Disclaimer: I own neither Highlander nor Harry Potter, or… well, any other fandom's that might appear. This is AU: many timelines and facts will be twisted. Try to cut me some slack – I'm not a historian, wikipedia is the best I've got; if anyone has any information that's useful, tell me, I'd like to know 

IMPORTANT A/N: there will be many crossovers, highlander and harry potter noted only because of the main character, and they feature most prominently. I'm not entirely sure of ALL of the crossovers, but Stargate will DEFINITELY be featuring quite strongly. (just so you know what you're getting into)

Oh, and please try not to blame me for the horrible take on history that you are about to read :/

The Fifth

Chapter One

8,000 BC, give or take a few centuries.

When he awoke, it was cold. His eyes had frosted shut, and he writhed around for a few minutes, rubbing numb hands against his face, arms and neck. Sitting up with a heave, his breath continued to gasp sporadically, white clouds forming in front of his face. It made no difference; everywhere he looked, it was a landscape of brilliant, blinding white. He stood and slipped against the ground, icy and cold. The sun, high in the sky, reflected against the world, and his whole body felt like it was burning.

Behind him, the ice rose in waves, thicker and more glacial than he had ever seen in Surrey. It looked like the north pole, like what he'd seen on the documentary his family had watched just the other day. He'd been shut into the cupboard before it had ended, and had heard Dudley laughing at the polar bears as they mauled each other.

A sliver of panic wound up his spine. Were there bears here? Would they eat him? He had to move, as fast as he could. He didn't want to be eaten by bears.

Shuffling forward, he forced his feet to move. He focused on his goal – to get away from this frozen place. If he kept walking, he was sure that he'd find people. People were everywhere (unlike this strange, ice-desert nowhere land he found himself in).

The wind howled through the ice and snow, and he carried on, shivering and coughing, his fingers and feet turning blue – but that was just the reflection from the ice, of course (Skin wasn't blue, right?). They didn't feel cold; they felt strangely warm (they felt nothing else at all). He carried on, the part of him that had been nourished by his family knowing, dark and deep within his mind, that if he stopped, then he would never get up. Only his footsteps, and the wind, made any noise at all.

He kept on walking, even as the sun stopped shining.

But after a while, He didn't know how long he'd been walking, only that he'd lost count of how many times the sun had come to greet him. Something told him that it shouldn't be possible, that he should have dropped dead or at least asleep a long time ago, but he found it easier and easier to silence that voice. He was a freak, wasn't he? Freaks didn't do normal things. If anything, this kind of thing was to be expected. His aunt had often wondered, aloud, why he didn't just die. He supposed a freak wasn't able to.

As he carried on – one foot in front of the other, left right, leftright leftright (he musn't, couldn't stop) – he looked around himself. Nothing had changed in the many days (weeks?) he'd been walking. Still, the ice numbed him. Still, the white, empty expanse surrounded him. No end was in sight, although after a few days, he'd stopped panicking or despairing. He'd stopped feeling anything at all.

Left, right. Left, right.

The wind picked up, speeding past him. He closed his eyes, and imagined, with each step, that it wasn't just a foot- but a mile that he walked. That each hard impact against his now scarred, bruised skin was a leap that carried him across miles and miles and miles; That each jarring step would take him across oceans. Across deserts.

If he weren't so numb, he might have felt the increasing pressure. He might have noticed how the wind seemed to dull around him, until he could hear nothing except the blood pounding faster in his ears. If he weren't so numb, he would have noticed how the world went dark – twisted and pulled, pushing him, some strange force willing him.

When he opened his eyes, he noticed how it wasn't white any more. The bone deep wariness and numbness caught up with him, and he noticed the dull throb that ached within him, how his whole body seemed to spark and tingle.

The numbness caught up with him, and he fell.

A strange clicking noise sounded above him. Groaning, he opened his eyes and squinted up into the –- branches?

A bird, bright and colourful with a very yellow beak, larger than what he was used to seeing, peered down at him through the foliage. The beak clacked together again without rhythm, head cocked to the side. He pushed himself onto his elbows to see better, as his sight was blurry without glasses, but the movement made the tropical bird shuffle back and take off.

With his eyes, he followed the colour as it swooped and squawked throughout the branches, and he tilted his head back to look up. Large, luscious trees spread skyward, and the whole sky was blotted out by leaves. The earth beneath him was rich and moist, the smell rich in his nose. Moss mottled the wet world around him, the vibrant green overpowering any other colour, with all it's different hues and tones melting together. The rushing, clear sound of running water was in the distance, and he could taste the freshness of it on his tongue.

It was because of the natural hum of life that he let himself get lost in, that the deep sound of a man's voice made him jump, and falling on his face in an attempt to get up and twist around. He made a distasteful noise as he wiped the dirt out of his mouth, and the voice before him chuckled. Looking up and sitting up, he observed the man.

By average standards, the man was very short, but his skin was darker than any other he had seen; it's smoothness was like melted butter, and it seemed to soak in all the light that kissed it. He had short, tight black hair less than a centimetre from his scalp, and his eyes pierced into him. Across his eyes was a band of dried light grey mud, with more of the same substance smeared across his torso and upper arms. The tip of a crude but sharp stone spear head pointed steadily between his eyes, which crossed in an effort to focus on it.

The man made another foreign sound, and by the tight flick of the spear and a general nod, Harry scrambled to stand, raising his open palms in what he hoped would say what he could not. Please don't kill me!

He followed the man throughout what he thought could be a jungle, stumbling over creeping roots along the way and narrowly missing low-hanging vines and other plants. Whilst the man moved fluidly throughout his environment, He, on the other hand, felt himself disturbing everything he crossed. Snakes hissed irritatingly in his wake ("Watch where you step!"), and bugs and beetles swarmed around the rattled wildlife. He stepped on something sharp or uncomfortable every other step, and he didn't need to look down to know that the souls of his feet were bleeding, whereas his guide's (captors?) feet looked toughened and hard, weathering anything they came across.

It was at least a silent twenty minutes before they met any signs of human life. A large wall of wood, like an exaggerated fence, with sharpened tips, made for a rather daunting sight. The man led him inside, and he was amazed at what he saw.

Inside was a huge clearing, although a good amount of plant life still remained inside. A spew of squat, wooden huts spread across the whole area, and everywhere he looked he could see men and women that resembled his guide's exotic features. Both men and women wore strange sorts of skirts, although whilst some were made of brightly coloured cloth, others were rather drab and muddy looking tan patched rags. They all had at least some sort of body decoration, some with just a few lines of white spots, others with elaborate full-body patterns. Men and women alike had pierces of all different kinds, although a hoop or circular style seemed to be the most prevalent. Over fires, he could see mostly fish being cooked, and he wondered if there was a river nearby where they went fishing, because in this sort of please, he couldn't see there being a supermarket (although, he really did try to spot one.)

By the way everyone and everything looked, he knew he was at least in Africa, but from what he remembered, that was a very big place. He didn't really know much about it, other than it was supposed to be very hot, but this place could hardly be described as any warmer than a regular English summer's day.

His guide gave him a strong push forwards, noticing how he'd stopped to stare at the surroundings. He followed the man into what looked to be the largest, best looking hut. Inside was a man, taller than his guide although still a lot shorter than his uncle back home. The man's skirt had gold decorating it, with brightly coloured stones and patterns. He wore an ornate headpiece, made of animal fur and bones, reflecting the skins that lay around the hut, with extravagant markings on his skin. As he was pushed forwards to stand before the other man, he noticed how his eyes lingered on his pale skin, and realized how he must have stuck out, coloured so differently as he was.

The man (he assumed to be the leader of this place) frowned down at him, and said something with a rather demanding voice. He shrugged, not understanding a single word. He shook his head and tried his best to look confused. The leader repeated his statement, although at his continued confusion, sighed and tried something different.

"Mwenye," He said, pointing to himself. "Jelani," he said, pointing at his guide. He then pointed at him, and waited expectantly.

Were they asking his name? "Harry," he replied, pointing at himself. Jelani looked at him and pointed at Mwenye, looking at him again.

"Mwenye," Harry repeated, pointing at the chief. "Jelani", pointing at his guide. "Harry," pointing at himself. He blushed a bit, feeling annoyed. He wasn't stupid! He knew what names were.

Mwenye smiled, nodding, and looked pleased. He beckoned Harry forward, who was pushed by Jelani. Mwenye gently grabbed his shoulders, turning him this way and that, peering intently at him as he inspected the boy. After he had tugged at the denim of Harry's pants and the cotton of his shirt, murmering to himself, Mwenye stared into the boy's bright green eyes. Harry stared back, and felt a shiver of fear crawl up his spine. What if he didn't pass inspection? He was exhausted, and everything past arriving here seemed blurry and strange; he was finding it hard to remember how he wound up in this place. Would they chuck him out, if he didn't meet up to their standards? Would Mwenye find out he was a freak? Uncle Vernon had said that freaks in Africa were sacrificed. Harry didn't want to be sacrificed, whatever that meant; his uncle had smiled in a rather cruel way when he said it, a look to his face that usually precluded pain.

Harry watched as Mwenye broke eye contact, and as his gaze travelled further upward. The chief frowned, and as he brushed away Harry's fringe, his eyes widened. A dark finger traced his scar, and then the man quickly let him go with a strange look to his face.

He exchanged words with Jelani for a few minutes, happily leaving him in the dark (although never quite taking his eyes off Harry), before his guide once again led him, although this time it was away from the hut. Once outside, Jelani ran a critical eye over him, before looking sceptical and laughing. Quickly going into a nearby hut, he then emerged holding a patched, tan, large strip of cloth. He gestured to it, then his own skirt, and then to Harry's pants and then shirt, that had once belonged to Dudley and reached down to his knees. Harry gaped at what he was asking – what! He wanted him to wear that?!

Jelani nodded and stamped his foot against the ground, pushing the rag into his arms. He blanched when he realized what he was meant to do. Get changed? Now? In the middle of the street?!

Whilst Jelani looked stern, Harry couldn't help but eye the spear that he held in his right hand, and didn't want to be facing the business end of it again any time soon. Quickly, so as to get it over with as soon as possible, he pulled the shirt off and quickly tied it around himself, pulling of his ripped, practically unusable pants from underneath. Jelani laughed, and, moving Harry's hands, showed him how to tie it properly around his hips. Busy as he was with his new garment, Harry didn't see the way Jelani's eyes darkened, frowning as the man looked over Harry's many burns and bruises, some of which looked suspiciously hand shaped.

As the man took Harry by his shoulder and guided him across the 'city', Harry saw everyone stop to stare at the white child that passed through them. They weren't hostile gazes, but it was enough to put him on edge. Eventually, they stopped when they reached another hut; this time, it was of the general same size as all the others. Jelani pointed to himself, and then to the hut, saying "Jelani –-" The rest was gibberish to Harry's ears, but he thought it might be that this hut was Jelani's hut.

Once inside, Jelani put Harry to sit onto the bed, and shifted around the sacks and jugs that were stacked in a corner. Jelani took some strips of large leaf like things, and a small jug to the table. On the long leaves, he took from the jug a thick white paste, and smeared it across them. Beckoning Harry forward, he motioned sitting on the table, and as the boy followed his instructions, crouched down in front of Harry and tightly wrapped one of the leaves around his foot.

Instinctively, Harry hissed, Foot lashing out in reflex. The paste stung! It felt as if his whole foot was burning. He tried to push Jelani's hands away, but the man shook his head, and pointed to his own feet and rubbed one. Harry thought he understood; it felt like the cream his Aunt would smear against his skin if he managed to draw too much blood from his own abused skin. Was it medicine? He wondered if it would help make his feet tough, like everyone else's were. Once secured, Harry tested out the new bandages, making sure he could still walk on them. Checking his own feet, he realized how red they were; he'd become numb to them, but now he saw the blisters, grazes and cuts that spread across every piece of skin that had come in contact with the floor. He knew it hadn't happened too recently, so it must have happened when he was in the cold lands. Now that his feet had been sorted, there were other issues that needed to be addressed.

Harry was only five, and so needed a place to say. Every woman not old nor too young had children, so it was easy to find a family to live with, although the people here were wary of the strange pale-skinned child that was brought to them.

He was given to a woman named Madiwa, of 16 winters. She already had two children, although she'd recently lost her third and oldest. Harry knew that, really, he was only a replacement son, but Mama Madiwa (as she told him to call her) still treated him as one of her own. She had no hair, although many piercings, with warm dark eyes that smiled at him. She was of the lower working class, and her man was a good fisherman. He was much taller than her, although still not as tall as Uncle Vernon; Harry had felt in awe of this mans muscle, and the traditional markings that adorned his body.

Mama Madiwa's children were both girls, the youngest being almost one and the oldest having seen three winters. Madaha, the eldest, was quick to latch onto her new older brother, often trailing and jumping him at random intervals. Never having had a sibling, or a friend for that matter, Harry was surprisingly grateful for the attention; but why do they like me? He would think to himself, knowing that at heart he was an unlovable freak, like Aunt Petunia had said so many times. He thought it must only be temporary, and soon, like all the other people he had come to know, they would soon learn the truth about him.

But when Madaha had fallen and scraped her knee, he had been the one she had ran to. Madiwa trusted him to look after Chiku, the youngest, who would suck on his fingers, drool all over him and babble endlessly. While trying to learn the language, he would often try to speak with his sisters in English, and they in turn would respond in similar sounds and motions. He learnt some of their language, and they learnt some of his, and together they could just about communicate.

Harry could tell that Madiwa's husband didn't like him, but that didn't matter; he had Jelani, more like a father than Vernon ever was. Sometimes, he would go to Jelani's hut and watch him work on his spears and knives, and together they shared a warm bond. But, even as Harry was slowly accepted by the others in the tribe, and he in turn accepted them, he still felt on edge. Like he was out of place, out of time; and he couldn't seem to get the feeling out of the corner of his senses, like a slight buzz in the back of his head that was constantly humming. If there was one thing the Dursley's had taught him, though, it was how to adapt.

Over the next few years, he joined lessons with the other children, all of whom kept staring at his pale, white skin with curiosity. Together, they learnt how to speak, hunt, fish, build and use the rudimentary stone and wooden tools that the tribe had cultivated throughout the years that they'd been here. Kush, they called their home; their culture had settled in the area around four or five generations ago, although their people had been around for a lot longer than that, and they lived here on hunting and fishing, as well as grain gathering and cattle herding whilst also being shepherds. They sometimes traded their cattle with tribes that lived days and days away, so all of them were taught how to manage the animals for long distances and periods of time, as well as how to work together to achieve greater goals.

Harry found himself flourishing in the environment. The heat was only like a constant English summer's day, although as the weeks and then months went by, he found it harder to remember any of his life in England at all. He woke with the sun and slept with the moon, and his days were so full that eventually, he even stopped wanting to go back home. He was happy here, even if he was still different, with his white skin and memories of things that no one else could even imagine.

In his first week in this new land, he'd dredged up the courage to ask Jelani about getting back home to England. Realizing the language barrier, he mimed to the sky, and spread his arms out like wings, humming his voice like a plane. Planes went everywhere, didn't they? The people here had to know about them.

But all that charade got him was a puzzled look from Jelani, who, after a few moments of staring at him like he'd grown an extra head, picked up a feather and held it out, making the sound for what Harry assumed to mean 'bird'.

"No, no," he'd said, getting frustrated and forcing down his worry. "Aeroplane? Fly high and get home to England? England?"

But Jelani had never heard of an aeroplane, or even England. Harry would ask different people a variety of questions, but after a few weeks he gave up, although it took another few weeks before he could sleep without panicking about this strange, foreign land.

When Harry had grown curious about the world outside the walls of their city, Jelani had warned him of the great cold.

"We only travel with the Sun," he said one day, making sure to speak slowly so that Harry could understand. "The Sun's path is warm, with life. In it we have trees and fruit and grain, with our water fish and land beasts. If we stray too far from The Sun's path, there is only death. The Chief travelled too far long ago, and told us of the horror. Outside the path, there are no trees, there are no fish. There is only white, and a deathly cold. A man would sooner fall into the ever-sleep, than live in the white lands."

Harry remembered that the Sun woke up in the East, and went to bed in the West. Did that mean that he wasn't allowed to go North or South?

"I've been in the white lands," Harry remarked, remembering his endless days of cold, where he was numb to everything. "It's where I walked to get to Kush."

When Harry told him that he'd lost count of how many times The Sun had risen on his journey, Jelani had looked at him with wide, awe-filled eyes. The thought that Harry might have been lying never crossed the man's mind. "You are blessed," he said, making a prayer to the spirits in thanks for guiding Harry to safety. "Come," he beckoned, "We must go to the Shaman, and inform him of this."

The Shaman was the oldest person in the tribe, having seen thirty-two springs in his lifetime. His face was weathered with the hardships of tribal life, and his eyes were deep with the wisdom of the spirits. Brightly coloured feathers adorned him, red paint in patterns across his face and torso. The scent of incense clung to him like a second skin. Around his neck was a stone totem, carved like some sort of fish, hung on a rope. He dressed far more vibrantly than any other person, and his hut was in the far reaches of the city.

Harry had only briefly met him once, and had heard yet more of the mystical man; The Shaman led the tribe to prosperity, advising on hunting, fishing, plants and medicine. He would guide souls across the spirit plain, commune with said spirits, and was the wisest man. He taught the tribe how to survive. Everyone, even the Chief, deferred to him.

After Harry had entered, he lit a fire in the centre of the hut, sitting Harry down as Jelani left, presumably to tell the Chief that he held an audience with the Shaman. It was expected that they would be undisturbed for quite a while.

The Shaman muttered, tracing the boy's lightning scar with a firm finger and shaking his staff over both Harry and the fire. Powdered plant was smeared around Harry's eyes and mouth, and with some of Harry's spit and blood, the rest was thrown into the flames. They roared, burning brighter. The two of them stood, on either side of the fire, and the Shaman gripped the sides of Harry's head tight on either side of his eyes, and stared into them. The Shaman began chanting, each syllable and intonation curling around the hut and Harry's ears like warm water, and he felt the flow of power as it touched him.

The fire grew, a long tongue rising into the air, licking the top of the hut without damaging it. It flickered and, pointing to The Shaman, grew a deeper red, sparks and wisps beginning to encircle them both. The fire crept back down, and the rest of the flames blossomed, white-hot and burning.

The incense burned Harry's senses as the heat burned his skin. All light but the fire seemed to fade away, which grew brighter still. "Spirits!" The Shaman chanted, eyes wide in frenzy, staring at something that only he could see. Harry felt himself turn oddly light, as if all his weight was being lifted from him. Colours blended together, and as he began to feel a strange tingling travel up his spine, The Shaman tightened his grip on Harry's head, and pulled him into the fire.

To Harry, there was a sudden silence.

It was dark. Thick, warm air smoothed its way through Harry's mind, and despite his eyes being closed, he could see shapes start to form. Something blue and wispy flew towards him, tendrils reaching out and ensnaring his senses. The blue darkened to black, and turned sleek. Something formed – a beak? A tail? And two wide-spread wings flapped, tips touching as it approached him. The spirit crow's eyes – for now, Harry could tell that's what it was – flickered between bright blue and bright green, before turning white with a whisper of something more.

The spirit sparked and crackled, falling partially into wisps of shadow and mist. Deep down, Harry could feel the judgement, and the weight of knowledge and power rested on his soul. The crow judged him worthy, and with descending darkness, merged with Harry's spirit. The chime of bells rang in his ears, and a strange rattling seemed to echo throughout the dark land. As the rattle grew louder and more piercing, the darkness turned to blue and then white. He grew heavy once more, and as the numbness left his body, he opened his eyes.

Above him, the Shaman smiled. With gentle arms, he lifted Harry – from where he'd fallen atop calm embers and burnt logs – to rest on the bed. With a damp cloth, the man dabbed his forehead, wiping away the sweat and paint, and the blood that smeared from his freshly swollen scar. Harry, feeling out of breath, looked up at him with wide, fearful, confused eyes.

"The fire moved with you," The Shaman began, settling down next to the now put-out fire. "It formed the shape of a bird." He lifted his totem, "I am a fish. Shaman from the under world. You are bird, Shaman of the over world. The messengers have blessed you; your connection with the spirits is strong."

"Shaman…?" Harry gasped, disbelief strong. He couldn't be a Shaman, he wasn't anything special. Shamans weren't freaks; they were magical beings, important to the continued survival of any tribe. "I'm not a Shaman."

"No, you're not," The man said, shifting through his supplies. With a hum of satisfaction, he brought out a crudely carved pot, and brought it over to Harry. He dipped one hand in, and then quickly, with another mutter to the spirits, took it out and with it, smeared down the contents of it over the right half of the boy's face. "Not yet. You are my apprentice."

Whatever had been in the jar was slightly cold, and Harry felt it drying quickly on his skin. He touched it, and his finger came away light blue. Looking back up into the other man's eyes, he tried to understand what had just happened. The shaman took a chisel and a small rock, holding it out for the boy. "Come," he beckoned, "You make your totem now."

And Harry took it, knowing that his life had just changed. Drastically.