I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER WHICH IS OWNED BY J. K. ROWLING, NOR DO I OWN SWORD ART ONLINE WHICH IS OWNED BY REKI KAWAHARA, A-1 PICTURES, AND ANIPLEX! BOTH OF WHICH ARE SAD!
But on the bright side, that means I have more time to write and read Fanfics. Ha!
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Description:
Upon the "death" of Kirito in Sword Art Online, instead of coming back to kill Heathcliff, he actually dies, and is reborn back in time, in the year of Nineteen Eighty in the Country of Britain, brother of Harry Potter.
A/N: Most of the Italicized Words are from the original book of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. Please, read the original if you can, and if you have the time, read the whole series, dissect it, explain the timeline, explain magic, make a spell, then come back to read. But most of you don't so just enjoy!
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First Person POV: Kazuto
My HP bar vanished completely as if mocking my anger. A purple message appeared within my vision: [You are dead]. It was thecommand from the god to icy coldness permeated my body. My senses dulled. I felt the innumerable blocks of code unraveling, severing, and destroying my very being. The cold crept up my neck and into my head. Touch, sound,sight, everything became hazy. My entirely body was starting to dissolve—
becoming shards of polygons—
before scattering in all directions—
You think I would let that happen? I opened my eyes widely.
Where was I? I looked around. This was definitely real life... I could not see my HUD.
I looked to a man and woman who were nearby, along with a person dressed in what I could only guess was an old fashion doctor's uniform...
I looked around again, and noticed a baby next to me, and I reached up to my face.
No Nerve Gear.
My hand was small, like a baby's...
Don't tell me...
With the loosest grasp of science I had since my mind was in disarray from the Death Game, I could only guess that this was the Multiverse Theory in action... Only that I was still with my old memories.
Why? There was no technology in here. The nurses held stick-like objects, and I had the body of a toddler.
In my mind's eye, I could see the particles of light ejecting me from the Nerve Gear, ejecting me from my past life...
How much time had past since I opened my eyes? A few minutes. The adults were talking, but I wasn't listening, or rather I couldn't hear most of it.
"...Black eyes? It's not natural!"
I looked over. Not natural? I had always had dark eyes, and I saw lots of people in...
The thought just occured to me that they were speaking in english. I understood english. I never had a strong grasp, but...
"Y-yo." I said unsteadily, and I tried again.
"H-h..." I couldn't say it.
The adults were done talking, and the woman picked me up, the man picked up the other child.
I was taken away from my past life... A life in which I had failed. I... I'm sorry everyone. I'm sorry I couldn't get you to the real world…
Sorry... I'm sorry Asuna, sorry I couldn't get you back to the real world..."
—
Third Person POV
Harry crawled around the room, and Kazuto had an interest for heavy, long objects. Particularly swords. Lily Potter could not understand it. Whenever he got his hand s on a sword, Lily or James had to take it away. In effect, they locked up the Potter Swords in the family vault.
One night, a little over a year after their birth, Voldemort struck. James went to try and stall him, but died.
Voldemort blasted down the door to the room they were in with a reducto, and Lily pleaded with the Dark Lord to spare the children, but he did not listen. He shoved her off to the side, but she jumped back in front of him, wand drawn.
Kazuto sat to the direct right of Harry, both of their heads leaning against each others' and they watched horrified as Lily Potter was murdered on spot. Before the children could get away, a green light flew over to them, and struck the area where their foreheads were connected, leaving two lightning-shaped scars behind. A light erupted, and the house was blown down, the curse being flung back at Voldemort and destroying his body.
A loud scream was heard, and Kazuto crawled over to the screaming soul of Voldemort, holding out his left hand, while reaching behind him with his right. He seemed to grow faster until he had the size of an around fourteen-year-old, and a sword was conjured behind him. Harry had also started growing, and held out his right hand.
Kazuto started chanting, and a flame erupted around him, while Harry yelled, and the soul gave a last scream before a loud burning noise seared it from reality.
Both children dropped back into toddler form, magically exhausted.
The conjured sword disappeared, and both children fainted.
—
Sirius Black arrived at the ruined estate of Godric's Hallow, and saw Hagrid coming out of it holding both children. Sirius realized now that his best friends were now dead.
He gave a cry of anguish, and yelled at the sky. Hagrid looked to Sirius, and went over to comfort him.
After being calmed down, Sirius had agreed that Hagrid could use his Motorcycle as Sirius went to find the betrayer Pettigrew.
Hagrid started the engine, and flew in the London direction. Sirius transformed and ran in dog form towards where he thought, or rather knew, where Pettigrew would be.
—
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he leftthe house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar - a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen - then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive - no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes - the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt - these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swoop ing past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open- mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.
He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.
"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their sons, Harry and Kazuto."
Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a sons called Harry or Kazuto. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephews were harry and Kazuto. He'd never even seen the boys. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her - if he'd had a sister like that... but all the same, those people in cloaks…
—
Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."
He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again - the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."
He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked.
"My dear Professor, I 've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."
"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.
"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."
Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.
"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no - even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent - I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."
"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."
"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."
She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day YouKnow-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"
"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"
"A what?"
"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of"
"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone -"
"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You- Know-Who' nonsense - for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.
"I know you haven 't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."
"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."
"Only because you're too - well - noble to use them."
"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."
Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"
It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.
"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are - are - that they're - dead. "
Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.
"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..."
Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily.
Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's sons. But - he couldn't. He couldn't kill those little boys. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry and Kazuto Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke - and that's why he's gone."
Albus Dumbledore nodded glumly, and turned back towards the street to wait for someone.
—
A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky - and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.
If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"
"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sit," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got them, sir."
"No problems, were there?"
"No, sir - house was almost destroyed, but I got them out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. They fell asleep before we were flyin' over Bristol."
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, were baby boys, fast asleep. Under tufts of jet-black hair over their foreheads they could see curiously shaped cuts, like bolts of lightning.
"Are those where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall.
"Yes," said Dumbledore. "They'll have those scars forever."
"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well - give them here, Hagrid - we'd better get this over with."
Dumbledore took the boys into his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.
"Could I - could I say good-bye to them, sir?" asked Hagrid. He gave each a kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.
"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"
"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it - Lily an' James dead - an' the poor little boys off ter live with Muggles -"
"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid the boys gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside the boys' blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.
"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."
"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall - Professor Dumbledore, sir."
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.
"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundles of blankets on the step of number four.
"Good luck, Harry, Kazuto," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. The boys rolled over inside the blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside them and they slept on, not knowing they were special, not knowing they were famous, not knowing they would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that they would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To the Potter Boys, the Boys-who-Lived!
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A/N: Screw my life and having a paperback copy of the Sorcerer's Stone, but it comes handy. Combined with the movie, and voila!
R&R!