Summary: Harry fuses with the Haunter of the Dark and is raised by the wizard who rescues him. (Wizard as in HP Lovecraft wizard, that is!)
Disclaimer: I own naught.
Feedback: Feedback means more gets written, so sure thing!
Pre-fic Comments:
All latin can be considered 'doggy latin', in that I don't know Latin and am trying to fake it.
Some adult language in this. Having a good knowledge of canon proceedings would be a good idea, as I skip a bit of detail later on.
For reference (yours and mine), Ma Baker has four sons. From eldest to youngest: Robert, Bill, Ash, and Tim.
"Success is my only motherfucking option -- failure's NOT!" -Eminem, "Lose Yourself"
Harry and Tim /had/ heard Satanus' music from where they were hiding in the Library. They'd just assumed, however, that he had turned the music up to his normal "Ozzy Live" settings. It didn't come as a shock, though, when it abruptly cut out mid song.
"Well, thank God that that rubbish is finished," a bushy haired girl said self importantly from her table.
Madam Pince, the librarian, looked similarly relieved.
"Dammit," Tim muttered. "It better not have blown up -- I still want to listen to Iron Maiden."
"You actually like that type of music," the girl demanded incredulously.
"Nine Inch Nails are better," Harry argued. "I'm Harry, by the way."
"Hermione Granger," the girl said primly. "My God, there are goths here?"
"I dunno about Blue Eyes," Harry said, gesturing at Tim, "but I'm not a goth. I just like the music."
Tim choked for a moment. "Me, a goth! Shit, can you imagine the fall-out from Mum if I did go goth!"
Hermione sighed. "You two are a lot nicer than Malfoy, even if you are in the same House."
"He's lucky I haven't told Granddad about him being a little shit to me," Tim snorted.
"Your granddad? What's your last name," Hermione asked inquisitively.
"Baker," Tim said proudly.
"Sorry, I haven't heard of you before," Hermione apologised. "Say... Harry, isn't the teacher for Ritual Magic your guardian?"
Harry nodded. "Are you having some problems with it?"
"Well, it's just that... I can't find any textbooks for it," Hermione whined. "There isn't a single book on Ritual Magic that isn't in the Restricted Section! And that's only for Advanced Defense students!"
"Really," Harry asked, confused. "But I've been learning about it for years."
"Could you help me," Hermione asked. "Tutor me? I'll help you in the other classes."
"Sure," Harry said. "Transfiguration is horrible."
"You're just saying that 'cos the teacher is an old cow," Tim laughed.
"Timothy," Hermione said, appalled. "Professor McGonagall is a /teacher!"
"She told me off for using my biro, Hermione," Harry sighed. "So far, this school sucks."
"But... we've got so much to learn," Hermione said. "Transfiguration, Potions, Herbology, Ritual Magic! How could it suck?"
"Okay," Harry said. "Tell me when we learn about how Parliament works."
"History of Magic," Hermione replied.
"Nope, that's goblin rebellions," Tim said.
The other two first years looked at him.
"What," he asked. "I got very, very, very bored this evening and asked one of the seventh year Slytherins if he taught about anything interesting."
"Do we," Harry asked morbidly.
"The high point of Binsy's lectures is when... no, I tell a lie, there isn't one."
"See," Harry said triumphantly. "Financial management. Calculus, Statistics, basic electronics. I could go on."
"Okay, I think I'm beginning to see your point," Hermione said thoughtfully. "I wonder if anyone has written a paper on the subject... Real World Curriculums for Magical Schools..."
Once Harry and Tim had returned to the room they were sharing with Satanus, they were promptly informed of how Satanus' right to listen to music had been trampled under the bootheel of scholastic censorship and oppression. Harry went to get Old Wizard Harris, who took Snape's /Silencio/ off the stereo system once he got there.
"I think we need to ward this room," Harris said thoughtfully, stroking his chin.
"Cool," Harry grinned. "What type?"
"Basic, I think," Harris said. "We can put up fancy stuff later, for now let's just get a functional shield spell up."
"Why was the music feeding back into the rest of Hogwarts," Satanus asked.
"For the same reason that Tesla's installation at Wardenclyffe blew up the local power station," Harris said, pulling a piece of chalk out of his pocket. "The stereo wasn't designed to clean any signals coming out of it's power supply."
"So that's how the castle wards got a taste for electricity," Harry asked.
"And then the speaker's induction coils could affect the wards and thus the building," Satanus finished. "I get it now."
"Wards, people," Tim reminded them.
"Alright, keep your shirt on. Harry, you do the runes in the ceiling corners."
"Could we make it so that anyone trying to come in without permission got turned into toads," Tim asked gleefully.
"Pigs," Satanus said. "Or chooks, perhaps."
"We're just doing a simple shield for the night," Harris said. "No active magic in, no active magic out. A quick, slapdash thing like this won't hold up under pressure, so don't press your luck with it."
"Okay, I've done the top runes," Harry said.
"And I've done the floor runes. Right, now you can do the control rune."
Harry drew a simple, yet elegant rune on a clear section of wall. As he finished, the chalk in all eight corners glowed purple for a moment before settling back into normal chalk.
"Why didn't my laptop do weird things to the rest of the school," Satanus asked.
"Playing games on it, were you," Harris asked, a smile playing at the edge of his lips.
"No," Satanus said quickly. "I was... reviewing some of your books you let me scan."
"Complex images like that aren't as straightforward to transmit as single electrical signals," Harris shrugged.
"Say, that girl Hermione was looking for some good books on Ritual Magic," Harry spoke up.
"Granger? Bushy hair, hand in the air, won't shut the hell up for love or money?"
"That's her. Only books for it are in the Restricted Section."
"Okay," Harris said. "I'll let her know she can look through them, as long as they don't leave my rooms. The same goes for you boys. And if any of you damage them, you'll pay for replacements."
"And now for something completely different," Satanus said, now that the electrical appliances had been settled. He held up a copy of the third edition of the 'Dungeon Master's Guide'.
Harry groaned. "Satanus, Tim's brothers aren't here. We can't keep playing without them."
"Ah, but I anticipated that," Satanus said, pulling out a book sized box labelled 'Dungeons and Dragons Adventure Game'. "I brought this!"
"Isn't that the one for rank beginners," Tim asked doubtfully. He had a level fifteen sorcerer he was getting fond of.
"You forget our Housemates," Satanus said, moving towards the door. "Come! We must addict them, so we will have other people to support our habit!"
Post-fic Comments:
Yes, the Adventure Game exists. I have a copy myself. It even comes with dice!
Part 7
Summary: Harry fuses with the Haunter of the Dark and is raised by the wizard who rescues him. (Wizard as in HP Lovecraft wizard, that is!)
Disclaimer: I own naught.
Feedback: Nothing says "I like this!" like saying to the author "I like this!"
Pre-fic Comments:
All latin can be considered 'doggy latin', in that I don't know Latin and am trying to fake it. Some adult language in this. Having a good knowledge of canon proceedings would be a good idea, as I skip a bit of detail later on. For reference (yours and mine), Ma Baker has four sons. From eldest to youngest: Robert, Bill, Ash, and Tim.
"You better get on your knees and pray -- Panic is on the way." - Oasis, "Gas Panic"
Dumbledore was starting to regretting he ever met Harry Potter. One of the reasons was standing in front of him.
"Sorry, what was your name again," Dumbledore asked, having missed the man's introduction while musing to himself. He didn't need to ask who the man was connected to -- no robes and attitude probably meant that Harry was behind this somehow.
"Baker," the man said.
Baker was wearing a three piece brown silk suit, and his right hand was tightly gripping a jet black cane. A shining metal brace was attached to his right leg, almost as bright as his short, snow white hair. Behind him was a greying man in a black two piece suit, Irish in appearance with red hair, and a younger man wearing a tshirt and jeans, seemingly of Scottish extraction.
"Would it be rude to ask how you got here," Dumbledore asked. "We don't get very many... /muggle/ parents visiting Hogwarts."
Baker shrugged, shifting his weight to his left leg for a moment. "I simply got in touch with some of my old friends in the government. They were good enough to point me towards the Ministry of Magic, and put in a good word for me."
Albus blinked. So /this/ was the Baker that had Cornelius sending him even more owls for advice? "I take it you wish to visit young Timothy Baker?"
"Absolutely," Baker smiled. "And Jack here said something earlier... what was it again?"
"I'd like to sit in on one of the Potions lessons, if I could," the Irishman said. "I've a Doctorate in Chemistry, myself, and would like to see if there are any similarities or differences between the two disciplines."
"My word," Albus said. "Professor Snape will certainly want to talk with you, then. Come with me, and we'll have breakfast."
Tim stopped still as he entered the Great Hall, Harry and Satanus behind him complaining.
"Hey! Food! Move it," Satanus growled.
"Grandpa," Tim yelled, running across the Hall to a lengthened head table where Baker was sitting down to some toast.
"Tim! Good to see you again, my boy," Baker smiled as Tim ran around the table to hug his grandfather. "Your mother told me about your letter."
"We were kinda hoping she would," Harry said as they ambled up to the Table. "No offense, Professor Dumbledore, but your curriculum sucks."
"I'm sure we can arrange something to the satisfaction of everyone," Dumbledore twinkled. "You had better hurry through breakfast, though -- you have Potions in fifteen minutes."
"Crap," Satanus muttered under his breath.
Potions was... interesting.
Harry, Tim, and Satanus had gotten into the classroom with a minute to spare, and had found a pleasant surrprise there.
"Jack," Satanus said, highly pleased. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh, me and Tom are here to look after your grandfather," the chemist said. "But at the moment, I'm just watching what your Potions lessons are like."
At that moment, Professor Snape swooped into the classroom. His voluminous black robes swirled behind him as he halted at the desk at the front of the room, and began taking roll. When he got to Harry's name (remembering that Harry's name had been changed to LaVelle), he paused.
"Ah, yes," Snape purred. "Harry... LaVelle. It will exceedingly interesting to see how well you perform."
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking," Professor Snape said, dark eyes regarding the class dispassionately. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death -- if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.
"Doctor Kilpatrick here," Snape said, gesturing towards Jack, "is here to observe how Potions classes are taught. As such, you will not disturb him."
Ron Weasley, one of the Gryffindors unfortunate enough to take Potions with the Slytherins, yawned. Snape's head swiveled towards him like a bird of prey.
"Weasley! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
"Tut, tut -- even if your family could afford textbooks, it is plain that you would lack the intelligence to understand them," Snape said. "Five points from Gryffindor. Let's try again. Weasley, where would you look if I told you to obtain a bezoar?"
"Up your ass," Weasley snapped, plainly angry.
"Five points from Gryffindor for an incorrect answer, and ten points from Gryffindor for such disrespect towards a teacher," Snape smirked. "For your information, Weasley, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"
Harry looked over towards Jack. The Chemistry doctor's face was emotionless as he observed the Potions Master.
"Why are you still writing, Granger? A point for tardiness. Now, we will be brewing a simple potion intended to cure boils," Snape said. His wand flicked at the blackboard, and a piece of chalk danced in the air as it wrote out the instructions for the potion. "Get to work!"
"Professor," Jack said, "mightn't it be a good idea to lecture the students on correct laboratory procedure, to ensure that accidents don't occur and if they do, the students are clear on what to do?"
"Quite correct, Doctor, and thank you for reminding me," Snape ground out, his lips a thin line afterwards. The blackboard flipped over, revealling a clean board on the reverse. "Now, this is what we call a /cauldron/. They must be clean, and if they aren't..."
Part XX
Summary: Harry fuses with the Haunter of the Dark and is raised by the wizard who rescues him. (Wizard as in HP Lovecraft wizard, that is!)
Disclaimer: I own naught.
Feedback: Nothing says "I like this!" like saying to the author "I like this!"
Pre-fic Comments:
This part occurs sometime during Year Two, near the end of it. I want to write this part, I just don't feel like writing the bits leading up to it.
All latin can be considered 'doggy latin', in that I don't know Latin and am trying to fake it. Some adult language in this. Having a good knowledge of canon proceedings would be a good idea, as I skip a bit of detail later on. For reference (yours and mine), Ma Baker has four sons. From eldest to youngest: Robert, Bill, Ash, and Tim.
The day would go down in wizarding history.
It began with the Leaky Cauldron. Fifteen men in sharp black muggle business suits strode in, all carrying strange metal assemblages and briefcases. Once they had entered, not answering Tom's queries, another man walked in. A jet black cane was gripped by the elderly man's right hand. A shining metal brace was attached to his right leg on top of his black suit, almost as bright as his short, snow white hair that contrasted highly with his entirely black attire. A young man of Scottish descent quietly continued through the back door.
Apart from the leader, the only non-standard thing about the fifteen men were four of them who carried long metal staffs, thickly engraved with strangely disturbing writing that seemed to writhe under one's vision.
"What can I do for you," Tom asked again, cleaning a glass.
"We're just passing through," the elderly man said, an American accent plain in his words. "We have... business in the Alley."
"Okay, then," Tom said, chalking the group's oddities to their origin. "I'm sure you know the way."
"Indeed," the elderly man said, smirking. "Jack here is quite able to assist me."
"Well, if you have any trouble you just sing out," Tom said.
"We'll be sure to," he said.
"I didn't catch your name, by the way, Mister...?"
"Baker. Most people call me Lord Baker."
"We're ready," the Scottish man said, returning.
"Excellent, Thomas. Well, I'm sure I'll come back through here."
As the group of sixteen approached Gringotts Bank, four broke off from the main body. Twelve waited while two of the men walked to the front two corners of the building, while the other two walked to the rear corners. Once they had reached those corners, they slammed the metal staffs down in unison into the cobblestones. A giant, glowing rectangle-oid of light formed around the building, shining purple walls of force defending it from the outside world.
Grimgnaw looked up as the double doors of Gringotts slammed open, the sound cutting through the sounds of money counting, paper shuffling, and business with their customers. Men dressed in strange black clothes walked in as if they owned the bank, brandishing strange metal things as if they were weapons.
"Excuse me, but I really must demand you leave," Grimgnaw said from where he was perched before his ledger, as the Duty Manager.
The white haired leader pointed his weapon, which was different from the rest, at a particularly prominent statue.
For the first time ever, a firearm was used in Diagon Alley. And it was an old Thompson 1928 Sub-machine Gun, also known as a 'Tommy Gun'. The .45ACP bullets ate the old statue quickly, reducing it to powder as the roar of the gun also known as the 'Chicago Typewriter' deafened the room.
"Siddown and be quiet, and no one gets hurt," the man said. "I'm Lord Baker, and I'm here to relieve you of any miscellaneous valuables you might have lying around."
"You'll never break our vault security," Grimgnaw said smugly. "And by the time you even got to them, the Aurors would be here to arrest you."
"It's just as well we're not here for your stupid vaults then," Baker snorted. "Al, John, start rakin' it in."
With that, six of the men jumped over the counters and opened their briefcases. Six more leapt over, and started shovelling the golden galleons that the goblins had been counting into the briefcases.
"That much gold will be so heavy that muggles like you could never get it out of here!"
"It's just as well we have feather charms on 'em, ain't it," Baker snorted.
One of the customers, an aristocratic looking wizard, jumped to his feet and pulled out his wand.
BANG!
He received a fair sized hole in his leg for his troubles, and was reduced to clutching his leg and crying like a baby while his blonde son, terrified by the strange power these 'muggles' exhibited. (Privately, the younger of the two was sure they were wizards masquerading as muggles for some politican reason.)
"Like the man said, sit down and no one gets hurt," an Irish-American voice said, as one of the suited men lowered his smoking Colt Python.
Baker smiled widely as John reported that all of the loose valuables had been taken.
"Okay, boys, let's go!"
As the sixteen left, four of them pulled out the iron metal staffs.
"Tim does good work with that Cray," one of them said, running his hands over the engravings.
"Not another damn word until we get outta here!"