Part 01
Summary: Harry never has it easy. When his enemies develop initiative, things become even less easy, but for every cloud...
Crossover: Berserk
Disclaimer: I own nothing of this.
Feedback: Please. Feedback is good, and encourages me to write.
Pre-fic Comments:
This is intended partly to exorcise an idea the muse won't shut up about, and partly to interest other people in writing Harry Potter/Berserk crossovers for me. The former is more likely than the latter. Most people get a hot chick in a bedsheet for a muse -- I get a fanboy saying "Oooo, that'd be cool! Write that!"
A conspirator looked lazily across the table.
"Malfoy's scheme failed."
"Really?"
"Indeed -- the Potter boy killed Slytherin's Basilisk, and damaged Voldemort's school diary."
"Most unsettling. The Parselmouth revelation was bad enough."
"It does, however, reinforce one thought I've been musing over and over again -- our Lord is... unavailable, not dead, and we should start to plan accordingly."
"Hmmmm... I think I may have an idea."
"Kindly share it, then."
"The first order of business would seem to be the restoration of our Lord to the world of the living and breathing, yes? If we utilize the bond between our Lord and the Potter boy created by the failed death magic, we should be able to exchange the two."
"Resulting in a decidedly less... potent Boy Who Lived. Excellent idea."
"All we need is to actually have the boy in hand for the ritual."
"Leave it to me -- I have some contacts who can retrieve him for us."
"Why haven't you done so before, then?"
"And make a bigger target of myself? While claiming Imperious was a popular excuse, I doubt it would wash twelve years later. In the past, the benefits didn't outweigh the risks."
Harry looked at his uncle warily. He had a hard enough time convincing Vernon to take him anywhere -- when his uncle had practically ordered him into the car, alarm bells had began to ring in Harry's head.
Resultingly, his wand was now tucked in his back pocket under his shirt.
"Where are we going, Uncle Vernon," Harry asked.
"To a place far from normal people, where you can be with your fellow freaks," Vernon said, obviously quite happy.
"What were their names," Harry asked.
"What? Why would I want to know some freak's name," Vernon said, speaking the word 'freak' with obvious distaste. "We'd have gotten rid of you a long time before this, believe you me, if it weren't for that interfering Bumblemore man."
"Dumbledore," Harry corrected, quite grumpy at his uncle's overt pleasure at offloading his miserable nephew on someone else. "So, why are you 'getting rid' of me now, then?"
"Ah ha," Vernon said, with the air of a science teacher explaining a great secret. "/This/ time, we have assurances from the man in question. And here he is now."
Harry could have named the brunette man a wizard even without his uncle pointing it out. No one else would wear a deer stalker's hat, a neon green dress shirt, and tartan pants. Voluntarily, anyway.
Half the world away, a young man living on the mouth of hell sneezed.
"Is someone talking smack about me," he asked.
"That's an old wive's tale," an older, English gentleman corrected him. "A Japanese one, at that. Hitting the saturday morning cartoons too hard, are we?"
Erm... back to our young wizard, then.
Vernon pulled the vehicle to a stop beside the man, getting out. Harry did as well. He didn't recognise the man, but that didn't say much. The only non-student, non-teacher wizard he could put a name to was Mr Weasley.
"Here's the boy, then," Vernon said. "He's a right 'orrible little bugger, so don't take your eyes off him for one second."
"Excellent," the man said, passing Vernon a bulging envelope, obviously full of money. "Farewell then, Mister Dursley."
Vernon didn't bother replying, as he got back into the car and took off with a squeal and smoking tyres.
"Now then, Potter," the man said, spitting out 'Potter' with a venon he'd previously thought only Snape could manage. "/Stupefy/Mobilicorpus/"
He then pulled out a handmirror, and began talking into it.
"Okay, I've got the boy. The blood wards should be down now."
Harry shook his head muzzily. That hadn't gone as planned. He'd been hoping for a new guardian, and had quite forgotten about the possibility of the stranger being hostile. Repetitive chanting could be heard, and cold stone could be felt on his back with equally chilly restraints on his wrists and ankles.
"Come to us! Come to us, Snake Lord, servant of the dark powers! Come! Come!"
This, Harry decided, was not a good thing, as the world through his eyes seemed to wash to white, red tinges beginning to colour the edges of his vision. His developing magical senses went wild, as he fell through the suddenly missing ground, only to land on hard rocks that dug painfully into his back. He stared groggily upwards, only to see the hugest sword ever, bar none, coming down towards him.
"What the hell is THAT!"
"Kill it! Avada Kedavra!"
"Much good that did us! Infernus Maxima!"
SLASHING HEX SLASHING HEX SLASHING HEX SLASHING HEX
Panting could be heard.
"Well, much good that did us, Parkinson. We're down one Boy Who Lived, missing the Dark Lord, and are now in the possession of a rapidly cooling corpse belonging to a snake demon."
"Oh, shut up."
Part 02
Summary: Harry never has it easy. When his enemies develop initiative, things become even less easy, but for every cloud there is a silver lining... the trouble, though, is finding the stuff.
Crossover: Berserk
Disclaimer: I own nothing of this.
Pre-fic Comments:
If interest doth kindle in thine breast, commenteth least mine muse fall into disheartened state.
Harry, while a fledgeling Basilisk-Slayer, semi-experienced Dark Lord banisher, and novice Wizard, was first and foremost thirteen. So, when finding himself falling towards the ground with a sword twice as tall as he swinging horizontally towards him, he naturally screamed bloody murder.
Guts was equally shocked. He'd never had an opponent suddenly shrink like that, and as a result his sword went above the boy's head.
"Aaaaaa," a small figure said, about twenty centimeters tall. "Guts! Who is the boy there! What happened to the snake demon thing?"
Guts rose to his feet, propping himself up on the long sword that had killed a full grown dragon in one strike. "Oi, gaki. What happened to the Apostle?"
"Apostle," Harry asked. "I don't understand. I don't understand any of this! Where the hell am I?"
"You're in the midlands," the small figure said. "My name is Puck! What's yours?"
"Harry," Harry said dazedly.
"This is Guts," Puck said, chattering on. "Please excuse him if he doesn't talk much -- he's not very social."
"I bet," Harry said, pointing at the black swordsman who was walking out of the village, completely disregarding the teenager and the fairy.
"Ahhh," Puck said. "I want to follow him! But, I should be looking after you!"
"You go after him," Harry said, fiercely independant after having to pretty much fend for himself in the Dursley's household. "I'll be okay."
"Well, if you're sure," Puck said. He spun in the air, darting down the road and waving behind him. "Goodbye! I hope I see you again soon!"
"Same here," Harry called back. He turned, to find a bulky man with a huge axe approaching him.
"Werl," the man said, "Yez replaced me lord, but'm sure yez can provide... interteinment fer meh."
The unshaven, ill smelling, and unkempt man made his point clear by grabbing his crotch suggestively. Harry, lost in an unfamiliar environment, and panicking at the suggestion, reacted the first way that came to hand.
"/Wingardium Leviosa/"
The man was flicked four meters into the air, and fell with a vaguely sickening crunch. The townsfolk approached, disorganised with the death of their mayor who had gone to the snake warlord's castle to appeal to the... man.
"Witch," one woman whispered. "You brought this on us with your unnatural powers..."
"Sorcerer," another thin man yelled, having found something to focus his pain onto.
"Stone him," another man proclaimed.
Harry reeled as a small rock hit him in the head, and he began to stumble through the rubble of the little village, lengths of broken timber sticking up through the rubble like broken bones through flesh. He tripped as a particularly big stone hit him in the side, falling into the river. Then, he knew no more as the current of the small but strong river swept him along, blood from his forehead mixing with the water as both his old scar and new wounds bled.
Cold.
He shivered, pressing his hands against his gaunt ribs in an attempt to chafe his skin and warm it somewhat.
"Hey, now, stop that," an elderly voice said, pulling him still. "Hold still now."
He settled as a thick, warm blanket was set down on him. "T-thank you..."
"Can't be havin' a lad like yerself survive /that/ only to shake to death," the elderly voice chuckled.
Harry opened his eyes to see an old man with kind eyes, dressed in a simple homespun black robe. They were in a small, stone room with a fire burning in a large stone fireplace. "Where am I? What happened?"
"You're in the care of Malachai the Ancient," the man said, laughter suggested in the lines of his mouth suddenly. "As to the second, I found you drownin' in th' marshes. Not a nice place, no, an' yer still fightin' off the sickness."
Harry coughed, feeling phlegm come up. "I'm Harry."
"'Ere, spit int' this," Malachai said, holding a wooden mug to Harry's lips. "Better out than in."
Harry obediently spat, and drank from another mug of clean water the man gave him. "Am... I sick?"
Malachai nodded. "Aye. It's yer lungs -- that's why yer coughin'. T' be honest, I'm surprised you've survived this long. I've seen full grown men die from lung infections from that muckpuddle."
"I'm the Boy Who Lived," Harry said cynically.
"/A/ boy who lived," Malachai said, not getting the reference. "If yer still crook in a month, we'll take it from there. Now, where're yer mum and da?"
"Dead," Harry muttered.
Malachai clicked his tongue. "Whose yer foster parents then?"
"Gone," Harry said. Anger and lightheadedness loosened his tongue. "They didn't want a freak like me."
"'Tain't no freak 'cept for them," Malachai said resolutely. He poured hot water from the kettle above the stone hearth into another mug, and fragrant steam rose from it.
"Tea," Harry asked.
"'Tis an infusion th'll do yer lungs a world o' good," Malachai said, shaking the mug meaningfully in Harry's direction.
Harry sipped at it, pulling a face. "It tastes terrible!"
"All good med'cine does," Malachai said defensively. "If it were nice tastin', people'd be getting sick on purpose!"
He wasn't quite sure of this, but decided not to argue the point with the elderly man.
"Now, why would a buncha nutters think yer freakish," Malachai asked.
"Do... you promise not to get mad at me," Harry asked.
"Yeh, yeh," Malachai said.
"I... can do magic," Harry said slowly, not sure what wizards were called in this strange new world.
"You can," Malachai whooped, getting up and dancing a creaky little dance. "Thank ye God, I bin waitin' fer forever and ye sent me him!"
Harry drew back into the blanket. "/What/"
Malachai grinned his barely-toothed grin at Harry, long, stringy white hair settling back into place. "I'm one of the greatest wizards alive, even if it's me sayin' so, and I bin wantin' someone to pass the larnin' ontuh."
Harry hesitantly smiled back. "But... I'm from another world!"
"Now that dun mean nought, save that my Apprentice might be travellin' a bit farther than other peoples," Malachai said. "Ooo, bugger, I forgot tuh ask. D'ye want ter be my apprentice?"
Harry nodded. He'd seen in the village what happened to children (even teenagers) in this world with no guardians. "Do... you know anything about a Black Swordsman?"
From the brief impression Harry had gotten, Guts had been someone who the world reformed around.
"The black swordsman," Malachai said, becoming very sombre. "He's tied, Harry, tied to forces that'll claim his very soul when he dies, and it'll be a painful death, that I've Seen. 'Sfunny, how 'e's the only man th' world's got against them forces, then."
Part 03
Summary: Harry never has it easy. When his enemies develop initiative, things become even less easy, but for every cloud there is a silver lining... the trouble, though, is finding the stuff.
Crossover: Berserk
Disclaimer: I own nothing of this.
Pre-fic Comments:
Please comment if you think something is wrong with my characterisation.
Malachai's tiny house had two rooms and a small storage space below the thatch roof. One room (the larger one) was his workroom, where all his books, spell materials and artifacts were stored, the other was his bedroom. Once Harry had recovered somewhat, bedding was prepared for him in the storage room. He didn't complain, since the old man didn't ask much of him. Of his own volition, Harry found himself cooking and cleaning out of habit from the Dursley's.
He rubbed his arms through the shirt he was wearing.
"Still cold, boy," Malachai asked him. "Come here."
"It's so cold, here," Harry said.
The old man placed the back of his hand against Harry's forehead. "You're freezing, man! And in the height of summer!"
"I don't normally get cold like this," Harry admitted.
"Hmmmm," Malachai said, pottering through old books and scrolls. He plucked out a small scroll. "I bin training you in gathering power, and I think you're ready f'r the next step."
"Do I really need to do this," Harry asked. "I mean, do we really have to call on the Gods?"
Malachai smiled his gap-toothed grin at Harry. "Even with a focus device, you'll tire easily, then anyone could kill yer. How do yer think I got to be this age?"
Thinking it over, Harry realised that normally, he would have been able to dodge most of the stones those villagers had thrown at him were it not for a strange heaviness in his limbs. Magic, it seemed, worked differently in this world.
"Now, this here is the first step," Malachai said, shaking the scroll in Harry's direction. Harry took it, unrolling it. "Without this particular lesson, ain't nothing doin' for yer with this God."
"Why," Harry asked, reading through.
"The rest o' the techniques, yer need th' God's presence that this un'll give yer," Malachai said. He gestured at the circle laid out in his workroom. "I'll guide yer, you start."
Harry nodded. "And this will help me?"
"Yer won't be so cold," Malachai said. "And we'll know iffen we're wastin' our time."
Closing his eyes, crossing his legs, Harry took in a deep breath.
"Now, think on Fire a bit. What th' heck is it?"
"Warm," Harry said promptly.
"Right, so it is, now feel what it is to be warm. What else?"
"Light, destruction, consuming," Harry said thoughtfully.
"I want yer to be feelin' all that at the same time," Malachai said. "Keep that in yer head and yer heart. Now, start prayin', just like it said in th' scroll."
"Come," Harry whispered, keeping the image and sensations at the front of his mind. "Come, Lord of the Flames."
Malachai grinned widely at the faint flicker growing around the circle, keeping silent and not disturbing his student.
"Come, God of Destruction and Fire," Harry said. Unknowingly, his voice rose in a crescendo to a yell. "Come, Master of the Lake of Fire!"
The flicker grew, as a tall pyre-wall grew around Harry. His eyes flew open, but he still saw only red, orange, white, and the blue from the very heart of the fire.
"Harry," Malachai yelled. "Stop! Back away! You've gone in too deep!"
He kept staring at the roof dreamily and, not for the first time, the old man was glad he'd invested in a tile roof.
"Fool boy! STOP!"
The wall fell as Harry coughed deeply, blood coming up. The young wizard collapsed backwards as he fainted.
Harry woke up again to find himself on Malachai's worn bed. The very first thing he noticed?
"I'm... I'm not cold anymore," Harry said wondrously, looking at the barren hearth.
His old teacher snorted. "I'm not surprised, losing control like that."
"Was that a bad thing," Harry asked timidly.
"Well, yer can forgit learning anything of th' Ruler of the Restless Oceans," Malachai snorted. "And the Goddess of the Black Earth won't have nought to do with yer after this neither. Not after accepting Salamander, the Master of the Lake of Fire so deeply inter yer soul."
"Oh," Harry said intelligently. "I... shouldn't have let go like that, then?"
"Well, won't be nought able ter match yer in the Element of Fire once yer get trained up some," Malachai snorted. As Harry coughed, he produced the mug of steaming medicine. "Provided ye live to see that day, mind you. Drink up, now."
The bitter infusion soothed Harry's throat. "But... I won't be able to do spells for the Elements of Water or Nature?"
"Not a one," Malachai confirmed. He laughed. "I wonder if Flora is having as much trouble."
"Who," Harry asked, his mind wandering.
"The Witch of the Forest of the Spirit Tree," Malachai said. "We trained under the same master together."
"Could we visit her," Harry asked.
"Getting lonely here with this old man? No, fair enough. Perhaps in a few months, when ye've learned more."
Harry sighed. "What next?"
"Next? Why, next be tea time."
"No, I mean for magic," Harry said impatiently.
"'Tain't no use havin' yer establish a bond and not use it, so I'll be learnin' yeh some basic Fire magic."
A few months later, Harry locked the stout oaken door while Malachai laid down powerful wards. One for physical, one for ethereal.
"Ye better not have left somethin', boy, cos I isn't unsealin' it 'till we get back."
"No, I've got everything," Harry said, lifting his small satchel of components, scrolls, and supplies.
"Now, it isn't too much fer yeh? Ye know that ye're still frail from th' illness."
Harry scowled. Malachai only allowed Harry to carry three quarters as much as the older man did. "I'm fine."
The old man began walking down the road, Harry hurrying to catch up. "Iffen ye're havin' trouble, yer te let me know quick smart, like."
Another impatient nod.
"Are we walking all the way there," Harry asked as they got to the main path.
"Not all the way, I think," Malachai said, waving a skinny arm at an approaching wagon. "Hail!"
"Good morning," a man with a thick white beard and a leather cap said. "Need a ride?"
"That's kind o' yer," Malachai said. "Why not?"
"Hop in," the old man gestured, slowing his horses down to a stop.
Harry found himself falling asleep, lulled by the repetitive sound of one of the the wheels squeaking, and the rhythmic rising and falling of the old wagon. Eventually, he found himself dreaming.
In the dream, he was lying in a pipe. Why, he had no idea, but upon waking in the dream he moved down the pipe to a room, glad of the chance to move around a bit. In the way of dreams, he somehow knew he had been imprisoned in the room and pipes for a thousand years, and only one small being wished to keep him imprisoned.
Hissing at the figure, Harry's coils lashed out, knocking the enemy over. Moving over past a still pool of water, he stopped dead. Harry looked down to check what he had just seen.
And the yellow eyes of the Basilisk stared back at him.
"aaaaAAAAA," Harry screamed, waking up in real life. The side of his face felt cold, his vision was tinged red, and a sharp pain bloomed in his forehead.
"Quiet, Harry," Malachai said soothingly, dabbing at Harry's face with a damp cloth, wiping away what Harry realised what blood. "Don't stop, priest. There are evil spirits, here."
"What," Harry rasped.
"It looks like that's a curse scar, boy," Malachai said. "My cottage is always Warded, so I had no idea... when we stop, I'll lay down a Seal over the scar."
"My... my scar," Harry whispered, not wanting the driver to hear. "Is it... like the Brand of Sacrifice?"
"No," his teacher said thoughtfully. "It's no product of the Godhand. But that's the only thing I'm sure of. Flora will know more -- she's the one who has studied the deeper works, not I."
Harry put his hand down to brace himself to sitting up, stopping when his hand encountered something fleshy, leaking blue liquid. Starting to shake badly, he scrabbled away to the other side of the cart, away from the dream demon with Malachai's belt knive through it.
"There, there," the old man said soothingly, holding him as he shook. "It'll be fine, you'll see."
Something that Harry was starting to doubt, very strongly. All he knew was that he wanted to get to this Flora witch's house, and safe Wards.