10/4/16 Decided the first chapter wasn't quite up to snuff with the rest of the fic. I tinkered with it a bit, and I'd like to say it's an improvement on the original.

I don't own Harry Potter. J.K does. Don't sue me. The song is 'Crossroads' by Robert Johnson (popularly covered by Eric Clapton). I don't own that song, but if Robert Johnson wants to sue me, go ahead. He'll have a hard time doing it FROM HELL! That joke makes sense, look it up.


Harry had no idea where he was. Seconds ago he had been in the graveyard, watching in horror as Voldemort's jet of green light slowly began to overpower Harry's disarming spell. Now he was… somewhere else.

It appeared to be a diner. The kind seen often in American films. The vinyl booth seat under him was cracked and slightly sticky. The smell of hot coffee emanated from the kitchen. A song was playing on a jukebox: Harry didn't know much Muggle music, but he'd heard Dudley blasting it in his room often.

I went down to the crossroads,

Fell down on my knees.

I went down to the crossroads,

Fell down on my knees.

Asked the Lord above for mercy,

"Save me if you please."

Cigarette smoke hung in the air, despite the fact that there were no other patrons present.

When Harry glanced back towards his table, he jolted in shock. A man was slouched casually in the booth opposite him. He was dressed in an immaculate black suit with a red necktie and a red handkerchief tucked in the breast pocket of his jacket. A cigarette rested in the corner of his mouth.

"You look like hell," the man said brightly, blowing rings of smoke out of his mouth as he spoke. He pointed to the coffee table. A steaming mug of black coffee appeared before Harry. "Drink that, it'll numb the shock, wake you up a bit."

Harry took a swig, grimacing as the drink burned down his throat. The man waited patiently. "Better?"

"Not particularly," Harry gasped. He shook his head as a horde of questions began jostling around in his brain. "Who are you, and where am I?"

The man sat up straight and held out a hand. "Where are my manners. The name's Vassago, at the moment. I have many names, and many faces. This name and face are my favorites." He paused and glanced around. "As for where we are, call it a Midpoint, a mystical plane halfway between life and death." He frowned and peered out through the grimy window. "Or it could be New Jersey, they look awfully similar."

"Why did you save me?" Harry asked.

"I didn't save you. Not yet, at least. I've just called 'time out' for a little halftime show. Vassago gestured to Harry's coffee cup. In the reflection, Harry could see the graveyard. He and Voldemort were still locked in battle; Cedric's body lay between them with the Tri-Wizard Cup.

"Cedric," Harry said suddenly. "Can you save him, too?"

"Who?" Vassago asked, then smiled and remembered. "Oh, yeah, the Hufflepuff, right? Older, more handsome and charming and all-around more brilliant than you? Unfortunately, he's already moved on to the Great Upstairs."

"He's dead," Harry whispered. "I killed him."

"You didn't kill him. Your dad's deadbeat friend did. My advice, don't worry about it. Ole Cedric's probably prancing around Heaven playing leapfrog with Jesus, Mother Teresa, and the rest of those Holier-Than-Thou dipshits. He'll be fine. Might get reincarnated." Vassago leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "Something tells me his career's really gonna start to bite after this." He winked several times.

"Is that some kind of reference I'm supposed to understand?"

"Forget it, you have bigger things to think about."

"Voldemort," Harry muttered.

"Yes. It appears he has returned. As if three years of foreshadowing hadn't been enough of a hint."

"He's going to kill me."

"That's up for debate, Mr. Potter, which is where I come in." Vassago stubbed his cigarette into an ashtray. Harry suddenly noticed it was not lit. Smoke was still wafting out of Vassago's mouth. "Fourteen years old and you've already fought the Dark Lord twice, killed a basilisk, freed a wanted criminal, and competed in a dangerous tournament way above your skill level with a fair level of competence. Now you're about to get your ass handed to you by a racist lunatic with a face that looks like it's been sat on. Fate seems to have made you her bitch.

"Yet that's an ending hardly fitting for the Boy-Who-Lived, isn't it? My kind and I have been watching you for some time. We are quite riveted by your story. It would be a pity if it were to end on a low note."

"What are you?"

"Your friendly downstairs neighbor,"

"Are you the devil?" Harry asked, bluntly.

"I've been called worse," Vassago said with a shrug.

"If you're the devil, surely you'd be rooting for Voldemort?" Harry asked, confused.

Vassago frowned. "Now why would I do such a thing?"

"Well, don't you usually side with the bad guys."

Vassago laughed. "Me, the bad guy? Yes, I suppose that could be argued. I have done some bad things. I'm not the villain in your little story. In fact, you could think of me as your little guardian... " he trailed off for a second. "I was going to say angel, but that's not literally correct. Fucking semantics.

"Anyway, I've brought you here to give you an offer. I would very much like to help you in your endeavor," Vassago said as he produced another cigarette, this time lighting it with a snap of his fingers. "If you were to agree, I can give you the training and assistance necessary to defeat Voldemort."

"You can't just defeat him for me?" Harry asked.

"Unfortunately, no. That would be a direct interference with events topside. Also, that would torpedo this story before it gets interesting. I can't fight your battles for you, but we can give you the tools and knowledge to fight them yourself."

"What's the catch?" Harry asked. "What do you want in return for helping me?"

Vassago chuckled. "What makes you think there's a catch?" He saw Harry's expression and nodded. "No point in lying to you, you're too smart to be fooled. Of course, since you've asked, there is the usual payment in exchange for supernatural aid."

Vassago picked up a sheet of paper from the desk. "According to Infernal Regulation 6C-34, 'In return for any infernal aid, the receiver of said aid is required to reimburse the infernal agent with the payment of one human soul'." Vassago handed Harry the form. "It's all written in this contract I've prepared for us to sign."

"My soul."

Vassago nodded, "It's the standard payment. Sometimes we make exceptions, but not often."

Harry frowned. "So, in return for my soul, you will help me kill Voldemort."

"Yes."

"If I refuse?"

"If you refuse, then you die in that graveyard, and Voldemort gains unrivaled control of the Wizarding World. Darkness and chaos will spread across the land, and the universe will collapse, and a global literary franchise will take a serious financial hit."

"So the alternative is not advisable."

"Those are your words, not mine."

Harry frowned. "I guess there's no other option." He stared down at the form, as the weight of his decision pressed down on him like a collapsing brick wall. Finally, he looked up at Vassago. "I accept."

"Splendid." Vassago handed him a pen. "Just sign on the dotted line."

Harry wrote his signature out on the paper and gave it to Vassago. "So what happens now."

"You're going back to the graveyard."

"You forget, I'm about two inches away from a killing curse to the face."

"Then I suggest ducking and diving for your ticket back to Hogwarts."

"My ticket?"

"You'll figure it out. Good luck, we'll get in touch with you soon." With that Vassago snapped his fingers, and Harry felt a rush of panic as time resorted itself.