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Guest: Thank you, glad you think so.
Greer123: Thanks. I'm glad you like the detail.
Lawbringer: I'm happy you enjoyed it, I hope this one will be just as good.
Gracie15Trowa: I'm glad you excited and I have actually gotten a few PM's about what will happen later. I don't want to give away spoilers but while I am going off of a large part of the Berserk canon right now, I can promise it won't stay like that for too long. Certain events I do plan to alter a little bit so they aren't exactly like canon.
Disclaimer- Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and Berserk is owned by Kentaro Miura. I own nothing.
It was perhaps a show of wealth, combined with a streak of vanity that compelled Count Julius to possess his own manor instead of residing with the resident family in Midland's capital castle. The manner was located just a few miles from the castle itself, a close enough distance for Julius to travel to and from the court of his brother; and easy for Guts to find, even in the dead of night.
All night long he had observed Count Julius' movements throughout the manner from the shadows, learning his routine and the layout of the dwelling. Julius had spent the better half of the early night giving orders to servants and discussing a few matters with an old scholar. That was until a certain visitor came to pay Julius a visit. She was a tall woman in a dark yet elaborate dress with her dark hair veiled by a headdress that framed her narrow face and regal features. Guts needn't have met her to know that she was Midland's Queen.
And it was perhaps due to her visit that Guts learned where Julius himself resided within the large manor. From his current position on the roof lining the courtyard, Guts was able to identify the flicker of candle light from the window of the manors spire, along with the soft billow of smoke that escaped from the chimney; adding further fire to the passion that was surely going on between the two of them from within. For a brief flicker of a moment Guts pondered what the king would say if he were to discover what was going on between his wife and his brother.
Ultimately, Guts didn't really care. It was just a fleeting thought. And besides, one of them was going to be dead soon anyways.
After the two of them were finished with their explicit nightly activities, Guts observed Julius escorting her majesty back to her awaiting carriage and then calling his young son Adonis out into the courtyard. "Fetch us some swords!" Julius ordered the Master of Arms.
"The tourney swords, My Lord?"
"My son won't become a great warrior by training with wood all his life," Julius said, ignoring the nervous look from his young son. "Bring us live steel."
"At once, My Lord." The Arms Master returned with two broadswords for the father and son pair. Julius held his sword with a steady grip while Adonis had to use both hands to wield his, and even then he could barely lift it.
"It's heavy, father," Adonis pleaded for a lighter one.
Julius denied his complaint. "Do you expect to become strong by using a sword fit for a baby?" His tone was condescending, and he knew it. "You won't be a boy forever. It's time for you to man up!"
As harsh as Julius' words were to his Adonis, Guts knew them to be true. Who knew when the war with Chuder was going to end? One day Adonis would have to take his father's place and lead a portion of Midland's army; and he wasn't going to do that as a weak little kid.
Their blades clashed and Adonis fell flat on his bottom. "Pick yourself up!" Julius commanded. "Come on, Adonis!"
Pushing himself to his feet, Adonis dragged his sword across the cobblestone courtyard to where his father stood. "Hiyahhh!" Adonis managed to swing the sword, albeit using both hands but Julius was easily able to knock the attack aside. Julius brought up his knee up to Adonis' stomach sending him reeling back.
If anyone were to see Guts' face from beneath the hood of his cloak, they would have seen a flicker of nostalgia pass like a shadow over his brown eyes. Everything about this situation felt oddly surreal to Guts; like he was reliving a scene of his own past in the present. From the much larger opponent, to the sword too large for him to properly lift as a child of six, to even when Julius was a bit too forceful with his strike and ended up cutting his son on the arm. And for a sliver of a minute, Guts could almost feel a tinge run along his nose where the scar running horizontal rested.
"My Lord," the elderly scholar interjected the one-sided sparring match. "Young Adonis should see to his wound. It would do no good to anyone if he were to die from an infection."
"Hmph," Julius sheathed his sword. "Very well, see it done. I'm retiring to my chambers for the night. See that no one disturbs me for the rest of the night." Julius gave his son but a brief glance and a pat on the head before heading inside his manor.
"Come, Adonis," the old scholar beckoned. "Let us see to that wound of yours."
Silently Guts raced along the rooftop to the outside of the spire where the Julius would be arriving in his chambers. Gripping onto the brickwork, Guts was careful to work his fingers into the notches as he began his climb upwards to the man he was sent to kill.
Another year, another Halloween to be celebrated at Hogwarts School. While the doors to the great hall remained closed the sounds of feasting and merriment still carried out around the enchanted castle. Inside the hall students talked and laughed over the latest bit of gossip from grades, to Hogsmead Village, or secret infatuations. And up at the staff table the teachers socialized as well. And of course, they all feasted.
The food was of a variety, a meal for the eyes as well as the stomach. Pork, corn, beans, soup, bread and butter, turkey, chicken, and pumpkin pie were just among a few dishes out of many. But there remained one person within Hogwarts who would not be enjoying the festivities of the night. Instead, they stood outside of the great hall, waiting to make an entrance.
The plan was a bit rushed in Quirrell's opinion, but it was well thought out enough in most parts. He and his master both knew Dumbledore to be hiding the Sorcerers' Stone on the third floor, and that every other staff member was currently in the great hall enjoying the feast. But knowing Dumbledore, the aged wizard had most likely installed some kind of ward that would alert him if anyone were to enter the corridor. So what better way to distract the staff than with a misdirect?
Quirrell was far from the most powerful professor under Hogwarts employ, but he did have a certain gift with magical creatures, Mountain Trolls to be more precise. Getting it in the school had been an easier task than expected as he was able to use the guise that it was a security measure to guard the object he was secretly plotting to steal. He had subdued the creature enough that he was able to put it in the dungeons before lifting the sleeping spell he had put on it. That had bought Quirrell just enough time to rush back to the entrance hall where he waited now.
"Give a convincing performance," the muffled voice of his master spoke from under his purple turban.
"Of course," Quirrell confirmed. He had managed to fool the entire school that he was a stuttering incompetent who lost his courage after a vampire encounter; he could easily pull this next act off without a hitch. To get into the role, Quirrell began to hyperventilate to give the impression he had been running for his very life. Carefully, he unrolled his turban by one roll so not to give too much suspicion about his relatively clean appearance, as well as to still keep his master concealed. With that, Quirrell ran forth, throwing the doors wide as he barreled straight into the hall.
All chatter stopped as the students eyed their normally quite Defense Professor running at full speed and shouting at the top of his lungs. "Trollll! In the dungeon!" Quirrell wailed. "Troll in the dungeon!"
Dumbledore had risen from his seat, but aside from that no one moved or said anything. "Thought you ought to know," Quirrell quietly said before faking a faint and falling face down on the stone floor. His eyes might have been closed, but his ears were much attuned to the collective scream that followed after. The students were in a clear panic, the sounds of their feet scrambling over one another to get to the exit assaulted his ears.
And then, "Silence!" Dumbledore bellowed, his magically amplified voice carrying out to quell any other noise in the hall. It worked. "Prefects," Dumbledore's voice was much quieter now, but still carried authority, "escort students back to their dormitories. Teachers will come with me to the dungeon."
Quirrell remained motionless as he listened to sounds of feet shuffling by, they were loud at first as the halls inhabitants grouped together with their houses and followed the orders the prefects were giving them, and then it was like listening to the end of a rainstorm with only a few drops falling before leaving silence in its wake.
Sure that the hall had emptied, Quirrell got to his feet and rushed out of the hall himself. But Quirrell rushed not down to the dungeons, but up to the forbidden third floor corridor. The door to enter was locked, but a simple alohomora charm made short work of the lock. Shutting the door behind him, Quirrell made quick stride down the corridor, the torches magically lighting as he past them.
At the end of the corridor there would be another locked door, but Quirrell knew that another alohomora would unlock it just the same as the first. It was too easy so far really. The magically locked doors could be unlocked by a charm learned by a first year student. Of course, there were the other protections around the stone but anyone in the school could make it this far and then come across the-,
"WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!"
"Agh!"
The door at the end of the corridor slammed shut, as Professor Snape forced it closed with all his might; using his wand to secure the lock in place once more. The other Hogwarts Professor breathed heavily as he held a bleeding gash on his leg and lifted his beady dark eyes to look at Quirrell. "My, my," Snape flatly said. "What a coincidence to meet you here, Quirrell."
No. No! This could not be happening! How could Snape have possibly known?! He could even feel his master seethe from this unexpected interruption.
"P-professor S-s-snape!" Quirrell defected back to his bumbling persona. "W-what a s-surprise! I t-thought y-you had come this w-way. I d-didn't think I saw y-you g-go to the dungeons. E-every other p-professor is down t-there."
Snape let go of the door and limped over to where Quirrell stood. "Save for the two of us. I wonder why that is." Another step forward and Quirrell found himself backed against a wall. "Surely you would have gone to assist our fellow colleagues, you seem to have made a full recovery in such a short time."
"I a-am not much of a f-fighter y-you see," Quirrell began to weave a tale together. "I w-wouldn't have been m-much of a h-help. N-not directly a-anyways. I t-thought t-that's what y-you were o-off to do, to m-make s-sure no one w-wandered away to this c-corridor."
"Hm," Snape's black eyes never left his. "How considerate of you."
"I-indeed," Quirrell stuttered further. "I w-would only be an h-hindrance a-any other way."
Snape's lip curled into bit of a sneer. "I will never understand how you got your position, Quirrell." Snape stepped away from him. "Come, Quirrell! There is no danger here. Let us go aid our fellow staff against this troll."
"O-of c-course!" Quirrell managed a fake, but convincing smile. It couldn't be farther from what he was feeling on the inside.
The fireplace and a few candles provided light to the lord's chambers atop the spire, a spacious living quarter, Guts had to admit, but with the lingering stench of Julius' and the queen's sex it felt much less homely than it could've.
Guts waited in a corner of the room where the light did not illuminate, and with the hood of his cloak pulled up it seemed to cast him further into the shadows. He fire hissed as a log cracked and the sound of approaching footsteps ascended from the spiral staircase leading upwards. A lock was undone and Julius stepped into his quarters not bothering to close the door fully behind him.
The king's brother went to the desk in the middle of the room and took a seat, unbuckling his sword belt and resting it against his desk. By all accounts, Julius believed himself to be alone in his room. Guts took a slow step out of the shadows, the firelight briefly reflecting off of his sword.
Julius noticed the gleam from his peripheral vision and turned, startled to see that there was an intruder. Quickly, he reached for his sword, but Guts was faster as he shot towards him. Julius barely had time to block Guts' attack and staggered from the force of the swing. Guts swung upwards and sent Julius' sword flying out of his hands. Raising his sword high, Guts brought it swinging down. In a vain attempt to block the swing, Julius raised his hand, but the swing cut right through his appendage and sank into his shoulder.
The once expensive robes Julius wore quickly became tainted red with blood as he dropped to his knees, bleeding out within his own chambers. And in his last dying bit of strength, Julius managed to use his non-mangled hand to pull Guts' cloak down looked up at his now assassin and was able to catch a brief glimpse of Guts' face. Guts saw the recognition pass over Julius' face as he recalled seeing him with Griffith that one day during their recovery. The thought that Griffith had bested him would be the last thought Julius had. A pitiful half gurgle escaped Julius' lips and his body went limp in a pool of his own blood.
Moving away from the body, Guts started back for the window he had entered from. He would have to go tell Griffith that Julius was no longer an issue. In just a few minutes he would be-, Creeeeek.
The door to the chamber creaked open enough to elicit a noise and Guts knew that it had not been the wind. Guts turned his head and sure enough he was able to identify a shape looking through the crack in the door. He couldn't see who it was but he knew that they could see the body. They could see his face. Not wasting a second, Guts ran forth, threw open the door, and drove his sword forward. Schuck! His sword pierced the body, pinning it against the wall.
"Uughh," Adonis moaned as his mouth filled with blood. Guts sword penetrating his abdomen, most likely puncturing both of the boys lungs. Guts' eyes widened as he took in the sight.
It was no guard, nor an advisor, just Julius' son, a boy younger than Rickert, younger than Harry even. Just a boy.
Adonis' eyes began to close and he reached out weakly to the room where his father lay dead. It must have just been the shock of the situation, but Guts reached out and grasped the boy's hand in his much larger one. Adonis' hand already growing cold. The boy gave one last gurgled cry before his eyes closed for good; his hand falling limp in Guts' grasp.
A boy.
Guts pulled his sword out, and Adonis slid down the wall; a trail of blood following his movement.
A boy. Not a soldier.
"Master Adonis?" The voice of the aged scholar called from somewhere on the staircase. He sounded close. "Master Adonis, you shouldn't disturb your father at such an hour. He tends to-," the scholar and his two guards rounded the corner and saw the sight of Adonis laying dead, and Guts standing over him.
"I-intruder!" The scholar yelled. "Intruder in the-!" Guts rushed forth and quickly cut him down. The two guards both swung at him, but he blocked both of their swings and with a single swing of his own blade cut them both down.
Guts put his fallen hood up as he raced down the spiral staircase. He just had to get out of here. Get out of here and report back to Griffith. Julius was dead, his mission complete. And so was the boy.
"Intruder!" More guards saw him racing through the manor and charged forth to prevent his escape.
Careful to keep his hood up, Guts swung, blocked, and hacked his way through a fresh wave of guards that came to challenge him. Guts made short work of all of them as he cut through their armor and barreled out of the manor.
"Don't let him escape!" More cries sounded from the manor, and soon the place was in an uproar. "Archers, to your posts!"
Get to the river! Guts mentally pushed himself. If he could get there and get across he could leave this place behind and make it back to Windham. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Arrows rained down around him, but he didn't break stride as he kept rushing for the river that was within his sights by now.
Thunk!
"Gah!" Guts grit his teeth as an arrow found its mark on his upper arm, and remained lodged in place. But an arrow wound was the least of his worries as he heard the sound of riders approaching fast on horseback. "Shit!" Guts cursed as he neared the river, he could see where he had tied his horse, he just had to get there and crossing the river would be an easy task.
Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! "Neeigghgh!" One of the riders must have seen his horse and shot it before Guts could take the saddle.
Damn it! Guts mentally berated.
"Stop him!"
With little options left, Guts took his chances and jumped into the river himself. His armor and cloak quickly became soaked, and the current of the river began to carry him down stream. "Aah!" Guts' head broke the surface of the water, but had little time to savor his breath as the current of the river forced him under.
His back slammed into a rock as the current continued to pull him along with its meandering flow and bend. The impact of colliding with the rock briefly had Guts seeing stars. Feeling water seep into his lungs and frustration overtake his senses, Guts kicked off from the bottom of the river with enough force to breach the surface once more.
"Bah-ah-ah-ah!" Guts coughed up water as he kicked his way over to the other side of the river bank. Pulling himself ashore, Guts plopped down of his back as he took in sight of the arrow protruding from his bicep.
His right hand, Guts grasped the arrow, and with a fierce yank pulled it out of his arm. "Tch!" Guts tossed the arrow aside and ran a hand through his watered down black hair. Why's it feel so warm? Guts wondered as looked at his hand. Blood? Oh, he must have hit it on that one rock.
Maybe. It wouldn't hurt if he just… rested for a bit. His eyes grew heavy.
…
And he was a child again. A boy of the mere age of six, holding a sword that was much too large for him to be wielding. He swung it around without the skill that he had now, and his opponent knew it as well.
It was a face Guts recognized; the one of the mercenary leader who had raised him as a boy: Gambino. The spar that passed between them, was largely one sided, as Gambino knocked every one of his strikes aside, all the while wearing a knowing smirk on his face. But that smirk faded fast as Child Guts was able to knick Gambino on his hand.
Gambino scowled, and the friendly spar between them turned deadly when Gambino cut Guts across the bridge of his nose, ensuring a scar would stay in its place.
"It was all your fault," Gambino said, accusingly and Guts noticed that his mentor was missing a leg. Gambino raised his sword to kill him, and as he stepped into his strike, Guts raised his sword, and Gambino walked into the blade; killing himself.
But it wasn't his kneck that had been impaled on the blade, now it was his chest. And Gambino was not a grown man, he was a child. Adonis. And Guts was still the one holding the sword in his hand.
"HUHUHUHUH!" A deep rumbling laughter echoed around him and it took shape in the form of Zodd. The demonic figure loomed over Guts and snarled. But it was not the beastlike face that he had seen before. The face snarling down at him was his own.
The flicker of the candlelight in the nearly empty dining hall cast its light over the weathered pages of the old text. It probably wasn't wise to have it so close to the book itself, but it was necessary on account of the near faded ink, a clear indicator that it was perhaps hundreds of years old. Both Harry and Casca found themselves having to squint to read certain passages.
It was from the royal family's private library, a gift to Griffith from the king as thanks for saving Princess Charlotte during the hunt. And to further show his thanks, the king had invited Griffith to a feast alongside some other very high ranking nobles, hence why the white-haired man was not looking at the text as well. But that did not diminish the fact that it had been a great insight so far. Or the parts that they could read at least.
The book was written by a name Harry recalled from many a children's fairy tales: Merlin. Apparently he had wrote it as a field journal of sorts to record his travels throughout Midland, only leaving it behind to the royal family as it contained the recipe for the potion that had saved the then king's wife should they ever have to brew it themselves as it required no magic on their end.
Casca's dark eyes scanned the page they were on. "This is… something else alright." Harry was glad to see that she didn't show the signs of freaking out like when he had first spoke to that snake.
"So do you think its true then?" Harry asked. "Magic, I mean."
"Well, this Merlin was either a complete lunatic or the real deal," she answered, scanning the page over once more. "I mean he says on the first page that he attended a school that teaches magic called Hogwarts. I had to reread that to make sure I wasn't seeing it wrong. That and something about a tree of some kind."
"It does sound made up," Harry couldn't help but agree. "But did you see anything about talking to snakes?"
"Actually, yes." Casca turned to a previous page and slid it over so he could see it better. "Merlin wrote something about further studying parsalspeech, the language of snakes. He had been studying it for sixteen years before learning the speech himself."
"But I never studied to talk to snakes."
"Well he wrote that its largely a family trait and can only be learned by those with the mental capacity for it," Casca read off. "You used to live with your aunt and uncle right? Did they-?"
"No," Harry bluntly answered. "Vernon and Petunia would have freaked out if they could." Huh. He hadn't added uncle or aunt before their names.
"Maybe our parents then," Casca inferred. "If it can be passed by blood then maybe."
"I guess," Harry said. "But if they had magic then they could have saved themselves from dying, right?"
"I… don't have an answer for you there," Casca said, her tone gentle. "Just from what I've read so far magic, if it really is real, has a lot of uses but stopping death… that's not one of them." Seeing his disappointment, Casca changed the topic. "But I do think I might have found how magic is performed."
"With a wand?" Harry guessed.
"More of a staff," Casca said. "Merlin wrote that he was able to pass his staff off as a simple walking stick when passing through a village that openly burned supposed witches."
"So if I had a staff, you'd think I'd be able to do magic?" Harry guessed. He even noticed that he sounded a little excited when asking. Sure he had been nervous after Casca initial reaction to the snake, but knowing that she was willing to help him now was a comforting thought.
"Heh," She chuckled. "Maybe you could go try and find his then. He wrote that he stumbled across witches living in one of Midland's forests and made them a powerful staff as a token of good will."
"Really?" Harry asked as he tried to decipher some of the smudged letters. Either it was that old, or Merlin had the worst handwriting ever. "Does it say which one he-?" the sound of the hall's door opening prompted Harry to suddenly close the book and stuff it away in his satchel.
"Oh," Casca said her tone flat when turning to address the newcomer. "It's just you."
"Griffith," Guts said as he eyed the near empty hall. "Where is he?"
"He's at a dinner event," Harry told him, standing up and shouldering the satchel. "He was invited for-,"
"Thanks," Guts said abruptly, before walking back out the way he had came.
"What was that about?" Harry wondered, watching a very drenched Guts walk out.
"Who knows," Casca replied. "But we best stop him before he interrupts the event and embarrasses Griffith."
Whatever it was Guts wanted to see Griffith about he clearly wanted to do it soon. His stride had them racing to keep pace with him as they caught up to him on a set of stairs leading up to a fountain just outside a section of the castle. Two figures were sitting on the fountains edge talking, not noticing the three looking up on them from their position.
"There you are," Casca said in a berating tone once they had caught up with him after he had stopped midway up the steps. "What's so important that- what's this?" Both of them looked to see that apart from being soaking wet, Guts had acquired a fresh wound on his upper arm that looked like it belonged to an arrow. Guts didn't reply as he stared up at the two by the fountain. He didn't even react until Casca had tore the sleeve of her shirt and began to tie it around his wound.
"Hey, what are you-?"
"Shut up, and let me patch this," Casca told him, tying it around to absorb some of the blood. Seeing her example, Harry tore a sleeve from his shirt as well and handed it to Guts.
"For your head," Harry pointed to where he saw a patch of blood. Guts accepted it and tied it around his head like a bandana, turning his attention back to the two figures soon after. No surprise considering one of them was Griffith. He and Charlotte must have come outside to enjoy the cool night air.
"Sir Griffith," Charlotte shyly spoke, "do you believe in destiny?" The three of them heard the princess ask Griffith.
"Like everything that happens, happens because it was meant to?" Griffith asked. "I don't believe in that," they heard him tell her. "I don't believe that we're supposed to live our lives as intended by forces out of our own control, but by what we make for ourselves. If the former were true I would just be a beggar boy in some alley. And here I am now."
"I never thought of it that way," they could all almost visualize Charlotte's blush. "If you don't mind my asking, why do you see it that way?"
"Because of my dream," Griffith easily responded. "I always dreamed more for myself than a boy of my status had any right to. The aspiration that burned inside me like a raging bonfire that could not be extinguished."
"You speak true?" Charlotte asked. "Most would have said that they do not possess such a dream. But what is it you desire? A lover? A knight's honor?"
"Both are important, aren't they?" Griffith answered with a question. "Fighting and dying for a cause are important, but it is their own dreams that are more important I see it."
"More important?" Charlotte parroted.
"The dream supports them, breathes fire into their soul that continues to burn even after they have fallen," Griffith explained. "And it is that quality that I measure on the most, because it is how I am to call a man my friend. Someone who has their own dream in sight and will fight to obtain it, even me if it so stands. The dream will keep him afloat so that we are on an equal field. A dream that is different that we are equals in aspiring towards it."
Harry listened to the speech Griffith gave to Charlotte, unknowingly being overheard by three of his own. That's what Griffith considers a friend? Harry internally mused. A person who lived live according to their own dream and could stand by it until the very end, that was an equal? For the time Harry had known him, he never would have thought Griffith would have that opinion on friendship. From day one he had come across as an understanding guy keen on doing what he could to help another out. He was nice, compassionate, smart, almost the picture perfect image of how a person should be in both looks and traits.
But the words he had just spoken now seemed cold and distant, as if to shatter that image Harry had of Griffith in his head with a single flaw doting a near perfect record. The words Griffith had said replayed over and over in his mind, the idea of a dream presenting itself to Harry and seeing nothing in its place. What was his dream? What passion kept him burning? What made him an equal to Griffith? Was he even Griffith's friend?
It wasn't a question he wanted to think about. He wanted to tell himself that he was, Griffith had been nothing but friendly to him, so why wouldn't he be his friend? It felt wrong to even think about, and yet Griffith had just said that was the quality he measures a friend by. What was he to Griffith? What was everyone else?
He wanted to ask Guts what he thought of it, he was closer to Griffith than he was anyways. For all Harry knew Griffith could have just been saying that to impress Charlotte. But Guts was already walking back down the steps the way he had come. Casca put a hand on his shoulder to lead him away as they followed after.
"Guts?" Harry asked as they caught up him. "Are you-?"
"What did you find in that one book?" Guts cut him off.
"A few things," Casca answered. "Mind telling us why you're all wet and wanted to see Griffith as soon as-?"
"What are you doing tomorrow, Harry?" Guts cut her off as well.
"I- don't really know yet. Maybe look through that book some more. I mean it-,"
"Has anyone showed you how to block a full thrust attack?" Guts asked.
"Well, a few times, but I don't-,"
"Why don't I show you tomorrow?" Suggested Guts. It caught both Harry and Casca off guard. For the time he had known Guts he trained in solitude.
"Why are you offering?" Casca questioned, clearly not understanding Guts' motives.
"Just 'cus," he replied. "What do you say?"
"Well- I guess," Harry agreed. "But why are-?"
"See you then," Guts ended the conversation as abruptly as he had cut them both off. Harry had no idea why Guts made the offer that he did, but the one thing he did know for sure: Griffith's words had resonated within Guts as well.
The green flames of the Floo powder lightly tickled at Dumbledore's crooked nose as he stuck his head into the enchanted flames to talk to his contact on the other side. "Alastor?" He asked as he was able to see the interior of Moody's home office. The multiple Dark Detectors on the desk were a clear sign that they belonged to Moody. The troll fiasco had delayed him in contacting the Ex-Auror, but the creature had been dealt with by McGonagall, Snape, and himself while Quirrell promised to deal with the body after wards. And the matter of sending a poor first-year student to Madam Pomfrey had to be dealt with as well. How the troll had wandered into a girls bathroom was something that remained to be seen.
"I'm here Dumbledore," Moody knelt down into his line of sight.
"Good, good, how has your monitoring been going?" Dumbledore asked getting right down to the point.
"Different, unlike last year," Moody replied. "We monitored Stonehenge again this year, Albus. Something was different."
"Pray tell," Dumbledore urged sounding frantic.
"We were able to detect a slight ripple in magical influx," Mood reported. "Something crossed over here Albus."
"Could it be?" Dumbledore didn't want to get his hopes up, but the prospect was too promising.
"I don't think it was a person, Albus," Moody reported. "And whatever it was it isn't in England."
…
Elsewhere in an Albanian forest, a small green object landed on the hard ground. Gravity pulled it down a rocky slope where it finally came to a stop nestled between the gnarled roots of a tree. It was a small object for sure, and the color green was a rather emerald shade, and its egg shape was adorned by a variety of scattered facial features.
A/N: So that's it for this chapter. Quite a lot was foreshadowed in this chapter and some crossover in the HP side of things has finally happened as well. Thank you for reading.