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 Six – As I Do

Era'harel took them to Golden Hall and bade them every comfort. Young Draco grinned like a child at Christmas, taking in the burnished entrance hall he had been introduced to little more than an hour past. But he quickly distracted himself, asking again toward Harry Potter's safety and location. Even his father could not quiet him, though his efforts did not seem too insistent. Like son, it appeared, like father. Severus Snape delayed the Malfoys and convinced them to retire for the night. Though not without tossing their host a pointed look of his own. He, too, had been promised an explanation.

'Harel nodded, leading the dark man into a drawing room and settling them both down in high-backed chairs with glasses of sherry. "Now," he invited. "Ask your questions."

The professor set his glass upon a side table, untouched. "To start with, how did this change of yours come about?"

"When the clock rang in my seventeenth birthday, my magic vanished. It was terrifying," he recalled, shuddering. "All the color, all the music of the world… gone. And then it slammed back into me, and I passed out. When I woke the next morning, I looked like this."

Snape quirked a dark brow. "Am I not to receive a better answer than that?"

"You might, if you ask the right questions."

"Why do you and the goblins refer to yourself as Anderfel?"

"Because that is who I am."

"You are Harry Potter."

"I am."

The man gave an impatient huff. "You cannot be both."

"Can't I?"

Severus Snape glared in irritation, then in contemplation. He was an intelligent man, and quite cunning, to have survived so long under the Dark Lord's thumb. 'Harel could see the man's mind working behind those deep eyes, and he almost grinned when he saw that his former professor had reached the answer. "Two souls?"

Well. Perhaps not quite the correct answer. "Try, reincarnation."

"…What?"

Feeling his mouth tug in a wry smirk, Era'harel raised his voice in firm command. "Kreacher."

The aged house elf appeared with his customary crack by the door.

"I need you to retrieve the pensieve from my library," he instructed, not unkindly. "Please take care; it is old."

Kreacher nodded and cracked out of view, returning within moments, gingerly floating the stone bowl to the center of the room and setting it down upon a conjured pedestal. He vanished again with a brief bow.

'Harel stood, calmly approaching the pensieve. He touched a finger to his temple, the tip of which glowing softly as he brought his hand away and touched the lip of the stone bowl. Turning, he gave a grand wave of his arm in invitation.

Snape rose to his feet and came closer. He peered almost warily into the swirl of white and silver within the pensieve. "The bowl looks to be rather full…"

"It's a rather involved explanation," he answered. "Shall we?"

Seeming to draw upon something deep in his chest, the dark professor gave a curt nod and bowed his face into the bowl.

~o~

They landed in the middle of a large circular stone room, surrounded by bookshelves standing taller than any man could reach without the helpful presence of the occasional sliding ladder. A middle-aged woman with kind eyes huffed and swept a stray curl from her face as she peered around one shelf after another. "Child," she cajoled. "If you don't come out, I can't help you."

After a long moment, a gangly adolescent boy with matted auburn hair and wearing robes that seemed much too big for him stepped reluctantly from behind a shelf across the room. His face was bruised, his left eye had swelled shut; there were raw scrapes across the knuckles of both his hands, and he had an obvious limp as he approached the woman.

"Oh, child," she breathed on a whisper. She lifted her hands to either side of his face, her palms glowing green as she set to work healing him. The boy was eerily silent, barely twitching as she passed her hands over each of his injuries. With extraordinary patience, the woman then tended to his hands and the twist of his ankle. "Come," she gently grasped his elbow, leading the boy away. "I'll teach you some basic healing magic, so that you needn't wait for me if this happens again."

Severus Snape watched as the two disappeared around another of the endless bookshelves, then he turned to his own former student. "Who was that?"

"The woman was Enchanter Wynne," Era'harel softly revealed. "She was the very first to ever try to reach out to me with anything but hate in her eyes."

"That boy was you?"

There was nothing humorous in his smirk. "These are my memories."

"Where are we?" Snape asked next, glancing around.

"A Circle tower." 'Harel explained, "In the time that these memories took place, mages were feared and hated, and locked away. Guarded against rebellions and demon possessions."

The background blurred but settled again upon the stone circular library. This time the woman, her curly hair streaked with grey and tied in a loose bun, was smiling proudly. The boy was older as well, fifteen or so, and gently cupping a small bird in hands glowing a soft blue. The bird was turning its head quickly one way and the other, and the boy's mouth twitched as though fighting a laugh. At last, the boy lifted his hands high and released the bird. The woman moved to the boy's side as they both watched the bird fly straight for one of the impossibly high windows and fly away.

"Some mages were lucky enough to find a specialty," 'Harel spoke as the room slowly darkened with the setting sun. "This was the day we discovered I had an affinity for spirit healing. A rarer, more complex healing magic. Wynne was so excited; she wanted to petition me to become a full-fledged Enchanter, like her."

"Enchanter?"

"Something like a professor," he defined. "Or, in your case, a Master of a chosen field. Enchanters were trusted to leave the Circles, loan themselves out in service to the people."

Snape blinked, "You were one of these Enchanters?"

Era'harel broke out in loud laughter, shaking his head. "I was far too rebellious. I ran away as often as I could find opportunity. I was always caught, though. Until the last time…"

The scene shifted entirely, this time showing a castle courtyard in the dead of night. The boy was now in his mid-twenties, his strange robes scuffed and torn and showing fresh bleeding cuts and red bruises along his arms and back. He was shoved to his knees, while three men and a woman in heavy armor held him at sword-point.

Snape took a half-step forward before he remembered himself, but his hands curled into fists at his sides. Era'harel touched a hand to the man's shoulder, appreciating the gesture nonetheless.

"Who were they," Snape demanded. "What were they doing to you?"

"Templars. They were sanctioned by local religion to guard and protect the mages against corruption."

"Then, why…?"

"Because over time they had lost their purpose." 'Harel felt a twinge of the old rage as he explained, "The circles, meant to shelter us, became prisons. The templars were our jailors. Magic was a sin, a blemish upon the world." He shook his head, turning again toward the scene before them. "Every mage had the potential of corruption, but we were treated as though we were corrupted already and needed to be leashed."

There was an eerie sound in the air, and the armored men all flinched and looked wildly about. Snape turned, and nearly backed into 'Harel with a horrified shout as a number of grotesque creatures came into view. They slipped from between trees and bushes, and dropped from wheelbarrows and stacks of crates. Two of the templars closed together in front of their companions and prisoner, brandishing their swords.

It was a hopeless battle. They were sorely outnumbered. One templar was instantly slaughtered, and the second was fought over by the ravenous monsters. Her screams pierced the night as they tore into her.

"This is a nightmare," Snape uttered, dark eyes staring.

The bound youth on his knees struggled against his ropes. "Let me loose," he pleaded with his captors. "I can help."

"Silence, mage!" One of his surviving guards bellowed. "If we don't bring you back to the Tower, you'll be branded an apostate!"

"There's only the two of you, against-!"

The templar still standing over him brought the hilt of his sword down hard upon the back of the mage's head. The young man collapsed to the ground with a pained grunt.

By some miracle, he was ignored as the creatures converged upon the last two armored guards. The men fought bravely, but were overwhelmed, their final cries downing under the hungry snarls and unhinged madness of their devourers. For several minutes, the creatures seemed content to enjoy their feast. But then one of them turned its ugly gaze upon the bound youth in his corner.

The young man groaned and shook his head to clear it. The screech of a rusted axe scraping among stone tiles snatched his attention, and he looked up as one of the creatures began to draw near. The youth's amber eyes widened, before taking on a heated glow.

"You're going to want to step back," Era'harel advised, lightly gripping the dark professor by the arm and drawing him away. The memory couldn't touch them, but to stand too close now would be more than reckless.

Fire engulfed the lone creature, drawing upon the curiosity and mad vengeance of its fellows. They raged and bellowed as they came upon the young mage. A static charge lit up the ground beneath their feet, and lightning danced angrily from one to another. Some few paused in their confusion at the spontaneous attack, but far more were too stubborn to be slowed. A fireball was flung in their direction, followed by another, slowly breaking their numbers.

'Harel and Severus Snape watched as the mage broke his bounds at last, the ropes falling to the ground in burning embers. With his arms free, he pushed to his feet and drew in a steeling breath. Moonlight glinted across the golden loop dangling from his ear as he rubbed his fingertips quickly over his thumbs, the friction seeming to build an electric charge in his hands, and he flung shards of lightning at the creatures, keeping them at bay.

"I was lucky," Era'harel commented as the memory of his younger self continued to kill off the monsters. "The templars had forgotten to poison me with magebane, a tonic to stifle one's magic. Had they remembered, I would never have survived that night."

"Your powers were… impressive."

"Unheard of, you mean." When the professor gave him a mild glare, he shook his head. "This is why I plan to make changes in Hogwarts. Now that my memories are back, I am painfully aware of just how much has been lost over the ages. So much magic. So much history… Ah."

"What is it?"

He dropped his head back a moment, self-deprecatingly. "I knew someone once who tried so hard to make me understand this very thing. I was not kind to her."

Before he could say more, racing footsteps drew their attention back upon the memory playing before them. The last of the creatures fell to the mage's flames, even as a man in leathers and a woman in splint wood armor came around the corner. The newcomers stared at the mage who shook the last of the flames from his fingertips, looked around himself to find that he alone stood among his fallen guards, and announced, almost coyly, "… I didn't do it."

Snape's mouth almost tugged in a slight smirk as their surroundings shifted yet again. "Your abominable luck and tendency toward being the victim of wrongful accusations seems to have stemmed further back than I thought."

'Harel chuckled, acknowledging the irony as the next memory settled around them.

They were in another part of the same courtyard. A man in golden heavy armor with a small brigade of men behind him seemed to be greeting the man in leathers who had found Era'harel's memory self just moments ago. One of his warriors, a woman by her voice, stepped forward urgently. "Your Majesty, beware! This man is a dangerous criminal."

The man in gold looked over those he had been conversing with, an easy grin on his lips as he settled his gaze upon a stout dwarf with cropped red hair and a thick hanging mustache. "Oh, he can be a bit of an ass, but I wouldn't go that far."

"She means me," 'Harel's memory self spoke up with a hint of resignation.

"This is an apostate," the woman went on, "who we were in the process of bringing back to the Circle to face justice."

"I'll just escape again."

She stepped forth, her hand hovering over the hilt of her sword. "Never! I will see you hang for what you've done here, murderer!"

He blinked, incredulous. "'Murderer'? But those templars were-" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "What's the use? You wouldn't believe me."

The gold-armored man looked back and forth between the two, before returning his attention to the man in leathers. "Commander?"

The man in leathers shifted, bodily placing himself in front of the young mage as though to protect him. "I hereby conscript him into the Grey Wardens."

When the woman tried to protest, her king spoke up again. "I will allow it."

The memory shifted yet again. Now they were inside the castle itself, watching as the young mage received a large chalice into his hands and gave it a grave look before tipping its contents into his mouth. His eyes clouded over, and he fell faint upon the floor.

Severus Snape stared as the walls around them shifted and blurred, and the very air seemed to flash in red hues. "What is this?"

"My Joining," Era'harel answered calmly. "The potion in that chalice flooded my mind with dark visions, and I blacked out."

"Why?"

The resurrected mage gave a patient sigh, "I will find you a couple tomes to read on the subject, but these memories were in an age when something called the Blight devastated the world, worse than any plague. Grey Wardens were a select force that held the only hope of driving it back whenever it rose up again."

"And you were one of these… Wardens?"

"Oh, not for long," he chuckled. "I was quite a selfish man for a long time, and only wanted my freedom. I faked my own death and ran away."

The memory shifted.

This time, they were somewhere dark and unkempt. People in rags lay upon soiled pallets, some heavily bandaged, others moaning in pain or sickness. Harel's younger self, wearing sturdier clothes than the robes of before, was huddled over a small boy whose parents stood nearby with obvious worry. He was years older, again. Stress lined his angular face, the roguish earring was missing from his lobe, and his auburn hair had been let to grow out and was loosely tied back from his eyes in a halftail. His hands were aglow with blue magic, which he weaved in the air over the boy's prone form. He was frowning in dour concentration.

Snape took a guess. "You were healing him?"

"Yes."

The embodied memory of Era'harel gathered his hands together, pulling one after the other toward himself. At last, the boy drew a shuddering breath and opened his eyes, struggling to sit up. Dousing the magic in his hands, the young mage seemed to lose all strength for a moment as he turned away. The boy's father clapped a grateful hand to his shoulder, and the small family left through an open door.

The mage stood alone for a moment, passing his fingers over his brow as though to battle a coming headache. But then his eyes suddenly flickered an impossible blue, before he snatched a stave from the wall and turned on his heel. He threw his free hand forth, a gesture of warning against a man, woman, and well-kempt dwarf that had entered through the same door as the family had exited.

"I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation – why do you threaten it?"

The scene shifted again. 'Harel's memory self had joined the same three he had confronted before, within the walls of some pristine building adorned with glowing candles. They turned a corner, to be greeted by a lone man in robes. This man turned around, and the amber-eyed mage let out a choked breath. Upon the other man's brow was seared the blazing sun draped upon the walls around them.

"How else will mages ever master themselves," this other man insisted, voice dull and droning. "You will understand, as soon as the templars teach you to control yourself." As he spoke, armored men stepped out from behind pillars and draperies. The mage and his companions looked around warily, but they were soon surrounded. The branded man spoke again, this time to the templars. "This is the apostate."

The memory of Era'harel shouted in denial, voice echoing suddenly against itself. Blue light crackled along his form before exploding out of him. He readied his stave in his hand and his eyes when he looked up were two burning blue stars. The voice that spoke through his lips was far different, far more powerful. "You will never take another mage as you took him."

Severus Snape shook his head, turning a frowning look upon his host as the memory began to shift again. "No more evasions. What was that?"

'Harel grimaced. "That was a spirit. Different than the ghosts you are familiar with. I would call him a parasite, but I had let him in. I let him possess me, benignly. Or so we had both agreed. Turns out I had more rage than I'd realized, and he was susceptible. Demons were feared for their corruption. But this was a virtuous spirit, and I… may have corrupted him."

The dark professor seemed to take this in, before finally asking, "How much more will we see?"

"A few more," 'Harel breathed, relieved at the change of subject. Even if he wasn't all too thrilled, nor did he deem himself ready in the least, to see what came next.

They were in a derelict part of a city, in the middle of the night. The mage and his companions stood amongst a dozen bodies, each breathing quickly and still on edge after an apparent attack. Footsteps scraped upon the pavement, capturing their attention. A single man in splint armor looked over the carnage, his face contorting with rage. "I don't know who you are, friends, but you made a serious mistake coming here. Lieutenant," he shouted. "I want everyone in the clearing. Now!"

The small party readied themselves to fight again, but none answered for several long seconds. Then there came a sound, like wet choking, before another man stumbled around a corner. He was heavily bleeding, and barely managed a single word of warning as he collapsed dead to the ground.

"Your men are dead," announced a deep, rich voice. "And your trap has failed. I suggest running back to your master while you can."

A wiry built man in unusual leathers stepped casually over the fallen lieutenant as he approached, the heavy claymore strapped to his back dripping fresh blood in his wake. The armored man who tried to declare the attack angrily moved forward, catching the newcomer's shoulder in a tight grip. "You're going nowhere, slave!"

The exposed markings on the newcomer's skin seemed to catch fire with a piercing blue glow. He spun on his heel, cocking his fist high. The armored man had but a moment to fear his fate, before that glowing fist punched through the armor and into his chest. The newcomer's piercing green eyes glared from under the bangs of his wild white hair as he jerked his fist free of his victim and let him fall.

"I am not a slave."

Era'harel let free a heavy breath, but shook his head firmly when the dark professor looked to him in question. This, he would not share.

The memory this time was set upon a range of cliffs overlooking an angry sea. 'Harel's past self and the friends he seemed to have collected were walking away from what Snape now recognized to be another templar. This templar moved with eerie stealth despite his heavy armor, quickly gripping the mage's arm to stall him while the others walked ahead. "Wait, please."

The templar lifted his helmet from over his head, and the mage stared. "C-Cullen…?"

"I am relieved to see you alive," the templar answered quietly. "When the Fereldan tower fell…"

A look akin to guilt and grief passed over the mage's face.

"I worried. Until I learned you were never even there at the time, and later became a Warden."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't apologize," the templar gave a small, barely-there smile. "You know I forgave you almost immediately."

There was a soft scuffle, the sound of pebbles shifting upon the ground, and they turned to find the white-haired warrior had doubled back, claymore drawn as though having expected an attack. The templar, Cullen, gripped the mage's wrist in farewell. "Be careful. My brothers-in-arms in Kirkwall are just as devoted to their duties. Some… find ways to amuse themselves with it."

A dark look filled the mage's eyes.

"And the Knight-Commander mistrusts all mages. No exception."

"I'll be careful."

Next came a collage of memories. Brief explosive glimpses of the mage in battle alongside his companions. Serene moments of healing, of helping, of aiding others of his kind toward safety. Laughter-filled memories of card games and bantering around the same table of an old rustic tavern. Several heated arguments with the white-haired warrior shifting into battles in which they would stand back to back in defense of the other. Clandestine conversations, the warrior looking suspicious and pained, the mage looking broken and apologetic. Wandering excavations, the mage urging the help of the obvious leader of his companions. The mage again with the claymore-bearing warrior, in the sun-emblazoned building of before and pleading with an elderly woman.

A confrontation between a woman in templar armor and a stern-faced elf in mage robes. Their voices rose as one accused of corrupt magic, while the other declared those accusations false and blind. The man leading the mage's companions tried to mediate, but neither seemed capable of listening to the other. Era'harel's memory self seemed to have finally heard enough, the white-haired warrior close behind as he stepped forward.

"I will not stand by and watch as you treat all mages like criminals – while those who would lead us bow to their templar jailors."

With but a few more words, light exploded in the background. Severus Snape stared as a building in the very center of the city broke apart and was swallowed up by this deadly glow. The skies grew dark and angry, clouds gathering and swirling overhead. But then the dark professor's attention was stolen again, this time by the anguished screams of an archer in shining pious armor. This archer spat hateful words, nocking an arrow to his bow and taking aim. The arrow was set loose.

"No."

'Harel gripped Snape's shoulder tight and pulled.

~o~

The professor drew a shuddering breath as he straightened away from the pensieve. Era'harel held him steady while he regained his bearings. "Forgive me. I am not yet ready to watch my own death."

"What…" Snape cleared his throat. "What just happened?"

Sighing, he turned and reclaimed his chair, reaching for his abandoned sherry. The professor's dark eyes watched him carefully. After he took a drink from his glass, 'Harel gave a flick of his wrist, and two thick books appeared upon the table beside the chair Snape had claimed earlier. His voice took on an unnervingly neutral tone as he spoke. "Any remaining answers you seek will be found in those tomes. I am sorry. The night has been long, for both of us."

Snape looked toward the books, but then returned his gaze to their host. "Did you expend more energy than you'd led us to believe when you…?" He motioned toward his arm.

Era'harel gave a low chuckle. "You know now that I was a spirit healer. Allow me this brief show of arrogance as I say that Voldemort does not know Magic as I do."