HOW I LOVE YOU


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or King of Fighters. I only own this story and borrow its characters for a short little while for our amusement.

Summary: Their meeting was an accident. Neither of the two wouldn't have looked at the other twice if it weren't for a piece of a paper napkin, with the song scrawled on it.

Shout Out: You probably remember - or not - my yammering about that crossover sometime ago. I am posting it out now because I've finally found some time to edit it. This was one of my experimental works, because I was hooked on the song I Died For You by Iced Earth. As always, if you want to listen to it, it's on youtube. Not complete yet, but the story amused me enough to consider resurrecting it from its hibernation to this for your entertainment.

Warnings: AU-verse, SLASH, this time Iori Yagami/Harry Potter. Iori also deserves his own warning, because Riot of Blood. Yes, went there, wrote it, still don't have a T-shirt for it. Not beta-read.


Iori Yagami was in a snit. A full one, too. The band practice went well, but they were still missing something. In fact, they missed a song – or better, lyrics to one particular song. They were so damned close, and yet, the fucking thing was eluding them like live eel, and even if Iori was usually a fairly patient man, this time, he had to get out before he blew a gasket and set their studio on fire.

It was an irritating situation Iori was in. The battle of bands was nearing, and he still didn't have anything to show. His band mates tried to appease him, but nothing they came up with managed to appeal to Iori's high expectations. And to the top of it all, Iori was also dealing with his unrequited ….liking… for that damn Kusanagi idiot, and he was at his wits' end.

The redhead huffed, irritated. He was clad in dark red trousers, dark grey pullover and black jacket with finger-less brown leather gloves, his red hair in a slight mess from the wind. Not even the thought of visiting one of the stray cats he had saved last month later on – he still didn't name that one – lifted his mood.

People avoided the tall redhead with reddish brown eyes and black guitar case like plague. Even if he seemed to be relatively harmless… relatively, being an operative word here, his posture and face screamed 'touch me and die'. Only the most fervent fans of King of Fighters Tournament would recognize in him the famed Unbridled Instinct, one of the most vicious fighters in the aforementioned tournament, but even they would hold a respective distance away from the irate Yagami heir. It was never healthy to get in Iori's way when the redhead wanted something or was in a snit… like now.

After a short walk, he came to a small café. It was a dingy little thing – small, with thick cigarette smoke prevalent in the tiny space, and music blaring out of the old radio, but its saving grace were excellent sandwiches and their coffee wasn't half bad, either. The prices were affordable, too.

At the entrance, he brushed against the dark haired, bespectacled youth with wildest nest of hair Iori had ever seen, clad in worn brown leather jacket that was torn in some places, but he didn't mind. Right now, he wanted his sandwich with extra meat and a large cup of tea, and he wanted it NOW.


He plopped on his usual place, placing the guitar case on the floor and absentmindedly noting the coffee cup sitting on the counter was still quarter full with a half crumpled paper napkin beside it. The day had been bland, with gray clouds obscuring the sky and the temperatures were cold, if not outright freezing. The waitress that came to take order, smiled at him her prettiest smile, but he didn't care. She was obviously new; else she wouldn't have tried so hard, but oh well.

The small coffee shop was lit with amber light, giving it somewhat intimate setting, and Iori frowned at the smoke that wafted toward the ceiling. The quiet murmur and occasional burst of laughter didn't help his mood any, so he sulked in his little spot a little bit longer. Some tourists laughed at something, their cheeks suspiciously flushed, making semi – loud remarks about their latest trip.

The night was approaching slowly, darkness steadily claiming the land. Absentmindedly, Iori picked up the small scrap of paper, frowning slightly as the damned thing was written all over with a ball point pen. Some tourist's doing, perhaps, as the thing was scrawled over in chicken-scratch that was English.

Usually, Iori would have thrown the scrap of paper out after a cursory glance, but he was feeling bored and he needed distraction while waiting for his meat sandwich and tea. Idly, the long, pale fingers began to unroll and smooth out the small scrap of paper napkin. When he finally got the small napkin straightened out, Iori glanced at it, expecting an address or some pointless rambling or some kind of a mini – dictionary, but instead of that, it was some kind of a poem. Definitely intrigued now, Iori bent forward a little, his eyes narrowing slightly to better read out the scribbled on words. His English was a little iffy sometimes, but that was only with written word, he didn't have problems with speaking the language. Mouthing the strange words to himself silently, he glared at the piece of paper in frustration at its' previous owner. Whoever wrote this, had to have a chicken somewhere in their ancestral lineage, because the scrawl was sometimes almost illegible, as if the person was unused to writing with ballpoint pen, and thus, some words were scratched out, smeared or otherwise illegible.

Frustrated Iori, when posed with a problem, was also a determined Iori. And this little piece of paper posed a challenge the redhead definitely wanted to solve.


Five minutes later, Iori was thunderstruck.

This almost illegible scrabble was a … poem.

Holy hell. And not any poem, but THE poem, and Iori felt excitement flare in his gut, the kind he got when he fought with Kusa – his rival. He frowned as the poem seemed to be unfinished somehow, but that could be remedied easily.

The waitress finally brought his food and drink. Iori at first wanted to dismiss her, but then, a proverbial light bulb went off in his head. "Who wrote this?" He waved at her with the scrap of paper that somehow became the ticket for his band's trump card… if he found the song writer that had written it.

"Huh?" The waitress blinked, blushing as Iori stared at her intently, expecting the answer to his question. "Why do you ask?" She asked, tilting her head coyly as her heart skipped. Maybe the gorgeous redhead would ask for her number? The redhead in question sent her a scathing glare, making her squeak in fear.

"Do you know it or not?" Iori snapped out, peeved. He really didn't have patience to deal with annoyance of a fangirl right now… pity he couldn't fry her to crisp… He forced himself to inhale and exhale slowly. "Well?"

The waitress gulped. "Um… I don't know, but he comes here in the evening for coffee. A – And that's all I really know about it." Huge brown eyes stared at the redhead, confused and filled with fear.

"How does he look like?" Iori demanded, his fingers squeezing the precious little napkin tighter. He had to be patient… no torching the idiot girl… she had information he sorely needed.

"Um… very messy black hair, glasses and green eyes…. And he wears that really ancient brown leather jacket with a black dragon with torn golden chains on the back."

As soon as she finished, Iori's eyes widened with recognition.

'That person - !' In his mind's eye he saw the man he had passed when he was entering the small café. His messy black hair, he had glasses on, and brown jacket… it had to be him, no doubt.

He wanted to rush in, to find the man and demand that he finish the lyrics, but it would be pointless. Tokyo was a big city and right now, searching for him would be like trying to find a needle in a giant haystack. Not impossible, but very near it.

Iori nodded to her, waving her off absentmindedly. The waitress pouted at the loss of attention of the red-haired cutie, but oh well – besides, another customer called.


Iori stared at the little scrap blankly, already thinking about composing the accompanying melody. However, somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a nagging feeling about the song having to be completed.

Slender eyebrow twitching, Iori folded the scrap carefully, before setting onto the demolition of his meat-packed sandwich.

All in a good time, anyway.


/To Be Continued/