t h e
b r e a k a b l e v o w
by a complete lack of sanity
shaman king – harry potter crossover
postHBP, contains spoilers for the sixth book. fairly warned be ye.
and, on the note of pairings, your suggestions are priceless. i love you all, though I must say:
the following pairings will not be workable: renpiri, harrypiri, mainly because as crack as this is I cannot find out how to bring pirika into it all.
okay. i fail at keeping promises, i renamed this chapter since it was getting long and the actual searching of the ruins isn't actually happening yet.
by the way, the suggestion of harrylyserg actually crossed my mind, and… opinions? shoot me now pls.
keep giving suggestions, they are wonderful and help me get this fic along.
general disclaimer: not mine
chapter one: decisions
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You could hear as the eggs in the frying pan sizzled, Petunia Dursley was preparing breakfast in her spotless kitchen. Dudley Dursley was eyeing the stove like a hawk, apparently very ready for breakfast. Petunia gave her Ickle Dudders a sweet, insipid smile, and looked back at the stove. Harry Potter, a witness to all this, wanted to laugh at the stupidity of it all. He'd been here for almost seventeen years, and Dudley hadn't changed one bit.
A whooshing noise was heard by the window, and everyone except Dudley, who was still waiting for the food, turned around to look. Harry turned around to greet the familiar noise, the Dursleys more out of shock and fear. And, to Harry's delight and his relatives' horror, there was an owl perched on the windowsill.
"Get… that… BLOODY OWL… OUT OF MY HOUSE!" Vernon Dursley turned a classic shade of red, and started yelling. Harry sorely wished that it was tomorrow, his birthday, since he would no longer be underage, and might have gotten away with a Silencing Charm. "We've put up with all this magic nonsense for almost seventeen years now, and this is damn well the LAST STRAW! I won't have any more of this nonsense, I--"
"Relax," said Harry, irritated. "I won't be here for long, it's my birthday tomorrow and I'll be leaving. Just like promised."
Harry's comeback surprised his uncle, and caused him to lose any breath he had left for shouting: he opened and closed his mouth, resembling a very red fish. Relieved, Harry got up from his chair and walked over to the window. The tawny owl stared up at Harry, the day's copy of the Daily Prophet tied to its leg. Harry rummaged in his pocket for some spare change, and dropped two knuts into the pouch on the owl's other leg. The owl hooted politely, and flew away.
Uncle Vernon seemed to have regained his senses, and started shouting again. "DON'T READ THAT CRACKPOT NEWSPAPER HERE, BOY! NOT IN THIS HOUSE!"
Harry ignored him and walked out of the kitchen, making his way up to his room, while Aunt Petunia slowly went back to cooking, Uncle Vernon continued to shout his head off, and Dudley remained silent, looking from his mother to his father in confusion.
He made his way up the stairs, eager to read what was going on in the Wizarding world, and impatient for a letter from Ron or Hermione to arrive. He had promised that he would stop over at the Weasley's house for Bill and Fleur's wedding: which was happening any day now. Ron and Hermione had promised to stop and pick him up… any day now… he had sent Hedwig over to the Burrow with a note, and she was due to come back any time soon.
He reached his room, and there was no sign that Hedwig had returned. Frowning, he sat on the bed, opened up the newspaper, and began to read. The giant, bold headline stood out.
DEATH EATER FOUND DEAD – "NOT OUR FAULT," SAYS MINISTRY
A slightly familiar photo was on the front page: He had seen that photo before, nearly two years ago in the paper: the time of the mass breakout at Azkaban. On the front page of the newspaper was the scowling face of Rodolphus Lestrange. Harry read the article with a look of confusion on his face:
Rodolphus Lestrange, a known Death Eater (supporter of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named) was found dead early this morning. Lestrange was discovered on the outskirts of the Village Hogsmeade, burned until he was nearly unrecognizable.
A ministry spokesperson said in a statement: "We are deeply shocked by this news. Although the Ministry is on the hunt for Death Eaters, the Ministry takes no blame or credit for this death. Whoever did this did it entirely of their own will, the Ministry does not encourage burning as punishment.
Rumors have spread that the death was caused by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself. The death, although highly unusual, could have been You-Know-Who's warning to his followers, or even a cruel form of punishment. Experts believe (ctd page 3, column 2)
A fluttering noise by the window interrupted Harry before he could flip to the next page. He lifted his head from the paper to see what had caused the noise, and saw Hedwig, his snowy owl hooting at him from outside the window. She flapped impatiently, knocking her beak against the glass.
"Be patient, I'll be right there," Harry said, folding up the Prophet and going over to the window. Hedwig hooted at him again. He reached for the latch on the window, but for some reason, the lock wouldn't budge. It was stuck, probably from overuse and disrepair. Hedwig didn't seem to get why he was struggling with the lock, and her hoots grew louder. She was obviously very tired from flying.
"It's stuck!" Harry yelled, trying to make himself heard above Hedwig's noise, which now sounded slightly angry. "I… can't… OPEN IT!" Hedwig rapped her beak against the glass. Harry sighed. "Just wait downstairs, okay?"
Hedwig was still annoyed, but flew to the downstairs window just the same. Harry ran downstairs to let her in.
He went down quietly, to avoid getting yelled at by Uncle Vernon again. He noticed they had started eating without him. Dudley had turned on the television in the kitchen, as usual, and was supposed to watch some idiotic morning cartoon. Uncle Vernon grabbed the remote, though and turned it to the morning news. Dudley almost had a temper tantrum right there, but Aunt Petunia shut him up by shoveling more bacon onto his plate. On the news was something about a fire.
"Residents of Little Hangleton are shocked," Harry heard the reporter on television say, "because of the sudden fire at one of their oldest and most historical monuments."
Little Hangleton… that name rings a bell, Harry thought. I'm sure someone mentioned it before. Was it Hermione? Or Snape? Or…
The reporter had stopped talking, and was interviewing someone on screen. He heard an old man say, "That Riddle House. Good it's gone, anyway. It was haunted, I swear. Haunted by those good-for-nothing Riddles and their son…"
Something clicked in Harry's mind. Of course. That was where Voldemort's parents lived. That was where Voldemort's parents died. Did Voldemort…
His train of thought was interrupted by Hedwig, who rapped her beak angrily against the window, which was very well near breaking. Quickly, Harry went over to the window to take the letter from Hedwig, who gave a hoot of relief, and flew up to sit on the edge of the roof. Eagerly, he opened the letter, and saw Hermione's familiar script.
Dear Harry,
Is it set, then? We're going to pick you up tomorrow? We all miss you a terrible amount and we can't wait to pick you up, but Mrs. Weasley says not until tomorrow. Send us a reply so we'll know you're okay. Ron and Ginny say hello, as well. Sorry this letter's short, but Phle—Fleur, sorry, wants to go over the wedding seating arrangement, and they're yelling at me to come down already.
Yours truly
Hermione
Harry thought about the mysterious coincidence: the fire at the Riddle House, and the fire that had killed Rodolphus Lestrange. Something was up, and he had to investigate.
Dumbledore's voice suddenly popped into his head. Voldemort was planning on your love of playing the hero…
And he's doing the same right now, Harry finished for Dumbledore miserably. I know, I know… but something doesn't feel right about this… the fire wasn't Voldemort's doing, I can feel it.
But you can't always trust your emotions. It wasn't Dumbledore's voice this time, it was his own. He sat there silently for a moment, trying to decide what to do. To trust his head or his heart.
After a while, he went upstairs. He had a letter to the Weasleys to write.
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A hundred miles away, by a fairly deserted side street, Lyserg Diethyl was facing a similar problem. He looked up glumly at his guardian spirit, Morphin. "A fire, Morphin. A fire."
The pink fairy looked down at him sympathetically. She flew a circle around his head, as if to say, "It's up to you."
"I know it could be just a coincidence, but it seems too weird to be one. It has to be Hao. Right?"
Morphin shrugged.
"Well, you're not much help," Lyserg said, sighing. "I need a sign. Should I go to America now and get a head-start on finding Patch Village, or should I investigate that fire?"
Morphin sighed, annoyed that she had been hovering there for more than ten minutes while Lyserg got his priorities straight. Bored, she flew across the street, to perhaps get away from Lyserg's mutterings, if only for a little while.
"Hey… Morphin… where are you going?" Lyserg stood up, aware that Morphin was no longer at his side. "Morphin—" He put up a hand, as if he could stop her from going.
A loud bang sounded, and Lyserg stared in shock as a giant purple bus appeared out of nowhere. Morphin looked back at the sound, and came back quickly enough to watch Lyserg fall flat on his back.
The conductor smiled down encouragingly at him. "Welcome to the Knight Bus. Emergency transport for any stranded witch or wizard. Eleven Sickles for a ride, but for firteen you get 'ot chocolate, and for fifteen--"
Lyserg looked at the conductor, bewildered. There was his sign, he was thinking. A purple bus appearing out of nowhere. Clearly, it meant that he should go straight to Little Hangleton via bus to investigate that fire, since purple buses were--
Huh?
He had to sit and think for a while. Noticing that the conductor was still talking, he said the first thing that came to his mind that might make him shut up. "A-all right," he blurted out.
He quickly noticed he had probably made a huge mistake in saying yes. Firstly, what were Sickles?
The conductor, a pimply young man named Stan Shunpike, abruptly stopped talking and looked down at Lyserg. "So you're coming? What're you doing still on the ground, then?" He held a hand out to help Lyserg up. "My name's Stan Shunpike by the way, and I've never seen the likes of you on the Knight Bus before. You are?"
"L-Lyserg Diethyl," he replied, still a little shocked.
"Well then, Lyserg, tell me where you want to go."
"I think it's called… Little Hangleton?" Lyserg said. "I need to get there as soon as possible… I'll pay you later," he added quickly, realizing he had no money of any sort to give the man.
Stan paused, thinking for a while. What if the boy had no money? He looked at Lyserg again. He seemed a bit nervous, but all together honest. After a very long silence, he spoke.
"All right then, Lyserg. I trust you. Hop aboard."
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so there be-eth the second installment of my death-wish.
quality of writing deteriorates as chapter goes along, i need sleep now srsly.
anyway. the NEXT chapter will be called searching the ruins. i sort-of-promise.