That was awesome. I think you just wrote the best Harry/Daphne I've ever read. I'm just sitting here trying to imagine what those two visiting the blood traitors must be like.

On a side note, if you are worried about font and color, there is a button for removing text formatting and setting it to the default. You can just highlight the text and click the button to set it to the default font/size. The button is located right next to the font.

 

The Gomez/Morticia Addams bit was spot on for a crack fic.

Don't really see the other part working as a carrying it plot wise.

 

Out of thumbs

Still, very well done. I thought the Daphne stuff was going to be laid on too thick, at first, but you made it work.

 

Well that was simply fantastic, Rep.

 

Harry Potter/Marvel Cinematic Universe

~*~*~​

Phil didn’t resist as the mercenaries pulled him out of the SUV. It would’ve been useless and earned him an unnecessary blow. He took the opportunity to look around as he was frogmarched in the fading light from the SUV to a small brick building with a steel door.

Two hundred metres away, surrounded by a split log fence, there was a three storey house and horse pen. Beyond them he could see two barns. A single dirt road ran through the farm, coming from the trees that bordered the cleared land.

The steel door opened before Phil and his escort reached it and he was hustled into an interrogation room. The mercenaries forced into a chair on one side of the table, cutting his plastic restraints and replacing them with handcuffs that were attached to the table. Phil felt himself slide forward on the chair. Its front legs had been shortened and the seat polished to make it impossible for him to maintain anything like a comfortable posture.

Dietrich McKinnon took the seat opposite him while the mercenaries stepped outside. They’d remain close, ready to apply physical pressure as needed, but McKinnon was smart enough to know that he needed to be able to escalate to that rather than start off there.

“You are Peter Cambridge, an accountant working in SHIELD’s Support Directorate. A month ago you were charged with tracing a series unauthorised withdrawals from a covert operations account. Six days ago you contacted me and demanded three million dollars to stay quiet about my role in said withdrawals. I’ve responded by having you kidnapped. I assume you’ve taken precautions against this eventuality?” McKinnon spoke with the cut-glass vowels of an upper class Englishman. His expression was still and his eyes were watchful.

Phil waited a beat before answering. “Several actually,” he replied. “I’m not sure how long has passed since your men kidnapped me but before I contacted you I arranged for several letters to be delivered to Counterintelligence a week from the day I contacted you. I also organised an automated email that will go to Counterintelligence, my Head of Division, the Deputy Director of Support and several other individuals. It seemed wise.”

“It was,” McKinnon allowed. “I’ve arranged this meeting to decide whether I can trust you to keep your word and not try to extort me further or whether I should just kill you and disappear. Killing you will cause me a great deal of inconvenience and I have no wish to be hunted by SHIELD but I am prepared for such an eventuality. So, Mr Cambridge, why should I trust you?”

Phil had prepared for such a question, had prepared for the entire kidnapping. It was all part of the plan. “I have everything to gain by staying quiet and everything to lose by talking. Even if I came clean now, I’d lose everything and quite possibly be charged for colluding with you. You can trust me because I haven’t given you a reason not to.”

“Other than blackmailing me, you mean,”

“Says the embezzler and kidnapper,” Phil countered.

“Touché.” McKinnon didn’t quite smile but he dipped his head in acknowledgement of Phil’s point. “I dislike the idea of a relationship based on mutual distrust and suspicion. We must overcome that, especially if you are to help me.”

“Help you?”

“For three million dollars I expect you not just to stay silent about what you’ve discovered but to actively assist me in concealing future discrepancies. I hope you didn’t have any intention of retiring unexpectedly? That would be unwise. Counterintelligence takes an interest in such things.”
“I had planned to work for a while longer while searching for a private sector job. From there I had planned to fully retire within the next eighteen months provided my investments paid off. I thought that that would be sufficient to keep Counterintelligence from detecting anything untoward.”

“For three million dollars I expect you to remain at SHIELD for eighteen months. This will, of course, delay your retirement but a delayed retirement is better than the alternative.” McKinnon rose from his seat, drawing a cuff key from his pocket. “There are duties that I must attend to. I will return to continue our discussion in three hours. Until then you will remain in this room. Feel free to change seats.”

He unlocked the cuffs and left the room, leaving Phil rubbing his aching wrists. Phil moved around the table and settled in McKinnon’s empty seat, shifting it so he could watch the door.

~*~*~​

Natasha opened the interrogation room door an hour and a half after McKinnon left, giving Phil a glimpse of the starry night sky as she slipped inside. The two mercenaries who were guarding it were slumped on the ground, each with an arrow through their heart. She offered Phil a gear bag and stood guard while he doffed his suit jacket, replacing it with a bulletproof vest and armed himself with the Glock and MP5K that were also in the bag.

“Hawkeye, Taxman. Comms check,” Phil said as he adjusted the earpiece of his short range communications set. Taxman was his call-sign for the mission, an obvious play on his current cover as an accountant.

“Taxman, Hawkeye. I’m reading you loud and clear.”

“Copy that.” To Natasha Phil asked, “How long until the assault team gets here?”

“They’ve been redirected,” she said. “Our orders are to extract you and establish a surveillance post. A new tactical team’s en-route from Sao Paulo, ETA ten hours. They’ll secure the area when they arrive. SHIELD will sweep McKinnon up in the future.” Once McKinnon realised that Phil was gone he’d disappear. “The Director’s given you operational control and permission to order an assault now if you think it’s feasible.”

Phil nodded. That sounded like Director Fury.

“Intel,” he demanded. “What’s the enemy’s strength and disposition? What’s our location?” Phil had been kidnapped from Washington D.C. on a Friday afternoon as he returned to his cover’s apartment. A fast acting sedative had been administered to him in the street and the last thing he remembered before up on the floor of the SUV was being manhandled into a waiting car. It had been a very smooth operation. Under other circumstances he might have considered using the team responsible as a deniable asset.

Natasha and Barton had been charged with shadowing him to McKinnon’s hideout. They had kept him in sight as long as possible and then followed him using a GPS device that had been surgically implanted in his thigh. The original plan had called for them to locate and assess the base, reporting the intelligence back to the D.C. based strike team. They would then infiltrate the base and secure Coulson while the strike team secured the base and McKinnon. Once he was in custody they could figure out what McKinnon, a veteran of SHIELD’s Research and Development Division currently on long service leave, was doing with ninety million dollars of SHIELD’s funding and several expensive pieces of lab equipment that had turned up missing when an audit was conducted after the embezzlement had been traced.

Plans change, Phil thought. Good agents adapted or died.

“We’re in Montana,” Barton replied. With just the three of them he abandoned proper radio protocol. “I’ve got eight heat signatures in the main house. Two are on guard, the others are inside.”

Without a floorplan we’ll be going in blind, Phil thought. That was never fun. He hadn’t enjoyed it in the Rangers and seven years with SHIELD hadn’t changed his opinion. Reminding himself that his backup was two of the deadliest close quarters fighters he’d ever seen or heard of consoled him somewhat.

“Hawkeye, alert Headquarters that we’re taking the house. I want McKinnon alive if possible. Hawkeye, can you eliminate both of the guards?”
It wasn’t just a matter of killing the guards – Hawkeye could do that in his sleep – but killing them without alerting anyone else.

“Simple.” Hawkeye knew exactly what Phil was asking.

“Black Widow and I will conduct the breach while you maintain the perimeter and track targets.” Using an infrared sight Barton could track the enemies’ heat signatures and direct Phil and Natasha towards them. “Where are the inside targets currently located?”

“Two are on the third floor – their position suggests that they’re sleeping. One’s showering on the second floor. The other three are watching TV on the first floor. Their backs are to the front door.”

“Understood,” Phil said. “We’ll use the front door, I’ll lead. Hawkeye, we’ll move when the guards are down.”

Phil counted five heartbeats before Barton replied, “The guards are down. I’ve got you covered.”

Phil and Natasha moved quickly, leaving the interrogation room and advancing towards the main house at a run. They walked the last twenty metres, moving cautiously to avoid the light that spilled from the open blinds, but were soon in place against the wall next to the door. Natasha’s breaching charge blew the lock inward, sending shrapnel into the room.
Phil pushed through the door, the MP5K held high. The mercenaries were good, their reaction times barely half a second behind Phil and Natasha’s.
Half a second was a lifetime in combat.

Phil killed one man as he came through the door, shooting him in the back before he consciously realised something was wrong. Natasha got the next one. He was a big man, broad and powerful. She hit him with a three round Mozambique Drill – two rounds in the chest and one in the head. He slumped dead in his chair.

The third man threw himself from the couch, reaching for an M4 that was lying on the coffee table. He got a hand on it before Phil killed him.

“First floor’s clear,” Natasha said. She holstered her compact Glock and picked up a second M4 that was resting next to the big man’s chair. With practiced efficiency she checked that the magazine was full, that there was a round chambered and that the safety was off. “Hawkeye, did we wake the house?”

“The sleepers are up but the one in the shower hasn’t moved. The sleepers will reach him in thirty seconds top.”

“That’s McKinnon,” Phil guessed. “He’ll have his own room.”

“I’ll lead this time,” Natasha said. She stepped out of the lounge, the M4’s stock tight against her shoulder.

A hallway connected the lounge room to the kitchen. Just before the kitchen there was an alcove with a staircase. A staircase that led up and down.

“Hawkeye, we’ve got a staircase heading down,” Natasha reported.

“Basement?”

“Natasha, take upstairs,” Phil ordered. He had no qualms about ordering her against two, possibly three, armed men. “I’ll check downstairs. Hawkeye, move in and standby to provide support.” The archer would move into the house and hold position in the lounge, ready to move to help Phil or Natasha or chase down anyone who tried to run.

“On my way.”

Natasha and Phil traded a quick look and then lost sight of each other. Phil moved fast down the spiral staircase, eager to escape its narrow confines. Ten thousand hours of tactical training and hard won real world experience screamed at him, told him that he was being an idiot. The correct procedure would have been to conduct an electronic recon of the staircase and then toss flashbangs down ahead of half a dozen very well armed and armoured tactical officers.

Unfortunately, field conditions weren’t always ideal.

He hit the bottom of the stairs and took in the area in a half second glance. It was a large, open plan area. Part of it had been set up as a lab of some kind. McKinnon was sitting at a workstation typing on a keyboard. His eyes widened at the sight of Phil standing there.

“Hands in the air!” Phil barked.

McKinnon complied mutely, his expression distraught. Phil advanced on him, looking for something he could use to tie him up. He stopped before he reached him, staring with wide eyes at a camp bed that had been hidden by an x-ray bed.

It was occupied by a little boy, maybe two years old. He had a shock of black hair and green eyes that stared at Phil. The agent wondered if he was imagining the apprehension in them. There was a Band-Aid on his arm where blood had been drawn.

Phil took a longer look around the room. There were printouts in Cyrillic pinned to a board. Phil’s written Russian was spotty, though he spoke he had reasonable verbal fluency, but he recognised the words ‘Red Room’ in the title of several of them.

“Natasha, are you clear?”

“All clear but I don’t have McKinnon.”

“I’ve got him downstairs. I need you down here. Hawkeye, call Headquarters. We have McKinnon in custody and need prisoner transport for him and transport for a child, maybe two years old.” There was a brief pause as the operatives digested that before they signalled their understanding.

Phil raised the MP5K, his finger tightening on the trigger. “I strongly suggest that you start talking,” he said, “before Black Widow starts asking questions.”

McKinnon did just that. He was almost eager to tell his story. By the end of it Phil would reach three conclusions; McKinnon was a fanatic, he needed to talk to Strange and the boy was never going back to Britain, not if he had any say in the matter.

 

A young Harry Potter gets kidnapped and SHIELD rescues him must be the most common trope for this xover. It would make me instantly close the story and move on.

 

Here's a What If for you: Stephen Strange raised by Albus Dumbledore.

EDIT: Derp.

 

Victor Strange is all about power from ancient gods and mystical doodads of plot convenience so him being taught by Dumbledore would rather fundamentally change the character.

 

Y'all talking about Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme or Victor Von Doom?

(oh, I guess Dr. Strange's dead brother might qualify, but he was... y'know... dead first before becoming Baron Blood or whatever and HP magic doesn't allow for resurrections)

 

Oops I was talking about Stephen. The name Strange just makes me think of Doctor Strange. I don't know anything about Victor. Who according to google was a Vampire...

 

My derp, I apologize.

 

I completely agree. However I wrote this (probably about 3-4yrs ago) and figured I may as well post it. Personally I'd like to see an older Harry (maybe a veteran auror) interact with the Avengers.

 

It must be mentioned that Republic is a god among men and his help was invaluable.

Core of the Issue​

This was going to be the end, Harry knew it. Voldemort would kill him and destroy a piece of his own soul in the process.

As he stood before the Dark Lord, Harry Potter was ready to die.

"The Boy Who Lived," said Voldemort, “come to die.”

Before Harry could respond with anything, the killing curse was already cast and he saw a flash of green light.

Then it all went wrong.

Instead of ending it all right then and there, the curse turned into green flames. Oddly reminiscent of Floo powder fire, they grew in size quickly enough to capture both him and Voldemort before they could do anything about it.

Harry felt a surprisingly pleasant warmth before everything disappeared.

---

Harry Potter struggled against the ropes binding him to the tombstone. It was useless. He was powerless without his wand. Peter had done his job well.

“No,” the boy thought, “Not Peter. He will always be Wormtail to me.”

But as Harry thought this, a pale man emerged from the cauldron, and was immediately offered a robe by Wormtail upon demand.

“Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived,” said Voldemort, the Dark Lord. His body was pale as a corpse, missing hair and apparently a nose, but otherwise perfectly proportioned. His eyes were a deep red.

“Let us see who is still loyal.”

He watched in horror as the killer of his parents pressed a long, white finger to the mark on Pettigrew's arm.

And then Harry felt pain in his scar, as he always did when Voldemort was nearby.

The Dark Lord seemed to wait for something. He ignored Harry for the moment and stared around the graveyard, muttering.

Soon enough, however, he turned his attention to Harry.

"It feels great to finally have access to my core again. To finally be able to use magic, instead of relying on weaklings," he turned to Wormtail as he said that last part.

Eventually, figures with dark robes started appearing around them.

Death Eaters, Voldemort's loyal servants. Murderers.

"My friends... How long-" but Harry didn't find out what the Dark Lord wanted to say, for in that exact moment there was an explosion.

A huge green fireball appeared above them, though Harry had not seen who cast it, or if it was cast by anyone at all.

Two burning objects fell from the flames to the ground and then all the fire disappeared.

The objects turned out to be people, but they were people Harry would never expect to arrive.

The Dark Lord was already pointing his wand at the uninvited guests, though he, too, appeared confused.

The two people turned out to be Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter.

---

Upon recognizing where he landed, Harry did not pause to think and immediately sprung to action. He cast a disarming charm at Voldemort (the one he did not arrive with) and sped towards what could only be his younger version.

Of course, his action was not ignored. Voldemort from the past easily deflected Harry's spell, but was already approached by the new Dark Lord.

And that Voldemort no longer focused on Harry.

"I can sense something wrong about you," the older Voldemort said to his counterpart.

Meanwhile, the Death Eaters were too shocked to react. They did not dare intervene, not knowing what was going on with two Dark Lords present.

Harry used this to his advantage. He reached his younger version, untied him and ran towards Cedric's body, all but dragging young Harry with him

This seemed to shake the younger Voldemort from his shock.

"STOP HIM, NOW!" he shouted to the Death Eaters, but they were too late, older Harry was already summoning the TriWizard cup and when it reached him, he and the other Harry vanished.

The older Voldemort laughed at this.

"It seems your prize has escaped you," he said to his younger version.

The other one said nothing but instead quickly cast the killing curse.

The duel began.

---

Before they reached their destination, Harry already knew where they would land. He would see the spectators of the Third Task, expecting a winner.

As they landed, Harry quickly pointed his wand at the sky and sent out several red sparks, high enough to be seen by all.

And he began shouting: “Dumbledore! I need to see Professor Dumbledore!”

The old headmaster was still alive, he'd know what to do.

It turned out that calling for him was unnecessary, because Dumbledore was already running towards him with a wand ready in his arm.

"Harry? What has happened?" he questioned the younger boy, though he looked at them both.

But there was no time for this, lives were at stake.

The older Harry replied instead.

"Sir, I'm from the future. I arrived here moments ago along with Voldemort."

The younger Harry nodded his head at this.

"It's true, sir! They appeared in a flash of light just as Voldemort returned!"

Albus' face went ashen at this. He ignored a sobbing Amos Diggory clutching Cedric's body.

"Two of them," Dumbledore said quietly and the older Harry noticed the Headmaster seemed very tired at that moment.

---

Barty Crouch Jr. was sitting in a chair, bound with thick ropes and watched over two Aurors.

"This is madness, Dumbledore! You-Know-Who returned? Two of them? And time travel on such a scale? This is some kind of a joke," said Fudge, pacing around Dumbledore’s office.

"Cornelius, you heard it from Barty himself. He admitted that Lord Voldemort has returned," said Albus calmly.

"He's clearly mad, he is," Fudge muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

Both Harrys were there too, the older one standing near a window, watching through it for any additional trouble, while the younger one sat in a chair quietly with Cedric's death still heavy on him.

And then the young Harry fell over, clutching his suddenly bleeding scar and letting out an unearthly scream. Dumbledore's reaction was fast as lightning; he was near the boy and casting a complicated spell in seconds.

It lasted at least a minute. The boy was thrashing around and screaming like a tormented soul, with Fudge looking more and more horrified.

The older Harry didn't know what to do, this wasn't something he had expected. None of it was.

---

The weakling was dead. There could be only one Voldemort alive.

It was clear to him now. There was no time travel involved, he was not in the past.

He already suspected it upon arriving, when he sensed something off about his supposedly younger counterpart.

Wizards in this reality, for an another reality it surely was, were weak. Very weak, in fact.

Voldemort noticed it during the duel itself, when his opponent cast very few spells and seemed to become more and more tired as the fight went on.

This seemed almost absurd, but it had to be true. His enemy has run out of magic. What an irrational idea.

The Dark Lord looked around and saw that the Death Eaters were still here. Some of them, at least. Good, he needed some answers.

"My friends. I'll ask you some simple questions, which I expect to be answered," he spoke softly, but it was clear to anyone involved that he was not to be denied.

Lucius Malfoy stepped forward first.

"Anything, my lord," he spoke humbly. Voldemort snorted, Malfoys proved to be a disappointment in his reality.

"Tell me, Lucius, is it possible to run out of magic?" he asked slowly.

Malfoy seemed confused at the question, but answered nonetheless, "Yes, my lord."

Voldemort nodded, "can you tell me why?"

"Because every witch and wizard has a magical core which stores the amount of magic they may cast," Lucius was speaking with uncertainty. Was the Dark Lord playing with them?

Voldemort's face took on a sneer. What a weak and pathetic world he found himself in.

Then, a realization struck him. He looked at the dead body of his counterpart.

He smiled.

"Lucius, prepare for a war you have never imagined to live through."

---

"Take him away from here!" said the Minister and the Aurors took a mad Barty from the room. They could still hear his screams of denial in the corridor for a moment.

Then they all turned to the boy in the chair.

"He's dead?" asked Fudge again.

The younger Harry, still shaking, nodded. "Yes. The future Voldemort killed him, but something was strange about the fight."

"Strange, Harry? Tell us what happened," requested Dumbledore.

"The one from the future, I'm not sure how that's possible, but he wasn't running out of magic. He cast spell after spell and did not seem tired," the young boy was speaking with disbelief in his voice.

The older Harry was the confused one now. Run out of magic? How can one run out of magic? That didn't make any sense.

"Strange indeed," muttered Dumbledore and then turned to the older Harry.

"Mr. Potter, does Voldemort from your time possess such an unusual ability?" he asked Harry.

"Unusual? What's so unusual about it? You can't run out of magic, it's impossible. I've never seen anyone run out of magic." Harry really wasn't sure if this wasn't all a terrible dream.

"Dumbledore, is he right in the head? Don't you teach kids about magical cores at this school?" asked Fudge.

"What the bloody hell are magical cores?!"

The headmaster looked as if he saw a ghost, for it was clear he realized something terrible.

"Mr. Potter, magical cores are the source of a person's magic. They have a certain storage capacity which determines how much magic can a person cast in a given time," short and to the point, but for how unhelpful it was to Harry at that moment.

"And I've brought with me a Voldemort with unlimited magic," said Harry and saw horror on their faces.

---

It had been months since the TriWizard Tournament and a lot has happened since that time.

Harry looked around the meeting room, waiting for Dumbledore to arrive, and he wasn't alone.

The other Harry-or Core Harry, as he called the younger boy- was here as well, having joined the Order at the older Harry's insistence.

Some people Harry recognized from his own reality, like Kingsley Shacklebolt or Hestia Jones. But the addition of Sybill Trelawney was surprising.

When Harry asked Kingsley why she was in the Order, the Auror looked at him funny and said that prophecies could be ripped out of a person's core.

Right, cores. Everything revolved around those damned cores in this world.

The Marauder's Map never showed his name, because it detected magical cores, Homenum Revelio never showed he was around, because it worked the same way.

Dementors ignored Harry, because in this world they sucked out a person's magical core instead of a soul.

And if Harry was underage, even the Trace wouldn't detect him because it worked through magical cores.

None of this really bothered Harry, until he realized that it was the same for Voldemort.

Dumbledore admitted that it was certainly possible that the Fidelius Charm they were hidden under would prove ineffective against this new Dark Lord.

To say that it was disastrous to Order morale would be an understatement.

The door opened and Dumbledore walked in.

Usual greetings ensued, followed by some basic information regarding Death Eaters, until Dumbledore finally held up his hand.

"Friends, allies, I have something to reveal," he announced with a grave voice.

"As you know, thanks to Mr. Potter's information I was able to locate Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes and destroy most of them," here he nodded to Harry.

"However, as I worried, it appears Voldemort does not care about them at all," Dumbledore spoke with disappointment in his voice.

"In Mr. Potter's world, Horcruxes are pieces of a torn soul, ensuring a dark wizard's survival in the face of death," continued Albus.

"But here, they're shards of a torn magical core. They're worthless to Voldemort," he said with finality.

Murmurs started around the room, which were silenced when Dumbledore held up his hand again.

"This is why I have decided to finally duel Voldemort and attempt to kill him myself," he revealed and this time murmurs turned into shouts of protest.

"Please, do not attempt to stop me. It has to be done," he spoke softly.

He then looked to the older Harry.

"Mr. Potter. If I should fail in this fight, you are to lead the Order, as the one who knows this Voldemort best and the one with the best possibility of matching him.This is my final request."

----

Harry sat before them as the new leader of the Order of the Phoenix. While Dumbledore had fought with all his might, he was simply no match for a wizard without a magical core.

After Voldemort defeated Dumbledore, he took this world’s Elder Wand from him and destroyed it, just to make sure Harry would never get it.

All hope seemed lost for them. Harry could not even begin dreaming about defeating the Dark Lord with his limited knowledge of magic. Hunting Horcruxes was pointless too, since they didn’t work for Voldemort anyway. Now that Dumbledore was gone, Harry simply did not know what to do.

The Ministry, Hogwarts, Gringotts, all were under the rule of Death Eaters now.

Even the Order was halved in size, with only a few members remaining. They now sat before him and waited for his orders, for his leadership. But what could he do? Nothing.

Hermione sat near him, she had lost her left arm in one of the many duels she was forced to be involved in. Most of the Weasleys were dead, the very thought making Harry feel ashamed with himself.

Nymphadora Tonks, now with Alastor Moody’s eye replacing one of her own (which made her metamorphmagus skills useless) turned to him.

“Harry, are we truly safe here? We don’t even have a Fidelius to protect us, what do we do now?”

And Harry didn’t know what to say. Should he tell them that there was no hope? That he had no answers? Should he tell them that-

An explosion destroyed the door.

Immediately, there was a pandemonium and someone screamed “Death Eaters!”

Harry jumped into action immediately, though a small voice in the back of his head told him that his effort was meaningless. But that wasn’t entirely true, he still was a wizard without a magical core, he still was a monster on the battlefield, compared to core wizards.

Perhaps this time they would win, he wondered as his curse hit Bellatrix Lestrange right in the face.

But that was a temporary hope, for Voldemort himself entered their hideout. He did not approach Harry for a month now, so this was clearly going to be Harry’s last day alive.

The younger Harry ran closer to him, determined to be involved in his last fight. The older one understood, he would do exactly the same. Either they died together or not at all.

Voldemort did not waste time for talking and cast a killing curse immediately upon seeing them. Harry quickly jumped to save the younger from death, even if it was for a second.

The world went up in green flames and he disappeared, along with Voldemort. The fight stopped.

Death Eaters and Order members alike stared, stunned, at what just happened. The Dark Lord ... gone? Just like that? He attempts to kill the one he arrived with and they both vanish as if they were never there?

Young Harry, now the only Harry around, was the first one to get over his stupor and cast a reductor at Yaxley. He knew, he somehow knew that this time the Order would be victorious. Without Voldemort, Britain could be freed. And perhaps soon the war would be over.

---Epilogue---​

“Bone of the mother, unknowingly given, you will renew your daughter!”

“Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your Mistress!”

“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe!”

The cauldron exploded with a white light, sending a wave of heat alongside it. Harriet Potter struggled against the ropes binding her to the tombstone. It was useless. She was powerless without her wand. Piper had done her job well.

“No,” the girl thought, “not Piper. She will forever be Wormtail to me.”

But as Harriet thought this, a pale woman emerged from the cauldron.

“Harriet Potter, the Girl Who Lived,” said Voldemort, the Dark Lady. She was as beautiful as she was horrible. Perfectly shaped body, perhaps too perfect to be considered natural, with skin as pale as the bones scattered around the graveyard. She was missing hair, but these would grow in time, and her red eyes distracted from that anyway.

Voldemort walked over to Harriet, not even acknowledging Wormtail. She was uncomfortably close.

“Magic is so amazing, don’t you think Harriet? It can kill,” here the Dark Lady looked at Cecilia’s dead body, “but it can also bring back to life, as I just demonstrated.”

Harriet’s eyes narrowed in defiance. “I will never join you, no matter what.”

Voldemort only winked at her. “We will see about that. We will see.”

And then there was an explosion of green fire above them, as two figures appeared out of nowhere.

 

It is known.

 

An attempt at footballer Harry. A fun way to spend thirty minutes, if nothing spectacular.

-

The boys in the park had never invited him to play with them, so it was not the lure of an afternoon's fun that drove the ten year old to the local pitch. It was the smell of fresh, manicured grass on a hot summer's day, and a fear of the punishment he would receive for enjoying himself when he inevitably returned home.

But when he arrived, someone hadn't turned up because he was sick, and Harry, the only fit child in the vacinity, was deemed the replacement. Before he had a chance to deny them -- vociferously explaining that he was entirely without ability, as he had never been allowed to play sports before --

"You have to, Harry," Piers Polkiss said, stepping up beside him. He was wearing blue-striped socks and fairly new cleats, obvious gifts for a London club supporter, though Harry was unaware of the name of the team.

"He can play defense," a gangly boy offered. Harry recognized him as Billy, who he knew a few streets down from Privet Drive, though he was older than Harry and obviously unaware of his existence.

At least Harry wasn't being sneered at, but then he reminded himself it probably wouldn't be long before they were outright laughing at him. He was notoriously shy, so he couldn't imagine himself calling for the ball in any situation, especially with a bunch of older, probably faster and more talented students, so he was already making plans to keep himself out of danger's way when he realized Piers was prattling on, ignorant of Harry's shocked expression.

"That way, since I'm playing destroyer, you won't have to get embarrassed out there." He turned to the kids on the other side of the field and shouted, "We'll take Potter... Harry here."

Well, at least he didn't call me some God-awful nickname...

"C'mon, short stuff!"

No one seemed overly enthused about the addition of Harry, but it was obvious they would rather play with even numbers than argue about it. Harry, on the other hand, balked at being drafted into the game; he had not known that his older cousin's friend would be playing and that made him even more wary. Dudley, brutish boy that he was, usually opted for more dangerous exploits; namely, beating up kids Harry's size in the various alleys around Privet Drive. Piers, however, was not opposed to a little running; after all, he was usually the one who caught Harry when he was 'hunted' by the bullies.

However, Harry didn't think Piers would botch up his own match to hurt Harry's feelings. He had too much pride and too big of an ego.

"You're right-footed, right?" Harry nodded numbly and was pointed to a position to the right side of their defensive three. "No funny stuff," he was told, "just knock it out of bounds if you have to."

The older children whispered tips and tricks to him, but he barely heard them, too busy internally swearing that he wouldn't do anything to embarrass himself. He wasn't as mean as Piers or as tall as Billy, but Harry knew he could win. All he had to do was focus.

As luck would have it, Piers ended up playing in front of their back three, and with his first slide-tackle, he answered Harry's question as to what a 'destroyer' was. Harry took his example as a free ride to clip any players he wanted; of course, the other boys did not take kindly to Harry's tactics, and immediately called foul.

"Hey!" a dark-skinned boy yelped, flailing his arms. He landed in a lump on the ground, and Harry couldn't resist a brief smile when his teammates cheered.

"He got the ball!"

"Fine," the boy growled, getting back to his feet. Play resumed, with Harry slowly finding his own feet.

The ball was passed to him a bit sharply, and sailed past his left foot, but he had enough time to beat the ball to the sideline, saving it from going out of bounds. The boy who Harry had tackled, playing on the left wing, tried a tackle of his own, but Harry clipped it past him at the last possible moment, instinctively jumping as high as he could to avoid the tackle.

"Woah, Harry!" Billy yelled, but the raven-haired boy couldn't look back; he sped down the sideline, following the white line on his right with his eyes even as another boy approached from the center of the field. This time, Harry heard the call from further up the pitch and belted the ball with his right foot, sighing in relief when his accurate pass found Piers' foot.

He laughed along with the rest of the boys when Piers tripped over the ball and fell on his face. Harry heard one of boys' declare that there was a 'sniper' in the bushes, which caused him no end of merriment, though he was careful not to let Piers see him while he cackled.

The game proceeded quickly enough, and before Harry knew it, the boys were taking a short break. He was beckoned over by Piers, who grudgingly told him that he was doing a good job. "Nice pass earlier," he said, looking like it was causing him pain to admit it. "Can't believe I bobbled it."

"It's okay," Harry said, "I'm just glad you guys don't hate me."

"I'm not too sure yet," Piers joked, though Harry noticed he didn't smile. "Keep playing well and I won't say anything to the guys about your funny business--"

It didn't occur to him until later that Piers had just told on Dudley. The boy was spreading rumors around town that even his parents, twisted and malicious as they were, would lose their minds over. When people found out that they were housing a misfit orphan with a penchant for unthinkable feats, there would be a reckoning, and though Harry was too young to understand all of the reprecussions that would come from such a revelation, he knew it was bad business.

At least, the Dursley's said funny business was bad business. But then, if Harry was the source of it, perhaps he could use it for good as well? Not only had he once disappeared when being chased, landing on top of an impossibly tall roof, he had also put on strange bursts of speed that had nothing to do with ability or adrenaline. Perhaps if his body thought he was running from the football players, he could accomplish the same thing?

Piers began speaking to his mates on the other side of the field, and all of the boys' on Harry's team were occupied for the moment, so he began divising some ideas he could try on the pitch. First, he resolved to see how fast he could run in a dead sprint. Then, he'd see how fast he could do it with the ball at his feet.

Once play resumed, Harry began marking one of the opposing players. The dark-skinned boy from earlier had been replaced on the left wing by a marginally faster boy, but Harry felt up to the challenge of defending him. When the brown-haired boy received the ball, attempting to shield Harry from it, Harry bodied him up, using what little strength he had developed from chores and Dursley-related tasks to barge the boy off the ball.

The opposing player over-balanced, having vastly more speed than strength, and Harry was able to easily take the ball off his feet. Thinking quickly, Harry kicked the ball to his left and put on a burst of acceleration. An open man was calling for the ball on the left wing, but he looked upfield instead, the striker running with his hands in the air. In an instant, Harry shifted his body so that his left foot found the ball, and the solid thwack sent it flying in a perfect arc, curling around two stunned midfielders. It landed in the final third of the field, bouncing briefly. The boy who had his arms raised immediately dropped them, now too busy dealing with Harry's chest-level pass.

By good luck, he trapped it, bringing it down very nicely, but before he could launch the ball past the opposing goalkeeper, a defender came sliding into view, nicking the ball out of bounds for a corner. Harry sighed; for a moment, he had believed the boy was going to score, though it hadn't really been a clear cut chance. The boy turned and mimed applauding Harry; he wondered at the gesture, unsure if it was something the boy had seen on the telly. He also pointed at his toes, a clear sign no matter the occasion.

Next time, Harry thought, grinning, I'll play it to his feet.

"Take the corner, Harry!"

Surprised, there were a few agonized calls for him to hurry before he realized they were asking him to take the kick. He had to break into a run, but no one was overly offended by the time he casually toe-poked the ball into the area. There was a groan, until the boys realized that Harry had kicked a brilliant freekick right into the crowd of teammates and Piers, who had jumped at the perfect time, had headed the ball directly into the upright and out of play. A cry of dismay went up from the players, but they turned and trotted back to their positions while the goalie went to retrieve the ball.

"Take the next one too," Piers said, while the others laughed.

The game picked up in intensity the last fifteen minutes or so, perhaps owing to the late hour and a few parents' showing up to pick up their children. "Five more minutes," they cried, knowing that the game would last much longer. Most parents were content to watch, however, as the game really was quite good considering they were just a ragtag group of teenagers.

Piers was the same age as him, but a few of the older kids began to take notice of Harry, and he could tell that it put a bad taste in Piers' mouth, though he did keep that mouth shut for once. Harry was too overcome by the boys' adulation to properly convey his gratitude, but as it became nightfall and he lined up his first ever free kick from just outside the penalty box, he realized he didn't have to.

Concentrating on the space between the goalie's head and the right post, Harry glanced down briefly at the ball, hoping that, if he hit the ball with confidence, he would find his target. The wall in front of him was three men across, but the boy on the right end was a touch shorter than the three; Harry decided to lope the ball right over his left ear, feeling certain that the diminuitive boy wouldn't even jump.

He was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath by the boys, a cry of disappointment from the goalkeeper, and Piers Polkiss' repetitive chant of "Harry, Harry, Harry!"

Dudley will be unbearable now...

 

Not even magic can save Liverpool, mate.

 

This is basically the very very beginning of my (possible) Harry/Fleur vehicle. I was just trying out ideas for the interactions between Fleur and her 'friends'. Also some thoughts on wizarding France. I'm still feeling out the characters at the moment but it's a bit of an experiment in teen girl bitchiness (posting because of all the Harry/Fleur discussion recently).

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Madame Maxime’s voice echoed through the carriage. “We will be arriving at Hogwarts in two hours,” she said from the walls. “Anyone not presentable at that time will be sent back to Beauxbatons by the fastest route.”[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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A sussuration of excited whispers rose all around the carriage as the students started discussing their expectations of Europe’s premier magical school.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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Fleur Delacour did not join in. Instead she rolled her eyes at the childish display before her.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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“I heard it’s a huge castle made of ice,” said Laetitia Cloutier, one of the girls who had attached themselves to Fleur. She was fairly short, had dark hair and eyes and an unfortunate chin that marred an otherwise pretty face. Of all of them she would have been Fleur’s favourite, if she didn’t insist on acting so terribly dim.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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“I have no doubt it will be cold,” Nathalie Duguay scoffed. She was currently the leader of Fleur’s little band of followers and thus took it upon herself to be as dismissive of everything as possible. Always haughty, she was the very picture of what a well bred young lady should aspire to be in the eyes of the French wizarding world. She could flit between scathing arrogance and starry eyed charm in a moment and had a killer instinct when it came to the petty games of one-upmanship that seemed to define a socialite’s life in France.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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Over the years Fleur had come to accept their presence. The seemingly endless cycling of girls in and out of the cadre that dogged her steps in her every waking hour. Nominally they were her friends, and they certainly made a point of hacking out a forced laugh at any joke Fleur made in their presence. There was no much more to it than that though, from Fleur’s point of view.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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They were little more than social vampires. Fleur was unquestionably the most intelligent and the most beautiful person at Beauxbatons and had been for some time. When she had first arrived many whispered that she was obviously using her looks to encourage the teachers to give her improved grades.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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It was never stated outright but most of the girls had thought that she, Fleur Delacour, had to whore herself out to beat them in their classes. It would have been insulting if it wasn’t so pathetic. She had quickly come to the realisation that there was no-one worth her time at Beauxbatons.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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The girls were all small-minded airheads. No doubt perfectly suited to the quiet comfortable life of a kept woman as they spent their lives birthing and raising the children of some wealthy aristocrat. They delighted in their little wars over social status, each jockeying for position with snide comments and cruel whispers.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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Fleur was above them in so very many ways. She did not play their stupid games of status. She had no use for it, she fully intended to leave France as soon as her schooling was up. The stifling climate prevalent in the French wizarding world held no interest for her. It was a holdover from the days of the French Monarchy. Magical France had never participated in the revolution for the simple reason that any competent wizard or witch could live like a king. The result was before her, tittering little birds who were not much good for anything other than some imagined courtly life.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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The boys weren’t much better. They were all entitled morons entirely convinced that the feats of their great great grandfather somehow granted them notoriety. Stuck up peacocks who paraded around Beauxbatons with their pathetic little chests puffed up as if they actually mattered.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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Witless, limp wristed children, all of them. Not a single one among the hundreds at Beauxbatons had shown her that they were anything more. Even the muggleborns were taken in by the pretensions of the wizardborn. In their first year they would come to the school and look in awe upon the opulence of Beauxbatons and, by extension, the entire wizarding world. Soon they would cast off their identity for the pure romance of it all. Fleur found it rather sickening.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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She wanted to do things, she wanted to make a name for herself, she wanted to build a future. She didn’t want to sit back and merely inherit one.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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Of course that was a cause of whispers too. Her father, Sebastian Delacour was not much respected. He was an employee in French magical law enforcement and Fleur was unspeakably proud of him, but he was considered something of a leper socially. The Delacour family had an old and proud name and Fleur was actually pleased that he’d managed to sour it in a single generation.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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He had married, actually married, a half Veela. That alone was enough of a scandal among the petty bourgeoisie but then he also went and got a job. And a common one too. A mere law enforcer, never mind that he loved his job and was extremely skilled at it. Such a plebeian position was no place for the heir of such a distinguished house they said.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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He should be a man of leisure, as all the others were. Feckless idiots, in Fleur’s opinion. Her mother was something else altogether. Apolline Buday had married Sebastian largely in the hope that his respectability would rub off on her and see her admitted to high society functions. It didn’t.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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As a result her mother was surly and often prone to drink to forget her sorrows. The Delacour household when her mother was around was generally tense, as no-one was quite sure what her mood would be.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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Fleur was determined to find something better for herself.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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“And ‘Arry Potter will be there, the English white knight,” said Laetitia with a starry-eyed look.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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“Come Laetitia,” said another of the girls, Aurélie Leclerc. Not including Fleur she was the tallest of the group though she had an unfortunate shapeless willowy build, she was something of an outsider due to her looks and attitude. She tossed her dirty blonde hair over a shoulder. “You are not a child anymore, no matter how much you may wish to act it. He will be an arrogant little English barbarian like all the others.”[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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Valérie Poulain leaned forward. She had black hair, light brown eyes and a scathing wit that even Fleur found amusing at times. “No, the English love their modesty. He’ll merely be a waste of air.”[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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“Whatever happens I think we can be sure there’s little chance of finding a suitable young man while we’re at Hogwarts,” said Nathalie with the air of someone with unrivalled authority. “I for one am grateful I already have Mathieu, it is a pity he could not join us.” She glanced at the other girls, even alighting on Fleur for a moment, as she said it as if to drive home the fact that she was already as good as engaged.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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As if Fleur cared.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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The last of the group, and the quietest, finally spoke up then. “You are so very fortunate to have Mathieu, I know I shall miss my Pierre while we are in England.” She was Élise Couture and was little more than a follower. She had been riding Nathalie’s coattails all through school. She had a pretty face framed in warm auburn hair and had bright blue eyes, she would no doubt make some gutless boy very happy with her simpering words and modest smiles.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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Aurélie did not take the jab laying down. She smiled sweetly. “Of course you are so very lucky to have Mathieu. But are you not worried that he might stray while the object of his love is so very far away?”[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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Before Nathalie had time to form a come-back Fleur decided she had heard quite enough, she knew that an exchange like that between the two rivals could last for a long time indeed. She stood up. “I suggest we all get ready for our arrival at ‘Ogwarts. You would not wish to look anything but your best, of course.”[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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Nathalie looked over to Fleur, annoyance at being kept from rebutting clear in her eyes. “Of course Fleur,” she said with a grateful, and fake, smile. “Perhaps you should too, I am sure they will have heard tales of you even here.”[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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Élise tittered pathetically until Fleur’s gaze washed over her briefly before settling back on Nathalie. “I do not believe it likely, the British have no appreciation for the finer things in life. But I am sure you will simply dazzle them.”[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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With that Fleur swept away leaving the group silent behind her. If they would insist on playing their little games they should expect to get burned every now and then.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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Laetitia swiftly followed after Fleur as she left. Fleur let her follow.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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“Fleur, would you help me with my hair before we arrive? I fear it will be a terrible mess if I do it myself.” The expression on her face was one of genuine worry. “I would not want to embarrass myself in front of ‘Arry Potter, no matter what Aurélie and Valérie say.”[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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Fleur was going to tell her not to bother, it was unlikely the boy would notice anyway. In her experience boys at that age rarely noticed anything above the neckline, an area where Laetitia should have no concerns. The hopeless look on the girl’s face broke her down though.[FONT=&quot][/FONT]
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“Of course Laetitia,” Fleur said with a very nearly genuine smile. “Come we should get started.”[FONT=&quot][/FONT]

 

She's a bit stuck up, if believably so, but I wouldn't have stopped reading if you hadn't stopped writing, so its obviously quite good. You can see she's already aware of Harry's presence at Hogwarts, already determined to fuck off France and suitably aloof to follow what we know of her character in canon.

Very well done, IMO.

 

@Steelbadger, all through reading I was flash-backing to my childhood when my sister would force me to watch teen dramas with her.

I am triggered and offended.

 

Steelbadger

This really isn't fair. It's not like I'm waiting for the next Shadow of Angmar update, or more chapters of that HP/Avengers thing, but now you toss this one out as well.

FUCK!