Stonehenge
by The Queens of Camelot (Guinevere and Aislinn)
Disclaimer: We own nothing. The story is ours, however.
Foreward.
What do you get when you cross two friends, Harry Potter and the Arthurian legends? You get mayhem. And when you get mayhem, you get the most "bloody brilliant" (as our friend, Ron Weasley would say), ideas, (not that we're trying to be concieted or anything, we're just being prats). The story popped out of mine and Aislinn's head one night, as I was deadly bored, and we were debating the finer points of the whole Arthur/Guinevere/Lancelot love triangle. Now, this fic does not use the old cliches, but draws from many different sources. Enjoy reading, as Aislinn and I have had incredible fun writing this for you. (And it is also my first venture into the world of Harry Potter fandom, I normally write Final Fantasy VIII fanfiction. )
So, our parting words?
"Life is a gamble at terrible odds; if it was a bet, you wouldn't take it"
-Tom Stoppard
Prologue
~*~White Phantoms and Strange Dreams~*~
Just years ago, it happened. The lives of so many Wizards, Witches and Muggles alike were changed. The dark grey landscape that was soon to be torn asunder with the violence and greed, anger and animosity was calm on the surface. Wind whipped across the barren moor, towards the giant monoliths arranged, as if by magic, in a circle known as Stonehenge. The icy wind blew ferociously as the figures in the centre of Stonehenge began to chant a ritualistic cry.
One that had been echoed for centuries.
For thousands of years, there had been strange reports coming from Stonehenge. There had been owls seen in the daylight, many reports of suspicious activity-- pagan rituals, the muggles called it. But, it was not pagan rituals at all, nor was it Death Eaters. It was an ancient, much older ritual, one that predated Roman occupation of England, far back into the days when
England was not a known land at all.
The woman's face was obscured with a long, black veil. Her dress was a long, shapeless linen shift, also in black. Her hands were held up to the sky, palms open, arms up in a triangle above her head. A stream of light seemed to pour from the darkened heavens, into the woman's hands as she recited the old Gaelic tongue which had not been used for many a century. Not since the founders of Hogwarts had once participated in this arcane and ancient ritual, when they asked for the blessing of the ancient witches and wizards to found their school.
It was said that Merlin, the first of the Wizards, and the wisest, had once performed the same ritual. Dark words, dark nights, dark magic had once been weaved here. Stonehenge was the place where Tom Riddle, also known to the world as Lord Voldemort, had planned the final, and most fateful battle of all times. Harry Potter, the boy who lived, had defeated him.
There had been barely enough time for Harry to celebrate, before the familiar whoosh and soft sound of feathers rustling alerted him to Fawkes's presence. Knowing that the beautiful golden phoenix was there in the battle did not comfort the young Harry Potter. It was ominous. Fawkes would have only come if there was a great danger to be reckoned with.
And several hundred miles away, in a room above the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley, London,
Harry Potter bolted upright in bed. A thin sheen of sweat coated his back, leaking through the already thin fibres of his tee-shirt. The girl beside him, opened her eyes. Lavendar Brown's long blonde hair was strewed across the pillow, her face serene. Lavendar knew all too well the sporadic attempts at sleep, when Harry was prone to suddenly bolt upright in bed. She'd known him long enough now to know that his dreams were disturbances.
"Harry?" she asked, as she groggily wiped her eyes, "Another dream, right?"
"Yeah," Harry replied, "And it was about Stonehenge."
Lavendar gasped. To dream about Stonehenge meant desperate measures would soon be taken, (as Sybill Trelawney would be apt to say),and that the fate of the world, once again, would rest upon the shoulders of the tired man who was just so sick of being the hero.
by The Queens of Camelot (Guinevere and Aislinn)
Disclaimer: We own nothing. The story is ours, however.
Foreward.
What do you get when you cross two friends, Harry Potter and the Arthurian legends? You get mayhem. And when you get mayhem, you get the most "bloody brilliant" (as our friend, Ron Weasley would say), ideas, (not that we're trying to be concieted or anything, we're just being prats). The story popped out of mine and Aislinn's head one night, as I was deadly bored, and we were debating the finer points of the whole Arthur/Guinevere/Lancelot love triangle. Now, this fic does not use the old cliches, but draws from many different sources. Enjoy reading, as Aislinn and I have had incredible fun writing this for you. (And it is also my first venture into the world of Harry Potter fandom, I normally write Final Fantasy VIII fanfiction. )
So, our parting words?
"Life is a gamble at terrible odds; if it was a bet, you wouldn't take it"
-Tom Stoppard
Prologue
~*~White Phantoms and Strange Dreams~*~
Just years ago, it happened. The lives of so many Wizards, Witches and Muggles alike were changed. The dark grey landscape that was soon to be torn asunder with the violence and greed, anger and animosity was calm on the surface. Wind whipped across the barren moor, towards the giant monoliths arranged, as if by magic, in a circle known as Stonehenge. The icy wind blew ferociously as the figures in the centre of Stonehenge began to chant a ritualistic cry.
One that had been echoed for centuries.
For thousands of years, there had been strange reports coming from Stonehenge. There had been owls seen in the daylight, many reports of suspicious activity-- pagan rituals, the muggles called it. But, it was not pagan rituals at all, nor was it Death Eaters. It was an ancient, much older ritual, one that predated Roman occupation of England, far back into the days when
England was not a known land at all.
The woman's face was obscured with a long, black veil. Her dress was a long, shapeless linen shift, also in black. Her hands were held up to the sky, palms open, arms up in a triangle above her head. A stream of light seemed to pour from the darkened heavens, into the woman's hands as she recited the old Gaelic tongue which had not been used for many a century. Not since the founders of Hogwarts had once participated in this arcane and ancient ritual, when they asked for the blessing of the ancient witches and wizards to found their school.
It was said that Merlin, the first of the Wizards, and the wisest, had once performed the same ritual. Dark words, dark nights, dark magic had once been weaved here. Stonehenge was the place where Tom Riddle, also known to the world as Lord Voldemort, had planned the final, and most fateful battle of all times. Harry Potter, the boy who lived, had defeated him.
There had been barely enough time for Harry to celebrate, before the familiar whoosh and soft sound of feathers rustling alerted him to Fawkes's presence. Knowing that the beautiful golden phoenix was there in the battle did not comfort the young Harry Potter. It was ominous. Fawkes would have only come if there was a great danger to be reckoned with.
And several hundred miles away, in a room above the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley, London,
Harry Potter bolted upright in bed. A thin sheen of sweat coated his back, leaking through the already thin fibres of his tee-shirt. The girl beside him, opened her eyes. Lavendar Brown's long blonde hair was strewed across the pillow, her face serene. Lavendar knew all too well the sporadic attempts at sleep, when Harry was prone to suddenly bolt upright in bed. She'd known him long enough now to know that his dreams were disturbances.
"Harry?" she asked, as she groggily wiped her eyes, "Another dream, right?"
"Yeah," Harry replied, "And it was about Stonehenge."
Lavendar gasped. To dream about Stonehenge meant desperate measures would soon be taken, (as Sybill Trelawney would be apt to say),and that the fate of the world, once again, would rest upon the shoulders of the tired man who was just so sick of being the hero.