Hello guys, took down some old stories written ages ago, but I'm back with a new one. I'm proud of how it's shaping up, but I'd appreciate any feedback or constructive criticism. This crossover does have a bit of an OoC Harry, purely because this Harry is different. He made different choices, choices that have moulded him to fit closer to Ahmanet. This will be expanded upon in later chapters. This is just testing the waters as it is, and if you enjoy it, I'll write up some more. The title is subject to change if I find something that fits better, if you have any suggestions, shoot.
I don't own The Mummy or Harry Potter, they belong to people I can't be bothered to look for.
Enjoy.
Prologue: Her Darkness, His Darkness.
How long has it been? 5 years? 10 years? 10 years. He could barely begin to measure how quickly time had gone for him. He supposed it was a good thing, what with all the smiles about 'time flying' and such.
Well, in the case of this man, such things were literal. 10 years had come and gone since he removed himself from that world. 10 years since he had noticed. 10 years since he noticed the dreaded encroachment of winkles never gained a foothold on his expressions. 10 years since he noticed his body was just as spry as it was when he was 18, a fresh faced Junior Auror for the newly re-established DMLE. 10 years, he mused, since he broke her heart. 10 years had passed and he had already forgotten the face of the woman he supposedly 'loved'. Yes, he pondered, time really does fly.
At 27 years of age, he seemed to be living the high life. Famous, financially stable, and a pretty bird on his arm to wow his co-workers and superiors at the Ministry Balls. He never really liked rubbing elbows with the slimy geezers that hunched about the ballroom with their fresh-faced wives and wrinkled hands, beady eyes assessing his worth over and over; the same old talks every time:
"How have you been, My Lord?"
"About the new legislation, My Lord…"
"My Lord! I thought I might ask for some endorsement for this new bill…"
He hated it. He despised it. Oh, how he loathed it.
But she had loved it. She had loved it so he had loved it for her. He had loved the wrinkly hands, and he had loved their beady eyes, and he had loved their vapid wives, and he had loved their slimy words and their honeyed venom.
All because he had loved her.
The colour of her dawn-lit hair, golden and shining. The depth of her eyes, so cold in their arctic resemblance, but so warm at their depths, so inviting. The curve of her waist in his arm, smooth and always within reach. The scent of sweet apple, fragrant enough to smell, not enough to irritate. The tenor of her voice, like velvet, so smooth in his ears, lulling him to her like a mouse to a piper. The warmth of her body against his, like a beacon, comforting him. The heat of her passionate embrace, igniting him, setting his hunger for her like a starving dragon.
But he couldn't remember anything else. Not the shade of her skin, not the curve of her jaw, not the slope of her nose, or the height of her cheeks. Not the height that she stood, not the neck that he had lavished. Not the books she loved, not the music she played, not the foods she craved, not the shows she devoured, not the places she favoured, not the colour she loosened into his flat.
He just couldn't remember.
Was it him? Did he forget due to his unwilling nature to remember her? Was it time? Did it tarnish her from his memories? Was it her? Did she do something to make him forget her?
Whose fault was it? Whose?
Did he even want to remember? Did he want to remember the stolen kisses in the castle he called home? Did he want to remember the nights where their passion was hotter than the fire by their side? Did he want to remember her?
"No," he chuffed, lifting a hand to secure the scarf covering his lower face.
What reason was there to remember her? She didn't matter anymore. None of them mattered. He was alone.
But that was how it had to be.
He had left. Left it all behind and travelled. There was nary a place he hadn't visited in his thirst for an escape, for books to distract his fracturing mind, for practices that would soothe his wounded soul, for magic that would balance his tearing body.
After all these years he had changed. His shiny, black hair was now jet, devoid of light. His small, skinny frame had lengthened, thickened. His skin was paler than pale, stressed and tired. His joy had become a sordid silence, a disquieting, unnerving stretch where time became inconsequential. He had become who he was not, and the one thing that he had, had become the only one thing he has left. His mother's eyes.
His mother's eyes. He had fought the urge to scoff, but was unsuccessful. Ah, Snape, you bloody great prune, bet you hate that don't you? The one reminder he had left wasn't even his, they were his mother's.
He had been tempted, once, between Gringott's tomb raids, to talk to her. To summon up her shade and ask her. Ask her why, ask her how, ask her when, but he didn't. She deserved to rest. She earned it. Snape hadn't though. He gained a fluttering of something he might have felt a long time ago when he summoned the dour man from beyond the veil to antagonize him, relentlessly. Between that, scouring the globe for its hidden secrets and societies, and learning anything and everything he could get his hands on, he figured he was content enough. He still got a jolt of adrenaline when exploring the hidden world for its treasures and stories. It was all he had to grasp at who he used to be. All he had to ignore the spectre fading away beside him.
And that was what had brought him here.
Iraq.
Walking into the town, the man who applied a glamour to blend in with the locals, removing his scarf and seamlessly blending in with the tide of the crowd. His pipe slowly letting smoke escape into the hazy, heated air. Nothing a quick cooling charm couldn't fix though. He trailed though the streets, examining some of the wares amongst the stalls, throwing a few counterfeit Dinars towards merchants when a fabric or item caught his fancy. They would never be able to tell they were conjured, he reasoned, slipping his purchases into his bag, which littered with an outstanding plethora of expansion enchantments and charms not noticeable by its rather inconspicuous appearance, as he continued his solitary trudge down the market place. He ignored the tittering and knowing looks women threw him with good grace as he purchased some things with rather feminine qualities. He just thought they looked nice, but he plastered a fake, embarrassed smile upon his lips, playing along with their comments and suggestions. The man continued this pattern for a good while until he reached the centre of the marketplace, and his body tingled. He pulled in a breath with a small, small smile as he reached his senses downwards and revelled in the silky, heady presence of old magick. He'd found something. The man, though years and years of practice, added layer, after thin layer of a disillusionment charm upon himself, until he was invisible and avoided by the small throngs of people and gunmen who prowled the streets. With an emotionless smirk, the man pulled himself though the hardened earth, down lower and lower until his sandaled feet rested upon ancient, engraved stone. He basked in the enriched, magical essence excluding from the very walls of the chamber. He opened his flinty eyes and, casting some everlasting flames, stared about the anti-chamber, admiring the Egyptian hieroglyphs patterning the walls and the sturdy, chiselled pillars holding up the roof of the room. The walls were of particular interest, and the man moved over to read them, delighting in the new, unknown knowledge he found himself privy to.
'Here, sealed and entombed for eternity, lies an evil and blight upon the greatness of Egypt. And here, shall the knowledge of this evil be hidden, for its corruption decays and taints its once great land, and will no longer, forever more. Absolutely fascinating.' The man read and devoured, until the dripping of liquid drew him from his indulgence. He looked to the ground to spot tiny rivulets of shiny liquid sliding into small holes drilled into the rock floor. Looking up to the ceiling of the chamber, he observed, eagerly, as the silver droplets converged and fell to the ground, following their predecessors down to their unseen path. The green eyed man looked across the room, spotting more and more holes until the chamber descended into darkness. Moving slowly, his inquisitive, green tinted scrutiny revealed steps after steps, decorated with meticulously carved aqueducts carrying their beautifully toxic cargo deeper into the depths of what he assumed to be a sealed temple. The man waved his hand and conjured an object of his creation, creatively dubbed a 'following flame' which danced about behind him as he walked down the carved, sandstone steps.
Eventually, the man reached the bottom, and scattered the loyal flame about the room as he stepped of the last step, his glamour fading immediately.
'Must be a ward, however primitive. Smart, I suppose, but what for?'
Pulling himself from his musings, thoroughly intrigued, and excited, the black haired man stared.
Then stared some more.
Facing inwards? A seal, so he was right? But what were those beams for? What was the mechanism holding under that pool of mercury? An evil spirit? It was a prison…
But… there was nothing there. He couldn't feel anything. What was it? He had to know! He needed to know! What was so dangerous, it had to be carted miles from the base of ancient Egypt, all the way to ancient Mesopotamia, to hide away? What could be that dangerous? Was it knowledge? Was it a magical creature? What was it?
The black haired man stared at the seal guarding the circumference of the toxic pool once more. Connecting its lines, calculating their use. They needed to go. They were in his way. This was something fascinating, something he needed to see with his own, emerald eyes!
An overpowered severing charm tore the seal apart, and he eagerly followed the set of chain reactions his action made as the beams creaked and groaned, their pressure released. Slowly, a shape emerged from the pool, streaks of silver liquid running down its length, leaving the stone of the sarcophagus with an almost golden glow in the light of the flames. The weight at the end of the beams dropped to the ground, its cargo freed from its deadly prison, but he barely noticed, he was transfixed. The sarcophagus was not beautiful or glorious, it was nigh horrifying, a screaming faces chiselled into harsh stone, but that suited the jet haired man just fine, he didn't care about the glorification of it. He cared about the writing upon its body, the secrets held within.
And then, there was the sun. It was warm and beautiful, the sand was gold and stretched across the horizon like a sea, meeting the azure sky, pure and clean in its beauty. The sand flowed in nonsensical patterns shaped by the cool breeze, it was hypnotic. Then there was a woman. A woman in white silks and golden finery, her skin bronzed and kissed by the sun. She was shaped by the gods for beauty, her figure was perfection, and her gait was confident, seductive, as she moved closer. Her face was obscured, but it was teasing with small glimpses. Plump, painted red lips, arched eyebrows and deep, chocolate eyes accentuated by long, curled eyelashes. Waves of dark, beautiful hair. This was a seductress, a woman who tempted. She was closer now, a hand with long, thin fingers caressed the chin of a man with jet hair and emerald eyes, and their blue tips dancing along the jaw of a man form a world of magic and secrets, of war and terror.
"You have freed me…" She spoke, to a man, whose name was once Harry, "Se'tepai…"
Her face moved closer as her mouth wrapped about every beautiful syllable that left her lips in almost a whisper. Her dark eyes closing at an almost torturous pace, as her lips approached the man once called Harry Potter.
There was no words to accurately describe the sensuous feel of her lips, or the feeling of her hands, grazing against the body of the jet-haired-green-eyed man once named Harry Potter she had entranced.
Because all he could feel was an inferno. All he could see was her radiance. All he could touch was her glory. All he could smell was the sun kissed sand and the incense that flowed about her like a veil. All he could hear was her slight breathing, the billowing of her gown in the breeze. All he could taste was her, the spice and honey that erupted upon his palate.
The kiss seemed to last an eternity, a blissful moment in forever for the sun kissed woman and the pale man, but when their lips parted and he stared into the depths of her chocolate eyes, the man realised something.
He isn't the man who once was Harry Potter.
This man, who can feel burning in his veins and the pounding of his heart in his ears…
He was Harry Potter, but not quite. It was almost like a mould that had been half filled against another, equally as filled. Still a bit remained, but never a whole. But together with the other, something was different.
A memory tingled in his head, an official document found in the depths of his vault and quickly forgotten.
Harold. His name was Harold Potter.
-break woot-
The moment in forever was broken by a loud explosion, and the sound of crumbling earth. Harold dismissed the flames in the anti-chamber and his following flames, and conjured up a couple of oil lamps, spreading them across the room.
He could feel her watching him, feeling him, as he pulled the sarcophagus away from the pool and lay it gently down next to him, reading the inscriptions.
"The daughter of the Pharaoh Seti… Ahmanet…" The summer breeze wasted across his face, ruffling his hair playfully. The gaze became more intense, but he didn't mind, "a beautiful name…"
He could almost hear her pleased purr, low and laced with honey and milk, setting a warmth tingling in the black haired wizard's stomach.
"Oh my god."
Harold spun around, eyes glinting as he looked up towards the voice. Three interlopers had interrupted them. His movement had seemed to catch their attention, as the three faced him, with almost comically wide expressions.
"What are you doing down here?" The blonde woman asked as she rushed down the steps at a careful pace, an infuriated expression on her face.
"What am I doing down here? A better question would be what are you doing down here?" Harold said, standing up and wiping his clothes of dust, feeling distinctly disgruntled at the trios interruption.
The blonde straightened indignantly, "I'm Dr Jenny Halsey, performing a preliminary investigation of an Egyptian tomb located in the Persian gulf of Iraq. These two, well…"
The stockier, brunette man put a hand on her shoulder with a cocky grin, "Nick Morton and Chris Vail, experts in the… liberation of ancient artefacts."
"Thieves," Jenny remarked with a hiss, brushing his hand off her shoulder with a disgusted sneer.
Harold quirked an eyebrow, "thieves? I'm doubting your credentials 'Dr Jennifer Halsley'," he mocked, rubbing his hand on the stone lid of the sarcophagus, she huffed at his purposeful mistake, "this is my find, and my sarcophagus, and I've already done an 'investigation' so I suggest, you take your thieving associates, take your fancy recorder, and bugger off. This is mine."
He knocked on the top of the stone for emphasis, drawing their attention, Jenny moved closer to inspect it, but the jet haired man moved in the way.
"Ah, ah, ah, Dr this is mine. Property of Harold Potter, no touching."
Her eyes widened, "…Potter?"
His lip quirked, "oh? Heard of me have you? Good, I'd hate to think all my hard work has gone to waste."
"Who?" Nick asked, caught between staring at him or Jenny.
Chris was just poking rocks.
"Archduke Harry Potter," she stated, taking in a shaky breath, "he's famous in England for secret services to Her Majesty the Queen, and his famous explorations into ancient tombs and temples long lost or dangerous."
Harold hummed delightfully, "I go by my birth name of Harold, as of recently. Nice to know you're not as much as a dunderhead as you seem, dropping airstrikes and bringing thieves into valuable…tombs!"
The last was enunciated with a large rock thrown at Nick's hand, which was absently reaching for a dusty golden pectoral. Jenny threw the man an acidic glare, before re-focusing on Harold.
"How did you even get down here?" She asked suspiciously, narrowing her fine brows at him.
"A man like myself has to have secrets," he smirked, punctuating his words with a minor confounding charm, leading to the blonde to accept his words.
[Lima 2-6 come in…]
"I… see…" She opened her mouth to continue, but spun at the sound of Chris' scream of abject terror.
The man was being covered by camel spiders. Droves and droves of them escaped from the rocks like dammed water, rushing towards the group and covering their feet. Nick let out a hurried yelp as he shot at them wildly, Jenny flailing amidst the rather vicious ones that pinched at her ankles and swarmed about her.
Amidst the chaos, Harold simply stood, a large birth afforded by the spiders allowed him to enjoy the torment leashed against the interlopers to his exploration.
The spiders began to flee at the gunfire, and Harold stood, amused at Chris' panicked shouts and protests to staying.
Jenny quickly spun around to him after telling Nick to get a team to bring the sarcophagus up, "Harry, please, we need to leave, come with us. If you're bringing it back to England, we have someone to lift it."
"Well, I suppose that may be a good idea…" The Wizard rifled around his pocket, pulling out a battered charm, "my spider repellent has run out." He grinned.
He'd need help if he was going to get this out the muggle way, so there was no harm in playing along, for now.
And he had a plausible excuse of why the spiders avoided him as well. A nifty little charm.
As armoured men descended into the chamber and roped up the sarcophagus to a helicopter, Harold sat upon it, rubbing a thumb upon the casket fondly, and he whistled a jaunty tune from around the mouthpiece of his pipe. Basking in the warmth of the sun and the scent of incense.
After all didn't need to tell them the charm was a fake conjuration.
So that's the prologue, this fic's mainly going to explore Ahmanet's character and Harry's, but also what would happen if her chosen didn't resist her. If her chosen actually had a unique strength.
Suggestions are welcome, and flames make me laugh before blocking you, so have fun with that.
Thanks for reading.
Kitsune.