Harry Potter was never one to go looking for trouble, but for a reason unbeknownst to him, the same couldn't be said the other way around.
"You lot were worth every cent, truly." Green irises turned towards the source of a rather pompous voice; a flamboyant pimp surrounded by generic black and red thug-types facing off against a small, cloaked child wielding a mechanical gardening tool twice as long as she was tall.
And he thought the Wizarding World was strange.
Releasing a sigh, he began to walk over to the commotion, pulling up his Hood and disappearing from view. 'It was a nice night, as well,' he lamented.
Harry stepped over the shattered remains of the storefront and checked on the elderly man hiding behind the counter, clutching his chest in a panic. His breathing was erratic and laboured, and at his age, he could have easily suffered a heart attack from the stress.
Not very impressed with the reckless destruction caused by Little Miss Trigger-Happy and the Bowler-Sexual, Harry made a couple vague gestures with his right hand (more from habit than anything), first towards the shaking man and then towards the ransacked shop.
It was as if a bomb had gone off in reverse. A glowing, vaguely energetic powder flew into the air as shattered glass reformed around it, the full vials clinking down back onto newly repaired shelves; scorch and burn marks vanished in a blink as fastenings straightened out and realigned themselves. Torn magazines were healed and neatly stacked back into order, as a fallen florescent light reattached to the ceiling, its cracks melting away. Broomsticks walked back behind the counter, cleaning up bits of plaster and debris as they went. The entire process took less than a minute.
The shop-owner swayed drunkenly, the calming charm slowly taking hold as his breathing evened out. He had the shell-shocked expression of someone who wasn't entirely believing their eyes but was grateful all the same.
Still, he remained much more accepting of the process than any civilian Harry had ever met; granted his previous sample size was limited to his homeworld. This "Remnant" was a fascinating blend of modern and archaic. Stylised lamps line the street, but each one was holographically projected above the sides of the road. Vaguely Victorian style clothes intermixed with medieval armour, eastern and western cloth draped over the average Joe. Maybe the supernatural was commonplace here.
Regardless, people could get hurt. Though the street was abandoned at the time, as the events were currently proceeding, a building could collapse on countless innocents. Blame his Gryffindor side, or maybe his so-called "saving people thing", but Harry couldn't allow that.
"Now, what would Hermione do?" Over the years, such a phrase dictated quite a few of Harry's choices since he first learned he was a wizard, and he found asking himself that question tended to lead to the best possible outcome.
So what would the Creature Rights Warrior try first? Ah, yes: diplomacy.
"Excuse me?" Harry called out to the group. "It's quite late, isn't it? Do you think you could maybe hold off of endangering the public until the morning?"
Okay, so maybe diplomacy wasn't exactly his strong suit, sue him.
"It's okay, sir, I've got him! I'm a huntress, and I will protect you from all harm!" The child yelled, turning her head towards him.
"Oh, joy, a fellow Gryff," Harry mumbled, rolling his eyes, as the lanky fellow lifting his walking cane out towards the girl. The first rule of combat: never remove your eyes from the threat.
The heat from the blast was much greater than Harry anticipated, his eyes squeezing shut from the sudden light. If it weren't for his Hood cocooning around his body, he would have been blown off his feet. Instead, he felt a pleasant, flowing sensation as the flames washed over his form, leaving him unscathed.
"Thanks," he whispered under his breath. The Hood fluttered in an intangible breeze. "Shit! The girl!" His eyes flew open in panic, just in time to see the child slightly smoking, but none the worse for wear. Harry watched as she shook off the shock, dusted debris from her skirt, and ran after the running man.
'What the hell?' He blinked multiple times to confirm what he had just seen, and sure enough, she was totally fine, still lugging that giant blade behind her. Before Harry could call out to her, just to make sure we were alright, she morphed into a swirl of red… somethings… before dashing off, faster than his Firebolt.
"Merlin's bollocks…" he swore, before shaking his head and following.
THREE WEEKS LATER
"Mr. Mithryl?" A sharp voice cut through Harry's sleep. "Mr. Mithryl, are you awake?" That would be Professor Goodwitch, the beautiful Deputy, and the one who intervened in Harry's small soirée three weeks ago.
"Unbelievably reckless! Endangering the public! Trying to take on Roman Torchwick of all people! I should do well to turn you over to the authorities, or better yet your parents!" The well-dressed woman was pacing across the table from Harry, ranting at him while he sipped on a cold cup of tea.
"Well, in that case, Professor," he said quietly, "Bring me to the nearest precinct because my parents were murdered when I was a year old."
She gasped quietly at the ice in his voice, turning towards him. The apology was already prepped on her lips.
"It's alright," Harry interrupted, not meeting her eyes, "You couldn't have known."
She sat down, and Harry finished his drink in silence.
"Yes, Professor." He yelled at the opposite wall, vaguely in the direction of the door. "I'm up."
In Harry's eyes, Goodwitch was a much younger, hotter version of McGonagall; though he would never dare say so out loud, lest she overhears. She was a stern, strict, stickler for the rules, but in her eyes, he could see the care she held for all of her charges.
Harry peered around his temporary room. It was quite bare, with a single window allowing for a small amount of natural light to cast shadows across the opposite wall. There were four beds, one of which he slept in and another which he placed his things, all of which had no sheets or bedding. A light layer of dust presided on every surface, and in the corner of the room, a small, practical desk occupied space. It was all quite peaceful, but very empty. Harry snorted to himself, imagining how profound that would sound to a more practiced ear like Hermione's, trying to find some metaphor in every little thing.
"The students will arrive in an hour's time, and I expect you to be present for the opening speech in the auditorium. Understood?"
"Yes Professor." Bleary-eyed, Harry slid open the strange miniature computer gifted to him by the school's Head, Ozpin. It was some mix of a tablet, a video phone, and a holographic identification card. He called it a "scroll".
You have: 1 NEW MESSAGE
The notification blinked at him. He reached up and tapped the blue screen, expanding the box. It was a map, presumably to the said auditorium.
'Time to face the music.'
Harry swung his legs off his cot, twisting back and forth to a cacophony of pops in his spine. He rolled his shoulders to release the remaining tension and soreness, before hopping out of the bed. Picking up the first set of clothing he could grab (variety was never really his thing), he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and walked towards the bathroom, snatching the towel hanging off his desk chair.
After a brief shower, and taking care of the rest of his facilities, he checked his scroll again. Twenty-two minutes until touchdown.
'May as well be a bit early.' Checking himself in the mirror once more, Harry (or Harley Mithryl according to his scroll) made his way down to the landing site.
"Come on." He nodded his head towards the open door. A pool of cloth, almost invisible in the shadowed corner of the room, slithered over to him and flew up his leg. The makeshift shawl wrapped around his torso, before melting into a simple black hoodie. The familiar cooling sensation was an easy comfort for Harry. He sighed in relief.
"Alright," he smiled, "Let's go."
Lavender Brown wasn't the smartest girl. She knew that.
She wasn't the best fighter. She knew that as well.
But regardless, Lavender knew for certain that she wasn't just hallucinating when she saw Harry freaking Potter milling about the station, not a care in the world.
Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, somehow made his way to Remnant, to Beacon Academy. She opened her mouth, ready to shout out to him when she stopped. What could she say? They were friendly, but they weren't friends. The last they saw each other had to have been three years ago, after Cedric's death. After Harry finally defeated Voldemort. A fourteen-year-old boy ended a war that lasted decades, before vanishing from the face of the Earth. What could she say to someone like that?
"Hey Harry, remember me? We had a few classes together. How's life been since you saved the world? What am I doing in this alternate reality? Oh, just made a little deal with a god. Doing him a favour. What's new with you?"
Yeah, that sounds fantastic.
'I'll talk to him later,' she thought. 'I mean, what's the point now, right?'
Lavender turned around, determined to think about something else, and so she missed a pair of bright emerald eyes locking in on her retreating form.
'Is that… Lavender Brown?'
Even with the local fashion sense, slightly tanned skin, and new hairdo, the face was unmistakable. It was definitely Hermione's old roommate.
'Jesus Christ, how the hell did she get here?'
Harry was preparing to run after her when his Hood tightened across his chest; a warning.
"What?" He whispered. "What's wrong? I'm just going to talk to her."
The cloth started to press against his chest, hard enough to make breathing uncomfortable. The message was clear: don't.
"Why not?" No change. No answer.
"Alright, well, I'm going to have to see her eventually if we're going to school together. The most I can do is wait." The pressure let off, the jacket expanding and letting him breathe easier.
Wait it is, then.
When Harry looked back up again, he was shocked to see that everyone else had left, save a few stragglers.
'Well I guess they're all excited,' he thought to himself. He might as well walk over to the-
BOOM!
'… The fuck?' Even for Harry, two explosions in three weeks is pushing the boundaries of luck. Some God of Gunpowder was probably out to get him.
He ran over to the source of the noise, only to sweatdrop when he saw who was at the centre of the crater. That cloak was definitely one of a kind.
'Just my luck.' He rolled his eyes. "Are you all right?" He asked, wincing when he fully remembered who he was speaking to. 'Oh please don't start-'
"HARLEY!" The little she-demon squealed.
Sigh. "Hullo, Ruby."
Ms. Ruby Rose, a fifteen-year-old combat prodigy who was aspiring to be a paid superhero. Super-mercenary? Super-cop? Super-cop. Though, singling Rose out was probably unfair considering that they were literally standing in a school that specialises in training super-cop wannabes. She was one among the masses, granted a tad younger than the rest. Regardless, her arms were wrapped around Harry's midriff, cutting off all manners of circulation and slowly cutting off his oxygen. Her smaller stature was quite deceptive to the surprising amount of strength she held in her frame.
"And who might you be?"
Harry looked up at the woman who so rudely addressed him. She was very… white. Yeah, that summed it up nicely. She wore a white jacket and a matching skirt with a few flecks of grey tossed in for variety, a silver rapier strapped to her side. Her accessories were white and her hair was (surprise, surprise) white.
"Harry." He answered flippantly.
The young wizard figured that it must have been absolute murder to maintain such a spotless appearance. Honestly, it was quite the reasonable choice for someone who aspired to spend copious amounts of time in combat out at the Wilds.
His sarcastic thoughts must have been detectable in his expressions, because the pseudo princess turned her nose up at him, radiating her arrogance. "I'm sorry?" She asked, her upper lip receding into her face. "Introduce yourself properly! Bow! Take my hand and don't look at my face whilst you speak. Give me your last name first and then your given name if I request it." She lectured as if speaking to a particularly slow child.
Everything about her simply screamed "PUREBLOOD" straight out of the wars, and Harry hated it. He hated it for all the Pureblood jackasses that landed on their feet, without a hair out of place. For every rich prick that threw around enough money to buy their atonement, while his own Godfather rotted for twelve years in an unspeakable prison without any form of conviction or guilt. For every bastard that those peacocks raised, who would strut about his first home doing whatever they wished without fear of respite from anyone.
They dared follow him into his sanctuary? To continue his torment years after he left?
His sclera turned black, and the hollow features of his face were accentuated to give him a slightly ethereal look. His flesh flickered, briefly revealing the bone underneath. When he spoke, a softer, hissing undertone spoke in tandem, whispering directly into the brat's ear, reverberating in her skull.
"I am a demon who could kill you in two words." He intoned, almost whispering. "With nary a thought, I could rip apart your mind from within, scattering your consciousness throughout the cosmos. I could make your blood boil and your skin melt from your brittle bones, keeping you alive just to witness your torture. I can do all of this and more without breaking a sweat, and you have the gall to demand I kneel?
"Here's your introduction, Snow-Bitch," his mouth peeling back in a cruel grin to reveal rows of jagged teeth, bared to strike at her oh, so exposed throat. "I am your Nightmare."
End of Chapter ONE
A/N: This is not a Harry untouched by the war. It took everything from him before he finished puberty, and that left a scar much deeper than the one on his forehead. In this AU, Harry killed Voldy his fourth year. What happened to him the three years after, pre-Remnant, will be revealed in time, but not quite yet. Just know that all will be revealed eventually.
A child soldier is never undamaged, and Harry killed a man with his bare hands when he was eleven.
-The UnHoly Smirk