “Why I would instruct you in Occlumency, Transfiguration, Alchemy and Charms this year? After the Triwizard tournament? After you needed it?”


“Cedric Diggory has been missing for a year, ever since he claimed the Triwizard Cup at the end of last term. I've been hearing whispers- gathering information. Whispers of dark things, Death Eaters in Diagon, Knockturn, and Scionell alley. Wizards in dark robes meeting with vampires. With Giants. With Dementors.” He paused here, leaning forward, bring his chin to rest on his interlocked fingers. “We must be prepared to accept the fact that Lord Voldemort may, in fact, have found a way to regain a body.”


My mouth set into a grim line, knowing my expression would be somewhat unreadable. I was surprised, yes definitely, but not shocked. He could not claim the floor fell from under me or that I was left dumbfounded because in a way I had been expecting the news. Cedric Diggory's suspicious absence, Professor Moody's subsequent disappearance, Minister Thicknesse's election following Fudge's hospitalization with Nundian Carcinoma. And of, course there were the deaths in the Prophet. Off to the sides, the overlooked obituaries of Igor Karkaroff, Amelia Bones and Ludo Bagman among others. Anyone that could read the signs could see something was brewing beneath the surface, A cauldron of Draught of Living Death masquerading as Veritaserum. Something was happening. And I was nothing if not adept at finding out things I was not supposed to know.


“So, he'll be coming after me then?” I questioned, surprised at how matter-of-fact my voice sounded. “Neither can live while the other survives as Trelawny put it.”


“Yes,” said Dumbledore, leaning back into his chair. Weariness giving way to steady resolve, the kind of ability that could make a man Supreme Mugwump, a headmaster, and one of the greatest wizards of his time. “And I intend to make sure that we are both prepared for this confrontation. You seem to be taking this rather well, Harry?”


I met Dumbledore's gaze, finding my own resolute expression reflected there. “It was always me and him wasn't him? When I born, with the stone, in the chamber, at the World Cup. It always seemed like it would eventually happen.” The words came out with an ease that did no real justice to how I really felt about facing a supposedly undead wizard that I prophesied to defeat, but nonetheless it worked to quell the apprehension welling up at the thought of the task that faced me. “This is why you're teaching me. To prepare me? I don't think I have to worry with your help.”


A sliver of a twinkle sparked in Dumbledore's blue eyes, the beginning of a smile tugging at his lips. “Ah, the confidence of youth,” began Dumbledore, a full blown twinkle now present in his eyes. “In that case, I still have much to teach you. Let us continue. ”


–


Expelliarmus!


I reached up, snatching the pitch black wand from the air with reflexes borne of rigorous dueling and more than a healthy bit of Quidditch. I stepped forward, twirling the captured wand between my fingers before presenting it to my defeated foe.


“That's the first time you've let me disarm you. You must be getting old, Albus.” I jested, a smirk gracing my lips. I had no false estimation of his skills; that should not have happened. The unasked question hung in the air. Why did you let me disarm you?


“Alas, my old bones fail me,” replied Dumbledore, reclaiming his wand with his blackened left hand and a look that spoke of too much knowing and a fair bit of foresight.


The Headmaster and I stood in companionable silence for a while. I was observing the surroundings and silently marveling at the magic that made it possible. The Come and Go room was one of the hidden secrets of Hogwarts. Known by few names, even fewer were those who knew them. The Room of Requirement, the Lost Broom Closet and Wisher's Dream just to name a few. No one knew how it was made or for what purpose but one thing was clear, it was an Older Magic, that of which Dumbledore knew very little and I even less.


The room currently held the guise of a grassy hil. Fair fields and sunkissed trees dotted the horizon. A small town, was off in the distance. Smoke from chimney's and sounds drifted lazily through the air. That was Godric's Hollow. This was a place that Dumbledore had been fond of in his youth or so he had told said. This was also where they came for their duels.


“Is he really still out there?” I asked, hating the wistfulness that colored my tone . “Two years and nothing has happened.”


Twenty four months since I had been given the prophecy and we had discussed Lord Voldemort's return. Not much odd had happened in that time. I, now seventeen, was looking towards the end of my Hogwarts career.


“Maybe he doesn't have any more Horcuxes.” I continued. “Maybe he died again and he's gone for good now.”


Dumbledore continued to look out towards the horizon and when he spoke it was as if he wished my claims were true and not the facts that he held in his head.


“When Lord Voldemort announces his return to the world it will be a grandiose gesture,” started Dumbledore. “Tom always was a bit of an actor, a showman if you will. No, he will reveal himself and it will be in a grand way. He's learned from the last war and he's more patient this time. He's biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.”


The aged wizard turned to face me, a wry grin on his lips. As if he were prepared to tell a joke.


“At any rate, we know he has more than one Horcrux. I've found another.”


Clearly, Dumbledore was no good with jokes.


Seeing the questions beginning to sprout within me, Dumbledore held up his good hand to forestalling them.


“I'll answer your queries as we go. Yes, this time you will accompany me.”


With that the two wizards left the Room of Requirement, leaving behind their literally greener pastures towards their descent to the cave. Neither Dumbledore nor I took notice of the figure with finely styled blonde hair and aristocratic poise that slipped into the Room shortly after we departed.


__


The night had not been going well. The cave. The inferi. The horcrux.


The Babbleton's Brew that Dumbledore had drunk was not easy on the aged headmaster. It forced one to see and relive their worse nightmare, dementor's essence was its nickname. However the comparison was not completely apt. Dementors were to the Brew as Birds were to Dinosaurs. Only a crude resemblance, a thin connection that held the two together.


I relaxed my guard as the wards around Hogwarts washed over us, cradling us its protective embrace. I urged my firebolt forward through the starry night sky towards the astronomy.


The potion would wear off. I was looking forward to dismounting from his broom and aiding the Headmaster towards his chambers where I would tend to him with Bezoars and lemon drops to facilitate extraction of the toxic substance. Even then a full recovery would take at least a week.


That was the what I was expecting. Instead, as I dismounted my Firebolt and slung Dumbledore's arm over my shoulder I received the door to the astronomy tower breaking open, a banishing charm catching me unprepared sending both my broom and wand tumbling over the parapets behind me. Six figures with robes the color of shadow and bone white masks strode over the remains of the door. And behind them slinked my insufferable classmate, Draco Malfoy. And Cedric Diggory.


Cedric stepped out into the cool night air, the moonlight illuminating the same features that had once made him adored by the female population of Hogwarts. It was easiest to start with the eyes. A deep scarlet that shone like the color of blood, catlike slits bisected each where pupils should have been. The wind picked up rustling deep black hair that shifted like shade until the gust calmed and it settled neatly back into place. I must admit some amount of envy at this. A small smirk danced on his lips and when he spoke it wasn't with the smooth baritone of the once head boy, but rather a cold, cruel, high voice that hit me like an icy wind sending an involuntary shiver through me.


“Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore and the Elder Wand,” said Voldemort lightly, his voice sharp and jarring like an instrument out of tune. “Oh, Draco. You shouldn't have.”


The Death Eaters laughed and Draco shifted nervously on the balls of his feet. Harry was still noting the differences that had been wrought upon the missing Triwizard Champion.


Voldemort, noting this scrutiny, addressed Harry.


“This was supposed to be you, you know?” He spoke casually, while cracking his neck and flexing his fingers. His tone no more serious than as if he had been discussing the weather. “But, you had to let this boy claim the cup. The ever noble Harry Potter can't even win a tournament rigged for him by my followers.”


The Death Eaters chortled lightly as if on cue.


“At least the body is habitable. The boy is, was rather, magically skilled and he has handsomeness of youth-”


“You'd like that, wouldn't you? The handsomeness of youth?” I interrupted. “Into that kind of thing, are you?”


Cedric's eyes narrowed dangerously. He probably was not used to being mocked or interrupted. Probably for good reason, too. However, this only emboldened me.


“You're right though, it's an improvement. The back of Quirrell's head? You can do better than that.” I jibbed with a mixture of humor and foolishness that would probably get both the Headmaster and I killed.. “Don't get me started about you in the chamber. You were one androgynous bastard, you know that? I swear you mother would have been jeal-”


“You dare!” shrieked one of the Death Eaters with a feminine tilt mixed lightly with the hysteria of a mad women. “ You dare speak to to the Dark Lord in such a way?”


“The Dark Lord can can kiss my ar-”


The woman brought her arm and, by extension her wand, down in a diagonal slash summoning her will and intent with a curse that closed the distance between us in the space of breath. I was wandless and unprepared to deal with the magenta curse careening towards me.


A shield, no more solid that air and no more darker than it, manifested mere inches before Harry. The spell colliding with it's surface and fizzing out like a Weasley rocket that had misfired. The weight on my shoulder lessened and Albus Dumbledore straightened up to his full height looking ever bit like the man who had once defeated the dark wizard Grindlewald.


“You should not have come here tonight, Tom.”


This did nothing to dissuade the Dark Lord.


“Look at you, Dumbledore.” responded Voldemort. “You're dying, living on borrowed time. The curse is killing you- the one on my ring.”


Dumbledore's eyebrows rose a few inches, the only indication that he was surprised.


“You didn't think I would notice?” Voldemort practically hissed. “That I wouldn't have enchantment alerting me when someone found one of those precious items? You old fool.”


Dumbledore opened his mouth to reply but what he was going to say I would never find out. The shield must have taken a lot out of him in his already weakened state and he slumped back, griping the parapets and lapsed into unconsciousness.


The Dark Lord let out a laugh, a long, cold, cruel thing that sent shivers down my spine and spurred his own followers into their own nervous laughter. Malfoy still stood in the back shifting nervously, looking decidedly out of place.


“The great Albus Dumbledore,” began Voldemort. “Do you see Harry Potter? There is no help for you now-”


But apparently there was still help. I felt, before I heard the Phoenix sing. I felt my resolve strenghten and fears dissipate as as Fawkes's form flew up over the Astronomy Tower, singing the song of his race as he circled the group. He descended in front of me dropping the burden in his claws and twitted lightly as if to say it'll be alright.


“This is what Dumbledore sends his hero? An old bird and a... what in the hell is that?"


I ignored the query and instead relieved the Headmaster of his wand, for I would need it more than him. I stepped over and grasped the sorting hat, donning it and I felt it wriggle slightly as the enchantments woven into it's fabric came to life.


“That time of year again, eh Potter?” Asked the Old Hat, rhetorically more than anything. “At least it's no Basilisk this time.”


“Sorry to disappoint,” I retorted.


I bent down to Fawkes other burden. I patted the carapace of the Blast-Ended Skrewt and it tittered angrily. I cooed to it in my softest tone and pointed in the direction of Voldemort and his Death Eaters.



"Over there, boy." I nudged at it's back softly. "Have at it."


Fin.
---


Yeah, I didn't really know what was wtf enough for the ending. So yeah...

 

I lol'ed.

Lack of Balrog made me sad.

Pretty solid stuff over all, but the second part you kinda switched between using "Harry" and "I" even though you seemed to be using Harry as the first person POV narrator. What gives?

---------- Post automerged at 14:55 ---------- Previous post was at 14:38 ----------​

A/N-0: All glory to Sacrosanct, for the prompt. ​

A/N-0 Addendum: Some glory for Inquisition, Averis and Red, for breaking up my (going onto 5) combo.​

Another After-War Episode: Ollivander​

G. Ollivander​

I stepped out of the green flames into the familiar interior of the Leaky Cauldron. I nearly missed my footing, my cane flailing, but my companion steadied me. “Careful now,” she said gently.

There was a gasp as we turned toward the Diagon Alley exit of the pub. Old Tom practically Apparated over and we shook hands. “Garrick,” He was one of the few individuals who I didn’t mind using my given name—one of the few who was still alive, probably. “Oh Merlin. Of all the days...”

“It’s good to see you too, Tom,” I cut off the barkeeper, feeling slightly baffled. “I’ll be along in a few hours; the usual, if you don’t mind.”

Tom shot a look at me, then at the girl at my side, eyes flashing with a nervousness that I hadn’t detected. “Garrick… oh Garrick. I’m sorry about the shop.”

“It’ll be fine.” I said. “I heard from one of the Hit-Wizards that they found the bulk of my wands and materials at the Nott manor. I’ll rest for a bit and then—”

“No, you don’t understand,” He looked up to meet my eyes, “Your shop… it’s gone.”

I gave him an uncomprehending look as he searched for words.

“You know Thorfinn Rowle, He escaped Hogwarts after You-Know-Who’s death and hid in Florean’s old shop. When the Hit-Wizards caught up with him they had a firefight, and one of Rowle’s curses hit your shop and…”

I didn’t know how I managed to run out of the bar. I must have dropped the cane at some point, but I didn’t care, all I wanted to see was the shop that I inherited from my father, and he from his, and one day my son from me.

All I found, however, were a lot of smoking debris and half a standing wall. The mid-morning air smelled of smoke, the taint of curse-fire heavy in it. There were two or three people about, occasionally intoning fire-suppression charms to put out flicks of purplish fire. One of them was a red-robed wizard, of medium height and slight built, with short, ruffled black hair and green eyes behind glasses. He shot an alarmed look at me, but shook his head and walked over.

By this time my companion had caught up with me. She sighed softly as she, too, took in the sight in front of her. She turned to the wizard. “Harry.” She muttered in greeting.

“Luna,” He nodded before turning back to me. “I’m sorry, Mr Ollivander.”

I found myself on my knees, and both youngsters’ hands on me, steadying me. I looked up, hoping for them to tell me it was a mistake, or that it was a cruel, heartless joke; but all I saw were sadness and sympathy.

“It’s… my shop, my home, my everything… it’s gone.”

L. Lovegood​

I watched as Mr Ollivander dropped to his knees; Harry and I barely caught him before he fell over. He looked up, silently begging with his eyes, but there was nothing I could do.

“It’s… my shop, my home, my everything… it’s gone.” The old man said hollowly. “What am I going to do now, where am I going to go now?”

“I’m sorry.” Harry said, something I had heard him say far too often these days. I patted his hand in what I hoped was a comforting gesture; he took it and squeezed gently.

My mind was taken back to that day at Shell Cottage, when he, Ron and Hermione told me about what happened with Daddy and the Erumpent Horn at the house. I cried that day. Now Daddy and I, like Mr Ollivander, like the Longbottoms, like so many others, had survived a war and returned victoriously to nothing: their families torn apart, their houses reduced to ashes and their livelihood gone. The Dark Lord was vanquished, yes, but he would keep on hurting people for years to come.

I shot a look at the leading Auror, Mr Savage. Harry once told me he was a man of few words. “Five.” He said before turning away. Five what? But Harry must have understood for he nodded gratefully and we half-carried the old wand-maker away from the site.

“Is there another place you can stay at for now, Mr Ollivander?” I asked. I knew that there was an Ollivander branch in Hogsmeade, but it was destroyed during the siege of Hogwarts. He shook his head.

“Ollivander's Wands est.382 BCE has been my home for decades now.” He muttered tonelessly, then, “It had been… it had been my home for decades now.” His shoulders dropped even further as realization began to sink into him. “Now…”

“Harry,” I looked up, pleading with my best friend. There must be something we could do. He had been so strong and so brave for me during those dark months in the dungeon, I had to help him now, when he needed me. An idea occurred to me. “Would you mind if I take Mr Ollivander back to Grimmauld Place?”

Harry seemed to be considering it, but his eyes flickered toward me for a second. “Not at all. Have Kreacher clean out my room; I hardly ever use it anyway.” He finally said.

Ever since the war’s end he had returned to his godfather’s house, Grimmauld Place with Kreacher the house-elf—that was, until he accepted the interim Minister’s offer and joined up with the Aurors. The Corps provided its members with a barrack, and since he was basically doing on the job training Harry only came back for weekends. For that reason, he generously offered Daddy and I, the Longbottoms, Dean Thomas and several others the use of his house; they needed a place to stay and it kept Kreacher busy.

“What will I do now?” The wand-maker’s despairing whisper brought our attention back to him.

“Did you like your work? Do you still want to make wands?” Harry asked. It reminded me of the DA, when he spoke with confidence in front of us, and I knew that while he wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about the job he had gotten better at addressing people and talking in public. “If you’re tired and want to call it quits, that’s fine; we’ll arrange to make a living for you. Merlin knows, the Malfoys are trying to buy their way out of prison and I’m sure we can get a good settlement for you.

“However, if you want to re-establish your shop, Mr Ollivander, we will help you.” His voice quietened, and Harry said in softer, more empathic voice. “It just won’t be the same for Diagon Alley, or for Britain, if there isn’t an Ollivander’s shop around, you know?”

Mr Ollivander looked my way, and I was reminded of Daddy again, looking helpless after Mummy’s death. I forced myself to smile, and he nodded, smiling weakly back. He gripped his cane and nudged out of Harry's and my helping hands.

“We’ll have to start by tearing down that wall…”

Fin​

---
A/N-1: Clocked at about 1.1k words, 5.5 hours.​

A/N-2: Pretty short and not much to it, except for experimenting with writing in Luna's POV. The result...sucked. It's difficult to write a girl, let alone Luna, especially if it's a post-war, supposingly more seriuos Luna.​

A/N-3: Originally planned to have more, including a bit about Luna/Neville, Ollivander working on wands for Neville, Dean etc., Ollivander and his prodigal son, Ollivander and Luna being sort of surrogate father-daughter and so on, but they were cut because it's unnecessary for the scene. The entire thing might be adapted though for a later, post-Hogwarts story; we'll see.​

 

I sense a HP/LoTR crossover.