Beginnings, Part 1
It was over.
For decades, it seemed, the threat of Voldemort had hung over the Wizarding World like an extremely stubborn cloud. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had cast a pall over Britain's magical population, even in the intervening years of his sudden disappearance. The Calm, short for "the calm before the storm", had soothed the fears of the magicfolk, but his reappearance fifteen years later (fourteen for those that refused to be taken in by the papers) had thrown those selfsame fears into a fever-pitch.
But now? Now, it was over. Harry Potter, the very Boy Who Lived and stopped Voldemort at the height of his power, had finished the Dark Lord and hammered the final nail on his coffin, so to speak. To most observers, Britain's witches and wizards would be forgiven for breaking out into mass celebrations as they had seventeen years hence. And yet, they didn't. Had it not been for a single fact, the fireworks that had appeared across the skies seventeen years ago would have made a repeat appearance. This time, Voldemort had not "died" after visiting a single solitary family home with malicious intent. Instead, the Dark Lord had brought the full weight of his armies to bear upon his formed school. Death Eaters, giants, Dementors, and the like assaulted the venerated stone walls of the castle of Hogwarts. Built to protect aspiring witches and wizards from persecuting Muggles, the old castle had put a valiant effort before the wards fell to the combined might of You-Know-Who and his Dark army. When the castle itself fell, its inhabitants rose to pick up the fallen flag. Students and teachers alike raised wands against foes even mature mages wouldn't dare face. Of course, this bravado had its consequences. Over ten percent of the defenders of Hogwarts now laid strewn across the battlefield, either dead, dying, or grievously injured. These were rosy-eyed children and wizened old seniors that had borne the brunt of the remaining assault, individuals who had the horror of war and battle forced upon either much before their time or much after it could be deemed appropriate.
The casualties at Hogwarts spoke to the wizarding population at large. There were few magical families that didn't have children and all aspiring British witches and wizards were taught at Hogwarts. As the totals came up on the morning after the Battle of Hogwarts, there was not a single witch or wizard in Britain that hadn't lost a son, daughter, brother, sister, cousin, or were close to those who did. The grieving numbered in the thousands and grief leaves very little room for rational thought. Harry Potter knew he wasn't in his right mind, but he simply didn't care. It was finally over, but as his eyes raked over the bloody scene of battle, he hardly felt that it was worth the fight. So many had died before he could bring closure. Sirius Black, his godfather. Cedric Diggory, one of his school friends. Amelia Bones, the strict but fair head witch of Wizengamot. Sturgis Podmore, a member of the Order of the Phoenix that he could barely recall. Remus Lupin, a friend of his father's and the closest thing he had to an uncle. Nymphadora Tonks, Remus' then-fiancé. Fred Weasley, George Weasley's twin brother. The list ran on and on and on. Harry could barely keep track of them all before he decided that trying to total up the dead was entirely too morbid and macabre to handle at the moment.
Harry tried turning several things over in his head. What would he do now that Voldemort was dead? Would he go back to school? Would instead apply to be an Auror? Or would he take up professional Quidditch? His shoulders sagged as he realized what he was doing. What right did he have to worry about the future? There were so many that had bet their futures on him and, had he been quick enough, he would've been able to save many more of them than he had. Could he really debate the future knowing he had taken futures away from others? Harry realized that he needed to leave: Hogwarts was simply too much for him right now, both emotionally and physically. He turned on his feet and disappeared with a whisper-like crack.
Grimmauld Place could never called the most hospitable of homes. Every inch of the house seemed to ooze darkness while filth gathered in the corners despite being tended by a house-elf. Then again, Kreacher always seemed to hold a greater fascination with his old mistress' portrait and the house-elf head corridor than actually keeping Grimmauld Place in an inhabitable condition. The moment he Apparated in, Harry knew he had made a mistake. Grimmauld Place held memories and, much like Hogwarts, those memories were best left covered at this point. He needed to be elsewhere, somewhere faraway from all of this pain. But where? Harry could think of no place in Britain where he could step foot without bringing up some memory or another. He walked upstairs and began to pack what few clothes he had left behind in this dump. As he stuffed yet another one of Dudley's oversized t-shirts into his baggage, Harry drowned in his thoughts. He couldn't stay at Grimmauld Place, that was for sure. Hogwarts was right out. Despite all of his childhood fantasies, Harry just couldn't bear to live at the Burrow for the time being. Between Fred's death, George's cursed ear, and a whole host of grievances he had brought to the Weasley's doorstep, Harry just couldn't bear burdening them with his presence. The list went on and on and Harry countered each idea almost too perfectly. Before long, he had finished packing his clothes and run out of ideas on places to stay. A sudden fit of helplessness overtook him and Harry nearly cursed the closest window before he saw. Beyond the murky glass, there stood a billboard.
STRESSED? TIRED OF WORK AND THE DAILY GRIND? TAKE A VACATION OVERSEAS! CONTACT A TRAVEL AGENT AT 020-7853-594
Harry gave a wan grin. While he was hardly tired of "the daily grind", he could understand perfectly the need to get away. The stress was… Harry's eyes shot up towards the billboard again. His eyes focused on a specific part of the advertisement: "TAKE A VACATION". That's was exactly it. Harry needed to leave the country before he went spare over the stress and guilt. Unfortunately, Grimmauld Place, being a wizarding home, did not have a Muggle telephone so Harry had to lug his baggage down the stairs and across the street to the nearest telephone box. He dialed in the number and then waited patiently.
"Hello, this is the Beech Brothers Travel Agency. How may I help you?" The receptionist's voice seemed bland, she probably recited that line an endless amount of times to the point of stupefaction.
"Yes, I just saw one of your advertisements for an overseas vacation?" Harry shifted in his place, cramped as the telephone box was. What would his friends say if they heard him planning such a spontaneous vacation? He was so caught up in his ruminations that he quite nearly missed the receptionist as she finished,
"… our last package deal is a 10 day, 11 night trip to the United States of America. You will be staying in the Washington, D.C. area. Attractions include…" Harry cut off her off before she could continue. He hadn't had the presence of mind to hear the previous choices and he'd be embarrassed if he had to call again to hear the choices.
"Yes, yes, I'll take the trip to America. I want to leave as soon as possible."
Harry gripped the armrests of his seat tightly. This had to be some form of irony. If Harry hadn't been intent on becoming an Auror, his talent with flying kept him open for a career in professional Quidditch. Broomsticks were notoriously unsafe compared to other forms of magical transportation. And yet despite being utterly confident and almost reckless when on a flimsy broom, Harry Potter was completely and absolutely terrified of airplane flights. Although if you thought about in a very abstract way, being propelled through the sky on a thin piece of wood was just as terrifying as being trapped in a metal box doing the same exact thing. Yet despite being fearless on a broomstick, capable of maneuvers that would make professional players green with envy, Harry Potter decided that this would be the last time that he would ever ride an airplane.
"It gets easier the second time."
Harry's head jerked to the right. He hadn't noticed that someone had sat down next to him. In fact, given his position, it'd be impossible for someone to get into the seat to his right without giving Harry some kind of notice. The speaker was a lady of seemingly African descent. Her hair was braided and tied up in a bun. Her clothes were of a distinctly business style, a purple jacket over a simple white blouse. She held herself regally and was possessed of a very austere appearance. Harry's startled look must have given her some sort of answer as she continued speaking.
"The first flight is always the most difficult. Your mind and body are not quite ready for the quirks of flight yet. A few more flights and it will be as if you are taking a ride in a car."
Harry had to fight down a snicker as he recalled the Weasley family's flying Ford Anglia. He nodded and slightly loosened his death-grip on the armrests. Harry's hand were still clutched to the chair as if it were a lifeline, but the faintest amount of color had worked its way back into his fingers. Slightly relaxed, Harry let loose a breath that he didn't realize that he was holding. While what his neighbor had said might be true, Harry had no intention of flying on an airplane again. Should he ever feel the need for intercontinental travel, then he'd much prefer trying his luck with Portkeys or even just flying across the Atlantic with a broomstick.
He leaned back into his seat. After all that had happened today, he was dead exhausted. In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have left so quickly. The ashes of war hadn't even cooled before Harry went on his trip to America. His sudden disappearance probably stunned more than a few people, but Harry had had enough of that. Ever since he was born, he had been giving and giving to those who took. Now that the war was over, Harry finally had some time to himself. Just as he closed his eyes to nap, he noticed his neighbor give the smallest of grins.
He jumped high and flopped onto the bed like so much dead weight. The flight from London to New York City was brutal. 12 hours of nothing but sitting around and waiting had been killer on nerves that were finely-tuned for war. His face in his sheets, Harry let out a muffled groan as he released all the tension from the last couple of years. Gods, he was right in renting a room from one of the more expensive hotels in New York. His bed felt absolutely amazing, as if he was floating in the sky without a care in the world. Harry took in a deep breath, smelling the faint perfume of the room, ready to let to out another earthshaking groan when -
"Comfortable, Mr. Potter?"
Harry shot out of his bed like a rocket, reaching into his robes to grab his wand. He turned to face the source of the voice. As he saw who had spoken, he dropped his wand out of shock.
"Did I surprise you, Mr. Potter?" It was the lady from the plane. She looked just as prim and proper as she had nearly an hour ago when he left the airport. She had looked so normal! Harry was used to wizardingkind that had no clue how to dress as a Muggle. He squatted down, his hand scrabbling for his wand as he stared at the lady, still in shock.
"Who are you? How did you get in here?" Harry raised his wand at the lady, ready to fire off a Stunner at the slightest twitch.
She coughed into her closed hand, "There will be no need for that. I have a job offer for you, Mr. Potter." She nodded towards something behind Harry. A massive figure loomed behind him, a ham-sized fist enclosing around his and forcing his wand arm down. The hulk gestured his other hand towards a nearby armchair. As soon as Harry sat down, the lady continued, "My name is Mrs. Frederic and I am in a unique position to acquire your services. Your skills would be well-suited towards this line of work. Unlike most of our… 'applicants', you retain a right to refuse employment. Do you accept?"
Harry slumped into the chair in shock. Not even a day into his new vacation, he seemed to find himself in yet another emergency of some sort. Talk about a busman's holiday. Regardless, he needed to negotiate. "How do you know I'm suited for this? What kind of job are you offering me?"
Mrs. Frederic gestured to the man behind Harry, who proceeded to hand him a folder. "I am quite confident in my ability to find new employees. Safe to say, you are a perfect match for this job. And as for what I am offering you?" At this point, Mrs. Frederic donned a shark-like grin, an expression that seemed utterly alien for some reason, "I am giving you a ticket to endless wonder."
Author's Notes:
Huh, my first fiction "published". When I first joined and started writing my first drafts (which were deleted by the hundreds), I never thought that I'd end up with a Harry Potter/Warehouse 13 crossover. I've had so many first chapters written down, only to be trashed. Numerous more story ideas never made it onto (electronic) paper. In any case, on to my notes on the chapter. When this plot bunny popped into my mind, I decided enough was enough. No matter how good or bad this idea was, I'd push it onto soon as I got the first chapter done.
When I first had the idea, I jumped the gun on the timelines. The closest measuring stick I could pull was relative ages. I knew Claudia was in her 20s in 2009 and I knew Harry was 11 years old in 1991, which placed him at 29-ish in 2009. Of course, it completely slipped my mind that Harry defeated Voldemort (for the final time) when he was 17 and I had planned for Harry to join the Warehouse team right after his defeat of Voldemort. I did some fact-checking before publishing and I realized that I was in a bit of a pickle. I had planned for Harry to join up with the Warehouse 13 team right after the Battle of Hogwarts, but I completely forgot that the current Warehouse 13 team hadn't gotten together until around 2009, a full 12 years after Harry defeated Voldemort. Upon hitting that little snag, I realized that I had to change my plans around if I wanted to get this off the ground. Hopefully, I'll continued to be inspired to write this. I'd hate for my first published fiction to become discontinued. Well, knock on wood, eh?
P.S. For those of you who don't understand the title, Claudia dubs the Warehouse as the "Library of Crazy" during one episode, I can't remember which
