Harry Potter and the Bored Outer God Chapter 4, a Harry Potter + Cthulhu Mythos Crossover fanfic

Disclaimer: The defendant would like to state that they do not own Harry Potter or the Cthulhu Mythos.

Warning: This chapter gets a teensy bit dark later on.

Edited: 05/05/21

November 1, 1995

7:00 AM GMT

I opened my trunk, and there it was my over-frock coat. I bought it back in 1899 to celebrate my successful lunar expedition; I had such a great time committing genocide there. So many deeds done while wearing this jacket, doing in those Russian hikers, stealing the Irish crown jewels, the WOW signal.

That reminds me, I've been idle far too long; the propaganda department is probably still making pro-American posters to send to Russia and pro-soviet ones to send to the United States. And faulty weapons manufacturing is going to have a vast stock based on outdated designs!

"Meh, I'll just sell 'em to a warlord, maybe a dictator or two. Oh! Would you look at that!" A picture of Princess Marianne, ah yes, that little fling she and I had back in 1943. Well, it was actually less of a fling and more of a romance that eventually resulted in us getting married.

"Harry, it's almost breakfast!" Hermione called from the common room.

"Coming!" I slid my arms into the coat.

As we walked down through the corridor, I began to notice that the other students seemed to be talking about something.

"I don't care what it is! Just get rid of it!" The deep one screamed.

"Madame Undersecretary, you don't understand; it's not an animal! It's a craft of some sort!"

"Then go, board, it!"

"But some of my men thought they saw Inferi on it; you don't pay them enough for that shit!"

Hermione took one look out the window and turned to me, pale as a ghost.

"Harry, look out the window!"

Ghost Unit M was sitting innocently on the lake, with who had to be 1-M on the bridge. "Huh, that's interesting," I said.

"Harry! That's a U-boat!"

"A what boat?" Ron asked stupidly.

"A submarine," Hermione said; Ron stared blankly. "A muggle ship that can go underwater."

"Oh, like the Durmstrang ship!"

"I'm not surprised," I shrugged. "Weird crap seems to be attracted to this place."

"I'm not sure things can get weirder than this," Hermione said famous last words.

/ / / / / / / /

Three pro-wrestler-sized men in five-piece suits and fedoras stood in Dumbledore's office, one smoking a cigar, another holding an old Thompson submachine gun.

"So Mr. Doubledore-" The one in front said.

"Dumbledore." The wizened Headmaster corrected.

"Yeah, so, Mr. Dumbledore. You have a nice school here, big. With a property this large," The one in front adjusted his toothpick. "It might be a good idea to have some extra security."

"What are you implying?" Dumbledore asked, his brow furrowed.

"You have some nice students here, Dumbles; it would be a shame if someone were to set fire to 'em."

Before Dumbledore could react to that, Umbridge stormed in. "Headmaster! Potter hasn't gone- Who are these men?"

"Oh, Madam Undersecretary, what a surprise! I'm Four Fingers; they're Goliath and Muscles."

"Say uh Miss Umbridge, you work at the ministry, right?" Four Fingers asked.

"Well, yes, but I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"It's a nice ministry; we wouldn't want anything to happen to it. How many Aurors you got, Madame?"

"About fifty-thousand. Why?"

"I just thought you'd like some extra security Madame. Things could start happening; fights could start breaking out, wands could start being snapped, fires could start."

"Alright, out. Out of my office!" Dumbledore said as he pointed at the door.

"Sure you want to do that, Dumbles?"

"Yes!"

"If that's what you want, Goliath, Muscles, come on! It looks like we aren't wanted here." Four Fingers snapped his four fingers, signaling the others to follow.

/ / / / / / / /

"Disgusting." I spat, slamming the paper down. How dare these insignificant apes print such slanderous filth about me! I had half a mind to send a few Mi-go 'round their headquarters to burn it down.

"I think I will."

"What?" Hermione asked; crap, I must've spoken out loud.

"Nothing, my dear," I said, mentally giving the order. Hermione stared suspiciously at me; there was a slight pink tinge to her cheeks. Poor girl must be dehydrated; I'd have to remedy that.

Clearing a part of the table, I took out my grimoire; it was a gigantic thing cobbled together throughout the ages. Most of every branch of magic was recorded in this, even ones that have been lost to time; I wrote the book in Azaekkesh, a language I made up just so no one could read it. Runes were also inscribed on the binding to make the writing appear increasingly more complex to anyone attempting to translate it.

"What is that?" Hermione asked with amazement, usually reserved things that weren't a dusty old book.

"A grimoire." I practically buried my nose in it; I wanted to find an excellent curse to put on the deep one.

"A grimoire? How'd you get one of those? Usually, only ancient families have one." Ron asked.

"I've had it a while."

Curse of Song causes a song of the caster's choice to play repeatedly while the target is in the vicinity of others. This curse requires bunyip husk, yeti extract, giant oil, and a picture of the victim.

Interesting, the deep one might have some theme music sometime in the future. Now I need to get to my cauldron, in my castle, in Antarctica, outside of school; this will be a hassle.

"-rry! Harry!"

"What?"

"It's time for class," Hermione said.

"Oh, it seems I lost track of time." The grimoire went back in my bookbag.

/ / / / / / / /

November 1, 1995

9:20 AM GMT

The walk to History of Magic was long, so very long; the payoff wasn't great either. Binns was even more boring than usual, somehow.

"Okay, screw this. I'm leaving." I said, getting up and leaving the room. A shocked silence grew in the wake of that statement, had no one ever left before? Are you serious?

I faded away immediately after the door closed and reappeared in the Castle East. It seemed colder than usual, and the great wooden doors were open, and voices were coming from my throne room.

"For fucks sake, not again." Shifting into my Dark Pharaoh avatar, I trudged towards my throne room; yep, scientists.

"What are you idiots doing on my property?"

They whirled around, 'what the fuck' was whispered by many of them upon seeing me.

"Listen, I told Robert Scott to warn other explorers not to go near my castle," I said. One opened their mouth to reply and were cut off. "You know what? I don't even want to hear your excuse, guards!"

Around two thousand black-uniformed guards emerged from a solid wall, their bayonets fixed and shining, the horsehair plumes upon their shakos fluttering in the draft.

"Escort them off my continent; you know what, escort all foreigners off my continent," I ordered. My train of thought screeched to a grinding halt immediately afterward, Fuck! I said my continent, my continent; I'd have to produce a government out of absolutely nothing now; I didn't want to be a ruler! And they probably broke part of my forcefield, too, fuck!

/ / / / / / / /

"God-King, Nyarlathotep, no."

"Khagan, Nyarlathotep, nuh uh." I sighed and tossed another crumpled piece of paper into a pile of others; it was maddening!

"Shahanshah, Nyarlathotep!" I sighed in relief, and now for the flag.

Meanwhile, on the castle's tallest tower...

A flag pole faded into existence, a white flag with black embroidery around the edges and an upside-down black ankh surrounded by a silver laurel wreath in the center hung from it.

Back with the Shahanshah…

"Nyarlathotep, by the grace of Azathoth Shahanshah of Antarctica, to the United Nations: greetings and best wishes. I wish to address a most important matter, the Antarctic Principality, a superpower in its own right, is not a permanent member of your Security Council. If Antarctica is not made one by the time this letter has been read, I shall destroy ten cities. Love, Shahanshah Nyarlathotep, November 1, year of the Sultan, nineteen ninety-five." Stamping the hot wax of the seal with my upside-down ankh. I sent off my threat- er request.

I picked up my desk phone. "Rogran, I have a little job for you."

/ / / / / / / /

Three, two, one, and it's lunch. I closed my watch and shoved it back into my pocket. My eyes scanned the Great Hall; no one was here yet; good, I summoned a glass of Shedeh. It had been too long since I tasted this wine; it was my favorite beverage back when I was Pharaoh. I hadn't even taken a sip when.

"Harry!" I heard Hermione yell from across the hall. Quickly draining the glass, I threw it over to the Slytherin table, where it laid smashed and ready to inconvenience any students who took off their shoes.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Harry! Where have you been?" She demanded. Her hair seemed frizzier than usual, quite interesting.

"I've been places and done things, Hermione."

"That doesn't answer my question!" She stamped her foot in frustration.

"It's also the only answer I'm going to give you." Hermione made a sort of screech and stormed off.

"Mr. Potter, the Headmaster would like to see you in his office." McGonagall had snuck up on me.

"The Dean wants to see me, eh? Best be going then." I stood up and walked from the hall.

Five minutes later, I was in Dumbledore's office; he stared at me with his brow furrowed. Mainly because as soon as I stepped through the door, the phoenix put as much distance between itself and me and now made hissing sounds from Dumbledore's quarters.

"You wanted to see me?" I decided to break the silence since it appeared he wasn't going to.

"Yes, where did you go today, Harry? Madame Umbridge was very upset that you weren't in class; I believe I've gone deaf in one ear."

"Whatever do you mean, professor?" I stared right into the old man's eyes and applied just a touch of sorcery. "I never left History of Magic, and I did go to Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"Why yes, of course, you didn't disappear for three hours, come to think of it, I can't fathom why I even called you in here, off you go."

"Good day to you, Headmaster, bye Fawkes!" I received another hiss in response.

/ / / / / / / /

"Mr. Ollivander Padlock Security can protect you and your business from arson, terrorism, robbery, looting, raiding, and kidnapping. For only a small fee of one-hundred galleons to be paid every month." Lautone 'The Duck' Di Vincenzo said, taking a puff of his cigar.

"I don't know about this," Ollivander said.

"Mr. Ollivander, I don't want to alarm you, but I've gotten reports that the Pharaoh Outfit is operating in this area," Lautone said gravely.

"The Pharaoh Outfit?"

"Don't you know Mr. Ollivander? It's a criminal organization that can and will harm you or your business. They could start fires, rob you, kidnap you, even kill you."

"Well, I guess I accept then."

"Good, good, now four men by the names of Deon, Nico, Amaranto, and Gerardo will be around tomorrow; think of them as security guards. That'll be two hundred galleons." The legitimate businessman smiled, showing three gold teeth.

"But you said it was a hundred galleons!"

"No, no, the initial payment is two hundred galleons, then each subsequent payment is a hundred." Ollivander reluctantly pulled out two hundred galleons and put them in Lautone's hand with a highly pained look on his face.

/ / / / / / / /

November 1, 1995

1:30 PM GMT

Potions, my favorite class, mainly because it was never a challenge; I was a potions master back when Australopithecus Afarensis roamed the earth. I swiped a finger horizontally through the air, and the leg of a cauldron was severed, sending unfinished Doxycide into Malfoy's lap. Another motion made Crabbe stumble into the desk, knocking it over in the process.

"Tis a good day," I said; in the background, Crabbe stumbled once again, this time into Pansy Parkinson and Goyle's desk while Malfoy ran around like a headless chicken. I still had to cover my tracks, though; a fourth motion severed the leg of a ducking Seamus Finnegan's cauldron which then fell on his head; that's for calling me crazy. It's always a good idea to cause some chaos, especially when no one can tie it back to you.

"What is going on here?" The spawn of Tsathoggua asked.

"Professor, it seems we've been using faulty equipment!" Most of the Gryffindors and some Slytherins laughed at this.

The spilled Doxycide promptly burst into flames, creating acrid black smoke, which quickly filled the classroom. Snape dismissed the class in short order, well after he looked as if he'd taken a shot of citric acid when he saw my perfectly brewed potion; legends say that you can still hear Malfoy's screams on a cold winter's night.

/ / / / / / / /

November 2, 1995

The Castle East, 12:10 AM GMT

I sat behind my ornate desk, a camera operated by a Lengian pointed at me. Nodding at the Lengian, it flipped a switch, and a green light on the camera's side lit up.

/ / / / / / / /

November 1, 1995

7:05 AM EST

"This Emergency session of the United Nations General Security Council is hereby called to order."

"Why are we eh, here?" The Chinese representative asked.

"This morning, a terrorist going by the name Nyarlathotep forced all our personnel off the Antarctic continent. He has also threatened to destroy ten cities if the 'Antarctic Principality' is not made a permanent member of the council. This is likely a bluff."

"Wrong." A booming voice rang out. A TV that had definitely not been there a minute ago sat on the far side of the room; it showed a dark-robed figure wearing a golden pschent combined with black striped tappets and a gaunt mask with a golden osrid upon its chin.

"Even now, the LRSL is standing by for my order. All you have to do is make the Antarctic Principality a permanent member, and you'll have saved sixteen million souls."

"We do not negotiate with terrorists." The Russian representative stated.

"Then I formally declare war on all permanent members of the UN Security Council. I hope you're ready for war on a scale you never could've imagined."

Meanwhile, in Moonbase Gamma-3…

Commander Amset took a sip of his coffee, the caffeine doing little to calm his nerves. They'd been moved to high alert for the first time since they tested the LRSL sixty-six million years ago.

A warning bell sounded, and the Pharaoh's voice came through the speaker. "Fire the LRSL, Authorization Code, Gamma, Three, Omega, Eight, Zeta, Two, Delta, Nine, Sigma, Six."

Deputy Gyasi checked the code binder to see if it was correct; he nodded at Amset. It was correct. They both unlocked the safes, which were under their respective consoles, and took out their keys. Amset and Gyasi turned their keys at precisely the same time, and the same warning bell sounded, signaling the countdown.

"Tíu." A robotic voice started counting down from ten in Old Norse.

"Níu."

"Átta."

"Sjau."

"Sex."

"Fimm."

"Fjǫgur."

"Þrjú."

"Tvau."

"Eitt."

Hours later, gray canisters, each the size of an oil drum, landed near power plants in Brighton, Colchester, Point Pleasant Beach, Oakland, Lyon, Limoges, Saratov, Kazan, Shenyang, and Taiyuan. All started leaking a pulsating green slime through small holes which had opened immediately after touchdown.

/ / / / / / / /

November 2, 1995

2:00 AM GMT

A brass band playing the War Tune of the Principality saw off an endless stream of guards and military equipment parading through the Castle East. The great coated guards, tornisters packed, gauss rifles shouldered, skull-like gas masks, and shakos on. Four mobile ballistic missile launchers fully loaded with two silver Z-Y4 Trionium missiles rolled by. Following these, a tank regiment made up entirely of seventy-foot-long Shoggoth MBTs, affixed to which were one 160mm railgun and four 10mm gauss machine guns. Two one-hundred twenty-five foot long Alskali Heavy Assault Tanks, which had two 200mm railguns and eight 20mm gauss machine guns, passed by. Hussars, soldiers, specially trained to fight on the ZO-III hoverbike like the mounted cavalry of old sped through in a triangular formation. The ZO-III hoverbike could be controlled by the feet to allow for the use of the RS11 Cavalry Carbine, which along with a sabre, was standard armament for the Hussars. And Sentinels, super-soldiers sealed inside suits of advanced metal armor, which constantly pumped a cocktail of strength and speed enhancing drugs into them. They were the best of the best with a 40mm gauss Gatling style gun as a left arm and a clawed gauntlet on their right.

In the skies overhead hundreds of VK-1 Aerial Fortresses, spaceplanes one-thousand feet long and one-thousand eight-hundred forty-five feet wide from wingtip to wingtip, protected by an AX-class void shield and armed with thousands of defensive 50mm gauss machine guns, bomb-bays filled, a 160mm Railgun AA turret on top, a hangar packed with cylindrical wing AAK-2 tail-sitters armed with 50mm gauss machine guns and Z-X3 Trionium air to air missiles, and two regular 400mm railgun turrets on the wings for space combat. VK-1s were propelled by the Nephren drive, which made use of Nether Energy, allowing the spaceplane to fly anywhere from transonic to far beyond the speed of light. Thousands of two-hundred and fifty-foot long Mi-go VTOL transports, carrying troops, munitions, and equipment for the many invasions that were to be conducted. Hundreds of thousands of one-hundred and twenty-five foot long Shan Assault VTOLs affixed with 50mm gauss machine guns and a 160mm railgun. And what had to be millions of Flying Polyp VTOL gunships that were armed with three 80mm railguns, 50mm gauss machine guns, and Trionium missiles.

And at the nearby Kharis Naval Base, a brass band playing Rule Antarctica and a group of 'people' who sported visible autopsy scars stood on one of the docks watching the many various naval ships leaving the base. The JO-3L-class Missile Attack submarine, a two-hundred-foot-long leviathan able to stay submerged for close to eight months and dive to a depth of thirteen hundred meters. The M1-K3-class ekranoplan carried defensive 50mm gauss machine guns and RJ-2 magnetic mines that produced an explosion equivalent to fifty tons of TNT. The CR-0W-class battleship, an eighty-thousand-ton one-thousand-foot long behemoth, armed with four 55 cm railgun turrets and over two-hundred 60mm gauss AA machine guns. And the T0-M-class battlecruiser a five-hundred-foot long beast, affixed with three 37 cm railgun turrets and bristling with Trionium surface to air missiles, gauss AA machine guns, and minelaying equipment.

/ / / / / / / /

"Hastur! How are you doing, old buddy!" Carcosa, it was still just as beautiful as I remembered.

"What do you want, great-granduncle?" The King in Yellow said wearily.

"What, can't I visit my old friend without wanting something?"

"Well, let me see, last time you visited, you wanted me to join your criminal organization!"

"The Pharaoh Syndicate." I corrected.

"Your Pharaoh Syndicate! And the time before that, you dragged me to that stupid human ship, which you sunk!" The Unspeakable One stood up to his towering seven-foot height, his yellow robes billowing around in an unseen wind.

"How could I forget our time on the Titanic, wasn't that fun?"

"No! It was not fun! And I have a feeling this won't be fun either, so I'm not going."

"Oh well, I guess I'll go to school alone. A school so full of teenagers who are oh so easy to spiritually corrupt." I said.

The Great Old One heaved a great old sigh. "Fine." He said.

/ / / / / / / /

Hastur and I walked, or in my case hovered through Diagon Alley, drawing stares as we did probably because I looked about eight-hundred and ninety-six years old and sat in a steampunk-esque hoverchair while Hastur wore a yellow hoodie with its hood up, obscuring his face in shadow.

"Remember Hastur; you'll have to translate for me," I said, the movement of my gigantic Hungarian style mustache being the only indicator that my mouth was moving.

"Why?" Hastur asked.

"This avatar was 'born' in ten ninety-nine, so I'll be speaking in Middle English."

"Okay, Grandfather," Hastur said sarcastically.

"That's another thing! You are supposed to be my great-grandson many times over." I said as Hastur, and I passed through the doors of Gringotts.

"Great, I'll be even more closely related to you than I am now."

"Stoppen makiinge that sŏunen sō badde Fenric," I smirked.

"Dear Azathoth," Hastur muttered.

I hovered up to the nearest goblin teller and put my vault key on his desk with a gnarled shaking hand. The goblin peered down at the key before his head snapped up to look at me, beady eyes wide.

"Vaut thritten, please."

"Vault thirteen," Hastur said.

"The Auxientus vault?" The goblin rasped. A nearby witch gasped; it was understandable; the Noble and Most Ancient House of Auxientus was the oldest and the wealthiest pure-blood house in the Wizarding World, plus it was my second attempt at screwing with wizarding society. Hence, it held a special place in my nonexistent heart.

"Yis," I answered.

/ / / / / / / /

Purposefully stumbling into a tall, gray-haired man, Rogran pulled a trigger, and a small pellet which had been dipped in Dhoxide shot from the tip of his cane and into the man's leg.

"Forgive me, Lord Yaxley, good day."

"No harm done." The man said with a barely hidden sneer.

Rogran walked away smirking; the pure-blood arse would be dead within eight minutes. Dhoxide was one scary poison, invented by the Pharaoh himself specifically for assassinations; it was highly proficient at killing brain cells, as little as one picogram could kill someone. Such is the fate for enemies of the Principality.

"Inn Gramr af Gramra Munu Vinna." Rogran whispered.

/ / / / / / / /

Hastur, a goblin named Lagnok, and I strolled through a cavernous hallway deep below the earth. Past the village of Cyclopes, past the gigantic house belonging to a Hecatoncheires going by the name of Tydeides, past Otaollul the Hydra, past the Girtablilu, and past the Draugr mound. Lagnok sure looked nervous when I petted Otaollul's middle head and jumped when he hissed in contentment.

"Doþ nat bēn nervŏus, he wil nat bīten."

"Don't be nervous; he won't bite." Funnily enough, Lagnok did not look any more serene.

Finally, we reached the gigantic vault door; above it was the Auxientus motto of Insipiens Tu Quod Seminas Colligesque Fructus Eius, meaning Reap What You Sow. I slid the tarnished dark key into the lock, the sound of gigantic bolts unlocking rang true, and the metal door creaked open. Inside was a literal mountain of galleons, rubies, diamonds, emeralds, and other precious gems, along with books thousands upon thousands of magick tomes. I led Hastur over to a small jewelry box in a corner, pulling out a signet ring. I grabbed Hastur's hand and slid it onto his middle finger. It was imprinted with the Auxientus coat of arms, two crossed spears, and a crimson bull's head with an upside-down ankh on its forehead.

"This is the heir ring; it does absolutely nothing except mark you as my heir."

"Really? Absolutely nothing?"

"Yep."

/ / / / / / / /

Hastur and I sat side by side in the Great Hall; he wore his yellow hoodie under the school uniform.

"Alright, who are you?" I asked Hastur.

"I am Fenric, fifth-year Gryffindor; you and I met yesterday and became quick friends." His hood turned a minuscule amount towards me.

"Good. Now, remember that I spent too much time implanting your memory in Dumbledore and the teacher's mind's for it all to go to waste." I gave him copies of my school books and a faux wand. Basically just a smoothed branch I conjured.

"Harry?"

"Hello Hermione, you know Fenric, right? He's joining our little group; we'll be the Golden Quartet from now on, isn't that great?"

"Real slick," Hastur muttered. I elbowed him where ribs would normally be on a human.

"Harry, I've never seen him before, ever." She said, looking distressed. It was at this moment that Professor McGonagall walked past.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Auxientus." She nodded at both Hastur and me.

"See, Hermione, McGonagall knows him. You were probably too busy reading or something and forgot." I waved my hand dismissively.

Hermione slumped heavily on the bench, obviously depressed that she would never reach my level of brilliance in the art of deduction.

"Fenric, come with me; I must talk with you," I said, standing up.

Hastur looked up from poking at a piece of black pudding. We walked out the great doors and to an alcove, one of many that dotted the corridor.

"I'm starting a chivalric order," I said.

"Why?" He asked in confusion.

"The deep one-"

"Who?"

"The pink one, she's basically a dictator, right?"

"From what you've told me, yes. But what does this have to do with anything?"

"Most dictators start a secret police, so I want a chivalric order around as some extra security."

"So you're starting a protection racket," Hastur stated dryly.

"No, no, no- well yeah."

"Uh, huh. How exactly are you going to get knights for this order? Do you even have a name for it?"

"We're going to kidnap and brainwash some particularly burly students. But anyway, I want you to be the Grand Master of the Knights of the Crawling Chaos! You're the only Great Old One for the job, Hastur; I have full confidence that you'll uphold my tenets." I declared, putting my arm around his shoulder.

/ / / / / / / /

Cyrus and Elige Conebush, two fourth-year Hufflepuffs, are knocked out by a truncheon, then dragged down an old disused corridor.

/ / / / / / / /

Stanley Cameron, a sixth-year Gryffindor, is rolled up in his own blankets and carried away by two figures shrouded in shadow.

/ / / / / / / /

A pungent yellow gas filled a hallway, knocking out Isabella Serpen, a fourth-year Ravenclaw. Who is then carried away by two gas-masked figures.

/ / / / / / / /

Officer Henry Clarke and his partner Officer Scott Francis pulled into the spacious parking lot belonging to the Oakland Power Plant. They'd gotten a call from the night watchman's wife; apparently, he hadn't come home that night.

"All the lights are on," Clarke noted.

"What the hell is up with this place?" Francis asked, primarily to himself.

"Gives me the creeps is what's up with it," Clarke muttered.

Clarke pushed open the door, "Seems they have a little infestation." he said dryly. Green slime, pulsating green slime, glowing pulsating green slime, it was everywhere on the floor on the ceiling; it seemed to be oozing from the very walls.

"No shit," Francis said. The slime made squelching sounds as they trod on it, and the smell of ozone was heavy in the air.

"Scott! You better take a look at this!" Clarke shouted from the next room.

Francis squelched through the doorway, a body it was the night watchman, no doubt about that, but pitch black burns marred his skin.

"These are electrical burns. High voltage too, how the hell did this happen?"

The sound of footsteps was his answer; Francis pulled his gun and yelled, "Oakland PD! Come out with your hands up!" Silence, then a cacophony of hellish squealing, a group of stumpy green monsters with two arms ending with clawed paws, two long tentacles that ended with a red pincer each, and one giant red glowing eye rounded the corner.

A bang rang out as Francis fired at the closest one; the monster stumbled back, green blood splattering the walls. A second later, one green tentacle was put over the wound, sending sparks and flashes of electricity, the blood stopped flowing.

"I-it's healing itself," Clarke said, his gun now out. The squealing somehow doubled in volume as a veritable wall of creatures rushed at the two Officers.

They learned something in those next few minutes; the monsters were abnormally fast. Another thing was also grasped then; trying to run on a floor covered in slippery green slime was hard, as Francis found out when he slipped, fell, and was swarmed by the creatures.

"Scott!" Clarke yelled.

"No run save you-" Francis was cut off as he screamed in pain; seconds later, Officer Scott Francis' limp body slumped to the floor covered in the same high voltage electrical burns as the nightwatchman's.

/ / / / / / / /

Captain M-1, or as he liked to be called Artair, lazily spun his captain's chair on the bridge of the APSP Lilith, his VK-1, which was currently over Algeria. His furred leather jacket had been draped over his chair, exposing the beige uniform of the Antarctic Flying Corps. "Our ETA and speed, Mr. M-5." He asked.

"Mach two, Captain, we'll reach the target in two hours." Lt. M-5 said.

"Mr. M-2, how's the VTOL doing?"

"She's keeping up with us." Lt Commander M-2 replied.

"Anything on sensors?"

"Nuthin, oh wait, it appears the AAF is back."

M-1 groaned, pressing a button on the arm of his chair. "Battle stations. Mr. M-3 reduce our speed to mach one; I don't want them chasing us all the way to our target."

A few minutes later, fifteen MiG-29s bearing the green and white Algerian flag arrived and immediately opened fire with air to air missiles, which impacted the void shield to little effect. Rapid odd-sounding bangs signaled the gauss gunners opening up on the Algerian jets. One by one, they burst into flames or disintegrated around their pilots; six were shredded by an explosive shell from the 160mm AA turret.

"Any left, Zadock?" M-1 asked.

"Negative," M-2 replied.

"Good, bring us back to mach two M-5."

An hour later, they passed over Portsmouth; the French had given them a bit of trouble, seven Mirage 2000s were now smoking heaps in some field somewhere.

"Unknown aircraft, you are in British airspace; identify yourself." Came over the speakers on the bridge.

"Should we respond, Captain?" M-2 asked, swiveling his chair to face M-1.

"Nah." M-1 waved him off.

Six minutes later, two SEPECAT Jaguars exploded in the skies over Liverpool.

"Take us down to transonic, Mr. M-5." The Lieutenant pulled a lever slowly back; the VK-1 decelerated to its transonic cruising speed of six-hundred and fifty miles an hour.

"Anything on sensors?"

"Looks like a couple of missiles are tracking us."

"Mr. M-6, are you picking up any communications?" M-1 spun his chair to look at his communications officer.

"Aye, Captain, I'm picking something up on frequency A4." M-6 looked up from writing something down on the many notepads cluttering up his station.

"Well, put it on," M-1 said; the communications officer nodded and adjusted a set of dials.

"-Shahanshah met with the President of Iraq today to discuss a possible allian-"

"Turn it off," M-1 ordered.

/ / / / / / / /

A SEPECAT Jaguar burst into flames, joining its fellows in oblivion as two missiles impacted the void shield dispersing harmlessly.

"Mr. M-7, how does that target look?"

"We're almost there," M-7 said, his eye looking as if it had been glued to the bombsight.

"Open bomb-bay doors, Mr. M-7." The button made a small beep as the weapons officer pressed it.

Seconds later, "We're there."

"Bombs away. Bye-bye, remote radar head." The two Lockjaw-type bombs, each equal to eight tons of TNT, fell from the Lilith's bomb-bay soon to destroy a significant roadblock in the invasion of Britain.

The Mi-go VTOL broke from the Lilith and swooped down, keeping just out of the explosion's range. It carried the 17th Cohort of the Antarctian Royal Army, the vanguard of Operation Open Invite.

/ / / / / / / /

1-G1, Prime-Commander of the 45th Legion, checked his gauss rifle for the third time since getting on the landing craft. He had absolutely no idea why he was nervous; the beach at Inverguseran wasn't even fortified, the tommys weren't even there.

"Twelve seconds!" The pilot yelled. The sound of eight thousand gauss rifles being adjusted was almost deafening.

With a great lurch, the landing craft rode up on the beach, and the ramp dropped with a thump. Shoggoth MBTs, Alskali Heavy Assault Tanks, and APCs were off-loaded from some of the bigger landing craft while Legions of guards rushed from the normal-sized ones.

"45th Legion, with me!" 1-G1 yelled, four Shoggoth MBTs, two Alskali Heavy Assault Tanks, and the eight-thousand guards that were with him on the landing craft fell in line behind him, southwards to Inverie.

An hour later, the village was in sight; many of the residents had come out of their homes due to the sound the six tanks were making. 1-G1 forced his way through the crowd Antarctian flag in hand; he tossed the union jack to the side and raised the white, black, and silver on the village's flag pole.

/ / / / / / / /

A month later, twenty knights stood, fully prepared, wearing their chainmail and ankh marked surcoats, their freshly sharpened swords sheathed at their sides, in the headquarters of the Knights of the Crawling Chaos. Which was basically the old dueling arena which had gone disused since the powers that be decided bloodsport was barbaric.

"This is a great day, my Knights! Earlier today, we secured contracts with the prefects of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw! Today we begin the Crusade against injustice!"

"Chaosque vult!" The twenty Knights shouted, drawing their swords.

"Remember the ten tenets Crusaders! Thou shall defend the students of houses under our protection! Thou shall NOT defend the students of houses not under our protection! Thou shall not recoil before the enemy! Thou shall make war against any oppressors without cessation and without mercy! Thou shall perform thy duties scrupulously!"

"Thou shall remain faithful to paying clients! Respect the Grand Master! Respect the Crawling Chaos! Respect the mighty Galleon! And Thou shall be everywhere and always the champion of the Crawling Chaos and the paying Student Body against Injustice and Evil!"

/ / / / / / / /

Second, Corporal Sergio took a bite of his ration, his face as grim as his mood. The war had not been going well, Argentina fell the week before, and rumor had it that Australia was almost overrun. He'd seen things in the weeks of fighting, fellow soldiers trampled by those horrid mobile fortresses the Antarctians tried to pass off as tanks, men poisoned by those mechanical spiders the Antarctians employed, the enemy's habit of impaling Chilean dead on great pikes and leaving them to the various carrion-eaters instead of burying them. There was also that time the enemy captured a TV station and made a spectacle of roasting a spy within a brazen bull.

"Sergio!"

He looked up, "Yeah?"

"It's your shift."

Sergio quickly scarfed down the rest of his ration before grabbing his rifle and walking outside. The remains of his platoon, only twenty-five men, were camped in a bombed-out farmhouse on the outskirts of Copiapó, the Napalm City, thus named due to Antarctian bombers dumping tons of it on the city during the first week of the war. Sergio lit up a cigarette, the gauze and bandage over his left eye illuminated slightly in the dim light, the wound a product of grenade shrapnel. Suddenly a high-pitched whine Chilean soldiers had come to dread filled the air, and in the distance, a bugle call sounded.

"Hussars!" Sergio shouted. Turning the safety off, he aimed in the direction of where he thought the sound was coming from. And surely enough, a formation of Hussars riding those jet-powered hoverbikes emerged from the inky darkness, gauss carbines locked and loaded. Sergio managed to get a few shots off before a sharp spike of pain blossomed from his shoulder; falling back, he dropped his rifle automatically to clutch at the mangled remains of his left arm. The next few minutes were filled with gunfire; then, at last, a single shot rang out with a certain finality.

Sergio could hear spurs; they came close and closer until a single Hussar stood over him. The skull-like gas mask covering their face made him feel as if the grim reaper himself stood over him. The Hussar hauled Sergio up by his shirt and raised their saber, it swung down, and Sergio's world became darkness.

/ / / / / / / /

"So, Mr. Toad?" I said, looking at the man across from me; he was obviously a spy.

"That's Todd." He corrected.

"Are you currently or have ever been a CIA agent, Toad?" I smirked from behind my mask.

"No."

"That's a shame; I was hoping to get one. Anyway, you're hired, as my new garbage man; welcome to the team Toad."

"But I applied for secretary!" Toad said.

"I know, Toad, but you just have the look of a garbage man to me. You'll start tomorrow from four AM to twelve AM seven days a week, except on Sunday where you'll work from four to eleven." I stretched out my hand for him to shake; he didn't accept, probably because he saw the joy buzzer in the palm of my hand.

"What about my pay?"

"Two American dollars a week, and you'll be housed free of charge in a little shack about a hundred yards outside the castle. But be warned it's currently suffering from a Defiler Wasp infestation; they've made a rather large nest up in the rafters."

"Defiler Wasps?" Toad asked, his voice noticeably higher.

"Horrid little things, they get angry quite easily, sting ain't deadly, but it hurts like hell."

"Are you going to do anything about them!"

"Oh no, nothing short of Napalm would get rid of 'em. It would actually be better for your health if you made an igloo a few feet away from the place."

To Be Continued in the Next Action Chapter of Harry Potter and the Bored Outer God!

Inn Gramr af Gramra Munu Vinna- The King of Kings Will Conquer

Trionium- A volatile element mined from the Earth's Outer Core.

PS: If you're wondering about the War Tune of the Principality and Rule, Antarctica. Here are some lyrics I conjured up; yes, they're blatant ripoffs of the Battle Hymn of the Republic and Rule, Britannia-

War Tune of the Principality

/Mine eyes have witnessed the glory of the Thousand Formed God;/

/He is stamping out the fires of order and peace;/

/His reach extends farther than the sun, stars, and more:/

/His army is marching on./

/Glory, glory, to the Pharaoh!/

/His army is marching on./

/I have seen Him in the background of a hundred world events,/

/I can see His righteous symbol in the souls of humankind;/

/His presence can be felt throughout all of history:/

/His glory is marching on./

/Glory, glory, to the Pharaoh!/

/His glory is marching on./

/He has sent forth the armies that shall never call retreat;/

/They march from the gates of the stalwart Castle East;/

/Our tanks crush the enemy beneath their mighty treads:/

/Our God is marching on./

/Glory, glory, to the Pharaoh!/

/Our God is marching on./

/From the beauty of the Sultan, Chaos was born across the stars,/

/With a fire in His hand and a crown atop His head./

/As He arrived to make us his, let us die to make him pleased,/

/Chaos is marching on./

/Glory, glory, to the Pharaoh!/

/Our God is marching on./

Rule, Antarctica

/When Antarctica first, at Chaos' command/

/Arose from out the frozen sea;/

/This was the charter of the land,/

/And Mi-go buzzed this strain:/

/"Rule, Antarctica! Antarctica rule the waves:/