The Bar of Requirements.
Standard disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction all characters belong to their respective authors and/or publishing houses. This was work is not being produced for commercial gain. So setting not mine, characters not mine, heck even half the dialogue is someone else's.
1
Harry had had enough. The argument with Hermione over the potion book was the last straw. He stormed through the castle, his robes flapping behind him, a scowl across his face. He was, truth be told, doing a passable imitation of Snape.
Nobody understood. What did Hermione understand of pressure? Should she write three feet or four on her latest essay?
He was the Boy-Who–Lived and now the Chosen One, it turned out. He had that prophecy hanging over him, Voldemort wanting to kill him, and the whole wizard world watching him eagerly. Now that was pressure.
On top of all that, here he was in school, expected to continue with his classes and homework, Dumbledore's special project, and find out what that snake Draco was up to. That one really smarted: his best friends didn't believe him about Draco. Harry knew he'd seen the Dark Mark on Draco's arm, but Ron and Hermione didn't believe him.
Harry continued to storm his way across the castle. With no conscious thought, he found himself on the seventh floor, marching up and down seven times. His thoughts were confused; he needed somewhere to unwind, to be with people who understood the pressure of being everyone's last hope, to be believed, to get away from it all.
It seemed that the door took longer to appear than usual and Harry stepped into the room to see what had been conjured for him.
He walked into an entrance hall made of dark wood. The unmistakeable smells of alcohol and tobacco mixed with other unknown scents greeted his nose as he was greeted by a man dressed in black with an apron round his waist.
"Mr Potter, your room is ready and your guests are already here."
Harry nodded and followed the man, loosening his wand in its holster as he did so.
"Here we are, sir, private function room 637. Somebody must have pulled some strings for you to get such a good room at short notice."
Harry simply nodded. This was the most bizarre construct the room had ever made for him, but he was still safe in Hogwarts, even if his brain was screaming at him to be careful.
Harry entered room 637 and paused in the doorway. He had walked into a pub; it was on par with the Hog's Head in its general appearance. Everything from the walls, ceiling and floor to all the furniture seemed to be made from rough-cut wood. On the wall in front of him was a bar with a nondescript black-clad bar man.
To his left was a stage, on which was a ginger-haired older teen, his thick black-framed glasses hiding his eyes. His backing band featured a double bass player and someone on washboard. Between Harry and the bar were a number of tables. The nearest one was occupied by several people, some teens his own age, others young men. Other tables were also occupied; glancing round, he noticed no women or girls present anywhere in the bar.
Shrugging, he moved to the table nearest him with an empty seat. Sitting down, the teen nearest him spoke to him.
"Hi, I'm Percy. Who are you?" Harry took in the appearance of Percy: he had straggly black hair and green eyes that seemed to have seen too much, He never really sat still either, having a restless energy about him.
"I'm Harry." At this moment, a serving man appeared. "What do they have to drink here, Percy?"
"Just about anything you can imagine. I'm drinking ambrosia."
"I've never tried that."
"Well, unless you're a demigod, I wouldn't advise it, it'll kill mortals."
Harry looked at him strangely but ordered a butterbeer instead.
"So, Harry, are you the one who invited us all here?"
"Not that I know of, but I've learnt that just about anything is possible."
Percy pulled out a parchment and unrolled it. "Written in Greek, thankfully. You are invited to the Bar of Requirements for an evening of drinking, music and fellowship. Yours in expectation, Harry Potter, Chosen One, Boy-Who-Lived."
"I hate those names. Why do they have to be tagged onto everything?"
"I've heard worse," volunteered a sandy-haired young man in a light blue medieval doublet and hose.
"I've heard worse, too," Harry agreed. "It's just you try living with them."
"Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Belgarion of Riva, Lord of the Western Sea, Overlord of the West, Godslayer."
For the first time, Harry watched Percy sit still in shock. When Percy finally started to recover Harry saw his vivid green eyes were open wide in shock. "Some of my relatives would have an issue with Godslayer," Percy finally muttered.
"Well, it's not something I make a habit of. It's a terrible thing to kill a god, even if it was necessary." Belgarion spoke in a quiet subdued voice.
"Who was it you killed?" Percy asked, slightly too eagerly for Harry's tastes. Harry wasn't altogether sure where he stood on his belief in God, or gods, but Percy and Belgarion were talking about them as he would his professors.
"Torak, the one eyed god of the Angaraks," Belgarion answered sadly.
"Never heard of him." Percy seemed relived at that.
A black-robed figure had drifted near while they had been talking. "I'd be surprised if you had, Percy Jackson. We are not all from the same worlds, or even the same reality. Belgarion here and you come from quite different worlds. I am from a quite different universe. Some of you would claim to be from the same planet, but different realities."
Harry watched the figure warily. He had his hood pulled forward to keep his face in shadows. All Harry could see of his face was hidden by his beard. "Excuse me, but who are you?"
"It would be best if I never gave my name."
"Then what would you like to be called?" asked a teen from another table. Harry looked over in surprise at the boy who was his own age with black hair, his green eyes hidden behind black rimmed glasses. Was there some sort of lookalike competition going here?
"An excellent question, but I would expect nothing less from you, Mr Hunter. You may call me the Black Sorcerer."
"Now that's real original," the boy identified as Mr Hunter said with sarcasm.
"You have been spending too much time with Mr Constantine; his mouth gets him into trouble, too. I could always do to you what you did to young Ben there." The Sorcerer gestured upward and Harry saw there was a figure stuck to the ceiling. The boy in question was in his early teens had black hair and green eyes and was dressed in jeans and a green jacket with the number ten on its front. He also appeared to have the strangest watch Harry had ever seen on his wrist.
While the two argued, Harry asked Percy who it was stuck to the ceiling.
"He said his name was Ben. He was really arrogant and bad mannered; he managed to annoy most of us, but when he burped in Tim's face he stuck him to the ceiling and silenced him, too. The only one to speak up for him was Luke." Percy gestured to a black clad, blond haired man. For this gathering he looked quite old; in his thirties, at least. He seemed to generate serenity to Harry as he looked over at the mention of his name.
"He was simply young. At his age I was no better. Excitement and adventure." He laughed to himself. "They were all I craved. It took me a long time and I had to witness much darkness before I learnt that although I may be called upon to do deeds no one else could, peace is the thing to be pursued."
"That is exactly it," said Harry with passion. "I crave a quiet year, just to have nothing happen, but it never happens and now with that prophecy hanging over me I know it never will."
On Harry saying prophecy, he heard snorts from several of the people sitting around him.
"You got one of those too, huh?" said Percy. "I've got one of those hanging over my head. I will decide the fate of the Gods for good or evil. What's yours?"
Harry looked around, but if anyone would understand then this group would. ""The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."
Harry looked up, startled; the thing he hadn't expected was laughter.
"Is that it?" asked Belgarion. "I'd have killed for a prophecy like that. Yours too, Percy. So there's a bad guy out to get you and it's kill or be killed."
"So what was yours, then?" Harry asked slightly sulkily; he wouldn't make the same mistake as last time. He watched as Belgarion held out his hand and scroll appeared in it.
"This is part of mine. It's the Mrin Codex. It tells you what I had to do, pretty much how I was going to do it, who would accompany me and whom I would get to marry if I was successful. It also took two men over a thousand years to make heads or tails of it. For good measure, I had the spirit of the prophecy live in my head since I was a little boy telling me things like 'you're being childish'. So, yes, I'd prefer yours."
A brown-haired young man from Tim Hunter's table joined in. "That sound disturbingly like the prophecy that was for my life. Thankfully, it wasn't told to me until after I had completed it and asked Eilonwy to marry me. The courtship was bad enough without knowing it was prophesied about."
"I can imagine, Ce'Nedra took it as a personal insult when she found she had to marry me. She didn't speak to me for weeks." Belgarion chuckled.
"Eilonwy's favourite phrase is Taran of Caer Dallban, I'm not speaking to you."
Percy rolled his eyes. "Sounds very much like Annabeth. Her favourite phrase is I'm never going to give you an easy time, seaweed brain. What about you, Harry? Is there a girl like that around you? Passionate, hot one moment, cold the next?"
"Don't forget the temper," Taran added.
"Red heads, usually," Belgarion chimed in.
"Definitely red heads," added Luke.
"Oh, he does," said Percy. "Look at the panic in his eyes. So, Harry, who's the lucky girl?"
Harry felt a cold sweat of panic crawl up his back. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Waiter!" called Belgarion. "Please get Harry the strongest drink available from his world."
After Harry had belched fire, and steam had stopped leaking from his ears, he started to calm down.
"Ron's going to kill me," he finally muttered.
"Don't worry about it, it'll all work out. It always does." Taran leaned back in his chair, a pint of mead in his hand. "Mind you, if Eilonwy smells I've been drinking, it might not." Everyone around him bar Harry laughed at his quip.
"It's all very well to be philosophical about it, but people are dying. Not just random deaths, but people are dying because of me. My godfather, a boy I was travelling with. My parents." Harry looked up; he hoped these men knew what he was talking about and could offer some comfort. He found Belgarion returning his stare.
"I was only hours old when my parents were murdered. They were trapped inside their house and burnt alive. My father got me out, but they didn't make it. I killed the man who did it. Used my magic and burnt him alive. Let me tell you, Harry, revenge won't make you feel better. But sometimes we have to stop these sort of people." Belgarion had the most serious expression that Harry had seen on him.
Harry looked around at Taran. "I was a foundling; my parents died in a random battle and I was found alive in a cart nearby. No one knows my parentage."
Harry felt overwhelming sympathy for the young man; at least he had photos and his parents' friends to tell him about them. He glanced round at others in the room.
"My mother died in childbirth, my father was the right hand man of the one I had to stop," Luke volunteered. "I turned him back to the light before he died. We almost killed each other in the process, though." Harry noticed Luke was clenching and unclenching his hand as he spoke.
"I got off lucky in comparison. My real father had to leave my mother. I always knew her," Percy said quietly, almost in embarrassment.
"I can't talk about my past until I understand it," Tim muttered and turned back to his drink.
"My parents drowned in a boating accident," said a very short man with bare feet. Harry could not recall hearing his name.
"My past is similar to these other tales," added the Sorcerer.
"Harry, I wasted a lot of time learning this." Taran leaned in earnestly. "It is not the past that defines you, or the things you have lost, but the choices you make."
The music on the stage turned loud for a while, halting conversation. When Benjamin finished his set, name checking himself and his band "the Cauldron of Penguins" they politely applauded him and Harry noticed the bar start to empty. He made his farewells to those still in the room and exited through the door entering back into the Hogwarts seventh floor corridor.
He went looking for Hermione. Maybe she didn't understand just what he was going through, but it turned out that more people than he suspected did.
A.N.
Just a little short one shot.
I haven't spelt out who everyone present was but I'm sure you can guess.
Strange how many black haired, green-eyed heroes they are. Although hair colour is not a perquisite for heroism.
If you can't guess either leave a signed review or send me a pm. Please don't ask with an anonymous review, because I won't tell you.