TITLE: The Scorpion Warrior
Author: Shadow Demonrage
Setting: AU, but postHBP. This picks up straight after HBP.
Pairings: Harry/Ginny (very briefly, just because of HBP), Ron/Hermione (briefly), Ginny/Draco, Ron/OC, Remus/Tonks, and Harry/Hermione
Genre: Angst/Mystery/Action/Adventure
Rating: Mature (just to be on the safe side)
Disclaimer: Now, do you really have to ask? I own nothing but a computer, a TV, a stereo, a guitar, a bed, a notebook, and a pen. And sometimes not even that much.
SUMMARY: His thirst for vengeance merely fueled by his mentor's death, Harry Potter sets out on a journey with his friends. This journey could very well change their lives, and, in fact, undoubtedly will, along with their views on the world and its machinations. What happens when the Golden Trio lose their innocence? Are they all they appear to be behind closed doors, or will they give in to the horrors within and turn into an evil that rivals Lord Voldemort himself: the Blackened Trio? Faced with the horrors of the Second Wizard War, Harry and his friends, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, must face their greatest fears in order to save the world once again. Who is the Scorpion Warrior, and what does he want with Harry? With the legendary Scorpion Warrior released into the world, will mother earth change for the good, honorable Light Side, or will all be lost to the Dark and corrupt side of the war? Read to find your answers, and receive more than you ever bargained for...
PROLOGUE
Darkness. Cold. It's freezing. The man shuddered. No one could see him: he was blanketed by shadow. It was a good thing, too. He didn't want the Chosen One to see him. The man wasn't ready for that yet, and neither was the boy, to be perfectly frank. There was too much to be done, too many decisions to decide, and innumerable plans to be planned. But for now, the man was stuck. Stuck in the freaking cold rain as thunder bellowed at him to get a move on and lightning threatened to reveal to the boy where he was stationed uncomfortably. He had enough on his plate without that as well, thank you very much. And where was that stupid umbrella that the great oaf, Hagrid, always kept with him when you needed it? The imbecile would be only too pleased to lend it to the man for his use, after all. Hang on... was he a wizard or not? Growling at his ignorance, the man briefly flicked his wrist, and was pleased when a fairly well-sized umbrella was conjured from thin air and placed in his waiting palm. The umbrella seemed to be derived from the shadows he was hiding in, which made the man shudder. He was getting more and more like that bastard Snape every day. It scared him out of his wits to know that he could one day be as bat-like as the greasy lamebrain.
The man growled softly again, sulking at the thought of the hook-nosed Death Eater and potions master. If only the damn Half-Blood Prince hadn't gone out and ruined everything, he might not have any need to be standing in this aggressive storm. Why the fuck did Snape absolutely have to do that, anyway? Everything was going perfectly: all according to plan, and even Snape himself was following direct orders for once. That is, of course, until he just up and killed Albus, effectively screwing around with the Fates and the tapestry of life. Unless the Fates had predicted this as well? The man shook his head as a headache began to form above his right eyebrow, but the action merely worsened the problem and earned a few dripping black bangs in his eyes, as well.
Damn it all! Just damn it all to fucking hell! The so-called Chosen One wasn't supposed have been made to go through such a thing! Taking a deep breath and reflecting on those last few thoughts, the man decided that his wife was actually right, for once: he severely needed anger management classes. He truly swore too much for his own good. But... Bloody Hell, just look at the boy! He was supposed to be arrogant but talented; an exact carbon-copy of his father! But nooo... Instead, he had to grow up in a hellhole with the worst Muggles on the face of the Earth, only to be put through an even worse of a hell at school! Just God damn it all!
The man stopped his internal rant and admonished himself for not staying alert. It was like that man with the insane eye always says: Constant Vigilance! A flash of lightning briefly illuminated his features, and the man snapped out of his musings in time to see the boy looking straight at him. "Oh, shit..." He cursed, glaring up at the heavens, as if asking them why he had to be the one to do this for them. Quickly and stealthily, he moved through the shadows, which had come back as the lightning disappeared to terrorize some other poor soul. Maybe the boy hadn't seen him. Just maybe... just maybe Horus was right... miracles could happen.
He snorted to himself. Horus. The gray-eyed beauty that would surely kill him when he got back to headquarters. The same black-haired, fair-skinned beauty that he happened to love. But he used to hate her. The brat was his worst enemy during his childhood days. Actually, she still is, in more ways than one. Still, things had changed. Both had reality come bite them in the ass way too soon for comfort, at a very inopportune time. Heck, life's a bitch, and sometimes it bites harder than its twin, also known as reality. Horus and he grew up, ignored childish grudges , and developed new and entirely alien feeling.
However , we're getting strayed from the story here.
Another flash of lightning made him curse again and move to yet another location. Even though the boy seemed to be watching the man, his stare could bore through stone and made the man feel very uneasy in his current situation. Ah, the Chosen One. Not much of a "Chosen One," really. He was just a boy. Granted, he was a rather brave boy, but still just a boy. He wasn't particularly excelling in school, except perhaps in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and even in that subject, he can't perform even the simplest of nonverbal magic. He isn't very special in looks either, unless that ever-famous scar on his forehead. Years o neglect and malnutrition had certainly done a number on him, and he was still as skinny as a toothpick. Not literally, of course, but you get the idea. He never exactly the best of clothes during the summer holidays, either, and that only added to his gaunt appearance. Actually, that's an understatement – the boy looks positively drab in those awful hand-me-downs passed on from his overly obese whale of a cousin. The messy, jet-black hair didn't help any. While his father could manage to use the hair to make him look more handsome, it only made the boy look, if possible, more unhealthy and dull. The only that held any significance on that scrawny body that doesn't include the lightning bolt-shaped scar is his eyes (although he would probably protest that fact.) They held everything about the boy. They normally showed his past, full of neglect and uncertainty; the present, full of hatred and despair, and the future, full of terror and a strange, underlying love.
The man sighed. Now... now those eyes mirrored his own, and, indeed, every other person that had been, has been, and will be in this war. A cross between insanity, helplessness, hope, apathy, leadership, and power – that's all that resides within the human eye in times of war. Hope, leadership, and power often lurk just beneath the surface; like a dream that you can't just remember. When you try to grab hold of it, it floats away, like a cloud, leaving you in its wake, confused and ignorant. Helplessness and apathy lead to insanity and, more often than not, depression, which then leads to suicide. Thus, no side of the war wins. Unless one man steps up and takes a stand against it. Sure, life's a bitch, and she sure knows how to bite, but there has to be someone willing to bite it right back. And the wizarding community as a whole has dumped their hopes, dreams, and future in the hands of a sixteen – almost seventeen-year-old boy, the one they hope will growl and bite back at what life has done to him. Ignorant idiots.
Right now, the boy was standing. Oh, yes, you heard correctly. Standing. In the rain. The Scorpion Warrior could hear his thoughts, and frankly, he was ready to rip the boy's neck off his shoulders and dump in the nearest pit of tar he could find. In other words, it was slowly drive him insane. If he wasn't insane already. The Chosen One was wearing a brilliantly white and soaked T-shirt that was a million sizes too big for him and tucked into tan slacks of equal size, held up only by a thin and still thinning piece of string. The only thing that attempted to warm the bare, skinny arms of the boy was a fading black jeans jacket. And he was just standing there, in his filthy family's garden, with his arms spread wide, welcoming the raging and roaring storm to his body like he would to Sirius Black if he were to suddenly hop out of his grave, alive. The rain was falling as hard as a waterfall would pour into a river and the dark gray clouds were unmerciful as lightning bolt after lightning bolt struck down upon the Earth like might swords slashing though a man's chest. This lightning impacting on the ground far away, making the air around it for miles tremble and shudder in its tremulous roar. Wind howled wildly, increasingly more savage than any wolf the Scorpion Warrior had ever seen or heard bay to the moon before.
The boy would be leaving soon, the Scorpion Warrior could see it in his eyes. He would stay at the house until his seventeenth birthday, as ordered by Albus, and then vengeance would rear its ugly head and the boy would take off running, with or without his little sidekicks to pull him out of the mud countless times. The Scorpion Warrior knew exactly where the boy would go, too; it was written all over his face. The terror of the Second War against Voldemort and the death of his mentor had reacted very harshly on Harry Potter.
Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived. The Chosen One. And, although the boy didn't know it, the world also revered him as the Man-Who-Lived, Savior-From-Heaven, Man-From-The-Stars, Little-Boy-That-Could, Wanna-Be-Skywalker, and countless other titles that the boy himself would consider as monstrosities to mankind. The world believed him to be their savior: the one to save them from the terror and destruction that otherwise awaits them at the hands of an evil psychopath and his Dark Side followers. Death is welcomed by many; a preference to the torture and rape that is often exploited by Death Eaters and the Dark Lord Voldemort himself. It wasn't only Death Eaters and Voldemort, however, but also the general wizarding populace themselves. Panic hit the world like an endless tide, killing some and torturing more. Those that were temporarily unaffected by this panic were instead sent into depression by the loss of loved ones, again resulting in suicide. Not one person was safe from this panic wave, not even children. Just a week ago a young eight-year-old boy had committed suicide after the death of his parents. No one knows how it was done, for a young child of that age could not possibly be able to understand the panic that was swiftly spreading around all seven continents on Earth.
Yes, indeed: Life sure as hell is a bitch, and when it slaps you in the face and chews your ass out all day long, its hard to find a person that will stand against it all.
A/N: This is my first fic, so play nice! A flame is a piece of shit to be ignored and hopefully not smelled, so hopefully I won't catch a whiff of that...
So, tell me what you think of it! It's very simple, you see. Even I, being a newbie and all, can tell you that there is a little square button near the bottom of the screen that isnext to a longer box. It's lavender in color. That's the little button you need to click on. Go on, try it out.
And to answer the question you must be dying to ask: Yes, I am absolutely insane. But don't call an asylum, please. I want to have a bit of fun first.