Always been a fan of a Harry that grow into his own after the war, and I liked the way you handled both the magic sense and combat. It's very fluid with each spell he uses tying into the next one (such as the shield into a kinetic wave) in a way that's rarely done well in the fandom.

 

From a random SI project that never went beyond this after I realized that all I would do in the Potterverse is make things worse.

---


The hat was placed on my head and I braced myself.

"Ah, an adult mind, very difficult," I heard in my mind.

Well, this was expected given the state of things.

"Not very brave, are we? And there's also a lack of curiosity in things that you don't deem particularly entertaining. Not much for friendships either. None of that would matter if only you had a shred of ambition in you... How very difficult indeed."

I was mortified. Not fit for any of the houses? I expected some shortcomings, but this was outright depressing.

"Please, I must go to Slytherin. I need to be there," I begged.

"Are you sure? You won't find happiness there. But I guess you wouldn't find it anywhere. Very well, you'll have to live with SLYTHERIN!"

That last word was shouted to the entire hall and a moderate amount of applause ensued.

I quietly walked to the appropriate table, hoping that I don't draw too much attention to myself.

It was better to be insignificant in the eyes of others. That way they never expect that knife you push in their back.

 

So a while ago I wondered how Harry and Dumbledore might have retrieved the Lestrange Vault Horcrux had Dumbledore survived:

A Stick-Up​

“Alright, short-arses, claws where I can see em!”

The many Goblins working in the main hall of Gringotts looked up with expressions ranging from vague surprise to vitriolic anger. It had been a long time indeed since anyone had tried such an up-front method of robbing the famous bank.

In the centre of the atrium stood two men brandishing wands. One was tall and had a look of wiry strength. He wore dark robes and his face was hidden behind the magically dark shadow of a heavy hood.

It was his companion, though, who drew the eye. He was even taller than the first man, and instead of looking wiry he merely looked thin. He was wearing garish purple robes covered in pinpricks of gold. Every now and then an embroidered unicorn would gallop across the fabric of the garment and leave behind it a broad rainbow wake. His face was also concealed, but in his case it was covered by a large knobbly black sock with small holes cut out at eye height. From beneath the sock flowed a magnificent beard that reached almost to the man’s knees. He was also wearing a floppy and aging pointed hat, and a pair of sky-blue slippers with pom-poms on the pointy toes. Elegant half-moon spectacles had been attached to the sock under the eye-holes with a liberal application of spell-o-tape.

“Yes indeed,” said the taller man. “I believe the term is a ‘stick-up’. This is exciting.”

“What is the meaning of this!” cried one of the senior Goblins while the younger ones reached surreptitiously for their many assorted weapons, either with a different collection of spikey bits.

“Ah ah!” said the taller robber as he gestured idly with his wand hand. “There’s no need to be confrontational, why, we’re only here for one little trinket.”

When he finished speaking a great shout went up from the Goblins, a war-cry not heard in centuries… which was then cut off by puzzled and horrified gasps as each Goblin found themselves bearing a rubber chicken in place of their many and varied weapons.

“Look, it’s bloody simply, right?” said the man in the dark robes. He pointed to one of the nearest Goblins, who was on the edge of tears as he stared at the rubber chicken that had once been the heirloom of his clan. “You, short-stuff. Take us down to the Lestrange Vault.”

The Goblin looked up sharply and let out a piercing scream before charging forward with his teeth and claws bared. That was the sign for the rest of the Goblins in the room to follow suit.

A busy few moments ensued, at the end of which the grand atrium of Gringotts was filled with an unlikely assortment of rubber chickens, turnips, sex toys and confused-looking hedgehogs.

The witches and wizards who’d been present at the bank that morning stared around in incredulity.

“Prof—” began the concerned shorter thief.

“Ah, now, Harry. Remember we agreed to using code names,” interrupted the other.

The shorter robber sighed. “You used my name. And I’m not calling you Grindledore, I said this before. It’s ridiculous.”

“Oh, but therein lies the beauty of it,” said the garish figure as the pair picked their way through the atrium, taking care to avoid the dozen or so angry hedgehogs which tried in vain to chew through their shoes with their tiny little hedgehog teeth. “No-one would ever suspect!”

“Whatever,” said the shorter figure with tired acceptance. “Anyway, now that plan A has been buggered, I hope you have an idea for getting to the Hor... Item?”

“On the contrary, my dear boy,” said the purple-clad figure happily as he bent down to pick up one of the squalling hedgehogs. “I think you’ll find that the magic of Gringotts will work even if the Goblin touching the door is actually a hedgeho— Ow.”

The hedgehog had managed to sink it’s tiny teeth into the man’s finger, he immediately reacted by trying to shake it off, which immediately worked and the small mammal went flying across the atrium to strike one of the still silently watching wizards.

“If that’s the case why, exactly, did you turn them into hedgehogs?” Asked the one probably called Harry. “Why not something without teeth, for example?”

“You misunderstand,” said the one who insisted on being called Grindeldore are both robbers clambered into one of the vault carts. “Only hedgehogs work, it comes down to their extrinsic magical…”

The voices of the two robbers faded quickly after the cart they’d clambered into disappeared into the deep tunnels of Gringotts sub-levels with a loud shout of 'Woop!' from the two robbers.

There was a long moment of silence in the Atrium before one of the Witches who’d been at Gringotts that morning to make a withdrawal spoke: “I wonder who they were?”​

 

That was awesome Steelbadger.

Please, please create a series of shorts about how Harry and Dumbledore would have done the horcrux hunt.

 

Dumbledore's potential for comedic value is vastly underused. This needs to be written.

 

I was looking through my backlog of ideas and ran into some stuff that is probably a long way off seeing the light of day. Many of these are a good few months or even years old so don't expect an especially high quality:

Some bits and pieces from the Harry/Fleur thing I had somewhat planned:

Spoiler

“Mr. Potter!” called Fleur to the boy. “Could I speak with you?”

He turned around, clearly confused as to why she would want to speak to him. His red-headed friend took a brief moment to realise that he was being approached by Fleur Delacour then was forced to wave good-bye to the few still functioning brain-cells he possessed as they were immediately dedicated to whatever childish daydreams boys had when they got that glazed expression.

“Miss, um, Delacour,” said Harry uneasily, clearly lost on how he should address her. Given the purpose of the talk Fleur felt she should take pity on him.

“Please, call me Fleur,” she said before gifting him a small smile. “I wished to apologise to you.”

There was a flicker of understanding there, but he still wasn’t sure. “Apologise? Why?”

“Because it is the right thing, no?” she asked as if it was obvious. “I should not have called you a little boy. I did not mean to insult you, I was just worried for your safety. I think now it is clear that it should have been you that was worried for mine.”

She was laying it on rather thick, but he as both a boy and British, neither qualities giving her much hope of him being quick on the uptake.

“Duh…” said the red-headed boy.

Harry glanced at his friend, perhaps trying to understand what he’d been trying to say. He shrugged and gave up, he turned back to Fleur. “Well, you didn’t need to, but thank you,” he said with sincerity.

Fleur shook her head, “No, I needed to. In fact, I wish to make it up to you.”

“Duhdo…?” supplied the other boy.

Both Fleur and Harry looked at him and waited a moment to see if anything else was forthcoming. When it became clear there was not, they turned back to each-other.

“You don’t need to.”

“But I wish to,” she said and she adopted a sad expression that was definitely not a pout. Only children pouted; Fleur adopted a look of heartfelt sorrow.

Harry ran a hand through his hair and looked at Ron, clearly hoping for some kind of guidance. As the boy had started dribbling very slightly it was clear there would be none.

“Well, um, okay?” he said unsurely.

“You are aware that there is a Yule Ball, yes?” Fleur asked him. Almost immediately he adopted a hunted expression.

“Yeah…?” He was either even slower than she’d imagined, or simply had extremely low self-esteem. Given his performance in the first task it was probably the latter, which played into Fleur’s plans nicely.

“Would you like to join me?” she asked, spelling it out for him.

“You mean, like, together?” There was none of the enthusiasm that Fleur had expected. She was worried for a moment that he might actually decline, a possibility Fleur had thought so improbable that it could be completely discounted. Fortunately the three brain-cells in the head of the red-head chose that moment to join in on the conversation.

“YES,” he half-shouted. “HE’LL GO.”

“Wh— Ron!” Harry turned to his friend and was was about to tell him off but was cut off by Fleur.

“Wonderful!” she cried. “I will meet you by the door of the entrance hall.”

With that she gave him a quick peck on the cheek for good measure and moved swiftly away before he could regain his senses.

Boys were just too easy.

o-o​

“Can’t even get a date, Potter?”

Fleur heard the smug voice as she entered through the great doors of Hogwarts and she looked around to locate it. A blond-haired boy with a pinched face and superior bearing was talking to an annoyed and nervous-looking Harry.

“Sod off, Malfoy!” Harry bit out with text-book eloquence and wit.

“It’s a bit sad really—” began the Malfoy boy and Fleur decided to intercede as it was clear that Harry was much too nervous to come up with any kind of real rebuke.

“Ah, Harry, there you are,” she said, her voice dripping happiness as she swept across the Hall to his side. She linked her arm through his and flashed him a dazzling smile. Then she turned to the other boy and his date and gave them a much more obviously affected smile. “Who are your friends? You simply must introduce me.”

She heard Harry mutter for a moment about definitely not being friends, as if that wasn’t obvious from a mile away, and she thought for a moment that the silly boy wouldn’t do as she’d asked. “Um, Malfoy, Fleur Delacour, my, um, date. Fleur, this is Draco Malfoy.”

“Malfoi?” she asked, deliberately stressing the French, correct, pronunciation of his name. “I am so glad your family has been able to cast off the ignominious past now that they’ve moved to Britain.”

It was ancient history, of course, but there was little the French Wizarding World loved more than living in the past. The Malfoy family choosing to follow a Muggle on a muggle conquest was a scandal of historical proportions. Quite literally, it had been the subject of one of their history essays just last year.

The boy’s eyes flickered over her. This was not the slow, torturous trailing of the sadly delusional would-be player, nor was it the faster, hopeless scrabble to see everything usually deployed by those destined for perpetual virginity. No, this was the pathetic indecisive ramble of one who had never even been aware that such things were even possible. The effect was akin to the reaction she’d expect from a young child who discovered sweets on the same day as being locked into a sweet-shop.

“But you did not introduce me to his… lovely companion.” The pause had been carefully crafted for maximum insult but it seemed to go over the girl’s head.

Harry shot her a look of incredulity; whether in response to her description of the pug-faced girl in front of them of for some other reason, Fleur was unsure. She gave his arm a slight squeeze to prompt him to respond.

“Well, um, this is Pansy Parkinson?” he half-asked, clearly not understanding the game Fleur was playing on his behalf.

“It is very, hmm, how do you say, kind of you?” Fleur mused, once again playing up her accent. “Most in France would not wish to be seen with a Malfoi, you must be very fond of him.”

Neither seemed to have any idea how to respond. The Malfoy boy because his already limited intellect was challenged enough by the mere task of looking at Fleur and the girl because she had gone red and was trying to pull the boy away before further damage could be done.

Harry turned to her, confusion and amazement warring across his features. “How. What just happened?”

Fleur laughed and steered Harry over to where the Hogwarts Deputy-Headmistress was organising the other champions and their partners. “Perhaps I should teach you,” she said with a crafted smile. “Perhaps then you would not be mauled so in the press.”

The boy groaned and looked down. “You saw those then?”

“I think everyone saw them, Harry. Even my baby sister.”

He groaned again and ran a hand through his hair, clearly at a loss for what to say. He was saved by the Deputy-Headmistress.

“There you are, Mr. Potter,” she said. She glanced as Fleur then to where their arms were still linked, she frowned. “And Miss Delacour, it would seem. Are you two attending together?”

“Yes, Madame,” said Fleur smoothly. Then, to curry a bit of favour she added, “In the spirit of International cooperation, I hope that is acceptable?”

The woman could wield a formidable frown, and she pursed her lips. “We had not expected it, but it was not expressly forbidden.” she admitted.

“Magnificent,” said Fleur, magnanimous in victory. “It would be such a pity to be split apart now, it would be embarrassing, really.”

It was clear that the old woman wasn’t believing it for a second, but that was unimportant. What mattered was that Fleur now had an entire evening to get under the skin of the Boy-Who-Lived, and the leader in the Tri-Wizard tournament.

o-o​

“Sorry,” said Harry as he stepped on Fleur’s feet for the third time in as many minutes.

Fleur smiled at him and laughed as good naturedly as she could manage in the circumstances. It became harder to pull off each time. At least he wasn’t heavy.

The bigger problem was that he was, by sheer dint of effort, managing to make them, and by extension her, look equal parts awkward and ridiculous. That just wouldn’t do at all.

“You are a good flyer, yes?” she asked as they continued to stumble across the dance floor.

“Well, yeah, I suppose,” he said, not looking her in the eyes.

“Then imagine I am the quaffle,” she said as if it made perfect sense. Of course it didn’t.

“I play seeker,” he said immediately as they continued on their winding path.

“Ah, so not quaffle,” she said with feigned amusement. “Then imagine I am the Snitch, much more fitting, no? I am, after all, very shy and retiring.”​

My long-ago planned HP/aSoIaF crossover, set partially during Robert's Rebellion (with Harry on the wrong side):

Spoiler

Duskendale was a town besieged and entirely without hope.

Not three months ago Lord Denys Darklyn, Lord and Master of Duskendale and the Dun Fort, had taken His Grace King Aerys II Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, hostage. For months Lord Darklyn had petitioned the King for more rights and lower crown taxes, such as those enjoyed by Rosby, barely a week’s walk from Duskendale on the King’s Landing road.

Those requests had been refused and in a fit of madness Lord Darklyn had attacked the King when he had come to Duskendale. Symon might have thought it folly, but he was a loyal man and had fought beside his lord though he knew his life would be forfeit. Ser Gawain Gaunt of the Kingsguard had fallen by his blade and his treason had been cemented.

And so, surely, had his doom. Duskendale couldn’t stand against the combined might of the seven kingdoms. It couldn’t even stand against the few thousand men of the Crownlands that even now camped under the walls of the town. Worse, those men were led by Tywin Lannister. The only thing holding Tywin’s men back was the presence of the King. Symon had no doubt that Tywin would not hesitate to put the entire garrison to the sword just as soon as the King was released.

Some whispered that Lord Darklyn was ruled in this by his lady wife, captivated by her body and ensnared by Myrish witchcraft. Lady Serala, the Lace Serpent, they whispered, had other designs on the Darklyn name, though just what they were none of the whisperers knew.

Symon had known Lord Darklyn for all his years and had never known his lord to act so incautiously. He had claimed that the realm was ripe to rise up against the occasionally capricious king and place his young heir on the throne. That rebellion had never happened and Lord Darklyn had never even seen the plan through. If the intent was to place Prince Rhaegar on the throne then why not simply kill Aerys and be done with it?

Symon knew he could not see all the tangled threads woven into their fates but he felt that Lord Darklyn still retained his wits. Lady Serala whispered honey in his ear, of that there was no doubt but Lord Darklyn was a strong ruler and a just man. He had the loyalty and love of Duskendale, even in their doubt over the Lady Serala.

It was a stalemate. Lord Darklyn would send a man to stand atop the walls each morning to shout his demands to the host below. No response ever came, and the siege wore on. The town and garrison were both well provisioned after a long and fruitful summer, this state of affairs could continue for many more months to come. But when it did end, Symon knew, his head would no doubt adorn the walls along with the rest of the garrison.

His death was a certainty, all that remained to be decided was if that death would mean anything. Everyone knew the story of the Raynes and what Lord Tywin Lannister had done to that family. Symon suspected that that would be nothing compared to what would be waiting for the Darklyns once the town was finally broken.

“An’ he was carryin’ this!” shouted Kynn as he hefted a ruby studded sword of gold and shimmering silver.

Ser Symon Hollard, master-at-arms of the Dun Fort, had never before seen the like. The pommel, the guard, even the fuller of the blade was encrusted with so many tiny sparkling rubies, more than he thought could exist. The blade itself was long and heavy and seemed to be made of purest white silver rather than steel. The blade shone like liquid, so flawless was its lustre.

The whole business was simply beyond him. Two of the men of the garrison had come to him bearing an unconscious stranger between them. That in itself was enough to arouse more than a little suspicion. Everything else merely made the business entirely confusing.

“Who is he?” asked Hal, “He looks like some coddled high lord, them hands have never seen an honest day’s work I say. ‘Is sword is right pretty too. Probably the son of some rich Westerlord.”

Symon looked at the boy they’d dragged in. They said he’d been found unconscious behind one of the stables, just under the outer walls. He was short, and clad in fine clothes that looked not unlike a septon’s, or perhaps a maester’s.

His hair was coal black and tousled. He might be as young as 14, or as old as 18. His short stature and pale complexion left Symon leaning towards the lower end.

But what was such a young boy doing in Duskendale? He was not of the garrison, that much was obvious. That meant he was an infiltrator, but why send such a green boy into the lion’s den? His dress was hardly subtle and the weapon he’d borne was about as ostentatious as could be.

He turned his attention from the mystery boy to his two subordinates. They were now arguing over the boy’s other possessions.

“Here, look, his underclothes are just as nice as the robes!” Kynn said as he started fingering the fine material. “It’s so soft, like myrish silk, I’ll be.”

“Wot’s this, a stick? Funny patterns on it too, what you reckon Symon?” Hal was turning out the pockets that seemed to line the robe.

Symon peered at the item in question. More than a foot long it was a strange and unwieldy thing to carry in pockets. It had intricate carvings along its length and was as pale as bleached bone. “Weirwood, mayhaps? Some kind of good luck charm?” he suggested.

Hal continued to peer closely that the thing for a while before casting it aside. Next he fished out some green looking parchment and a collection of coins. The coins immediately caught Kynn’s attention.

“That’s more like it, ‘and some of the coin over Hal. Might be we can get ahold of some extra rations with that.

“Ere, these ain’t any money I recognise, right fine working on them though, might be we can still trade ‘em for some food.” He threw one of the coins to Symon. It was a small silver thing not unlike a stag. But the animal on it was a lion, and not a Lannister one either. Peering closer he could see that the lion wore a crown and that was all wrong. Flipping the coin over, he saw an embossed bust. But it wasn’t Aerys, or Aegon or any king of Westeros. It was a woman, no woman had ever sat the Iron Throne.

“Never seen that sigil before, crowned lion? Mayhaps Lord Lannister has decided to give Aerys up as a bad job and take the crown for himself,” Symon said wryly, “No matter, we’ll stick him in the cells until Lord Darklyn can pass judgement.”

Between the three of them they manhandled the boy into the dungeons. Dungeons was a rather grand word for the three barred rooms in one of the castle’s sub-basements, but all castles needed a dungeon. Even if it was a rather meagre one. The Dun Fort's walls were tall and strong, but it was not a large castle.

Just three cells. One housed a gang of three, murderers and rapers. The next held some washerwomen who’d tried to open the Dusk Gate to the host arrayed outside the walls. The final cell held the curled up and bedraggled form of His Grace King Aerys Targaryen, the second of his name.

“Stick him in with His Grace, we can keep a closer eye on him that way,” suggested Hal.

“Aye, don’t want him bein’ murdered before he comes around and it wouldn’t do for him to have more fun than his gaolers.” Kynn eyed the washerwomen’s cell door hungrily.

Symon nodded his assent. “Might be the company will shut His bloody Grace up too, his infernal muttering and shouting starting to get right on my wick.” He pulled out the keys and turned them in the heavy lock adorning the door.

Immediately the ragged figure with shoulder length matted white-silver hair stirred. He didn’t stand, but curled up more tightly and started muttering under his breath. Symon couldn’t make out the words, but from experience it was likely ‘fire and blood’ or similar.

“Ahh, shut up your worship,” spat Hal, “We’ve brought you some company so stop your blubbering.”

The three men dumped the boy’s still unconscious body in the middle of the room and left without another word. Lord Denys would surely want to hear about this. Symon knew the man would certainly appreciate his new sword.​

A short original concept I had for a sci-fi story:

Spoiler

Every morning we awake to a new world. The world; a palace of ice, built anew each night, only to melt and crumble with the coming of day. Spires of crystal weep bitterly as the dull red light of our angry sun washes over the world, calling out to us to awaken from our slumber.

And awaken we do, slowly, lethargically, our bodies warm in the rays of the frustrated and impotent sun. We greet each-other as we rise from our enclosed bed-cots, a new day is dawned and mankind yet lives, here in the frozen reaches of the deepest Black.

The sun is weak, its light barely enough to see our world. Deep red shadows wash across the landscape in an unstoppable tide, an ever present reminder of the shortness of our days.

The world is cold and we are old. For generations beyond reckoning we have lived in these cold halls, lit by the light of a long dead star. With each passing day we lose a little more of what we were. A little more knowledge slips into the Black, a little less wisdom is granted to us.

Endure. That is the mantra, the code by which we exist. We must endure this death, as we are told we endured all others. The death of the stars that once littered the skies of our ancestors, the death of worlds that we once walked upon. Now there is only this one. An impossibly insignificant ice crystal caught in the slow embrace of a guttering ember, the last gasping breaths of life amid a dying universe.

The elders speak of days past, when the sky was awash with colour and when diamonds glittered in the Black. They speak of life in the Black, of humanity with its arms spread wide across the scattered coals of creation.

No longer. Now our life is lived in days alone. Each morning we awaken to a world writhing in the throes of change and a home untouched, renewed always. Each day we endure, we live, we laugh, we love. Each evening we leave signs of our passing that he might see our own mark upon this world of endless change and impossible immutability. The next morning all signs are gone, all who do not go to their beds are lost forever and all signs of the day before are wiped clean. We are born anew into a perfect environment, clean and inhuman.

The walls of our home, our prison, are stark. White and flawless; without mark or blemish. Each morning we find every dent, every imperfection has been swept away by unseen caretakers.

Sometimes there are those who do not join us in our nightly slumber. The itch, it is called. The need to see the Black, the true Black unsullied by the dull, glowering sun. They do not sleep. When all others return to their beds at the appointed time those who listen to the itch stay away. They stand at the windows and await the slow setting of the sun.

Only thrice has it happened in the last five thousand days. Each time it was an elder, each time they said they were giving up their bed for one of the children. Such lies we tell ourselves.

Eight thousand beds, and a little more. That is all there is. ​

The beginnings of a one-shot that was going to be Dumbledore and Grindelwald's duel, as practice for writing combat. Never actually got to the fight:

Spoiler

Two pairs of tired, sad eyes met across a blasted street in East Berlin. Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald, two of the greatest wizards of the age, finally brought into direct confrontation.

The two men struck radically figures. On the one side the much lauded Albus Dumbledore, resplendent in robes of regal purple and fine golden filigree stood strong, but stooped. Resigned to the business of the day. His long auburn hair and beard, now with thin streaks of white and grey, caught the wind and swayed gently, the only movement to be seen on the rubble-strewn street.

Opposite him stood Gellert Grindelwald, saviour or monster. He wore a heavy trench coat of deepest green and twirled his long bone-white wand between his fingers absently. His posture was erect and proud, but there was an air of tiredness around him, as if he’d been awake for far too long. Where Dumbledore radiated an aura of agelessness and serenity, Grindelwald projected youth and power.

Two men, two wizards; so alike, yet so different. Now was the time when the fate of millions would be decided.

Far in the distance the shelling of the muggle war could be heard but here it was quiet. Here it was civilised.

Grindelwald spoke. “Why have you come Albus, why now?” His voice came quiet and pained. “Look around you, look what mankind has wrought. Our guidance is needed now, more than ever. I cannot let you stop this, I will not let you take us back to the dark ages.”

Dumbledore stared across the once proud, now ruined, avenue. Later his friends would say he spoke with all the strength and conviction of a God. Not so, he was just a man. Torn and conflicted, but steadfast in his purpose nonetheless.

“It has failed, Gellert. Whatever happens here, today, the experiment has already failed. How many dead, Gellert? How many children, how many mothers, sons, sisters, brothers? How many have been crushed under the weight of your ambition?” As he spoke his conviction grew. Both men remembered Ariana.

Grindelwald stopped fidgeting with his wand, lowered it to his side. A pained look flashed through his features. “Many. Too many,” he whispered. “Every one a tragedy. But it is for them that I must see this through, if I do not then what am I? If you stop me, they will have died for nought. I will not let that happen Albus.” His voice was stronger now, a hint of steel behind the softly spoken words.

“You can stop this-“

“Enough. If you will not stand aside, then I must make you. I am truly sorry Albus, for Ariana and for what I am about to do.” Grindelwald raised his wand and pointed it at his old friend, unflinching.

Dumbledore shook his head sadly and mirrored the action.

Both legends bowed.
​

 

Loved that snippet of Harry/Fleur. This, I presume, links back to that other stuff you posted last year or so, with Fleur, being somewhat haughty and bitchy, and the other witches of Beauxbatons?

 

HP crossover I was playing with.

Wrong Number​

Harry was alone.

While this statement could be understood in many ways, in this case it meant that he was alone at home. Dursleys were visiting Aunt Marge at the moment because for some mysterious reason she refused to ever come to their house again, and were planning to return tomorrow morning.

This left Harry in a completely empty house which would be great for a normal teenager in a normal family, but didn't mean much to him. Still, he thought hard if there really wasn't anything he could do using this opportunity.

He finally got an idea from Dudley. While the boy could eat anything he wanted, Aunt Petunia always refused his wishes to order a pizza or any other take-out food saying that her homemade version is better. While Dudley didn't disagree aloud, something forbidden usually tasted better than anything else, and he always ordered one when his parents were away, going as far as sharing a slice with Harry to ensure his silence.

But Dudley was visiting his Aunt, hoping to get money for his new boxing gloves and Harry decided that for once he would like to eat more than just a slice.

He found a phone number in his cousin's room.

"Hello! You've reached the Goddess Technical Help Line!" said a voice after a surprising long amount of time.

“Sorry, wrong numb...”

“We will be there in the moment to grant your request.”

“Wait, what?”

Suddenly a beautiful woman exited a mirror in the hall.

“What is your desire?” she asked and smiled.

Harry stared at her for a moment. Then looked behind her at the mirror. Then back at her.

“OK, that's new,” he finally said. “I wonder if mirrors would give me less trouble than fireplaces.”

Harry looked at the girl in his room. She was definitely one of the most beautiful women he ever meet and when she smiled, even a group of Veela couldn't compete with her.

And she kept smiling at him with no trouble or awkwardness despite their prolonged silence.

“So, who are you?” he finally asked.

“Oh dear,” she said. “Forgive me for not introducing myself. I'm a goddess Belldandy. Here's mu card.”

She took out a business card from her pocket and gave it to him.

“We specialize in helping people with your problems and received a request from you by telephone.”

“Help, you say. I suppose I could use a little help, but what exactly do you mean?” he asked.

“We can grant you a wish. However, I must worn you that you only get one wish.”

“A wish? Like with a genie and I can ask for anything at all?”

“Yes, of course” she confirmed. “If you want to be a billionaire we'll take care of it. If you want to destroy the world, we can do that too. Of course we prefer to avoid business with that sort of customer...”

Harry was suddenly glad that there probably wasn't any situation in which Voldemort would ever use a phone, decreasing chances of him getting a wish even further.

“A wish...” He thought.

"It's not a prank," she said as if reading his mind. “And Fred and George, whoever they are, didn't hire me.”

“Riiiiiiighttttt.” As bad as he was with Occlumency there was no chance she could read his mind without him noticing anything. Which means, it was definitely Twins doing. Now that they finished their education nothing stopped them from using magic outside of the school and apparently they decided he will be one of their first targets.

He doubted Twins intentions were to just make fun of him. No, they probably wanted to cheer him up, something he definitely could use right now. He decided to play along for now.

"So, one wish."

"Yes."

"Any wish?"

"Yes," she confirmed.

He thought about it. If he were to believe her there more than few he could ask. Help him defeat Voldemort. Bring back his parent. Bring back Sirious, Cedric... Anyone who was killed by Voldemort or his people.

If he were to believe her. But this was just a joke and there was no need make it depressing. Instead he recalled that last time he saw them twins were teasing him about his love life.

“In that case, I want a goddess like you to be with me forever,” finally said. Belldandy looked a little surprised.

“Yeah, I figured it's ridiculous,” he said turning around. “It was a joke anyway. Maybe something else...”

He heard sound behind him.

“Wha-”

All Harry could think watching the light show that happened, was that the Twins really outdid themselves this time.

Once it was done, Belldandy almost fell, but he managed to catch her.

“Are you fine?”

“I'm sorry,” she said and hurried past him. “I need to use your phone for a moment.”

“Sure...”

“Hello, this is Belldandy,” she said into the phone. “Yes. About the last transfer... It's final? But...”

It appeared that whatever was on the other side ended the conversation.

“Is something wrong?”

“The wish you made has already been accepted into the system. The Almighty said it's too late to change it.”

“Well, if it can't be changed it's alright,” he said surprising himself that he started to believe her. Then again he was quick to accept the existence of magic too. “As far as wishes go, this one is pretty good.”

“I'm glad you aren't disappointed.”

And when he thought this situation couldn't get more complicated he heard a sound of a door being opened downstairs.

“BOY! DO NOT THINK I DIDN'T SEE IT!”

Dursleys were back.

***

Well, that went well, thought Harry as he looked at a closed door of Durseys' house.

He was expecting Vernon to explode as soon as he entered his room, but instead he went silent and when Harry wanted to start explaining, he just raised a hand to stop him.

“I understand,” he said and started to pack Harry's things. “There is a time in man's life when he needs to leave a safety of his house and for you that time just arrived.”

“I- What?”

Too surprised to do anything, he allowed three Dursleys to put all his belongings in his trunk and be escorted outside of their house.

“Here,” said Vernon handing him some money. “I hope we never meet again.”

His aunt said nothing, choosing to hug him instead and Dudley, after ogling Belldandy for a minute, just showed him thumbs up and closed door behind him.

“There is no way that just happened on its own,” said Harry after he managed to snap out of his surprise.

“It's probably the system making sure we're not separated,” explained Belldandy.

“Right,” he said. “Does the system plan to do something about us being homeless?”

“I don't think so,” she said. “But I can do.”

Belldandy raised her hands and once again there was light emitting from her, but much less powerful than before. After a moment she stopped glowing.

“What was that?”

“I performed a prayer for your wellbeing,” she explained. “I should help you find a place to stay.”

“That's nice,” he said. “But I think before we go anywhere we should wait a little. Maybe someone from the Order will show up and help us.”

“The Order?”

“It's a long story,” he said. “Though I suppose we don't have anything better to do anyway.”

He told her about his life. First he started with serious part of it. If she was to stay with him, she should know what dangers she may find herself in.
But Belldandy didn't care for dangers or mad Dark Lords. What she wanted to hear more was about things that made him happy. His friends, Hogwarts, Quidditch.

He talked for a long time before he noticed that despite her best efforts her eyes were closing.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Once we entered the contract my connection to the system was closed and any prayers I perform use my own strength. If a goddess use too much it, her body needs to use alternative source of power to recover it. My is being asleep.”

“Seems natural enough.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “My older sister though drinks alcohol and younger eats candy.”

“To get their energy back? There are people who would love to have an excuse like that,” Harry laughed. “Anyway, we will just wait a little long and then go find a hotel or something. There is no need for us to stay here all night.”

When he looker at her, she was already asleep.

Harry thought about his situation. He was homeless, but as he admired a sleeping face of the girl sitting beside him, he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Hey boya," someone said. Only then Harry noticed that a car stopped near him. A magical taxi.

That was new, he thought.

"Anywhere you need to be?"

"I'm not sure."

"Maybe at least get in unless you want your miss to get all wet soon enough." As soon as he said that the first drops of rain started to fall.

Harry wondered a little. This man was a stranger, yes, but Harry was still close enough to Dursleys that he could feel ward protecting the place and stopping anyone wishing him harm from getting closer. It was something Dumbledore taught him so he would know how far he could safely get away from the house.

"So where do you want to go?" the driver asked when Harry and Belldandy were finally inside.

"Home, I suppose."

"Home it is then," he said and wrote it down in a strange device before Harry could say he doesn't have a home. After a moment a device said, " You are at you destination."

The driver looked back at him, at Belldandy, and back at him and then for unknown to Harry reason winked at him. "Sorry, it does that from time to time."

He hit a device and once again I started calibrating. When it stopped Harry was sure it will repeat its last statement since it obviously considered Dursleys' house to be his home, but then it said something different.

"Please go straight ahead."

"Alright," said the driver.

 

"Why did he have to die for me?" Harry whispers to himself as he looks over the Black Lake, stars glinting in the dark waters.

"Because the world is broken, child," a voice interjects from behind him, causing the fifth-year to spin in sudden alarm, eyes flying wide as he goes for his wand. Then he stops, face flaring in entirely new shades of red as he sees the speaker. An extremely attractive, entirely unclothed woman, though her form seems to be shaped from shining brass. He focuses unintentionally on her...assets,, and quickly jerks his eyes up to meet hers. "How can anything be right, when the makers of the world are imprisoned and broken?"

"It...can't be?" Harry replies, still awkward.

"Indeed," the woman nods approvingly. "There can be no justice in such a world. The innocent will be jailed, the guilty walk free, and evil shall triumph. you are but a boy, condemned by this prophecy to face a man much older than you. A man steeped in wickedness, well trained and armed for battle, with no weapons or training of your own. You have been a puppet all your life, jerked around by the strings of an old man."

"And how is that supposed to change?" Harry's voice is bitter. "I'm going to die, but maybe someone else can take down Voldemort once I'm dead."

"Or perhaps you need not die at all," the woman answers. "Your foe is mighty, but he is only a mortal. And there are powers, that while they cannot interfere, are far mightier than any mortal...they could empower you to crush him like the insect he is. In fact, you need not even strive to contact them...one of them has sent me, to make common cause, Harry Potter. I offer you freedom, power, glory, all your heart might desire. In return, my masters request that you aid them in regaining their freedom. You will not be alone, there are forty-nine others and all the resources we may provide in order to help you. They will be your brothers and sisters, your new comrades," the woman's words are beguiling now as Harry thinks on the idea.

"I can beat Voldemort?" Harry asks, his voice wavering as the wind causes ripples over the lake, focusing on the disruption of the image of the stars.

"You can do far more than that, child. You will defeat him, and then you will shape the world as you please. What I offer will place you outside fate, you will no longer be trapped by prophecy to face this Voldemort if you do not desire to, but if you face him, you will win. Do we have an accord then, Harry Potter?" The woman's voice caresses his name, and Harry nods once, his head almost jerking up and down.

"Yes," Harry speaks, his voice tense, and the woman laughs, then her form disintegrates into a tidal wave of brass that engulfs the wizard.

"Then you shall be Exalted, Chosen of Malfeas, Favored of Gaia."

 

Harry Potter crossover, unfinished at 2000 odd words.



X

Harry Potter, Headmaster of Hogwarts, watched over the Great Hall as it bustled with the merriment of a weekend breakfast. The four tables were no longer a reliable way to judge how many students of a particular House were present; he could spy badges of ties of red, green, yellow and blue scattered all over the Hall. He stole the last rash of bacon while his Professors were distracted by a debate about timetables and tucked in.

“Happy Birthday Grandfather!” a pair of young voices interrupted his meal.

Harry looked up to see two of his brown haired great great grandchildren grinning at him from across the staff table. Second years, Phillip and Gerard.

“Grandpa Hugo said you weren’t in England, or we would have come visit,” Phillip said.

“Where did you go?” Gerard asked.

Harry was cut off by arrival of another grandchild. The gangly redhead clasped a hand on his cousins’ shoulders and winked conspiratorially at the man who had taught him to fly.

“He’ll tell you when you’re older,” the sixth year said, before continuing loudly. “So how was your time at the Veela colony, Grandpa?”

“About as interesting as your detention with Professor Lovegood,” Harry said, looking at him over the top of his glasses. Is there a reason she might have scheduled a meeting with me to talk about it, Ronald?”

Ron’s ears turned bright red, just as his namesake’s used to, and he muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

Harry turned down the table and raised his glass to Athena, the granddaughter of his old friend Luna. Her eyes flicked to Ron, and she winked as she raised her glass in return.

“How old is it this year anyway, Grandpa?” Ron asked, as the twins tittered at his embarrassment. “209? 210?”

“206, don’t get ahead of yourself,” Harry said, scratching at his eternally messy nest of hair. It was mostly white these days, although a few streaks of black held on stubbornly. “Tell your father I want to see him about his latest batch of Wheezes, too. Manuel has already seen me to complain, and for once, I’m inclined to agree with him.”

Ron sighed. “Yes, Headmaster. Come along, goblins,” he said to his cousins.

Phillip scowled, and Gerard spoke for the both of them. “We’re not goblins, Cousin Troll.”

“Sure you’re not,” Ron said as he led them away.

Harry smiled at their antics. His childhood friends might have passed on, but it was always good to see that some of them lived on in their descendants.

The Great Hall darkened suddenly, and Harry looked up in alarm, just in time to see a great dark form pass over Hogwarts’ airspace. Red lightning crackled in its wake, and oily fingers ran down his spine. A hush fell over the Hall and all eyes turned to him.

“Missy,” Harry spoke to the air beside him, and a house elf appeared with a pop. She wore a replica of a Hogwarts school uniform expertly stitched together from old tea towels.

“The Great Harry Potter is calling for Missy?” she asked in a high piping voice.

“Could you please pop outside and tell me if you see anything unusual?”

MIssy saluted smartly and popped away.

“Please return to your breakfasts, students,” Harry said, raising his voice to be heard throughout the Hall. “I would hate for the house elves hard work to go to waste.” He returned his attention to his own plate, his outward appearance a study of ease.

Whatever calm he might have instilled in the student body was shattered when Missy reappeared a moment later, eyes wide and limbs shaking.

“Great Harry Potter Sir!” she shrieked. “There is a Terrible Evil Thing standing in the lake and It looked at Missy and It sawy Missy and--”

“Missy!” Harry barked, stopping the house elf’s panicked words. “Slowly. Tell me what you saw.” He held out his goblet of water to her.

Missy took a shaky gulp. “The Terrible Evil thing in the lake tried to make Missy be a bad house elf!” she squeaked, taking another gulp of water. “It tried to make Missy-make Missy-” she began to shake like a leaf in a hurricane “it tried to make me hurt Great Harry Potter Sir,” she finished in a whisper.

“The Terr-the thing in the lake tried to compel you to hurt me?” Harry asked sharply. The Great Hall was silent, students and teachers alike straining to listen in.

Missy nodded wretchedly. “Missy saw it spit fire at the greenhouses too.”

“You’ve done wonderfully, Missy. Warn the other elves to stay in the kitchens,” Harry said, and Missy disappeared with a pop.

Harry rose to his feet, shedding the persona of friendly old Headmaster. “Professor Malfoy, Professor Lupin, with me,” he said, calling on his two Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers, before turning to his Deputy. “Athena, organise the students. Get them to their dormitories.” As Athena gained the students’ attention with a flurry of exploding colourful bubbles, Harry turned to his Defence Professors.

Tiberius Malfoy was young, but had displayed prodigious talent on the duelling circuit, earning comparisons to Harry’s son Albus, comparisons made easier by the green eyes he had inherited from Harry’s granddaughter. He gave a nod to his elder, wand held in steady fingers.

Antigone Lupin was the daughter of Teddy and Victoire, and close to retirement. Despite her age, there were few wands who would cross her, and any who suspected her of using her Metamorphmagus skills to stave off the effects of age voiced their thoughts well out of earshot.

They fell in behind Harry without a word as he led the way through the Hall, opening the doors with a flick of his wand. They made straight for the Entrance Hall, the main doors swinging open for them as they approached. THey crossed the threshold, and stopped in their tracks.

An enormous metal construct stood in the Black Lake, legs partly submerged. Its scarab like body held what seemed to be a single red eye that pulsed malevolently as it swept around. The greenhouses were a shattered wreck of glass and metal, and flames licked at their remains.

“That is a starship,” Antigone said. “Are the Muggles attacking?” Her tone was incredulous.

“That is no human design,” Tiberius said. “Nor Turian. Batarian perhaps?”

A deep bass horn rang out, reverberating through their skulls. They staggered, their Occlumency shields straining under the unexpected pressure.

“That is no starship,” Harry said grimly. “That thing is alive. He wiped a trail of blood from his nose.

“A living creature of that size?” Antigone asked, doubtful.

The red eye turned on them and flared. Harry reacted instinctively, and a broad silver shield sprang into existence before them. Blistering heat washed over them, Tiberius and Antigone supplementing Harry’s shield with their own. A short eternity later, the attack ceased and they allowed their shields to drop.

Harry took in the melted stonework of the Hogwarts entrance, and his holly wand began to warm in his palm. “Antigone, send a Patronus to the Ministry,” Harry said. “Hogwarts is under attack and we will be using all means at our disposal to defend it.

Tiberius’ heartbeat quickened. He had never met the man who had killed three Dark Lords, only the kindly grandfather. It looked like that was about to change.

Antigone summoned her Patronus and murmured her message to it. A moment later, a silver wolf bounded away.

The metal beast seemed to regard them for a moment, before turning its attention elsewhere - to Hogwarts itself. Its eye, focused on Gryffindor Tower, glowed brightly as it prepared another attack and Harry felt a powerful rush of old hate.

“Avada Kedavra,” the old man said. His forehead and chest radiated pain, and an orb of green absence shot from his wand. It hit the eye of the great metal beast, and the beast stopped. Green lightning crackled over its body.

“Surely not,” Antigone said.

Harry watched the creature grimly. His gut told him it wasn’t done yet. Sure enough, it began to shift in place, as if awaking from a deep slumber. Its eye began to glow dimly.

“Andi, another Patronus. Tell everyone to evacuate to the dungeons,” Harry said. Another silver wolf loped off. “Tiberius, brooms for the two of you. We should not make ourselves easy targets.”

Tiberius summoned a pair of fast brooms, and they arrived just as the creature recovered from the Killing Curse, its attention now focused solely upon them. “Perhaps we should split up?” He suggested, before speeding off across the lake, toes almost brushing its surface.

Antigone tapped herself on the head with her wand and shimmered out of sight, flying off at a slightly more sedate pace than the young Malfoy.

Harry stared at the alien aggressor standing in his pond. Its great bass horn rang out again, pressing at his mind, but this time he was prepared for it. He took a step forward onto scorched earth, his cloak billowing behind him. His next step was onto open air, then another, and another. The wind tugged at his hair as he rose into the sky, flying under his own power.

Tiberius was flying loops around the legs of the beast, trailing something in his wake, and Antigone was nowhere to be seen. While they made their own attempts, Harry opted for a more direct approach. He directed his wand not at the creature, but at the sky above it.

Clouds formed and darkened, centred above the invader. Harry flicked his wand downwards, and lightning boomed forth. It smote the beast upon its body, and a series of smaller bolts rained down after it. Harry blinked the afterimages away as the echoes of thunder died off.

THe beast was completely unaffected. Red fire pulsed from its eye, and Harry strafed to the side to avoid it. The attack continued on to score Hogwarts’ outer wall, leaving blackened and twisted stone in its wake. Parts of a burning hallway were visible through the sundered wall.

Harry turned back to the beast, wand twirling in his fingers. That eye had to go.

The water of the lake began to churn, as if a great mass were shifting beneath it. The disturbance broke the surface directly underneath the metal creature, and Harry shook his head.

Little Andi Lupin dispelled the bubblehead charm around her face as she rose from the lake, standing atop one of its denizens as its tentacles burst up around her. The kraken of the Black Lake had come to the defence of its home. Limbs the thickness of the Whomping Willow twisted around a great metal leg, and it groaned under the strain.

The leg flexed against the constricting tentacles, slowly but surely overpowering the young kraken - and that was only one leg. Antigone began casting hexes and jinxes on the leg; simple schoolyard spells that had no place in a proper duel but were proving effective as the limb found itself unable to respond to the commands of the body.

Tiberius succeeded in whatever task he had set himself, tapping his wand on the object he had trailed and looped around the beast’s legs. “Unbreakable Charm on a rope!” he shouted as he flew past Harry. “That’ll keep it in place while we take care of it!”

The creature attempted to look down, red eye charging in preparation to burn away the annoyance beneath it. It stumbled and almost fell as the simple rope binding it grew tight.

“We cannot bring it down through force,” Harry said, using a messenger spell to ensure he was heard easily by his fellows. “Transfigure its limbs, use its own weight to bring it down.”

Antigone took the advice to heart, and turned her attention to the joint in the leg constricted by the kraken. There was an almighty crack, like a cliff of ice breaking away to fall into the ocean, and shards of stone went flying through the air. The leg became dead weight, the creature rebalancing on its remaining limbs. Andi directed the kraken to retreat back to safety beneath the surface of the lake, its presence made redundant by Malfoy’s trick with the rope.

Harry eyed the creature with concern. Not concern that they would fail to overcome it, but concern at what would happen when they did. With a sigh, he retrieved a golden hourglass from within his robes; a memento from his days as an Unspeakable. He doubted he would be given another one after he destroyed this one too.



X


From there Antigone and Tiberius would keep the Reaper busy while Harry cast a spell of his own creation with the Time Turner to trap the thing in a Moment in time. Next bit would be the aftermath of a defended Hogwarts while they try to figure out what it was, when Antigone's Patronus returned with the message that the Ministry had been wiped off the map when its defences destroyed the Reaper that landed on it, one of hundreds assaulting London, resulting in the death of Harry's last surviving child Lily Luna. HP would then start calling in all the favours he had accumulated in his long life from across the world and taking the fight to the Reapers. As a final scene I'd have Harry meeting with Shepard and Anderson in a Reaper free London as they plan on how best to take the fight to the Reapers in the stars above as magicals and muggles worked together around them, giants helping to clear the city while centaurs patrolled with Alliance marines.

 

/~/

His well-shined shoes click-clacked rhythmically, the only sound besides the ever-present crackling of the torches.

For all of its glory, Hogwarts always seemed, to Harry, most alive during the night. The absence of sunlight cast the halls into stark contrasts. The candle-lit rooms and corridors were filled with enough shadow to amplify the castle’s already rich aura of mystery; the promise of long-forgotten secrets lingered in such shadows, be it a hidden passage or a room not used for centuries. He never knew what he would find concealed behind the next door, or lurking in the next darkened corridor.

He hadn’t been afraid of the dark for a long time.

Harry passed a portrait of a pitched medieval battle, its combatants lounging on various outcroppings, turning a familiar corner and approaching the trademark gargoyle that guarded the headmaster’s office. He paused as he came to rest in front of the stone behemoth, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “You can do this,” he told himself, voice low. Niggling doubt clawed at his mind, regardless, and he let the feelings of powerlessness and unadulterated terror wash over him.

It was an impossible task, attempting to dupe one of the greatest wizards of all time, let alone two of them. He would be found out as assuredly as any other dissenters, imprisoned, and left to die in chains. His family would be dragged down with him, his friends as well, all of their hopes and dreams dying an ignoble death with his failure.

Beginning to tremble as the feelings of impending doom cascaded through his psyche, Harry reoriented himself, taking a deep breath and banishing the debilitating thoughts to the furthest corners of his psyche. That is the worst case scenario, he told himself. “You can do this,” he repeated, voice louder, more sure. Glancing up at the immobile gargoyle, he steadied himself.

“Voldemort,” he stated clearly. The guardian shifted to the side at the overriding password, and Harry strode up the steps to the headmaster’s office. He raised his hand to knock, but was cut off as “Enter,” rang out from the other side of the wooden door.

The door opened on well-oiled hinges, revealing the ever-changing office. As always, the feeling of ambient magic blanketed the room. He breathed it in greedily, eyes closing of their own accord as he cast his mind about the litany of charms and enchantments that were layered about the room. Easiest to identify were the protection wards, heavy and near impregnable as they were, but he could make out a revealing spell anchored on the threshold that would likely render him immobile were he here wearing another’s face. His mind grasped at the feeling of half a dozen other enchantments layered around the room, but couldn’t distinguish one from the next for more than a moment at a time – there were simply too many.

Harry opened his eyes a minute sigh at not being able to distinguish more slipping out, and found the headmaster at the back of his office, half-turned away from him, dark eyes surveying him with a muted emotion that might’ve been amusement on another man. “If you’ve finished trying to untangle my spells, Harry, I believe you and I have much to discuss before our esteemed guest arrives,” he said, voice a familiar, soothing baritone that washed over Harry like a wave.

Harry’s nodded, some of his earlier tension leaving his shoulders as he moved to take a seat in front of the large desk. Even his voice is laced with magic, the raven-haired youth marveled, taking note of his sudden calmness. Smart wizards knew well that words had far more power than most gave them credit for; few enough were able to take advantage of the fact, however.

“Can I offer you a drink?” the headmaster asked, gesturing to a well-stocked tray with a variety of different colored liquors.

“No thank you, headmaster. I’d prefer to have my wits about me given this evening’s…frivolities,” Harry said, lips quirking in a weak facsimile of a smile.

“A wise decision. I do not need to tell you he is not to be underestimated.”

Green eyes almost rolled at the massive understatement. “Of course not. We’ve…” Harry trailed off as something heavy brushed past his right leg. A familiar hissing met his ears as a massive weight slithered its way up the right side of his chair and settled itself in Harry’s lap. The boa folded in upon itself on his legs, coiling up to eye-level with Harry. “Hello, Nagini,” he said, reaching out to pet the snake’s head. Her tongue flickered out in response, and he stuck his own out jokingly, admiring, as he always did, the almost human-esque intelligence behind the snake’s eyes.

“You’ve never mentioned where you found her, headmaster,” Harry said, raising his eyes to meet his professor’s.

Dark eyes gleamed with some hidden humor that Harry didn’t even begin to fathom. “Nagini and I became acquainted when I was travelling in the amazon, after my time at Avalon.”

At the mention of Avalon, Harry felt his mood darken once more. “Any last minute details I need to know?”

The headmaster shook his head, dark hair falling across his forehead. “You are as well prepared as you can be.” Perhaps seeing the momentary doubt that Harry couldn’t help crossing his face, he continued, “You are as gifted a student as has passed through Hogwarts in my tenure here. Perhaps not the cleverest,” he amended, seeing Harry about to object, “But cleverness is not everything, as I’m sure Miss Granger has told you.”

Harry grimaced sheepishly. Hermione had indeed told him more than once over the course of their near seven year friendship; despite his best efforts, she still held him in far too high esteem.

“And, even still –”

“Even still it may not be enough,” the headmaster interjected, eyes flashing. Harry instinctively leaned back as the older man’s sheer presence fell upon the room like a leaden weight. “I will not lie to you, Harry. Yours is a difficult task, perhaps the most difficult for any of us. Rest assured, however, that I would not have given it to you if I did not have the utmost faith in you. Have you ever known me to ask of anybody that which they were not able to give?”

“No, sir,” he responded immediately, feeling himself buoyed, this time not by the magic in the man’s voice, but by the conviction in his words.

The headmaster nodded curtly, rising in a graceful flourish of his midnight robes. He strode to the lone, expansive window at the back of the office that overlooked the grounds. “Have I ever explained why I chose you for this task?”

Harry blinked, confused. Nagini hissed at him irritatedly, and he resumed petting her after a moment. “I always assumed it was because of my parents. You’ve known them, worked with them, since before I was born.”

“That is true, at least partially,” the headmaster stated, back still to Harry. “The bulk of my reasoning is because, despite our vastly different upbringings, I see much of myself when I look at you, Harry. You have a love of magic that goes deeper than most wizards three times your age, and a thirst for knowledge that I highly suspect has not been satisfied by your experiments and wanderings in your years at here.”

Harry kept his face studiously blank as the headmaster turned to regard him once more. He had never expected to keep his extra-curricular activities secret from the man – it had been made explicitly clear early on that the man knew of everything that happened within the castle. He had relied instead on the idea that the headmaster would likely turn a blind eye, the man’s own rather dubious personal history – or at least what little of it his parents knew of it – being what it was.

He quieted the familiar voice that told him his parents would not like the way he used the knowledge they had been careful to impart on him from a young age.

“There’s something driving you,” the older man continued, dark eyes locked on Harry’s green. “And while I may not know what it is, I know what it means. You and I are cut from the same cloth, Harry. We do not fail, no matter the circumstance, no matter the cost.”

Harry had no response, almost entranced as he was by the headmaster’s words. “I…I don’t quite know what to say,” he began, running a hand through his unruly hair.

“Then say nothing, but prepare yourself. He will be here momentarily.”

Harry felt his eyes widen while Nagini quickly slithered off of his lap at some unspoken command. He rose to his feet as a cold spike of fear shocked his system. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and cleared his mind as the fireplace roared to life with green fire.

Albus Dumbledore stepped out, looking as if he had simply strolled from one room to the next, clad in resplendent robes of deep purple. Yellow stars tracked their way across his chest, leaving trails as assuredly as comets in the night’s sky in their wake. A matching, traditional wizard’s hat topped the tall man’s head, and his silver beard hung to his mid-chest before being tied off in a distinguished knot.

Harry couldn’t help staring, despite having heard about the man’s eccentric demeanor. This was the man who, along with Gellert Grindelwald, all but ruled the world?

He glanced about the room in apparent wonderment, blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon glasses as he cast his gaze about the office. “I must say, I quite like what you’ve done with your space, Tom,” Dumbledore said jovially, finally turning to regard the headmaster.

“I seem to recall you saying much the same when you last visited, highmaster,” headmaster Riddle said, a thin, enigmatic smile playing at his lips.

“Quite possibly, yes. A wizard’s prized possessions can speak volumes, of course,” Dumbledore returned. “And let us not stand on ceremony here. I dare say we are fairly well acquainted after all these years, are we not?”

“Indeed, Albus,” Riddle said, smile still affixed. Harry got the distinct impression that the headmaster was displeased with the familiarity, despite his demeanor being exactly the same as it always was – studiously aloof save for precious few situations. “Allow me to introduce Harry Potter,” the headmaster continued, gesturing needlessly at Harry. “Harry, I’m sure you know who Albus Dumbledore is,” he finished, without a whit of sarcasm.

Harry just nodded stiffly as the old man crossed the distance between them with two long steps, hand held out in greeting. “I’ve heard a great many things about you, Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore said, shaking his hand as if he was an old friend.

“Most of them good, I hope,” Harry managed.

“Overwhelmingly, my boy! Why, a Hogwarts student hasn’t been as lauded since young Mr. Riddle himself was making waves. I expect you’ll be right at home when you join us at Avalon, isn’t that right, Tom?”

Riddle shifted his gaze from Dumbledore to Harry. “Undoubtedly. Harry has always been gifted, but truly began to distance himself from his classmates after his OWLs. Avalon’s facilities and student body will suit you much as it did me,” he said, addressing Harry with his last statement.

“I’m definitely looking forward to it, sir,” Harry stated, entirely truthful. “Both headmaster Riddle and my mother have told me their experiences were transformative.”

“Ah, I remember Lily quite well,” Dumbledore said with a smile. “A very talented young witch. And that’s why Avalon was founded, of course: to give exceptional witches and wizards a place to grow and work together for the greater good of our world.”

“But, I won’t bore you further with just words,” the old man said. “You are ready for your tour, Harry?”

Harry nodded, exchanging a glance with the headmaster who dipped his head. “That’s why I’m here, highmaster.”

“Excellent! I will follow your lead, then, young man. Tom, your hospitality is, as always, much appreciated.”

“Of course, Albus.”

Harry stepped past the two legendary wizards to the fireplace, grabbing a pinch of floo powder and stepping into the fireplace. “Avalon!” he intoned confidently, and green flames consumed his form.

/~/

So many ideas. This one harkening back to the Plot Bunny Thread from over a year ago.

Thought about it last night, had an idea for a scene, and wrote it just now.

 

/~/

An irritating siren blared loud enough to startle him for a moment before abruptly ending with the sound of a slap and a crash. A groan immediately followed, and a tiny smile bloomed on his face.

Absent-mindedly taking a sip of his conjured tea, Harry realized it had gone cold. Mind briefly flitting to how, even after an hour, it retained heat better than tea he made the muggle way, he cast a charm to heat the liquid and turned back to the papers scattered haphazardly across his desk. It was a thought for another day.

Even nine years after his formal education had ended, it never failed to amaze Harry how the way in which information was conveyed could so drastically influence the attitude of the person to whom it was being given. It was also a pity that Dumbledore had never actually taught a class during his tenure at Hogwarts; if the man’s notes were any indication, he had been a phenomenal professor. Some of the pages were utterly unintelligible to Harry, his knowledge of magical theory being limited compared his late mentor, but what parts he could understand were clear, concise, and surprisingly easy to grasp at times.

He blew a strand of hair off of his forehead, thinking about intent and imagination, when a small, cold hand brushed the back of his neck and bunched in his hair. “Why the hell are you up?” Ginny all but croaked.

“Who’d be here to make your cuppa if I wasn’t?” Harry returned, conjuring a steaming cup of tea next to his own. It was snatched up immediately.

“I have five-forty-five a.m. practice; I’m supposed to be up before dawn. You don’t have work for another three hours.”

“Maybe I like to be productive with my mornings.”

Ginny huffed, leaning her chin on the top of Harry’s head. “And here I thought I tired you out last night,” she murmured, sounding irritated.

Harry felt a languid smile split his lips, pleasant, fresh memories fluttering through his head. “You can try again tonight, if you’d like.”

A scoff met his words. “Tch. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Potter.” She removed her chin from its perch on his head, soft footfalls carrying her back to where she had dropped her bag the evening before.

“Door’s always open,” Harry quipped over his shoulder, getting only a noncommittal “Mmhmmm” in response. He rolled his eyes at her familiar intransigence. The only time Ginny ever spent more than one night in a row with him was when she was fresh out of a relationship and needed to work out some frustration.

“What’re you even reading this bloody early?” he heard her ask from his bedroom. “Didn’t think you were working on a case.”

“I’m not.” He was, but he wasn’t at liberty to tell her anything about it. “Just some old notes I’ve had lying around for a while.”

“Dumbledore again?” And her tone was exasperated now. “You woke up to read a dead man’s notes from the nineteenth century? Merlin, you’re worse than Hermione these days.”

“Twentieth century, actually!” Harry had finished the parchment from the eighteen hundreds over a year ago, though he occasionally still referred back to it. Some of Dumbledore’s later notes heavily referenced his earlier work.

“I thought you were done with school.”

A snort escaped him. “Doesn’t mean that a little reading here and there isn’t useful. And aurors have continuing education requirements.”

“It’s five in the bloody morning…”

“Five-fifteen now, actually. You should probably hurry.”

“I can leave a minute before and still get there on time, hon,” she said, all deadpan.

Harry quirked an eyebrow. “Why wake up at five, then? You don’t need makeup for practice.”

“True.” And suddenly Ginny’s voice was a whisper in his ear. “Maybe I wanted to wake you up with a surprise, hmmm?”

A second eyebrow joined the first. His hands reached up to wind themselves in fiery hair, all thoughts of intent and imagination gone. “You should’ve said so. I’m good at working with a deadline…”

A breathy laugh tickled his ear, sending pleasant tingles down the back of his neck before, “…nah, you ruined it.” Ginny swept away from him with a flourish, boots click-clacking on the hard wood floor. She grabbed her equipment bag from where she had left it, and made for the door.

Harry sighed, watching her move with a sway in her hips he most certainly wasn’t imagining. “That’s mean, Ginny.” He most certainly wasn’t pouting, either.

“Stay in bed next time,” was all she left him with, opening his front door and disappearing with a crack before it had time to close. Harry was left staring blankly at his door.

He turned to stare down at the familiar, loopy handwriting of his mentor, sighed, and took another sip of his tea. “Can’t win ‘em all,” he muttered, doing his best to banish the mild irritation to the corners of his mind. Nothing to be done about it now.

No sooner had he managed to refocus on the details of the notes than his auror badge began to vibrate on the edge of his desk. He quickly picked it up and the vibrating stopped immediately. A personal summons then.

He rose and made for his bedroom in a smooth motion. “Least I was already up.”

/~/


More on this later.

 

Follows directly from my last post:

/~/

It was early enough that the night shift guards were still on duty when he apparated into the Ministry Atrium ten minutes later. “Morning, boys,” he tossed in the direction of the bleary eyed men as he passed, not remembering either of their names.

A muffled crash sounded behind him as the two men rushed to right themselves from their nearly prone positions. “Auror Potter!” one of them managed to get out. Harry just waved over his shoulder on the way to the lifts, smiling and holding back a chuckle.

Thankfully, the Ministry’s security wasn’t reliant on the attentiveness of two overworked wizards.

“Level two: department of magical law enforcement,” the soothing, disembodied voice spoke as the lift came to rest at Harry’s usual destination. He stepped out and made an immediate left, away from the cluttered cubicles that made up the administrative wing of the DMLE in the direction of the cluttered cubicles that made up the Auror Office down the hall.

Gawain Robards stood silently in the middle of the Auror Office when Harry entered, the older man dressed haphazardly in an assortment of robes ranging from the deep burgundy characteristic of the Aurors to forest green pants that looked rather like pajamas. Harry contained a snort at the head’s dress; Robards, a consummate professional on his worst day, usually rolled into the office at nine.

At least he changed out of his slippers. “Robards,” he called by way of greeting. “You rang?”

The older man turned to him, something like relief playing on his face. “Ah, Potter. Appreciate you coming in on such short notice,” he said, giving Harry a once over and nodding at his immaculate burgundy robes.

“Sir.”

Robards ran a hand through his hair, a twitch Harry had long associated with his boss’ stress. “The Hitwizards have finally pinned down that American we caught wind of two weeks ago. I need you to run point on bringing him in.” He handed Harry a manila folder, the name ROBBINS stamped in bold red ink on the front.

“You’re putting me on Robbins’ case?” Harry asked as he flipped the folder open to read through the case notes, moving over to a nearby cubicle. It was highly irregular for an auror to apprehend a suspect for a case they weren’t working, and Robards, despite Harry’s generally good opinion of the man, was a stickler for protocol.

“ICW representatives are scheduled to be in talks with the minister this morning –”

“Which means the spooks are gonna be in here this afternoon and you don’t want any easily apprehended bad guys running around the country,” Harry finished for him, eyes flickering up from the notes he was speeding through in time to catch Robards having the good grace to look a bit sheepish before the studiously professional demeanor reasserted itself.

Normally he wouldn’t’ve called the man on his politicking – he didn’t much care – but it was five-thirty in the bloody morning; he reserved the right to be cranky even if he had already been up. Good thing Gin didn’t get a chance to “surprise” me this morning. He’d have been rightfully pissed if they’d been interrupted.

“Given the sensitive time-frame, I felt you would be better suited to bringing him in,” Robards said, ignoring Harry’s snark with aplomb.

“That sounds suspiciously like a compliment,” Harry murmured. Though it likely said more about Robbins’ lack of anything resembling efficiency when it came to his cases; he’d never worked personally with the man, but the Ministry gossip machine was nearly as lauded as Hogwarts’ for a reason. “Damien won’t get all pissy with me for stepping on his toes?” Aurors could be notoriously territorial with their cases – Harry knew he didn’t take kindly to others trying to butt into his work.

Robards actually snorted, turning about and walking in the direction of his office, apparently confident that Harry had things well-in-hand. “He’ll probably thank you,” was all he offered before the door shut and the muffled sound of the floo being activated could be heard through the door, and Harry was alone in the deserted room.

The raven haired man just sighed. Normally, being at the office this early meant he’d be able to beg off early, especially if he was all set to bring someone in; nobody was going to tell an auror fresh off an arrest that they had to stay after dealing with the necessary paperwork – magical arrests often went less than smoothly, after all.

But if the ICW had representatives in the Ministry today, which was surprising since he hadn’t been told ahead of Robards’ explanation, then it was liable to be an all hands on deck situation until late in the evening. “Kingsley’s gonna want me to play nice with them too…” he grumbled, shutting the folder and tapping it with his wand. It promptly zipped out of sight around a corner, headed back to Robbins’ desk.

Gonna be a long day, Harry thought, making his way back out of the office.

/~/

 

Just something I had floating around, not sure if I'll continue it.

“You’re excused from class today Tom, Headmaster Dippet wishes to see you.” Albus Dumbledore’s voice floated up at him from the inside of the transfiguration classroom.

Tom Riddle turned on his heel and headed in the direction of the headmaster’s office ignoring the ever present flutter in his stomach at the unexpected news. He centered himself and remembered the basic rules of murder, the more time that passes, the less likely you are to get caught. His uncle’s deaths happened months ago, and it was just as likely his idiot cousin was sitting in prison convinced of his own guilt even now.

The sea of students melted away as he grew closer to Dippet’s office, and he was all too aware of the echo of his footsteps. A slew of practiced lies ran through his head, all of them wound around the simple fact that as far as the world knew, Tom Riddle was muggleborn.

“Tyrannis” he told the gargoyle. He glided up the steps before pausing to knock briefly at the door.
“Enter” an unfamiliar voice said.
An unusual sight greeted him. Polished, sharp headmaster Dippet was scribbling furiously on a scrap of parchment, steadfastly ignoring the social niceties that were the brick and mortar of his day to day.

“Headmaster?” Tom tried.
Dippet stared up at him with blank eyes, then resumed his scribbles.
“I’m afraid professor Dippet is otherwise occupied.” A cool amused voice said.

Tom blinked. A man sat languidly in the chair across from Dippet, staring at Tom the way he always imagined muggle scientist studied their subjects. His salt and pepper hair edged away from being tamed, his crisp black robes bore no insignia. He looked strangely familiar. He wasn’t an Auror, was there something worse?

An impertinent “Who are you?” died on his lips. He gripped his wand tighter. He settled for, “How may I help you?” doing his best to mimic the man’s tone and inflection. It made people more comfortable, those small familiarities. This man was unmoved. His golden eyes continued to bore into Tom as the silence stretched on.

“As you are, you can’t. However, I may be able to help you a great deal Tom Riddle. My name is Charlus Potter, and I’m with the Department of Mysteries. You must understand, I find myself in an unusual position, we never accept applicants straight out of Hogwarts as prodigy rarely holds up against the general population and yet you are a curious case.”

He pulled a sheaf of letters out of his robes that Tom recognizes instantly as his rejection forms to every other ministry official who has come to ply him to their trades. He pulls his face into a mask. Charlus smiles, “Words on paper, meaningless to most, but we’re wizards and to us words are power. Power leaves traces.”

His gaze lingers on the black jewel sitting on Tom’s ring finger. Tom has had enough.
“Excuse me, Sir. But what’s so curious?”
“It’s curious that your magic would carry traces of the foulest magic known to mortals.”

Tom meets his eyes, wand in hand and “Obivliate” on his lips. It is the worst mistake of his life.

He’s dimly aware of falling to his knees and the sound of someone screaming before he is aware of nothing but the cold. This is the abyss, the one that beckoned when he made his first horcrux. This is death. A voice whispers in his ear, “go further”. He resists, and the pain is unthinkable.

When he comes to he’s lying on a stone table in a darkened room. He scrambles around for his wand but of course it’s gone. He tries to sit up but the world won’t stop spinning long enough to let him. He is well and truly trapped. He fights against the urge to retch as the door creaks open and the room is filled with blinding light.

It’s Potter again. He smiles diffidently. “Hello again Tom. Did you have a nice rest?” He’s twirling Tom’s wand around in his fingers. Tom’s magic flared at the insult. He stamps it down. He’s wandless, and he’s already been caught unawares by this man once. Instead, he plays for pity. “What did you do to me?’ He croaks out.
“Nothing worse than what you’ve already done to yourself. It is folly, sheer folly, to create a horcrux Tom.”

 

An idea that I thought would be quite fun and maybe it would be, but confined to one-shot length there's no real meat to it, it's too dialogue heavy, and frankly I think it's too short for the style to have a real chance at working. Meh. I'm posting up to where it petered out.

NOW THAT I'VE DONE A TOP-TIER JOB OF SELLING IT TO YOU...


Summary: Romilda Vane realized she'd been trying to solve the wrong problem; the question wasn't how to get Harry Potter, but when.


“They're my friends,” Harry said coldly.

The gaggle of girls who stood behind her began to skulk away at that, but the dark eyed girl only looked around the compartment, eyes glazing over for a moment in confusion as her mouth formed a tiny 'o'.

She left without a word, fumbling for something within her robes as she did so.

Harry and Neville stopped talking at a knock on the compartment door.

“S'open,” Harry called out, hoping that the prefect's meeting had really been that short.

Instead of Ron or Hermione, however; Harry was met by a small group of girls who looked as if they were trying very hard not to burst into giggles. A small girl with large, bold eyes and dark hair stepped forward, looking to be trying very hard to keep a straight face.

“Hi, I'm Romilda,” she spoke directly to Harry.

“Do you mind if we join you?”

His eyes flickered to Neville and Luna for a fraction of a second, but neither spoke. “Erm, alright.”

Harry had been looking forward to catching up with his two friends, but they both remained silent, Luna behind a copy of The Quibbler and poor Neville trying to shield his Mimbu-whatsit from sight every time one of the girls' so much as looked in his direction. It didn't help that the girl who had led the intrusion kept shooting her friends dirty looks whenever they broke into hushed giggles, while trying to lead Harry in a very painfully stilted conversation.

He was actually relieved when the invitation came that Professor Slughorn was looking for him.

They heard giggles and then the sound of running feet, but when the knock was answered, there was only a single girl at the door.

“Hello,” she said with a small wave with one hand, the other holding the handle of a very pink trunk.

“Do you mind if I join you,” dark eyes moving between Harry and his two friends, before finally settling on Harry and giving him a tiny smile, pulling her hair back behind her ear as she did so.

Harry shrugged. “Okay.”

They sat in silence, Romilda pulling out a copy of Witch Weekly as Neville went back to talking about his plant, until word came that the pair of them had been requested to visit Professor Slughorn.

As the students debarked, Romilda stayed behind until the carriage was empty, then hexed the offending compartment to oblivion, a scream of frustration pouring from her lips.

“Hi, Harry?” Romilda whispered, quietly pulling out the chair next to him and sitting down.
“Romilda,” Harry grunted back.

“How did you do it?”

“Oh, for-! I didn't. I didn't do a bloody thing!”

“That's not what I –”

“Never mind,” Harry said, as he stood up, putting his bag together quickly as he did so. “I'll see you around.”

“Hi Harry,” Romilda called out, though Harry didn't look up from the small mountain of books that sprawled around him.

“I just wanted to tell you that I know you didn't do it, but I believe in you and I want to help you anyway I can.”

“I- oh.” Harry looked up then, staring straight into those dark eyes, confusion marring his features before they melted away, a look of confusion replacing them before he let out a dry laugh and for the first time in twenty-four hours, smiled – faint though it was.

“Thanks. I appreciate it. What?” he asked as she looked away.

She shrugged. “It's a little weird when you looked at me like that,” she said. “You're only fourteen.” She froze for a moment. “Forget I said that.”

Harry snorted. “I knew that, thanks. Dunno what help I'll need, but thanks again.” He reached out and gave her hand a small squeeze.

“Well it's not like you can just go up to a bird and ask her out, is it?” Ron asked, unhelpfully. “I mean – okay Fred did, but it's not like he didn't know Angelina was going to say yes.”

A smirk blossomed on Ron's face. “You should ask Romilda.”

“Actually,” Harry whispered, dragging Ron closer. “Don't say anything but... I thought I'd ask Cho.”

“Oh.” Ron gave that some thought. “Yeah, good choice, that.”

Harry nodded.

Of course, by the time he asked her it was too late. Which was probably for the best, given how the night ended with neither of the Patel twins on speaking terms to the pair of them.

“Harry! There you are,” the first-year girl bounded into the common room, almost tripping over herself to get through the portrait-hole. “Hagrid was looking for you.”

He fought the urge to scream. Two minutes, and he would have been safely under the invisibility cloak, on his way to the statue of the hunchback witch and his golden ticket to Hogsmeade.

“Right um – I'm kinda busy at the moment actually.”

“Oh,” she paused, chewing her lip. “Should I go tell him your busy. He sounded like he really wanted to see you.”

Harry held back his frustration; no doubt Hagrid knew he was being left behind while his mates went to Hogsmeade and was trying to cheer him up. And Hagrid was having a rough year too; he hadn't been as good of a friend as he should have been to the half-giant, he realized.

“No, that's alright,” Harry replied, making sure to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “I'll head down to see him right away.” Ron and Hermione would understand.

“Err... you don't have to come with me,” Harry said when the girl was halfway across the grounds with him.

She shrugged. “I like Hagrid too.” The girl reached out and rubbed Harry's arm, so unexpected it took Harry a moment to realize she was doing it. Before he could pull away she let go, giving him a smile. “C'mon, let's go.” She grabbed his wrist and together she half-pulled and half-ran the rest of the way to the groundskeeper's hut.

“Hagrid was the first person I ever met who was a wizard – he took me to Gringotts my first year.” Harry explained later as he and Romilda walked along the lake, each holding a piping hot chocolate courtesy of Dobby.

“What's it like, growing up with Muggles?”

Harry's face clouded over at that. “Boring, really.” Voice nonchalant.

“Don't worry about it,” Romilda replied, waving it off. “Give me a second,” she said, fiddling with her robes.

“He took me to Gringotts my first year.”

“So when did you meet Ron and Hermione?”

Harry's face brightened at that. “The Hogwarts Express. Of course, Ron and I didn't really become friends with Hermione until Halloween...”

“We um... we snogged.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at that.

“Really? Good on you, mate! How was it?”

Harry frowned at that, thinking it over. “Wet.”

“Wet?”

“Well, at first she was asking about Cedr- oh, hi Romilda.”

“Hi Harry. Thanks for the lesson again today. So, what were you talking about?”

“Hello. Can I sit here?”

Harry looked up at the tiny girl that he'd never seen before. Must be a first year.

“Come in,” Hermione replied, scooting over to make room for the girl. They must look quite a sight, all four of them scrunched up on a single bench across from the sleeping man who looked more like he were homeless than a professor.

“Are you worried about the sorting?” Hermione asked with her usual tact. “You shouldn't be – all four houses have a long and honorable history.”

Ron snorted at that. “Except Slytherin, bunch of rotten snakes.”

“Ron! Well... you'll do fine,” Hermione said, giving the girl an awkward smile.

“I'm not worried about that,” the girl replied. “I'm sure I'll be put into Gryffindor. I can feel it.” She had paused as if thinking whether to continue talking, then shrugged, fingers tapping her pocket. “I'm just not sure what I'm going to do next.”

Harry was fairly certain the girl introduced herself around that time, but all he really remembered from that part of the journey were his mother's screams and a flash of pale green light.

Later, after Harry was released from Madam Pomphrey's care, Hermione told him that for the first time in the three sortings she'd attended, the hat had spent starting laughing uncontrollably when placed upon a head.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Harry looked up from where he had been doing his best to look interested in Neville's magical cactus thing. “Sure, hello”

“Hi. I'm Romilda Vane. Fourth year.”

Harry nodded, then frowned for a second. “I know you, don't I? You sat with us on the train, me, Ron, and Hermione.”

“Yes. And Professor Lupin.”

“You're a Slytherin.”

He hadn't meant to make it sound so accusing, to be honest. It had just slipped out. It was a relief when he and Neville were invited to join Professor Slughorn.

Harry tensed as the Slytherin girl sat down beside him. He was trying to frantically figure out spells he needed to learn, but he'd learned after three years that it was always worth keeping one eye on a Slytherin when they were around.

“I'm sorry my housemates are so horrid,” she said without preamble. That wasn't what he'd been expecting. “Well – not all of them. But the ones that make a habit of making themselves known to you.” She shrugged. “I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he said at last, going back to the books.

She stood up, accepting his dismissal, but not without a final word.

“Harry. Um, Potter? The first task? It's dragons.”

“Mate, don't you think you're getting a little too... I dunno, comfy around her?”

Harry snorted at that. “She was the only one who really wrote me this summer. Granted, she wasn't -” Harry gestured around at Grimmauld Place.

“But at least I know how her summer was going. You lot didn't tell me anything!”

“Oh Harry, I'm so sorry,” Hermione was on the verge of tears.

“He's definitely up to something,” Romilda said, sitting across from Harry in one of the overstuffed seats that the Room of Requirement had provided. “But as you might imagine, I'm not exactly kept up-to-date.”

“Are you doing alright?” Harry asked, concern for Malfoy's activities pushed to the side, for now. “If anyone is giving you any troub-”

“It's fine,” Romilda waved him off. “Honestly, other than the one's like Malfoy, plenty of Slytherins are nervous about going too far one way or the other. They think that having one of us on friendly terms with you is a good idea... even if they wouldn't want to do it themselves. I think they see me as a hedged bet.”

Harry sighed. “Just let me know if anything happens.”

“I will.”

He nodded. “Sometimes I think you're a Slytherin who was supposed to be in Gryffindor.”

Romilda snorted at that, almost spilling her cup of tea.

“Oh, Harry,” she said fondly. “You have no idea.”

“Actually, I do.” He leaned forward, and Romilda's eyes went wide.

“Because I'm a Gryffindor that was supposed to be in Slytherin.”

“Ha! You almost had me for a second.”

Harry shrugged. “Believe what you want. Anyway – we'd better head back. Thanks for keeping an eye on Malfoy for me. I wish we could talk...”

Romilda shrugged.

As they reached the door, Harry turned to her, a look of determination on his face.

“So Slughorn is throwing a Christmas party and I can't seem to get out of going,” he said in a rush. “Do you want to go with me.”

Romilda gave him a pretty smile, dark eyes sparkling. “I would love to. I've been waiting for you to ask me to a party since the Yule Ball.”

Harry snorted. “That was a dreadful night. Parvati still hasn't forgiven me or Ron.”

“To be honest I was so petrified of having to ask someone to the bloody thing, if you'd have come up to me I'd have been so grateful to have it taken care of I probably wouldn't have even worried about Cho.”

“Harry!” a familiar voice chirped as he left McGonagall's office.

“Hi, Romilda.” He nodded to the Slytherin girl who he'd met last year, while the rest of his year was at Hogsmeade.

“Hey! So, question. Can I be your date for the ball?”

Well... that solved that problem much quicker than he had expected.

“Yeah, um. ok.”

“Great! I'll see you later!” Then she jumped forward, giving Harry a quick hug before he could react and skipping off.

“What are we going to do?” Ron asked morosely as he played with his sausage and eggs.

Harry shrugged. “I've already got a partner,” he replied, realizing a moment later that Ron had been looking for sympathy and commiseration.

“What!?” Hermione.

“Yeah, Romilda asked me yesterday.”

“A Slytherin girl asked you?”

“I thought we we're talking about you,” he replied, trying to turn the situation back around.

A sigh. “Yeah. I dunno. But I spose I better ask someone quick before all the pretty ones are taken.”

Harry tuned out while Hermione demanded Ron explain what, exactly, that was supposed to mean.

“Hey, Harry – do you mind if I join you?”

“Neville! Of course, come on in,” Harry put an arm around Romilda, pulling her closer as she nested against him, making room for Neville's trunk as he took a seat next to Luna.

Harry was having a rather nice time and even Neville settled in, happily discussing what Harry could best describe as a sort of bloated cactus, and so it was rather annoying when they got called up to the front of the train to meet Professor Slughorn.

Hermione scoffed, and Ginny looked quite ill.

“Good on you mate – how was it?”

“Nice.”

Treacle tart, a broomstick handle, hot chocolate.

 

Best idea ever. Continue it!

When I saw Romilda being mentioned I was like: "be still, my heart!"

 

WWII era Dumbledore snippet, from the perspective that he has to infiltrate Grindelwald's regime and destroy it from the inside-out, rather than the outside-in. Something I cobbled together several months ago and never really picked up on since.

---

A cold September rain fell from the midnight sky over Essex.

It is fitting, thought the young wizard walking along the damp road, that the elements should match my mood. He turned periwinkle blue eyes up at the cloudy heavens and wondered why fate should consign him to such brilliance only to grind away at the edges until polish bled instead of gleamed. His stance would never have given away the simple exhaustion which threatened to throw him to the ground with every step he took, yet surely his limbs cried of the fatigue this long, awful march had promised and truly delivered on.

He could have solved the matter with but a flick of the wand left behind ninety miles and two cities at his back. He could have cured his aches and ills with a sip of the bottles abandoned at the side of the road when this opportunity presented itself. At wits end, even, a few simple swipes of his ragged fingernails through the mud and an exhalation of incantations and he would have a measure of the very earth's stamina to draw upon.

But Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was, for these long hours and without doubt many more to come, resigned to enduring as the many muggles surrounding him for company. "Faster!" crowed the Attentant Zauberstab riding overhead by broom. A jolt of electricity rolled across his shoulders and left the smell of char on the air and a heavy copper tang pounding over his tongue, the simple malice made all the crueler by the conditions in play.

Some few managed to stifle their weakness in the face of the German soldier looming close enough to delight in their suffering.

Albus saw no reason to contain his own pains beyond marching forward and dutifully groaned. It felt remarkably satisfying to voice his suffering after holding his true thoughts in check so long, and the evident satisfaction in their captor's gaze when he and they met gazes for a hesitant beat was proof that he was playing his role well.

Although, he conceded the next moment when that thin black wand turned to him specifically and ire lit the hard blue eyes above a snarling mouth, perhaps not as convincingly as I could have been.

"Do not dare to look above your station, filth!" A lash of pain swelled around Albus' right bicep and stung up and down from elbow to shoulder, leaving behind a dark red welt through the remnants of his vest. Albus bent his at the waist and turned his head down obediently, though within, his own pride simmered at the continued subservience. The German swore at the rest of the group surrounding him and rushed forward to scold those ahead.

Albus breathed wearily.

Soon we shall reach the deportation centers, and then I may take a small measure of relief. It was hardly a comfort that he may have a chance to let down this charade just an ounce once they were out to sea and sailing for the Reich's heartland. It burned more that he would have to allow these men and women to go to their executions for the Fuhrer's delight. There was nothing more to be done if it meant ending this war without Gellert Grindelwald's advance notice.

 

I was thinking of terrible puns and this is what came out. Don't hate me Joe.

It was a sunny summer morning when Harry, his memory again scattered, awoke in his bedroom at Privet Drive Four, spitting blood. He didn't even make it to the bathroom this time. The violent convulsions seized him right there on his bed, and he clawed at the soiled sheets, waiting for his body to catch up to his time-travelling mind and meet in some vaguely defined, painful middle. Fuck you, Chronos, and fuck every demon you've ever hired.

He completed his morning routine still shaking, then shuffled outside to catch the red car and bait Tonks into revealing herself, nervously checking his - err, Dudley's - watch every few seconds. He'd come so close last time. Or he thought so, at least. He couldn't be sure it wasn't all a dream. But then, what wasn't at this point?

But enough. He had a Death Eater to incinerate and a French witch to woo.

He walked down Dursleys' gravel path looking at his feet. He didn't bother looking anywhere else until he stopped next to the mailbox, which was probably for the best, because if the mailbox hadn't been there to provide support, he likely would have fallen over in surprise and distributed his teeth all over the pavement.

The Number Four lawn which he'd spent years carefully maintaining was no longer a neatly manicured carpet of grass. Where grass used to be, there was now a plot of merrily overgrowing thyme. The herb swayed in the nonexistent breeze, reaching up to Harry's knees, wriggled in curly vines, climbing the side of the house.

What. The. Fuck.

Before he could truly comprehend what he was looking at, a man in a chef's uniform sprang from underneath the very invisibility cloak Tonks should have been wearing, brandishing a comically large, bloody steak knife. Harry stood, stunned, as the chef trampled the thyme lawn, jammed a hand into his apron pocket and withdrew it dramatically, pelting Harry in the face with a handful of some dried herb.

No, not some herb. Thyme.

"What-" Harry blurted, but his words were cut short - literally. The chef swiped his kitchen blade horizontally, slicing a neat line across Harry's throat.

As Harry lay on the pavement, waiting to bleed out and for his next run to begin, the chef knelt down over him, grinning not unlike Chronos.

"The game has changed," the chef said. "Welcome to the Wastelands of Thyme, motherfucker."

 

I don't know who you are or where you came from, Scott, but you must be stopped.

How dare you. I'm a highly respected member of the writing community, wildly popular on reddit (for the last 12 hours), and people look to me as a source of consistent updates in these dark days.

You've not just offended me, Scott, you've let down the whole community. The fact that you didn't work a 'rosemary' pun in there to complement the thyme is, perhaps, the worst offence. Get out of my sight.

 

Bu- bu- but-

hangs head in shame

I'll do better next time, Mister Joe.

Seriously though, I'll be following your subreddit for sure. And I need to post more itt and on writingprompts. That thing above literally just came to me in a few minutes. I thought about working in Gordon Ramsey (because he's basically what I imagine the Devil would be if He were a renowned chef) but no funny wordplay came to mind. And I can't be the first to have thought of "Wastelands of Thyme", can I? I mean, it's too obviously funny.

Total off topic, but I read Broken Quill and Knight Fall too. I'm pretty sure I have reviews for them saved somewhere and I think I'm finally past the review threshold on Amazon. If I am, I'll drop the reviews tomorrow. (insightful reviews still count as writing, yeah?)

Edit: 'Consistent updates' is the absolute best joke you've ever joked. And I had a rosemerry thyme writing that snippet.