I'm thinking about it, actually. I'll have to employ a timeline to keep track of major events.

 

Hehe. He's also one of the many World of Darkness characters - so that could work in crossover.
An old Malkavian, if I remember correctly.
Ah, yes, here.

Also, gah, now I want to write some lines for my HP/WoD crossover in the works, and I just can't find time to write anything these past few days.

 

This is a continuation of the Mass Effect/Harry Potter drabble from above.
---


After Commander Shepard left, Harry leaned back and crushed the remnant of the cigar into the ashtray. He sighed and rubbed his face. It was one thing to see footage of a dead person get up from a laboratory table and start killing, but it was quite another thing to see the same dead person before him acting very…life like. He did not believe in reincarnation or gods – he saw and experienced too much to hold much belief – but he knew souls. They could be brutalized, fragmented, or even transferred between containers…but even they had limits. Commander Shepard…was an anomaly. Had the sorcerers of the old been here, they would’ve called him the next generation inferi. He had to ensure the cooperation of the remaining necromancers in assisting Miranda. She didn’t know that Shepard’s heart wasn't a cloned heart – nor would she ever learn that. Nobody, beside himself, would need to know every single process of reviving a dead person. It was for the greater good.

Harry picked up a glass of scotch and sipped it. He truly detested the whole “For the Greater Good” business – and it wasn’t because his old Headmaster was a firm supporter of the ideology. No, he disliked it because following that dogma led to the shedding of morals and prioritizing progress at all cost. He did not consider himself to be a moral and just person – not by a long shot – but even he balked when the topic of Shepard’s resurrection came up.

In the end, he had to approve it – not because he wanted to push humanity farther than any other species, though that was a nice benefit – but because in the end, Commander Shepard was too important, too needed for the survival of humanity to remain dead. On some days, he wondered if he truly was any different from likes of Grindelwald, Voldemort, de Winter or countless other monsters he fought in his younger days.

Finishing his drink, he set the cup down and brought up the after action report on Commander Shepard. Skipping through military jargons on kinesthetic memory and weapon accuracy, he honed to the psychological report. “…mbat efficiency undiminished. Subject dispatched hostiles with signature triple tap and expended no additional effort on any individual, hostile or otherwise. Subject did not portray any signs of PSTD or acute amnesia beside the chronological confusion as a result of waking two years into the future…” “…was lucid and expressed no confusion on recollecting past events. Short and long term memory recollections appear to be intact, though a more thorough psychological profile examination is recommended…” “…is in the opinion of this reviewer to install a deactivated control chip in the subject due to his willful and uncompromising nature which might affect potential Cerberus operations, present and future…”

Lighting another cigar with a ghost of a smile, he ran through the rest of the report. Ah, Miranda. Though the report was compiled by all Cerberus operatives who had contact with Shepard, the last line was pure Miranda. Sweet, naïve Miranda. While she had many acquaintances and some friends, she had no brothers or sisters forged under the unforgiving fires of war. Bonds formed under such condition often pulled people close, closer than family, closer than lovers. He had no illusion that Garrus Vakarian, Tali’Zorah or Ashley Williams could spot a mind controlled Shepard from a mile away…and the resulting confrontation would’ve been disastrous. Each of them were influential people in their own right, and with their support backing Shepard, they could help him achieve his ultimate goal. Furthermore, Shepard was his last back up plan, a back up plan made in plans within plans with the ultimate goal of human survival.

No, he refused to budge on any measures to obtain direct control of Commander Shepard. Rubbing a phantom scar on his shoulder, Harry continued to smoke. An inaudible swish echoed through the carnivorous room as the electronic doors opened behind him and the distinct klik-klak of his secretary’s heels reached his ears. She came into his view, wearing a tasteful button up shirt and skirt, revealing just enough cleavage and skin to be enticing and yet remaining professional. Leaning over – and showing more of her cleavage – she filed confidential one-use datapads on his chair, emptied his ashtray, took his empty cup of scotch and walked out of the room without saying a word. He leaned back, absently staring at the display of the dying star. Coming to a decision, he brought his hands up, activating his omnitool and tapping a series of commands. The wall displaying the dying star immediately winked out, plunging the room in near darkness. Another command turned the electric blue shade in his eyes to a killing curse green. He also applied a small wandless glamour on himself, adding a vicious scar to his face and softening various hard angles on his face. The scar went from top of his right eyebrows and went down to just above his jawline. Preparations done, he leaned back. It was time to call in a couple favors….and a life debt. “UDI, find Zaeed Massani.”

“Acknowledged.” A synthetic voice called out of his chair headrest. “Video call is ready on display three.” Harry crossed his legs and activated the call. In front of him, a floating holographic display buzzed into view, showing a staticky image of a scarred and grizzled old man with one eye staring back at him.

“Sergeant Massani.”

The scarred old man squinted at him for a moment before his remaining eye widened in surprise.

“General Williams?!”


-----
Honestly, I loved Illusive Man as he was in ME2.

In ME3, he turned into a mustache twirling supervillian that monologued at every available opportunity. Would the head of a massive multi-cluster organization capable of bringing down entire governments personally show up in person to engage in dick waving contests and going "nyah, you can't catch meeeee!"

Who does that?

 

@Deplore - You need t change it into a full-time story. The potential for it is quite large. Also, it would be interesting to see, how Harry has become someone like TIM - hopefuly without the retarded idea of being zaped by Arca Monolith.

EDIT: Also, Zaeed Masani, the closest we can get to Mass Effect version of Old Man Henderson - the guy that "won" Call of Cthulhu.

 

Just an unnamed snippet to a story that never really took off. The italics at the start denote text taken from HP&OotP.

~*~*~​

“Those in favour of clearing the accused of all charges?” said Madam Bones’s booming voice.

Harry’s head jerked upwards. There were hands in the air … less than half, not even twenty. His stomach dropped and the urge to cry swept over him as Madam Bones, with a tone of great reluctance, said, “And those in favour of conviction?”

There were more than thirty hands thrust into the air in response to her call and Fudge, twisting in his seat to count them while waving his own hand in the air, smiled triumphantly. “Excellent,” he said, “excellent … the accused if found guilty of all charges. Given his age and past service to the wizarding world the court will not impose a prison sentence on the accused. However, his wand is forfeit and he is expelled from the wizarding world for a period of not less than five years. Possession of a wand or entering designated wizarding locations – not including private residences – before this period is up will result in the full punishment – up to two decades in Azkaban Prison and the permanent revocation of wand rights – being applied. When the period of five years has expired the accused may apply to the Ministry of Magic for permission to re-enter the wizarding world and regain his wand rights.” Fudge gave Harry a smile that suggested that such a thing would never happen. “Potter, surrender your wand.”

Harry furiously blinked back tears, refusing to add to Fudge’s satisfaction by crying in front of him. He took a deep, shaky breath and reached for his wand, his mind a whirl of turmoil and indecision as some dim, dangerous part of him roared to life, telling him that to surrender his wand without a fight was idiotic and a betrayal of everything he loved.

“No.” The word startled Harry, more so when he realised that it hadn’t come from him but the Headmaster. Dumbledore placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. Harry felt light with relief. He looked at the Headmaster and was startled by the look of absolute fury that had come over his normally serene countenance.

Fudge’s face twisted into something vicious and ugly. “You have no authority here Dumbledore! You …”

“Be quiet!” Dumbledore’s voice boomed through the courtroom, overwhelming every other noise and startling Fudge into silence. When he spoke again every word conveyed his anger and the terrifying power that made him a man to be feared. “For years I have watched Harry shed blood and risk death to protect our world. He has done this without complaint and with no regard for reward or personal advancement. He did it because it was the right thing to do and I find the idea of letting you deprive him of his wand and exile him from our world intolerable. I refuse to let him hand over his wand.”

“You refuse?” Fudge said, finding his voice in the silence that followed Dumbledore’s speech. “I am the Minister of Magic and you stand in the heart of my Ministry and you refuse?” A half-disbelieving, half-nervous laugh escaped from Fudge. “You can’t refuse.”

Even from his side-profile view of the Headmaster Harry could see the smile that split Dumbledore’s beard. “Yes, I can,” he said simply.

Madam Bones stood, her expression shuttered. “Albus,” she said, infusing the name with a sense of familiarity that was at odds with her remote expression, “please don’t do this. You know what comes next.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “I do, Madam Bones. Do your duty,” he urged her.

“Aurors!” she shouted and the door to the courtroom was thrust open, admitting a quartet of dark wizard catchers in plain-robes.

Dumbledore spun towards them, his wand suddenly appearing in one hand while with the other he effortlessly manoeuvred Harry so that he was also facing the Aurors and shielded from the Wizengamot by Dumbledore’s body. Dumbledore thrust his wand through the air and there was a bright flash of red light that reminded Harry of a Stunning Spell except that it moved erratically, bouncing off of one Auror’s shield to strike down his three colleagues. Before they had fallen the fourth Auror was crumpling to his knees under some immense weight, unable to raise his wand.

He turned back to the Wizengamot to deflect Madam Bones’ stunner before swinging his wand in a circle above his head before flinging it towards the judges in a gesture reminiscent of a cowboy throwing a lasso. Madam Bones’ arms snapped to her side as Dumbledore completed the gesture, along with everyone else’s arms, Harry noticed.

“Come Harry, we are done here,” Dumbledore said, turning to Harry. Their eyes met and something surged within Harry, an urge to inflict harm, to destroy …

Dumbledore rapped the tip of his wand against Harry’s forehead and a shockwave of excruciating pain almost worse than the cruciatus curse tore through his skull, almost bringing him to his knees. “Enough of that,” he said sharply, staring at a point somewhere to the left of Harry’s eyes. The pain disappeared almost as soon as it had appeared, taking with it the desire to cause pain. “I regret that Harry but once we are free of the Ministry I shall explain why I did and I am sure that you will agree that it was necessary,” Dumbledore said as he guided Harry towards the door, casually countering the weight spell and stunning the Auror as they passed him. “For now I need you to trust me and to do as I say without hesitation. Do you trust me Harry?”

Harry hesitated before answering and he saw Dumbledore’s face crinkle with sadness at that hesitation. “Yeah,” he said at last. “I trust you.” It was true too, he realised. Despite everything that had happened over the past summer – or rather not happened – he still trusted the Headmaster.

“You do me a great service,” Dumbledore said, as they proceeded down the corridor outside the courtroom. “Keep your wand out, though I doubt you shall need it. Remember, the witches and wizards of the Ministry of Magic are, on the whole, good, honest people.” They rounded a corner and found Lucius Malfoy standing in the corridor, his hands folded over the polished grip of his cane.

“What about him?” Harry couldn’t help but ask.

Lucius saw them coming, took in their drawn wands and the expression on Dumbledore’s face and tried to draw his own wand. His forearm and hand twisted a full hundred and eighty degrees, the sound of snapping bones filling the corridor. His cane tumbled to ground as he fell and Lucius cried out in pain, his tone bordering on hysteria as he starred at his destroyed arm with its strange bulges where clumps of broken bone had converged.

“He is neither good nor honest,” Dumbledore said calmly, lowering his wand. He released Harry’s shoulder and strolled over to Lucius, looming over him. His wand twitched and the pureblood’s screams subsided, becoming soft whimpers. “Today changes nothing between us Lucius. Stay out of my school.” He stooped and plucked a bag that had fallen out of Lucius’ robes from the ground. It clanged heavily and Dumbledore peered into with interest. Craning his head Harry could see that it was full of shining galleons. “What is this? A donation for the Ministry, perhaps? How civic minded of you.”

Dumbledore pocketed the bag, drawing an incredulous look from Harry. “Better us than Fudge,” he said pragmatically. Considering the situation Harry felt that he couldn’t really argue with that.

They dove deeper into the corridors, forgoing the elevators in favour of a side door that Harry had not noticed during his arrival.

“Sir, where are we going?” Harry asked after several minutes. “Shouldn’t we be heading up, towards an exit?”

“By now the Atrium exits will all be closed and guarded and while I daresay that I could forge through the guards and unravel the locks I would prefer not to. Also, there is a stop that we must make before leaving through one of the lesser known backdoors.”

“Where are we going?”

Dumbledore turned to look at Harry, peering at him over his glasses but carefully not meeting his eyes. “The Department of Mysteries. There is something there belonging to you that we must retrieve.”

 

heh. I am surprised I've never seen this before.

Dumbledore taking Harry and prophecy after Harry is expelled, training him all year long in Grimmauld Place, just to come back in time to duel Voldemort resulting in Harry getting more influence in the ministry because they need him for the morale.

This has badass written all over it.

 

I loved the bit with Malfoy's arm; Dumbledore feels in-character yet also a lot more... serious -- or darker? It's great to see.

 

I liked that a lot, Peace. And while it works as a oneshot, I wish you'd write more. I love reading badass Dumbledore.

 

I wouldn't confine them to Grimmauld Place. The original story idea called for them to escape the MoM and take refuge with the Flamels and then the story would follow Harry as he became a competent wizard in his own right while he and Dumbledore travelled Britain and Europe trying to rally support, all the while hunted by the MoM and Death Eaters. It would be the good, badass Dumbledore mentors Harry fic that I've always wanted to read.

I loved writing the bit with Malfoy's arm. Mostly I saw it as an extension of the end of CoS where Dumbledore warns Lucius not to send any more of Voldemort's artifacts into his school. I was aiming for a darker but still restrained Dumbledore to fit a war scenario.

Now that I've reread it and answered a couple of posts I remember why I loved this story idea. Something to think about while I polish The Ticking Clock.

 

Not completely confined to Grimmauld. I thought they would have field trips too. Regarding support from other ministries, I don't support it. I always thought Voldemort is a local problem. Kinda like domestic terrorist. And a story where its always about people hunting them will get old fast. That is why I said "returning to ministry to fight voldemort". That way, 6th year, we have a competent (and probably badass) harry.

If you can write 5-10 chapters on training period with field trips while being hunted by MoM publicly and DE secretly, I think the purpose of this divergence is satisfied. Just my thoughts.

 

You mean, that EVERYBODY always wanted to read, right? Damn you!

Awesome drabble.

 

Just chipping in to say yeah, fantastic concept. I'd really enjoy reading more of that if you sat down to give it to us, Peace.

 

I wouldn't have them seek support from other Ministries when they're abroad. Doing that would add too much of a political element to the story. And you're right, Voldemort is a domestic problem (at least in my opinion), though I imagine he'd have some foreign supporters/volunteers. In fact, until the British MoM stops hunting Harry and Dumbledore I imagine that foreign Ministries would also be searching for them if they discovered their presence in their country.

Instead of seeking help from other Ministries I'd have Dumbledore looking for help from connected/powerful individuals. I think it would really offer the chance to explore Dumbledore's dealings outside of Hogwarts and his past. For example, I had a vague idea about him meeting a German wizard who ran an anti-Grindelwald organisation and convincing him to interdict a German smuggler who's running supplies into Britain for Voldemort and apprehending a South African wizard who's recruiting mercenaries for Voldemort. It would sort of be like Dumbledore calling on his version of the old boys network to fight the Dark Lord.

I planned a two-part story. The first part (approx. 10 chapters/70-85k) would be about Harry and Dumbledore on the run, building a network of foreign alliances while periodically ducking back into Britain to deal with issues there (like Umbridge in Hogwarts). The second part would be open war and would focus more heavily on Britain and Harry trying to come to terms with his role/figurehead position.

Shit, now that I've done this I'm suddenly really interested in the plot again. I might have to start worldbuilding ...

 

Figure I might as well put this here. HP/LOTR crossover. I started it years ago and have worked on it periodically over the years, but I doubt I'll ever make significant progress. I recently had a Desolation of Smaug burst of writing but that's now passed and I've shelved it again. So, here, have chapter one:

Maia
By Taure
Chapter One: The Wilderness​

Voldemort had raised his wand. His head was tilted to one side, like a curious child, wondering what would happen if he proceeded. Harry looked back into the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear-

He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light, and everything was gone.

Harry opened his eyes and, for the first time in his life, he saw. A veil had been lifted from before him, like he was waking from a long, dark dream to finally see the light of day. The world came to him in bright and vivid colour, resting as he was in a small forest glade, entirely unlike that of the Forbidden forest. Here it was light, and peaceful. The songs of birds filled the air, and the grass was a healthy green around him.

A blade of grass caught his eye and he stared at it, transfixed. Never before had anything seemed more beautiful to Harry, so complex yet delicate, so perfect in its design. He looked at it and he perceived it, his vision piercing beyond the seen. He gazed upon its inner workings and he understood them all, even as a child understands laughter. He had no names for its parts, nor theories of how they worked. He looked upon that leaf and he knew it like a man knows how to catch a ball, though he may know nothing of science or mathematics. Every part had its place, and Harry knew them all. If he closed his eyes he could have pictured it still, though he would have found it hard to put into words.

But he did not close his eyes. For a year and a day he gazed upon that blade of grass, amazed and awed by its beauty to the exclusion of all else. And as time passed, his vision penetrated deeper still, through to the very base of being, and there he heard it -- the music. It seemed familiar to Harry, through he could not guess where from, and he hummed along with it, feeling out its depths and highs, its gentle melody. It seemed to him that the music was the grass, and the grass was the music.

For an age of the earth Harry might have rested there, contemplating grass, had a fox not come and stepped on it.

Harry started, and looked down at the broken blade, trampled into the earth. He wept openly at its loss, and, without thinking, sang a song of lament, the words of which he would never remember. It came from deep within him, from the same place as the music of the grass, and he let it guide him.

When the song was finished, Harry remembered who he was.

Is this death? It doesn’t seem so bad.

It was then, as Harry moved to get up, that he realised he didn’t have a body. Strangely, he didn’t panic. It felt... natural. Comfortable. He could still see the world, though now he thought about it, it wasn’t quite the same as sight. It was awareness, unlimited by the senses of man, extending around him in all directions. He’d been focused on the grass, but now he focused on a tree several yards away, and he knew it like he was standing right before it. He could smell the scent of the bark, trace the texture of its surface, and perceive the slow movement of liquids within.

Experimenting, Harry tried to feel further, stretching his senses outwards. But it wasn’t his senses that expanded, it was him. He felt himself growing and filling the glade and beyond, a hundred yards around, and everything within that space he touched and knew - the trees, tall and older than Harry could have imagined, the flowers of vibrant blues and reds and gold, the animals running upon the ground, the insects crawling within the earth. And he knew, too, that should he wish to change those things he could, shaping the area of his being according to his wishes. He could raise the earth, or call water from the deeps to create a flood. He could bind the creatures to his will, or send them fleeing from his demesne.

The temptation to change things was immense, but then Harry remembered that single blade of grass, broken on the ground, and he withdrew. It was beautiful as it was. Who was he to try to change it on a whim?

For some time he stayed in that state, content to observe the ways of the forest. His mind turned several times to his friends, wondering what became of them and Voldemort. A quiet peace filled his being and he found himself unable to panic or worry. His thoughts were full of fondness for those he loved, but he had accepted death and passed on. Harry had played his part, and one day he was sure they would all meet again. But for now, he was on his next great adventure.

The sun rose and set a hundred times. As the days passed, Harry became aware that his glade was changing. The colours of the flowers bloomed brighter, the green of the grass grew deeper and more lush. Animals came more frequently, often lingering within his presence, becoming playful and energetic within his glade of calm and fertility. Even the trees seemed to twist and move, forming a perfect circle around him, their branches intertwining to create archways.

The world itself bent to the presence of the wizard, welcoming him, feeding from him, transforming to suit his desires.

When Autumn arrived and the leaves fell, Harry felt the desire for a body once more. He wanted to not just observe the world but to be a part of it. He wished to feel the damp dew beneath his feet, to run his hands through the fur of an animal, to feel the light of the sun upon his face.

And so he fashioned himself a body. He worked on pure instinct alone, pulling his awareness back into himself, drawing back from the world to a single point in the centre of his glade. Slowly, over many days, the grass grew upwards around him, creating a lattice -- a scaffold in the shape of a man. His presence filled the shell, solidifying, remembering limbs and flesh and the beat of a living heart.

The body was finished a year later.

* * *​

His first breath was a dreadful gasp, rattling and strained. His throat was tight, his lungs as yet unused to air. But his strength returned rapidly: he took several deep, steadying breaths, and opened his eyes.

For over two years he had called that glade home, but it felt like he was seeing it for the first time again. His senses were limited by eyes and ears and a nose, but those limits gave him focus. Everything was so much more immediate, so much more tangible. The fresh smell of grass filled the air, a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves of the trees, and somewhere in the distance Harry could hear the sound of running water. A chuckle grew deep in Harry’s stomach and he smiled broadly. He was so awake.

He flexed his fingers and marvelled at the power within his flesh. The form he took was of Harry Potter, but it was not the Harry Potter of Hogwarts. Once thin and short-sighted, Harry now stood taller, stronger, and without glasses.

He brushed the fine web of grass from his body and stepped forward, idly noting his nakedness. He found himself curiously unconcerned at the prospect: his body itself was like clothing, housing his spirit. Though he had taken physical form, he could still feel it, deep within his bones -- the sense that he was more than this body, that he was a being of spirit and music, not flesh and blood.

Ah, music! A magic far beyond all we do here!

He began to explore, setting forth from his glade, walking slowly so as to take everything in. He trailed his hands across the trunks of the trees, smelled flowers and inspected leaves. He picked nothing, merely grasping each plant gently before releasing it. When he did so, the plant would leave his hands healthier than before.

He made his way towards the sound of water and found a small stream, wide but shallow, with a rocky bottom. The flow of the water was mesmerising, and Harry lost himself in the ripples, the crests and dips, the small whirlpools that formed for brief seconds. There was a pattern there, he sensed, and -- yes, there! -- he found himself able to predict where the whirlpools would form, some deep intuition telling him how the water would move.

He drank deeply from the stream, enjoying its clarity. The water had once been snow, he felt. It must have travelled far, for Harry could see no mountains above the trees. The forest seemed to stretch on forever, and for all Harry knew that was what it did. Who knew how the realm of death worked? Clearly this world followed different rules than Harry’s own.

Harry focused on the other side of the stream and turned on the spot, intending to apparate. Nothing happened. That settled it: though this world clearly had magic of some sort, it was different to the magic Harry was familiar with. It was a subtler sort of magic, Harry thought, tied in with nature and spirit, and yet in some respects more potent than anything Harry had heard of. Not even Dumbledore could have formed himself a new body at will.

Harry spent the rest of the day wandering, careful to return to his glade frequently so that he might remember its location. Surprisingly, despite spending the whole day walking, he did not grow hungry. Occasionally he would pick a berry from a bush, but he ate then more for the joy of eating than from any need for sustenance.

Eventually it grew dark and Harry returned home. It was a clear night and the stars were out, more magnificent than any Harry had ever seen. He lay in the centre of his glade staring up at them, resting without sleeping. Like food, his need for sleep seemed greatly diminished. It was near midnight when he heard the hoot of an owl.

Harry sat up, smiling in nostalgia.

“Where are you, friend?” he called, running his eyes through the trees around him, his vision piercing through the dark. “Come out -- I shan’t hurt you.”

A small tawny owl descended from a tree with a flutter of wings, coming to land in front of Harry. He held out his hand and the owl hopped forward cautiously, coming to rest on his palm. It was extraordinarily light. “You’re a handsome one, aren’t you?” said Harry, smiling down at him. “I think you need a name.”

The owl cocked its head, staring up at him with amber eyes. “I think… Remus. You look like a Remus, to me.”

If the owl accepted this name it gave no sign. “Would you like to sit with me, Remus?” Harry asked, looking back up to the stars. “It’s a beautiful night.”

Remus hooted, ruffled his feathers and flew away. Harry smiled. Remus would return, he was certain.

* * *​

Years passed and the forest became Harry’s home. He filled his life with nature, learning all about the plants and animals that surrounded him. He would spend whole days contemplating a single petal or insect, listening for the music at the core of their being. It was more difficult in this human form, but it came with patience and practice. He was learning the songs of elm and birch and oak, of pansies and bluebells and daisies, of worms and bees and mice. And sometimes he would sing the songs himself, and he found that the songs held power.

Harry’s glade had changed. He had sung to the oaks which surrounded it, encouraging them to grow tall and strong, rising far above the surrounding forest like a crown. In their heights, branches had woven together to form platforms and roofs, small treehouses from which Harry overlooked the forest and watched the stars. In the centre of the glade Harry raised a stone plinth from the earth, the shadow of which Harry used to tell the hour. On its sides Harry marked each day, forming a calendar to track the passing of time.

The stream, too, was different. He had whispered to the water, calling down more melt from the mountains, growing the stream into a small river. The trees shifted to make way for the water, and now it looked like a gardener tended to the river banks, keeping them clear and clean.

Remus was his nocturnal companion, often perching on Harry’s shoulder as he strolled through the starlit trees, leaving only to catch a mouse or two. Though Harry gave him no formal training, Remus seemed to understand him, fetching Harry fruit and berries from the treetops.

As the seasons changed Harry’s explorations took him further and further from the glade, until he was returning there only rarely to add marks to his calendar. The area which Harry considered his grew and grew, and each part of woodland he adopted flourished and blossomed.

It was a decade before he encountered other men.

* * *​

Harry was sitting on a fallen tree, enjoying a midday strawberry, when he first heard their voices. There was a group of them, all male. He froze when he heard them, surprise filling him at the thought of human company. The language they spoke seemed harsh to his ears, jeering and guttural, but they laughed often and easily.

After several minutes it was clear that they were walking in Harry’s direction. Who were they? Were they friendly? So far everything in Harry’s forest was peaceful and beautiful. Who were these men who would invade his lands?

Wary but curious, Harry shed his body, letting it dissipate into nothingness. It was as easy as slouching. Now invisible and intangible, once more perceiving the world with that strange, direct awareness, Harry flittered through the air, spreading out his senses.

It didn’t take long to find the men, trampling their way through the undergrowth, slashing and destroying to make a path. There were four of them, dressed strangely to Harry’s eye, in clothes that reminded him of studying the Saxons in primary school. Dirty and bearded, they were armed, too, with primitive weapons: three of them carried bows and arrows, and the other -- the leader, it seemed to Harry -- a large axe.

Their language was completely incomprehensible to him. They spoke loudly and aggressively, often interrupting each other. From their laughter, it was clear that they were telling jokes, yet Harry felt that their jests were not kind.

After following them for a day, it became clear that the men were hunters of some kind. He watched them walk in the day and make camp at night, lighting fires for warmth and pulling cured meats and stale rye bread from their packs to eat.

It was strange that they needed food while he did not. Even in death, wizards were apparently different. These... Muggles seemed to lack all of the abilities Harry now took for granted. If not for their dress and strange language, Harry might have thought he was back in the land of the living.

They were slowly making their way south, closer and closer to Harry’s glade. But before they entered Harry’s domain, the men killed a deer, managing to shoot it through the neck with an arrow. The moment it was dead the men sprung into action, moving to skin and butcher it quickly. While one of them handled the hide, the other three cut the meat into long, thin strips, which they then laid across a frame of sticks to be smoked.

Harry watched with interest and mild disgust as the fourth man scraped the skin clean, rubbed it with a mixture of water and brains before setting it over the smoke.

That night was one of celebration between the men, and they ate like kings, slow-cooking large steaks of venison over a fire. The next day they broke camp with a feeling of finality and started walking north with purpose, their sacks full of meat. Harry followed them all the way back to their village.

In truth, “village” was too grand a word for the settlement, home to just over one hundred people. Their houses were wooden huts, a single room playing host to old and young alike, the whole family living and sleeping together. Chickens and even a couple of pigs were their greatest treasures, and many families maintained a vegetable patch near their home. Near the centre of the village was a fire pit and it was there that the people congregated, the children playing while their parents worked, gossiped and traded.

It was not a luxurious existence, but Harry knew the forest around them was abundant. Most surprising of all were the signs of a greater world beyond: many families had small supplies of salt and pepper, and one particularly rich family even had a bag of coffee beans. The village, it seemed, was not completely isolated.

The four hunters returned in triumph, the whole village gathering round to admire the tanned pelt and hoard of smoked meat. It was then that the haggling started. The man with the axe -- whose name seemed to be Bog -- traded almost all of his share for a bronze knife. Garp, whose arrow had killed the deer, kept the pelt but exchanged most of his meat for a copper cooking pot. Eventually the crowd dispersed and everyone returned to their labours, giving Harry the opportunity to explore.

After a several days of living invisibly among them, Harry began to pick out individual words in their speech. The nouns came first: lik was fire, ata was water. The sounds for “come here” and “go away” were also among the earliest Harry identified. It took much longer to advance further than basic names and commands: eight long months passed before Harry first heard a conversation that he understood completely.

This basic understanding came just in time, for a week later a significant event occurred which excited the whole village: a trader came to visit. He came down the river on a small barge, and with him came salt and sugar, wool and cotton and silk, medicines and weapons of iron.

Much that he carried was beyond the means of the village, but his most valuable product he gave away for free: news.

“Wouldya look at this ‘un!” said old Horl, picking up a small dagger of fine make. Gently curving like a leaf, the blade was engraved with a floral motif, and strange runes were carved into the handle. “I ain’t seen nothing like this never!”

“Paid a pretty penny for that, I did,” said Thom the trader, a tall, slightly fat black-haired man, bearded like the others. He’d set himself up in the centre of the village, surrounded by a selection of his goods. “Though rightly I don’t think them who sold it to me knew how valuable it was. Strange folk they were, I don’t mind saying, tall and fancy-like. Appeared out of nowhere a few winters back -- more than a few, now I think about it -- hundreds an’ hundreds of them.”

“Oo are they, then?” said Pol, a young woman who’d recently married Bog.

“An’ ‘ow much for the knife?” added Bog.

Thom snatched the dagger back from Horl, his smile revealing yellow teeth. “Nothing less than five gold pieces,” he declared, and everyone groaned. Harry doubted anyone in the village had ever so much as seen a single gold piece. “Like I said, fine work it is, though I dare say more like it is coming. Times are changing, friends. Them pointy-eared folk know what they’re doing. You should see it, far to the north… amazing, it is.”

“What is?” cried a young boy, looking up in wonder. No doubt Thom seemed like a king to him.

Thom smiled again. “They’re building a huge city up there, bigger than anything I ever saw. A hundred hundred times bigger than this place, that’s for sure. And all of it of white stone… I saw a house taller than the trees -- an’ it weren’t even finished yet!”

This declaration was met with general scepticism, but it inflamed in Harry a burning curiosity. Civilisation! Real civilisation, not this tiny little village. And with that came an idea.

If he wished to make a good impression, he couldn’t just turn up at this city naked and poor. Material possessions, it seemed, mattered as much in death as they did in life. It was time to return to a body.​

 

Did you release the first section of this story a while back? The section on the blade of grass seems familiar. I remember you mentioning your bunny for this story and where it would go and after Lords of Magic it was probably the fic I was most interested in reading from you.

So yeah, that was enjoyable. Thanks for putting it up, my favourite part had to be the Dumbledore quote. You could just feel how appropriate it was and the beauty you were trying to put across.

 

Yeah, I think the first 500 words or so is in the plot bunny thread somewhere, back when I was talking about doing a first chapter to a ton of different fic ideas and holding a vote on which one I should continue.

 

My latest attempt to kill time. As usual, criticism is welcome, given that I'd like to learn how to actually write.

---

"Avada Kedavra!"

I took him only a moment, a splinter of a second, to realize that something went wrong. The Killing Curse backfired on him, he saw a flash of green light before his eyes and felt immense pain as his body was reduced to nothingness.

But, he was not dead. The Horcruxes worked! He felt really proud at that, he had managed to evade death, something few if any could claim to have done.

This sudden feeling of accomplishment was unfortunately dwarfed by the anger, confusion and hate. The damned prophecy! He should have really known better than to act before knowing its full contents. Alas, it was too late now and here he was, well, where exactly was he?

He was not in the Potter house anymore, which was certain. It clearly could not have been the afterlife either, he doubted it actually existed and the fact he still was able to think proved his status among the living. So where was he?

Using the little bits of strength in his self, he managed to get a view of the surrounding area. It was a bedroom so clearly muggle that he felt the usual revulsion present whenever he had to deal with these loathsome creatures. There was a TV, a radio, some basic furniture and as expected, a wooden cross was placed near the door.

At that, he concluded that the Killing Curse must have displaced him to one of the nearby muggle households. This seemed the most plausible theory, at least until he spotted something that gave him pause. There was a calendar on the wall, which while correctly displaying the current date, seemed to have the wrong year. The last he remembered, it was 1981, not 2013.

He willed himself to leave the bedroom through the wall and into the street. He was definitely not in Godric's Hallow, but in London of all places, though it seemed different than he remembered it. He froze in place. Was it possible that he was suspended in time for 32 years?

That would be very problematic at the least and incredibly bad at the worst.

He traveled unnoticed by the muggles, curious by this new London he was seeing. He realized that he was near the place where the Leaky Cauldron was. Or rather, where it should have been as it was not present. That was confusing and a little terrifying. Nevertheless, he ventured forth through the wall, determined to enter the Diagon Alley.

But much to his disappointment, the Alley was not present either. Something was definitely very wrong here. He needed some answers, but for that he required a working body. Preferably a wizard, but seeing that none were around, he was forced to shame himself.

He attached himself to a nearby muggle boy, probably around the age of ten. The child's young mind only briefly resisted before being completely taken over by his own. With a wizard it would not have been as easy, magical people had certain protections against such easy invasions, not to mention those skilled with Occlumency. But possessing a muggle? It was effortless.

In the following burst of memories, he saw something that immediately captured his full attention. The boy, whose name was Adam as it turned out, had a memory of seeing a certain movie on TV recently. It was called "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone".

And for the first time in many years, the only thing Lord Voldemort could think was: What?

 

I stared at the bare concrete walls. The squat pillars that held up the low sagging ceiling, the simple flat floor. It was perfect, it had to be perfect, because it was the last spot we had found. I glanced to my right and noted my best friend looking around. His face was neutral, but the gleam in his eye meant he saw what I saw.

“How much,” he ask as we turned to the proprietor of the pub upstairs.

“Fifty a night, plus two percent of the final take,” was the quick reply. I scoffed in derision. My partner’s stare bored a hole in the man’s head.

“Twenty a night and two percent,” I countered. The man looked indignant. Fuck him.

“Now see here, I have to pay protection and if your lot comes banging around in my cellar I’m going to have to pay more, I’ll not see less that forty-five a night and four percent for your stupidity.” I looked at my partner. He shrugged.

I leapt forward and grabbed the grubby little chap by the lapels, I slammed him into one of the pillars, I could feel my teeth grinding.

“How about thirty, and we’ll give you three percent. If you need protection, just holler for us,” my partner drawled. The man began to hyperventilate, I was amused.

“Fine, fine, thirty a night and three percent, you got a deal. Just don’t kill me please,” he whimpered. I snarled at him. What a cunt. No bollocks at all, this one. He would never be joining us in the cellar.

“Deal. Here’s a month in advance. We’ll let you know what time and how many to expect. It’s easy to screen our members as the all have a distinct means of ID, clear?” My partner was pretty smart when he wanted to be, the mark had been his idea.

“Yes, that’s fine.” The man wasn’t even looking at us. One hundred and twenty thousand Galleons will do that to a man. It would buy his silence as well. At least, that was the plan. If he squealed, he was dead, and we would make sure he knew it. Our members liked their privacy and secrets.

“Out you go then, gotta make it nice and ready for them,” I whispered in his ear. He jumped and scurried off. I could hear my companion barking out a laugh as I turned to the cellar again.

With a small flick of my wrist, my wand came to hand. I made a circular motion and the room brightened. I could see the pillars slowly disappearing as my partner worked his own magic. The floor soon had plush carpeting and the walls were covered in paper of a rich design and gilding. Our members were ostentatious and used to the finer things, and that was something we could use.

I pulled several wooden blocks from my pocket and with a quick jab they’d grown and transformed into a single circular table and a roomful of chairs.
“Syrus, please see that the man upstairs knows what to look for,” I nodded and made my way up the cellar steps. I found the grubby little ass kicking a drunken patron out the door.

“Oi,” I called. He almost jumped out of his skin as he turned. I dragged the man to a corner and looked at him.

“This is what they’ll show you, just direct them to the cellar,” I muttered as I pulled up my sleeve to reveal the tattoo we had designed together.

My partner didn’t wear it yet as he had needed time to figure out the runic array to allow it to work with the rituals he’d performed on himself. The man nodded and I returned to the cellar, satisfied he wouldn’t fuck up.

My partner had not been idle while I was gone and a long buffet had been set up as well as a small slide projector. I smiled at the quick work and stamped down the envy I might have felt at his ease with a wand.

“Come, Syrus. It’s time to put on a show for the plebeians,” he said shortly. I chuckled; his face carved itself into a cruel smile. We were a perfect match. I looked at the slide, and the first image projected, a skull with a snake twisting itself through the mouth. It was certainly memorable, although the snake part had been his design, I had wanted the skull to be clean and empty, akin to death.

______________________________________________________________

I doubt I'll finish this but the rest of the oneshot was thus:


Meeting starts, they lay out basic tenants, assign groups. Voldemort assigns Syrus White to one of the groups and then insists he can’t be a part of the groups if he’s going to act as the political figurehead. Syrus hangs back after meeting and challenges him, asking why he hasn’t taken the mark and why he isn’t going in a group as they had already decided there was to be no figurehead until after they were known. Voldermort taunts Syrus and then activates the mark. Syrus falls to the ground and Voldemort explains that he is not his partner but his master and that Syrus would fall in line or die.

 

Untitled Piece

~*~*~​

“Your new mother-in-law hates you,” Harry said in French.

He was standing on a small circular dais being fitted for wedding robes while next to him Fleur stood on an identical platform while the seamstress fussed with her simple white wedding dress. Harry’s eyes kept sliding away from the mirror showing his reflection to look at Fleur. Whenever she caught his gaze the part-Veela smiled. She enjoyed the attention, especially since Harry understood that between the two of them looks were as far it would go.

“She doesn’t think that I’m suitable for her son,” Fleur said with a sigh, also speaking French so that the English seamstresses and Molly Weasley who was nearby getting fitted for her own wedding robes could not understand them. “Her, and her daughter, keep trying to set him up with other women. It is beginning to irritate him.”

Harry could frustration creeping into her voice and it made him frown. He didn’t like to see his friends unhappy and was usually able to fix their problems but he had no idea how to handle a judgemental mother-in-law, especially one who was fighting over every little aspect of the wedding from Fleur’s father paying for everything to having the wedding at Beauxbatons (a courtesy the school had granted one of its most promising alumni) and everything in between, even the food. Harry had been present for the argument about the wedding’s location and could hear Molly Weasley’s screams.

“Have you asked him to talk to her about it?”

“He has, to both of them, as has his father, but they smile and nod and then invite another British witch over for tea. I tell you, I have half a mind to elope!” Fleur declared, her voice rising dramatically.

Harry stifled a laugh. Fleur will never elope; she enjoys being the centre of attention too much to miss out on her own wedding.

“The only thing she hasn’t argued about is who will officiate,” Fleur continued. It was hard to argue against Albus Dumbledore.

In his mirror Harry could see Molly looking over at them, her face narrowed in suspicion. Not a bad woman, he decided, just someone used to getting their way. And proud, enough pride for a dozen people. Harry could understand pride – he was proud of his talent, proud of his biological and adoptive parents but he liked to think that he would never allow his pride to interfere with his pragmatism, which wasn’t strictly true. He was, in his own way, as proud as Molly Weasley but possessed equally extensive resources.

“Well …” Harry’s next words were cut-off by an explosion that shattered the upscale tailor’s windows, producing a dangerous shower of glass that hurtled through the air into the store’s interior.

Fleur’s seamstress screamed and flung her hands up to protect her face while the part-Veela reached for her wand only to realise that she had left it in her other clothes. Molly Weasley and her attendant froze, stunned by the change of events.

Harry’s wand seemed to appear in his hand of its own accord – one of Dumbledore’s tricks that he had mastered before his twelfth birthday. He transfigured the flying glass into a gust of hot air, grimacing as it hit his face. It reminded him of travelling in Assyria with his father five months ago, though he was thankful that there was no sand. Even with comfort charms sand ended up in places where sand should never be.

He headed for the door, flicking his wand to replace his unfinished wedding attire with the clothes that he had worn into the alley. Stepping out of the tailor’s he turned left, towards the sound of the explosion.

A handful of shoppers were scattering away from a building that had smoke billowing from its shattered front window, diving into other stores and, Harry presumed, using their Floos to escape the two black robed, white masked killers standing in front of the shop. Harry knew that they were killers because he could see five broken and bloodied bodies lying on the cobblestones around them.

Death Eaters in Diagon Alley? That’s bolder than usual. Ever since his resurrection the Dark Lord had been moving quietly in the shadows, rebuilding his armies and seeking his prophesied enemy – Harry himself – whose childhood and current circumstances were unknown to a wizarding world that had thought him to be living with his Muggle relatives until he failed to appear at Hogwarts for his First Year. The Ministry barely believed that the Dark Lord was alive, having laboured under the theory that his old forces were being rallied by an escaped lieutenant until Albus Dumbledore had presented them with incontrovertible proof.

Harry walked towards the Death Eaters after a moment of hesitation, his stomach roiling with unease. What could be important enough to send Death Eaters into the Alley? He frowned, struggling to remember what store the building housed. Ollivander’s, he thought, remembering his last visit to the alley when he was eleven.

He was drawing within optimal spell-fire range when three more Death Eaters emerged from the store, shrouded in smoke and covered in soot, dragging the wizened old wand maker between them. Five-to-one, I need an advantage. He looked around, searching for something – anything – that could help him while wondering where the Hell the Aurors were. There was nothing.

“What’s this?” a Death Eater asked, catching sight of him.

Harry stopped, his wand swinging back-and-forth at his side. “Let him go,” he said in a voice that lacked anything like strength or authority.

The Death Eater who had spoken laughed and stepped towards him. “Why should we?”

Harry smiled, an idea occurring to him. He needed an advantage and, it occurred to him, he already had one. He moved his wand in a tight circle, silently untransfiguring the minor transfiguration that hid his scar.

“My name is Harry Potter!” he said, his voice brimming with confidence and power and the knowledge that the Death Eaters wouldn’t dare kill him – they feared their master too much. “And I said, let him go!”

~*~*~​

Basic Premise: Instead of leaving Harry with the Dursleys as he leads everyone to believe Dumbledore convinces the Flamels - who spent 6 centuries protecting one of the most sought after items in the world - to raise him. The Flamels are childless - they started taking the Elixir before they could have children and only discovered after the fact that infertility was one of its side effects.

Harry grows up in both France and England and becomes friends with Fleur because the Flamels are silent backers in her father's winery. He attends Beauxbatons - choosing the French school instead of Hogwarts because Fleur goes there and his parents helped establish it. He enrolls under the name Henri Devereux which Madame Maxime thinks is a pseudonym for Henri Flamel (she has no idea of his true identity).

That's about as far as this idea ever went other than the snippet I just posted and a vague outline for the Dumbledore/Flamel conversation where he convinces the Flamels to raise Harry.