A Harry Potter/Highlander (first film) crossover written for fun, not profit; I neither own Harry Potter (copyrights owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc) nor The Highlander (20th Century Fox). Had I, the second film would have been higher than negative fourteen on the Epicness Scale.
Sharp-eyed readers will notice a slight anachronism: In this story, the events of the film are assumed to have happened prior to 1981, not 1985, as in the film.
This story placed second in the 2011 DLP Crossover contest. As always, I am indebted to Alpha Fight Club for their help in preparing this piece.
Summary: The powers of the immortals combine in the one receiving the Prize. In the Highlander film, upon defeating the Kurgan, Connor MacLeod receives the gift of telepathy, but what if he were also gifted with magic? What if his adoptive daughter, Rachel Ellenstein, was herself a witch who attended Hogwarts? What if she were able to teach her father magic?
Don't Disrespect the Queen
By Perspicacity
"From the Dawn of Time we came, moving silently down through the centuries, living many secret lives, struggling to reach the Time of the Gathering, when the few who remain will battle to the last. No one has ever known we were among you, until now."
– The Highlander
Connor MacLeod, erstwhile immortal, bolts awake in his Manhattan apartment. His pulse is racing.
Something in the universe has changed. The cycle has started anew.
A flash of green light hurts Harry's eyes and the toddler begins whimpering. It's a fussy, sputtering sound, the type that precedes a full-blown wail, a noise that would drive his parents spare - were they not dead. He closes his eyes and readies a bowel-loosening screech when his Mum's body thuds into him, knocking him onto his diapered bum.
"Mama," he says in scared fascination, forgetting to cry. Her eyes are open and look his way, but they don't seem to focus. She is not smiling at him as she normally does. She's not moving at all, in fact, which isn't right at all. Somehow, it registers in Harry's tiny brain that a Bad Scary Thing has happened. He begins to hyperventilate, working up to a scream. As he does, tiny arcs of electricity dart across his skin and the air becomes thick with ozone.
"Foolish girl," a high-pitched voice says. It belongs to a scary-looking monster with red, slitted eyes who is laughing cruelly.
Another green light flashes more brightly than before and Harry's forehead hurts a lot. The toddler finally does scream this time and the latent magic that had been building in his body explodes from his fingertips, a blue-white column of flame that strikes the bad man in the chest, burning a hole right through him. The hole grows in diameter, consuming the man from the inside like a piece of parchment held over a candle. A moment later, he is a mere wisp of black against the night. There is a pause and then everything in the house begins to vibrate ominously. Windowpanes rattle in their sills and the walls creak. Then little Harry screams again, a clarion sound that almost seems to reach beyond this world. The house explodes outward and white lightning snakes through the gap where the roof used to be. Harry levitates, spinning slowly in the air, and is struck again and again by the bolts, which illuminate a sky marked by an ugly skull and snake apparition. Then he falls, flopping unconscious among the rubble.
Two wizards, Sirius Black and Rubius Hagrid, would arrive upon the ruined house and behold the miracle of a nearly unharmed boy amidst a scene of utter devastation. In their grief, they would not examine the clues carefully and thus would never appreciate what had happened that evening. They would never know that little Harry Potter, the newest immortal, had just experienced his first Quickening.
MacLeod fiddles with his bowtie as the orchestra warms up. He hates these upper-crust spectacles, a chance to mingle with others in the VIP box and show off one's sophistication. Brenda likes them, though, so here he is, trussed up like a peacock. His brown hair is combed straight and he is making a conscious effort not to scowl or allow his dark eyes to appear threatening. Overly so, anyway - it's hard to overcome four centuries of inertia.
He shakes hands and exchanges meaningless phrases with an acquaintance of Brenda's, some corporate lawyer with perfect teeth who somehow manages to mention his new BMW in every conversation they've had. The man is as bored as he is and MacLeod wishes he could turn off his ability to know the minds of others. Life was better when threats were dispatched with steel, not boardroom machinations, when his only concern was the bite of his enemies' blades.
"Be nice," she commands, sensing his mood. Right, nice to hyenas in tuxedos with minds full of ventures and leverage, of backstabbing, the likes of which would make the Kurgan seem honorable.
MacLeod and Brenda haven't been with one other as much as he'd liked, as she's been occupied with work - a surge in gang violence of late - and he's been, well, restless. The "gift" of telepathy he received as prize after his final battle with his nemesis has proved to be as much a curse as a blessing, particularly in his failing love life. It's best not knowing what she's thinking, how disenchanted she has become of late. Brenda beams at him. It's a forced, dimpled disaster that fails to hide how she's trying in earnest to convince them both that she's happy. He plays along, though, as he leads them to their seats. She does look stunning tonight in this sequined gown, her favorite. He returns a smile, a real one. He loves her, still, despite the pretense, despite her hiding something from him.
His right hand slips into the breast pocket of his tuxedo and he takes out a silver flask, a piece from his collection that was once owned by Wellington. It's utilitarian, intended to be used, not put in a museum to be fawned over from a distance. The brandy warms him inside and for an instant it fills the void, the something that used to define him that he is beginning to feel again. He knows somehow, through the slow ache in his bones that he is once again becoming immortal. Ach, it wasn't supposed to be like this. He might have offered the Kurgan his head had he foreseen the loneliness and absence of hope.
Brenda frowns slightly at his drinking and he gives her an apologetic look. He can't help but glimpse her thoughts in the process and finds them particularly baleful this evening. It's like a weather forecast: tonight, look forward to annoyance bordering on disgust, with a hint of pity. Things will turn frigid with no relief in sight.
Where did it go wrong? Before, she regarded him as exotic, mysterious, gallant in his own way. Now, her soft eyes see him only as a brutish Highlander, a warrior only at home on the battlefield, one who bears the scars of eons of brutality. She loves him still, though she knows she's falling out of love with him and it's breaking her heart.
The conductor gestures for silence and a Bach violin concerto weaves dulcet, slightly mechanistic tones throughout the room. After a few bars, MacLeod is overcome by sublime, but simplistic appreciation of the piece as the audience becomes transfixed. He hates live performance now. What was once a private appreciation of one of the most beautiful creations of man, he can now only experience vicariously. After the "Prize", the pedestrian reflections of the piece - in a thousand inutile minds - drown any appreciation of the subtleties he might have once had.
And there it is - an unguarded thought, a nagging thread of longing from Brenda, a hint of her desire for her lover, whom she longs to be with instead of MacLeod. His eyes dart toward hers and from her mind tumbles a mix of real, unguarded emotion-anger, hurt, love, indignance, violation, regret. A loose thread unravels the whole.
MacLeod stands and bends down, pressing a gentle kiss onto her forehead.
"Have a good life, Brenda."
He makes his way outside. In the taxi, he stares long into the dark.
Harry knew early on that he was a superhero. Like there was this one time on a class trip when Dudders shoved him into a car and it swerved, but couldn't stop in time. Harry bounced off the grille, landing on his back, which was all twisty. It hurt a lot and he couldn't move his legs at all, but then he felt warm inside and tingly - sort of like electricity. A few minutes later, he sat up and was fine. It wasn't his fault that Mrs. Thompson made him lie back down and wait for an ambulance, or that he'd had to go to the hospital for x-rays. He told them he was fine, but they didn't listen.
Needless to say, Aunt Petunia was less than amused.
Harry knows he has super healing powers. So when Piers Polkiss takes something out of his pocket that goes 'snick' and is a knife with a black handle as long as the blade, he isn't afraid at all. Well, maybe he is a little, but he isn't about to tell them. Piers says he'll gut Harry like a fish and Harry just stares back at him and the other boys in Dudders's gang the way a superhero should.
"And when did you ever gut your mom?" he asks with false bravado.
The knife hurts going in, especially when his heart thumps against the edge of the blade, cutting itself more with each beat. It's the most pain Harry's ever felt and he can't even manage to whimper. His legs get weak and then he's lying on his side on the sidewalk. Dudders's gang flees and Harry works up the resolve to pull the blade out. He feels the warm, tingly feeling and knows he's okay, just a little dizzy.
Dudders yips when he sees Harry enter the house tracking blood across the linoleum. That night, Harry pays Dudders a visit in his room and mentions, while cleaning his fingernails with his new knife - a gesture that he saw once on the telly and seemed brilliant - that if Dudders likes, Harry can return the knife the way he got it. He knows he's pushing it, but the comic books he's swiped from Dudders make clear that a show of courage and "strength of resolve," whatever that means, is sometimes necessary.
The next day, after Dudders whines to his mother that he's accidentally wet the bed, he tells her about Harry's threats. And about Harry's switchblade knife.
Needless to say, Aunt Petunia is less than amused.
That evening, as Vernon disciplines him, Harry finds himself once again grateful for his superhero healing ability. It's worth it, though. Dudders's band never bothers him again.
"Get the fuck out of the car and keep your hands where I can see them."
MacLeod glares at the dark-eyed punk pointing a gaudy, nickel-plated 9mm in his face. What is it about the parking garage at Madison Square Garden that always draws these scenes?
"Eh?" he asks, his eyebrows lowering. The one-word reply is almost sinister in its implication.
"Do it, so I don't put another fuckhole in your head, bitch." The man has bad teeth.
"Lovely. Then take the car… bitch," MacLeod sneers in a vague, mid-Atlantic accent and throws the keys in the man's face. Then he slams the door open into the man's body, knocking him off balance.
The handgun cracks. It's a near miss, but MacLeod is close enough to be burnt and blinded by the muzzle flash. He lunges and rushes the other man, his powerful, six-three frame slamming his assailant face-first into a nearby SUV. Bones snap with sharp pops. Property is damaged. He punches the stunned man hard in the kidneys, dropping him to the ground screaming, and then he snaps a kick in the man's floating ribs, causing him to spasm and start choking on blood welling up from punctured lungs.
A cruel smile tugs at MacLeod's lips. Though he's disgusted with himself for the excessive response to a mugging, it feels righteous to fight again, even if with rubbish. Through his adrenaline haze, he almost doesn't feel the knife slide into his back. He does notice when the bullet crashes into his thigh, however.
"Great," he mutters, his gloved hand grasping the ivory hilt of his katana. It slides like a lover from its sheath and cuts on the draw. The one with a gun loses his arm at the elbow. MacLeod's balance shifts subtly and with a pivot, the point of the exceptionally sharp blade enters the second man's abdomen. He twists his grip, tearing a deep, twisted gash across the man's belly, and he drops the punk into a spreading pool of dark red.
As he cleans the blade, he feels his knife and bullet wounds start to knit. Damn. The leg is going to be a pain in the arse - he'll have to walk on it, slug and all, after leaving his Jaguar somewhere. At best, it'll only keep the authorities off his back for a little while, but hopefully it'll give him enough time to move on.
After their parting, he really doesn't want to rely upon Brenda's mercy, or her influence downtown.
That night, after half a bottle of Speyburn, he digs the slug out of his leg with a pair of needle-nosed pliers. A commercial comes on the television for a brand of electrical battery. A toy rabbit pounds a drum, a dry rhythm that never abates.
The news is read off a teleprompter by an emotionless anchorwoman. She describes three gruesome deaths and a killer still at large in a matter-of-fact voice lilting in the uniquely American way of turning tragedy into can't-miss spectacle. The police are tracking down leads, she says affecting restrained glee. MacLeod knows he's out of time - they've already pulled the footage from the security cameras if they know it was only one man. If they show it to Brenda, which they are sure to - it's not only her line of expertise after all- she'll know immediately who it is.
"If anyone has any information, they are urged to contact…" Blah. He shuts her off and straps on his sword. He slips into his trenchcoat, his wand in its breastpocket. Nothing else in this place, in his life, for that matter, is irreplaceable.
Rachel, his adopted daughter, is going to be pissed when she realizes he's left again.
Harry pulls the broken fang from his arm, which is already numb with his strange healing powers even before Fawkes's tears begin to seal the wound.
"It's too late. You're dying, Potter." Tom Riddle says smugly.
Though tempted to retort, Harry doesn't bother. Rather, he feels strangely drawn to the diary on the floor of the chamber and crawls across the stones toward it, the broken Basilisk fang in his hand. He raises it, as if to stab its point through the pages, but stops upon seeing the sword upon the ground. Yes. This is the way to do it. Fingers sticking with blood grasp the hilt and he stands shakily, hefting the blade. He takes a practice swing and feels strangely energized with a sword in his hand.
The pages offer no resistance to venom-impregnated Goblin steel and Tom's shrieks echo in the Chamber. Seconds later, Harry's would join them as lightning scores the walls of the Chamber and stones shatter.
Harry and Hermione watch their earlier selves lie helpless upon the ground. A plague of Dementors swarm overhead nibbling at their souls and vying over which will move in for the kill.
"I know it's crazy, Hermione, but my father - I saw him. He was right over there."
A few seconds pass and the situation for their doppelgangers turns dire. Despite having lived through this already, Harry can't help but worry.
"There's nobody there, Harry. Nobody's coming."
"But…" And then he understands. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the glowing stag he had seen before that evening. In an instant, its power courses through him and he feels his strength grow with each powerful thud of his heart. Tiny flashes of lightning begin to arc across his body and he feels warm and powerful. He opens his eyes and Hermione flinches.
"Harry?" she asks timidly.
He strides forward and screams the incantation for a Patronus charm, releasing a gout of powerful magic. A monstrous, glowing stag twenty feet tall at the shoulder jets from his wand, its feet striking the ground in deep rumbles that Harry feels as much as hears. The behemoth lowers its rack and rushes the Dementors, tearing into them with primal ferocity.
An old woman pries a white, porcelain stag from a child's fingers and places it back onto a curio shelf.
"Oh, please. You haven't been yourself since you left her and I have little patience for men in my life who can't be honest with themselves, much less me. There you go, darling. Patty-cake, patty-cake…" The toddler who has climbed back onto Rachel's lap giggles and the old woman rubs noses with the little girl.
"Don't bring her up, woman." MacLeod says, turning away from his adopted daughter, a charming waif with haunted eyes that he had rescued decades before from a German concentration camp. He stares outside at the falling rain. A little boy gloms onto his leg.
"Oof," MacLeod says.
"Horsey!"
"I'm not a horsey, you wretched spawn of the Devil!"
"I'm old, father," his adopted daughter says, taking a moment to set the child on her lap down again, a futile gesture at best, and MacLeod takes a moment to really look at her. She is old. When did that happen?
"I won't be around forever," she says. "I'd like to understand you this once. And maybe do what I can to help you get on with your life. You need someone, a new charge, perhaps."
"Horsey, horsey!" The little girl runs and gloms onto MacLeod's other leg. He sends his daughter a look of utter annoyance.
"Oh, no you don't," Rachel says. "I'm just the sitter. You're the horsey."
"When do these hooligans go back to their parents?" MacLeod hisses, unamused at being made into a plaything.
"Midnight, but we'll put them down for bed before then. They're good kids and only slightly more mature than you, so be nice." The children take turns saying "clop" and giggling every time MacLeod takes a step. "Was it because she loved you and you got scared and pushed her away, or was it because you couldn't tell her how you felt? Or maybe you saw something in her mind that you didn't like?"
"I was not 'scared,' as you put it. Why am I even talking about this with you?"
"Horsey go!"
"Sneers do not become you, father. You're here because deep down, you know I care and despite what you try to tell yourself, you need someone in your life. You're afraid of what will happen when I'm gone."
He sighs. "What do you want?"
"The truth." Her voice is tired. "Just for once, stop hiding from yourself. Tell me what would have you give up the one thing in your life that made you happy."
"You want the truth? Fine. Tell me this, oh wise one. What kind of woman just 'discovers' one day that she's a lesbian?" He slams his fist onto the sill.
The kids are silent for a moment and then they mimic him, pounding on the floor with their own fists. "Discover." Thump. "Discover." Thump.
"You'd be surprised," Rachel says impishly. 'That's all? That's what's had you in a funk for the last two years?"
"You're laughing at me now?"
"Not exactly, well, okay I am. Read my mind, please."
"But…"
"I'd rather not say this in front of the children."
MacLeod does. A moment later, he blinks. "So… all this time?"
"Since I attended Hogwarts, yes."
"I knew I shouldn't have sent you to that place," he grumbles.
"I was always that way, Father. Hogwarts didn't make that happen, but it helped me understand about myself."
"And she's…"
"The tabby that visits during the summers. And that brings me to the other reason I asked you to come. Min has an offer for you in her school in Scotland that we both think will help you get out of your funk. By now, you should be skilled enough with your magic to move among them."
"You should be teaching, not me."
"They have rules against faculty relationships. Besides, I'm not the one who's good with kids," Rachel says.
"Horsey, go! Giddy-up!"
"One other thing. There's a boy, an orphan we think you should meet…"
"Mr. and Mrs. Dursley? My name is Connor MacLeod." MacLeod is smartly dressed in a well-tailored jacket and wool pants.
"Indeed, Mr. MacLeod," Vernon says, shaking the man's hand and sizing him up. "How can we help you?"
"I am new to this neighborhood, just moved into Number seventeen, and I heard that you're good, upstanding folk with the misfortune of needing to house and care for a troubled lad. Is that correct?"
"That nephew of mine, yes. No end of difficulty with that one, right Pet?" Vernon says, his wife nodding in agreement. "Boy! Come here now!"
Harry arrives and upon seeing MacLeod, he doubles over in pain, clutching his chest with both arms. MacLeod recalls when he had first experienced meeting another immortal, sensing viscerally the Kurgan before in his first great battle, one that in hindsight was more of a skirmish, back in the sixteenth century. The shock had distracted him and given the massive warrior the opportunity to run him through with his claymore.
MacLeod glimpses Harry's relatives' thoughts and becomes annoyed at the adults' overt schadenfreude. He turns to the Dursleys, ignoring Harry for a moment. "I am a strong believer in the power of hard work to build character. Though I have suspicions about his work ethic based on what I've heard, your lad here looks like he may be strong enough to help me out. I'd like to offer you two hundred pounds a week for Mister - what's his name again?"
"Harry Potter," Harry says, glaring at the man.
"What sort of business do you do, Mr. MacLeod?" Vernon asks.
MacLeod looks at Harry, who appears sickly and slightly emaciated. "Construction," he says simply.
Vernon smiles and says quickly, "You can have him. And let me get you my business card - if you ever have need of drills, you come talk to me and I'll get you squared away."
"Thank you, Mister Dursley," MacLeod says, taking his card. "I'll have the cheques sent to you by post - can't trust lads nowadays, least not those with a background like this one's, not to run off with them. Mr. Potter will arrive at my residence at 6 am sharp, where I will take him to my place of work. I'll feed him and return him to you at 6 pm every day, so you needn't worry about that. I warn you, he should be tired when I'm done with him, as I intend to work him very hard. I would ask that you not, shall we say, administer your own discipline in the evenings when I return him to you."
Twenty minutes later MacLeod's showing Harry to his place, a house a few blocks down with a lawn peppered with Notice-Me-Not charms. Harry stands at the threshold, his arms crossed in defiance.
"That bit with your relatives? Rubbish. I'm magical like you and I've been asked by Minny McGonagall to teach you to fight with a sword this summer. Here, take a dowel."
"Wicked!"
Harry doesn't think it's quite so wicked after the first day, when he barely manages to drag his bruised and filthy body home. His relatives are amused by the boy's misery and how he collapses immediately on his bed without disturbing them. This pattern would repeat throughout the summer and by the end, they all agree that it has been the best holiday that any of them can remember.
There is a whisper of air and a loud crash as the two swords meet. Though he has improved dramatically in the past weeks, Harry is still only barely able to block the other man's attack. "That's wickedly fast," he says to his mentor.
"Mind your footwork, so you don't overbalance," MacLeod says and flicks his wrists to deliver a gentle push, one that ends with Harry falling to the ground ingloriously, his sword landing some distance away.
"Oof." Harry lands in a dead spot on the lawn. He and MacLeod have been practicing throughout the summer and the turf is missing in spots, showing only hard dirt in most places, though near the edges of the lawn the grass has grown to scandalous lengths for Privet Drive. The Notice-Me-Not charms are the only thing keeping Mr. MacLeod from being fined or worse: ostracized.
"It's hard not to when you keep trying to kill me," Harry says. Despite his bruises, he's enjoying himself. After an initial period of awkwardness, the two have come to feel some level of comfort around one another.
"I'm trying to save you, Harry."
"What?"
"They'll come for you one day. You need to be ready."
"Who? And ready for what, exactly?"
MacLeod stares into the distance, his face lined with a strange emotion Harry can't seem to identify. "I don't know how to ease you into this, so I won't. You cannot die, Harry. You're immortal."
Harry stands and brushes himself off. "Don't joke with me, sir."
"I'm not. I'm the same. You and I, and Voldemort too, I imagine."
"No, not me. I'm not Him." Harry turns away.
"You are in this regard. I feel it here," MacLeod says, holding his fist over his heart, "and so do you."
"I am not like Voldemort!" Harry yells. "I would neverdo what he did!"
"Aye, but it's not anything you did. None of us know how we became this way. All I know is that there is no denying it. We cannot ignore what we are."
"You sound like Dumbledore."
"Hell, I sound like that Spanish peacock."
"Who?"
"Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, my old friend and teacher. He made me who I am, taught to survive." MacLeod pauses in memory. "He was a teacher and protector and I've long wondered why he'd seek me out, an illiterate simpleton from the Highlands. Why would he would seek the company of another immortal and help me, when he could have as easily taken my head. He was a good friend…" MacLeod smiles and clasps Harry's shoulder. "I think now, teaching you, I'm beginning to understand."
"But I was born in 1981. I can't be immortal."
"Ach, you can be born. You just can't die. I myself was born Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod four and a half centuries ago in Glenfinnan, Scotland, on shore of Loch Shiel. I cannot die and neither can you. You areimmortal, Harry."
"I still don't believe you," Harry says quickly, though deep down he feels the truth of the man's words.
MacLeod ponders for a moment. "I suppose I could prove it to you, perhaps stab you through the heart with a sword?"
"Maybe I believe you a little bit?" Harry says quickly.
"Have you never healed from mortal wounds? Survived when others would surely die? You feel it too, the Quickening. I sense it in you when we spar."
Harry nods glumly. "What is the Quickening?"
"Remember that pain in your chest the first time we met? I felt it too when I first encountered another who was like me. The Quickening is a connection with the power all around us. Like your magic, it enables us to tap into what we are, what we can become."
Harry recalls the potent feeing he had experienced fighting the Dementors. It's a strangely beguiling memory, one in which it's easy to get lost. When he looks up, he sees his mentor has returned with a bottle of whisky and two glasses.
"Come, Harry. We drink tonight!"
The opening feast is electric as students excitedly tell one another of their summers. Harry is pleasantly surprised by the number of looks cast his way by the more attractive members of the student body. Hard physical exercise seems to have done its trick, as Connor said it would.
"Hey, mate." Ron says. "Wonder who's going to be our Defense instructor."
"Knowing Dumbledore, it'll probably be someone completely barmy," Dean says.
Harry smiles sublimely, his mind calculating and categorizing potential threats in the room. It's doubtful that another immortal attends Hogwarts - he's sure he would have felt it if so now that he knows what to look for - but Constant Vigilance is important, as Connor would say, having learned the phrase from a creepy, crippled ex-Auror who had occasionally stopped by over the summer. He feels the cold, steel comfort of Mournblade, the hand-and-a-half shrunk and strapped to his wrist. Upon being gifted the finely crafted blade, Harry had christened it after a sword in a Muggle story he'd read.
"Hi, Harry," Parvati and Padma say demurely as they walk by. Harry smiles in return and the two Indian girls giggle. Things are looking up indeed.
"If I can have your attention, please, I have two announcements before we begin our excellent feast." Dumbledore's voice cuts through the din. "The first is in reference to our Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. Please join me in welcoming Professor Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."
"Sweet." Harry says, grinning at his adoptive liege and protector, who enters the Great Hall wearing an academic robe that is open at the front and beneath, a plaid kilt. He has a Yankees hat on his head and pair of white Reeboks on his feet. Strapped to the man's back is an ivory-handled katana. The man tips his hat to Harry.
"You know him?" Hermione asks. Her nose wrinkles at the man's nontraditional attire for either world, magical or mundane.
"You might say that. He's bloody brilliant."
"He looks like a Muggle idiot," one of the Seventh Years says from down the table, but is interrupted by an explosion and bright light. An eruption of streamers comes from farther down the table and a partially formed dragon's head emerges from the sparks. By the time the loud fizzling and popping noises die down, two swordsman stand ready, one of whom has his hand on the blade's hilt, the other, his weapon drawn. The former is the Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, who is in a relaxed, ready stance before the Hufflepuff table. The other is Harry, who has taken up a defensive position near the center of the Gryffindor table, a massive bastard sword in his hands with long spikes near the cross guard. The sleeves of his robes have slid to his elbows and the cable-like muscles of his forearms leave little doubt as to his ability to actually wield the massive blade.
"Harry?" Hermione asks, noticing her friend.
"Sorry. A bit jumpy, I suppose," he says.
"Holy shit, that's a sword!"
"Thank you, Mr. Finnegan, for your astute observation," McGonagall says, having descended from her position at the head table to collar the two Weasley twins.
"And thank you, gentlemen," Dumbledore says to the chagrinned boys, who are properly embarrassed at their misfired prank. They obviously weren't intending to set off any experimental fireworks during the Headmaster's speech, not in such an overt fashion anyhow. "In my advancing age, I occasionally need a reminder that I am going on too long. Professor MacLeod, shall I assign these gentlemen to you for detention?"
MacLeod relaxes and makes his way to the twins, where he stares down at them. His words are sibilant and intimidating. "Yes, they'll be adequate sparring partners. Tomorrow evening. Potter, you'll join us."
Harry nods curtly. "Right, sir." He shrinks his sword and sheathes it on his wrist, a little embarrassed at his overreaction.
"As I was saying before the interruption, my second announcement is a cancellation of Quidditch this year." Dumbledore waits until the groans die down. "Instead, we will be hosting the Tri-Wizard Cup…"
"Okay. I've never taught before, so let's review what you should have learned last year." The man consults Lupin's notebook. "Magical creatures. Okay, I can work with that. Can anyone tell me how to defeat a Waterdrake? Yes, Miss…"
"Granger, sir. Waterdrakes are amphibious creatures distantly related to Wyverns and Salamanders. They mate in the springtime and have been known to hunt—"
"I don't care what they hunt or, to put it bluntly, fuck," MacLeod says "How do you kill one?"
Hermione's cheeks flush and she says, somewhat deflated, "Fire sir. Waterdrakes are mortally afraid of fire."
"Wrong."
"But sir, it says in-"
"If you speak out of turn again, I'll be forced to take house points. Mr. Weasley, how would you defeat a Waterdrake?"
"Um, cut off its head?"
"Excellent. You cut off its head. Five points to Gryffindor."
Hermione harrumphs.
"Okay. Can anyone tell me how to defeat a Werewolf, not what it eats or its mating habits, please. Anyone?" He sighs. "Miss Granger again."
"Silver, sir."
"Wrong. Mr. Potter?"
"Cut off its head, sir?"
"Right you are. Take five points for Gryffindor."
"This is rubbish!" Hermione hisses.
"And a Boggart? Mr. Longbottom?"
"Er, R-Riddikulus?"
"Ridiculous."
"Right."
"No, I mean your approach to defeating it. Class, the way one defeats a Boggart is to be afraid of something with a head. And then cut it off."
He lets that hang in the air for a moment.
"Final question before we pair up and go at each other with swords, or as close to swords as your guardians' waivers will allow: how do you defeat a Lethifold? Miss Granger, you're doing so well. Care to hazard a guess?"
"Well, sir," she says acidly. "How about cutting off its head?"
"Wrong. Lethifolds don't have heads. You're much better off trying a Patronus or fire. Really, I do hope you can apply yourself more in my class in the future."
The door slams as she leaves.
"And then he said to her, 'Really, Miss Granger, I hope you can apply yourself more in the future.'" Professor Sprout laughs so hard by the end of her story that she has trouble getting the words out. Hermione's explosion has become the talk of the faculty, teachers being unrepentant gossips at heart. Flitwick chuckles merrily and falls off his chair, which causes the other faculty to begin laughing again.
MacLeod bangs opens the door and enters the lounge. He plops down onto a soft, squishy sofa glaring at the others, as if issuing a challenge.
"Tough day?" McGonagall asks a little playfully. First-time teachers are so much fun to needle.
"The worst," he says. "Are they always so… annoying?"
Everyone nods, except for Snape, who merely smirks at the other man.
"And I had to put up with this Granger in my classroom. Nosy bint, thinks she has all the answers, raising her hand at everything and challenging what I say. It's always what she wants. What about what I want? For her to shut her haggis hole, that's what."
"And?"
"I might have put her in her place," he says with a nasty grin.
"You didn't," McGonagall says, removing her glasses and wiping the tears from her eyes. She catches a particularly stern look from MacLeod, whose repertoire of facial expressions seems to cycle through glare, brooding glare, angry glare, indignant glare, and nasty grin. He winks at her impudently and she snorts. "Oh, you rascal."
"Gimme the prize!" As always, Freddie Mercury's crooning provides an appropriate sonic backdrop for Harry's and MacLeod's sparring. Harry improvises, trying a new feint combination, and for the first time since they've begun, he almost manages a touch on his teacher. The older man recovers and his parry disarms Harry in short order.
"Nice," MacLeod says to the boy as the latter retrieves the dowel, which has landed in the far corner of the Defense classroom.
"Thanks," Harry says. "A dozen more years of practice and I might almost be half a challenge for you. If you were hung-over, that is. And nursing a vicious band saw injury."
"Don't flatter yourself. A few dozen years. Maybe."
"I've always meant to ask, in the last Gathering, what would have happened if you'd have lost?"
"To the Kurgan? The obvious, of course, I'd have lost my head and Brenda, a woman I knew and cared about, would have been ravished and killed… But worse than that, a wicked man would have gained the Prize. Imagine, Harry: an evil man with the ability to read minds. Dark times would have befallen us for sure."
Harry nods in agreement. Such a thing would be far too horrible to contemplate.
"Our fourth champion is… Harry Potter?"
"This so can't be happening," Harry says to himself.
"Go on, Harry," Hermione says prodding him to his feet. They feel leaden as he feels everyone's eyes upon him. Things are no less tense when he enters the antechamber and it's announced that he has been chosen as a second Hogwarts champion, an statement that is met with frosty disdain by the other champions and their mentors. He relaxes somewhat when he sees MacLeod sneak in the back. The man had adopted him into his clan that summer, a clan with all of three members, granted, but a family nonetheless. It comforts Harry to know that he has someone else besides Sirius who will look after his interests.
"Zis leetle boy, 'e is too much small to compete," Fleur says, to which MacLeod snorts. Harry knows his mentor is going tease him mercilessly now about his "leetle boy."
"Indeed, Dumblydore, zis is a mockery. Beauxbatons will not stand for zis abuse of the rules." Madam Maxime stands and stares at Potter imperiously.
"Nor Durmstrang," Karkaroff adds wordily.
"I am afraid we have no choice," Crouch mutters, angrily shaking the rulebook at Dumbledore "It says here that it's a magically binding contract. The boy must compete. How could you let this happen, Dumbledore?"
"Zis is so unfair!"
"Just like his father, a spoiled, attention seeking…"
"Far be it for me to interrupt, but I must agree with you, Snape. It's not fair at all," MacLeod says, his words laced with acid. "Your poor competitors must face one whom I'vetrained? I pity them."
"Oh, please. Potter is no match-" Snape says.
"He's more than a match; he will win this competition, of that I assure you, potions master."
"And what would you know, MacLeod? You're barely a Squib, an intoxicated… barbarian."
MacLeod's eyes narrow dangerously. His voice is low, nearly a hiss, and somehow his katana is out, the flat of it pressed against Snape's jugular. "I suggest you choose your words carefully, Snape. Back off."
To nobody's surprise, Snape does.
Dumbledore clears his throat. "Gentlemen, please. It appears that Mr. Potter is compelled to compete, so we will have a fourth competitor. Let us put this behind us now. Champions, your first test will be a surprise in one month's time. It will challenge your courage and resolve under fire."
Courage and resolve, Harry thinks. Superhero stuff.
"Bloody Dragons! I have to bloody well fight bloody dragons!" Harry shouts, bursting into Connor's study. It's late, but he'd heard the man's voice from outside, so he knows MacLeod is in. He stops short and takes in the scene before him. His Defense professor and Rolanda Hooch have been nursing a bottle of whisky and from the look of things, they are both well potted. Harry notes with some alarm that his flying instructor's hand is beneath his mentor's kilt, though MacLeod seems as if he's too drunk to notice.
"Nice to see you too, kid," he slurs. "Here for a nightcap, or just practicing your conjugation of 'bloody'?"
"Er, sorry sir, er, ma'am. Professors."
Rolanda giggles, leaning back drunkenly upon MacLeod, and Harry studiously examines the floor, as her skirt has ridden a little farther up her legs than is proper. Harry is blushing to his knees and he turns to leave.
"Oh, and Harry?" MacLeod calls after the boy.
"Sir?"
"Go with your strengths, son. You'll be fine."
"Go with my strengths," Harry says to himself from behind a rock. The Horntail roars deafeningly and suddenly he feels very small indeed. "Here goes nothing. Accio!"
A moment later, there is a loud whistling sound and Harry snatches something from the air. He sets his jaw and turns toward his adversary.
History is made.
Potter Defeats Dragon - Without Magic!
By Rita Skeeter
This reporter wonders how many readers would willingly face a fully grown Hungarian Horntail, the most ferocious dragon on the planet? Not many, I am sure. Now, consider whether you'd be willing to do this impossible task armed only with a Muggle sword. This is exactly what Harry Potter did today in the first event of the Tri-Wizard Tournament.
Not content to merely subdue the dragon, as his less gifted fellow champions had done before him, Potter showed his Gryffindor stripes by summoning a massive sword - showing mastery over a spell years beyond the fourth year curriculum - and then joining the terrible beast in mortal combat like a Knight-Mage of old. The plucky Potter showed preternatural agility in dodging the beast's fiery breath and spiked tail, making it look more like an errant Crup than one of the most dangerous creatures known to Wizardkind. Neatly avoiding certain death, Potter ended the battle by valiantly beheading the beast before a packed stadium. For more on dangerous beasts and where Potter's feat would rank among the great man-beast battles of history, see page 4B.
This reporter had the opportunity to conduct an exclusive interview and I asked Mr. Potter about the secret of his success. "I have an outstanding Defense [Against the Dark Arts] professor. Any credit properly belongs with him." Humble words, indeed, from a champion who is now the odds-on favorite in the competition. It should be noted that this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor is Connor MacLeod, an American wizard of little renown…
"You've been practicing," MacLeod says as Harry deftly avoids a lightning-fast counterstrike and presses his advantage with a clever combination. Harry's skill has finally progressed to where they can safely use edged blades. The two swords crash into one another in a spray of sparks. Harry tries to press his advantage further, only to find himself disarmed and pitched arse-over-teakettle seconds later.
"Oof," he says eloquently, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for the room to stop spinning.
"I think that's enough. Let's go to Rosmerta's for a few pints." MacLeod's Floo has seen a lot of use lately with his visiting the buxom barmaid's establishment.
"Can't. Transfiguration revisions," Harry says as he sits up.
"Minny would give ye a pass. Besides, you're exempted from your end of term exams."
Harry sighs. " I don't want to get on her bad side."
"Ach, but she's just an old softie." Something about Harry's demeanor seems off to MacLeod. Through the Prize, he has a good idea what's bothering the boy, though he asks anyway, out of courtesy if nothing else. "What's bothering you, son?"
"Nothing. Nothing important, anyway."
"Right, which is why you won't meet my eye and you look like I pissed in your chips."
Harry sighs. "It's this stupid Yule Ball. I have to ask someone to be my date."
MacLeod scoots a toe under the pommel of Harry's practice sword and kicks it up to his hand. He tosses it into the rack across the room, where it lands precisely where it should, a product of centuries of repetition. "So? Just walk up to a pretty bird and ask. What's the big deal?"
"I knew you wouldn't understand."
"You're lucky. You can't knock her up and you're immune to anything that might put warts on your Bobby. Just go have fun."
"But I- I guess I don't want it to be like that."
MacLeod looks at Harry with mock horror. "You're into blokes?"
"No! It's-"
MacLeod grins, having fun winding the boy up. "You're having trouble working up the nerve? Trust me, girls at this age are just as nervous, especially around you. Plenty would part with their knickers if you'd give 'em half a chance. You just have to show some spine is all. Or the aforementioned Bobby. Either will do."
"It's not that either, not completely..." Harry pauses, at a loss for how to put into words what he's thinking.
"Relax, lad. Let me have a guess, since I think I do, in fact, understand. It's the immortality, right?"
Harry nods.
"You think things are different now, that you can't relate to your friends the way you used to."
"Yeah."
"You wonder if it's fair to lead a girl on when you know you'll never be able to feel for her what she does for you."
"Exactly!"
"And you'd be right in thinking this way."
"What?"
MacLeod stares out the window, a memory playing out in his mind. "It's the cruelest thing about our curse. It's hard for us to feel since we'll always be different, most comfortable with our own kind, yet fated to kill one another in the end, so we can't trust each other, not really. And when we do fall in love, we get to watch them grow old and weak, dying barren and broken, and that's if we're lucky. More often, they're taken by our enemies and raped or killed. Usually both."
Harry swallows. "Were you in love, sir?"
MacLeod's expression softens for a moment and Harry has a sense of the depth of pain his mentor feels. He regrets having asked.
"Aye, one time. Ramirez urged me to leave her, but I couldn't, not my Heather." He laughs mirthlessly. "Dear Heather - she was sunshine and clover and making love in the moonlight. I can still hear her laugh, even after all these years."
"What happened?"
"She died, long ago. And I held her hand as her body turned cold and I with it. I swore to myself I'd never love again. And I never have, not like with her."
Harry nods. MacLeod looks at him and clasps him on the shoulder. "Go to your dance, Harry. Have fun, but do not become attached. I would spare you this pain. No mortal woman can know your heart."
"Oh my," McGonagall says as she, like the rest in the ballroom, gaze at the entrance. Harry had skipped the dinner, much to her and her colleagues' consternation and to the annoyance of the Ministry officials who had hoped to speak with the boy and involve him in their political machinations. Instead, he has opted to arrive with his companion just as the announcement for the opening dance is made. His Head of House is not the only one stunned by events, judging by the gasps in the hall.
"Give the lad credit. He's got style." MacLeod says.
"But she's..." Flitwick says, sputtering.
"Exactly."
Harry bows gallantly to his date and she curtseys elegantly, affecting a timeless look at once amused and flirtatious. Harry takes her gloved hand in his and it is clear to all that their eyes are only for one another this evening. They dance together as one. Adding to the magic of the moment, Harry and his date both glow with a faint, blue hue.
"But how can he... It must have taken him weeks to master that charm - it's well above NEWT level," Flitwick squeaks.
"Aye, took him just more than a month, though you have to admit it's not much of a date if they just pass through one another," MacLeod says.
"But how did he ever ask her? The Grey Lady never speaks with students!"
"They understand one another," MacLeod says, his softly spoken words laced with a sense of finality. He takes a long drink he takes from his goblet and refuses to elaborate when pressed for more detail by his fellow Professors.
A chill wind begins to blow in the ballroom and there is a loud groaning and rattling of chains. A section of the floor glows an otherworldly green and at its center, the Bloody Baron rises, his eyes blazing with white-hot fury. The chairs and tables at the edges of the Hall begin to rattle ominously. The lights flicker and punch bowls shatter. The Slytherin ghost starts to drift toward the two dancers, but stops when he encounters the point of a man's sword, which glows with a faint blue hue. He pushes against the sword a second time, but finds himself unable to pass through. Instead, the tip sinks into his chest and a slow drip of ghostly blood leaks from the wound. He groans ominously and for a moment, the ghost, only sentient now, a creature of malice and hatred, looks confused. For the first time in centuries, the Bloody Baron feels what passes for pain among the undead.
The ghost looks to the man holding the sword, a tall, Scottish brute of rugged build. The apparition's eyes, sensitive to such things, recognize something peculiar about him, that he is utterly untouchable by death.
"I think that's far enough," the man says, his accent affecting a slight burr. "It is time for you to go."
The Baron rattles his chains and blows an icy gust at the man, who stares back, undeterred. The Baron draws his blade slowly, a massive, filigreed broadsword stained with blood. The Defense professor drops into a ready stance, his weight equally balanced over each foot. The man's hands are positioned on the grip. Electricity begins to arc up and down the blade, tiny currents of white that buzz unsteadily. The point of the Baron's sword slides from chape to locket and the air in the ballroom freezes with icy malice. The music starts to fade, sounding tinny and distant.
"Harry is not the only one who knows spirit manifestation. Go back to the dungeons, you pathetic dog, or I swear on the soul of my beloved, you will regret choosing not to pass on."
The Baron charges with a roar and slashes horizontally through MacLeod - or he would have had the Highlander had not neatly avoided the blow, twisting sideways and delivering a whip-like backstroke that slices a deep, smoking rent in the Baron's shoulder. Furious, the ghost thrusts, but MacLeod parries and hammers the pommel of his blade into the ghost's face, ripping open the flesh over his cheekbone. Pale, gossamer blood weeps from the wound.
"For one who has endured a thousand winters, your blade skills are less than extraordinary," MacLeod says. And then he goes on the offensive. Slashes and thrusts fly, faster than a human eye can follow, and hammer the ghost's defense. Despite being the millennium spent as a ghost, a time that has served to boost the apparition's speed beyond mortal limits, the Baron is hard pressed to hold his ground. He stumbles backward under the onslaught.
MacLeod shouts and a powerful, two-handed downward slash takes the Baron's sword arm off. The arm and sword remain together, separated from the Baron's body, and twist slowly in the air as they drift downward toward the floor. And then they fade away, a few glimmering motes and then nothingness. The Baron looks down to see the point of the man's katana pressed through his scraggly beard and against his throat.
"Leave this place. You've plenty of other parts to cut off, starting with your head." Glaring balefully at the immortal, the Baron sinks into the floor. Just as he passes beneath the stone, MacLeod says idly, "It looks like Harry can touch her. I wonder if that dress will come off." The walls of the castle rattle ominously and then all is still.
MacLeod turns, amused, to the crowd they've drawn and bows - he's not often fought in front of spectators. Alone among those in the ballroom, Harry and Helena dance with one another, oblivious to the drama.
"Er, pardon me, Professor MacLeod?"
"Sir Nicholas," he rumbles, his voice a bit hoarse from the battle. "Here to avenge your colleague?"
"No! Nothing like that. I just couldn't help but notice that you're rather handy with that sword. Would you mind terribly doing me the tiniest of favors? I really would like to join the Hunt, you see…"
Winter at Hogwarts is especially cold and dismal that year, which makes matters difficult for an immortal like Harry, who is finding it increasingly difficult to remain cooped up inside. He begins to spend more and more time with his mentor and, when possible, the Grey Lady, much to the annoyance of his mortal friends.
Finally, February is upon them and with it, the second task. Bagman lets off a cannon blast from his wand to signal the start of the event and three of the four champions dash ahead. Diggory and the Beauxbatons witch quickly cast bubble-head charms and apply warming charms to their bodies before plunging beneath the frigid lake. Krum performs a clever bit of self-transfiguration that turns his head and torso into the front half of a shark. A splash and he's gone as well.
Harry walks calmly to the edge of the water.
On one particularly blustery day in January, MacLeod takes Harry out onto the lake on one of the boats first years ride to get their first glimpse of the castle.
"So the next task is out here? Nice place for it. Yes, nothing like swimming in a frozen lake in the wintertime. Nothing like it at all. Makes me wonder about the sanity of Wizards."
"You and me both. I can't believe you talked me into this," Harry says as he tries to stand in the tipsy boat. Despite his warm clothes and warming charms, he is shivering.
"Ach, quit your moaning. It's good training for your balance," MacLeod says, leaning backward to down a swallow of Old Brora. The boat pitches chaotically.
"Bloody hell, watch out! I almost fell in!" Harry shouts at the man, who jiggles the boat intentionally. "I mean it, stop! I can't swim!"
"Good time to learn then. Remember this: you cannot die, Harry." With that, the older man wrenches the boat hard, nearly capsizing it. Harry topples into the water and flails for several seconds before exhausting himself, the weight of his clothing and sword dragging him to the bottom. The last thing he hears before he goes under is MacLeod's laughter.
When Harry emerges, he walks right up to his mentor and punches the man in the face. The next day, he would apologize and thank him, having been shown the secret to beating the second task.
The crowd starts to murmur upon seeing the fourth champion's odd behavior, as Harry walks calmly into the icy lake. As the water becomes level with his chest, he hears them agitate. Apparently they've noticed that he hasn't cast any charms upon himself and that he doesn't even have his wand out. Just before the water reaches his shoulders, he turns toward them, takes an exaggerated breath, and plunges beneath the surface.
The legend grows.
Harry Potter Holds Breath For an Hour, Rescues Hostage
Leaves a Trail of Decapitated Grindylows in his Wake
by Rita Skeeter
The youngest champion continues to acquit himself as the most gifted wizard of his age...
Someone snatches the paper from his hand and upsets Harry's breakfast plate in the process.
"Potter!" It's Weasley, of course. Was it too much to ask for a moment's peace?
"Ron," he says levelly, not wanting to start anything with the temperamental boy, but not wishing to accede either. "No need to be greedy. I would have given you the paper when I was done."
"What's going on with you and my sister?" The first words he's spoken to Harry in months are just like the last: accusatory.
"Nothing."
"Rubbish. Why was she the thing you'd most sorely miss?"
Harry's anger surges and his hand twitches toward his sword, but he stops himself. His words take on a frosty tone. "I have no idea, Ron. Why don't you ask Dumbledore? Anyone who knows me would know that there's absolutely nothing between Ginny and me and there never will be. I've not said more than a dozen words to her since second year!"
Harry hears something behind him and turns around. Ginny is there, having heard everything. Her lower lip quivers and she turns and runs out of the Great Hall. Harry calls after her, but she ignores him.
He knows it's for the best, letting her know now that he cannot return her affections. Being right is small comfort, though, and doesn't make him feel like any less of an arse.
"For next week, I want an essay - no more than a foot, please - on the functional differences between the Confringo and Reducto spells in combat situations. Now grab a dowel, pair off, and whack at each other until the end of the class or I get bored, whichever."
MacLeod moves toward the large phonograph that he's set up at the corner of the room and taps it with his wand. It starts spinning, playing Princes of the Universe, vintage Queen.
Hermione approaches him, her arms crossed. The rest of the class, sensing a confrontation, moves to get a better look. Harry tries to talk her out of what she's about to do, but she shrugs him off.
"Excuse me, sir?"
MacLeod ignores her, instead listening with his eyes closed to a particularly dramatic part of the song.
"Sir!" she says insistently.
"Miss Granger, is there a problem? You feel as if you must write more than a foot?"
"No, yes there's a problem! Why are we wasting our time with this? Swords? Please. Even Muggles use guns nowadays. Shouldn't we be practicing spells or, I don't know, learning things that might actually be on our OWL examinations?"
Most of the students mumble in agreement, including even a few Slytherins.
"Muggle fighting is for peasants," Draco says with disgust. "And this Muggle music is nothing but noise. It's scandalous that we have to listen to such garbage."
MacLeod glares at the boy. "Don't-" he says ominously as everyone in the classroom quiets to hear the man's words. "Don't disrespect the Queen." He eyes the students in the room. "You all feel this way?"
Several in the room nod, empowered by their numbers.
MacLeod asks, "Harry?"
"Swords are brilliant, sir, you know I think so. But perhaps we might balance things a little? Maybe practice some spells as well?"
MacLeod purses his lips and after a long moment, he nods. "Guns are ugly and ineffective against the most dangerous enemies, though I could say the same about wands." His statement is met with indignance.
"And what would you know of it," Draco says smugly. "I heard you only passed your OWLs a few years ago and are hardly qualified to carry my bags, much less teach magic."
"I'd wager I've seen more of battles and fighting than any man alive," MacLeod says dangerously. "When I agreed to teach you Defense Against the Dark Arts, I'd hoped to instill a universal tenet of combat, whether at Agincourt, Afghanistan, or Avalon: it is the opponent who is dangerous, not the weapon."
Draco sneers at him. "A Wizard can defeat any Muggle."
"Where did you hear this shite?" MacLeod asks, selecting a dowel from the rack and gauging its weight and balance.
"My father."
"Ah, your illustrious father, an accomplished Wizard who, I hear, was defeated by his own very dangerous House Elf."
Draco sputters.
"Perhaps a demonstration is needed, since you've obviously missed the point of this. I will choose a student to face the three Witches or Wizards who held the top marks in this class last term from their respective houses. That would be, let me see, Misters Macmillan and Malfoy, and Miss Turpin. You will face Mister Potter, who I assure you, is by far the most dangerous student in the room. Use anything you like, work together or alone. Cast any curse you think can manage. I don't care, because it won't matter. Harry will be using this." He throws the dowel toward Harry, who catches it and twirls it a few times, making thrumming noises in the air.
"This is stupid," Malfoy says.
"Do take this seriously, Mr. Malfoy. And mind that you don't bleed on my floor. Harry, breaking them is fine, but no killing or maiming."
"Stay out of my way," Malfoy says to the other two students as he pushes up his sleeves and adopts a dueling stance. "I've been waiting for this for a long time."
"Begin."
Harry begins to close the distance between himself and his opponents. Malfoy's cutting curse sails over his shoulder and the Gryffindor darts sideways to avoid a follow-up slicing curse that chitters by. He's made up half the distance. Malfoy jabs his wand at him and gives it an aggressive twist, which flicks a nasty pain curse his way, a football-sized glob of violet. Harry grunts, opting to take the curse in order to close the distance to his opponent faster. He plants his feet and swipes the practice dowel down hard upon Malfoy's wrist. There's a muffled crack as the Slytherin's forearm folds over on itself. Draco's face contorts as the pain of the compound fracture registers in his mind and his wand clatters to the floor.
"Stupefy."
Harry leaps over the injured boy, who is staring at his wand arm in shock. The stunner that Lisa Turpin had cast at Harry's back strikes the blonde-haired boy in the face and he falls to the floor. Harry tucks and lands in a roll, opening out of it at the end and sweeping Macmillan's feet out from under him. The boy falls backward and Harry touches the dowel to his neck, taking care to mark, but not crush the boy's larynx.
He kips up and stares at Turpin, much like a predator might regard a particularly juicy lamb.
The Ravenclaw wisely places her wand on the floor. "I yield," she says.
MacLeod starts clapping slowly. After several seconds, a few others join him with a handful of tentative claps.
"I've been told that making jokes about someone's effeminate qualities is against school policy, so I'll refrain from making any 'limp-wristed' comments at the expense of Mr. Malfoy and his excellent hair. I trust you've learned this lesson?" he says to the class. They nod.
Later, as the students file out of the classroom, Harry lingers behind and helps his mentor clean up. Despite MacLeod's warning, Malfoy still managed to bleed on his floor when his head bounced off the stone.
"You made that bit up about the combat. So what's the real reason you're teaching swords instead of spells?" Harry asks.
"I'm better at it, mostly. Besides, whacking each other with swords is a lot of fun."
Harry is bored. Bored of sitting in classrooms and marking his schooldays against the fixed stars of endless revisions and pointless examinations. Bored of making small talk with even smaller people and holding conversations he regrets before saying even his first word. He feels an urge to get out and about, not stay cooped in his room, which is why he's wandered down here well after curfew in an obscure corner of the dungeons in an attempt to locate a second way down to the Chamber of Secrets, or at least that's what he tells himself he's doing as he works at prying this stupid door open. Unfortunately, the strap hinges have rusted into barely identifiable, scabby masses and the oaken door refuses to budge, despite his best efforts.
Blasting it seems unsporting, though as the minutes tick by in the dark, with only the dim glow of the gas lantern and his thoughts for company, it's becoming tempting. Harry kicks the door in frustration. MacLeod probably would have hacked it open with a battle axe by now. Subtlety, the man ain't.
Judging by the lack of dust in this chamber, Harry's not the first to come this way, so it's unlikely that the door leads anywhere special anyway, but at least being down here doesn't involve hearing for the tenth time about what Dean got up to with his date during the last Hogsmeade weekend and where exactly she let his hands wander. Besides, after years of living with the Dursleys in a house whose recesses are strictly off-limits, Harry has come to view locked doors as affronts.
Something tickles his senses, perhaps a subtle change in the lighting or a rustle of fabric, it's hard to tell, but he can't shake the feeling that he's not alone. He wonders whether it's the Bloody Baron on yet another homicidal rage. Though unlikely - his last, which disrupted his Charms class, led to the Headmaster threatening exorcism for the millennium-old ghost whose severed limb still hasn't recovered - one never knows with apparitions inflicted with millennium-old jealousy.
There it is again, a breath that's not his. Harry looks around, seeing nothing, and suddenly, he begins to feel drowsy and lethargic, as if swimming in a sea of ambivalence. It must be an areal sleeping charm of some sort, he thinks as he fights for purchase against the magic, not wishing to yield.
"Imperio."
It's a man's voice, Harry notes, though his panic fades as he is overcome by a suffocating wave of euphoria that makes his mind fuzzy. His knees buckle under and he feels an urge to be still. Why not? Sitting still is good and it makes him feel good. He sits patiently, cross-legged upon the floor with the knowledge that he'd happily sit for the rest of eternity if necessary.
And then it seems like a capital idea to drop his wand onto the floor, so he does. It makes a musical clattering sound upon the stone. He kicks it away, an act that makes him feel warm and happy. He can't remember the last time he felt so good.
Something thunks onto the floor in front of him. It's a white mask, a stylistic rendition of a skull, and a twinge of recognition stirs deep within in Harry's mind. He knows this mask from somewhere. It's an evil thing, but he should pick it up, he really should. A Death Eater's mask, true, but it really needs to be picked up. It shouldn't be left here on the floor, a fine mask like that. He should get closer to the mask. But then he should get as far away from it as he can. Harry notices that even as he struggles to move his body away, his hand is inching toward it. He begins to perspire as he fights a growing urge to snatch it.
"Nnnnnn," he grunts and the compulsion redoubles.
"Take the mask, boy!" a gruff voice commands and resistance becomes yet more difficult. He feels trapped beneath a crushing weight that inexorably crushes his will and binds it to that of the hidden assailant.
And then he finds something inside, a core of strength that he taps in order to push back and regain control of his mind. It is a battle of inches, one that Harry, somehow, knows in his heart that he can win. Long seconds pass and the euphoria dissipates, replaced by cold exertion and fury. Harry feels his strength return and he forces himself to his feet, the last vestiges of the spell sliding off him as he does. He looks about for a sign of his invisible attacker. Someone must be made to pay.
"Confringo." Harry is thrown backward into the wall as a shockwave shatters the mask, exploding it into a cloud of dust and ceramic shards. He recovers his balance and draws Mournblade, slashing at the air by the door. Fabric tears and a portion of a man's bleeding torso is exposed beneath an invisibility cloak.
"Crucio!" the man snarls and white-hot knives assail Harry's body. He writhes on the floor, screaming for what seems forever. The curse lifts and after several shuddering breaths, Harry is finally able to recover the Marauders Map from his pocket. What he sees surprises him.
"Why in the hell is Barty Crouch trying to kill me?"
"Why in the hell is Barty Crouch trying to kill him?" MacLeod shouts at the Headmaster. They're in the man's office, along with Harry and his head of house. Harry is slumped against the back of his chair drinking a mug of tea beneath a fluffy yellow blanket. His hands shake and he is emotionally and physically spent, having fought off more than one Unforgiveable curse that evening.
"That is the question, isn't it," the Headmaster says. "I assure you that Mr. Crouch is no longer in the castle."
"But why was he even here? It's not like he had business with the tournament at two in the morning!" MacLeod shouts, his anger still not abated.
"True. Although one could as well ask why Mr. Potter was not in his bed at that time."
"Couldn't sleep," Harry says.
"Indeed, though I suspect you may have learned why we have curfews for our students. The castle is a dangerous place at night, even without enemies roaming about, and I remind you, Harry, that you most definitely have enemies."
Harry nods.
"Back to the matter at hand. I suspect that Mr. Crouch was here to interfere with the tournament and I have no doubt that though his motive is unclear, he did in fact have one. He certainly had the means to enter Harry in this tournament."
With a faint pop, a House Elf appears. "Begging your pardon Professor Dumbledore sir," she says in a squeaky, excited voice. Her syllables all seem to want to trip over themselves as they stumble out of her mouth.
"Tilly? You have news of the search?"
"Yes, Professor Dumbledore sir. Bad Barty Crouch is being found by the pitch." The elf tugs at her ear. "Bad man is being impaled on a long spike. Is being cut open and insides leaking onto the ground. Bad Barty Crouch is dead, Professor Dumbledore sir."
The Elf's announcement is met by silence. Unless he were capable of staging an elaborate suicide, Crouch had an accomplice who was willing to murder him in order to ensure his silence. They are no closer to solving this mystery than before.
The events of the week prior, which had been discussed each day on the front page of the Daily Prophet, cast a pall over the festivities and it is with a sense of relief that Harry joins the other champions outside the maze. Tied for second place, thanks to scandalously biased judging by the Durmstrang Headmaster, Harry enters at the same time as Cedric and a full three minutes behind the points leader, Krum.
Shortly after entering, the two reach a fork in the maze.
"You want right or left?" Harry asks.
"Right's fine," Cedric says. Inhuman screams can be heard off to the left.
"Gee, thanks."
"Take care of yourself, Harry."
The Boggart surprises and disturbs Harry. The shapeshifter longer takes the form of a Dementor, but rather that of his mentor, MacLeod. The creature wears trench coat and trainers, with his katana at the ready.
"There can be only one," Boggart-MacLeod says in a harsh voice.
Harry can't bring himself to decapitate the man, so he falls back on Lupin's lessons instead.
"Ridikulus."
There is a popping sound and the katana is replaced by a squat bottle of The Glenrothes. MacLeod presses the neck to his lips and drinks several swallows. Shortly afterward, he staggers and falls over, passed out. It's not especially comical - tragic more than anything - but effective nonetheless.
There's no time for Harry to dwell on what he's seen, but it's something that bears thinking about in the future.
Minutes later, Harry would find himself cursing his large friend as he pats down his smoldering robes. Leave it to Hagrid to breed a ferocious animal with no head!
Elsewhere in the maze, MacLeod curses as well as he races to the southwest portion of the maze, the thick hedgerows parting before him like strands of grass thanks to the enchantments the Headmaster had placed on his amulet. He's acting on a hunch, as the centuries have taught him to trust his instincts. A few minutes before, he thought he had heard the French witch screaming in this portion of the maze, where there should be nothing but a few disorientation jinxes.
He nearly trips over the witch when he finds her. She's face-down on the ground, her limbs quivering. The witch's mouth is filled with blood, having bitten through her tongue, and her eyes have an all too familiar glassy look to them. A few pale feathers jut from her arms, the torture curse having triggered a feral reaction in the quarter-Veela. MacLeod recovers the witch's wand and places a portkey on her bum - there's no sense turning her over until he's sure she can breathe. A tap of his wand activates it and she is whisked away to the infirmary and Poppy's care.
He hopes for her sake that her mind survives. She's the second Champion that he's found this evening insensate and grievously wounded. Despite her injuries, she's in better shape than Krum, who will be fortunate to eat solid food again sometime in his life. Without his legs, though, the Bulgarian will never again fly competitively.
Someone is eliminating the competition and MacLeod worries what awaits his young protégé .
Tits.
"If you wish to pass, you must first answer a riddle," the obviously female Sphinx says and Harry feels his cheeks flush. For some reason, he can't seem to keep his eyes from her chest. The Sphinx clears her throat impatiently, causing bits to jiggle and doing little to help Harry concentrate on her words.
She begins to growl at him menacingly.
"Er, right. A riddle."
"I am the property of a powerful man, clothed in red, hard and steep-cheeked, my place was once that of bright plants; now I am the remnant of hostilities, of fire and file, firmly confined, decorated with wires. Sometimes he weeps because of my grasp, he who bears gold, when I, adorned with rings, shall ravage..."
The throaty voice, interspersed with snarls, dies and Harry feels anxious. Riddles have never been his forte and this one is particularly opaque.
"Um," he says, stalling for time. He really has no idea what the answer could be. "Can I have a hint?"
"No hints. Have you an answer for me, human child?" she asks hungrily, leonine limbs coiling, as if readying a pounce.
Harry considers his options. Slaying the creature doesn't seem right, but it's better than running. He has no doubt that the Sphinx could capture him easily.
"Your time is up," she says with a wicked smile that exposes yellow fangs each as long as Harry's thumb. Harry draws his sword and holds it in before him in a two handed grip.
The Sphinx snarls and backs away with a hiss. "Sword. Very well, you may pass."
Harry scoots warily around her, giving her as much space as the small clearing will allow. He casts a last glance at her chest and races through the maze. The end, he can sense, is near.
"Is that the cup?" Cedric asks, having come upon the younger champion at the edge of the small clearing before their final obstacle. Between them and a gleaming cup is an exceptionally large Acromantula. The air Cedric notes, stinks of ozone. Suddenly, Harry raises his arm and a jagged column of lightning strikes, engulfing the boy's fist in white plasma. Cedric is deafened momentarily. When he opens his eyes, he sees that Harry's body is glowing with power.
"Mate? You're scaring me a bit here," the older boy says.
"Cedric?" Harry says, his voice timbered with something sounding not altogether human. "Don't follow." With that, Harry streaks past the Acromantula at an impossible speed. The automobile-sized spider snaps at him, but the boy is long past long before the creature can even manage to turn around. It turns toward its attention toward the slower prey and approaches the other Hogwarts champion with clacking mandibles.
"Dammit, Harry!" he says as Harry reaches the cup and winks away in a spinning mote of silver.
There's a string of events that blur together in Harry's mind: capture, torture, a knife tearing into the flesh of his arm, a beast rising from a cauldron. None of that matters, however. The only thing in the universe is pain as white-hot knives jab repeatedly into his body and every nerve, commanded by magic, screams in his mind in a perfect chorus of agony. Vowing to himself that he will not cry out, Harry's resolve lasts all of a few seconds and his screams come easily, his dignity, another casualty before a circle of Death Eaters.
"Power, Harry Potter," Voldemort says, ending the spell. "Power defines us. It is what makes proper Wizards superior to Mudbloods and makes me, Lord Voldemort, superior to all."
Harry spits blood from his mouth and a bit of it dribbles down his chin. He's shaking, though he feels electric warmth as his body knits itself together, undoing the damage of the curse. He wrests against his bindings and feels his magically shrunken sword still there, fastened to his forearm. The idiot Pettigrew had only taken his wand, believing him to be helpless...
Oh, who is he kidding? He is helpless. Despite hours training with MacLeod, Harry has no illusions regarding his ability to escape from so many enemies in a place he does not know without his wand.
The snake-like wizard continues his speech, which seems more for his followers' benefit than Harry's. "…I, Lord Voldemort, who has done more than any before me. Even Death has no power over me. Who among you, who have answered my call, will pledge life and magic in service to your Lord?"
There is a chorus of affirmation and the newly resurrected Dark Lord walks among his unmasked followers, judging. He caresses a few and tortures others, his sibilant words strangely hypnotic. Harry can't make out what the other immortal is saying, but the cadence of the man's speech is as beguiling as any spell.
"The boy was never a match for me, and now I shall prove it. Unbind him, Pettigrew. Let us duel and show the world how Dumbledore's pet fares against the magic and might of Lord Voldemort!"
Harry finds himself facing his nemesis in the middle of the graveyard in a situation that is the very epitome of 'hopeless.'
"Bow, Potter," Voldemort commands. "We must observe the niceties."
Harry refuses out of principle.
"I command it. Imperio." Harry feels a flicker of elation, sweet poison trickling into his mind. He fights it off and glares back at his enemy with an expression of the deepest scorn, one that would make his mentor proud. The Dark Lord's eyes become red slits.
"You would dare defy me? Avada Kedavra!"
"Confringo!" Harry yells at the same time.
The two spells join together, one, a snake of green lightning, the other, a ribbon of yellow. A burst of Phoenix song erupts from their joining and a white, glowing globe of energy forms about the two combatants. Harry grasps his wand with both hands and draws energy from the song, bending his will toward pushing the juncture closer to his enemy. He takes an unsteady step toward his enemy, and then another as the pearlescent bead creeps closer toward the tip of the Dark Lord's wand. Only a few feet separate them as the glob of magic melts atop the tip of his enemy's wand. Apparitions appear. There's an old Muggle man, saying something Harry doesn't quite catch. A woman in her thirties appears. Then his mother and father are beside him.
"Harry, we're so proud of you," his mother says with a kind smile.
"That's nice, mum," he grunts, still concentrating on his enemy. A ribbon of energy flares from Voldemort's open hand and Harry is forced to duck.
"But you drink far too much for a boy of your age!" she adds.
"Sorry," Harry says.
"Son, we don't have much time. Do what must be done, then take the Portkey back to Hogwarts." His father's words are somewhat more practical.
And then things begin to happen that feel almost out of Harry's control. A mighty lightning bolt illuminates the sky and the Dark Lord grasps his own chest with long, slender fingers. Voldemort's eyes would widen slightly at this new power the boy has marshaled. He hisses and extends his open hand toward Harry again. Indigo lightning flashes from Voldemort's open hand and surrounds Harry. The fibrils of magic manifest as magical chains that tighten about the boy's chest. His limbs feel heavy and he begins to lose ground to his enemy's will.
Harry's mother's apparition, sensing Harry's plight, walks up to the snake-like wizard and lifts up her shirt, exposing her breasts to the Dark Lord. The sight causing the wizard to lose concentration for the briefest moment, but a moment is all Harry needs.
"There can be only one," Harry feels himself say as he shrugs off his magical bindings. He releases his grip on the wand with his right hand, holding it solely in his left and using the other hand to seize his sword instead. It expands in an instant, the blade of the hand-and-a-half flashing golden in the reflected light of the spells. Fate guides his hand and the sword swings true, cutting through Voldemort's neck - and continuing on through his mother's apparition as well, though fortunately it has not been ensorcelled to affect spirits.
The Dark Lord's head tumbles upon the ground, its eyes wide in realization.
Harry's mother glares at him.
"Shit! I mean, oops. Sorry, Mum," he says as his mum, his dad, that one lady he doesn't know, and that other guy fade away.
The Phoenix song ends and an ominous quiet descends upon the cemetery. Then there's a series of explosions as the headstones shatter en masse. Harry's body levitates above the ground, jets of yellow and white lightning slashing down from black clouds above. The young immortal screams in release, unleashing a torrent of wind and fury, an orgy of wanton, Quickening-fueled devastation.
When he falls back to the earth, he is energized, much as he had felt after destroying the diary in the Chamber of Secrets two years prior. He hears groans and notes that several of the surviving Death Eaters are unconscious or nearly so. His mind turns to the sage words of his mentors and guardians.
"They will come for you," MacLeod had told him in reference to the other immortals and how they would surely seek him out. There is no hiding from one's destiny.
"Do what must be done," his father had said mere moments before.
"Never trust a witch to perform the contraceptive spell," Sirius had said. Perhaps it wasn't quite the best advice for the situation, but Harry knows that his godfather would approve of what he is about to do.
He approaches the Death Eaters, who are prone and helpless beneath the rubble. What follows is an inglorious, but necessary coda: it is unwise, after all, to leave enemies alive and able to wreak vengeance. Mournblade would earn her name that evening.
"You're leaving, sir?" Harry asks. He had noticed his friend's absence at the Leaving Feast and had intercepted him in his office.
"Aye. It's time to move on." MacLeod says, strapping his katana to his waist and grabbing his wand and trenchcoat. Nothing else in the room is irreplaceable.
"Will I see you again?"
"From time to time, I'm sure," he says, clasping Harry's shoulder tightly. Harry embraces the older man.
"What will I do if I run into another immortal?" he asks.
"Try not to lose your head and make the other guy lose his. I wish I could take you with me, but you cannot come, not yet. There are things I must do in New York and you need to stay here." He smiles at Harry. "Have fun, Harry. Enjoy life. Get drunk. Get laid. Spend a thousand Galleons on things that are completely stupid because you have eternity ahead of you. Embrace those moments of happiness when they come. Trust me - they are too few and far between for our kind."
"I'll try sir. Dumbledore says he's not gone for good," Harry says. "That he has taken steps to avoid passing on."
"Voldemort?"
Harry nods. "And I can't help but think that it all seemed rather anticlimactic, just taking out my sword and cutting off his head like that. I mean, maybe it's stupid, but I wonder sometimes, that's my big destiny? That's it? Really?"
MacLeod smiles sadly. "Let me guess - you wanted a Hollywood-style showdown, perhaps in an abandoned warehouse, with sparks and explosions and huge walls of glass exploding, a few massive, neon letters falling one after another in slow motion? A damsel in distress as well?"
"Something like that," Harry says, feeling his face flush.
"Aye, be careful what you wish for," he says. "Simple is good. As for Voldemort, I wouldn't worry. Cutting off his head should have been enough, but even if he could find a way back, you've gotten to his Death Eaters, so he'll have a hard time of it. I suggest you worry more about the enemies you know are out there, not the ones you think might return."
"Sir?" Harry says as MacLeod is halfway out the door. He must ask the question that has been bothering him. "If it came down to just you and me in the end, would you take my head?"
The older man turns and smiles sadly. In his expression, Harry glimpses the centuries of pain and loneliness, the friends made and lost, some by his own hand.
"We have a long time before the Gathering and we're both going to face some tough bastards between now and then. If it comes down to it and we're all that remains, let us see then which of us is most weary of eternity and who begs the other to take our head."
The man leaves and Harry watches the empty doorway for a long time. Then he feels a chill in his hand as the Grey Lady tries to hold it. He smiles at her and things seem just a little less bleak, if for a moment.
Fin
Omake 1: Alternative Sphinx scene.
"If you wish to pass, you must answer a riddle," the very well endowed Sphinx says. Harry feels his cheeks flush and he has can't seem to keep his eyes from her exposed breasts. The Sphinx clears her throat impatiently, causing parts to jiggle in a hyptnotic manner and doing little for attracting Harry's attention to her words.
She growls.
"Er, right. A riddle. Let's have at it, then."
"Okay," she says, eying the blade he holds in his hands. "This one should be particularly easy for you. 'I am the property of a powerful man, clothed in red...'"
"Oh, that's easy. A wand. Aurors wear red and carry a wand."
"You didn't let me finish."
"Am I right?"
"No. As I was saying, 'I am the property of a powerful man, clothed in red, hard and steep-cheeked, my place was once that of bright plants—'"
"Was I close?" Harry asks, interrupting.
"No."
"Not even a little?"
"No. Not even a little."
"Oh. Well, the new bit about the plants, that might be Professor Sprout, except she doesn't wear red very often."
"You really should let me finish, you know that?"
"Fine. But that bit about the 'clothed in red'? That doesn't even sound like a riddle. Are you sure you're doing it right?"
"It's figurative, foolish boy. It could mean 'covered in blood', 'made of iron', or both, as in this case. You really must think laterally about these things."
"So... Hmm. Bright plants are flowers then?"
"Very good. You are beginning to appreciate the artistry of a proper riddle."
"So, it's something red that came from a place with a lot of flowers."
"Yes. Now will you let me finish? It is terribly rude to interrupt so."
"By all means, do carry on," Harry says grandly.
The Sphinx growls again. "Please listen to the whole thing this time. This is a classic, dating from the days of Saxony and I've given you too many hints already: 'I am the property of a powerful man, clothed in red, hard and steep-cheeked, my place was once that of bright plants; now I am the remnant of hostilities, of fire and file, firmly confined, decorated with wires. Sometimes he weeps because of my grasp, he who bears gold, when I, adorned with rings, shall ravage. Mars's fang..."
"That's enough-any more and I'll forget anyway. Clothed in red, hard and steep-cheeked. I have no idea about that, but 'remnant of hostilities, of fire and file,' that's easy-Uncle Vernon made Aunt Petunia upset once, something about the files on their computer in a folder labeled 'hot.' So it's obviously something to do with computers."
"But-"
"'Shall ravage' sounds like something I don't even want to speculate about-they keep their door closed, I don't want to know how the sausage is made, if you catch my meaning. 'Decorated with wires' is easy-the flower basket he bought used wires twisters to fasten the ribbons. Aunt Petunia threw them in his face and kept him 'firmly confined' to the couch until he brought her some jewelry, which explains the rings. Yeah, I think I've got it."
"You are ready to make your guess," the Sphinx asks, thoroughly vexed. Harry's eyes have remained glued to her chest throughout and she has the sinking suspicion he's dragging this on as long as possible just to admire the view.
"Yeah. My guess is red M&M candies. They're hard, you can cram them in your cheeks, and they came with the flower basket Vernon got Aunt Petunia that one time. They're even made by the Mars company and fit all the rest."
"Are you quite certain you don't want to guess 'sword' instead?"
"Why ever would it be 'sword?'"
"Because 'remnant of hostilities, fire and file' means remaining after battle, after forging, and after filing? And for a dozen other obvious reasons."
"Whatever. You're just upset I guessed your riddle."
The Sphinx roars. "That wasn't a guess-it was a contrivance invented to match my words. Besides, I told you it was an old Saxon riddle. M&M candies weren't around then."
"You're not very good at riddles, are you."
"I am among the best of my kind, you imbecile."
"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Harry says patronizingly and learns that when dealing with a powerful beast, it's best not to enrage it. The leonine creature lunges and he barely manages to escape its long fangs and sharp talons. Though it's true that he's immortal, there's no sense in tempting fate.
Omake 2: Sword mods.
"Hey Connor, check it out," Harry says as he draws his sword. Instead of the finely crafted, polished steel that MacLeod was used to seeing, the blade is jet black and seems to absorb the light in the room. Malevolent, crimson runes flash along its length and black flames alight, bathing the blade. The pommel has been replaced by a black gemstone that resembles an eyeball complete with dark veins and ruby iris. It stares back at MacLeod and, to his surprise, blinks at him.
Harry twirls the sword a few times and it makes ominous humming sounds as it cuts through the air.
"What deviltry have you done, boy? That was a one-of-a-kind sword that I gave to you!"
"Made a few mods. Pretty sweet, eh?"
"A few mods?" MacLeod sputters. "You've completely pimped it out! I'm surprised you haven't traded the scabbard for a gaudy cane."
"Oh, this from the Scot whose katana has a 'bitchin' ivory handle and Damascus steel blade?" Harry asks dryly.
MacLeod's voice lowers dangerously. "You know the rules: no disrespecting the Queen, no hating on the katana."
Harry mouths the words, "Jap crap" and has to duck fast as his head is nearly taken off.