A/N: Crosspost from HPFFA and AO3. Minor modifications made to phrases, content remains the same.

Harry the Blue

Blue eyes watched steadily as the party of five heroes, equipped in poorly-enchanted plate, leather, and cloth armour, made short work of the Blue Dragonkin and Drakonid Lord Malygos loaned her for this situation. It was an unfortunate reality that the Violet Hold only allowed a single portal open at a time, or she'd send all her troops in at once.

Besides, if the grounded members of the Blue Flight couldn't kill a poorly-equipped party of five adventurers, it was their fault for not being stronger. The Blue Flight had no place for weaklings. An eyebrow rose as the defenders managed to find a second, and third, wind as they took down two of the prisoners released by the Drakonid. She could see them tiring, though, and when the last of her currently-ready troops were laid low by the pests, she snarled and decided to handle things herself.

"A valiant defence, heroes," she said as she jumped down in her elven body to the ground floor of the Violet Hold, the disdain she held for them clear in the last word. "But Malygos' Will be done! I will raze this city myself."

The five exhausted heroes she'd been deriding readied themselves as sparks of arcane lightning flowed around her frame in preparation for her transformation to her draconic form. The five, two Humans, a Night elf, a Gnome and a Dwarf, swiftly said a prayer to their Light to grant them strength as her transformation finished.

In this, she respected their wisdom. It wouldn't be enough to lay her low, but divine favour would be an excellent first step to taking on someone of her calibre; the second most powerful lieutenant of Malygos the Spellweaver. These pests would have to learn just what it meant to face a true Wyrm of the Blue Flight. She who was ancient when the War of the Ancients was young.

One of the Humans turned around and shouted, "Lieutenant Sinclari, now!"

What?

Five golden lances of magic shot out from five crystals affixed to the wall, and she suddenly found it hard to move, or even access more than an insignificant portion of her magic. Her scales lost much of their lustre and hardness as a result. She was a Blue, and as such her physical form was ninety-five percent pure magic. Losing access to such a large portion of it took its toll on her body.

It seemed that these mortal whelps wouldn't even have the dignity to face her in honourable combat.

As the Dwarf's sharp axe neared her neck, its owner bellowing his lungs out, her only thought was that their impudence would kill them one day as they took on a threat even their vaunted tricks could not handle.

The next moment, her head slid off her body and she prepared to fully embrace the Source, as was the fate of all members of the Blue Flight. She didn't expect to open her eyes ever again.

Yet she did, and all they saw was a black void, briefly interrupted here and there by little lights she suspected to be stars. Someone had interrupted the breakdown of her body to naught but magic, leaving only the little bit of her that was actual matter behind, and its subsequent return to the Source, the well from which all magic on Azeroth sprung. That meant she had to be careful. Interrupting or even diverting a dispersal of such a magnitude took a lot of power and not a little amount of will to hold the magic in place as it reconstituted itself into herself at the peak of her existence.

She looked down, and noticed that she was a) in her elven form, and b) utterly naked. And such a glorious body it was, too. The few scars she'd had obtained over her millennia of service to the Lord Malygos were gone, her muscles were more toned without losing definition, and her breasts were a little larger.

Her elven form was now the utter perfection she'd always wished it to be, but previously lacked the mass to actually make it so that the correction to perfection didn't tax her magic unduly.

"Greetings, Cyanigosa the Blue."

She liked to think that her whirling around at the sudden disembodied voice was dignified, as was proper of a dragon of her standing, but even as that thought raced through her mind she knew it wasn't so. She definitely did not exclaim a whelpish 'eep', and if that voice would ever insinuate otherwise she would roast him in Spellfire whether he was the Spellweaver himself or not!

"Who are you?" she demanded as she manipulated her magic to bring into being her preferred dress, a low-cut violet-blue piece that was slit up the sides to just under her hips. It showed nothing, but hinted at everything. "Show yourself!"

"Very well," the voice replied with a trace of amusement. "Avatar translocation imminent."

There was a flash, and suddenly a large Truesilver leg filled her vision. Startled, she looked up and took another step back. And another. And another. And another.

"I will assume a size more conducive to conversation," the voice said flatly, and on its wielder's command the leg shrunk to a size that Cyanigosa was more likely to find in Dun Niffelem.

Her eyes roamed over the Truesilver-platinum skin and widened. She took in the fact that this colouration extended everywhere she could see – except for the eyes and hair – and her jaw dropped. Her mind ground to a halt as it registered the presence of the platinum-blond hair and steel-blue eyes.

She instantly dropped to her knees and her forehead hit the invisible floor within the same instant in time. "My lord, forgive my rudeness," she said, begging that her earlier demeanour hadn't thoroughly pissed him off. It was one thing to irritate Lord Malygos, the Spellweaver.

It was another thing entirely to get Lord Norgannon, the Dreamweaver and the one whose power Lord Malygos derived his from, against her. Even if she didn't revere the Titans like some Dwarves did, she respected their power, much like she respected Lord Malygos' power.

"No slight has been taken," her Lord said, and Cyanigosa breathed an internal sigh of relief. "Rise, Cyanigosa."

She stood, but kept her head bowed. "My Lord, may I enquire as to why I was held back from rejoining my fallen brethren at the Source?"

It was more than a little presumptuous as she had not been given permission to speak, but this question burned at her mind and she found herself asking before her mind fully registered what her mouth was spewing. She was about to apologize when Lord Norgannon cut her off.

"You may," her Lord said. "A situation has appeared in a nearby world. Simulation determined that the best outcome would be found by introducing you into its planetary matrix. Your existential matrix will be manipulated to ensure that the best outcome prevails."

Interpreting the silence following this statement as tacit permission to speak, she asked, "What does my Lord wish me to do?"

"A lynchpin is being suppressed. You are tasked to bring the lynchpin to full effectiveness. There are additional tasks, but clarity will be attained in due time."

"What does 'full effectiveness' imply in this case, my Lord?"

"Clarity will be attained in due time," he repeated, much to her well-suppressed ire. "Certain items will be made available to you via your pocket dimension. You will know what to do with them when the time comes."

Well, that was helpful. Her Lord had the full right to be vague, but that didn't mean that it wasn't irritating in the extreme.

"Any further information will be provided in the course of your task," Lord Norgannon said as a runic circle appeared beneath Cyanigosa. "May your endeavour succeed."

Before Cyanigosa could reply that she wouldn't fail her Lord, he snapped his finger and the ritual sent her careening through space and time to a destination unknown.

She felt her magic free up and becomes denser, before having it refilled to her original size. The next thing she was aware of was a horrible twisting sensation in her magic that would have made her cry out in pain had she not currently been hurling through the void of spacetime.

It felt like someone had driven nails through every single one of her scales, stuck her limbs in red-hot iron chains, clamped her snout shut with a red-hot spiked muzzle, then thought it'd be funny to pile on a dozen Curses of Pain, the mortal variety that was much more shorter than the immortal one but all the more painful for it, on the same spot, all over her body.

After some time – she stopped keeping track after three days –, the agony ceased and she inspected her magic for any changes. The first thing she noticed was that her link to Lord Malygos was cut. The geas he put on every Blue Dragon at birth that bound them to himself was gone. She suspected that it had been replaced by a geas binding her to Lord Norgannon, because magic couldn't just vanish.

Action had to be equal to reaction, or in other words, gain had to balance loss. Transferring an enchantment, or replacing it with one of equal power but different effect, was much easier than dispersing an enchantment.

A quick inspection – she'd perform a deeper one later – told her that she'd gained another fifteen percent of magical power, and that her elemental affinity had changed. Previously, she'd been a creature of Spellfrost, a combination of Frost and Arcane, but the cursory inspection told her that it had been subsumed by an affinity to Spellfire, a particularly destructive art that unsurprisingly combined Fire and Arcane.

She had a lot of practice in her near future to look forward to. As a lieutenant of Malygos, there was very little she didn't know regarding magic, and she'd learned at least the theory of every magical art invented on Azeroth by heart. That didn't meant she actually practised more than her chosen fields, but knowledge was power, and knowing how other magics worked allowed her to develop counters.

After she realized this, she noticed that a rapidly approaching light had appeared somewhere in the distance.

"A light at the end of a tunnel," she said flatly, thoroughly unimpressed. "How unoriginal, but I suppose it works."

The next moment the light swallowed her, and her world went black.

She opened her eyes to the sight of a street, but it was not like any she had ever seen before. The road was paved with a smooth, seamless layer of stone, the particular type of stone not something she had encountered before. Large, white houses lined the street, and white picket fences stood between the houses and the street.

Neither the houses' stone nor the fences' wood were familiar to her. The large metal poles lining the street were obviously gaslights designed to illuminate the street at night-time, and the stone of the pavement was one she did recognize, even if the near-perfect uniformity of everything was rather disturbing. The houses were all the same, the stones of the pavement were all perfect squares, the gaslights stood with near-perfect equidistance to their neighbour, and even the fences and lawns were close enough clones of each other that she had trouble spotting a difference unless she looked very closely.

The fact that it was night didn't help matters much, truth be told. In an attempt to find some normality that a small but loud corner of her mind recognized as futile, she looked up to the night sky and blinked as none of the stars matched to the constellations she was aware of.

So, another world entirely, just like her Lord had promised. She smirked a little at the possibilities now open to her before it faded as she realized that she couldn't do everything she wanted to, at least not immediately. She had a task to do, and apparently there was a lot riding on it. Nobody, not even the Titans, used 'lynchpin' lightly.

She decided that waiting where she appeared was the most sensible thing to do, and wove a standard Invisibility enchantment over herself. Or at least, she attempted to. Her new magic was much more responsive and powerful than she was used to, but sheer bull-headedness and a lot of experience channelling magic saw her comfortably cloaked in an invisibility field within an hour.

Just in time.

A soft crack, clearly audible to her sensitive ears, sounded from one corner of the street. She looked over and raised an eyebrow at the man's eccentric appearance. His silver-grey beard was tucked into his belt and still reached his knees, the robes were things not even the most insane mage would be caught dead in – no self-respecting mage would have such a stereotypical robe, preferring a plain one or one embossed with finery reflecting their station –, and there was this aura of age and wisdom around him that was clearly magically enhanced. Auras of age and wisdom were a thing, but they generally weren't registered consciously, even by someone like her, and the fact that she was tripped some alarms in her mind.

Despite his appearance, this man was dangerous. She watched as, in short order, he sucked the gaslights into a small rectangular container, a stern-looking witch transformed from a cat to a woman – with a much more sensible sense of fashion –, talked to the old man – something about 'Muggles' and how these were the worst of the lot, as well as a mention of numerous parties she filed away in the back of her mind – and the pair was joined by a large fellow on an equally massive motorbike.

She quickly decided that the large man was her main point of interest. It wasn't anything to do with the man himself – despite his size, there was little she noticed about him –, but the little bundle he carried in his arms. The magic of the little bundle washed over her like a tidal wave washed over the shoreline, and it reminded her a little of how Lord Malygos' presence used to do the same.

She didn't have to be a mother to that little bundle, had she?

Continued conversation between the three, something about how a Lily and James sacrificing themselves so that their son could live, told her that yes, being a mother to this brat was her task. What else could it be? The old man drew a wand and cast a few spells on the whelp. The first felt to her as a general sensation of warmth, and she supposed that the night was rather chilly to human skin, and since these looked the same way humans back home did, it was logical that the same physical limitations applied.

The second and third, cast in the shadow of the first, found her suppressing a major outburst of anger-fuelled Spellfire as the child's magical presence vanished. Binding a whelp's magic like the old mage had just done was anathema to a creature of magic like herself. If the whelp's unbound magic was a problem – as infantile magical outburst were not exactly rare – then the solution lay in the parents bettering themselves so that they could cast the magic required of them to keep their belongings safe, not in binding the whelp's magic.

Any remaining doubt that being a mother to the little one was her task vanished as she silently seethed, only barely managing to keep her magic from lashing out. Why else would Lord Norgannon place her here and now without any information?

Ten minutes later the street was empty and Cyanigosa made her move. She snatched the little basket with the whelp, letter and all, from the doorstep of the home. She placed the whelp in a stasis spell and stored him inside a pocket dimension as she transformed into her draconic form and took off into the night, stumbling only a little at her newfound speed.

By the time the old man returned to the street, she was long gone.

Cyanigosa flew North without any real aim. As a dragon formerly of Frost, North – towards Coldarra and the freezing pole beyond – was a direction she was naturally inclined to travel in whenever she felt lost, and it had never failed her before.

Even in this new world, going North would not fail her. This she knew as certainly as she knew that she needed more information on this world. It was pure chance that the language spoken by those mages earlier was Common, and the little she heard from that one conversation did not paint a very bright picture of this world's status, and her new whelp's role in it.

Thinking of her new whelp, he needed a name. She felt fairly confident saying that he was named Harry, and Harry was for too common a name for the whelp of a Blue Dragon. Furthermore, she needed to do something about his Humanity. She had nothing against Humans per se, but of all non-draconian species, only the Quel'Dorei were of sufficient looks to be deemed acceptable, and anyone she would call 'her whelp' would be more than a mere acceptable.

Fortunately, she had just the thing. She'd been visiting Quel'Thalas in Quel'Dorei form not too long ago, and a male Quel'Dorei she'd stumbled upon thought he could make romantic passes at her. He soon learned otherwise as she encased him in ice. In a fit of whimsy, she'd stored him in a stasis spell inside her pocket dimension. He should still be in there, if Lord Norgannon hadn't taken him out.

She stopped her musing as she caught sight of a hill with a cavernous entrance that appeared to be large enough for her. She swooped down to inspect the entrance, and found it satisfactory. The cave itself was more than large enough for even her draconian frame to comfortably stand with stretched wings, and the entrance was large enough for her to fly in and out without worrying about hitting the sides. She touched down and transformed back to her elven form. With the ease of much practice, she carved runes into the mouth of the cave to obscure it from vision by making it appear to be just a hillside. She augmented this by casting a subtle aversion ward and considered the job done for now. Erecting protections against the other types of magic she needed to defend against took precedence over the strength of these protections.

Next, she would have to stop magical tracking attempts. Scrying was easy. Summoning was harder, but simple magical echolocation was the hardest to block of them all. For now, a ward that would block all incoming magic would suffice. She could see to augmenting the barrier with something that would hold up against more than a metaphorical harsh wind later.

She re-opened her pocket dimension and retrieved the two things that her life would revolve around in the coming years; the whelp and his letter, the former more so than the latter.

She decided to leave the letter for now and examine the whelp. Three things stood out immediately, one of which she knew of already.

First, he didn't have any magical core to speak of whatsoever. Mortal mages in Azeroth, even the temporally immortal Elves, had magical cores that grew as they aged and they practised. Some were born with one, some without, but the first thing those without did was to reach out to the ley-lines and create one. Magic on Azeroth was impossible without a magical core unless one was a Dragon, and even for Dragons, creating a magical core made things easier by several orders of magnitude.

Second, the bindings. She once again had to repress the urge to seek out and blast the old mage with Spellfire at the feel of the things. They were dripping with malice – a honey-flavoured malice, so that meant that they had at least been cast with good intentions – and they severely restricted the flow of magic in the whelp's body. Her initial hypothesis based on this was that this world's mages had near-infinite reservoirs of magic and that their power depended on the flow rate of their magic through their body. She couldn't say anything firm about it since she lacked data, but she figured she'd get more than enough data in the coming years.

Third, there was a horrible, horrible, horrible magic attached to the scar on the whelp's forehead. It felt Evil, to the point that the Lich King's magic felt merely malicious. It actually felt rather similar to a Lich, but on a higher magnitude.

This time, she did set something in the vicinity ablaze in Spellfire. There were few things she abhorred more than the perversion of magic, the sin against everything decent, the rape of the natural order that was necromancy.

With a negligent wave she doused the Spellfire, blasting the rock it was burning to bits because of her newfound power increase, and gathered the letter. The words on the envelope read 'To Petunia' in green ink, written in a looping script that she'd not seen outside those with the finest of educations. Petunia didn't sound like a male name, so it was likely to be addressed to a relative at the house she gathered the whelp – still in stasis – from.

It wasn't a feat of great difficulty to notice the magic on the letter itself. The material was practically reeking with the stuff. A careful examination of the magic on the envelope told her very little. There was something she figured was a preservation spell of some kind – it smelled a little like formaldehyde –, and there was that warm feeling again that she figured was some kind of warming spell similar to Proudmoore's airconditioning spell.

She ripped open the letter and found more of the looping script, written in the same ink.

'Dear Petunia,' it began.

'As you undoubtedly know, we have had a spot of trouble with the self-styled Lord Voldemort in recent years. Just last night, he was vanquished through the efforts of your sister and her husband. Neither of them, I am sorry to say, survived their brush with Lord Voldemort, though their son did. I need you to take care of their son, young Harry, until such a time that he can return to where he rightfully belongs.'

'Forever yours,
'Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
'Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
'Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards
'Chief Warlock, House of Lords Wizengamot'

Cyanigosa whistled a little at the letter. The information provided by the letter was less in the body – the only real thing of value she learned from it were confirmations of the whelp's name and his parent's names, as well as this 'Lord Voldemort' person she'd have to look into later.

No, the real information was in the closing. A school implied a community. This implication was reinforced by the other two titles, which sounded fairly judicial. Where there was a legal system, there was a community.

Where there was a community, there were organized scholars. Where there were scholars, there was information. Where the was information, there was power.

But first, the whelp.

She ended the stasis spell so that she could undo the bindings. It was pathetically easy, much more so than she initially assumed. A simple influx of her magic into the whelp sent the bindings crashing, restoring the magical flow she felt earlier. Either the bindings weren't intended to be strong, which she doubted, or they were intended to settle down in the target's magic, growing stronger over time until they became practically permanent. She felt fairly safe in assuming it was the latter. She removed her dress to create a makeshift bed for the whelp as she set about making the cave liveable. She wasn't going to go without the creature comforts of a bed, tables, chairs, an actual physical library, and other things of that nature. She'd have to anchor the conjurations with runes, but that was almost zero effort to her. She'd done that so often that she could conjure her creations with those runes, with the sole exception of clothing. Moving things could not be anchored to the planet, and anchoring them to her would just drain her magic unnecessarily. Clothing tended to move.

While she was at it, she conjured a crib fit for a king in the room she was intending to use as a bedroom, and gently deposited the child inside on the comfortable blankets.

She had been a mother once, during the war that was now referred to on Azeroth as the War of the Ancients, and now she was a mother once again. She knew how to parent, though she wasn't sure if she was ready for another whelp.

Last time, her whelp and mate died at the hands of Mannoroth.

She vowed that this time, she would not fail her whelp, even if he wasn't her by blood.