What's Hermione doing in your story? I'd think he'd get her involved as well if he's taking Ron - after all, she wasn't the one who ran out on him when things got tough in DH, and she's got less scruples than Ron, and a more ruthless streak.

 

He came back and Harry didn't mind in the end, so best buddy bonus still counts.

 

Hopefully she will be left out of the story. Too few bro-down stories with Harry and Ron kicking ass.

 

Too few stories with an adult trio kicking ass. Leaving out the brains of the trio makes not much sense - nor does assuming they can go risk their lives without her following. If Ron is "Best buddy", then Hermione's still "best friend".

 

You're getting in the way of bro time, bro

Party foul.

 

Vomiting this out as a palate cleanser, hopefully shattering a mild case of writer's block (aka laziness).

...

Hogwarts was quiet at night. Mostly.

Harry wandered down a hallway, casually glancing at the tapestries on the wall. He wasn’t quite seeing them, and it took him a second to notice why. He could hear music.

There was an unused classroom at the end of the hall; one of the rare ones that had a hardwood floor. Upper years came there to practice transfiguration, and it was littered with all kinds of objects - including a piano.

For the last thirty seconds Harry had been hearing someone playing. Canon in D, it sounded like, played professionally, but straight. The sound had come on slowly, but it was unmistakeable now.

With half an ear focused on the music, he continued his stroll down the corridor, less focused on the paintings on the wall. Just as Harry neared the open door of the classroom, he cocked his head, listening closely. It took him a few seconds to really hear it, but the music had changed.

The melody, so recognizable as to be almost trite, took an abrupt left turn. Harry could almost feel the player grinning, improvising around the chords, the notes dripping amusement, even joy. Like a jetliner gathering speed on the runway, the melody exploded with lift. You could almost feel it taking off, reaching new heights, the familiar tune imbued with new life.

Harry found himself moving through the door, drawn to the music. Inside, the room was bright, the bronze ceiling lanterns making the pale wood of the floor almost glow. On the opposite side of the room as the doorway stood a magnificent grand piano. The dark, polished wood was stark against the lightness of the room; it was the first thing Harry noticed. The second and more important thing Harry noticed was the person playing it.

The piano was set at an angle in the corner of the room, so he saw her only in profile. Black hair falling in waves against her shoulders, pale skin, dark jeans, and a lacy white top that seemed somehow funereal. Her hands moved across the piano like water flowing over rocks in a stream.

Harry stood transfixed, listening to Daphne Greengrass improvise around Pachelbel’s famous chords. Harry was quite simply blown back – she played like the music was making her float, ecstatically wrapped up in the moment. Her head moved with the rhythm, eyes closed, now open as she threw her head back and keened, almost inaudibly, the same line her right hand sketched out.

[FONT=&quot] So suddenly there’s this girl[FONT=&quot].[/FONT] [/FONT]

 

Now there is an opening for a Harry starts a band fic.

 

Something I've been working off and on. You may have known these characters from elsewhere. I wish I can imitate their "voices" better, however.




Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. And count to ten. Now you live again…



[FONT=&quot]“but Harry, sweet Harry…"[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot] [/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]Don't. Please don't.[/FONT][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot] [/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]"…Fleur is pregnant."[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot] [/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]My hands fell away from the controls and I whipped my head around so fast to face the demigoddess. We fell into a rough embrace, forged in the blood covering my body. My mouth went dry, I struggled for words... a thousand thousand thoughts sped through my mind.[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot] [/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]A lot of little things suddenly made sense. Fleur choosing to leave, her rare fury and anguish… the irrevocable hurt I had caused her.[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot] [/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]This was something new. Something that had never happened before.[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot] [/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]Oh, oh damn…[/FONT][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot] [/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]A few impossibly long heartbeats later, the Atlantean battleship Reminiscence crashed into the Astronomy Tower with all the fury of every life I had ever lived.[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot] [/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]The starlight core erupted and the ship disintegrated in a chaotic storm of old brick, ancient magic, and splintered wood – the impact ended my insane run through the sound barrier, air rushed back in through the wake, loud enough to end the whole damn world.[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot] [/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]And oh god, what an awful world it was…[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot] [/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]Night turned to day as a hellish fireball of superheated energy engulfed the ancient, triumphant majesty of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.[/FONT]



…so that you can die anew.



I woke from the dream – the Dream, the same damned Dream – and turning away from the rays of sunlight beaming down on my renewed life, I look down at my hands. I flexed my left hand, no longer mythril but flesh and blood. Correction – it has never been anything but flesh and blood. Not in this life.

So I died.

I lived again.

I had failed for the last time.

Shakily I got onto my feet. I knew what was soon to come. Despite my best efforts, my body began to tremble. Any moment now, the wounds I suffered would catch up with me across death and time. There was a bang downstairs, and I thought I heard Petunia scream, and I used it, as something for my mind to focus on to, while I tried to guide my legs toward the bathroom. I could not give up. Far too many lives, far too much depended on me—

My terrible past and all my sins caught up with me as pain exploded from within my body.I opened my mouth and I screamed, my throat raw even though I couldn’t hear my own screams on account of burst eardrums. My body was on fire and there was this pain in my chest, (the fragmented shard of time, yes, yes?) and I opened my eyes to see green eyes and my own face and for a moment I thought I had broken a mirror somewhere but then the strangest sense of déjà vu in my thousand years hit me. Was I hallucinating? I had to—pull together—

My doppelganger was saying something...

I had—to—go, she is waiting for me—

Fresh rainfall and strawberries…

“It’s okay…it’s going to be okay…”

Fleur…



I think my greatest flaw might be that I fight alone – always have done.



“Out of the way, hairless monkeys! This isn’t a fucking show!” The brim of my hat—or ball cap, as the Sorting Hat of Hogwarts is currently disguised—splits open and bellows as I push past the others. The others give me odd and annoyed looks, before realization dawns on me: they must have thought that the words came from me.

Thank you so very much, Hat. Do you need to antagonize everyone? I ask mentally as I shove the others out of my way.

Why not? The Hat shoots back through our mental link. It amuses me.

It amuses me too, but they don’t know you like I do and can’t appreciate your sense of humour. Very cruel sense of humour, I make no effort of hiding the thought. You’ll only traumatize them. Now be quiet and let me work.

The Hat’s snort fills my mind, but keeps its thoughts to itself as I turn my attention toward my patient. The poor bastard is still in the midst of a seizure, and with blood pouring out of his eyes, ears, mouth and nostril he makes for a rather horrifying sight. Two of my companions are holding him down as he struggles. This doesn’t look good; I ask and they confirm that they have tried various Body-Binding spells to no effect. Whatever is hurting him may be resistant to magic – or at least the magic we wield.

I cut apart his blood-soaked clothes and zap a diagnostic charm over him. It’s bad – the spell bounces off him! I guess I’ll have to do it the muggle way. He is bleeding both externally and internally, and there are burns all over him. I get started on the external wounds or rather, I try to as the cuts and burns on him disappear under my healing spells, and reappear a few seconds later at another part of his body. The salves my conjured brush slathers on him can’t keep up, he’s bleeding out fast from the randomly opening cuts. Shit! I summon a bunch of blood-replenishing potions and forced two down his throat. I don’t dare go for a third; he may go into shock if given so many in so short a time. If push comes to shove I may have to do things the muggle way, and use a blood donor instead. I eye my helpers, who are watching anxiously over us – that, at least, won’t be a problem.

“How bad is he?” Someone asks just as a shriek echoes up from downstairs.

“He’d be a lot better if Petunia shuts up.” I reply as I conjure some bandages, hoping against hope that they will fare better than my ineffective spells. No such luck, of course – the ones I use on my patient become thoroughly soaked within a few minutes of application, and the wounds still move all over his body, as if dancing some crazy random waltz. “I can only do so much. This is temporal magic way beyond what I know – precious little as it is – and it’s resisting my spells!”

“As it happens, I am an Unspeakable. His injury looks like trans-temporal—” A scream, followed by a blast that rocks the house, cut him off mid-sentence. The man – judging from his looks, he seems at least seven years older than me—glances out a window. “Huh. The alarm has been triggered by Dumbledore’s guard. I won’t want to worry you, but you have three minutes to stabilize your patient so that we can make our getaway.”

My temper flares momentarily. “If you have nothing to contribute, shut up and let me work.”

“Forgive me, I do get sidetracked sometimes.” He laughs, in a way that strangely enough reminds me of Lupin, and climbs to his feet. “I do have an idea, however. Keep working at him.”

“Whatever you do, make it quick,” I say to his retreating figure before returning to my patient. “He can only hold on for so long.”

He pauses at the stairs to look back at me. “I think I can trust you to do your best, Harry.”

“As if I would do anything less.” I snort. “And call me HJ, thank you very much.”


-------------------
Something's fucking up my edits.

 

Heartland's Harry goes to The Lie Harry's timeline? This would be a roflstomp for the two of them. But a fun drabble ^^

 

This is a little something I wrote for a Plot Bunny I've been nursing for a while. I posted it in the appropriate thread, but the basic premise is that Voldemort lives up to his reputation in the first couple of books, and Harry's fifth year is much darker thanks to the link they share. Tom takes over his body and has a duel with Dumbledore within Hogwarts itself. Here's about 1,850 words of that - and I still haven't gotten to them fighting on the moving staircases.

Please be merciless.

* * *​

The dungeons were silent, except for the occasional noise of water dripping into the shallow puddles formed in the stone floors. However, if one strained their ears and relaxed their mind, the thrum of the waters of the Black Lake beating against the walls of the castle foundations could be found resonating with one’s own heartbeat.

Even though it went against the image the public had of him, Albus Dumbledore enjoyed spending time in the lowest levels of his castle, listening to the deep song of the lake. He needed its calming effect more than ever that evening, having spent the Halloween Feast steadfastly avoiding young Harry Potter’s eyes and engaging in inane conversation with Professor Sprout.

The boy was cracking, even he could tell, despite his standoffish behaviour for the past couple of months. Harry looked far too thin and haggard nowadays, a throwback to his first few weeks in Hogwarts, when he had just escaped from his life with his Muggle relatives. Albus could not risk looking into those familiar green eyes, but he hadn’t missed the sunken cheeks and dark bags underneath them.

He breathed out slowly, curls of white mist escaping his mouth – a sign that winter this year would be especially harsh. More to amuse himself than anything else, he shaped the smoke into a likeness of his faithful phoenix, which spread smoky wings to drift up into the dark nothingness of the ceiling. Before his eyes, though, the smoke mutated, twisting this way and that until it formed a serpent, one that he had seen before, curled around the neck of his once student. The throbbing of the water around him deepened, and something old and primal inside of him shifted. His heart sped up to keep pace with the drum-like cadence, a sordid prelude to something strange and evil…

Harry Potter turned the corner and stopped abruptly, whipping his wand out of his robes. Guided by some inexplicable instinct, Albus curled his own fingers around elder wood.

“Oh, Professor, it’s only you,” the boy sounded relieved, relaxing his hold on his wand. Albus chuckled, but did not remove his fingers off his.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been ‘only you’, my boy. It’s a refreshing change, if I may so myself.” He decided not to rebuke Harry, much for the same reason that he’d gone against Minerva’s wishes to hand him the prefect badge. A warning would suffice, he reasoned.

Harry smiled, but there was something off about it. His lips curled, but Albus did not look into his eyes to check for any warmth within. With a jolt, he realized that Harry himself hadn’t made any move to look into his, something the boy had been persistently doing for the past few days.

Albus twisted the Elder Wand within his pocket, deciding that a harmless bit of Legilimency would go a long way towards settling his irrational fears. Without eye contact, it would be difficult to find out if anything was amiss, but teenagers, especially one as emotional as Harry, often broadcasted their thoughts to an extent that one did not need the ability to read minds to understand their intent. The Headmaster sent forth a thin thread of magic –

Harry retaliated so fast that he was caught off guard; he only managed to get a shield up fast enough to block the crackling bolts of magic sent his way. They bounced off and lanced against the walls, leaving deep gouges in the stone.

“Tom,” Dumbledore greeted, inclining his head. “It seems my fears were not unfounded.” And then he retaliated, snapping his wand at the dark wizard currently inhabiting the teenager’s body. Chains appeared out of thin air and raced towards Voldemort, who sneered and blasted them into smoke. For a second, the corridor was obstructed by a wall of fluid grey, before there was a hissing noise and a band of vipers leapt out at him.

In the wave of a wand they were changed into sparrows, who reversed their flight and bulleted for Tom. Albus gathered up the smoke with his wand and then jerked his hands sharply apart, dissipating the magic and sending out a wave of force. Tom, who was distracted by the avians, was sent flying and Dumbledore seized the opportunity to lock up every room and broom cupboard and tower in the castle. The enemy was within their walls, and the lives of his charges were in grave danger.

Albus didn’t have time to consider whether this was his fault or not, because the corridor was lit up an eerie green with twin bolts of energy, and filled with the sound of furious, rushing death. Albus flexed his thighs and flicked his hands up, raising a wall of stone before him. The old wizard backpedalled sharply, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid the explosion, which sent stone and dust bursting out at him.

He froze them in midair but was forced to flatten himself against the wall to avoid the next helix of twin Avada Kedavras. The narrow corridor was no place for two wizards of their calibre to duel – one wrong spell could flood the entire dungeons in a matter of seconds.

He sent a volley of magic back at the advancing frame of his student, careful not to use anything that could irreparably damage the host. A part of his mind noted how startlingly similar Harry looked to a young Tom Riddle in the play of spellfire and shadows, before he tamped down hard on it. Harry loved far, far too much to ever be capable of atrocities on Riddle’s level.

Not yet, but you’re certainly making sure he gets there.

He was getting old, Dumbledore decided, as he deftly parried another salvo of spells and dodged a Killing Curse that made the wall behind him explode. He was forced to heal the damage to his own eardrums, but his ploy had worked. The two of them duelled their way up a passageway and emerged out to the Entrance Hall, a route regularly taken by Slytherins on their way to breakfast.

As soon as he emerged into the well-lit room, Dumbledore brought the knights of armour alive with bare twitches of his wand. They charged at Tom, who spared him a condescending look that appeared wholly unnatural on Harry’s face, before ending their existence in a spectacular conflagration of black flames.

The molten metal that was left behind was transfigured into five foot tall spiders with thin legs, who scuttered their way towards him in an unpleasant rhythm of taps and clinks. A whip of fire severed their legs out from underneath them, before fanning out in an explosion of flames that burned itself out and took Tom’s newly conjured snakes with them.

Voldemort had taken advantage of pushing him on the defensive. Dumbledore was only able to catch the tail end of a long series of wand movements, before every light in the area was extinguished by the cold breath of Tom’s magic.

Albus had a spare moment to set up seven layers of shimmering silver shields around his body, moving faster than he had in years, before a cacophony of voices erupted against them with the force of a small storm. Ariana’s screams mixed in with Percival’s angry roars and overwhelmed Alastor’s tortured yells. His defensive work was the only thing that prevented him from dying a terrible death viewing his worst moments and bleeding black ichor from every orifice of his body.

It was your spell that killed her, Albus.

“ENOUGH!” Dumbledore boomed, imbuing some energy into his false vocal cords, a technique taught to him by Bokrug, the leader of the Merpeople. The energy vibrating in his throat created a dissonance with the threads of Tom’s magic, ripping it apart into billions of tiny threads. In one final crescendo, the darkness was banished and Harry’s wand was bucked away in Tom’s hand, where he had been conducting his eldritch symphony to torture the Headmaster.

The lamps in the Hall flickered back on weakly, and Dumbledore took a moment to heal his larynx as best he could. His voice, when he spoke again, was still raspy.

“You’ve learnt much in your time in the Continent, Tom. Romania is close to Albania, after all.” Tom was on his knees as well, recuperating from the backlash of Albus’ counterattack. “I’m honoured that you tracked down Tepes’ legendary collection to seek a way to vanquish me.”

Tom sent a salvo of curses at him which he blocked with absurd ease. Both of them knew that this was the calm between the storms, a short respite for them to recover.

“As always, you overestimate yourself, Dumbledore. It is true, however. I want to enjoy your broken visage when I finally destroy you, old man, and the Killing Curse will not give me that satisfaction.”

“Your obsession with death was always your greatest weakness, my boy. It manages to ruin every conversation we’ve had in the past few decades.” The look of incredulity on Voldemort’s adopted face was worth a few secret smiles for later. “But now, I am afraid, it is time for you to leave.”

In a flash of crimson and a trill that caused a hateful sneer to mar Harry’s face, Fawkes appeared above the kneeling boy. A column of fire burst into existence around the boy, and then Voldemort was screaming in agony, a high-pitched, animal sound that made his arms erupt in goosebumps. Tom was levitated into the air, and Albus raised his wand –

The flames took shape, coalescing into a giant palm that clenched its fingers to form a fist around Harry; a righteous fist.

“Begone,” Dumbledore intoned, and the hand clenched to draw one final scream from Tom, before it winked out of existence. Harry’s unharmed form floated gently back to the ground, like he weighed nothing more than a feather.

It was over. Fawkes flew over to heal his throat, bringing with him an aura of warmth that made him feel better instantly.

“Harry? My boy?” He approached the prone figure once Fawkes was done, keeping a careful grip on his wand.

Harry stirred, shifting and blinking blearily before opening his eyes. For the first time in months, clear blue met vivid green, and Dumbledore sagged ever so slightly in relief when he saw the confusion in them. And then Harry creased his eyebrows, and his irises were suddenly polluted with a fresh influx of poisonous red.

Tom smirked up at him, pointing his wand point blank at Dumbledore’s chest. His block wasn’t fast enough to dull the incoming curse, and Albus was rocketed back with the force of a gauntlet clad punch against his chest. There was a sickening crunch and a sharp, shooting pain that made his mind swim dangerously, and Albus Dumbledore would have died within the minute if it hadn’t been for his phoenix.

Tom straightened, and idly conjured a robe to clothe his frame. “Harry Potter is out right now, Professor,” he raised his wand, “but I hope I can be of service.”

* * *​

Do I do something wrong when I paste blocks of text, because the paragraph spaces always vanish when I do?

 

Hot damn that was cool.

Voldemort and Dumbledore are always a great show.

 

Thanks man. And yep. That was half my motivation to write it. You can do away with most of the spell invention and just have them waving their wands and doing crazy shit. Gotta love that.

 

Nice. I can see the potential.

I especially liked how you didn't get bogged down trying to explain the magic.

I have the same problem with disappearing paragraphs and italics.

 

Yeah, looks good. You have a good ear for the pace and flow of a battle scene.

I especially liked this part:

Nice build of tension there, and a great way to ominously introduce Tom. I do think you should replace one of the "smoke/smokeys" in the first half - they're a bit repetitive.

The only thing that stuck out as a true off-note was Tom's final line -

It's close, but it feels not at all like Voldemort. Voldemort really doesn't do sarcasm or humor. He does mocking, but not really like this. It's not a terrible line, but it was jarring for me.

 

Voldemort not using AK, when he got the chance? This is VERY OOC!

 

This is a response to the Secret Santa challenge I received from Republic. He wanted a light, fluffy Harry/Fleur Yule Ball scene. That's what I've attempted to write here, while also deliberately avoiding so many of the tropes that pervade the pairing.



The Harry/Fleur fanart thread that was posted today inspired me to pick this back up and polish it off. I'll be the first to admit that it could stand to be fleshed out more in places. But it's likely that it never would have been finished had I attempted to do so.


So, there you go.

A Very Fleur Christmas
​

Azure eyes, impossibly blue and oh-so lovely, scanned the boy up and down. A predatory smile crossed glistening pink lips, speaking more clearly than any mere words, had the boy cared to listen.

He ran trembling fingers through dark hair, swallowing heavily. “I, um. Well, that is, if you don’t already have plans.”

She cocked her head to the side. “No, I do not have plans.”

The boy’s face brightened considerably. “Oh, um, great. So you’ll go with me, then?”

Her smile widened, and she laughed, a beautiful lilting sound that rang like a bell through the Great Hall. She shook her head, long blonde hair cascading around her as if caught by a breeze. “No.”

A long moment passed, and the boy stood rooted on the spot, his face reddening. Never looking away, the girl arched an elegant brow. Finally, the boy felt the full weight of hundreds of eyes bearing down on him, and he turned, making a hasty retreat back to the Slytherin table.

Across the hall, Harry Potter watched the scene unfold with rapt attention. Fleur Delacour waved at Adrian Pucey’s retreating form as peals of laughter erupted from the cadre of girls surrounding her. Harry shook his head. “That looked … devastating.”

“Must not be true what they say about French girls, eh?” Ron asked.

“And what do they say about them, exactly?” asked Hermione from across the table, a dangerous glint in her eye.

“Well, it’s like Charlie always says, isn’t it?” Ron looked around the table for support. Finding none, he continued. “A French bird’s like Chasing without a Keeper. Easy to-”

“What a lovely expression.”

Ron shrugged, looking back across the hall at Fleur, who had fallen in to a hushed conversation with the girls surrounding her. “Load of bollocks anyway, at least where she’s concerned.” Ron’s cheeks took on a pink tinge as he no doubt remembered his own previous encounter with the French witch.

“How many’s that make now, anyway?” asked Seamus from further down the table.

“By my count? Oh, about half the blokes in this ruddy castle,” Harry said. “If she doesn’t watch out, she’ll run out of people to shoot down.”

“Maybe she’s holding out for Krum?”

Across the table, Hermione harrumphed. “Well, some men prefer women with substance.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Seamus said, his eyes finding Fleur. “Frenchie’s got plenty of … substance.”

Hermione stood, casting them one last glare before leaving the Hall.

“What about you, oh esteemed Fourth Champion? Who’s the lucky lass taking your bespectacled arse to the Ball?”

“Hmm.” Harry’s gaze did not stray from the French contingent. “No idea.”

“I’ve got three sickles here that say you’re not man enough to ask Delacour.”

“Well, they’re right.” Harry shuddered. He’d done some foolhardy things in his school years, but asking Fleur Delacour to the Yule Ball was beyond the pale. “Pass the tart, Seamus.”

The meal ended in companionable silence, but Harry wasn’t able to shake Fleur Delacour’s image from his mind. On his way toward the staircase, Harry found himself being funneled toward…

Merlin, why am I walking toward her? He stopped short, and Fleur stood less than a meter away, giving him an appraising look. “Um. Hi.”

“Bonsoir, ’Arry Potter.”

“Yeah, um, bone soire to you, too. I’m the Boy Who Lived, you know?” Bugger me sideways, why would I say that?

“Boy Who Lived, indeed.” She smirked.

Harry gave an emphatic nod. “And I’m Gryffindor’s Seeker.”

“Is that so?”

Get a hold of yourself, Potter. If you can fight off Mad-Eye Moody’s Imperius Curse, you can talk to a pretty girl. Even an impossibly pretty one. Harry shook his head, trying to clear out the cobwebs, and his face glowed red. Oh, damn. “Say, is there any chance you might be willing to forget I just said that?”

She laughed, and Harry’s heart raced. “I am afraid not.”

“No, I didn’t think so.” Harry fought the urge to look at the floor. Oh well. He started to leave. Hang on. I’ve already made a fool of myself. Stopping, he met Fleur’s eye again. In for a knut, in for a galleon. “How about you give me a second chance to make a decent impression.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “It sounds like you are asking me on a date.”

“I suppose I am. Will you go to the Ball with me?” I’ll be taking those Sickles now, Seamus.

Fleur rubbed her chin, an inscrutable look on her face. She looked him up and down, like a butcher assessing a cut of meat. “You are short.”

Leetle boy. Yeah, I remember. “True.”

“But you do ‘ave nice eyes.”

“Thanks.”

“And I like your ‘air zee way it is. You will wear it like that.”

“Um.” Wait, does that mean…? “Okay.”

“You shall pick me up from zee carriage at eight.”

Harry nodded, and with that, she turned and walked away. The girl who had been standing beside Fleur giggled. “Poor, poor boy. You’ve no idea what you’ve just done.”

What have I gotten myself into?

_________________________________


Five minutes ‘til eight on Christmas night, Harry paced back and forth in front of the Beauxbatons carriages, the violet corsage Hermione had recommended in his hand. He wore midnight black dress robes that fit snugly around his small frame. Despite the bitter Scottish winter, sweat covered his palms.

“A flower for my flower,” he muttered, then shook his head. “Merlin, no... This mere flower pales in comparison to your-” He exhaled angrily. Never should have asked Ron for advice.

Harry kept pacing, until approximately ten past eight, when the carriage door shot open. Fleur stepped across the threshold wearing chiffon pink robes that cascaded around her porcelain white ankles like the sea at high tide. His eyes followed the plunging neckline down to-

Oh, Merlin. He gulped. Blinking, he held out his corsage.

Seeing the violets, Fleur looked pointedly down at her pink robes. “Lovely.”

“Er, thanks.”

Fleur extended her arm, looking away from him as he placed the corsage on her wrist. As soon as it was affixed, Fleur’s wand was in her hand. With a silent flick, the violet was replaced with a brilliant pink rose.

Harry’s face turned crimson. He looked away, not wanting to meet her eye. “You’re beautiful. Er, that is, your robes are beautiful. Where’d you get them?”

She smiled at him, brilliantly white teeth lighting up the Scottish night. “Milan. Your robes are … nice. Where are zey from?”

“Gladrags.”

“’Ow charming.”

Without another word, she offered Harry her arm, which he gladly took, and they made for the castle. Fleur walked with an effortless grace, with strides so long that Harry struggled to keep up. By the time they made it to the castle, he was breathing heavily.

They waited outside the Great Hall for the other champions to arrive. The minutes ticked by, taking either hours or seconds—Harry wasn’t sure which—as the moment he was dreading loomed. Finally, McGonagall ushered them inside for the first dance.

Harry took her right hand in his left. Though she stood perhaps two inches taller than him, her hand was small and delicate, and it fit perfectly in his. He placed his other hand on her back. Through her paper-thin robes, he could feel the warmth of her skin, and his heart raced.

“I should warn you, Fleur. I’m not exactly the best dancer.”

“Then I shall look all the better in comparison, no?”

The music started, and Harry tried to move in time with it. But as the seconds ticked by, he found himself following Fleur’s movements rather than the band. Surprisingly, she guided him through the waltz with minimal error.

Whereas Harry struggled to get through the dance without making a fool of himself, Fleur seemed to glide across the floor. She danced with a grace and ease that left Harry inspired and embarrassed at the same time.

As the dance wound down, she leaned in close to him. “Smile for ze cameras, ‘Arry. We shall make ze front page of your Prophet.”

With her pressed up against him, he found it all too easy to comply with her request. He doubted whether the smile would ever come off his face. Hardly noticing as the Prophet’s photographer’s flash bulb went off, Harry moved into her touch. It was easily the greatest moment of his life.

And all too soon, it was over.

The music ended, and the couples made their way to the tables at the edge of the Hall to order their meals for the evening. As they ate, Harry found that he was unable to draw his eyes away from hers. So they talked. About classes, at first. The about Quidditch.

“You mean to tell me zat you caught ze Snitch in your mouth?”

Harry nodded, and she laughed a laugh that made his heart flutter.

After that, they talked about family, hers not his. Her father was in middle management at the French Ministry, and her mother was a housewitch. She had a little sister who she adored.

The one thing they didn’t talk about was the Tournament. Then, when the dinner ended and the band retook the stage, Harry took her hand and led her back onto the dance floor.

The dances passed in a blur. It seemed that they danced closer and closer to one another as the night went on.

All good things came to an end, Harry realized, as he saw the last person he wanted to speak with approaching. In a pause between songs, Draco Malfoy came at them from the side and tapped Fleur on the shoulder.

“Madame Delacour, might I have this dance?” Absent from Malfoy’s face was his usual superior smirk. In its place was a glassy eyed stare, while he gnawed at his bottom lip.

“Why, Monsieur Malfoy.” She approached him slowly, all her teeth visible. Malfoy’s expression turned gleeful as she placed her hand on his cheek. “When you asked me to ze dance weeks ago, did I not made it quite clear zat I ‘ave no wish to suffer your presence further?”

“But, I—my father—”

Malfoy’s face reddened, while Harry and Fleur twirled away, leaving him there spluttering.

Harry spared him a backward glance and barked out a laugh. “Wish I could handle him so effectively.”

“It is easy, when they are so far beneath your notice.” They went back to dancing, and he didn’t spare Malfoy another thought.

The thrice-damned clock kept ticking, until at last, the band played its final song. She rested her chin on his shoulder as they slowly circled one another, his hands on her waist and her arms wrapped around his back. In that moment, Harry knew that he would never again have difficulty casting the Patronus.

Harry cursed as the band wrapped up and bid them goodnight.

“I guess that’s it,” he said.

“I suppose so.”

Her arm in his, they made their way back to the Beauxbatons carriages in silent contemplation. There, he regretfully removed his arm from hers and held open the door. She stepped inside without another word, and Harry sighed at the loss of contact.

All of a sudden, she turned to face him once more. Before he could react, she leaned down and pressed her lips against his cheek. The kiss was sweet and short and chaste, but when it was finished, Harry felt confident he could fight every Acromantula in the forest.

She turned away from him one more, but before she could pull the door closed behind her, Harry called out. “Hey, Fleur.”

“Yes?” The corner of her mouth twitched.

“I had a really good time tonight, you know?”

“I rather enjoyed myself as well.”

“There’s a Hogsmeade weekend coming up.”

“So there is.”

“Would you, I don’t know, maybe want to go with me?”

She smiled, and Harry felt lighter than air. “Yes, ‘Arry Potter. I think I would like zat.”

She pushed the door closed, and Harry practically skipped back to the castle.

 

Nailed it.

Nice work, silentclock.

 

Yeah, I sort of rushed the ending there because I had an errand to run. I'll work on that. Thanks for the help, man.

Yeah, it is. Again, I rushed the ending, but I did state that he wants the satisfaction of destroying Dumbledore - at this point in time, Voldemort has nothing to lose. Dumbledore's discredited, he's lying low anyway, and he's literally in Harry's body, so no harm can be done to him.

Either way, when I continue, I'm probably going to rewrite it with Fawkes taking an AK point blank for him. Removes Dumbledore's unfair advantage.

 

I blame Photon for making me wonder what it's like to be an Obliviator. Then I thought about the Men in Black. It's a bit much for a drabble but it's hardly a real thing either so I figure it can go here.

Harry Potter: WiB - Wizards in Black

"You're up, Harry," called Theobald Triggs, Harry's boss, as he poked his grinning head into Harry's cubbyhole. "It's an AM1988-B27, just the thing to start the day."

"Aww shit, Theo," groused Harry, as he spun in his chair and opened his filing cabinet. He started looked for the correct forms with a well-practiced hand. "Where's this one turned up? I thought we'd seen the last of them last year with that nest that turned up in Milton Keynes."

"Seems like one got away," said Theo cheerily. "This one's in Carlton Colville apparently."

"Carlton wh- Ah, there it is!" He pulled out the form, and quickly made himself a copy to work with. "Sorry, Carlton what?" he asked. "Never heard of it."

"Colville," supplied Theo. "Near Lowestoft, not that far from Milton Keynes actually. It probably made its way cross country to get there."

"Shit, right, I'm on it," said Harry absently as he started ticking off options on the B27-A before him.

"Take Patil with you, she's got nothing on her plate this morning," Theo advised as he popped off to ruin someone else's morning.

"Let’s see," Harry said to himself as he continued on the form absent-mindedly speaking under his breath as he filled it out. "Name, H. Potter. Date… uhh. 23rd? Ah, close enough. Position, Oblv. Event, is AM 1988 aaand location is, what did he say? Carolton Colevill? It's not like anyone really checks this shit anyway."

After filling out the rest of the form, including boxes asking for his favourite colour (red), the length of his nose hair (up to 12mm) and the number of children he'd had (zero) he finally made his way towards his assigned partners desk.

"Morning Padma," he said agreeably. "We've got an assignment. A B27 near Lowestoft."

The attractive dark-skinned young woman looked up with a welcoming smile as he approached. "Hey Harry," she said cheerily before her face darkened. "A B27… isn't that a-"

"Yeah," sighed Harry. "Seems one got away last year. Merlin knows what it's been up to all this time. You can thank Theo, by the way."

"I'll be sure to," she said as she scrunched up her nose in distaste. "Oh well, you done the paperwork?"

"Mostly, just need you to remind me what time you were born, I always forget that." Harry admitted.

"Twelve minutes and 37 seconds past 3 in the morning on April the twelfth," she reminded him.

"Yeah, that's it," said Harry, "Always forget the minutes." He quickly jotted it down on the form and sent it winging off through the corridors to wherever it was paperwork went to die.

"Right, you good to go?" he asked.

Padma quickly gulped down the last of her coffee and grabbed her official pitch black robes. "Yep, let’s go."

Harry nodded and together they walked to the service Portkeys. As they arrived another form fluttered over to land on Harry's shoulder, a cursory examination told him dispensation had been granted. It also told him that whoever was on the other end of the paperwork chain was able to draw an impressive likeness of him. It was a bit creepy how they'd drawn him snogging some girl he didn't recognise.

Workplace flirting was all well and good but the woman, he hoped it was a woman, who managed his fieldwork transportation requests had never even told him her name.

"She's still trying then?" asked Padma.

"I don't know if it counts as trying when all she's doing is drawing me in increasingly fewer clothes," said Harry with a shrug. "It's more like suspiciously up front stalking."

He scrunched it up and tucked it into the little recess made on one of the Portkeys before he and Padma grabbed it simultaneously. The paperwork was a bitch but at least he didn't need to know how to Apparate to every useless little town in England this way.

They arrived on an empty street, and a few of folk from Misuse were already on the scene. Gerald Adkins' was looking on as his three understudies advanced cautiously on the garage of one of the houses. Every now and then an ominous snapping or crashing noise could be heard from within.

"Hey Gerry, what's the situation?" Harry called out to the team leader.

"Bloody Moody," he growled in frustration. "You'd think being dead would mean he'd stop pissing me off."

Harry and Padma nodded in sympathy with the man's plight. Moody had single-handedly kept the Misuse departments in business before his untimely death at the wand of Voldemort a few years before. The departments had been mostly laid off as a result of his death, only for them to discover that death was apparently no obstacle to Mad-Eye Moody when it came to insane paranoia.

"The thing's rabid," Gerald continued. "It's already got two muggles, the wizard who called it in and one of my interns. I have no idea how it managed that, there shouldn't be enough space."

"Space expansion charm on top of the rest then?" asked Padma in interest.

"Must be I suppose," accepted Gerald, "but why would you even bother?"

"It was Moody," Harry pointed out. "If it means it can eat more people before he has to muck it out then that's reason enough."

Suddenly a rumble sounded from the garage on the other side of the street, immediately followed by the girlish scream of another of the interns. It was abruptly cut off. The two remaining wizards came scrambling out of the garage in a panicked frenzy on limbs.

Behind them was the most feral looking wheelie bin Harry had ever seen. Black, with a green lid like most wheelie bins but this one exuded an air of menace. It was covered in scratches and scars and even, worryingly, had some dried blood caked on its wheels. It rumbled quickly across the driveway of the house behind the squealing students.

"Jenkins, Jemima!" called Gerald in frustration, "You don't run from it! That just makes it w- Oh, well that's Jenkins gone too then."

"How long have they been on the job?" asked Harry in interest as Jemima cowered in a corner and the wheelie bin rolled slowly closer, it seemed to savour her fear.

"First outing," admitted Gerald. "Dropping them in at the deep end I suppose with a Moody B27 but they have to learn some time."

"Seems a bit harsh," said Padma. "I think they'd probably be better suited to a screaming kettle or something."

Gerald shrugged. "I don't get to choose the jobs that come in," he said. "Just have to take them as they come."

Another abruptly cut off scream echoed across the street. Gerald breathed an annoyed sigh.

"I don't suppose you two would mind giving me a hand here?" he asked.

Harry and Padma shared a pained glance before both sighing in resignation. "All right," said Harry for both of them. "But you owe us both drinks. We didn't fill out a form for this, it's gonna takes ages to get squared out."

"Thanks mate," said Gerald as he clapped Harry on the back. "Let’s get my interns out of that thing, I think they've learned enough for the day."

They all split up, each approaching the bin from a different side. Seeing them approach it started to snap and charge at them threateningly. Every time it targeted one of them the others would quickly draw its attention away from them and slowly but surely they were able to get close enough.

"Right," called Gerald, "On three!"

"One."

"Two."

"THREE!"

Spindly white threads of light shot from three wands and wove around the struggling wheelie bin, wrapping it tightly in unbreakable magic. Slowly the threads cut through the charms layered heavily upon what should have been an ordinary wheelie bin. A simple Finite would never cut it, after so long it had gained something of a sentience of its own.

The moment the last charm gave way the bin exploded in a cloud of stinking excrement and screaming people.

"I thought you said it had only got four people before we arrived?" asked Padma in confusion as they found themselves looking at the pile of more than twenty groaning bodies.

"It's been roaming the countryside for a year and was in Milton Keynes for even longer," Harry pointed out. "The rest are probably muggle hikers or shoppers."

"Right, well," said Gerald as he rubbed his hands together. "I'll leave this bit to you. My work here is done."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right, thanks for the assist Gerry, much appreciated."

"Come on kids!" called Gerald as he walked over to where they were slowly righting themselves, shell shocked expressions on their faces He started giving them the lecture Harry had heard from him a hundred times before. "Let that be a lesson to you, the Aurors have it easy, it's Misuse that sees the real action. I suggest you get out now if you can't hack it."

He gathered them together quickly and they vanished in a swirl of colours. That left just Harry and Padma to deal with 18 terrified muggles.

"Right, so what explanation will we go with this time?" asked Harry, "Marsh gas and light of Venus?" It was his go to explanation for everything.

Padma rolled her eyes. "That doesn't have anything to do with wheelie bins," she pointed out. "And how does it explain all the time they've lost?

"I'm pretty sure it explains everything up to and including the mysteries of the heart," Harry said easily.

"Look, whatever, you do your thing I'll do mine," said Padma. "Personally I'm going for aliens."

"Some people just have no imagination," said Harry ruefully as he ambled over the the closest muggle.

"Obliviate!" he said before giving his old reliable excuse. "You lost track of time while looking at some marsh gas that was being hit by light from Venus that bounced off the Moon."

The muggle nodded vaguely while staring into space. Harry wondered for a moment how long he'd been stuck in the bin. Too late to ask now. He moved on to the next.

"Obliviate!" he said to the young woman. "Moon, Venus, marsh gas, etcetera, etcetera, you get the idea."

He glanced back at the still glazed man who may have just lost five years of his life. Perhaps he'd do his good deed for the day. He turned back to the woman.

"Also, don't you think he looks like the strong sensitive type," he said while pointing at the first man.

She had obviously not lost as much time as the man because she came out of the stupor then and gave him a confused look. "What? N-"

"Obliviate! Let me rephrase that. That gentleman beside you looks like the strong sensitive type. You'd like to keep in touch with him," he said firmly. She nodded in the normal fuzzy way of the recently Obliviated.

He worked his way along the line. A few he would offer fashion recommendations, to one overweight muggle he suggested that he really wanted to start a fitness regime. He met Padma near the middle and found her looking at him disapprovingly.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"You know you're not supposed to do that," she said without much fire.

"There's no box for it on the liability forms," said Harry with a shrug. "Therefore it's entirely OK."

"It's not on the liability forms because it's supposed to be common decency," Padma argued.

"I'm doing them a favour!" said Harry positively. "They'll thank me one day. Well, they would, if they ever knew I existed."

"Hmmm."
​

 

A/N: It's not that good and it is quite short, but after my search of fics with this crossover led to lack luster results I had to do something about it: write my own.

Chapter 1​

"The mind of the subject will desperately struggle to create memories where none exist…" ―R. Lutece, Barriers to Trans-Dimensional Travel, 1889.





“I’ll bring you the girl, and you’ll wipe away the debt?”

“Bring us the girl, and wipe away the debt. That is the deal.”

-----​

The rain fell heavily over the sea. The lantern, hanging on the edge of the boat, swung from one side to the other. A storm had been brewing since they started rowing; yet, it brought him calmness. Recently, his thoughts had been nothing but an unpredictable whirlwind of words and fragments, pieces, of past times.

The raindrops furiously falling, soaking him, were a constant. At least, for the moment and that was all that mattered. The couple in front of him kept bickering as if his absence was a given. It was annoying, to be honest.

“Are you just going to sit there?” asked the man.

“As compared to what? Standing?” replied the woman, “coming here was your idea.”

“My idea?” the man said with a palpable sarcastic tone.

“I made it very clear that I don’t believe in the exercise.”

“The rowing?”

“No. I’m quite sure that’s a wonderful exercise.”

“Then what?”

“The entire experiment.”

The argument continued, but he stopped listening. It took all of his willpower to not hurl himself overboard. He closed his eyes. He listened to the rain. Drop after drop hitting the vastness of the sea around him. It didn’t matter he was soaked, or that his glasses’ lenses were covered by raindrops, he could fix that whenever he found refuge ashore.

Ashore. Through the fog, the passenger could see the rotating light of a lighthouse. Was that their destination? Seconds passed before he the people in front of him could not be ignored anymore and had to be interrupted. It felt like they’d been on that boat for decades.

“Excuse me, how much longer?” asked the charcoal black haired passenger. A wooden box was shoved, by one of his 'companions', into his hands. His question unnoticed.

It was a beautiful box. His named was engraved on a golden plaque on top of it. After staring at the name of his old school, engraved under his name, he opened it.

He started looking over the objects inside the box. There were various trinkets: photographs of a girl, Elizabeth, barely old enough to be of age, postcards from London and a city called Columbia, a printed card with the coordinates of London, a rusted key with handle in shape of a thaumatrope depicting a cage and a bird, this precise object brought images to his mind of a battle fought on his younger years. Lastly, at the bottom of the box, rested a tarnished badge, a couple of silver coins and a repeating .38 caliber pistol.

“… there’s no point in asking.”

“And why not? My arms are getting tired of this constant movement,” but the man tightened his grip on the handles and kept on going, giving no sign of getting tired at all.

“Because we’ve already arrived,” said the woman as the rowing boat came to a stop next to an elevated wharf.

To the left of the boat, a ladder. After some awkward moments of silence, in which nothing happened, the passenger realized this was their destination. He climbed the rotten wood as fast as he could, afraid that it would not be able to support his weight or that of his companions after him. As reached shelter on a shack on the pier itself, all he could do was look at the lighthouse. There it was, standing alone, defiantly, in the middle of the storm. It was almost invisible and it did not evoke trust in him.

As he turned around, he could see the boat drifting away, inch by inch. A sudden feeling of dread crept over him and he could do nothing but shout: “Hey! What am I supposed to do now? Is someone meeting me here?”


The stormed was making him experiment that so familiar moment of near deafness.

“I certainly hope so!” shouted the man.

“It definitely looks like a dreadful place to be stranded,” the woman said cheerfully. Her voice was barely a whisper over the sound of wind and thunder. The boat appeared to shimmer and then be swallowed by the waves.

The passenger did not waste any time and walked over the uneven and old planks that lead towards the small piece of land in which the lone lighthouse stood. It was nothing more than a rock in the middle of the sea. Not unlike a building previously known to him, a building which name he couldn't quite place. How was he supposed to get to a city from here? Was there a ferry coming soon?

As he reached land, he realized his suspicions were true. The place was deserted, desolated. There was nothing but rocks and the lighthouse. Or so he thought. A little bit to the right, just out of the corner of his eyes, steps could be seen. Steps that curled around the old lighthouse and, perhaps, led to an entrance.

He followed the path and found an old, wooden door. There was a note pinned to it. The rain had stained the paper with the red ink it was written on. It read:




Potter,

Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt.

This is your last chance.




Harry Potter sighed. He tried to open the door but it appeared to be locked. He could do nothing but groan. Was this a trap? With a flick of his right wrist, a wand made of elder wood materialized from the slip of his jacket. Harry tightly gripped the handle and knocked on the door as he yelled at the top of his voice: “Hello?! Is anybody there? I’m Harry Potter! I’m here for the girl!”

He waited a couple of seconds, but no answer came. Harry took a step back and pointed his wand to the door and whispered: “Alohomora.” The rain splashed his face.

Harry opened the door and prepared for the worse, nothing happened though. Not sure whether to take it as a good or a bad sign, Harry Potter walked into the lighthouse wand at the ready.