So… this is a thing I've had stuck in my brain for a while, and I really want to do. I am, however, perfectly aware of the state of my already existing stories, and how I have more than enough. So, here's the plan. I'm going to set this up as its own story for now, but pay close attention to how much feedback it gets. If it's a lot, then I will continue this story. If not, I will simply put it in One, Two, Five, and leave it for some other date. Read, Review, and Enjoy!
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"Be careful, Harry. We don't know what you'll find on the other side. We don't even know if there is an other side, and chances are you won't be coming back, regardless."
"I'll be fine, 'Mione. After all, what have I got left to lose?"
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Despite his words, Harry Potter was cautious as he stepped through the whispering veil, his entire body tensed to run at the slightest sign of danger. But there was nothing on the other side, no wild beast or dark wizard with a curse on the tip of his tongue. Instead, the dark-haired man stepped into what looked like an ancient castle, bare and silent. The room, in particular, appeared to be a dining hall of some kind, with cold stone walls and long tables draped with ancient and tattered silk. A glance behind revealed that the Veil of Death, as expected, had disappeared. He had spent his one-way ticket, and in its place stood a large hearth, cold for years.
Everything about the place screamed abandoned. Dust layered thickly across the tables and mantle, and danced in the light streaming through two open-air windows. Oak doors that looked as if they were about to collapse under their own weight led to other parts of the castle, three in a slight mental shrug, Harry decided that standing in an empty dining hall wasn't likely to get him anywhere, and so he picked a door at random.
Perhaps ironically, the portal turned out ot lead to a library, smaller than the one at Hogwarts, but much too large for a personal collection. The books, as well, were covered with dust, and as he opened one carefully, it creaked with age. Harry was quick to set it back down as Hermione's voice echoed in his ears from their school days, warning him to be careful with books. Sending the witch a mental apology, he beat a hasty retreat and promised himself he would return after investigating his new home.
The second door, again chosen at random, led into a barracks. Or at least, that was what he assumed it was, given the thirty or so bunks lined up against the walls, each with a small chest sitting at its foot. For a short second, Harry thought about searching the chests, but thought better of it. Abandoning his old life did not mean abandoning his morals, and privacy had always been important to him. Once again, Harry left without disturbing anything, a slight sense of disappointment building within him. When he had stepped through the veil, the wizard expected… something. Not a dusty little castle that took twenty minutes to explore. Even worse, he had yet to find anything even hinting at an exit.
It was the third door, which he had nearly missed in his original cursory glance, hidden by a shadowed alcove as it was, that finally revealed something interesting. Inside was perhaps the only rom untouched by dust, a small study with a bed, only slightly more ornate than the ones in the barracks. Even as he crossed the threshold, Harry knew this room was important. The air buzzed with magic, that skittering, electrical sensation he had become so familiar with for the last half of his the corner a small staircase led upwards, possibly to the rest of the castle, but Harry ignored it, stepping deeper into the room instead. The wizard could feel something probing him, some ancient sentience that tested his heart and soul. He was mesmerized by the feeling as the air, previously so dead and stale, stirred suddenly, rising and rising until he stood in the middle of a self-contained gale, one that whipped at his skin like lashes. Harry stood his ground, however. He had survived far worse than the biting chill that pervaded his bones and tearing wind, and some unknown instinct told him this moment was important.]
As quickly as it started, the phenomenon died. In an instant, Harry stood alone in an empty and quiet room, just as dead as the rest of the castle. At first, he thought he had failed the unspoken test, that in his defiance he had been found wanting. But just as he was about to step back, to walk away and up the small staircase, he was stopped by the sound of stone grinding on stone. Harry watched as, with great deliberation, the study's back wall slid open to reveal an alcove even smaller than the cupboard he had once lived in. The wizard wasted no time in walking towards it, curiosity burning in his mind.
Inside were but three items. The first, a small, leather-bound tome that appeared to be more journal than book, held little immediate interest to he might find some much-needed information within it in time, but for now the other two objects held his attention. The second was a sheathed sword, whose covering was bone-white and smooth like glass, with a small silver rune from some unknown language carved into it base. The pommel, which fit into his hand like it had been forged for him, was the black of a depthless void, devouring what little light touched it, In a sharp contrast was the small pearl enclosed within that shone iridescently. Carefully, Harry lifted the weapon from its resting place, marveling at the weight and balance of it. Even Gryffindor's sword, made by the ruler of the goblin nations in the founder's era himself, had never felt like this, as if it were an extension of more than just his arm, but his very soul. When he drew the blade however, steel sliding against leather as if it were air, Harry could do little but gasp. If he had thought the sword beautiful before, than he was a blind man. Steel shone a pure white, like the heart of a sun had been captured in the shape of a sword, and Harry was utterly speechless at the sight.
It was a long time before Harry finally sheathed the weapon and lowered it back into its place with, if possible, even more care than before. Then, finally, he turned his attention to the third item ensconced within the hidden alcove. For a second, Harry wondered if perhaps he had found the material used to craft the blade, so closely did the small round stone match its color and beauty. But no, it was more varied than that, ranging at times closer to the white of freshly fallen snow, and even a paler, more lifeless shade of bone in the veins that ran over its surface. Still, Harry knew it was no natural stone as he touched it lightly, feeling the sheer smoothness of it. Something that fine could only have been crafted by magic, and from the way it was hidden, he assumed the stone and sword were of extreme importance to something. For a moment, he wondered if he hadn't stumbled across the last remains of some ancient and fabled warrior.
After what felt like a long time, Harry finally laid the stone back in its place and picked up the book, wiping away a thick layer of dust. For a second, he wondered how it had accumulated, since the rest of the room was spotless, but pushed it away; magic, as that was obviously what had kept this alcove hidden and protected, worked in strange ways. Even now, he had no idea why it had chosen to reveal itself. After taking a second to admire the quality of the fine leather binding, he took a deep breath and opened it. From the first few words, Harry knew that he had been correct, and this was some kind of journal. Without thought, the young wizard moved to sit at the desk, making himself comfortable, before diving into the words with wild glee.
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I am Vrael, last commander of the Riders, and It is my great sorrow to write this, the history of our fall.
Those words haunted Harry as he closed the journal gently, taking a generous swallow of Firewhiskey. It had been three days since he first read them, unknowing of their worth, but now they were etched into his soul by the harrowing account still held in his hand. The journal had been much more than just a journal. It was a full-fledged account of the destruction of a great order, and the ascension of a king that would put Riddle himself to shame. Harry had learned much as he read. The Dragon Riders, as they were known, were an ancient, powerful order of nigh-on-immortal warriors and magicians who spread peace and justice through the land, until, as was ever the case with such groups, they were brought down from within. Galbatorix, the traitor, destoryed the order with his Forsworn followers and razed their entire legacy. Now, Harry was in possession of their last remnant.
He glanced over to the alcove, where the sword and stone-or egg, rather-still lay. According to the journal, they were one of Vrael's own blades, of a kind forged by an elven race that sounded nothing like Harry's own concept of the word, and given only to Riders. The egg, as well, was left by the old grandmaster, laid by his own dragon as they waited to be hunted by Galbatorix and hidden with the blade in the hope that they might one day be found and used against him.
The story both intrigued and worried Harry. He had come to this land, this Alagaesia, to forget about the war, the dead, and all the praise and glory he received as The-Man-Who-Lived. There were other reasons, of course, but those were the most blatant. And now here he was in possession of the only things that could stop an evil, immortal tyrant. The irony wasn't lost on him, especially when the last words in Vrael's journal had been a desperate plea for whoever read it to safeguard the sword and stone both until a new Rider could be found. Sighing, the wizard cast a tempus, and noting the late hour, collapsed into bed. He could worry more about what he would do the next day. For now, Harry was tired.
It was only a few hours later, at most, that Harry was woken by a quiet sound echoing through the small room. In an instant, the man was sitting up, wand clenched tightly in his hand as he scanned the room. There was nothing there, but he continued looking for several seconds, staring into the darkness until another sound made him jump.
Oh fuck. It was that second sound which sent panic icing into Harry's veins, for he recognized it. Years before, he had heard one much like it in Hagrid's hut, staring at a dragon egg as it was about to hatch. He whipped around to look at the alcove with wide eyes, fear and anticipation warring inside him. He was not to be disappointed.
The break, when it came, was sudden. For several long moments, there was only the slight taps and squeaks, deafening in their silence despite their relatively low volume, until all at once the white egg shattered into a thousand pieces. Silently, Harry cast a lumos as he took a slow step forwards to look at the result. The dragonling, somehow, caught Harry off-guard. It was so… adorable. With four stubby legs-four, not two- and a pair of wings to match, it scrabbled on the stones where it had landed right outside the alcove, struggling to stand. Finally, it managed, an instant before sneezing and launching itself back onto its rump.
A chuckle escaped Harry, and in an instant, the dragon looked up at him, light from his spell glinting off its curious eyes. It appeared, perhaps unsurprisingly, much like its egg, a shifting from blinding white chest, back, and head scales to a shade that glistened like fallen snow upon the shoulders and joints, and even the paleness of bone stretching across its leather wings. Even in the innocent and adolescent body that was no larger than a cat, Harry could tell it would be a magnificent beast when it grew. Even the eyes, gleaming in his wand-light like beautiful pearls, held a kindness and wisdom he had rarely seen before, buried underneath the curiosity of a newborn.
The dragon didn't take nearly as long getting to its feet a second time, and as soon as it had, made a beeline for Harry. With no hesitation whatsoever, the small creature rubbed up against his leg, a deep, humming sound emanating from it and sending vibration up the limb. Harry froze at the contact, disbelieving. Hadn't he just learned about how the dragons of Alagesia, and how they chose their Rider? That it had hatched at all was a blatant enough sign, especially with no one else around to take the credit, but… was this really happening?
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Harry wanted to slap himself. Of course it was happening. He was Harry bloody Potter, so it was only to be expected that anything and everything that could possibly cause him trouble would find its way right to him. And if he did this, if he accepted the title of Rider… well, he had been down this road before. Just as it had been then, there would be no turning back. Harry looked down at the tiny dragon, which had by now stopped its rubbing and was staring up at him questioningly, as if to ask why he hadn't rubbed back. And it was in that look, so terribly innocent, and yet with all the weight of the world, that Harry found his answer.
Galbatorix had brought an entire race to the brink of extinction, and slaughtered hundreds, if not thousands, of people dedicated to good. Even if the egg hadn't hatched, if Harry hadn't been chosen, he still would have had to leave the castle and make his way out into the greater world. And when he did, the wizard would inevitably find reasons to fight the monster at every turn. And so it was that he dropped to his knees, staring deep into the dragon's pearlescent gaze, and laid a hand carefully upon its snout.
The pain was like nothing he had ever felt before, as if lightning itself had slid into his veins and tore through every cell of Harry's body. He crashed to the floor, writhing for the few seconds it remained until blissfully, the feeling passed. For a long, long moment he lay there on the cold stone floor, breathing deeply as he calmed his rapidly beating heart. Then, just as he was about to push himself back up, he felt something touch his mind. A wave of worry, confusion, and fear washed over Harry, foreign and yet terribly familiar. At the same time, the Dragon nudged him with its scaly nose, squeaking in concern.
Harry jumped up from where he lay, shocked by the intrusion. Once he was standing, however, his mind caught up with his body, and he paused, looking down at the dragon as it stared at him. Vrael had mentioned in his journal several times that Riders could communicate silently with their dragons. Perhaps that was what was happening here? Slowly, the green-eyed wizard kneeled, laying a hand on the dragon's hide, and reached out.
"Hello?" It was like nothing Harry had ever felt before. Unlike when experiencing an attack from a legilimens, he was untethered from his own mind, the a free spirit to walk the mental plane even without direct contact. But Harry wasn't interested in wandering, instead focusing on the dragon. He could feel the connection between them, a small ribbon of emotion and thought that was expanding ever so slowly. As time went on, Harry could guess, the intricate connection of Rider and dragon would likely grow and expand so they might find each other even over great distances. But for now, it was enough as he touched the dragon's mind lightly, speaking to his surprise, the dragon cocked its head, a questioning emotion flowing from it. Harry frowned, wondering why, until the answer came to him. It was young, and he didn't even know if the spoken language of Alagaesia would be the same anyways. He assumed so, since the written one was similar, but it might not be the case. So, rather than just words, he pushed across the meaning of his message, a greeting and assurance that he was alright. In an instant, an image passed from the dragon, one of him writhing on the floor in pain. Harry shook his head, marveling at the smoothness of its scales as he stroked the dragon's face, and sent his own image, of himself standing tall and proud. After that, it nodded, and The next feeling he recieved was one Harry recognized easily; hunger. With a smile, he rose, moving to the small pack he had set at the end of the bed, and reached in laughing as a storm of curiosity flooded his connection with the dragon when his arm disappeared inside it.
That first night was, perhaps, the strangest, but also one of the best in Harry's life as he fed the dragon from his store of food in the near-infinite space of his bag. He had come prepared when crossing over, stocking himself with nearly a year's worth of raw supplies and hundreds of other items he might need in a harsh and hostile land, ranging from books to several broomsticks to potion supplies. Even a few pairs of formal robes were stored somewhere in the depths of the bag. He didn't waste time thinking on that, however, instead marveling and delighting in the innocence and sheer curiosity of the dragon as it wandered around the room and snapped his thrown meats in a little game, and finally when Harry fell asleep with the rumbling heat of it laying curled up on his stomach.
