Title: The Lyrium Ghost
By: Aina Song
Fandom(s): Harry Potter/ Dragon Age II
Genre: Yaoi
Rating: PG-15
Warning(s): Crossover; AU; OOC; Language; Excess Blood; Mentions of Character Death; Flashback(s) to Death Scene; DA2 Direct Quotes and Spoilers.
Pairing(s): Anders/Harry x Fenris
Reviews: Yes, please!
Author's Note: Standard Disclaimer. This story was not written for money. Italics = thought, messages, the Fade.
Teaser: When Harry's magic unlocks a lifetime of hidden memories, he decides to take matters into his own hands to settle a number of wrongs – both recent, and long-ago.
Chapter Two - Claim
"I like the new face," the dwarf chuckled. "Though it's far too intelligent for that dumbfounded look you're giving me right now. Cute ears."
The mage clamped his mouth shut, shaking his head in attempt to come to terms with the impossible sight before him. "But I don't understand. How...?"
The dwarf gave a heavy sigh. "After... your story's end, there was a mad rush for action. You started something - for good or ill, it seemed - and lit a fire in mages and templars all over the world. Hawke was powerless to do anything but respond. But after Meredith had revealed her hand and... well... Hawke decided to take up your cause and lead the fight for freedom for mages everywhere."
He dropped back in his chair, his dignified facade crumbling as his mind whirled with the revelation. The guilt he had nearly succeeded in pocketing away in the back of his mind resurfaced with a vengeance. His head fell forward into his hands, and he couldn't swallow down a small inescapable whimper.
"Listen," Varric's rough whisper reached his ears. "I can't pretend to know what must be going through your head right now, but I might hazard a guess. And after all this time, I can only offer two tidbits of advice. The first is that I never knew you to waver in your past life, even when all the odds were stacked against you. You have all the knowledge and power you used to have, plus a fair bit more from what I hear of your more recent incarnation. Doors that might've been locked before certainly wouldn't stand a chance against you now." There was a brief pause, before he added, "And secondly... Would you want him to blame himself, if you had been in his place?"
The new lordling looked up sharply, a fierce look in his eyes, and hissed, "That's different!"
But Varric only stared calmly back at him. "How?"
Leaping to his feet, he slammed his fists on the table. "He deserved better than that!"
"And you didn't?" The dwarf shook his head, "Blondie... Do you even know what you did? Look at the world you live in now; a world of free mages, with no Circles or Chantry Order, no templars. This is exactly what you dreamed of, remember?"
He collapsed to his chair and buried his face again in his hands, digging his fingers into his hair and gripping several dark strands loose of his halftail. Eventually, reluctantly, he nodded.
"I did hear mention of this Dark Lord, however. The one killing non-magic people and those who would defend them, for some twisted cause, what was it - blood supremacy, I believe. Can't help but be reminded of the old days, myself. History has a nasty habit of repeating itself for its own ironic sense of humor." Varric's voice paused for a moment, before speaking again with a thick hint of gruff emotion. "I've heard what people are expecting of your newest incarnation, Blondie. If you need backup, you got it."
"Thank you, but no," he muttered dully from behind his hands. "Voldemort is using blood magic mixed with entropy. It's not unfamiliar to me. And don't call me that," he added as an afterthought.
"Why not? You're still you, aren't you? Though I must admit, I barely held back from reacting to the irony of the name you chose for yourself this time around."
He finally looked up, feeling the corners of his mouth twitch just a little. Shaking his head, he heaved a great sigh. "What am I to do, Varric? It's been so long, and the Fade is a shadow of what it used to be. I don't recognize it, anymore."
"Tried to look for him already, did you?" The dwarf nodded as though to confirm a thought or two, then stood and came around the table. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a keychain of random trinkets of silver and pewter. Sifting through them with his thumb, he separated one from the rest and held it out. "Grab hold."
The mage glanced at the trinket and its fellows in his friend's hand. "Portkeys?"
Varric chuckled. "Most of the older goblins know who I really am; they put these together to help me pop about like they do. And this one," he added, holding up the pewter raven carving he had selected, "takes me to one of those vaults Grapple was telling you about."
Quickly shaking his head, he tried to back down; "I'm really not ready to confront my many inheritances, Varric."
"That's fine," the dwarf agreed. "We only need to look at one." And before the young lord could say another word, Varric shoved the file folder into his hands and snatched his wrist, activating the Portkey and sweeping them out of the room.
He closed his eyes as he felt that familiar lurch behind his navel, and when he opened them again they stood before a vault door heavily adorned with locks and thick slabs of metal bolting it shut. Varric watched as the mage shuffled through his file folder in search of his vault keys, nodding when he held up the right one. He stuck the key into the door and gave it a turn. Several mechanisms snapped and whirred, the bolts grinding noisily out of the way, and the door grated against the floor as it swung open.
Countless treasures were revealed - priceless portraits, fine fabrics and sparkling jewels, gold and other monies accumulated over the centuries. Lining the entire span of one wall stood an impressive collection of ancient tomes and rolled parchments gathered into a shelved case with glass windows. None of these escaped his notice, but the lordling's attention was locked upon the center of the vault. Standing in the midst of those ancient valuables, in the place of honor, were an armor stand displaying his own black robes which he'd worn unto his previous death; his stave, chipped and cracked and resting against the shoulder of the armor stand as though a weapon at rest after a time of endless war... and a covered casket.
His heart found sudden lodging in his throat. He clutched a hand to his head, fingers digging into his hair as he fought to breathe.
"Carved it, myself," Varric's voice spoke in a gruff whisper. The dwarf stepped forward and lifted a hand to the dark canvas blanketing the casket.
"Don't!" He tried to choke out.
But it was too late. With a sharp tug, the canvas fell soundlessly to the floor. The newly reawakened mage's ribs seemed to squeeze in around his lungs as he stared at the intricate dwarven runes carved along the sides of the casket and the natural swirls within its glass covering. His entire body ached with the loss and longing; his hand fell away from his hair as he slowly pushed one foot before the other. As he drew nearer the casket, the swirls in the lid seemed to draw apart like the breaking away of wispy clouds as they sank into the edges of the glass.
His heart stopped completely; but then began to race and pound until he truly worried it might punch a hole through his chest and escape. Tears flooded his eyes as he stared at the still form lying under the glass, as though in simple slumber. There were no flecks of debris in the familiar tuft of snow-white hair; no burns charring the tips of those delicately pointed ears; no dirt, blood, or sweat staining that sinuously lithe, lyrium-embedded skin...
"I remember your touch as if it were yesterday..."
His breath stuck in his throat at the murmured ardor, hearing that voice as though it truly whispered again in his ear, as it had so long ago. "Varric... how?"
"Justice."
He turned to the dwarf with a sharp look. "What?"
Varric calmly held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Your spirit friend wasn't as immediately ejected as you'd thought. And after witnessing the way your story ended, he'd had a burst of clarity or some such, and decided vengeance couldn't hold a candle to just exactly how much he felt he owed you."
"Owed me?"
He nodded, "While Hawke led the fight against Meredith, Justice, eh... borrowed your body long enough to sneak your elf deep into Kirkwall's undercity. Ravaini and I led the way to one of the lesser-known docks, where we stole a ship and escaped the city altogether. Soon as we were surrounded by ocean, Justice gave me a long list of instructions, granted me a 'gift' to ensure I'd have enough time to cross it out, and made me swear to watch over your elf. Then he glowed blue, bright enough to nearly blind us, and when we opened our eyes again your body was lying on the deck."
The mage tipped his brow against the glass and closed his eyes. Such deep gratitude swelled in his chest that he felt nearly overwhelmed by it. He understood what had happened; he knew the tremendous gift his old friend had bestowed and believed himself to be monumentally undeserving. Opening his eyes, he gazed through the glass, still trying to absorb the miracle before him. Though his heart was still heavy with guilt and the pain of a long-ago past, the sight of the tattooed elf - perfectly preserved, unravaged by time - was enough to lift some of the ache from his chest.
"I'm assuming you'll want to wake him," Varric spoke again. Hearing the dwarf's scuffling footsteps, the lordling looked up to watch as Varric unlocked the glass doors of the case in the corner. He ran his fingers over the spines of the tomes and plucked one from its shelf. "Here," he said, handing the book over. "I'd eventually gotten around to setting pen to paper to Hawke's story. Figure you'd want to catch up on things you'd missed, see how your friends fared. In the back is a detailed account of everything I'd just told you about Justice's favor, as well as what you'll need to wake your own Sleeping Beauty there."
"Is there any blood magic involved?"
"Not a drop," Varric assured as the mage began leafing through the pages. "Far as I can tell, all you'll need is his soul, some remnant from an undying creature, and enough power to call down a miracle."
"Soul magic...?"
"You can do it, can't you, Blondie?" The dwarf rubbed at the back of his head, "I mean... You're you. Just, you know, with a bit more oomph. Your glowing blue buddy wouldn't have gone through all the trouble if it couldn't be done... Right?"
~o~
He visited Gringotts every day for two weeks. Grapple assisted him in securing his claim over the countless inheritances awarded him. He signed papers; he took back Grimmauld Place and Godric's Hollow, and looked into several other properties now belonging to him. Under Grapple's advisement, he also launched a covert investigation against Albus Dumbledore's claim as his magical guardian since his introduction into the magical world. Such knowledge had been withheld from him as a minor, and the young lord really felt he ought to learn why. Varric - under his guise as 'Abrasion' - did what he did best and took steps to ensure a whispered rumor floated about the wizarding world of the return of Hogwarts' true heir, at the same time regaling the mage with tales of the past centuries through his own unique perspective.
After Gringotts, he would roam the twists and turns of Diagon Alley. Cloaked with his hood thrown over his head, the reincarnated mage was a frequent visitor of the book stores and made ample use of the apothecaries. He sent his measurements to a wardrobe shop hidden in magical Dublin with an order for new robes and other wizarding attire. He decided against purchasing a new wand, even for the sake of appearances. He possessed far too much power now to be channeled safely through such a small conduit.
When his room rental within Dublin's wizarding pub eventually reached its expiration, the young mage waved off signing for an extension. He repacked what few possessions he had removed from his trunk and Apparated to Grimmauld Place. Immediately upon his entry, the Fidelius Charm wrapped around him and held him frozen in place, not recognizing his signature of his ancient magic. Further along the entryway, a tapestry flew open with no small amount of dust, revealing a large gild-framed portrait. Its depths illuminated, and the painted likeness of Wilburga Black began shrieking and shrilling at the top of her lungs about bad-blooded intruders within the sanctity of her home.
Growing more than a little impatient and irritated, the young lord flared his magic and threw off the binds of the Fidelius. The force of his resistance shattered windows, splintered support beams, and brought the entire house quivering and groaning with the strain of remaining whole. The painted image of Wilburga Black screamed anew, but for a wholly different reason than before. The mage pulled his magic back in and straightened his jacket as the splinters and glass fell noisily around him, then stepped forward and stood before Mistress Black's portrait.
The woman looked ready to start up again with her usual uproar; he immediately lifted his hand and swiped his first two fingers through the air. The portrait's frame chipped and cracked and looked dangerously ready to fall apart. Wilburga let out a small squeak and clamped her mouth shut, staring at him in terror.
He narrowed his eyes. "I will not have you vomiting such disrespectful swill in my presence. The Ancient and Noble House of Black has been tainted enough, without your disgusting behavior."
"Who are you?" he asked, her voice small and meek when not raised in spiteful prejudice.
"I am the new lord of the House of Black," he revealed without hesitation. "And as such, I will not tolerate your screaming and heretic attitude toward the good people that may walk through these doors. Nothing can befoul this House worse than an unfit mother who brazenly chose one good son over the other. Let me make it clear to you, as your lord I may erase names off that tapestry upstairs, and I will start with yours."
"You can't-"
"I, what," he cut across her words, lifting his hand again with a not-so-subtle pulse of magic.
She flinched, closing her mouth again and cowering a little toward the edge of her canvas.
He dropped his hand and continued as though uninterrupted. "You were a Lady of this House, and will behave accordingly. You will be respectable and dignified, and will speak with poise and courtesy to those I allow to enter these halls. If you cannot bring yourself to do so, then I suggest you simply be silent, or I will find very creative ways to remove you from that wall, am I clear?"
Wilburga nodded. "Y-yes, my lord."
"Kreacher!"
There was a loud and resounding crack as the house elf appeared. The small creature was old and paper-thin, bones easily detectable in twig-like arms and legs, and was garbed in a grimy grain sack for lack of proper clothes. Before the elf could spit his usual filth and effrontery under his breath, the mage lord flared his magic again. The house elf collapsed to his knees and grabbed his head, moaning pitiably under the gravitational force weighing him down. After a long minute, the mage relented. Kreacher immediately brought his bony hands to his mouth and sobbed. "A Mage Lord in the Ancient House of Black! A scion of the Black City!" He lifted large pale eyes overflowing with tears to stare up at his new master; "Kreacher will serve! He is unworthy and filthy, but Kreacher will serve the new Lord Black, he will, he will!" And the poor thing started bawling again.
He took pity on the elf, if only for the sake of another closer to his heart. Sighing, he sank to his knee and taped his fingers to Kreacher's forehead. The aged house elf quieted instantly, and with a few gulping breaths began at last to calm down. When he brought his hand away, Kreacher was staring at him with enough adoration to make the young lord slightly uncomfortable. "What does new Mage Lord ask of Kreacher?" He wondered, with far more composure than when he had appeared.
"First and foremost," his new master began, looking the small being over once more, "you will make personal hygiene a priority. I will not tolerate you neglecting your health and cleanliness, not if you wish to continue serving me. Secondly, you will no longer consider yourself a slave of the House of Black. You will serve for as long as your are willing, and will receive privileges as reward for that service. Do you understand?"
Kreacher blinked owlishly. "N-not be a slave...?"
"Never again," he swore vehemently.
"But Kreacher still serve?"
"Exactly."
The elf appeared uncertain precisely how he felt about this. Then, seeming to brace himself, he bravely declared, "Kreacher doesn't want payment. Payment disgraces house elf."
"Very well, but privileges to be rewarded or removed depending upon your behavior will not be negotiated."
Kreacher nodded stoically. That much did not offend his race's laws.
"But before anything else," he commanded, straightening again to his full height, "there is something very dark and dangerous in this house, something that does not belong."
Kreacher's eyes grew impossibly wide and hopeful.
"Bring it to me, at once. Afterward, you will clean yourself up. Wash and sanitize anything in your possession, and then you may decide how best to start repairing this home."
Nodding again, the elf bowed and cracked out of view.
Turning, the new lord ignored Lady Black's flinch as he looked over her damaged frame. He lifted a hand and flicked his wrist; Wilburga gasped as her frame was repaired, cracks coming together seamlessly, tarnish peeling back and falling to the floor, the dust and grime fading from her canvas. Lifting a brow in silent challenge, he regarded her coolly for another minute before curling his fingers suddenly into a closed fist. The damage he had wrought upon the entryway reversed itself, broken glass and splintered beams flying upward and restoring themselves to their proper and uncompromised places. He then bowed low to Lady Black's portrait, mocking her with the show of false respect, and left to find and claim his late godfather's bedroom.
~o~
He gripped Regulus Black's locket in his fist - a locket originally belonging to Salazar Slytherin - and let himself drift into the Fade...
The child whimpered in fear and curled in closer against his side. The young mage ran his fingers patiently through the boy's curls before gently setting the child apart from himself. Pure grey eyes blinked up at him, perpetually sad and fearful. He pulled his arms around himself, pantomiming a self-hug; the boy nodded solemnly, hugging himself tight.
He stood and turned, staring down a quivering mass of smoke and black goo. Taking a breath, he moved closer and plunged his hands into the steaming tar-like substance. He set his magic aglow, blinking quickly to adjust his eyes to the brightness. The tar fell away, confirming his suspicion of something more beneath. When his magic faded, a deep breath moved the shoulders beneath his hands; he adjusted his grip, steadying the form trying to straighten to its feet before him.
At last he lowered his hands, carefully looking the other man over. Quavering hands pushed dark curls from dark shock-filled eyes and then moved shakily to straighten a frayed suit jacket. Another, slower, deep breath; grey eyes glanced beyond the mage lord's shoulder them met with amber. "Please," a soft, refined voice whispered. "Let me go to him..."
Regarding this new shard for a long moment, the mage lord stood aside.
The man raced passed him and collapsed before the boy, quickly pulling the child into his arms. The reincarnated lordling remained throughout the night, watching over the two as they wept for one another.
~o~
Grimmauld Place had been completely renovated by the first of September, as well as Godric's Hollow. Both were Glamoured to appear as rundown on the outside as ever, and were strongly warded against attack or invasion. The Hollow had been refurbished to accommodate his personal tastes; many of the old treasures in his vaults - the tomes and scrolls, and other such antiques - could be found in various corners or lining the walls of random rooms. Within Grimmauld Place, Wilburga Black's attitude had improved greatly, with only a few cutting reminders to keep her in line. She could be quite the gracious noblewoman, when not casting the whole of the wizarding world below her ridiculous standards.
He took his time getting ready, having purposely missed the Hogwarts train hours before. He dressed in black, his jacket and boots made of cured dragon hide. Throwing on an open stone-grey robe, he belted it at the waist. "Kreacher," he spoke as he tugged on a pair of leather gloves. "Defend the House of Black until my return."
The house elf nodded at his side, now wearing a starched black sheet like toga with a silver pin at his shoulder.
"And don't let Wilburga act up in my absence, do you understand?"
"Kreacher will threaten her canvas."
He allowed himself a small smirk at the elf's promise. From the moment Regulus' locket had been returned, cleansed and whole, Kreacher's loyalty had been ripped from the former Black matriarch and given to his new master without reservation. It was particularly entertaining to know it incensed the woman to no end. "I give you free use of your magic to protect this house. But alert me immediately if there are any attempts to breach my wards that you cannot fight off."
The house elf nodded again, "Yes, Mage Lord."
Satisfied, he carded his fingers through his hair, which he had left loose of its usual halftail, then spun in place and Apparated away. He had another piece of his heritage to claim.