You should go further with that.

 

Harry seems too calm from after the explosion onward.

 

(Disclaimer: contains some text from SCP-1981)


Snippets from the speech delivered by Minister Lovegood in 1981, right after the Diagon Disaster:

"We must initiate a renewal of the traditional values that have been the tendons of this country's strength. One recent survey by a Cambridge-based Unspeakable concluded that wizards were far more willing to breed with muggles now than they have in the past hundred years. Britain is a nation that will not suffer abominations lightly. And that is the core of the awakening. We will stop the Order of the Phoenix..."

"...for the first time we have risen, and I see we are being consumed. I see magic that is not magic. Thousands of dying souls inside prison. Blood Traitors have eaten this country's moral fabric, turning blood into filth. We are from a kingdom level above human. And yet, what does that now yield? A long beard that damns an entire nation."

"I've been to the dragon reserves of Romania, and the tombs of Egypt. I've seen the derelict homes of squibs burn with the windows boarded up and the squatters inside them. I've seen the houses where muggles cut up the little babies. From coast to shining coast I have walked empty down drooling path..."

"...the decaying flesh of false morality poisoning our children. I have stood atop the mountain of this muddy earth, looking upon our beautiful pious pit, filled to bursting with the vast hands of helplessness. And did you know what I saw? Hell."

 

Nice Xandrel, sort of reminded me of a video I watched for school of Hitler giving a speech. A deliberate similarity?

 

Dumbledore deals with Draco Malfoy in a different way in book six:

===

“Hello, Draco.”

The boy spun, crying out, and his wand flew from his hand to Dumbledore's.

“What are you doing here?” Draco cried. Dumbledore didn't answer, turning to stride across Draco's bedroom to the window, looking out over the grounds of Malfoy Manor.

“The flamingos are a bit ostentatious,” he commented. “But each man has the right to his castle, I suppose. That is rather why I'm here, I am afraid.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Draco asked, voice cracking.

Dumbledore turned, bushy white brows raising. “That would be something of a waste of time, wouldn't it?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“I think,” Dumbledore said, “that Lord Voldemort will take care of that particular chore for me before the year is out.”

Draco blanched. “You have to – please, I didn't – he's forcing me to!”

“Yes.” Dumbledore cocked his head to the side, studying the boy. “Yes, he most certainly is. But we have reached a sticky situation, Draco. You see, I do not have the luxury of being able to die for you. Would that I could. It would be, I think, a worthy end – but too much is in motion.”

“What do you want from me?” Draco seemed on the verge of tears. “He'll kill my entire family if I fail!”

“Yes. I imagine he would rather enjoy the chance to do so.” Dumbledore sighed. “It is tempting to allow it. But I am, it seems, in the business of saving lives as opposed to the taking of them.”

“I'll do anything.” Draco swallowed heavily. “Please.”

“Will you?” Dumbledore didn't seem to expect an answer. From his pocket, he drew a small doll, which he tossed upon the floor. A flicker of blue light joined his wand and the tiny figure, and it grew until it was the size of a man, but shapeless and solidly colored.

“Your hand.” Confusion on his face, Draco offered his hand. Dumbledore drew his wand across the palm, and Draco hissed, pulling back. Dumbledore let him, a tiny drop of blood hovering at the tip of his wand.

“My apologies for not warning you,” he murmured, flicking his wand toward the golem on the floor. The drop landed on its chest, sinking in and spreading, slowly spidering out, then filling empty spaces, until the entire form was crimson.

“What is it?” Draco asked, sounding vaguely sick, watching as it began to writhe and shift.

“In a moment, it will be you,” Dumbledore said. “Or at least, a close approximation. Take heart, my young friend, for tonight you die.”

Something bloomed in Draco's eyes that didn't quite dare to be hope. “Die?”

“Murdered, I expect. There seems to be a great deal of that going around.” The figure on the ground now resembled Draco fully, its features locked in an expression of utter terror.

“If I don't die,” Draco said, “he'll know. He's Marked me.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, kneeling and carefully arranging the duplicate's position on the floor. “You're quite right. The Dark Mark is a complicating factor. Fortunately, I am a very brilliant man who has had over a decade and a half to ponder this very problem.”

Dumbledore rose from the duplicate's side, walking to Draco's window. Again he reached into his voluminous robes, this time producing a vial which he held up to the moonlight to inspect. He flicked it with a fingernail, making a very light, yet pure ting.

“This,” said Dumbledore, “is a rather more potent variant of the Draught of Living Death. If it works as I hope it will, you will enter a state very near death – not mere sleep, nothing so innocent. Indeed this potion in itself is classified as a form of necromancy.”

“It fools the Mark.” Draco felt a bitter taste in his mouth like ashes. “How near to death?”

Dumbledore looked at him somewhat sadly and didn't answer. It doesn't matter. Draco swallowed. “And you can unbind the Mark after I've... gone to sleep?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “That part I am more certain about.” He held out the vial.

Draco uncorked it, breaking it red wax seal. It smelled like rain, and he drank it in one swallow.

“How can you expect to fight the Dark Lord,” he asked Dumbledore, vision fading, “if you spend so much time trying to save your enemies?”

Dumbledore smiled gently. “It seems you are slightly misinformed,” he said. “I have no enemies, only friends who have lost their way.”

===

Thinking about expanding it to a full story centering around Harry and Dumbledore and their different takes on how to fight the war against Voldemort, but not a whole lot has come of it yet.

 

It's interesting, especially since Dumbledore does enjoy giving second chances. In this version would he still be dying from Voldemort's horcrux trap?

 

I love Dumbledore's last line, very true to the character.

 

I haven't given a lot of thought to it, but I don't think so. Need to come up with some sort of justification for that though; at the moment it's just because I think I want Dumbledore sticking around longer than a year since he's my favorite character to write.

 

I'd really love to see more of those mentor fics with Dumbledore. Far too few good ones out there.

 

Daedros, Dumbledore's my favorite character in all of literature, and you have him down to a tee. Except for this part

Simply replace the highlighted section with the word have and the statement is perfect. Dumbledore doesn't feel the need to boast, and when he does, it's in subtle, uber-cool way.

 

I wasn't entirely sure how I felt about that line, and looking back through HP I can see Dumbledore occasionally reference his own intelligence -- but I think you're right, this is a bit too on-the-nose for him. Thanks for the feedback!

 

If you really want him to point out his own intelligence, he'd more likely phrase it in something similar to the manner.

But honestly just leaving the intelligence section out works well in my opinion

 

Can't sleep, don't want to study, did this instead
----------------------------
The king’s boorish laugh seemed to come from the sky itself.Robert’s voice, Lucius had found, was one of the many exceedingly unpleasant traits the king had in excess. Ordinarily a strong voice was a boon for any leader but it took a special man like Robert to turn a virtue into a vice. Already guilty of the sin of possessing a crude mind he insisted on inflicting his boorish humor on the entire world partly, Lucius suspected, out of spite.

“Ah Thoros, I told you you’d run into someone immune to your theatrics didn’t I? A shame, but I suppose you couldn’t get by on spooking horses forever”

Lucius rose, gingerly cradling his left arm, and forced a sheepish smile unto his face. “Perhaps not m’lord, I suppose I’ll have to settle for charming knights another way”. The king guffawed and drank deep. Clegane merely stared disdainfully as the wizard limped towards his bent sword. The weak enchantment keeping the sword aflame was already sputtering out and it wasn't helped by the dog kicking it deeper into the ground, ostensibly to help him pick it up.

“Magic;good for scaring commoners and impressing whores,”The savage grated,” not so much for anything beyond that eh? Get me my fucking ransom soon, priest or we'll see if your Red God fares better when it's not the king's nameday.” The Hound spat, giving him one last contemptuous glance before turning on his heel and walking away, ignoring Lucius' bow. If only you knew dog. If only you knew. The thought of the infamous Hound at his mercy improved his mood considerably and he took his leave mollified.

In truth losing such childish games meant little so long as his parlor tricks kept the king interested- but not too interested- enough to keep him at court. And he had managed that quite nicely, despite the objections of Sandor Clegane and his broadsword. It was no challenge charming Muggles. It was of course, unbecoming, but Lucius could take a small amount of comfort from their ignorance.

He didn't bother to watched the other fights, he just headed towards the Red Keep; he had a maester to see.

“Are all the Myrish like women? You are bruised not broken, which is a damned sight better than you have any right to expect, going up against the Hound with your little parlor tricks. Now, up, I have actual work” Luten was joking of course, he had little to do but the man enjoyed the illusion of importance.

“Actual work? You mean poring over your dry tomes? Or do you mean our real business”

The fat little man smiled and reached behind his desk.” This” he said, pulling out a tiny vial “is all I could find. Got it from a Lysene trader for twelve dragons” So you got it for six crowns Lucius thought. “It matches the properties of this fluxweed you wanted close enough but there’s no way to know when it was picked, though I have no idea where you heard that this would affect the potency. Leeches I have aplenty.”

“And the other ingredient?”

“Nothing. Nothing in any of the botanical books. Nothing any Maester I’ve asked has heard of. Hell, I even asked Stone and if that bastard hasn't heard of it then it probably hasn't grown on this earth. You have either been taken for a fool or," he said, noting Lucius' expression "the plant may not be native to Westeros.”

Lucius sagged in his chair. Without the knotgrass there was no chance of making an even moderately stable batch of polyjuice. And without a true want no chance of moving to more fruitful positions. He would be stuck as this flamboyant imbecile for the foreseeable future. Even if they could get word of the plant from Essos it would take months to find. Months as Thoros of Myr. Months as Robert’s glorified jester. His wand hand twitched.

The Maester leaned forward, curous."What's it for this time? Another one of your accursed little love potions for the - for your friends at court? I can't imagine why sensible courtiers would want to trade in such sordid -and dangerous- things "

The supposed priest smiled bitterly. "I wouldn't worry yourself about my friends Luten. They certainly don't worry about the health of gossips" He said, soft voice suddenly dripping malice.

Luten didn’t notice, in his mind he was already spending his gold. He shook the little glass vial lightly and licked his lips.”Fifteen dragons for the grass and leeches, and my time of course.”

Lucius was too annoyed to barter in any serious manner, something he regretted as the piggish little Maester hustled him out of his room, smiling his crook's smile, soon to belong to one of Chataya’s whores of course. It was not the money,Lucius had never lacked it,even here, but the principle. The fact that someone would think of robbing him without a second thought. That someone thought that they had succeeded, irked him. It was not the first time but time hadn’t lessened his outrage. Once again the maesters name was marked in the pureblood's ledger of grievances as he walked down the capitol streets. When his mission was complete there’d be a full accounting for.

Inside his red robes he twirled his primitive dragonbone wand as the fantasy brought the ghost of a smile to his lips. Lucius Malfoy paid his debts. And Westeros- to its sorrow- would learn this quite soon..

 

Lucius Malfoy in Westeros. Words can't describe the awesome.

 

Years ago I toyed with the idea of a DC/HP crossover where Harry was mentored by Apollo to become his champion. I recently found the notes for this when digging through an old usb, including this little snippet that I wrote to show me where I wanted the character to end up a thousand years down the line.

Sun Fall​

It was a scummer planet, a splinter of the Apokoliptian Empire that had survived the Forever Death of Darkseid. The citizens knew nothing but pain and suffering and fear at the hands of the self-proclaimed God-King. Then the Light Lord came.

They knew not why or how he came; just that he had.

He fell from the sky surrounded by a nimbus of golden light, felling the winged monstrosities that ruled it with great bolts of lightning.

When he landed, setting his feet firmly in the churned mud, the God-King felt fear. He knew the Light Lord, had heard the stories of the enemies he had slain, the evil he had cast down and if Darkseid had been defeated by Superman instead of him it was only because Superman reached him first. He sent his best legions against him.

A thousand warriors struck at the Light Lord and he sent them reeling back bloodied and broken and with fear of him driven deep into their black hearts. Not even their God-King’s whips could drive them back into the battle.

Then came the next thousand. And the next. And then ten thousand after them, a writhing, striving mass of inhumanity that tried and failed to bring down a single man who was both human and so much more.

With a bone-white wand he conjured beings of earth and air and shimmering magic to fight alongside him, turned wrecked war machines into hulking golems that turned the churned earth red and snatched the life from any who came close to him.

They did touch him though, with spears and swords and weapons of unimaginable power, battering through his god-forged armour at horrific cost. Eventually the Light Lord was driven to his knees by sheer weight of numbers but as the legions pressed in for the kill he rose again, savaging the beasts who had come close to him.

Then he rose again and light poured from him, illuminating the darkest corners of the world, and his magic sang in the ears of every inhabitant, bringing hope to those who needed it and fear to those who had earned it.

For one glorious moment the planet was a shining jewel in the middle of a dark universe and then the light died, a sword driven through its heart. The dark mass of enemies swarmed the corpse and unworthy, lesser hands fought to snatch the armour from the Light Lord’s unmoving shoulders, the wand from his hand and even the boots from his feet.

 

Something I started a little while ago but probably won't continue. I think it works better in my mind than on paper, where it felt a bit stilted. Still, it was fun coming up with Harry's back story and the Goa'uld worldbuilding.

Children of the Gods
By Taure​

Prologue

Egypt, 1928

They had found something big. The desert site was in chaos, swarms of workers dressed in little more than rags running between the makeshift tents, all of them heading towards the third dig.

“Professor! Professor!”

A car sped into the camp in a cloud of dust and an English gentlemen in khaki disembarked. He was, Albert knew, the leader of the dig.

“Professor!” a man was calling, running over to the car in excitement. “You have to see! It’s amazing!”

The professor and his assistant hurried off into the pits, moving rapidly down the ramshackle path of wooden planks that wove between the different digs.

“Shall we?” Albert said to his partner. He put a white hat on his head. Dressed as they were in loose-fitting robes of beige, they fit in well enough with the locals.

“Let’s see what they’ve found,” replied Henry.

Moving unnoticed by the Muggles, they followed the professor, watching as he was led to a large sunburst of stone slabs.

“Those aren’t hieroglyphs,” said Henry as the professor knelt down to examine the find. Each stone was marked with a single symbol.

“Nor any other language I recognise,” said Albert. “Curious indeed.”

The professor stood up again. “Finished so soon?” muttered Henry. “Surely it deserves more attention than that.”

Albert looked around at the milling Arabs. “There’s something else,” he said, frowning. “Something bigger.”

The professor was led down more wooden walkways, these ones rising out of the second dig and leading to the third. The unspeakables followed at a distance, hurrying when they heard a great cheer.

And then, turning a corner, they saw it: a giant ring of dark grey stone, a hundred ropes attached, was standing vertically in the centre of the dig. It was big enough to fit an erumpent through the middle.

“My god,” said Albert, staring at the thing in awe. The inner ring was divided into segments, and each segment had been carved with a strange symbol… symbols like those on the sunburst stones. Even with his limited ability to sense magical traces, Albert could feel the power of the artifact.

“Contact the Ministry immediately,” Henry said. He pulled out his wand. “I’ll handle the obliviation.”




Chapter One

London, January 2010

The interrogation room was white. Really white.

The floor, walls and ceiling were all made of the same white ceramic tiles. The table in front of him and the chair he sat on were both made of a white wood. Even the lighting charms above him had been modified to give off an unnatural white light. And just on the edge of Harry’s hearing, almost inaudible, was a high-pitched piercing whine. A casual observer wouldn’t even notice it. Someone suck in the room for hours would find it maddening.

There were no windows, nor any door. It was a room designed to give the impression of total isolation. To weaken the mind before questioning.

But not for nothing had Harry spent six years working as an auror. He knew the tricks of the trade well -- he’d even invented a few of them. So he sat entirely still, blank faced and relaxed, and employed the methods of occlumency to maintain his calm.

Those who had known him as a teenager might have been surprised by his restraint, but it had been many years since Harry could call himself a teen. Though he hadn’t grasped the true nature of occlumency until the end of the war, Harry had always found experience to be the best teacher. He was now the master of his own thoughts. No annoying sound would make him lose his cool.

Snape had said that detachment was the key to occlumency. Harry found stubbornness to be far more effective.

A white door drew itself into existence on the wall opposite Harry, through which a man stepped a moment later. He was wearing the uniform of an auror -- black robes cut in a naval style -- and three golden pips were pinned to his high collar.

“Hello, Ron,” Harry said as the red-headed man took the seat opposite him. The years had treated him well. As tall as ever, he had now filled out with muscle, and, like Harry, he bore a golden tan that spoke of exotic travels. “Made detective, I see. Congratulations.”

Ron snorted. “Six years, and that’s all you have to say?” He paused to conjure up Harry’s file, bulging with papers and parchments.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Should I be saying something else?” he said.

“The word ‘sorry’ would be a good start,” replied Ron, his voice still light and friendly. Too friendly, given how they had parted -- and how they had reunited.

Harry gave Ron an equally fake smile. “Well, I was all up for a heartfelt reunion… there would’ve been hugs and kisses all round. But then you arrested me.”

“There is that,” Ron said, tilting his head to one side as if weighing it up as an excuse. He frowned. “What’s with the hat?”

Harry resisted the urge to adjust his white fedora. “Comes with the job,” he said. “All that sun, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” Ron said doubtfully, glancing down at Harry’s clothes. He was wearing a beige blazer and waistcoat, with chinos to match. “You look like a bit of a twat.”

A short burst of laughter escaped Harry. “You haven’t changed a bit,” he said with a shake of his head.

“You’d be surprised,” said Ron, “but seriously, why the hell are you wearing that?”

“It’s what everyone wears, out there,” Harry said with a shrug, looking down at his clothes. “Besides, it goes well with the whole desert look.”

“Ah yes,” Ron said, flipping Harry’s folder open. “That’s right… the desert.” His eyes glinted. “You do love copying Bill, don’t you?”

Harry tapped his fingers on the table, not letting his irritation show. “That was six years ago,” he said, “are you still living in the past?”

Ron ignored his comment. “So, you’re a cursebreaker,” he continued, still looking at the front page of Harry’s file. An old photo of Harry was in the top corner, the rest of the page holding his basic information. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Harry replied, gesturing at the file. “It looks like you’ve been keeping an unnaturally close eye on me… some might even say it’s a form of harassment. What would the papers say?”

Ron’s smile dropped in less than a second, all friendly cheer forgotten. “Let’s cut the crap, Harry,” he said. “I’m going to ask you once: where’s the artifact?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” said Harry, leaning back in his seat. Ron had broken first. “As a cursebreaker, I deal with many artifacts.”

Ron glowered, took a photo from the folder and slid it across the table. Harry looked at it, an expression of innocent curiosity on his face. It clearly showed Harry walking out of an underground passage in the desert, his shirt sleeves rolled up and a delicate piece of golden jewellery on his hand. A large ruby lay at its centre, over his palm, away from which the gold curled to secure it to his fingers and wrist.

“Oh, that artifact,” said Harry, pushing the photo back to Ron. “It’s not for sale, if the Ministry is looking to buy. Sentimental value, you know?”

“It’s not for sale,” Ron growled, “because it’s not yours. The decree for the preservation of important historical artifacts--”

“--is British law,” interrupted Harry with a finger raised. “The artifact is Egyptian. I recovered it in Egypt. I live in Egypt. The Ministry has no business with it… or me.”

“The interests of the Ministry are not for you to dictate,” said Ron. “The moment you brought the artifact to Britain it became our business. Do you even know what it is you’ve found?”

Harry smirked. “Oh, yes,” he said. The artifact was incredibly powerful -- he should have known the Ministry would try to take it. “Do you?”

Ron sighed. “I’m serious, Harry,” he said. “It’s more dangerous than you know. It needs to be protected by the Ministry, surely you understand that? You were one of us, once.”

Harry allowed a silence to stretch out, giving the impression that he was seriously considering Ron’s offer. At last he sighed and shook his head. “I think I was wrong,” he said, and Ron’s eyes lit up, thinking Harry had capitulated, “you have changed. Have you forgotten so soon? I am, in fact, quite familiar with the Ministry trying to relieve me of my property.”

The silence returned.

“You’re determined to remain uncooperative, then?” said Ron, glaring.

Harry gave him a tight smile. “Uncooperative,” he said, “I like that. Well, if the auror office now considers a wizard’s rights an inconvenience, then yes, that’s what I am. The gauntlet is mine, and I will be holding on to it.”

Ron’s fists clenched, but he didn’t say another word. He closed Harry’s folder with great deliberation, stood up and walked out the door, which sealed itself behind him.

Harry snorted. “That went well,” he muttered, drumming his fingers on the table. Ron’s ability to hold a grudge had apparently only increased over the years.

Perhaps, Harry thought, he should have been more cooperative… of course, there was no way he was going to give them the gauntlet, but he could have been less combative. Not that it would have done much good… in the end, the Ministry wouldn’t be happy until the gauntlet was theirs. The Elder Wand fiasco had taught him that much.

No, he’d done the right thing. A show of strength was necessary if he wanted to avoid a protracted legal battle… the Wizengamot would get involved the moment the Ministry thought they had a chance. Harry needed to dissuade them of that possibility.

The door appeared again, but this time it wasn’t Ron who stepped through. It was Hermione.​

 

Basic Premise: HP/DC crossover where an AU!Harry ends up in Hades when he's 19yrs old and then escapes through Themyscira. Never really got beyond the world-building except for this snippet.

Rise and Rise Again [Working Title]​

He entered the castle unseen, treading paths that not even his father had discovered. Few students discovered Hogwarts’ most secret ways but Harry Potter had learned the least of them before his First Year had ended. Even then he had known that he would never learn all of the castle’s secrets. It was fun trying though.

Memories came flooding back as he trod the familiar halls, recollections of burning with excitement as he hurried from one class to the next, of disappearing into empty classrooms with friendly witches. The sense-memory of their warm lips against his made him smile. Ah, the simple joys of youth. Albus had said that to him once when he had arrived late for a meeting with a smear of lipstick on his cheek.

There were darker memories too; nightmares of midnight duels and monsters roaming the corridors but he pushed them away and lengthened his stride, eager to see his mentor and second oldest friend.

The gargoyle moved aside at his approach and Harry moved up the staircase, entering the empty, unlocked office.

It hadn’t changed. The air still hummed with Albus’ magic despite his absence and the shelves still groaned under the weight of an eclectic collection of texts and assorted curios, some of which were useless knick knacks but others which were actually powerful artefacts. The past Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts had begun to rouse at his entry but when they began to whisper amongst themselves Harry ignored them with practiced ease. His eyes were drawn to a framed copy of Magical Advancements hanging from the wall. His fourteen year old self winked at him from the front cover. His first published article was in the issue.

The sight of another picture hanging next to the journal surprised him. It was taken in the Great Hall during one of Albus’ lessons. The mass of students moving about in the background made that clear. Albus and Harry were foregrounded in the picture, Harry leaning against a house table, helping a First Year with the levitation charm while Albus watched and smiled, parental pride written large on his face.

Harry had never seen that picture before and wondered how long it had been hanging up.

“I apologise but I was not expecting visitors today,” Albus said as he pushed open the door that had automatically closed behind Harry.

Harry turned and greeted him with a smile. Albus froze at the sight of him, homework scrolls tumbling from his arms. Harry had expected tears. Albus Dumbledore was a bit of a wimp sometimes. Instead he got white-hot rage.

“You made a grave mistake coming here wearing that face,” Albus said, his words thrumming with power.

Harry stared at him, confused. Before he could speak or beg an explanation a great hand slammed him against the wall, pinning him in place. Albus advanced on him behind a levelled wand that glowed ominously. Harry snatched his own wand from his pocket and cancelled the force that had pinned him to the wall, dropping to the ground behind a shield emblazoned with the Hogwarts crest.

Albus laughed bitterly at the sight of the Deathstick. “You did do your research, didn’t you? Illusions won’t fool me.” He spun a revealing light out of the air and it pierced Harry’s chest but nothing happened.

There was nothing to reveal.

Albus frowned and something like hope stole across his face.

“Peace Albus, it’s me,” Harry said. He opened his mind and felt the Headmaster rifle through his memories, skimming the memory of his escape and the fight at the Gates.

“Harry!” Albus’ breath caught in his throat and he dropped his wand as he pulled the younger wizard into a tight hug. There were the tears.

Albus pulled back, holding Harry at arm’s length to examine his torn suit and scuffed shoes. “You look terrible,” he said.

Harry laughed. It felt good. “A few weeks in Hades will do that,” he said. He frowned at the look on Albus’ face. “Not weeks, then, huh? Months?”

“Harry, it’s 2011,” Albus said. “You’ve been gone for more than a decade. We thought you were dead.”

 

A couple of weeks ago I posted the above piece. This snippet would have been the first scene in the story if I ever wrote it.

~*~*~​

He appeared silently on a lonely road in Devon with Harry wrapped tightly in a blanket and cradled in the crook of his arm. Deceiving Hagrid and Professor McGonagall hadn’t felt good but it was necessary. Dozens of Death Eaters were still roaming the United Kingdom, murdering any who opposed them. Now, with the disappearance of the Dark Lord, they were like injured animals. Dangerous and hell-bent on surviving.

The Dursley household wasn’t a viable safe haven, even with the blood protections. The Death Eaters could call on too much magical talent and too many resources. They would overcome the protections in months, a year at most.

So he had come to Devon to beg a favour.

The manor appeared as Dumbledore started walking down the road, slowly growing out of thin air. It was modest in size, considering the status of the occupants, but massive for the number. There was the main residence, a long three storey building made from time weathered stone. It was, to Dumbledore’s knowledge, not quite three hundred years old. Two wings – the south and east – were attached to the main residence, both added in the early eighteen hundreds. They were made from the same stone as the main residence but an expert eye could tell that they weren’t as weathered.

There were no physical walls around the manor, just a scattered handful of unused outbuildings like the empty stable and a currently unused, well-preserved guest house that Albus had once lived in. Despite the idyllic appearance Dumbledore knew that he was approaching the heart of the most protected building in England, a residence with defences that were almost on par with Hogwarts’.

Perenelle Flamel opened the front door as he drew near. She was of average height for a woman and slender, with a regal bearing that belied her humble roots. Her features were striking but too sharp to be called beautiful. She looked like a woman in her late thirties, except for her eyes. Albus fancied that he saw the weight of her long life reflected in her eyes, though he sometimes wondered if he just imagined it.

“Albus, it’s good to see you,” she said, her voice warm and genuine. She stepped back from the threshold, running her eyes over him in search of injury as she did. Her eyes fixed on Harry and lingered there. “Is that …?”

Dumbledore carefully lifted the blanket away from Harry’s face, displaying the still weeping lightning bolt scar.

“Dear Lord!” That exclamation carried a certain weight coming from Perenelle. Once upon a time she had been a believer. “It’s true, isn’t it? He really survived the killing curse?” Perenelle’s tone was filled with wonder. She had spent years trying to develop a counter to the killing curse but had made little headway, even with Nicolas and Albus’ help. Her sharp features softened as her eyes lingered on Harry’s contented expression. “He’s too young to be a hero.”

Dumbledore smiled wearily. “Heroes usually are too young. I know I was.”

“Everyone is too young for war,” Perenelle said. She was still looking at Harry, a strange expression on her face. A gust of cool air broke her reverie and made her realise that the door was still open and they were standing in the doorway. “Come in, come in,” she said, closing the door.

“I must speak with you and Nicolas,” Dumbledore, “and if I might impose on your hospitality for a soft bed for Harry …”

“Of course,” Perenelle said, summoning a house elf with a snap of her fingers. “Tel, please take the baby and see that he’s cared for and then have my husband summoned to the main drawing room.”

Dumbledore handed Harry to the neatly dressed elf, feeling a sliver of relief that he was now in the care of someone who had some idea about how to attend to his needs. The house elf disappeared and Dumbledore followed Perenelle through the house to a large, well-furnished room that was drenched in firelight and soothing warmth. He settled into a chair near the fire, letting the warmth soak into his body and ease the pangs of old age in a way that warming charms did not.

Perenelle settled into the seat across from him and waited in silence until Nicolas joined them several minutes later. He was slightly taller than his wife and had inherited a broad, powerful build from his father, a village blacksmith. He had a workman’s hand, big and scarred from handling dangerous materials. He rolled his shoulders as he crossed the room, working out the kinks produced by long hours standing over a workbench.

“Is it true?” he demanded as he settled into his chair. “Is Voldemort dead? What about the Potter child?”

“The rumours about Harry and his parents are true,” Dumbledore said. “Unfortunately, Voldemort is still alive.”

“How do you know that?”

“There is a prophecy,” he said without hesitation. He couldn’t afford to hold anything back, not if he was to convince them of the gravity of the situation. He recited the prophecy from memory and then let silence fill the room as the Flamels contemplated the words.

“What’s the Dark Lord’s current status?” Perenelle asked.

“Unknown, though I’ve spent the day trying to figure that out. I retrieved his wand and robes from Godric’s Hollow and the Dark Mark has faded from view, though the taint remains. Wherever he is though, Voldemort is currently as his weakest since before he attended Hogwarts. Of that I am sure. However, his followers still retain much of their power. A Hit Wizard detachment cornered Bellatrix in a recently uncovered safe house where she was trying to rally as many followers as possible. Nine of them were killed. She’s currently on the run with the Lestrange brothers and another unknown Death Eater. Lucius Malfoy turned himself in and is claiming to have been bewitched. He’s in custody for the moment but there are already calls to release him. It’s sheer chaos in the Ministry and I’ve used it to my own advantage. I was able to convince the Minister to give me full authority over Harry’s placement and protection, though there are calls for the Ministry to take custody. I’ve planted rumours that I’ll be leaving him with his mother’s sister under the aegis of powerful blood protections that were made possible by the manner of Lily’s death.”

Nicolas steepled his fingers and his expression became shuttered. “That should provide adequate protection with the Dark Lord removed from the field.”

Dumbledore gave him a bitter smile. “Isolated as you are it’s impossible for you to know how powerful the Death Eaters are, even without the Dark Lord. If they rally under a single leader then they will still pose a considerable threat to the wizarding world and with their influence within the Ministry it will take them mere weeks to have him removed from the Dursleys and placed somewhere more vulnerable. I cannot allow that, not with the prophecy. I need Harry to disappear but I cannot take him, not with the threat …”

“No,” Nicolas said sharply, his face creasing with anger. “No bloody way. We withdrew from the world for a reason Albus. We’re tired of its troubles. We’ve led revolutions, fought wars, built schools and orphanages and hospitals and when it’s all done there are more wars, more orphans to house and more people wanting us to solve all of their problems.”

“Harry isn’t someone who can solve his own problems, Nicolas,” Dumbledore said. “He’s a child – a baby – who’s lost everything and everyone.”

“There must be people,” Perenelle interjected. “Godparents, family friends.”

Dumbledore was shaking his head before she had even finished speaking. “The woman who would have been his godmother was murdered before he was born, along with most of his mother’s friends. The only friend of his mother’s who’s still alive has a young child of her own. I am hesitant to visit this danger on her family.”

Nicolas smiled coldly. “And the Dursley family, hmm? How will your deception affect them?”

“They are protected to the best of my ability,” Dumbledore said, “and I will endeavour to protect them so long as I am able to maintain the charade of them being Harry’s guardians. Unfortunately, sometimes sacrifices must be made. It’s nothing we haven’t done before.”

Nicolas accepted that with a nod of his head.

“As to his father’s friends there are three. One of them is Harry’s godfather and his parents’ Secret Keeper. He is either dead or a traitor. I am unsure which. Another friend is a werewolf, which disqualifies him for a number of reasons and the last lacks the necessary talent. I am looking for a very specific type of guardian, someone who is magically gifted, well-versed in the art of protecting themselves and who are good people,” Dumbledore said. “You are the best candidates.”

Perenelle twisted her robe between her fingers. “If Voldemort is gone, Albus, then there is nothing stopping you from taking him. You have many capable allies who can handle the next phase of the war.”

“And what about the next war? What happens when Voldemort returns in five or ten or twenty years and my influence has withered away because I was not here to court allies and stymie Lucius Malfoy’s manipulations within the Ministry? No, my mind is needed here, if not my wand. This is the best solution, Perenelle. Harry gets the best guardians possible and you – and you Nicolas – get what you want most, a child.”

As soon as he said it Dumbledore regrated it. There were certain things that weren’t discussed with the Flamels and their childlessness was foremost amongst them.

“That was crude, Albus, and unnecessary,” Nicolas said but his voice lacked the fire of his previous anger. He blamed himself for their childlessness. He hadn’t fully understood the Stone’s properties when they first imbibed the Elixir of Life, hadn’t realised that he exchanging eternal life for the ability to procreate. It was sacrificial magic at its simplest – life for life. He had tried for centuries to engineer a cure and spent several fortunes on research but to no avail.

Something flashed across his face, an expression of need and want and hope, briefly before he crushed it.

Perenelle had gone white and her expression had become pained.

“I am sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” Dumbledore said, his voice thick with regret. He had just damaged one of his oldest friendships by trying to manipulate their greatest desire.

“It’s not like we haven’t discussed adopting before, Albus. We have, many times,” Perenelle said. “However, we can’t, in good conscience, bring a child in our life, not with the dangers that the Stone attracts.”

“My dear, Harry is already in danger and those who would seek the Stone are, on the whole, less dangerous than Lord Voldemort and his greatest lieutenants. Even if Voldemort came for Harry in full possession of his powers he would find you and Nicolas working together as formidable a foe as any he has faced. That is why I came to you.”

“Nicolas …” A thread of hope ran through Perenelle’s voice. “He’s right, Nicolas. This … this is the best chance we’ve ever had. If we don’t take it …”

Nicolas looked grim. “If we do this, there can’t be any half-measures.” He was speaking to both Perenelle and Dumbledore. “Eventually, we would have to re-join the world. He will need to go to school; to meet other children and people will flock to us as they always have. Albus, we will be his guardians, with all that entails. Do you understand?”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “I understand and accept that.”

“There is little that I would not do to make this happen,” Perenelle added.

Nicolas sighed heavily and tension bled out of his posture. His grim countenance faded, replaced by a small smile. “Thank you, Albus. I know our desires are secondary concerns, that you only gave us this chance to protect Harry and, eventually, gain our resources for your war, but thank you.”

 

Basic premise: Crossover between Harry Potter and Fate/Extra. I hadn't worked out the details before giving up on the project (Fate/Extra is a terrible game to actually play), but the basic idea was something sort of like the events of the game. Only instead of (fake) students going to (fake) Japanese high school between bouts of (really) murdering each other for fun and profit, they go to a magic school instead. How could this go wrong?

Anyway, here's the only part I actually wrote.

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I let out a barely-audible sigh of relief as Draco left the room.

Really, it was as regular as one of Binns' soul-sucking lessons. Class would let out for the day, Draco would make a point of coming over to say something cutting (and childish), then he'd leave. It was one of the many, many things that marked out the days like signs on the road. The same lessons, the same homework, the same insults. Normally it wasn't a problem. I'd started to tune him out.

Today, though, it was hard to ignore the sudden pounding in my head. When he'd called me a 'nobody', it felt like somebody had driven a spike through my skull. Unsteadily, I lurched out of my seat and towards the bathroom. None of my classmates seemed to notice.

The rush of cool air as I opened the bathroom door barely registered. I made straight for the sink, my hands trembling as I worked the tap. The headache was only getting worse and I couldn't figure out why.

Splashing cold water on my face helped, at least a little.

Nobody.

Why was that word rattling around in my throbbing skull, like it was the only thought that mattered? Draco had called me worse things before. 'Nobody' was pretty tame for him, really. What did he know, anyway? I wasn't 'Nobody', I was--

That was when it hit me. Who was I?

What was I doing before I came to this castle?

...

What was my name?

I stared at my reflection in the mirror as if it could give me an answer. That was when I noticed something I hadn't seen before. Hesitantly, I reached up to brush sweat-slicked hair off of my forehead. That was when I first saw it.

My fingers traced the line descending from my hairline, kinked as if to suggest a drawing of a lightning bolt. Try as I might, I couldn't think of anything on Earth that would leave such a mark.

How did I get this scar?

 

If I ever write a medieval assassin fic. Partly inspired by the just released Assassin's Creed Unity teaser trailer.

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Scene #1: Random​

A lonely feather broke free from the panicked hen as it darted away from the two roosters racing after it. It was kicked and battered and trudged into the dirt by clawed feet as the fight between the brood of chickens intensified, then mercifully a gust of air picked it up, carrying it away from the disorderly carnage of pecking beaks and squawking cockerels.

Slowly the beat-up feather rode the air where it was willed, propelled along by the quiet wind currents in the sweltering heat of the Parisian afternoon. It was carried past the mass of nameless faces and hatted heads, then it rose, slow but sure, against the backdrop of stained glass windows and gray stone walls to its pointed turrets that marked the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris.

Finally at that altitude the winds begin to falter, and the red plume began a gentle descent until it suddenly came to a rest, caught in the folds of an elaborate black hat.

If the wearer of the hat knew he now had a feather in his cap, he paid it no heed. Crouched precariously on a narrow beam of wood jutting from the incomplete scaffolding that held up the north face of the revered cathedral, he busied himself with the leather straps on the burnished vambraces around his arms. Satisfied that the dark-steel gauntlets were tight enough and would hold, he turned his scrutiny to the horde of indistinct figures gathered in the courtyard hundreds of feet below.

The baying of the crowd was growing with each passing second, and a wooden platform, recently erected and barricaded by guards, held their fraying attentions. In minutes, if all went to schedule, the prisoner kneeling down in the center of the platform would be guillotined to sate the monstrous appetites of corrupt men.

Amber-yellow eyes regarded the scene with hawk-like precision, noting the number of crimson specks that denoted the Red Cardinal’s Guard where they stood in little pockets of fours and fives. Two minutes was all he had, three maybe if the soldiers were too shocked and slow and if the crowd broke into a riot. The archers might pose a problem, but...

His thoughts were straying. Doubt led to hesitation, and he had no room for neither if he was to succeed. The Order would not tolerate a second failure. Steeling himself, he closed his eyes and allowed his breathing to fall to calm, steady pace.

Latin words of prayer fell from his lips.

Below, the crowd was now howling for violence.

Patience. Their faces would soon be stained scarlet, but the blood wouldn’t be spilled from whom they intended. He consulted his pocket-watch. Ten seconds left, nine, eight, seven…

His expression settled into one of grim determination and a flick of his wrists deployed the twin blades hidden therein with a sharp ching.

Then without further deliberation the assassin tucked his knees in and leapt off his perch like a peregrine in dive, arms outspread beyond his billowy ripples of his scarlet cape.

A red feather dislodged from the cap that fell forgotten onto the beam, and was carried again into the afternoon wind.

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