Yeah, I thought so as well. Still, it kept flying around in my head, so I had to write it down to get rid of it.

 

I was amused. I think it'd make a decent enough crackfic.

Also, was that Slender Man at the end?

 

Yes, it was Slender Man. If I were to continue it, I would also add Zalgo.

 

Wouldn't Chris Hansen be the natural antagonist to a /b/tard?

 

Hah! Yeah, I suppose so. "Why don't you take a seat over there?"

 

I saw someone mention that Dueling fics and I realized there aren't many, that I know of, that deal with a HP who goes into the dueling world after he's done killing Voldemort. He's what I came up with. I have no intention of further writing this. It's not even a one-shot in my mind because it's less then a page.
___
Harry stared down the length of his holly wand. The tip, a black speck on the edge of his vision, marking the point of contact he was aiming for on his opponent. The man across the stage, a particularly fierce dueler by the name of Androgovic, was turned sideways in a similar pose to Harry.

Both were slightly bent at the knees, lowering their center of gravity. Where Harry favored slight and quick spells and techniques, Androgovic was a bear of a man, all brawn and power. Both had studied the opposition and attempted to divine a strategy.

The Referee had a brilliant yellow flag in his hand. He looked between the two duelists from the midpoint of the Dueling strip. As he nodded to the Judge who was directly across from him, he ripped the flag up in a sharp manner. The crowd tensed, the Judge’s gaze zeroed in on the strip and the two combatants.

Neither moved a single muscle, taut and coiled. Then Harry slowly drew his wand arm back until his elbow was even with his chest.

A flurry of color, sound and ozone filled the air for a brief moment as each duelist tested the defenses of the other in a deadly contest. The men backed away from each other.

The spells were becoming more distinctive now and the audience was treated to a ballet of fierce fighting. The two danced around the spells blazing their way. What they couldn’t dodge, they knocked aside or threw up a hasty Protego to instill some protection.

“Point!” The Judge yelled out, his hand gesturing towards Harry, who was smirking as he noticed that Androgovic was nursing a fairly shallow cut on his off-hand. He was putting on a great show, but Harry smirked as he noticed the slight twitches in Androgovic's wand arm, indicating that his opponent was angry at his clumsiness and was itching to jump the gun.

The yellow flag flew up again. This time though, there was no static moment of calculation. Androgovic went on the offense, searing rainbows of intense firepower rained down on Harry who had ducked the first and was rolling from crouch to crouch, unable to stand up in the flurry of colors and lights. He felt the electric sparks pass through the air, raising the hairs on his arms and neck.

He knew he had to take control of the situation and fast. Androgovic was a stamina monster that much had been apparent the minute Harry saw his average match time was well over an hour. The man lived for the matches of attrition. Harry knew his own flaws, and he knew that overpowering his opponents was his main strategy, leaving him precious little time to practice defense. His opponent knew it too and that made him dangerous.

Using one of the more potent defensive techniques in his repertoire, Harry lashed his wand out in a circular manner, raising a bright silver cone around himself. He set to work, scratching a few runes in the air as Androgovic shot spell after spell at the shield, wearing down it’s utility.

Harry jabbed his wand in the center of the burning runes as the silver shield fell, the runes were sucked into the tip of his wand.

Harry watched as Androgovic’s eyes widened and his wand came up in a precise pattern, attempting to weave a spell of protection around him, but it was for naught as a bright orange spear, shot forward with the force of an arrow and seemingly impaled him in the shoulder. He slumped in defeat as the spell ran its course, numbing him entirely. He flopped almost bonelessly to the ground, the Judge having called ‘Match’ the minute the spear entered his shoulder.

Harry turned and gave a ceremonial salute to the judge as was custom and then moved to help the Medi-wizards restore his opponent. He slowly removed the spear head from the flesh it was lodged in and dissipated it with a simple ‘Finite’. Slowly the Russian man regained his senses and his ability to move. He clasped Harry’s hand and allowed the victor to pull him to his feet.

“One day, Harry Potter, I will destroy you and it will be a glorious day for Mother Russia. Today though, is not that day. Today I will defeat you in one way I know is true. Tonight, drinks at the pivnaya, you will be sorry you challenged the Drinking Master of Moscow,” he said. Harry smiled and nodded his agreement as the barrel-chested man heaved him in a bear hug.

“You don’t talk much, do you Potter?” He asked as he slung Harry under his arm and walked off in the direction of the duelist’s camp. The tournament was only just starting.

 

Something about drabbling and a plot that will probably never get written.

*************************​

It was only seven words that shattered my resolve.

“Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of Hogwarts.”

Dooming me like a dropped mirror.

“Goodbye, Harry Potter.” Riddle’s whisper echoed around me, a grotesque resonance filling the dim lit chamber, unearthly as his eidolon specter. “Kill him.”

Fear gripped me as I tried to run, but it was too late, malicious yellow orbs met mine, the pale saffron of a setting sun.

“Harry, Harrrrrrrrry,” he howled like a madman until it was engulfed by a child-like laughter, unrestrained and filled with joy, twirling without a care in the world.

Silence pierced the cacophony as he strode toward me. “What are you doing?” He seethed.

The sudden shift caught me off guard. His mercurial expressions flittering by and changing as fast quicksilver.

“No, no, noooooo, NO.” The last roared with primal fury as he circled around me like a lion playing with his pray.

I was unable to move, frozen to the stillness of a statue. I could see the quivering of lips as his eyes collided with mine, filled with derision, barely a pace away. “Can you hear it? The tick tock of the clock.” His features shifting instantly as he smirked.

“The music. Can. You. Hear. It.” He threw his hands up like a conductor with his fingers splayed outwards. “Listen.”

I tried to. I really did. Strained even. But the only sound was the furious beating of my heart. A pressing thump against my eardrums. I opened my lips, curled my tongue, and said nothing. I had no air to give as I was fighting for each breath. A simple task, now a furious struggle. A stone atop my chest gaining weight by the second.

Before the thought could register he was before me, a hairsbreadth apart and noses almost touching. His breath upon me was sickly cold, and an unquenchable shiver cascaded down my spine.

“You do hear it, don’t you Harry.” A slight catch in his throat as he said my name.

He veered to my left as to kiss me, catching the corner of my lips with his as he slid his cheek against mine. Resting his lips against my ear, he whispered, “The sound of your death.”

 

Wild unkpemt blonde hair and loose, untrained eyes. Yet, there's a familiar dreamy smile that disarms the churning in his stomach and instead makes his eyes harden. Tighter and tighter they become, until tears leak through, pale lips twisted in sneer.

He takes a seat by the bed, wordless.

Her spine is straight like an iron rod, head angled toward the window, one smoldering gray eye pointedly looking through it and at the lofty blue sky outside. The swollen other is fixed ahead, rolling toward him like a languidly spinning marble.

"Hello." He barely whispers to her, voice undulating like a wave, "Do you remember me, Luna?"

Sitting up straight in her bed with nothing but a white gown draping over her bony shoulders, the girl remains perfectly still, her carefree smile etched onto her pallid cheeks.

"I know... that everyone has asked you already... but... I wish I knew. Who did this to you?"

Outside, the wind is so strong that it can be heard as it brushes up against the window. It's almost like Luna causes it, her eerie expression suddenly containing a kind of energy. Her head slowly turns, both eyes wrenching to center on him. Her lips begin to move and for a moment, there's electric excitement in his veins that chases away the throbbing fear.

"Caw. Caw."

Luna does an excellent imitation of a nappy crow, her wide eyes staring into his as she crows a third time.

And then, there's a cracking sound. He panicks and spits into his mand a tiny fracture of a tooth, his body slumping into the stiff wooden seat. Inside, a kind of frost chills him.

=======

I've always wanted to write a story where Luna is tortured/driven /really/ mad by someone/something over one summer and Harry needs to find who did it. But, I'm not really confident in the plot or my ability to characterize. Besides, I know I'd give into the temptation of Harry "curing" Luna, which... yuck. Not only is it too unrealistic and sappy, but, what would I do at that point? The story would be over and I'd feel a sickening kind of bittersweetness.

I was envisioning something along the lines of Luna slowly overcoming her madness, though being cured of it in an interesting way. It starts with birds suddenly taking roost in her room at St Mungos. Naturally, a parrot, raven or two give clues about her attacker? But that also feels kind of stupid. I dunno.

 

Obviously, my inspiration for a Luna story came from a completely different place.

[[]]

<pun-CHAK>

Out from the metal hatch in front of the turret rose a woman wearing a dusty leather bonnet over her blonde hair, a thin white camisole-like undervest and a pair of heavy leather gloves that seemed immense on her- the cuffs came nearly to her elbows. "Hello."

Harry was first to snap out of his daze. "Luna... um... hello. Where'd you get a tank?"

Hermione hissed, "If she says, 'Internet', I will not be held accountable for what comes out of my wand."

"I don't believe the 'where' is half as relevant as 'why'," countered Padma.

"To go with my new undergarments," Luna replied while plucking at the strap of her top. "They leave my arms and shoulders free to eat the sunlight like plants do. Except when I'm driving."

Professor McGonagall winced. "The garment is called a tank top because it was designed for tank crews, but they were willing to share the design with others. I don't recall them sharing the tanks as readily. In fact they get quite upset when one goes missing."

"Oh." Luna shrank back down the hatch until her eyes just peeked above her hands where they were clutching at the rim.

Minerva likened the image to the 'Kilroy was here' emblems of times past and barely suppressed a chuckle.

Her voice echoing from the hatch, Luna said, "Maybe I should be going, now. I think I might be illegally parked."

Harry shook his head. "I don't think there's a legal way to park a tank, Luna."

[[]]

 

Here's a sketchy hundred-word starting point, utterly devoid of setting, for a necromancy story I will never write. Harry would at long last succumb to temptation and then everything ends in tragedy, or something? Probably set sometime after Sirius's death. Based on this.

~*~*~

“There are ways to bring back the dead, you know,” said Luna Lovegood. “No matter what Professor Dumbledore says.”

Harry arched his eyebrows, annoyed. “Oh, and I suppose you would know them?”

“Yes, actually. If you believe the songs.”

He snorted. “And?”

“How can I ever remember while you keep blabbering, Harry Potter?”

He sighed. “Right.”

She glared.

“Ah,” she said, after a moment. “I think I remember.”

“Do you?”

“There was a witch who dwelled at Wearie's Well.” And she whistled something odd and otherworldly, wild gaping bars that chilled his blood. One verse, then two . . . and she paused, and her voice grew very small. “It turned to ashes in the end, though.”

“Ashes in her mouth?”

“Well,” she said, “That. And her children turned to ashes too.”

 

After seeing the Necromancy drabble above. I had the bright idea of Harry walking into death and saving his wife/girlfriend/kinky sex partner Luna Lovegood.

____

The Free Magic scorched his tongue and dried his throat. The symbols pale and shimmering in the air. The four Words he had spoke lazily drifted to the four compass points and settled. He drew his wand and sketched a small circle around the outside of the Free magic, strengthening the protections with yet another layer of sorcery.

He drew forth the smallest bell, Ranna, the Sleepbringer, and gently flicked the handle, out rang high clear note. The world glittered for a moment before inky blackness consumed his vision. He felt the stirrings of a river around his calf and he knew where he was. He had transcended to the First Precinct. Here he would find that which was taken from him.

He strode forward, unhurried. The straps holding the bells were tight and the slight clink-clunk of the Sword of Gryffindor in its sheath on his back reassured him as he strode into death. He replaced Ranna and withdrew Kibeth, the Walker and prepared for whatever ghoulish surprises might meet him within the precincts of death.

Come hell or high water, he was damned, but he was going to get Luna out of here if it was the last thing he did.

 

Inspired by Pet Peeves related to the Room of Requirement and Time Turners:

Harry had this wonderful idea; he would compel the Room of Requirement to simulate a time and training center, where he would be able to safely train, rest, learn, grow, develop and otherwise catch up to his nemesis the Dark Lord Voldemort, in as little time as possible.

The Room apparently understood him. A door appeared, seemingly made of steel and titanium with cascading pressure locks that unspun to permit him entry. Once inside, the door closed once more, sealing itself with what might be heard as a sigh of monumental disappointment.

[[[]]]

Years. He had been in his training creche for 4 years. By all accounts, his body and mind were a unified weapon of magical destruction. The portal opened and he stepped out into the hall into a dark corridor. But, instead of simply closing, the metal portal fell from its mountings and crumbled into a pile of rust in the space of a breath.

Harry giggled.

I really put her through the paces- I suppose it would have to take SOME toll. And it's dark already, so some time must have passed for the 'real' world. I'll just sneak back to Gryffindor tower and wow them all at breakfast tomorrow

When he entered the Gryffindor common room, he was caught short. There was an aged witch sitting in the chair by the fireplace, her white hair pulled into a tight bun.

"Oh! Professor McGonagall, I didn't expect--"

"I'm not the Professor, you arse. It's me- Hermione."

"What? What happened to you?"

"You did, you feckless shite. Everyone else could feel the magic being drained from the area, but I- I had to be loyal. It's been one month, and I'm looking older than Madame Marchbanks."

"But... I..."

"Did you even consider what it would take for the Room of Requirement to do whatever it was you asked it to do? That room was a temple to all the house elves who had given their lifetime in service to the castle, and like any house elf, it can't say no to an order. Now, you have your... whatever. And everything within a hundred miles of here is completely bereft of life.

"What it took the traps and curses of the pharaohs a thousand years to do to Northern Africa, you've managed to enact on Scotland in the space of a lunar cycle. If it weren't so heinous, it would be awe-inspiring."

 

You should post it to your collection of oneshots on ff.net. Create one if http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7199124/1/Wordhammer-s-Mad-Ideas is for other stuff.

 

I've been in the mood for a good 'Sirius raises Harry on the run story', but haven't found anything all that much to my liking. So without further ado, I present the rambling byproduct of an unfulfilled desire:

-

His heart pounded a sporadic, demanding rhythm in his chest. His lungs stung with the gasps of his breath. Sweat trickled from his brow, slid down his neck, and caused his shirt and trousers to cling uncomfortably to his heated flesh.

“Watch where you're going!”

The shout was in French.

“Sorry,” he yelled back over his shoulder, as he dashed out of the road and into the shade of a narrow side alley. His booted feet climbed the worn, stone steps swiftly by force of will alone, his lungs and legs protesting the incline.

We should have moved on to Paris, he thought with frustration and anger directed purely at himself.

The long, slender legs and supple breasts of Bianca Lapointe flashed in his memory and, despite having a team of a dozen Aurors and a half a dozen Hit Wizards on his ass, he grinned the stupid grin of a teenage boy who has experienced his first shag. If he and Sirius made it out of this alive, she'd have been worth it.

A curse sizzling past his head and exploding against the wall to his right had him barreling to his left.

“Fuck,” he swore under his breath, as his exposed skin was gashed open with small nicks and cuts by the ricocheting stone and his lungs were choked with dust. He had hoped that he'd lost the lot of them back in the Jardin Albert 1er. It seemed not, as he could hear at least two distinct sets of hurried steps closing in on him. Confringo, he cast blindly behind him, before casting a quick Bubble-Head Charm upon himself.

The explosion followed by the swear of an English Auror told him that, though his curse hadn't hit either of his pursuers directly, it had at least been close.

By feeling along the rough, weathered wall of the alley, he stumbled his way through the dust cloud as fast as he dare. He'd been so close. Just a few more steps, he thought to himself with certainty.

Upon his hand closing on cool iron, relief surged through him and he brought his wand up, immediately setting to work on unlocking the gate. Seven stuttered heartbeats later, he felt the rush of a Wind-Sweeping Spell ghost cold against his neck just as the latch of the gate gave way. He threw himself through the gate and slammed it closed behind him. At feeling the familiarity of his godfather's magic active and vibrant around him, he collapsed on the cobblestone panting. He was safe.

-

I might make something of it, might not, but thought I'd share for now.

 

I've had a couple ideas running through my mind, though I could never get them working out well. This is an experiment in trying out different methods of blending two perspectives into one. I am not sure how well it works.

Premise: Harry lives in a state of perpetual half-life due to Voldemort's Killing curse. He grows up being able to see into the world of the dead just as easily as he could see the living.


--

"Mr. Potter, come in."

Harry looked up at Professor Dumbledore's twinkling eyes. The office was large and cozy, and yet dark and foreboding---

The deathly wind howled as it endlessly battered the ruined office. The blood red sky roared past the broken ceiling, carrying the sounds of the damned. There was a ghastly spirit where Dumbledore was, flickering in and out. There was a malevolent purplish haze that emanated from the flickering spirit's right arm, beating in sync with the spirit.

---Harry took a deep breath and walked in. "You called for me, Professor Dumbledore?"






----------

Harry stared at the shimmering fabric in front of him. It was an invisibly cloak, one of the greatest--and expensive-- artifact of the Wizarding world. It had spilled out when he tore open the wrapping. He frowned. Who would voluntarily give up an invisibility cloak? He bent to pick it up--

A DREAMWALKER?

--and promptly dropped it. His frown deepened. He could clearly see the simmering silver fabric of the cloak just as well as he could see the tattered purple-black rags that emitted an intent. He did not understand the emotions behind the intent, only that it was a blend of malice, caring and apathy. How it was possible, he did not know.

This was not an normal cloak, Harry decided. He used the discarded wrapping to pick up the fabric, taking care not to touch it with his bare skin. Depositing the cloak on his bed, he tore out the short note on the wrapping and read it.

This belonged to his father? Curiosity overtaking him, he reached with a single finger toward the cloak--

YOU ARE TOUCHED BY DESTINY
YET YOU DO NOT HOLD THE ROD
TOO LONG WE SLUMBERED
SEEK MY BROTHERS, DREAMWALKER
AND WALK A GOD AMONG MORTALS

--and promptly jerked his hand as if he was burned. This cloak was dangerous.




---------------------------------
The red sky burned. The wind howled as it perpetually chipped at the remaining ruins of the encampment. The screams of the damned intermingled with the roar of the wind as lost souls wandered listlessly.

The ruined encampment was a curious thing to behold, even inside the spectral realm. It was obviously an forward scouting camp -- if the fact that the camp was set up in a hurried manner and it looked like it could be dismantled just as fast didn't clue him in, then the scattered bodies of the ruined soldiers wearing lightweight armor designed for mobility and speed did. Harry took care not to directly look at the wandering spirits as he gazed around.

"Harry?" It was Bill. Harry tore his gaze from the ruined camp and looked at Bill as he came to a stop beside him, his foot going through the dead soldier's bodies like they weren't even there.

"We are close." Harry sighed, a flicker of annoyance crossed his face. "It should not be far now."

"That's what you said the last two days," Bill grimaced as he looked at a topological map. "The men aren't happy. You know what that means."

Harry rocked back on his heels as one of the wandering spirits floated toward Bill -- and through him. "Do you have a better idea, Bill? None of your usual method is working, and really, do you want that man to...scry...the location again?" The wandering spirit stopped halfway through Bill and looked down. Its face was indistinguishable as the rest of the ruined camp, but Harry imagined the spirit frowning at the body of the dead soldier, where Bill's left leg was jutting out of its chest.

Bill sighed in exasperation as he folded the map together, unheeding of the spirit dragging the soldier's body away from his foot. He ran a hand through his hair and looked back at the rest of his party. "Don't you think it's enough? Fizban's divination methods are unconventional, but you've seen the results." His eyes searched the ruined camp for a suitable place to unpack for the night. Harry watched as Bill walked toward one of the still standing wooden stakes -- and through it like it wasn't there -- and appraised the area.

--

This is about as far as I got.

The last scene is a couple years after the death of Voldemort and Harry finds that he's very good at finding the location of hidden tombs and ruined civilizations due to his ability. Nobody knows that he can actually see the dead.

So, how did I do?

 

Awesome. Expand this right now. For great justice.

 

This is another plot bunny idea that wouldn't leave me alone. It's a crossover idea that came up to me while I was reading the End Games, that HP/DF crossover. However, this one features a different crossover, and I'm not sure how feasible it is.



--


Harry sat with an internal sigh. He really was getting too old. He turned around to look at himself in the reflection of the floor to ceiling glass. The years were not kind to him – he had crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, his hair was the color of cast iron gray, and his hands shook unless he was holding something.

And yet…the years had been kind to him. The age lines on his face only served to make him look like a nobleman. His eyes, long ago replaced with a pair of synthetic ocular implants, only served to heighten that impression. His arms were still lean and wiry, and his clothes still fit him perfectly.

He looked like a god-king of aged warriors hailing from a dead culture, and in a way, it was true. Like an ancient dragon, he was old and worn but had become ten times deadlier because of it.

He looked down to the holographic display on his chair and noted the company motto at the top of the report. Past, Present, Future, it read. He closed his eyes as he remembered happier days of ages ago.

“I found it!” She crowed, face flushed with pleasure. She turned and dumped a gigantic tome on the desk in front of him, kicking up a huge cloud of dust. Shaking the dust out of her bushy hair, she peered above the book at him and smiled sweetly, “Go on Harry, say it.”

Watchdog of the Past. The Watcher that knows the History and Lost Knowledge and advises the Present to avoid a repeat of History.

Shaking his head and coughing, Harry waved his hand to clear the dust cloud. “Nice try Hermione, but I’m not nearly that dumb to fall for it.” As the dust settled, he grinned at Hermione’s pouting face. “Oh, cheer up. Ron will be here soon and –“

“Oi-whut abeut meh?” Ron stumbled toward their desk, his face obscured by a stack of books taller than Colin Creevy. Dropping the stack of books on the table with a groan, he slumped next to Harry. “She’s bloody mental, Harry! What d’you reck—what?“ he stopped at the look on Harry’s face. Harry looked away in amusement and tried to busy himself by picking up one book from the stack and opening it. Hermione cleared her throat. Harry peeked above his book and smirked at the dawning of horror on Ron’s face.

Watchdog of the Future. The Watcher that uses the Present events to predict upcoming events, and plan for and against the best and worst eventualities to come.

“Did I say mental? I meant mentally brilliant!” Casting a betrayed look at Harry, he babbled onwards, “Did I ever say, uhm, how absolutely brilliant you’re this evening? I love what you’ve done with your hair, and…” He trailed off to quail under her glare. Suppressing a heavy sigh, Harry put down his book and interrupted a furious Hermione, “Hermione, save it for later. Ron, shut up.” He pointedly looked at the library clock, “We’re running short. What do we need?”

Watchdog of the Present. The leader who assimilates the warnings of the Past with the upcoming events of the Future into one coherent Present.

One of the holographic displays on his chair dinged, breaking him out of his reminiscing. Taking a look at the display, Harry picked up a cigar and lit it as he turned the chair around to wait for his newest visitor. After he had taken a few puffs, a low hum echoed in the room. There, in front of him, the quantum entanglement communication array reconstructed his visitor’s body inch by inch.

Soon enough, the QEC field stabilized and he was staring at a handsome man in his early thirties bedecked in heavy armor with a red N7 logo on his left breast. His armor was singed and scuffed, the beads of sweat on his brows, eyes that were constantly scanning spoke of a person that was on high alert.

He leaned back with a nearly imperceptible smirk, the cigar smoke lazily drifting in front of him. In some way, his guest had the correct initiative by treating him like a hostile. Tapping the cigar on an ashtray on his armchair, he looked into his guest’s eyes.

“Commander Shepard.”

“Illusive Man.”


---

YEAAAAAH

 

Sorry. This maybe doens't really belong here, but I thought of no better place to put it.

Wouldn't http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aleister_Crowley make an awesome wizard for Harry to meet? It'd be neat to see a drabble with him, and Dumbledore or an aged Harry, interacting with him.

 

Plot Bunny Threa(t/d) would be the better choice, I think. Or perhaps the 'Questions that Don't Deserve their own Thread' sticky.

 

Deplore, I applaud you. That was a great blurb that should most definitely become a story in itself. Though maybe about Harry's rise to his current position.