A/N: PLEASE READ!!! This whole chapter is a sort of barefaced, clear-cut crossover between Harry Potter and the David Eddings books. Some of the nuances of his world may not be exactly represented, because I only got to finish up until the end of the Mallorean before Order of the Phoenix came out. And as for the people who don't read Eddings I realize its really unfair to stick something in here that you're totally unfamiliar with, so I'll try to make it sort of...all-encompassing, so that it may not be so vague/confusing. Please don't NOT read this author's note then flame me, as its the sort of thing that has me lost in depression back to that too common, sulking teenager on crack (and can't quit) state.
The gist of it is that Harry can sort of do wandless magic now (or can be able to when its all over--with certain setbacks), and he is also sort of Animagi...I guess...with the same setbacks. I always felt that skill was mismatched in the HP vs. LV area, and ALL of the confrontations in the books were pure luck-based (even though she tried to undo that perception in the fifth book a little), so this should take care of that particular problem I have with her manner and philosophy.
As is routine, I shall now thank my regular reviewers, as well as Facade especially, for their kindnesses bestowed upon me. To answer Mella deRanged's question (which made me smile): Er...no, she's find a more artful way to it, I guess.^_^. The others who continue to read--May good tidings rain upon you. Thanks. :D. On with the fic.
Harry's dry, itching eyes were too heavy to keep open any longer. His eyelids drooped as the hot winds of the desert directly blasted upon his face, and however much irrational, he regretted taking off his fragile glasses, which at least gave the illusion of protecting his eyes from the sands that crusted upon its lenses to completely dull his vision. Now wasn't any different in that he still couldn't see, and his eyes really were unprotected either way. Harry wished devoutly, for about the millionth time that hour, that he had his wand, so he could perform the spell which Hermione taught him that Quidditch game back a few years ago.
His frustration mounted by every step his took. He wished he could stop somewhere, and lie down to rest his body a bit, as well as his raging mind, but with the sand all looking so alike, any one spot he chose in which to rest seemed just as bleak, if not bleaker than another. If he were a muggle, he'd figured out just recently, he would have died long ago, from thirst, but he was not, regrettably enough, and he could feel the magic tingling within him through all his earthly hankerings, overpowering them as his sustenance. He thought sadly, he was to be stuck on this stupid desert forever. Walking on and on to the edge of the earth, falling off into the heavens, and still possibly walking, because of habit. Time was simply too constant, too enduring...simply unendurable in its omnipresence.
It had then been a completion of a full day since he had been landed in the place.
Harry began to curse madly, waving his hands and pitching his voice to match the screaming winds. He was aware though, of the light that was emanating from him, shooting off in varicoloured beams, as each distinct gesture he made changed his surroundings or turned them back again and the earth and sky rumbled dangerously around him.
He was perfectly aware that he was doing wandless magic, but he was stuck here, wasn't he? Who gave a Pettigrew's tail anyway how dangerous it supposedly was? He swore a little more as he heard the ground start to crackle apart behind him, intractably missing a short figure headed right for him in long, deliberate strides.
"All right!" The old man cried menacingly, loud beyond his look, "Stop destroying my island!" Harry was startled still, and actually had the decency to look a bit scared. He had been expecting Voldemort, or dementors, or something...well... a bit more threatening. His expression softened slightly as he regarded the figure of Belgarath The Sorcerer in front of him, but not quite registering it, as he didn't recognize him yet--having paid no attention to that second-year History of Magic lesson for he'd then been so busy planning a Polyjuice Potion.
Then the man lifted up his hand and muttered an unintelligible word. The entire desert, apart from mending itself of the crack and the thunderstorm that Harry inflicted it with, turned into a beautiful forest all about, and immediately in front of him was a beach. The beach whose scent he had unerringly smelled. It was only one time he had seen the ocean, when he'd gone along with the Dursleys to one of their trips as Mrs. Figg couldn't baby-sit, and it had not been very impressed then. It was somewhere in the Caribbean that time, and it was so crowded and littered, smelling more of sun cream and toxic waste than of the salt and the life in the sea that he was smelling now. But sadly enough, he had recognized the coasty taste of the air, its being one of the more memorable (and somewhat more happier) recollections of his childhood.
"What are you looking at," the old man inquired, somewhat more sedate, obviously noting the subconscious nostalgia Harry had lapsed into.
"Erm..." Harry began, tearing his eyes away from that endless immensity of the crashing waves, "Sorry for asking, but why've you kidnapped me to this place?"
"I like you, boy," the man said, with a strong, unrecognizable accent spicing up his speech in a manner that Harry found very comforting. He almost regretted his word choice of 'kidnap', but smiled at the man's compliment.
"You can call me Wolf, if you'd like. All the past ones of your kind've done the same. But properly, my title is Belgarath, but no one cares about that anymore." His till then wise demeanor was now more melancholy. "Not that I can blame anybody, I haven't been off this island for nearly ten thousand years. I guess that would put my age at about twenty thousand, but I've said before, no one ever cares anymore. And maybe young ones are more blunt in this age."
"Wait, wait," Harry said, feeling Hermione would currently be scolding him for his dimwittedness, "You're the founder of Magic? Belgarath the Eternal Man?" Both of the old man's completely white eyebrows shot up in astonishment.
"They still call me that, eh?" he asked Harry excitedly.
"Still--as opposed to when?" Harry said, a bit confused. How exactly was he supposed to regard a man who was old past divinity, revered past life, but was standing by him plain as grass, and acting the exact same way?
"Don't get cocky with me, boy," said Belgarath in an irritated tone that only succeeded in befuddling him further.
"Erm..." he said, "Are you really the Founder of Magic?"
Belgarath frowned. "No. No, I'm not in the least." He regarded Harry for a bit. "You look really off, how 'bout some food and water up at my Tower?" Harry's heart swelled. Food! And oh...water...
"Where?" he asked eagerly. Belgarath began leading him off silently, and Harry followed, putting all the burning questions to the back of his mind.
"Poledra's around somewhere on the stupid planet, but I can't locate her, so we're going to have to make do with leftovers from Dinner. Is that alright?" Belgarath apologized, bustling around the room he had led Harry to, as Harry could, embarrassingly enough, only stand and gape in awe. But the old man seemed to be used to all the fame, and actually looked sort of pleased--as if he hadn't gotten the kind of attention in years. Millenia, Harry amended, as he sat down at the table in front of a huge turkey, its fat nearly melting off its bones, waiting to be eaten.
And so they did. Harry's nearly ravenous eating seemed to please Belgarath more than a little, and much to Harry's nervousness, the man watched him quite intently throughout the whole affair.
"So," ventured Harry, gulping down his mouthful of the superbly prepared fowl, "Why am I here, then, sir?"
"Eh? What? Oh yes, you're here because you're the Child of Light."
"What...does that mean?" Belgarath looked faintly rankled.
"You mean you're nearly seventeen and no one's told you about the Prophecy?"
"Well, they have," replied Harry, chewing his next bite slowly, "But erm, what do you have to do with it?"
"You see, I guide all the Children of the Light Spirit of the Universe," he replied simply. Harry shook his head, indicated a complete mystification. Belgarath thought, there was a lot of work to be done here.
"I believe one of the persons are still alive that wrote one of the Chronicles that detailed our exploits? We've always called it the Dedigne Codex...?" Harry desperately wished that Hermione were with him, as she'd know what the man was talking about, being a walking encyclopaedia herself.
"Er...sorry," he said. Belgarath sighed.
"Well, Sorcery has existed a long time before your civilization was even established, you know," he told Harry. "How about you get comfortable? This may take a year or two." Harry's eyes widened.
"But I can't, the Order is out there, my friends, and Voldemort has to be defeated! I have to get back to school in two weeks!"
"They have a school for sorcery? I thought we banished organized magic," Belgarath said, frowning, seemingly missing the point.
"Yes, its called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Harry suggested, slightly proud of his school for not the first time, "But Sir, I can't stay here for too long, even though you're all powerful and all, because my friends'll be worried." A thought suddenly occurred to him. "If you're so powerful, then why didn't you defeat Voldemort and fulfill the prophecy? Why pick me?"
"Erm.." Belgarath said, smiling, "As flattered as I am, I assure you, you've been destined for this task since the creation of the World. But somehow, all of the Children have at one point looked to me for guidance, and that sort of confirms your fate I think."
"Ok, I'm lost," Harry said, quite bluntly. Now that he was properly fed and watered, the old man's arcane explications made him only more impatient to get off the island and back to England.
"First off, the magic that you're used to is only a grain of what magic truly is. Tell me: do you and the rest of the sorcerers of your world use something to channel your power?"
"A wand," Harry said, and Belgarath, surprisingly, laughed.
"Sorry," he amended, "And are you forbidden to translocate, and change forms? Into animals, I mean?"
"I'm assuming you mean Apparation? And Animagus?"
"If that's what you call it, then Yes."
"Well, for Apparation you have to be older than seventeen, and get a license. And to be Animagus is very dangerous, you have to follow these detailed instructions, and a whole lot can go wrong. And you also have to be registered, but a few of my friends have done it," Harry answered knowingly, thinking about Sirius, Wormtail, and his father.
"That's only a few differences between true magic and those forms of entertainment that you call sorcery."
Harry couldn't help but crinkle his nose and assume an unconsciously offended expression.
"Don't get me wrong, but with magic, you can do absolutely anything you want, raise the dead, slow down time, change the weather, I assume all those things that you're now forbidden to do?"
He nodded. "Its because Aldur-my master-and UL-the father of the world-before they left the World put restrictions on these things. About five thousand years after the final Confrontation between my Grandson (the Child of Light at the time) and the last Child of the Dark--who was nearly my great-grandson--something happened that sort of altered the course of time. And not for the first time, but I and my family had been keeping up the balance between the Two Destinities, and filling in the gaps, and then for seemingly no reason at all, The Prophecies seperated again."
"Pardon me, for interrupting, but I don't understand. I thought you made Magic only seven thousand years ago?"
"I just sort of encouraged it in that Woman--Lucy, was it? But it actually existed eons ago."
"So you didn't really create Magic?"
"Unfortunately not. No one really created Magic, it was just a part of the creation of the World, you know, a peculiar talent that some people seem to have developed more than others."
"You mean to tell me that even Muggles are magical?"
"Muggles? Non-sorcerous people, you mean?"
"Yeah, they try to deny the existence of magic altogether, how can they have it?"
"That was the whole idea, when Aldur sort of erased the concept of sorcery and witchcraft from the minds of men. Made them mortal. Did you know, that before this whole thing, sorcerers were immortal, and if you knew about how magic was made, that you could nearly die when you chose to?" Harry was completely enraptured at these new concepts and notions that Belgarath was explaining to him.
"So where are all these other people of the world you come from?" he inquired curiously. Belgarath's face saddened, and the wrinkles in his face seemed to sag under the weight of his frown.
"When UL and the other Gods decided to reduce the extent of magic and create a new, simpler race of people, all of my family--except for my wife Poledra, of course--went with the Gods back into the Soul of the Mother Universe, where they came from."
"What'd you mean? Their all uncreated?"
"Of course not. Matter can neither be created nor destroyed. It can only be transferred from one form to another. I just volunteered to stay in this form, and as the Prophecies ordained me and Poledra to be together always, my master bid me to watch over the new world, and make sure the Destinies didn't split apart again."
"But if I'm here, you obviously failed, right?" Belgarath scowled deeply, and Harry drew back a little in his chair.
"Of course not!" he declared, "Well...maybe...a little...yes." He looked down, and Harry was astonished to detect a faint hint of shame on his wizened face, but which was gone as quickly as it came.
"How did you do it?" Harry asked.
"Well, there was this little boy, Albus and his brother Aberforth that were born just recently- a century or two ago--"
"Wait a minute! I know him, Albus Dumbledore!" Harry interrupted excitedly.
"Of course you do," Belgarath said, "He's an important part of the Prophecy. But I made a mistake in letting Aberforth be born. I was supposed to be watching his mother, you see, but she went and slept with this Dal--one of the few that UL didn't turn into a half-stallion.
"We call them Centaurs," Harry informed.
"Centaurs then," Belgarath agreed, "Well, soon he was born, and then the two Spirits possessed him to foretell a splitting of the Prophecies--which of course had to be carried out because Seers, Dals, across the world repeated it, and, well, you know the rest, I presume."
"No, not really," Harry admitted, "Dumbledore doesn't tell me all that much. You meant to say it was his brother who is responsible for me having to defeat Voldemort now?"
"Voldemort is the Dark Child?" Harry nodded, "Actually, the Two Spirits have been aching to have another serious match like this since five thousand years ago. The Dark Spirit won out the last time, and the two times before, and the Dark the time before that...well, I gave them many little conquests to fight over, but I suppose that wasn't enough. I should have been more careful."
"What was the question?" Belgarath asked after thinking for a few more minutes. Before Harry could reply, Belgarath said, "Ah, I remember, was Aberforth responsible? No. You were meant to be the Child of Light ever since the world was created, as I think I've said before, and whether or not Aberforth foretold it wouldn't have mattered because you'd end up being the Child of Light and contend with the Child of Dark the same."
"How is that possible?" Harry asked, crinkling his eyebrows in an attempt to understand all the philosophical thoughts presented to his somewhat out-of-shape mind. Belgarath frowned as well, remarkably enough.
"Maybe I was meant to fail," Belgarath offered a length of time past.
"Then there would've been no point in Eldur-was it?" ("Aldur," Belgarath corrected) "Aldur to go back to the Soul of his Mother with all the rest of your people."
"No, no actually, if it weren't for their going back, this new world would never have been corrected, and you would never have come into existence. Maybe everything that's happened was supposed to happen for the world to be exactly how it is now. And maybe they knew that the Prophecies were supposed to split apart seven thousand years later, and they just fed me the lie, of the "Last Confrontation", for me to make sure that you're the one who becomes the Child of Light. Come to think of it, they've told me that every confrontation between the Opposite Destinies was the last one, but it's still not over yet. And I'm tired!" Belgarath almost complained. Harry looked at him in shock for about the tenth time.
"You know sir," he said, "You don't act much like the most important man in the world."
"If you mean that I should wear royal clothing and act like a cocky, all-knowing bastard, that sort of attitude kind of wore me out just a few years after I learnt my magic. My daughter-in-law, though, seems to take some sick pleasure in acting like she has a pole shoved up her butt. And its been about twelve thousand years."
"Erm--" Harry began, turning red from containing his laughter.
"So lets get started. Or would you like to have some rest before that? Maybe some ale, or beer?"
"Started on what? I'm supposed to be back at Hogwarts in less than two weeks, and my friends still think I've been kidnapped by Voldemort. I'm quite afraid I can't stay with you. Unless you'd consider letting me go for just a bit so I can tell them about it?"
"I wonder why they made someone as stupid as you the Child of Light anyway. Now I've lost all hope altogether," Belgarath barked irritably. Harry was about to defend himself, when Belgarath explained.
"You see, boy," he began slowly, as if he were deaf, or mentally impaired, or even maybe merely to insult him, "I AM A SORCERER. Which means I can slooowww tttiiimmmeee," he said.
"Well, I'm sorry," Harry said, more than a little disgruntled.
"It's okay. I reckon these days you have to use an enchanted device for that too?"
"A Time Turner," Harry replied.
"Doesn't it get a bit tiresome, having to use a stick to enchant things all the time instead of just doing it yourself?" Without letting him answer though, Belgarath went on, "But then I suppose that learning how to do even that much is considered a grand accomplishment?"
"I didn't even know Magic existed for eleven years."
"It was the same with Garion--my Grandson--My daughter, his Aunt Polgara raised him, and wouldn't tell him about his gifts until the same age, despite all my efforts. Needless to say it took him quite a bit of getting used to. And all he regularly did for about a hundred years afterward was to break down doors. And hunt, of course."
"Hunt? You used Magic to hunt those days? Why?"
"No, of course not. His favorite form was of a wolf. And he could hunt quite well in that form, I mean. Come to think of it, you may prefer that form yourself, as its in your blood."
"You mean to say you're related to me?"
"Not by blood, but by magic. Where you an orphan, by any chance? Raised by an aunt or uncle?"
Harry frowned, thinking of the Dursleys and Voldemort's murdering his parents. He told Belgarath the story, now quite unconcerned about time, though he was still a little worried about how his friends were getting on without him.
"That's how it happened with Garion. And Eriond was an orphan as well. But he was raised by no kindred."
"So what exactly does this have to do with you and I being related?" Harry asked diffidently, a little afraid of Belgarath's wild mood swings.
"You and I share the same magic. Even though the God's put a lot of limits to magic they weren't, clearly, able to eradicate it, unless they were willing to give it up themselves, and since you're the Child of Light, you're magic is uncorrupted by any of their fiddling. Even though you've been brought up by people who have severe limits to their magic, it was beyond the Gods' power to put the same limits on you."
"So you mean I can be just as powerful as you one day?" Harry asked.
"Of course not. That would be an unfair advantage over the Dark Child, wouldn't it?" Harry nodded reluctantly. It wasn't like he was a sickler for power or anything, but Belgarath had a peculiar way of making the notion very appealing. "You can be just as powerful as me one day, but that day will only come after you carry out all the errands appointed to you by the Prophecy."
"Which means that you're going to tell me all of these things, then just expect me to use a stick to enchant things again?" he asked wryly. Harry had no idea why he was being so blunt when usually words like these would've never come out of his mouth to anyone of Belgarath's stature. It was just the particularly offhand manner of his that put him in a most welcome ease. Belgarath grinned.
"Why do you think you're here? To sit and chat? Trust me, my pupil, when you get off this island, you'll be beyond sticks."
"You mean you'll teach me how to use Wandless Magic? And be Animagus? And slow time? And change the weather? And...all that other stuff?" Harry asked enthusiastically.
"Don't get too excited. I will do my best, but I'm warning you, It'll take a long time. Each time you use a particular ability, half of your energy will be drained of you. And you'll have to rest another day before you regain enough to use it again."
"I knew there was something to it."
But Harry was secretly excited nonetheless.
