Unrealistic. Doran has been waiting for the Baratheons to weaken.

Davos Seaworth will not use words like "observation" or think in passive form.

 

"Good evening."

Sebastian always felt that a proper greeting and other forms of etiquette were mandatory, even if his less refined peers did not always return the gesture. Appearances were important, after all. His blond hair was always well groomed and his clothing was impeccably clean.

He was standing on the center of the stage at Nocturne Theatre, a neutral place for meetings such as this. Two large, green curtains were hanging behind him while a stone relief painted with golden paint adorned the upper part of the stage. He smiled softly. Yes, a stage was good for someone of his position.

The room wasn't very well lit, however. That was a slight disappointment, though there was good reason for it. Nobody present in this room actually needed light to see clearly.

He focused his blue eyes on the kindred gathered before him. He saw allies and subordinates, but also rivals and even enemies. None of those little things would matter in a moment, he felt.

There were also two people with him on the stage. To his right was of course the Sheriff, his trusted bodyguard, executioner and enforcer. He was a very useful tool, with a large body, very little emotions, a sword the size of half his body and exceptionally developed skills with Disciplines. His lifeless, yellow eyes only displayed patience as he awaited Sebastian's next order.

To Sebastian's left was another powerful individual, but for different reasons. Maximillian Strauss, the Tremere Primogen. He was bald, pale to the point of almost being a little blue and while his eyes were always hidden by red-tinted glasses Sebastian knew for a fact they were gray as ash.

Sebastian was never going to admit this to anyone, but he envied Strauss. The Primogen had powers he could only dream of, powers that only the Tremere could have. Dark, blood magics which could achieve things few could. Strauss, however always has shown nothing but loyalty to Sebastian. As such, he was trustworthy enough that any warning he brought would be treated seriously.

His thoughts returned to the audience and he spoke again.

"My apologies for disrupting any business or interfering with any prior engagements you may have had this evening."

There were some nods of acknowledgment, but he also could hear someone scoff. He wasn't sure who that was, so he could not remember this person for later. Pity.

"However, the situation we have found ourselves in, is an emergency. The Slayer is in Los Angeles," he said and as he finished speaking there were immediate reactions.

Gasps, shouts of disbelief, fearful looks, confusion and of course anger. He held up his hand to signify he had more to say and would explain.

"This information was brought to me by the Tremere Primogen, Maximillian Strauss. I will therefore allow him to explain it in better detail."

Sebastian turned to Strauss and nodded, giving him the scene. The pale man said something very quietly, as if to himself. Two hooded acolytes came out from behind the stage curtains carrying a silver platter with a burning object on it.

It appeared to be a small, polished obsidian statue representing a headless bat. It was covered with blue flames.

"Thaumaturgy, of course," Sebastian thought to himself.

Strauss waited until the acolytes placed the platter on a table near him and then left. He then addressed the audience.

"The Tremere Chantry is equipped with an artifact created specifically to serve as a warning if the presence of the Slayer is near."

He pointed at the burning object.

"In normal circumstances, this object appears ordinary. However, when the presence of the Slayer is closer than one hundred kilometers, it begins faintly burning."

The statue was of course not burning faintly, but quite brightly.

"The closer the Slayer is to the object, the stronger and bigger the flames become. Current state suggests a distance between ten to fifteen kilometers. As such, it is reasonable to assume the Slayer is already in Los Angeles."

If the gathered individuals were nervous before, not there was actual panic. One person, perhaps a weak neonate, left through the door. Worthless weakling.

"Furthermore, acolytes in the Chantry who noticed the flames appear noticed that they appeared already strong. It is therefore fair to assume that the Slayer did not travel to Los Angeles from somewhere else, but was in fact activated here."

With that, Strauss nodded to Sebastian. He had nothing more to say.

"So, LaCroix, what are your plans for the Slayer, hm?" He heard someone ask in the audience.

Sebastian turned to the person and saw Isaac Abrams, the Anarch Baron of Hollywood standing with a nasty smirk on his face. Of course. Oh, how Sebastian despised the man. Then again, all the Anarch dogs were unworthy of his respect. They knew nothing of decorum, necessary hierarchy and order.

Of course, Sebastian smiled to the man.

"As Primogen Strauss noted, the Slayer is most likely a newly-activated one. Therefore she has had no training and possibly doesn't yet know her skills and unfortunate purpose" he explained.

This matter was too important to be questioned by such lowly members of his society.

"However, this should not serve as a reason to grow complacent. Indeed, we should use the time we still have to sufficiently prepare ourselves" he continued.

"As such, I am ordering emergency measures. Hunting must be reduced to a minimum. Gathering of vitae should be arranged by ghouls while we mask our presence from the Slayer. Ghouls must also be sent out to discover the identity of our predator."

Another person stood.

"Why not just kill the Slayer?"

This time it was a fledgling sitting next to Nines Rodriguez. It was a recent embrace. Sebastian recalled granting permission a few weeks ago for the event. He laughed softly. Foolishness. Rodriguez should have educated the fledgling better.

"An interesting proposition. Does anyone here wish to volunteer for this task? Please raise your hand if you do."

No hands rose. As expected.

"Predictable. Mr. Rodriguez, if you'd be so kind, please explain to this fledgling why this would be an unwise idea" he spoke to the man.

Rodriguez glared at Sebastian. He then audibly sighed and shook his head. After muttering something to himself he turned to the fledgling and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Look, kid. Even if the Slayer was activated just yesterday and received no training she already is capable of killing most kindred in this room with just her hands."

***

Something I wrote when thinking about how I'd do a crossover of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Vampire The Masquerade Bloodlines. If you notice any mistakes let me know.

 

Not gonna lie, I know very little about Buffy or Vampire the Masquerade Bloodlines. However one grammar thing that stood out to me was adding a comma after "and" in lists. For example

A comma would be added in front of the and.
And

here I think "smiled at the man" sounds better.
Not much to add otherwise, but thanks for this little piece that has now got me interested in vampires.

 

Had to write it down because the idea wouldn't left me alone.

-

He hated the Royalty. A bunch of pampered clowns in fancy clothing who decide who lives or dies. What nonsense. He hated the British Royalty especially.

"In Her Majesty's Service," he snorted. He would have all of them treated the same way his parents and other Lienz Cossacks were. Send them to gulags.

He would destroy Britain's economy, send it to the stone age. He would repay them for what they have done to his family. That was the plan.

Considering that he was holding a big sword and wore medieval clothing adorned with furs changed this plan significantly.

Before him was a man about to executed for the crime of desertion and he would have to be the executor. Personally he did not blame the man for wanting to desert what was basically an ice prison. But he had to keep his new 'lordly' appearances. What a cruel jape.

Wait. Jape? Why did he think of such a word?

"Because I would use such a word, stranger," he heard in the back of his mind.

Ah, the original.

"Well, sorry mate but I'm in charge now," he thought and swung the sword, cutting off the deserter's head.

Alec Trevelyan would be in charge of a lot of things soon.

-

(Fun fact: Sean Bean was 36 when GoldenEye was released. Eddard Stark was 36 when beheaded)

 

Harry’s eyes darted left and right as he sprinted through the Department of Mysteries. He ignored the majesty of the Space Chamber as he made for the door at the far end. Wrenching it open, he glanced over his shoulder and barked, “Hurry!” at his subordinates before stepping through and into room with doors on all sides.

Bullstrode followed him through the opening a moment later, followed by Robins. Harry stared at the eight doors balefully, silently cursing the Unspeakables.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Robins gasped, immediately hunching over with his hands on his knees.

“What are we looking for, Potter?” Bullstrode asked. There was the slightest hitch in her voice, indicative of their frantic pace, but she was a damn sight better than her senior partner.

“Not looking; feeling,” Harry muttered, closing his eyes. Simply feeling for residual magic was useless in the heart of the Ministry, so he went deeper. All magic left a residue, powerful and dark magic especially. It wasn’t pain he was searching for, however, but wrongness.

The hair on the back of his neck rose as an uncomfortable shudder ran through him. Opening his eyes, Harry half turned to his left and was greeted by an unassuming door.

“Wands at the ready,” he ordered. Eleven inches of holly and phoenix feather pointed dead ahead as he gently opened the door without a sound.

The Time Room was unrecognizable. Where it usually held all manner of timekeeping devices, it was now barren. Turquois light illuminated the room, the result of glowing rune inscriptions that had been carved into the floor. Three wizards stood robed in black, two outside the runes, one in the middle of them.

“Aurors! Freeze and drop your wands!” Harry roared.

The two outside the runes flinched, but Theodore Nott’s thin, nearly emaciated face grinned triumphantly at him from the middle. “You’ve failed, Potter,” he spat. “The Dark Lord will rise again!”

Harry’s senses went haywire a split second before the blinding flash lit the room. He ducked, reflexively casting a shield around himself and his subordinates, but felt nothing. It subsided a moment later, and Harry wasted no time snapping off a stunning spell that split in two and dropped Nott’s two accomplices.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit!” he snapped, striding forward as Bullstrode and Robins came to their senses behind him.

“Did we just lose?” Robins breathed.

“Can’t have. If it worked properly Potter would’ve ceased to exist by now,” Bullstrode corrected, though she sounded far less sure of herself than usual.

Harry ignored them both as he spelled one of the unconscious men into a sitting position against the nearest wall. “Ennervate.” Brown eyes opened blearily before widening.

“P-P-Potter! I didn’t – we didn’t –”

A wordless silencing spell put an end to the man’s sputtering. Harry slapped him on the cheek, causing him to blink in confusion and, when they made eye contact, dove into his mind.

Flashes of memory peppered Harry as he combed through the Unspeakable’s mind, and he thanked his lucky stars he was so fixated on the ritual that had just ended. Nott featured in almost every one of the memories, from the idea’s genesis two years previous over dinner in Nott’s ancestral home, to the study of the time turners, all the way up to the revelation of Nott’s true motives and a feeling of euphoric disassociation.

Harry cut the Legilimency with a thought and pulled back. “Is it still active?” he asked without preamble.

“Did you just –”

Harry snapped his fingers in the Unspeakable’s face to cut him off. “Juggson! Is. It. Active?”

Fear warred with righteous anger in the older man’s eyes, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. “It should be,” Juggson said at length.

“Get it prepped.” Harry swept away toward the middle of the rune circle, satisfied to see Bullstrode and Robins waking the other Unspeakable. “Get him up,” he called. His two Aurors helped the man, Harry thought his name was Davis, to his feet. “Your name, Unspeakable?”

“Terrence Davis, sir,” he said, and it was a credit to how out of it he was that he parted with his name without a fuss.

Stunned and waking up after being Imperiused will do that to a man, Harry mused darkly, his suspicions from Juggson’s memories all but confirmed. “Your partner needs your help resetting the runes, Davis. Hop to it.”

Davis, who looked about ten years Harry’s senior, blinked. “Reset it? You can’t mean to–”

“I do. Now help Juggson. I won’t ask again.”

The look Davis sent him could only be described as horrified, but something in Harry’s eyes must’ve told him to get a move on, because he brushed past him without a word. Clear of the Unspeakables for a moment, Harry let himself sigh heavily; it felt as though a boulder had suddenly been deposited on his shoulders. It had been steadily growing for the past two days, since he’d caught wind of Nott’s terrifying plan.

“Potter…you aren’t seriously thinking of going back there, are you?” Bullstrode asked haltingly.

He gave her a rueful smile. “’Fraid you already know the answer to that.”

“But you heard Millcent before,” Robins said. “It couldn’t’ve worked. If Nott did what we think he set out to do, it’s not like You-Know-Who would just leave you alive…”

Running a hand through his hair, Harry sighed once more. “Maybe. By all accounts, everything familiar about our world should’ve ceased to exist the moment Nott disappeared. But I’m not about to leave that to chance.”

There was also Hermione’s theory of parallel universes to consider. If Nott’s time travel had created an offshoot of their universe, he couldn’t just consign them to Voldemort’s rule. No, Nott was from his time, which made him his responsibility.

Turning on his heel, Harry strode back to the Unspeakables in the middle of the room. “How’re we looking?”

Davis twitched and said nothing; Juggson glowered up at him. “As good as can be expected,” he spat.

“You remember everything?”

A look of acute discomfort passed over the older man’s face. “The Imperius curse doesn’t suppress memories as you well know, Potter.”

Harry contained a grimace. While the two men in front of him had played a key part in whatever catastrophe awaited him in the past, they were still victims. “Well, get this place ready and I can go fix this mess before it gets even more out of hand,” he said, knowing it was the thinnest of silver linings.

“He’s insane,” Davis lamented, rising from the floor. “Utterly insane.”

“When did you send him?”

“Exactly twelve years ago,” Juggson answered, voice suddenly clinical. “It was the furthest back he could go with a stable array. Anything further would be too risky.”

“So the eleventh of August, 1995?” Harry asked. He looked at his left wrist, to the watch that had once belonged to Fabian Prewett. 9:54 am. It’s too bloody early for this…

“Correct. You’ll appear exactly however many minutes have passed since he left after him.”

“Let’s not give him too much of a head start, then. Is it ready?”

The two Unspeakables looked at each other. A silent conversation took place over the course of about five seconds. “It’s operational, yes,” Juggson said finally.

“So how do I get back?” Harry asked, doing his best to ignore the dread in his stomach as he prepared for the worst.

Juggson handed him a scrap of parchment. “The requisite runes are written there. You’ll need this.” A time turner was gingerly placed in his palm. “One does not work without the other, Potter,” Juggson warned.

Scanning the parchment, and ignoring the runes which might as well have been Greek to him, Harry focused on the calculations. “Can you simplify this for me?”

“One turn, one year,” Davis muttered.

Easy enough. He nodded. “Does Nott have these same instructions?”

“He never intended to return.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Living as Voldemort’s most favored servant wouldn’t be the worst for him,” he muttered. “Anything else I should know?”

Juggson grimaced. “I’d warn you of the dangers of playing with time…”

In spite of himself, Harry laughed. “Pretty sure all the rules are out the window at this point, gentlemen.” Neither Unspeakable saw the humor in it, both instead looked faintly sick.

Formalities out of the way, Harry stepped into the rune circle. They lit up with the turquois light from before as he did, and he moved to drop deposit his wand in an undetectable pocket charm, but held off, pocketing it manually instead.

“I keep everything on me?” It wouldn’t do to show up twelve years in the past naked.

“It works just like a regular time turner,” Davis confirmed.

“Potter, what the bloody hell are we supposed to tell the Minister?” Robins asked.

“The truth should suffice,” he said with an attempt at a smile.

“And your wife?”

“Ah…” Ginny wasn’t going to be happy, him leaving her alone with James. And pregnant. “Get in touch with Hermione Granger – actually – make that Ron Weasley. Tell him what you tell Kingsley and he can be the bearer of bad news.”

Both Bullstrode and Robins looked relieved at his words. I’ll owe Ron quite a bit for dropping that pile of shit on him. He turned to Juggson. “We ready?”

“Twelve turns, Potter,” the Unspeakable ordered.

Slipping the time turner around his neck, Harry didn’t waste a second. Twelve turns later, the rune circle began to glow brighter, and he cleared his mind to manage the immediate panic that set in.

“Good luck, chief!” Bullstrode called, and he was suddenly blinded by white light.

/~/


The world came into clarity after precisely twelve seconds of disorientation.

At least everything isn’t on fire, Harry mused, breathing deeply. The Time Room he stood in now looked as he remembered it. Clocks and timepieces of all kinds were scattered about in a chaotic fashion that he knew was more by design than it looked.

“Don’t waste time, Harry,” he told himself. He plucked his wand from his pocket charm and cast a quick diagnostic spell. Three sets of feet were illuminated in fluorescent yellow. The brightest – the most recent – had made a beeline for the door.

Not wasting a moment, he followed. He opened the door to the familiar hallway, and felt his expression fall as Nott’s footsteps were immediately obscured by half a dozen others. Well, can’t say that’s surprising.

He shook himself and gathered his bearings. He was in the past, he needed to focus. Stepping to his right, he reentered the Space Chamber. Harry paid it as much mind as he had twelve years later as he strode through it in the direction of the entrance to the department.

“What are you doing here?”

Harry whirled, coming face to face with an unfamiliar Unspeakable; he barely managed to keep his wand out of the woman’s face. Plastering a less aggressive look on his face, Harry said, “Investigating. There was a disturbance in the Time Room.”

Her eyes widened. “Who reported that?”

Shrugging, Harry said, “Not my purview. A disturbance was detected twelve minutes ago. I was sent to look into it.”

“The Auror office doesn’t have jurisdiction! Who sent you?” she asked incredulously.

Feeling his hackles rise – he did not have time for this – Harry bit his tongue. Don’t draw too much attention. “Take it up with the department. I’m sure Scrimgeour would be happy to hear you out.”

He managed to pluck the former Head Auror and Minister of Magic’s name from his memory at the last second. He hadn’t spared the dead man many thoughts after the war – he’d been an unqualified man thrown into an unwinnable situation.

Taking advantage of the woman’s momentary stupor at his words, he turned on his heel and exited. Looking left and right outside the entryway that led directly to the elevators, Harry tapped his robes and watched them bleed from burgundy to black. The cut was still far too athletic for standard robes – indicative of the Auror Corps – but the change in color would hopefully allow him to blend in well enough with the rest of the Ministry while he made a plan. It wouldn’t do to be stopped by this time’s Aurors.

He jabbed the button to call the elevator, tapping his foot impatiently. The telltale ding came a moment later, thankfully, and Harry stepped in. Immediately, he rested his head on the golden gate that shut, the cool metal a sharp contrast to the whirling of his mind.

Focus, Potter. Take stock of the situation.

So far, he was twelve years in the past, in the summer of 1995. Which meant he was a useless soon-to-be fifth year tearing himself apart over Cedric’s death. It also meant Dumbledore was still alive, currently maligned by the Ministry and the Prophet for daring to corroborate his younger self’s story.

Right then. First stop, Hogwarts. Grimmauld Place wouldn’t be a bad second option – though there was some question about whether his time’s Fidelius Charm meant anything now that he was in the past. He also didn’t fancy having half a dozen wands shoved in his face demanding to know why there were suddenly two Harry Potters.

Which raised another point. He wasn’t quite Undesirable Number One yet, but he was still Harry Potter, certified crazy teenager trying to stir up controversy by claiming Voldemort had returned from the dead. Removing his glasses, Harry dropped them into an undetectable pocket charm. He hadn’t truly needed them in nearly a decade, but they were an identifying factor. Everyone knew Harry Potter wore glasses. It worked both to cultivate his image while simultaneously helping him go easily undercover when needed. A spot of makeup was more than enough to hide what was left of his famous scar, and without his glasses, he found himself easily blending in. He didn’t have Ginny’s makeup drawer on him, but a quick glamour would pass a cursory inspection.

Harry felt the cosmetic magic wash over his forehead as the elevator reached the atrium. He stepped out into the organized chaos that was day-today Ministry life, immediately pushing through a group of three that made for the elevator he had just vacated. Memos flew gently past his head as he made for the Fountain of Magical Brethren, and he wondered at the ease Nott had had getting out minutes earlier.

An Unspeakable for most of the last decade, Theodore Nott was undoubtedly an accomplished wizard. The fact that his plan had even worked at all proved that. Alongside Voldemort, with his knowledge of the future?

He doesn’t even need specifics, Harry thought darkly. Simply telling Voldemort that he’d lost would lead to the Dark Lord connecting the dots. Any consolidation of the Horcruxes would prove disastrous.

That cheerful thought spurring him on, Harry hurried to the designated aparation points beyond the floo entrances and disappeared without a sound. Fresh, Scottish air greeted him a moment later, and he stared up at Hogwarts in all its splendor. He couldn’t help the smile that split his lips at the sight of his first true home whole and healthy; they’d repaired the castle and grounds meticulously after the Battle, but it still didn’t feel the same. Even the wards were different to his senses; gentler, rather than foreboding.

Too many people had died on the grounds for it to ever feel the same to him. But this Hogwarts was untouched by war and death and, for the first time, Harry saw the opportunity before him.

It was a long shot, he was up against what was sure to be a more prepared Voldemort, but it was possible. Maybe, just maybe, he could make things better.

/~/

The castle was empty. The professors were undoubtedly squirreled away making and remaking lesson plans for the upcoming year in their respective offices, and there were no students filling the halls with laughter. It was very nearly spooky.

Harry made his way to the third floor with haste, despite wishing to bask in Hogwarts’ untainted essence for as long as possible. All too soon, he found himself facing the familiar gargoyle, and was suddenly stymied.

He didn’t know the password.

“What’re the odds the department override hasn’t changed in twelve years?” he asked rhetorically. The gargoyle was unmoved by his mutterings, and he was struck, suddenly, by dread. What if Dumbledore wasn’t even here? He truly had little idea of what the Headmaster had gotten up to the summer before his fifth year; Dumbledore’s notebooks, which had been gifted to him by Professor McGonagall upon his graduation, had few details about the summer of 1995.

A Patronus message would find him eventually, Harry figured, but he was thankfully saved the trouble by the statue rotating out of the way of its own accord. Of course, the Hogwarts wards had likely identified an unfamiliar presence and alerted Dumbledore.

Let’s see how this goes…

He climbed the steps quickly and opened the door without bothering to knock, decorum be damned. The office was as breathtaking as always, innumerable magical instruments and trinkets littering every surface in sight. Two sets of eyes called his attention, however, one piercing blue, the other black rimmed with gold.

Fawkes trilled a greeting that curled Harry’s lips upward into a wide smile. The phoenix hadn’t been well accounted for after Dumbledore’s death, at least not publicly. Privately, the immortal bird had bailed Harry out of two sticky situations in the past five years. He didn’t quite have the Headmaster’s relationship with Fawkes, but Harry knew he was blessed to call it a friend.

Blue eyes that had narrowed at his appearance widened as Fawkes sang, and Harry stepped forward. It was as good an introduction as he was going to get.

“Harry?” Dumbledore asked, truly caught off guard in a way Harry had never seen before.

“Hello, professor. It’s been a long time. It’s good to see you.” And it was. Unable to see the Headmaster’s hands, Harry brought his up in the universal gesture of surrender. “I assure you I am Harry Potter, just…not the one you’re used to.”

Dumbledore smiled, reaching up to scratch Fawkes’ rich plumage. “I’ve found Fawkes to be a tremendous judge of character, however, I would appreciate some evidence. You do certainly look like Harry. Or, rather, what he may grow up to be.”

“Certainly. I’ll be drawing my wand now,” Harry warned. He reached out like he was picking something up off a table, and snatched his wand up from its spot in his pocket charm. Dumbledore’s brows rose a tick. “Expecto Patronum,” he incanted, thinking of Ginny holding James in St. Mungos’ delivery room.

Prongs cantered out of his wand, as tall as Harry himself, and bathed the office in pure white light. The ethereal stag pranced around the office once before Harry released his hold on the spell.

The Headmaster smiled widely behind his desk, hands now relaxed in front of him. “How singular! Time travel?”

Blinking at Dumbledore’s immediate grasp of the situation at hand, Harry nodded. “Got it in one, sir. Can I sit?”

“Of course!” The Headmaster gestured toward the chairs arrayed in front of him, still smiling. Harry had never seen him so excited. “How far in the future do you come from, Harry? Ten years at least.”

“Twelve,” Harry confirmed. He pointed to the tray of lemon drops on Dumbledore’s desk. “Do you mind?”

“Help yourself.”

“Much appreciated.” He popped one of the hard candies into his mouth and sagged as he felt the mild calming draught settle over his mind. His dilemma didn’t seem quite as untenable, suddenly.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Dumbledore asked. His happy countenance shifted to a serious mien in a blink. “Your reaction to the lemon drop suggests this isn’t merely a social call to share an exciting development in temporal magic.”

“’Fraid not,” Harry sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking about where to start.

“The war?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, but not what you’re probably thinking. It wasn’t pretty, but we won. A little under three years from now. Ron, Hermione, and I tracked down Voldemort’s Horcruxes and, with some assistance, I put him down.”

“Horcruxes?” Dumbledore repeated, momentarily incredulous. “Oh, Tom, what were you thinking?” he breathed.

“Seven of them,” Harry said, pushing onward. It was as good a place to start as any. “Six intentional. One…less so.” He dispelled the glamour hiding his scar and gestured to it.

The Headmaster closed his eyes momentarily, undoubtedly thinking of Harry’s younger counterpart. “It is as I suspected, then.” Blue eyes snapped open. “And yet you here sit before me.”

Harry smiled wryly. “Tricky bit of blood magic. Voldemort’s resurrection ritual anchored me to him and vice versa. When he killed me it was the only thing keeping me from moving on entirely. Can’t claim to fully understand all the ins and outs of it, but I’m happy to be alive all the same.”

“Harry, I am terribly sorry for what you must have gone through. To walk willingly to death is a sacrifice no one, least of all myself, should have expected you to make.”

Blinking, momentarily taken aback by Dumbledore’s sincerity, Harry said, “Water under the bridge at this point, professor. It needed to be done, and I’m still here making life difficult for dark wizards.”

The Headmaster smiled slightly, a far cry from his earlier expression. “I expect you make a fine Auror, Harry. Now, what brings you here?”

The question washed away the pride he felt at Dumbledore’s words, a stark reminder of his situation. “Two days ago, my time, Draco Malfoy came to me with a suspicion. Theodore Nott had approached his father and hinted at the ability to time travel far further than the current time turners allowed. Nott’s been an Unspeakable for a while, so researching such magic is in his purview, but the fact Malfoy came to me at all suggested there was more at play. The two of us did a bit of digging and figured out Nott had an insane plan to change the outcome of the war. By the time we figured it all out and I had moved to stop him, the ritual was already complete, thanks to the help of two Unspeakables under the Imperius curse. I followed him roughly ten minutes later.”

“The fact that you did not cease to exist immediately upon Mr. Nott’s departure is telling,” Dumbledore said.

His mind works bloody quick. “Which means I either stop him, or we’re dealing with what Hermione calls parallel universes.”

“I am familiar with the concept. Would that you had come to me under better circumstances. I find myself wishing nothing more than to postulate the ins and outs of how this became possible at all.” Dumbledore smiled ruefully. “If you’ll allow an old man his musings, if nothing at all appeared to have changed in your time, a situation difficult to believe given how much can change simply by virtue of your presence here, I’m more inclined to believe Mr. Nott’s meddling created a branch in time.”

Harry shrugged. “Either way, I wasn’t about to leave it to chance.”

“And I thank you for that, Harry. I scarcely wish to imagine the devastation Voldemort with future knowledge could create. Does Theodore know of the Horcruxes?”

“No. Only Ron, Hermione, and me knew about them. But Voldemort will put it all together quick enough once Nott tells him he loses the war,” Harry said.

“Undoubtedly. We do not have time to waste, then. What is our first move?” Dumbledore asked.

Pushing past the incredulity of Albus Dumbledore asking him for direction, Harry considered. After a moment, he cocked his head to the side. “We’re not as badly disadvantaged as you might think. Two of the Horcruxes are as safe as can be from Voldemort’s reach. Ravenclaw’s Diadem is here, in the Room of Requirement on the seventh floor, and Slytherin’s Locket is actually in Grimmauld Place. Hufflepuff’s cup is in the Lestrange vault at Gringotts, so he can’t get that without breaking into Azkaban first.” Harry blinked. “Unless he tries to do what we did and just steal it.”

Dumbledore’s brows rose at Harry’s final proclamation. “No mean feat. You said there were six?”

“A ring that belonged to the Gaunt family. It’s in Little Hangleton. We’ll start there but before we do, professor, you need to know: the ring carries the Resurrection Stone,” Harry warned.

The Headmaster’s eyes flew wide at the mention of the Hallow. They narrowed a second later, an expression of such acute anger crossing Dumbledore’s face that Harry leaned back in his chair. “He desecrated it?” he asked, voice imbued with magic enough to make Harry’s hair stand on end.

“He died not even knowing what it was,” Harry quickly assured him. Dumbledore’s fury passed after a long three seconds, and Harry let out a breath as the air became lighter.

“I apologize, Harry,” the Headmaster said at length. “Thank you for the warning. Greeted with such an object, I’m afraid I’m not sure how I’d react.”

You’d put it on, and fall victim to Voldemort’s curses, Harry thought. “No harm done, sir. Though it does raise the question…”

Juggson had said he’d travel back in time with everything he had on him. Transferring his wand to his left hand, Harry tapped his right ring finger. Sure enough, a moment later, his layered Disslusionment Charm melted away to reveal the ring, Resurrection Stone and all.

Ignoring Dumbledore’s soft gasp, Harry reached into his undetectable pocket once more. He grasped fifteen inches of elder wood and brought his eyes up to meet shocked blue ones.

“You did it,” Dumbledore breathed. He reached, with a shaking hand, into nothingness and withdrew an identical wand. An expression of what Harry could only believe was melancholy stole over the Headmaster’s face. “And the cloak?”

“Back home with my wife, I’m afraid. It’s the least temperamental of the three,” Harry said ruefully. He gestured to his right hand. “I’d happily leave the Stone at the bottom of an ocean, but it has a nasty habit of reappearing, usually displacing my actual wedding band. Apparently it’s happy enough on my right hand since it hasn’t acted up since I put it there.”

Dumbledore blinked at him, then suddenly guffawed into a belly laugh that doubled him over behind his desk. Fawkes startled on its perch, squawking at the noise. He managed to get ahold of himself after a few seconds, and wiped tears from his eyes. “I must thank you for that, Harry. I haven’t laughed so hard in years. To think one of the most powerful and sought after artifacts of all time has the temperament of a spurned lover.”

Harry chuckled, rubbing the back of his head. “Reality can be disappointing.”

/~/

 

While I was writing 'The Greatest of Losses' an idea occurred to me. Ciaphas Cain as a Pokemon trainer.

I present to you, Kai, the Fisherman:

Route 1. I’ve heard people call it the place where ambition goes to die, but I’ve never really been much for ambition, personally. Oh, sure, being some hot-shot trainer looks like a cushy job. Swanky hotels, legions of adoring fans, all that shit.

The reality of it is that it looks exhausting. Do you know how many times a day, on average, someone like Lance gets challenged to battles? Have you any idea how much extra training he needs to do on top of all that to stay top dog? I honestly have no idea how he has the time for it all.

That life was not for me. I was quite content, fishing my days away on the banks of my river. Oh, sure, I had to deal with the occasional trainer, all full of pluck and pep, but I had a pretty much infinite supply of Magikarp from my river. I even won the occasional battle. Kept me in just enough money for food and drink. Well, not really, but living in a tent in the wilderness is actually a remarkably cheap lifestyle.

I just had to go home to visit mum once a year for Christmas which, fortuitously, happened to fall during the coldest months of the year. She was happy to see me, and I was happy for the warmth.

Really, it was a win/win.

So quite why I decided to mess all that up by poking my nose in where it most definitely did not belong, I have no idea.

It was a day like any other. The sun was warm, the wind was light, and the Magikarp were biting. I’d just managed to pull up probably the best specimen of a Magikarp I’ve ever seen, well over a metre long, and I was feeling pretty pleased with myself as a result.

That was when I heard it. Some poor hapless trainer shouting for help.

Now, lazy I might be, but I’m not heartless I am not. I dropped my rod, making sure to wedge it firmly into a fork in a nearby tree, they could be rather expensive after all, and made in the direction of the shout. You might think, given my earlier insistence, that running towards danger might be out of character for me but it really wasn’t such an uncommon occurrence. The number of times I’d seen new trainers fall afoul of an overly aggressive Weedle, or particularly spunky Spearow, well lets just say that it happens more often than you might think.

When I arrived in the clearing, I discovered that it wasn’t a Weedle. It wasn’t even a Spearow.

It was something I never imagined I’d see in my life.

It was a fucking Entei. And it was pissed off. Not just pissed off; it was literally incandescent. It had a large red gem on its forehead that I can’t remember seeing in any of the drawings I’d seen of Entei, but then again it was hardly a well studied animal. Perhaps it did have a red gem on its head. Who was I to say otherwise?

I vaguely noted a man and woman with some kind of camera equipment cowering away from the gigantic legendary Pokémon, but I was far more concerned for my own skin than theirs.

Just as I was about to beat a hasty retreat, hoping that they hadn’t seen my arrival, things went even more sideways. The Magikarp I’d captured just a few hours earlier decided to release itself from its ball.

“Karpkarpkarp Magikarp!” it blubbed, rather neatly drawing all eyes in my direction.

The woman, who I somewhat belatedly realised was very pretty, called out to me, desperation clear in her voice. “Please, you have to help us!”

Well, what was a guy to do? “Magikarp, Tackle!”

I will admit at this point that I did not have much hope that Magikarp would follow my commands. Magikarp are perhaps some of the least intelligent creatures on Earth, and if they decide to do anything but flail and blub, you should count yourself lucky.

So I was pretty surprised when it flopped up high and then rocketed at the Entei with admirable speed and aggression.

It actually pushed the beast back too. Though, in Entei’s defence, not that it needs someone like I to come to its aid, it was only slightly, and it only really succeeded in making the Entei more pissed off, if anything. It batted Magikarp away with a viciously clawed paw, then it turned its attention to me.

There are a few times in a man’s, or woman’s I suppose, life when you feel the need to reflect on the choices that got you to the place you’d just found yourself. That moment, standing in the way of a monumentally pissed off Entei charging up a Fire Blast which would probably be enough to turn me into a cloud of greasy smoke, was most assuredly one of those moments.

It offered a moment of clarity, I guess. I was going to die. But maybe I could at least make it look good.

“Quick, run while I distract it!” I called to the blonde woman and her friend. The camera he was carrying was the kind often used by television studios or new reporters, so perhaps I’d at least have the posthumous honour of being remembered as the guy who tried to stand up to a Legendary Pokémon.

Why not run myself, I hear you ask? Well it’s really pretty simple. I was fucked. Whatever way I sliced it, Entei had my number.

Or at least, I thought it did. Had I known then what that little moment of false bravado was going to result in, perhaps I would have tried to punch Entei myself instead.

When the Fire Blast was unleashed, I closed my eyes and wondered just what it felt like to have your bones melt inside you. I never found out what that sensation felt like, nor have I discovered it yet, though I imagine there is still time.

But I digress. I did not end up a charred bag of melted bone and burning tallow because a wall of water sprung up between me and the Entei, seemingly out of nowhere. Then a huge roar filled the woodlands, and I looked up to find a Gyarados, and a bloody big one, emerging from the woods from precisely the place where Magikarp disappeared.

Before I could do anything, it launched a simply massive Hydropump at the Entei, hitting it square on the head hard enough that the gem on its forehead actually shattered. That seemed to suddenly cause the Entei to have a change of heart, and it bounded away, though for a moment I felt a grateful presence in my mind.

The urge to throw up was only tempered by the beautiful reporter lady running up to me, a her face filled with a look of almost religious gratitude.

“You saved us!” she said, before she grabbed the sides of my face and pulled me in for a lengthy, and rather enjoyable it has to be said, kiss. “That was incredible! You faced down a legendary and didn’t even flinch. Your Gyarados even chased it off!”

“And I got it all on camera,” said the man, who was a rather portly older gentleman wearing a lightly singed t-shirt sporting the words ‘Peekin at chu’ above the outline of a Pikachu. “You’re a real hero buddy.”

I will admit, I was rather lost for words in that moment. What does one say to that? I decided that going for nonchalant was probably the best plan. I casually returned Gyarados and clipped it onto my belt alongside 5 other Magikarp. “Well, I heard your cry for help and knew I was needed. You both did very well to survive as long as you did.”

With those words, I think I might have sealed my fate. Within the month I was being hailed as ‘the greatest trainer you’ve never heard of’; I’d been inundated with interviews and challenges, all of which I turned down with as much demure modesty as I could conjure up; and some were even calling me the next Lance.

And to think, all I’d wanted was a quiet day to do some fishing.​

 

While Red was on Mount Silver tempering Mewtwo's ferocity, Blue looked to tame his own legendary in those three years of downtime.

---

"Blue?" Gramps said. "My goodness. You're looking better than the last time I saw you."

"Yeah. About that, I'm looking to go after Articuno."

For the longest pause, his grandfather had just stared at him. Then he sighed.

"Come along then."

Blue stared at his grandfather's back. "What, just like that?"

"I trust you know what dangers you are getting into, Blue. You've done remarkably well for yourself all of this time. If I can offer any assistance with this latest ambition, then I have a duty to follow through on."

Blue could only mutter under his breath, shaking his head. But he hurried inside of the laboratory. Gramps' aides moved out of the way. They mostly left him alone, and he liked it that way.

At the back of the lab, his grandfather was sorting through an old book. "Good, you've stopped dillydallying in the doorway. Come here so we can review these, please."

Blue joined him at the desk. "What even is all of this?"

"Do you think yourself the first Indigo League Champion to go after the legendaries?"

Red came to mind. "No."

"Good. Every Champion, for reasons of their own, have sought the immutable power held within Moltres, Zapdos, and Articuno. Forces of living nature, and more deadly than any natural disaster for their own wills."

"Giovanni didn't--" Blue stopped himself. "Well. I suppose it was Team Rocket who were behind the Mew program. He just inherited the work from the previous generation."

"And created his own in the process," Oak said. "There's a lesson of its own in that, but you aren't here to be taught about morality. Nor, in my humble opinion, do I think you need to be."

Blue's mouth slipped open. "What?"

His grandfather flipped through another page. "I said that you've changed since the days of your challenge. You've grown up, Blue."

His customary brash attitude had nothing. He settled on a sigh, running his hand through his hair, and looking down at the book.

"Ahem. Yes. What we have here are the reports of the collective champions. You may wish to peruse them all as well as you can, as perhaps there is some overlap, some crucial insight detailing how the Legendary Birds behave, though I have yet to finish, personally speaking."

"You of all people couldn't finish reading about pokemon?"

"I did send my grandson and his rival to finish cataloguing the gathered species in our region, didn't I?" Oak returned with a stern smile. "Half of these are written in pre-Kanto script. I'm afraid the last native speakers of that tongue have been dead for centuries, and as you well know, the only woman who could contact their spirits has been, shall we say, spiteful for the last three decades."

"So how am I supposed to read them?"

"By seeking out her apprentice, naturally. A young man named Morty, if I am not mistaken. I believe he lives in Ecruteak City."

Blue ran a hand through his hair again. "Is this your way of setting me up with an ally for the hunt, or are you legitimately telling me to speak with the dead?"

His grandfather looked at him as if he was deaf. "Who is better placed to recount their final moments facing Articuno than the dead? I've gone ahead and marked the specific accounts I believe will be of the most help to you. The rest you can sort through in your own time if you'd like, or we can sit down and go over them together."

 

Bat Wings, Toad Spleens, and Rat Guts

“The instructions for a de-aging solution are on the board,” Snape intoned dully during the first class of the year. “Be careful with the dried bat wings, they’re frail. And try not to blow anything up,” he glared at Longbottom.

As the students scrambled to the ingredient’s cabinet, one lone dunderhead remained in her seat, her hand raised high.

Snape sighed. “What is it, Miss Patil?”

“Professor, I can’t use bat wings,” she said. “Do you have an alternative?”

Snape narrowed his eyes and felt the beginning of a headache. What new type of foolishness have the Gryffindors concocted now?

“And why, Miss Patil, would you not use a common potion ingredient?”

“Sir, I don’t believe it’s ethical to use ingredients harvested from living creatures,” she said.

Snape grunted. “Do you also refuse to drink milk, since it comes from a living creature?”

“Yes, sir,” Parvati said. “I’m a vegan.”

“Vegan?” Snape asked, his headache worsening.

“It means I don’t consume anything taken from a living creature. That included meat, eggs, milk, honey, jelly, quills, and—”

“Miss Patil,” Snape raised his voice. “Almost all potions use ingredients taken from living creatures, certainly the most potent ones. I don’t recall you had any objection to that in the past.”

“I’ve become a vegan over the summer,” Parvati said in a tone befitting of Granger.

Snape sneered. “Well, Miss Patil, I suppose you will just have to fail your Potions class. Pity.”

“But, sir,” Parvati refused to stop annoying him. “Isn’t there any alternative that could achieve the same effect?”

“No, there isn’t,” he said with a vicious smile.

“What about conjured animals, or if I transfigured an object into a bat wi—”

“That won’t work either. Conjured animals lack the magical properties of real animals. You should have learned that in Professor McGonagall’s class by now.”

“Sir, I feel I must try, who knows—”

“Fine, fine, do it!” Snape shouted, too tired of her idiocy. The dunderheads stared at him. “Let it be on your friends to explain to your parents what happened if the potion blows up and melts your face!”

Snape sat and massaged his temples. He didn’t even bother checking the students’ work. Never before he came by such a ridiculous idea, not even from Lily. It had to be some muggle influence, he decided.

Meanwhile, Parvati transfigured a banana into a bat wing and used a drying charm on it. Snape snuck furtive glances at her, wondering what nasty effect this might have on the potion. He spent the rest of the lesson browsing through his list of creatively sadistic detention ideas and deciding which one would suit Patil the most.

Thankfully, by the end of the lesson, her potion hadn’t blown up. He stood and peered down to check it. The concoction most definitely didn’t have the puce shade that it should otherwise have had, though that didn’t always mean that the potion failed.

“Attention, students,” he drawled. “Today we are about to witness the result of a little experiment. Miss Patil, in her infinite benevolence, decided that we should not be using ingredients harvested from the living, and settled for using a transfigured alternative instead. Now we shall see how that worked out for her.”

The students all pushed their chairs back as far as they could. He summoned a live toad from his office, and carefully stuck a dropper in Parvati’s potion.

“Professor, no!” she yelled. “You can’t experiment on a living being! They have feelings too, you know!”

Snape cringed. “Would you prefer to test the result on yourself, Miss Patil? After all, if your idea has any merit, it shouldn’t harm you at all.”

Parvati emitted a glup sound from her throat as a way of response.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he said, and forced the dropper into the toad’s mouth.

The students fixed their eyes on the toad, with baited breaths. Snape laid it on Parvati’s table…

Where it promptly turned into a tadpole.

“Yes!” Parvati shouted and stood in triumph, her fellow Gryffindors cheering behind. Snape froze in astonishment. She had just revolutionized the field of potion brewing. “Vegans one, Snape null!”

That’s it, Snape decided. He was retiring.

Alternative ending

The students all pushed their chairs back as far as they could. “Accio rat,” Snape said. A rat that was napping on Weasley’s lap flew into his hands.

Weasley sputtered. “No! Not Scabbers, you greasy—”

“Ten points from Gryffindor for Mr. Weasley’s outburst, and it would be a hundred if you will not sit down right now,” Snape said, his wand aimed at the redhead.

“Professor, please, no!” Parvati yelled. “You can’t experiment on a living being! It’s cruel and unethical!”

“That’s how we do it in the magical world,” Snape sneered, and forced the dropper into the rat’s mouth.

The students fixed their horrified eyes on the rat, with baited breaths. Snape laid it on Parvati’s table…

Where it promptly exploded in a shower of gore.

“Let that be a lesson to any of you smartasses who think they can circumvent millennia of magical tradition.”

 

Halloween Screwdriver

Harry was 27 by the time he had defeated Voldemort. He had lost an eye, a leg, and all his friends to the war. Everything he had ever loved was gone. Even Hogwarts, his home, was in ruins.

So, when his old friend Death offered, in exchange for the Hallows, to send him back in time to a world where Voldemort never existed, and where he could live in Hogwarts and have a normal childhood, he had no objections.

He should have known there would be a catch.

In truth, he forgot just how fucking boring 11-year-old kids tend to be.

Sure, the first time around, when he was an insecure boy in a new and exciting world, it was fun to get into adventures with Ron and Hermione. Now, though... he could hardly relate to the snot-nosed, wet behind the ear midgets.

Death had sent him to the night just after his sorting. If he had known a week ago what he knew now, he would maybe try to go to a different house, just for a change, but a week ago he was desperate and grieving and sentimental.

Even though Voldemort never existed, things were still pretty much the same, despite that making zero sense from a causality standpoint. Neville was still a bumbling fool, Hagrid was still the wandless groundskeeper, and Snape was still a dour Potions Master, even though he was originally put into that position on Voldemort’s orders. Harry suspected that Death lied and just put him under an illusion of a different world, which would explain the anachronisms, but, then again, at least he was in good old Hogwarts, in peace, and that’s all he ever wanted.

Or so he thought.

It was maddening to sit in classes that he had already been to, engage in conversations with drooling little kids, and go to bed by ten. At first, he made an effort to go through the motions. He performed the spells verbally and pretended to be surprised when they worked on the first try (which earned him way too much attention from a frustrated Hermione), smiled at Ron’s dumb jokes, and acted as though he gave a shit when Snape took good boy points from Gryffindor because of his attitude. But he quickly got tired of it. Living a lie would make anyone go crazy.

Not to mention having to exchange letters with his very much alive parents, and little sister.

He was 27, for fuck’s sake. He was used to getting drunk and having sex with a Polyjuiced prossie every night. But his testicles haven’t even dropped yet. Might as well. He couldn’t imagine how awkward it would be to be horny for teenage girls. Uncomfortable implications aside, having a conversation with them was pretty much like playing Quidditch with centaurs.

This world was so boring. There were no late-night adventures, no trolls in lavatories, no rogue Death Eaters or Horcruxes or three-headed dogs. Even Ron and Hermione never argued with each other, and the Halloween Charms lesson had come and went without conflict.

He had to do something to spice it up.

“Uh, Harry, what did you just pour in your pumpkin juice?” asked Ron.

“Potion that will turn me into a ghost,” Harry answered, screwing the lid back on his flask of vodka, and mixing the drink with his wand. “I figured I might have some fun, since it’s Halloween.”

“We’re not allowed to do that!” Hermione chirped.

“Don’t you have some bathroom to cry in, Busy Beaver?”

Hermione’s eyes flooded and she predictably ran off to play Moaning Myrtle.

“Wow, Harry, that was really mean,” Ron said.

“Why don’t you go and rescue your princess, then? I’m sure you’ll both have a great time bonding over being little bitches.”

“Why must you hurt me in this way,” Ron mumbled.

“It’s for the greater good.”

Really, he was just trying to set them up together a little earlier.

“Wait, what do you mean, rescue? Rescue you from what?”

Harry was about to say ‘from a lifetime of being a lonely nerd with no friends’, but, just then, a Confounded Quirrell stumbled into the Great Hall.

“Troll! Troll in the dungeons!”

Mayhem erupted.

“Hermione doesn’t know about the troll! We need to tell her!” Ron said.

“Go ahead, Roland, don’t forget to put on your shiny armour.”

As Ron went off, Harry used the cover of chaos to Disillusion himself. He followed the Slytherins to the dungeons invisibly.

“Um, Flint, aren’t we going where the troll is supposed to be?” little Nott asked.

“Shut up, runt,” Flint said.

“My father will hear about this,” Malfoy murmured.

Pansy Parkinson sniffed. “Do you smell that?”

Harry’s homemade troll-golem entered the hallway with a grunt. The students screamed and ran away, but Harry had turned the stairs into a slide, and they all fell back.

Nothing like watching a bunch of Slytherins wet their pants to cheer him up.

The upper-year Slytherins were unleashing their arsenal of dark curses upon the troll, which only made him angrier. Flint, Pucey and Baddock were knocked into the air by his mighty club. The Slytherin Quidditch team won’t be doing well in their upcoming match against Gryffindor, that was for sure. Malfoy was trying to be brave by throwing a curse, but the beast just plucked him up and threw him away behind his back.

When Snape arrived, furious, Harry hit him with a Tripping jinx from behind, and Snape fell on his face, breaking his nose with a loud, satisfying crunch. The troll stepped on his back as he chased the kids. Just when he was about to pounce on them, Harry transfigured the troll into a snake and sent it back to the Room of Requirement.

Dumbledore, who arrived a minute later, was amused.

“Ah, a classic prank, it isn’t a Halloween in Hogwarts without one,” he chuckled at the crippled Slytherins.

After Harry made sure that the golem was hidden in the Room of Requirement for later use, he went back to the common room.

“Where the heck were you?” Percy said.

“Got lost on the way,” Harry shrugged. Ron and Hermione sent him venomous glares.

“Well, pay more attention to the prefects next time!” Percy bit. “Fred, George, if you’re behind this, I swear...”

Harry hadn’t forgot how eager Percy was to kiss Fudge’s hemorrhoid-riddled arse. The Weasleys had forgiven him out of sentimentality, but there was no denying that the tosser was an ungrateful traitor. He needed to be taken down a peg or four. And he definitely didn’t deserve a Head Boy badge to brag about.

“Your brother is in his O.W.L year, isn’t he?” Harry asked Fred and George.

They exchanged a glance. “What’s it to you, specky?” Twin #1 said.

“I just heard the market for wit-sharpening potions is booming thanks to fifth-years. But it’s illegal to take an exam under the influence. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if Percy were to be caught doing so?”

“It would be catastrophic for his career,” Twin #2 cracked a smile.

“Such a great potential, spoiled in its infancy due to momentary weakness,” said Twin #1.

“A tragedy, really...”

Satisfied that Percy’s future was in bad hands, Harry slurped the rest of his Halloween Screwdriver.

The hospital wing was full of groaning Slytherins. He couldn’t quite hide his smile as he approached Snape’s bed.

“How are you doing, professor?”

Snape let out an incoherent croak. “Potter...” he groaned. “I know it was you... you’ll pay for it...”

“Really, Snape? Threatening students? What makes you so sure it was me?”

“Your father... pulled the same prank... in his fourth year...!”

“Hmm. He never told me anything about that.”

“Fucking sneaky lying Potters...”

“I just wanted to let you know, professor, that Skele-Gro was invented by a Potter. Quick recovery,” Harry said and clapped Snape’s shoulder. The professor cried out pitifully.

...

To be continued?

 

Valyrian steel rang across the camp. Each blow gave song to their combat, a voice that cried out in pain. The steel and iron of this world dented upon Old Valyria's finest, yet no matter how proud the weapon, it was only as good as the swordsman wielding it.

Harry's entire arm was turning numb as he danced away with parries and deflections. Anything more direct was beyond him, and by the Shade's mocking laughter, it found him as challenging as he would have a first year at Hogwarts. Were his robes not enchanted with the spells of a dozen worlds, they, and the flesh underneath, would have been slashed to bloody ribbons by now.

As it was he could feel each strike reverberating through his bruising bones. The pain was a constant ache at the fore of his mind. It was inevitable that he stumbled. His next block swung his arm wide and Widow's Wail flew from his hand to embed up to the hilt in the nearest tree, leaving Harry open. He could sense what was to come, and in that beat he knew what he had to do. Even if he wanted to draw another blade from his armory, he had no time to dip inside of the pocket, or attempt to summon one.

His eyes were hard, resolute, as the Shade's sword bit deep into dragon-hide and pierced deeper still into his stomach. He shuddered, fell slack, and sank to his knees as rivulets of red rolled around the wound.

"Oh, you won't escape as easily as this, magician!" the Shade hissed with wicked delight.

He could feel the cold fingers that encircled his throat and squeezed, so cold that they seemed to burn, a wound that would leave an indelible mark like a permanent brand.

Half-slitted with the pain of it all, Harry grit his teeth and looked up into the Shade's cruel gaze.

And after a moment, they stared directly into one another's souls; the chaos that filled the being known as Durza screamed with frustration, fury, hunger, hatred. Deep below that skirling animosity trembled a pale and bent man whose name had all but been forgotten, known now only by the palest of whimpers. The remnants of ambition laid over him like a tattered cloak, trailing off into chains anchored into the ground.

When the Soul Gaze lifted, Harry exhaled and pushed with all of his ferocious will, and his naked soul stepped beyond his physical form. He was in that beat no different than any other wild spirit inhabiting the land, as Durza would have said in the moments before.

But true astral projection was much, much more than the dizzying little sprites of Alagaesia.

All of his being, his knowledge, his history in worlds far and unknown here, his understanding of souls ascended from within to garb his angered spirit and illuminate him after the fashion of the wizards of Middle-earth. He was mightier than any magician the Shade could have imagined, and in him was an emerald flame which knew no end.

As his body lay there bleeding around the sword still lodged in his guts, Harry Potter’s spirit stepped forward and enshrouded Durza within that sum totality-- and together they bled into one another in shrieking distress, fear, and pain.

The invader seeped below his mental defenses. The nearest spirits bellowed in rage.

Faces of death leered back. Red-eyed and serpentine, green-eyed and daring, blue-eyed and wise. White, thin, and hollow, angered and prideful.

Memories warred between them.

The first spirit bent and was broken, terrified by the knowledge of the void whence life could never return from-- yet this impossible being had. The invader carried death wherever he went. It followed, ever, before, beside, and behind.

One by one, the wicked and the wayward fell away, and with each that dwindled, a shackle upon the man below eroded.

Never before had the thing known as Durza feared its own end like this, even before the wroth of that terrible abomination Shruikan and the King.

-.-.-.-

One take on the eventual fight scene with Durza in Last Dragonrider 4.0(or 2020 edition, since that was the latest reboot).

 

Halloween Screwdriver 2: Psycho Professor

The second-year students shuffled towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom in excitement. They would be the first class to be taught by Harry Potter, legendary slayer of basilisks, dragon tamer, the youngest person to ever receive his own Chocolate-Frog card.

He was already there when they entered the classroom, leaning back in his chair and plopping his feet up on his desk, which was bare except for a wand, and a tall, narrow glass of cloudy pumpkin juice. He stared ahead in boredom without meeting their curious gazes. They sat for a few minutes, whispering to each other, waiting for the rest to arrive.

Eventually, Professor Potter raised his hand and took a look at his wristwatch. To their bewilderment, he kept at it for a few seconds. A faint smile crossed his face, and the bell rang.

Just then, the door slammed shut, making them all jump in their seats, and a flock of Cornish pixies descended upon the students from the ceiling, in a flurry of purple and black wings.

It was anarchy. Several girls screamed as the pixies grabbed their hair, and fought back by trying to pock the pests with their wands. A few of the creatures lifted an unoccupied chair together and threw it down into the center of the classroom. Students scattered out of the way, knocking each other and nearby chairs down.

The sound of clanging metal, screams, and buzzing wings was soon joined by panicked shouts, as the children threw the first spells they could think of at the pixies: tripping jinxes, levitation charms, matchstick-to-needle transfiguration spells, and in the case of one Hufflepuff, a Lumos.

None of those did much to stop the pixies from wreaking havoc on the classroom. Eventually, a brighter student had the sense to cast an Incendio. The flying pests paused for a moment in confusion, as a scorched member of their pack fell down to the floor, the stench of burning hair emanating out of his corpse.

The students quickly picked up on the idea, and each threw around his own fire charm. A few of the pixies squealed when they were caught by the fire, and darted away to the ceiling. The students cheered and flipped their fists towards the creatures, but their exaltation was short lived; a chubby kid started running towards the door with cries of horror as his clothes caught fire, as did several of the tables. The flames leapt higher, and other students tried to join him with a chorus of shrieks, but couldn’t manage to open the door.

By then fire already started spreading to the rest of the tables. “Aguamenti!” shouted a girl, sending out a jet of water that hit several of her friends, and did little to stop the fire. Some of her wet friends attempted the same, to varying results. Another student rushed towards the exit only to slip on the floor and fly into the group of kids who were trying to burn down the door, making them all stumble and fall down like a set of bowling pins.

Suddenly, it all stopped. The fires were extinguished, the water disappeared, and the pixies froze in place above their heads. The fallen chairs returned to their initial positions, repairing their broken legs, any scorch marks fading away. The bruised, scorched, and wet students slowly got back to their feet, massaging their injuries, coughing and groaning.

“Mediocre,” said a dispassionate voice at the front of the class. Professor Potter was still sitting with his feet on the desk, just as he did when they entered, but now he had his wand and drink in his hands. The students glared at him in varying amounts of anger and disbelief.

“You gave us no warning!” shouted the Aguamenti girl.

“So?” he said lazily. “You think the pack of acromantulas gave me a warning before they tried to eat me alive? You think a cursed book gave my friend a warning before it tried to possess her? You think my aunt gave me any warning before she tried to hit me in the head with a sauce pan?” he quirked an eyebrow, his face apathetic at the sight of the kids with their mouth gaped open.

“Well, no, but—”

“No buts. This is Defense Against the Dark Arts, and the dark will not bow to you politely before it will try to rip out your souls, or choke you to death. You need to be prepared.”

“You didn’t teach us any spells to deal with—”

“I don’t need to teach you spells. Use whatever you can. When the manticore I fought proved resistant to spells, I levitated a boulder on his head. When I didn’t have a wand, I used a sword to kill a giant snake. When I didn’t have a sword, I used a basilisk fang. Be creative. Now,” he interjected, before the students could argue. “Your application of the fire charm was a step in the right direction, but it had a flaw. Can anyone tell me what it was?”

Aguamenti girl slowly raised her hand.

“Yes, you, Granger.”

“T-That’s not my name, sir—”

“Don’t care. Go on.”

“Well, uh, the fire charm... back-fired?”

“Correct!” Professor Potter smiled. “Fifty points to Gryffindor!”

“...I’m a Ravenclaw, sir.”

“Never mind. The point is, watch your surroundings! I once cast a blasting spell on the floor of a skyscraper so the troll in front of me would fall down the hole. Do you know what happened next?”

The students shook their heads in a daze.

“Well, it was a terrible mess. The muggles call it nine-eleven, I was told.”

A few muggleborns cringed, and the rest turned their heads to their friends in confusion. They all looked quite miserable.

“Now, when faced with magical beasts, they all have their unique weaknesses, but some soft spots are more common than others. In flying creatures, the wings are often the most delicate part,” the Professor flicked his wand and summoned one of the frozen creatures to him, grabbing it in both hands. “Sometimes you don’t even have to use your wand, just grab their wings and...”

The class collectively shuddered as he tore the pixie’s wings apart in one stretch, and threw it in the garbage can behind him. They stared motionless as he beamed at them.

“Well? Why aren’t you all writing this down?”

Very slowly, they broke out of their stupor and picked parchment and quills from their bags. The professor hummed the Hogwarts anthem to himself while they jutted down notes in eerie silence. The bell chimed before most of them put down their quills.

“Alright, now, homework,” Professor Potter took a sip from his glass, his eyes traveling back and forth as he was contemplating in silence for a few moments. “I want each one of you to enter the Forbidden Forest at night, and kill the first thing that attacks you. Bring the corpses back to me for inspection and grading.”

“WHAT?!”

“That’s insane!”

“You can’t possibly expect us to manage something like—“

“Oh, shut it,” the professor slashed his wand through the air and their mouths all sealed themselves shut.

The midgets stared at him in dumbfounded silence. “Honestly, kids these days,” he murmured. “Back in my day, we had to fight a troll in our first year.”

He looked at them disapprovingly for a minute before he finally remembered that they couldn’t talk, and waved his wand to cancel the spell.

A girl with scorched blond hair in the back stood up. “My father will hear about thi—"

“Your father pissed himself in fear when I caught him crying in the girl’s bathroom with Moaning Myrtle,” the professor said. That shut down her whining. “Now, why are you all so eager to be late to Professor McGonagall’s class?”

Professor Potter waved his wand and the unfrozen pack of Cornish pixies descended on the class again, as the students made a run for the door.

 

Dany meets my DH!Harry, jaded and amused, pre Last Dragonrider.



"My queen, there is danger here," Ser Jorah Mormont said as he hurried into her room without knocking. Had she not been draped in the lionskin cloak, he would have beheld her as only Khal Drogo and her handmaidens had, and not for the first Daenerys regretted the fervor with which the loyal man served her. Still, though his gaze dipped for a moment upon what flesh as he could see, he found nothing more than he had before, and after a longing beat, his eyes returned to her own.

"There is danger everywhere, Ser Jorah," she answered his obvious concern. "Everywhere that I shall go, there will be danger waiting for me. I have lived with the threat of danger since the moment I was born," she said.

"I understand that, my queen, but this city is different. Loath though I am to admit it, there is real, true magic here. I have--" yet before he could go on, Dany held up a hand, the other careful to adjust her cloak accordingly, and he fell silent.

"True magic is what grants my children their life. I do not fear magic, nor any means which will drive me closer to reclaiming my birthright." She hoped that he would finally accept her words and let the matter be, but instead he turned pleading eyes and expression upon her, and she sighed. "Very well, Ser Jorah. What have you seen that worries you so?"

"A man, dark of garb not unlike a maester of the Citadel, dark of hair and darker still of eye, prowling through the streets asking after 'the mother of dragons'. He seemed especially interested when he heard mention of their names. I might have confronted him, had he not simply vanished back into the crowd as easily as a shadow upon the walls."

"I wouldn't call it a shadow, so much as masking myself from unwanted eyes," a third voice, a man's voice full of sardonic mirth, spoke from the entrance. Ser Jorah's eyes grew wide as he turned, already drawing the sword at his hip, but the man to whom he had described simply leaned there in the doorway with both arms crossed. "You make a poor defender, but an excellent guide, sir. It might have taken me hours to explore this place blindly."

Daenerys looked over the stranger with a terrible thrill. An assassin had at last closed upon her position, and she was as naked as the day she was born. All that she had between her and death was the exile knight, for somehow neither bloodrider nor handmaiden or Xaro Xhoan Daxon's servants had been able to stop his intrusion. Her dragons were still too small and too far away, feasting well upon sheep.

She could not form the words that jumped inside of her throat. Ser Jorah spoke them for her, then. "Who are you to intrude upon Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons--" no doubt he would have named her rightful titles in full, if he had been given the chance. He had not yet charged, no doubt for fear of leaving her completely vulnerable. The stranger unfolded his arms and make a strange sweeping motion with his right, and Ser Jorah's voice simply fell away, though she saw when she could dare turn her head toward him that his lips yet moved.

"Let's cut the chitchat for now, sir. You've done your part this day. Rest for a time." Another motion, yet this time brilliant light flew from his hand, and though Ser Jorah brought up his sword as if to deflect the magic blow, it hit him nonetheless in a shower of red sparks and the blade tumbled from his hand, his body dropping to the ground between them. Dany reached a hand forward as if of its own volition, and now she found her voice, and it was hot with the fury of the dragon, as her late brother Viserion had so often preached. He had woken the dragon.

"How dare you," she began. If she was to die this day, she would not do so hiding behind a cloak and seated. She rose, shedding her feeble garb, but his own stare never wavered from hers, and she found that Ser Jorah's description of them was true; they were of a green so dark as to appear like pools of liquid midnight, only the faintest ebbs of emerald burning beneath the surface.

She realized that, rather than distract him with her nudity, she had instead become entranced by his stare, and she shook her head to clear it; the wrath of the dragon could not be dismissed so easily. "If you have come to kill me, then so be it. But you shall not harm those under my command, do you hear me? I shall not allow that!" Her voice was firm, unyielding.

The man gave a great sigh. "Why has everyone I have met today assumed that I came here to kill you? I've never met you before today, Daenerys Stormborn, I have never set foot upon this dusty and humid continent until I crashed here this morning. It was simply chance that lead me to these city walls, and idle curiosity to meet with a queen-without-a-crown." He stepped closer, and shrugged out of the thick black robes around his shoulders. Beneath he wore plainer black clothing bereft of adornment, the very most being the gloves and strange boots. She saw now that he had some sort of leather harness strapped around his right arm, and when he held the robes out to her, she wondered at whatever secret weapon he held there.

"If you don't mind putting on something that will actually conceal yourself this time, I'd like to resume our introduction. You still haven't heard my name, and apparently I haven't heard your own in full, if the knight's announcement was anything to go by." He shifted hands when he saw her hesitance and slid the plain rod there out, sliding it instead into the waistline of his trousers.

There was a ring of truth behind his words. The anger in her veins was rapidly fading, as the dragon returned to slumber again. She had never woken the dragon within herself for very long before.

Dany slid her arms through the sleeves and cinched the robes closed with the loose belt around her own waist, being closer to her modest bosom than her hips. The difference in their height was not great, at a glance, but then he was still at least a head taller than her, and his garb had been made with his muscular build in mind instead of her own diminished stature. "There, I am dressed as you requested," she said. "Now I will hear your name, and you will hear mine in full."

He nodded. "Harry Potter, Wizard of a Thousand Realms, Master of Death."

===

A few years old. I dunno, I liked it then but hadn't been able to pick it up and carry the voices forward. I figured Harry was trying to figure out his purpose in this world, which always comes down to two events-- either a DH!Voldemort has popped out here ahead of him, or he's here to learn some lesson, like new magic, or take up another skill. Anyway I'd like to return to this at some point.

 

You do not like Jorah do you.

 

Well, why would anybody?

 

Good point, but there's a difference between disliking a character and portraying a character as a caricature, or bashing them.

 

I was going off of memory, and my last real memory of him was around the time of his banishment in the show and subsequent trials to get back to Dany-- so overly loyal while she had an overall air of disdain for his attention. Harry here is just a smarmy asshole by default-- following a whim and happening upon the right lead. I guess I have to re-read the first few books to refresh my voice for Jorah and Dany at this point in time.