AN: Alright lads, here we are: the first chapter of the promised rewrite! Yes, I know that I originally wrote this as fem!Harry, but that was mostly because I wasn't comfortable writing from a male perspective and I was really just trying too hard. I'm trying to stay a *little* closer to canon at the start of the story, at least - but we'll see how it goes from there. This is an unbeta'd work, and it's not particularly edited either, so if you notice anything particularly screwy feel free to let me know. I'm trying to build up a bit of a backlog for chapters to post, but it is going to be limited, as I have a 9-5 job and I have to play through the game in order to remember plot points and try to remain true to dialogue.
That being said, I hope y'all enjoy! I'm really pleased with how this rewrite is shaping up, so I hope y'all feel the same.
August had almost arrived. It was a relief, knowing that July was almost over and his fifteenth birthday was fast approaching – just one year closer to escaping the Dursleys, but it was a sliver of hope that Harry was more than happy to hold onto. The faster this summer was over, the faster he was back to Hogwarts. He was almost looking forward to the return to the castle more than usual, given the communication blackout that he'd been on from the people he thought were his friends. When he'd tried owling Ron and Hermione for more information about their holidays, or even just trying to talk about the nightmares he'd been stuck with since the last task of the Triwizard Tournament, Hedwig would go days without returning, which was more than a little unlike her. The snowy owl always made prompt returns when the letters were domestic, in comparison to longer trips such as the ones to Sirius over the beginning of the previous year.
This time, Harry was almost certain that the Weasleys were holding on to Hedwig; it had been more than a week since he'd seen his favorite companion. The only source of news that he was getting from the Wizarding World was his weekly copies of The Daily Prophet, and those were none too promising. Every time his name appeared in the paper, it was in conjunction with Dumbledore's, calling them both madder than hatters. The fact that Dumbledore had clearly done nothing to stop the slander in the papers was upsetting, but not nearly as upsetting as it was knowing that Ron and Hermione both saw things like this, knew that he was seeing the same, and still refused to even send a letter to assure him that they were alright.
...He wondered if Sirius was alright. The last time he'd seen his godfather, it was in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. It would be pretty miserable if Sirius ended up on the street again, eating rats and begging scraps off of strangers, or worse: caught by animal control.
With his friends not talking to him, and the Dursleys choosing to ignore him rather than focus their ire on him, as had become increasingly common the last few years, Harry's summer was... slow. It was a big change from the intensity of his school terms, and the lack of structure and routine coupled with the trauma of what had happened in June had left Harry sleepless more nights than not. He'd managed to get all of his summer work done already out of sheer boredom, and the frequency with which he was re-reading his books meant that even his potions homework made sense.
Digging through his trunk also revealed that he'd somehow managed to pack away some of Hermione's books – her third year Ancient Runes textbook, and a supplemental reading guide for the class. Reading those revealed that Harry really wished he'd chosen to take Ancient Runes instead of Divination – at least runes would lend themselves to a useful career. Divination was just a sinus headache in the making. Maybe he could owl Professor McGonagall about adding the class... Well, when he got Hedwig back.
Runes was also interesting because there was no wand-work involved. He could simply draw them out on paper or in the dirt before channeling just a bit of magic into them to get a result. After going several summers without even the slightest chance of approaching magic like this, it was a relief. One of the runic configurations that he'd figured out worked like a bottomless bag – you just put whatever you wanted to store in the middle of the circle, activated it, and you had a slip of paper with a rune-mark on it that held whatever item you stored. He'd started using it to constantly carry around his school trunk – sure, the Dursleys had been ignoring him lately, but what if Vernon tried to lock his trunk in his cupboard again? Or if Dudley got it in his head to try rifling through it, and somehow found the invisibility cloak?
The self-proposed 'hottest day of the summer' came and went, leaving Harry wishing for a reprieve from being his own counsel. Without his friends there to help him keep the reins on his temper, Harry had very nearly fought Dudley over the fact that he and his friends had been on the verge of beating the hell out of a preteen for some unintentional slight.
The dementors had thrown a wrench in that plan, thankfully, and had taken his mind off of Dudley as a whole. The concept of free souls was likely more than enticing to a dementor, but they'd never focus on a muggle when Harry, a defenseless magical, was right there.
Harry's wand was, unfortunately, locked in his trunk, along with every other prominent magical item – stored away in his runic circle for safekeeping, and to avoid temptation. If he couldn't see it, he couldn't misuse it. Except, now that he was stumbling down the street, cold dread overtaking him and the lingering, pleading screams of Lily Potter echoing in his ears, he couldn't use it to save himself, either. His breathing, already ragged from the extended sprint he'd pulled off to get his initial distance from the dementors, began to feel sharp in his chest as the temperature dropped to frigid. Visible huffs of air coupled the way his vision began to fog at the edges as he ducked around a corner, nails digging into his palms as gravel crunched under his feet. Would he be able to outrun dementors? Was it even possible? The only reason Sirius had gotten away from them was because he was an animagus, and that was magic that Harry didn't know the first thing about learning.
Focusing on that was enough to force Lily's cries into the back of his mind and give him something to keep his attention on, until something else took precedence – the sharp CRACK that caught not just Harry's attention, but the dementors' as well. A rough voice, one that Harry didn't recognize, swore heartily before Harry had to duck out of the way of a spell – either poorly-aimed, or malicious, he couldn't be sure. Rather than hitting him, the spell hit the closest dementor dead in the face, a concussive force spreading out from the point of impact and knocking Harry to the ground. He barely managed to throw his hands out to catch himself in time, gravel and asphalt digging into his skin.
Harry swore to himself as he tried to get up, one leg buckling under him as he shifted to glance around. Looking up revealed the man who had cast the spell more clearly – a squat, grimy-looking man who looked almost as weaselly as Wormtail – staring in horror at the dementor behind Harry.
Or, rather... what had been the dementor. Instead, now, there was some kind of portal – neon-blue glowing around the edges, swirling and fading into a purple sort of black at the center. There was a silent stillness to the air, like the world just after a fresh snowfall, and then the portal began to draw things into it.
First, the loose pebbles and gravel around Harry lifted off the ground, swirling towards the portal. Following those were leaf litter and a few bits of plastic rubbish. Then, of course, because the Potter luck simply couldn't leave alone – looser bits of Harry's clothes began lifting towards the portal, his hair acting equally attracted. Harry tried to scramble away, but the second he was able to get to his hands and knees, the pull became stronger, half-lifting him off of the ground. A half-aborted cry for help was all he was able to direct towards the grimy man who had cast the spell, a glimpse of Mrs. Figg from down the street approaching with a vicious-looking hold on her handbag all he saw before he was sucked unceremoniously into the swirling portal.
Falling was something that Harry wasn't well-acquainted with, but it was terrifying when you couldn't even see the ground beneath you; he didn't think that anyone would begrudge him a proper scream as he fell. He hit the ground back-first with a thud, an uncomfortable dampness already starting to soak through his thin t-shirt and hand-me-down jeans. A whuff of air escaped him as the landing knocked the wind out of his lungs, a low groan of pain following it once Harry had caught his breath.
Vision spinning from the swirling of the portal and the fall that followed, Harry took a few moments laying on the ground to gather himself, shifting each limb in turn to ensure that he wasn't too injured. When he finally opened his eyes again, it was to an unfamiliar sky, dreary and full of heavy grey clouds. The air was warm, but far cooler than the summer air of Surrey. Despite the warmth, though, the mist drizzling from the sky was cool, little pinpricks of cold against the balmy air of wherever he currently found himself.
"...Where...?" Harry frowned as he got up, first to one knee, then to a crouch, before fully standing. He was in the middle of some grassy field, the foliage lush and green despite the dreariness of the weather. It was like nothing he'd seen before; the grass looked nothing like the grass in Surrey, or even at Hogwarts. It was tall, and wild, growing thick save for patchy areas around sparse, lone-standing trees that Harry could see in the distance. Aside from the sound of his own breathing, and the soft wind occasionally causing a wave to go through the mist-damp grass, there was no sound but silence.
Anxiety pricking at his skin, Harry began walking, frowning as he considered what was going on. This definitely wasn't anywhere in England, not as far as he could tell. The grass was different, the ground was different, even the air was different – thicker, somehow, easier to breathe. It was almost like the way the air tasted and smelt and felt in his lungs at Hogwarts, but... amplified, somehow. It was strange, and he didn't know what to make of it. Merlin, he wished Hermione were here – she would know what to do, or would at least start taking notes to research it.
Just the thought of Hermione sent a pang through Harry. Sure, he was mad at his friends for not writing him all summer, but that didn't mean that he wanted to be cut off from them entirely. "Just focus on trying not to die, you're good at that, think about them later," Harry grumbled to himself, trudging through the plains until he spotted what looked like a cabin in the distance, perking up at the sight. A cabin meant shelter, and shelter meant people. If there was someone here, he could ask where he was, and figure out how to get back.
It took several minutes to get to the cabin, even at a light jog, but Harry didn't let that phase him – especially with the rich air here keeping him from feeling the strain of exercise. The cabin was made of stone, with a thatched wooden roof and an empty doorframe. It was small, as though it were one of those historical homes that had every room condensed into one. Steps slowing to a hesitant walk, Harry's face pulled into a frown once more as a rustling sound came from inside.
Through the doorless frame, Harry could see that, while dark inside, the house was desolately empty. The clattering was louder, this time, the sound of something heavy knocking against wood before a rough grumbling sound – not unlike what Harry imagined Filch would sound like, as a House Elf. He approached the doorway, still cautious, and stiffened as a glance inside revealed a short, red creature. It looked nothing like anything he'd ever seen before – muscular and stout, chest and legs bare, with long ears and horns that wouldn't have been out of place on some kind of African deer. Combining that with the crimson skin, vibrant even in the midday darkness of the mostly-empty house, Harry considered that this creature looked like a perfect match for what the Church called a 'devil'. It carried a round shield on one arm, and a curved blade in the other hand, making for an intimidating sight despite the short height.
Harry couldn't help the shocked gasp at the sight, which was enough to catch the attention of the creature – its head snapped up in his direction, its face twisting into a snarl as it approached, sword raised. "Rakanishu!" The thing was fast, for its height – Harry just barely dodged out of the way of a swing, the blade ricocheting off of the stone doorway with a clatter. He swore under his breath, ducking away from another swing before retaliating with a kick. It caught the creature in the shield, but it was enough to knock it back, giving Harry a little bit of room to retreat.
A glint of light flashed off of something in the corner of his vision as he moved, and turning his head (a risky move, he knew, but worth the risk – ) revealed the pommel of a sword tucked under the rickety bed in the stone house. It was no sword of Gryffindor, but against this odd devil creature that seemed to want nothing more than his head right now... he'd take anything. Harry winced as he dove for the blade, skidding across the hard-packed dirt floor under a swipe from the devil. Heart pounding in his chest, his rushing pulse the only thing that Harry could hear, he swung the blade up (and noticed, peripherally, that the blade was in rough shape, tarnished and chipped) and watched, horror-stricken, as the devil impaled itself trying to reach him.
The blood that slowly pulsed down the blade looked human. It was dark, but clearly red, flowing sluggishly as the creature choked. The arm holding the curved blade dropped, the metal hitting the dirt floor with a clatter, and the shield was quick to follow. Harry could do nothing but shift the creature to the side, eyes wide and breath short in his lungs. Sure, it wasn't the first thing that he'd killed, not even with a sword, but –
Tom Riddle hadn't bled. Sure, there had been ink, but that wasn't –
Cedric hadn't bled, either. The Killing Curse was instant, but it wasn't bloody. And the basilisk... Harry was certain that it had, but he'd been too busy focusing on the venom racing through him to notice.
Harry pulled the sword out of the creature, shifting from where he had been crouching to stand, before his stomach churned and he had to move to the side, retching as he noticed the blood staining his hands for the first time. The sword hit the ground and stayed there as Harry balanced on his hands and knees, eyes burning and mouth watering with his nausea. He was alive – at the cost of another's life. Even if that other was something inhuman, something that had attacked him without provocation... how could people enjoy killing? He had feared becoming like Voldemort, in the past, some of Dumbledore's comments nestling the thought in his mind like an insidious parasite, one that had unconsciously dogged his mind for years now – but this was the certainty that he needed that they would never be the same.
Harry wasn't sure how long it was, that he was crouched on the floor of the simple house. It was hard to tell the time, with how dim the sky outside was; it could have been morning, or afternoon, and he'd never have been able to tell without being able to see the sun. The sky was covered in clouds, worse than even the most dismal of cloudy days at Hogwarts, where there would be the occasional sunbeam breaking through the clouds. Here, there was only the heady air and damp wind, the sky covered by an ocean of grey. Eventually, though, he was able to move, swallowing down the nausea that still churned in his stomach as he avoided looking at the creature dead on the floor.
Reluctantly, Harry picked up the sword again – he would need it, if he ran into another of those creatures – and stood, ready to leave, before something nagged at him. Worrying at his lip, Harry pushed up his glasses, then crouched once more, looking under the bed to see if there was anything else that could help him along. There were no other weapons, no armor to go along with the shabby blade, but there was a small leather pouch that clinked heartily when he pulled it out from under the bed. Opening it and peeking inside revealed gold coins, not stamped with any recognizable figure but clearly made of gold nevertheless.
Looting what was certainly once someone's home made Harry feel rather guilty, but the state of the building made it clear that it hadn't been lived in in some time. It was better for him to take this, and hopefully survive whatever this strange place was, than it was to just leave it all to rot... right?
The weather outside was the same as it had been when Harry entered the small house – grey, dismal, and misting rain. Now aware of the kind of creatures that inhabited this place, though, Harry was keeping a tight grip on the sword he'd found, heart in his throat as he explored the grassy plain. Walking around helped to calm him down a little, the damp air doing more to soothe his nausea than he would have thought. As distracted as he was, mind whirling with thoughts and plans, it was all but a miracle that he noticed as he happened upon a road – a well-worn dirt path that was as hard-packed as the floor in the house had been. Roads meant people, and people meant structure. Sure, he'd have to be on guard, but if there were people around here somewhere, then that meant that Harry wouldn't be alone trying to protect himself from the strange creatures he would encounter.
A moan coming from behind him broke Harry from his thoughts, earning a flinch as he whipped around, coming face-to-face with a decaying creature that looked like it had once been human. Flesh was peeling from its face, eye sockets hollow and dirty bandages falling from outstretched arms. As macabre as it was, Harry was relieved that it wasn't another sentient creature – he'd seen Dudley playing video games with zombies in them before, and he'd heard of inferi. It wasn't as though the concept of the undead was foreign to him. It was easier to kill something that was already dead than it was to kill something that was living and breathing – or at least, he hoped it would be.
Harry waited until the zombie was close enough to swipe at him to dodge, and retaliate with a clumsy sword strike, heart in his throat as he felt the contact all the way up his arm. There was no blood this time, though, and that more than anything else kept him steady on his feet, wincing as another swipe from the zombie caught him in the side. The creature's nails were blunt, not sharp enough to cut through even his thin cotton t-shirt, but it hurt nevertheless, leaving what Harry was certain would become a nasty bruise. He swung the sword again, a relieved sigh escaping him as the blade managed to cut deep into the zombie's side, causing the undead creature to fall like a puppet with its strings cut.
Harry hissed in pain as he pressed his free hand to his side, pausing to lift his shirt and look at what he could of the injury. Four raised lines indicated that, though the zombie hadn't cut through the shirt, it had still managed to scrape him and cause a fair bit of damage. Small dots of blood welled up at the initial impact point, not enough to scab but enough to make him wince in reaction. Alright, so there were devils, and there were zombies. This was looking more and more like one of Dudley's video games – the ones that he actually tried to be stealthy about, so Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon couldn't make him stop playing them because of the 'magical imagery' and the 'unnaturalness'.
The dirt road was long and winding, but as Harry followed it, he realized that it was leading somewhere, and sooner than he'd expected – he could hear the low murmur of civilization, and could see in the distance the warm glow of a fire. A soft sigh escaped him as he refreshed his grip on the blade, arm starting to ache from the weight of it. Either he needed to find something to carry it in, when he wasn't using it, or he needed a lighter weapon.
The camp that Harry found when the dirt road ended was enclosed by a stone fence, a tall wooden gate hanging open in a way that suggested it would close at night proving the only visible entrance. Inside, he could see tents and campfires making it a far more welcoming presence than the rest of the rather hostile plain around it. Anxiety crawling under his skin, Harry pushed up his glasses and made his way inside. Time for some Gryffindor courage – he would never get anywhere if he didn't try, first.
Several people were milling around the camp, most dressed in some kind of leather armor, others dressed in comfortable-looking travel clothes. All of them were visibly armed, in one way or another – bows slung over shoulders, scabbards with swords on hips, knives sheathed on various different places. But despite the hostility implied in such a heavily-armed crowd, most of the people walking around the camp looked friendly, if not jovial. Harry came to a stop at the large campfire in the center of the camp, looking around as he warmed his hands, stretching out the arm that had been carrying his sword since he got it.
A taller man, with dark skin and a blue scarf wrapped around his head, approached Harry with an easy smile on his face. "Greetings, stranger," he welcomed, the warmth on his face equally evident in his voice.
"Hello," Harry agreed, trying not to sound as wary as he felt. It wasn't hard to feel out of place here – nothing about him belonged, or matched up with anyone else in the camp. From his ragged-looking hair to his t-shirt and jeans, even down to his falling-apart trainers was clearly not meant for travel, or for survival in the wilderness, not like every other person walking around the camp.
"I'm not surprised to see your kind here," the man said with a soft huff of a laugh. "Many adventurers have traveled this way since the recent troubles began. No doubt you've heard about the tragedy that befell the town of Tristram."
"Er... no, I haven't, actually," Harry admitted cautiously, brow furrowing as he shifted, turning all of his attention on the man.
The man's eyes widened slightly, expression faltering, before he brightened again, clearly gearing up to tell a story. "Some say that Diablo, the Lord of Terror, walks the world again. I don't know if I believe that, but a Dark Wanderer did travel this route a few weeks ago. He was headed east to the mountain pass guarded by the Rogue Monastery. Maybe it's nothing, but evil seems to have trailed in his wake. You see, shortly after the Wanderer went through, the Monastery's Gates to the pass were closed and strange creatures began ravaging the countryside."
"That's..." Harry frowned, brow furrowing as he tried to put things together in his head. "You mean like the zombies, and the devils?"
"Yes, indeed," the man confirmed. "Until it's safer outside the camp and the gates are re-opened, I'll remain here with my caravan. I hope to leave for Lut Gholein before the shadow that fell over Tristram consumes us all. You seem as though you're a traveler – if you're still alive then, I'll take you along. You should talk to Akara, too. She seems to be the leader of this camp. Maybe she can tell you more."
Harry paused, then nodded. "I... right. Thank you," he said, then huffed a soft laugh. "Sorry, I didn't introduce myself. My name's Harry, Harry Potter." Harry offered a hand in greeting.
The man offered Harry a more genuine smile in return. "Warriv. It is a pleasure meeting you, Harry." He clasped Harry's forearm with a strong grip, rather than his hand, before releasing him with a smile. "If you need a place to sleep, I have a spare bedroll I can lend you until you've gotten one of your own. It looks as though you've had a rough few days."
Harry paused, glancing down at his hands. There was still blood drying under his fingernails. "...You could say that," he agreed, voice sounding a little weak. "Thank you. I'll probably take you up on that offer." Harry glanced around, then sighed. "Which tent is Akara's?"
Warriv let out an amused laugh, likely in response to Harry's expression. "The large purple one, near the entrance to the encampment. I wouldn't be surprised if she already knows of your arrival." Warriv gave Harry another friendly smile, a spot of warmth in the somehow chilly atmosphere of the camp. Probably the damp, Harry mused to himself. "You seem like a hardy young man – I look forward to seeing what you can do!"
"Thank you," Harry said, feeling a little awkward at the praise. What about him seemed hardy? He'd only ever been described as... well, scruffy at best. Hesitating just long enough for the moment to turn awkward, Harry turned on his heel, worrying at his lower lip while he looked around at the tents for the purple one Warriv had mentioned.
The man hadn't been wrong – it was a large tent, and vibrantly purple, standing out vividly against the shades of green, grey, and brown of the rest of the camp. People were milling about the encampment, lost in conversations or training, but almost subconsciously seemed to keep such hubbub away from the purple tent. Steeling himself with a deep breath, Harry breached the invisible line that seemed to mark Akara's tent from the others, and blinked at the sheer potency of the magic that he could feel. This was intense – deeper than even Hogwarts felt. His skin was tingly just from approaching the woman; he could hardly begin to fathom the power that she would hold.
Standing just outside of the purple tent with a knowing, almost expectant expression on her face, was a woman wearing purple, hooded robes. From what he could tell at this distance, she seemed stern, but serene – almost like McGonagall, if she were a dozen years younger and chose to wear a muggle approximation of what a witch should wear. She remained silent, though, watching Harry approach.
"Hello," Harry greeted after a moment, clearing his throat. He felt almost underdressed to meet this woman, and he fidgeted nervously, shifting his grip on the chipped shortsword in his grasp under her gaze. "...Warriv pointed me in your direction."
"Greetings, young sorcerer," Akara said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "I am Akara, High Priestess of the Sightless Eye." She scrutinized him for a moment longer, relaxing a little as he continued to fidget under the intensity of her gaze. "It is good to see more of your kind at work in the world, these dark days. Not many men choose to take up the mantle of a mage."
Harry was silent, considering her words – was magic something that you chose to learn, here? Not something you were born with? ...Hermione would love this.
"I welcome you, traveler, to our camp, but I'm afraid I can offer but poor shelter within these rickety walls." Akara's voice took on a mournful tone, and Harry frowned.
"It's better than no shelter at all," he pointed out, brow furrowing. "I– You're doing more than most people I know would."
"I would be doing more than this if I could. You see, our ancient Sisterhood has fallen under a strange curse," Akara explained. "The mighty Citadel, from which we have guarded the gates to the East for generations, has been corrupted by the evil Demoness, Andariel. I still can't believe it... but she turned many of our sister Rogues against us and drove us from our ancestral home. Now the last defenders of the Sisterhood are either dead or scattered throughout the wilderness." There was something angry in her expression, but deeper than Harry had ever seen someone exhibit before. Not the blustering anger Ron had when he got jealous, or even the cold rage that Voldemort tried to exhibit when he was resurrected a few months ago.
Harry opened his mouth to say something, anything, to try and lighten the woman's burden, but he let it fall shut when Akara fixed him with another look. "I tell you this to warn you of the danger inherent in remaining in the encampment. But more than that, I implore you, stranger: please help us. Find a way to lift this terrible curse and we will pledge our loyalty to you for all time." Harry swallowed thickly. Fighting for his life was one thing – he could barely manage to put himself together, to survive after being dropped in this world. He still knew next to nothing, just that these people needed help.
But... really, wasn't that enough?
"You can tell that I'm not from this land," Harry pointed out, his voice smaller than he intended. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "You can tell that I use magic. But I don't know anything about this world, not about your Sisterhood or Demons or anything like that." Harry glanced down at the sword in his hand, then back up at the woman, green eyes meeting dark eyes. "I'd never even... intentionally killed something until today. But if you, the Sisterhood... if you're willing to help me get a handle on things, I... I'll do everything I can to help," Harry said, faltering a few times before his voice gained strength, gained confidence. "I just... need a little guidance, doing it."
Akara looked him over, something inscrutable in her gaze before she decided that there was something that she approved of about him. "There is a place of great evil in the wilderness. Kashya's Rogue scouts have informed me that a cave nearby is filled with shadowy creatures and horrors from beyond the grave. I fear that these creatures are massing for an attack against our encampment. If you are sincere about helping us, find the dark labyrinth and destroy the foul beasts. May the Great Eye watch over you." The words were not spoken unkindly – this was a chance to prove himself. Not just that he was serious, but that he could overcome his fear, his newness, to keep the promise that he was making.
Harry considered the words, then nodded. "...You offered shelter. Is there somewhere that I could set up a chest, for my things? I don't have a tent, or any camping gear," he admitted after a moment.
Akara's gaze softened again at his hesitant admission. "Of course, young sorcerer. There is plenty of room near the center of the encampment, by Warriv's caravan. If you return at night, I am certain that he will have already prepared a bedroll for you. We may not have much, but we endeavor to help all those who need it."