Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or Harry Potter.
A/N: This story is COMPLETELY AU. Including the muggle world. Magic is very different, as are the personalities and/or histories of many of the characters. FAMILIARITY WITH FMA IS NOT REQUIRED.
Pairings: LV/HP, various OMC's/HP, Roy/Ed, Al/Winry
Rating: M
Warnings: Slash, violence, gore, underage sex, prostitution, angst, eventual (slight and atypical) mpreg
Prologue: A Brief History
The world was dark and dead in the beginning, the wrinkled old men say, as if their years have earned them the right to certainty about times and peoples ages gone. It was dark and dead, they say, until wise and loving and all-powerful saintly gods gave it humans, and humans gave it light.
Bullshit, I say.
In the beginning, the world was dark, yes. But the dark is where evils are born and fester, and in all my innumerable years I have never seen anything with as much potential for evil as a man who believes he has the right of it, and throws himself into his ambitions with all the earnestness of his bleeding heart and lusting soul and the holy blessing of his so-called perfect god.
In all my innumerable years, I have never met a god, perfect or otherwise, and no argument of man or miracle of nature will convince me I ever will. But if the potential of any man's soul - for good or evil, or neither or both - is dry tinder, then I have met the spark that seeds it into flame. Those few whose souls still burn with it - with the fire that fell from worlds and times of Elsewhere and Nevermore, the fire that gives them forbidden knowledge of those forgotten places - call it a gift. I call it damnation.
Because I have lived for so many, many years, I know what the beginning of this world looked like. It looked like shadows, and from the shadows came the power, and then the power met humanity, and that was all that was needed to make an end.
January 3rd, 1986
RISING DARK LORD OR MINISTER'S MACHINATION?
For months, rumors of a rising dark power have been weaving trepidation into the hearts of wizards and witches across Britain. But have they any merit? Or is the rising panic a political scheme of Minister Pius Thicknesse as he prepares for his 1987 campaign?
Lucius Malfoy, Lord of the Malfoy estates and former Senior Advisor to the Minister of Magic, claims that the rumors were most likely woven for political gain. Lord Malfoy, who defected from the Minister's inner circle last month after a disagreement regarding the recently amended Magical Children Protection Act, claims to have overheard a highly incriminating floo conversation between the Minister and Senior Undersecretary Cornelius Fudge...
March 15th, 1986
MINISTER OF MAGIC ASSASSINATED - THE WORK OF A DARK LORD?
Minister of Magic Pius Thicknesse was found dead in his office this morning by Senior Undersecretary-cum-Acting Minister Cornelius Fudge and Lucius Malfoy, whose status as Senior Advisor to the Minister was reinstated this morning. The magical signature recorded by the office's wards indicates that the spell used was none other than the worst of the Unforgivables - the Killing Curse. Readback triggered a time-delayed enchantment which projected the image of a skull and snake (pictured below) directly over the late Minister's body.
The circumstances of this death indicate that the circulating rumors of a rising Dark Lord may have more merit than was previously believed, Lord Malfoy claims. "Use of the Killing Curse has not been reported in Britain since the fall of the Dark Lord Grindelwald," he said, "and the skull-and-snake design could very likely be some kind of signature - a claiming of the kill."
Lord Malfoy regrets his easy dismissal of the rumors three months ago, and states that it would be advisable for the public to be on guard. "No concrete evidence of a Dark Lord has thus far come to light," he said, "but after this tragedy, it is only a matter of time."
Indeed, the Auror Office has already begun preparing for the worst, not even three hours after the discovery of the body. Rufus Scrimgeour, current head of the Auror Department, warns readers that...
December 31st, 1986
CATASTROPHE AT CLOCHLIATH, OVER TWO THOUSAND DEAD: THE DEBUT OF A DARK LORD
Over two thousand innocent people and counting were killed in the dark hours of this morning, when wizards wearing black cloaks and silver masks raided the muggle town of Graystone and its wizarding superimposition, Clochliath.
Both muggle and magical witnesses report that the disturbance began at roughly 1:30 am, with the arrival of at least 20 black-cloaked wizards in the central square the two towns share. Chaos erupted immediately after, when one of the wizards set the church that marked the first dimensional boundary between the two villages ablaze with fiendfyre. The church's destruction caused the boundary to collapse, and the sudden invasion of the heart of Cochliath into space already occupied by Graystone triggered a massive shockwave and superheated explosion.
The cloaked wizards proceeded to destroy the other three boundary stones that separated the two towns, creating a wave of destruction that far surpasses any single event witnessed during the Grindelwald Wars.
The first squad of aurors arrived on the scene just as the third boundary collapsed, and were lost in the explosion. (See page A2 for a list of the deceased.) The second wave was accompanied by a team of mediwizards, who began search and rescue as the aurors pursued the wizards responsible for this horror. No evidence of their whereabouts has thus-far been reported, and anyone with any knowledge at all is encouraged to contact the Auror Department. The families and friends of informants can be assured of around-the-clock protection by a team of aurors.
Light Lord Albus Dumbledore, who appeared on the scene with the second wave of aurors, estimates that the death toll will rise to at least 15 thousand by the end of the day.
Search and rescue and restoration efforts have already begun. Lysander Murus, head of the Division of Dimensional Boundaries and Spacial Construction in the Department of Mysteries, claims that the extent of the destruction isn't yet known. He estimates that...
October 31st, 1989
DARK LORD'S LOVER FELLED BY HIS OWN COUSIN - VICTORY FOR THE LIGHT?
At roughly 10:30 pm on October the 31st, 1989, Hesperus Black, 28-year-old necromancer and match to the Dark Lord, fell beneath the wand of Sirius Orion Black, his 21-year-old first cousin and, with Hesperus' death, Heir to the House of Black.
It was towards the end of a raid on the wizarding town of Badgermoor that Sirius entered into a duel with his late cousin. Witnesses report that the two had been battling near each other and defeated their respective opponents simultaneously. Hesperus then invited Sirius to duel with an elaborate bow characteristic of his preferred style, the Moartea Dans(1), but it was Sirius who cast the first spell. After nearly fifteen minutes of traditional closed volley(2), during which time witnesses report obvious superiority on the part of Hesperus, Hesperus was targeted by a curse of unidentified origin, and decided to dodge rather than shield for reasons not apparent. This interrupted the spacial barrier he had cast between himself and Sirius (readers will remember Hesperus' genius with spacial magic), and put him directly in the path of Sirius' Turraing Croi (the Heart-Shock curse, one of the Indefensibles recently unearthed from forgotten Celtic histories by the Dark Lord himself).
Hesperus immediately bent forward and fell to his knees, clutching his chest, and then, moments later, fell to the ground, his corpse dissolving into ash. His inferi and Voluit Corpori ceased their attack and collapsed respectively, and the Dark began to retreat. Hesperus' death marked victory for the Light at Badgermoor.
Hesperus Caelius Black was born on July 31st, 1961 in magical Rome. He was schooled at home until the age of 15, when he began attending the Moscow College of Sorcery, an extremely competitive and secretive institution that specializes in creation magic. It is estimated the he met the Dark Lord two years later in 1978, at which point he dropped out of the MCS and apparently disappeared. He wasn't seen or heard from again until 1986, when evidence of his magical signature was found among shards of the dimensional boundaries that were destroyed during the Clochliath Disaster, indicating that Hesperus was the one to bring them down. It was discovered that he was the match of the Dark Lord when the two of them partner-casted a spell to poison the wards of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry against its inhabitants, beginning the Hogwarts Massacre in the summer of 1987. He disappeared again until the Dark Lord left the country last winter, at which point leadership of the Dark passed to him. Since then, he has participated in every major raid and battle and destroyed numerous dimensional boundaries across the United Kingdom.
His death is a great victory for the Light - for now. It won't be long until the Dark Lord returns, however, and his fury will cast a shadow of destruction across Britain unlike anything ever seen before. Light Lord Albus Dumbledore, who witnessed the elimination of Hesperus Black, warned the entirety of wizarding Europe to prepare for attacks of the same magnitude as the Clochliath Disaster across the continent in the speech he gave earlier this morning. He said that...
November 1st, 1991
DARK LORD VANQUISHED
At 11:01 pm on October 31st, 1991 - All Hallow's Eve, and the one-year anniversary of the death of his lover, Hesperus Black - the Dark Lord Voldemort was vanquished, ending his reign of death, destruction, and terror.
He was felled by Neville Longbottom, the one-year-old son of late aurors and heroes Frank and Alice Longbottom, in the most wondrous magical event in recorded history.
The Dark Lord came to the Longbottom Estate near Badgermoor, England with the apparent intention of eliminating the threat to the Dark that Frank and Alice represented. Though his parents were killed defending him, Neville survived the attack unscathed except for a single lightning-bolt-shaped scar on his forehead. It appears as though the same Killing Curse that felled his parents and tens of thousands of witches and wizards before him rebounded, striking down the Dark Lord and leaving only ashes behind.
Neville has been left in the custody of his grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, in the tragic event of his parent's death.
Light Lord Albus Dumbledore is scheduled to give a speech this afternoon at the Clochliath Memorial, honoring Neville Longbottom and those who have given their lives to see Darkness defeated.
Chapter One: Foundations
November 15th, 2002
Northern England
The slender boy stood before a wall in one of the orphanage's many too-small bedrooms, close enough for his lips to brush the chilly stone. "Hurt them," he whispered, letting his eyes fall closed as the power-wrongness-something rose up within him, surging against the boundary of his skin in time with the pounding of his heart. "Hurt them when you sense fear and pain in us, and when we're trapped and can't get out. Hurt them." He fell silent, breathing quietly for long moments as he lost himself in the wall and the simple awareness it had of its own existence. He felt, in between steady breaths and heartbeats, the three-dimensional map of fissures and cracks that marred it, and the awesome, tiny energy of the atoms that held it together. He breathed, breathed, breathed, learning the ages that shaped the stone and the strength of the forces sustaining it.
Moments and eons passed together before green eyes opened and he bled his will through the wall as hard and fast as completely as he could. The uncomplicated awareness of the stone fluttered briefly as it accepted his intentions and wove them with its own.
He stepped back, taking a moment to readjust to warmth and movement and sensation, and smiled.
The next time one of the visiting clergymen attempted to touch and hurt a resisting child, the very walls of the orphanage would lend the force of their existence to its protection.
His job done, the slim boy brushed black bangs away from his sweaty forehead and turned to face the children who witnessed his persuasion of the wall. They sat beside a worn toy chest, dolls and other knickknacks abandoned in favor of the spectacle he presented. Despite the mocking edge of their laughter and the fear that shone from their eyes, he felt content: he was the only one who could and would protect them, and he was doing everything within his power.
His power. Such a strange thought. It was a stranger reality, though, that he, Theron Potter, a weak, bullied and underfed eleven-year-old orphan could enchant walls and floors and furniture to adapt and enact his will, bend light and shadow into dancing pictures, and hear whispers on breezes that no one else could feel. Off, the adults whispered, with behind-the-hand smiles and mocking eyes, when they caught him crooning softly to the doors. Off, as if his mind were a perishable food left alone for too long. And he brushed their harshness off every time, because he knew on a fundamental, instinctual level that he was not off and that they didn't have the whole picture, whatever it may be, and that he wouldn't fit, no matter how hard he tried, until they did - if they ever did.
So he'd stopped trying.
Theron turned away from the wall and left the room, ignoring the snickers of the children as they went back to their games. They were cruel, yes, but it was an innocent cruelty, born of fear of something they didn't understand and the pressure they felt to emulate their elders. No, he did not deserve it (he was doing everything in his power to protect them, after all) but they deserved the intentional, open-eyed cruelty and perversion of the adults who were supposed to take care of them even less.
Theron made his way down the narrow, moaning wooden staircase, bathed in the silver-gray daylight that shone weakly through a leaded window two floors above his head. The whole place smelled of dust and damp and cold gray stone, all delicately shadowed with desperation and around-the-corner hopelessness. Children were made to share small rooms and smaller beds, and the caretakers never were quite able to keep all of the stray cats out. Cobwebs sloped across the peaked ceiling and grimy, cracked windows, and pigeons occasionally took up residence in the rafters. It had been a church, the matron said, during the years before the Age-long War - a place where a forgotten people had gathered to beg fortune and forgiveness from a forgotten god. And though Theron knew the building was beautiful in its own ancient, weathered way, his memories had colored it with all of the misery of his childhood and the childhoods of the children he lived with. To Theron, the Territory 3 House of Charity was an ugly place - just another failed attempt to fix what was broken by lifetimes of war, made by people who cared too little and regretted too late.
The orphanage was poor, Theron knew. There was rarely enough food to fill the stomachs of every child to their satisfaction, and the older children often went without to ensure that the younger were not in too much pain. Sickness was rampant, especially during the fall and winter months, when the patched and holey clothing they all wore failed to keep the chill from their lungs. School was Theron's only relief from the desolation, but with the recently growing problem of bullies, even books and the temptation of a whole world of undiscovered knowledge, unrelated to this pathetic existence - a world in which he could be and was undeniably exceptional - were not enough to distract him.
And now, with the impending visit of the clergymen - a group of six men that stayed at the orphanage twice a year, in rooms the children really couldn't afford to give up - none of his usual means of entertainment were working. He wasn't an idiot; he'd noticed that the food was always fresher after they visited, that there were more fruits and vegetables, that some of the older children got new clothes. But he had also noticed that the weeks of their stay marked the only time those same older children ate at the head table with the guests, that the caretakers made them bathe before dinner, and that sometimes they wouldn't come back to their beds during the night. He hoped desperately that he was still too young to tempt them.
Salvation, the clergymen claimed their purpose was. Theron thought it disgusting that he lived in a world where a child's salvation was found in the bed of the worst of humanity's sinners.
Theron pushed open a battered wooden door, wincing as its hinges shrieked gratingly, and stepped into the chilly courtyard. He shivered, pulling his threadbare jumper tight around his bony ribcage and tucking his hands into his armpits. A small group of younger kids was kicking a ball back and forth near the rusted front gate, their breath puffing silver clouds across their faces, their cheeks and fingers pink with cold. He inventoried their clothing - ragged tee-shirts and patched jeans, with no gloves or hats or coats to speak of - and felt tired.
The sky was a uniform blanket of gray clouds, heavy and dark with the weight of winter. A chilling wind smelling sharply of smog and snow stirred brittle brown leaves around his feet as he set out for the kitchens, resigned to the hours of work required to prepare dinner. He hated his turn on the meal shift, mostly because it meant he had to deal with the problem of their dwindling rations head-on, and wonder how he would tell the children he protected that there wasn't enough food to fill their sore bellies - again.
An unnaturally shrill cry from one of the ball-players pulled him from his musings as he made to climb the steps to the kitchen door, carefully navigating ragged, starving cats and chickens with feathers puffed against the cold. He looked over his shoulder, searching for the source; a small boy - Christopher - knelt on the ground with his arm cradled against his side and a small patch of blood staining his shirt. Theron was at his side in only a moment.
"What happened, Celeste?" he asked his favorite of the younger children, since the injured child was crying too hard to speak, even if his sobs were carefully muffled. Celeste was six - young enough to maintain her innocence, but old enough to at least partially understand the seriousness of the orphanage's situation - and had never quite believed the others when they told her Theron was wicked.
"He fell when he saw that man pop out of the air," she said, her voice trembling and confused. Theron looked up sharply from his study of the wound - a nasty scrape, and perhaps a sprain to the wrist - and he glanced in the direction the girl was pointing.
A man stood across the courtyard, one that was perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, with pale skin and dark hair styled in a fashion that reminded Theron of military men from the Second World War. He was tall and lean and classically, hawkishly handsome, with a strong jaw and an aristocratic nose and high, blade-sharp cheekbones. His eyes were dark and long under sloping black brows, and as he stared at Theron with an intensity that made his blood pound, he swore they shone with an unnatural crimson gleam.
And the air around him sang.
It was a heartbeat and an aria, the pulse of a drum and the trill of a violin, and it called to Theron on a level that was profound. All people had an effect on the currents - the word Theron had given to the whispers and winds that only he could hear and feel, the ones that crooned sweetly about the power in the stones and the force behind existence, and that told him he could know it, own it, wield it, if only he would listen a little harder - but none even a fraction as much as this man. The aura was powerful and enticing and darker than black, reminding Theron of the things that stirred in shadows and forbidden, hated pleasures, and it caressed him with heat and feeling and life like he had never known. His heart pounded, his breath rasped too quickly past his lips, his world narrowed and shifted until he could see nothing but this man, the only clarity in a universe of blurs and nothings.
Theron wanted him. He wanted his power and the intensity of his attention. He wanted the thrilling danger of his presence and the burn it sang into his bones. He wanted the existence the power promised, one that danced to a faster beat in ballrooms of sharp edges and lovely painted masks. He wanted to feel.
The man smirked as if he knew Theron's thoughts, one eyebrow climbing his forehead, and the spell broke.
"-Theron!" Celeste was saying, her small hands pulling at his sleeve. The boy turned reluctantly to look at her, though his awareness of the man didn't fade. "He needs a bandaid, Theron!"
"I know, I know," he murmured absently, grasping the sniffling boy underneath the arms and heaving himself into a standing position, with the child on his hip. He noted distractedly that he probably should have been more careful of the injured wrist when Christopher cried out again.
As he made his way to the kitchen door, he couldn't resist another glance at the man. He loomed on the other side of the gate, his posture casual and tall, hands lost in the pockets of the high-collared black trench coat and his scarlet scarf stirring gently in the cold wind. His eyebrow was still raised, and the smirk had widened. He was still only looking at Theron.
Then Celeste opened the door, and they stepped inside, and the man was gone.
With nightfall came the first snow of the season. The children huddled around grimy windows as the first flakes drifted slowly and silently out of the darkness and into the pool of light spilling from the orphanage. The younger years exclaimed excitedly over the great battles they would wage come morning, while their elders stood vigil behind them, eyes shadowed with memories of winters past and anticipation of the losses they knew their makeshift family would suffer.
It was long after the children had gone to bed, the young ones wriggling and grinning, their elders grim-faced and tired, that something else came out of the darkness.
Muffled laughter, slurred and masculine, stirred Theron from his study of his bedroom's cracked ceiling and memories of the mysterious, beautiful man. He blinked, rolling quietly out of the bed he shared with two other boys, and padded softly to a window curtained more against cold drafts than sunlight. The muted whine of the front gate drifted through missing panes as he shifted the threadbare fabric aside and peered out into the night.
Up the short front walk they came, their feet crunching in the newly fallen snow and leaving behind a mess of prints where once had been perfect, glittering white. Theron could just make out seven shadowed forms, six of them bulky and ungainly, the seventh slender, small, and light. Theron had no recollection of there having been a seventh one before.
But that didn't matter, because suddenly they were at the front door, laughing and talking and beating the knocker against the wood without regard to the many children slumbering inside. Theron heard soft, unsteady cursing and rapid footsteps deep within the house as Matron Cole left her drink to greet them.
Theron let the curtain fall back across the window and returned to bed, eager to escape the chilly stone beneath his feet. He burrowed deep into well-worn blankets, curling against the warm back of his bedmate and hoping the boy wouldn't wake before Theron realized and could move away. He knew there would be no escape into dreams this night.
The clergymen had arrived.
(1) Moartea Dans: Death Dance - a fast-paced, light-footed offensive dueling style that aims to kill rather than capture or subdue.
(2) Traditional closed volley: One-on-one dueling; the participants don't target and aren't targeted by any other wizard than the one they have formally entered into a duel with.
Posted 01.16.2012
Edited 07.17.2012
Edited 11.04.2012