Matou Shinji and the Price of Victory

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: It is a dark time for Matou Shinji. Though his performance at the Wizarding Schools Potions Championship was certainly impressive, his achievement was not without cost, as his actions in publicly using the Killing Curse, acting as a spy for Durmstrang, and otherwise defying British Law have finally caught up with him. On the cusp of being outmaneuvered by the authorities, the lone rebel bargains for a last-minute reprieve, gambling his life and freedom on hope of singlehandedly facing down the forces of an invading army. Yet, in the coming conflict, the boy who calls himself Matou Shinji will soon learn that the line between friend and foe very easily blurs, and that even victory carries a hefty price.


Chapter 2. Ira Vehementi

In the wake of the draconic ambush in the Atrium of the Ministry, there had been a moment where the will of the assault team – especially those who were not experienced mercenaries who knew to expect the very worst – had nearly broken, as facing a dragon in the course of this operation had never even been considered a possibility. Fighting Aurors, yes. Fighting constructs, yes. Fighting – and turning – dementors, yes.

…but not a dragon.

Why would they? Despite the (no doubt exaggerated) stories that drifted about Russia chronicling the rampage of the so-called Master of Wyrms (which most scholars agreed had probably just been a clever wizard who'd used transfigured drakes to strike fear into the hearts of his enemies while his followers did the truly nasty work), the many attempts by Dark Lords (and Ministries!) to emulate the legendary sorcerer's alleged ability to control those fearsome beasts had only proven that the stories had merely been stories.

That it was impossible to truly tame a dragon, and for all their efforts, all the blood and treasure countless governments and scholars had poured into their work, the closest anyone had ever managed to get was to chain up one of the fearsome beasts and have it attack anyone who approached a location, using it as a particularly vicious and difficult to manage guard dog.

Given the disappointing results of this work, it was not particularly surprising that funding for research into dragon taming – much like research into time travel (and related fields of study) beyond the very limited scope of what a Time Turner could allow – had dried up.

As such, the Reclaimers had been quite confident that they would not face a dragon in Britain, for if they couldn't tame one – and no one seriously expected that they would have, if no other magical nation in the world had managed it in hundreds of years, no matter how rich or prosperous – then the only scenario where a dragon might possibly come into play was if one was chained in the Atrium, which they thought thoroughly unlikely, given the traffic that they had been told the chamber saw on a daily basis.

And yet, the moment they had entered the Atrium, they had been beset by such a beast, with its flames burning the commander of the strike force to cinders in an instant.

A beast that was not chained, but loose…and flying, swooping here and there about the room as it released blasts of fire that melted inferi, shattered shields, tore apart formations.

Alexander Sokolov, one of the Reclaimer veterans and second-in-command of the assault force, swore under his breath as he realized what they were facing – what the British must have accomplished somehow. 'They…they tamed a dragon?' If they had truly managed such a thing then…well, then there was no possibility of turning back. With a flight of tame dragons under their command, poised to strike at the Continent, the British ceased to become a mere nuisance – they were now an existential threat both to every Ministry in Europe, as well as to the Statute of Secrecy.

"Dragon, a dragon! Anti-fire, now!" he barked, throwing up a spell to disguise the direction his voice was coming from, even as he followed his own advice and injected himself with a concoction that was ironically made mostly of dragon blood. 'At least that is what Alexi the Alchemist tells me. Ironic, that.'

He scanned the room with the light of his Hand of Glory, looking for any sign of the winged terror, though oddly, he saw – and heard – nothing.

'But how can that be—'

And then the dragon appeared out of the gloom, further back in the room, its maw opening wide as it unleashed dragonfire in a sweeping arc that ripped apart any of the inferi it touched – and a few of the wizards.

But this time, it did not get away injured, as the Reclaimers rallied their fellows, urging them to unleash a volley of Confringoes at the beast. Confringoes, not Killing Curses or other beam-type spells, because it was well known that a dragon's hide was more than tough enough to deflect most things, and well, if it moved, an explosion of shrapnel and concussive force had much more of a chance of hitting it than a beam.

…especially since most of their allies were not equipped with Hands of Glory and thus could not see through the gloom.

'Peruvian Darkness Powder, I expect – we'll have to wait for it to settle. Can't be more than a quarter of an hour though.'

KABOOM!

Surprisingly, as explosions went off one after another, there was a roar of utter fury…followed by a profound silence which made Alexander blink, because one moment the dragon had been there and reeling, and the next moment…it had disappeared. Not flown, not burrowed. Disappeared.

'What on earth?'

How could a dragon just disappear without a trace?

Perhaps…had they injured it grievously enough for an emergency portkey to activate, whisking the dragon away from battle?

Unlikely.

'Some kind of invisibility spell that masks sound as well? Or are we under some kind of mental interference, twisting our perceptions?'

There were too many possibilities. For all he knew, this was a trap, yet under the circumstances, there was no choice but to move in, come what may.

"Inferi forward - make for the gate," he commanded, seeing that the gateway to the rest of the Ministry seemed unguarded for the moment. "Wizards, decay curses on the inferi, then assume fortress formation." In the event the dragon was invisible and on the ground, the inferi would no doubt discover it, at which point the potent spells of decay upon the ones who discovered it would take effect, consuming flesh and magic both. Or well, they could explode in a gout of acid and cursed venom on command. That worked as well. But to make sure they didn't cook off ahead of time once the transfiguration and other spells were employed, well… "Prioritize ice spells - we have a dragon to slay!"


It was often said that anger clouded the mind, and that losing oneself to utter burning rage was never a good idea, for whatever power it might grant came with a steep price. Matou Shinji of course, dismissed this old saying as absurd, given that with his enhanced eyes and his experiences on the isle, he could see exactly how things would unfold if he proceeded as the fire in his veins demanded.

He would kill them of course. For making him suffer the indignity of retreating before nameless worms, he would their bodies apart, tear them limb from limb, trample them into the ground. He would bathe their defenseless forms in fire and laugh as the smell of their sizzling carcasses wafted to his nose, and their pitiful screams reached his ears.

Yes…it would be easy, so very easy.

He would start by flowing from his current position to behind the enchanted gate separating the Atrium from the small chamber where the elevators waited – locked down of course. There he would join his will with that of the earth, shifting the stone below the wood tiles of the Atrium floor to create a wall – a barrier – in front of the gate.

The curious insects would no doubt move forwards to examine it, or send their undead host against it – at which point the wall would erupt with spikes, impaling them.

Not that he was able to see too well in the inky darkness – he had to rely instead on his weak earth-sense, deciphering what enemies were doing – and what kinds of enemies there were – based on how they loped or shambled, or stood firm in something like a circle.

Undead and wretched practitioners.

They'd gotten lucky in wound him once, but it would not happen again. He'd allowed them one chance to strike him, and they'd taken it, so now it was his turn again, and now that they'd had their fun, he would show them the meaning of fear.

Well, the wand users in any case.

The undead…what did he care for mere instruments of flesh and magic such as those? Ignorant as pain as they might be, strong as they might be, shambling corpses could not possibly destroy an enchanted gate – not without the help from those who commanded them. And even if the wand users damaged the gate, brought it down…well, then all they would do was reveal what lay behind it: the two golems of gleaming metal which he'd called down from the armory to serve as the last line of defense for elevators.

Each of them was armed with a magical blade – one wreathed in shadows, and the other blazing with light – the effects of which would no doubt be hidden by the obscuring effects of the powder he'd released into the chamber – which he hoped was more than up to the job of carving through undead flesh.

The sun-bright sword which had called to him in the armory had gutted an armored practitioner (or he assumed the man had been armored anyway, since if not, he was even more a fool) like a fish, after all, and for all that the undead did not tire, they also did not wear armor – and they did not heal, so he assumed it would be a trifle to destroy them.

The blade of shadow he had less confidence in, but what use was a blade if it could not even crush a corpse?

Though…if the golems were so useful, perhaps he should simply open the gate and set them loose so that they could handle the rabble, while he focused on the more important threat: the practitioners of witchcraft who commanded this army.

It was only good practice to cut off the head of the snake, after all, and to cauterize the stump, just in case it happened to be a hydra or something else of that sort.

Yes…the more he thought it, the more he like the idea.

…the undead would busy themselves with slamming into his wall – and being impaled by the spikes that would erupt on contact, while he would craft yin-charged explosive ofuda as quickly as he could, and when he felt he had enough, he would open the gate and attack.

Since his foes had no idea of where he was in the dark, while he had a rough sense of their location, why not use their confusion to his advantage, letting them fly into a panic when they couldn't even see, couldn't even understand what was killing them.

Even now, they were huddling together in the way that prey animals sometimes did, in the vain hope (or perhaps delusion) that clustering together would somehow help them ward off a predator. It was silly, but humans, like all lesser beasts, often were.

He could taste it now – the terror that would spill from them as he rushed in, his ofuda flying before him as he flowed from one to another to keep his attack vector unpredictable, all the while raining explosions down upon the defenses of his foes from all angles, until they lay broken under his onslaught.

And then, and then…he would attack, summoning the sun-bright sword from the golem to gut them all in close quarters, flowing in, slicing a few, over and over and over as he slashed their bodies apart, leaving the Atrium awash in blood.

Yes...yes, it was the perfect plan, absolutely flawless.

...except that in that hectic melee, when he was gutting the necromancers left and right, he would be exposing himself to a bit of unnecessary risk. Not much risk, admittedly, because he knew they couldn't see him, but all it would take was one brave (or foolish) individual who decided that there was no greater glory than to die wounding a dragon, perhaps through a death curse or some such.

'No. Unacceptable. A dragon cannot be brought down by such wretched worms!'

If such an upset to the very order of things were to occur, then those mongrels would no doubt believe that they were mighty indeed. He would not – would never – allow them such a thing, for that would shame his name and memory forever. No true wyrm would allow itself to be felled by such insects…and if he was being honest, well…it was possible that the bites of those wretched ones might be…more harmful than he'd allowed himself to believe.

They had wounded him, after all, broken ribs and smashed organs, hurt him when he'd least expected it. And so he could not assume that they were as incompetent as most mortals had proven themselves to be, that they were helpless, even when crawling on the ground…

'…fine. I'll use another tactic,' he told himself.

Worms they might be, but as the monster who had once been his grandfather had once demonstrated, even worms could bite when cornered. Or well, melt the skin and bone of a human being into a pile of sludge, which was more or less the same thing.

And these worms...well, they were surprisingly tricky for mere practitioners, as they did not flinch away from the glory of his presence, from the heat of his flames.

Mm...flames, yes…such a beautiful thing.

Glorious as the unconquered sun above, as the dawn finally coming upon the world after the ravages of the long night, like the fire which had burned away a layer of the world, slaying gods and beasts and man alike.

The now felt like an echo of that time, of that age of darkness...of that age of mystery, when warriors and monsters strove to see who would take possession of...of everything.

The age of the Great Wyrms, of the echoes of the earth, of an age where there was no good or evil, where there was only power and those too weak to seek it.

...alas, that age was long past, and now mere vermin had inherited the earth. Vermin who pridefully thought of themselves as Kings of the World, masters of all they surveyed when they were but mongrels lapping up the leavings of their betters from an age ago, so very proud of their feeble efforts to achieve even a pale echo of those who had come before.

One only needed to look upon their works to see how far they stood from greatness.

Upon the blade of shadow, wrought of a spirit of endless hunger bound to metal unable to contain its power, and how it was nothing in the face of the ancient blade forged by the children of the Earth that gleamed like the sun, a blade that the Auror Tonks had called dangerous simply because it had killed the fools who had stabbed himself while trying to use it.

Upon the echoes of the fey that practitioners carried, the borrowed – stolen – pieces of the earth they used to let their insignificant little gifts be worth something in battle.

Upon the automatons which wielded blades far mightier than they, shoddy imitations of things far greater.

Still, even shoddy imitations could be useful when used against merely mortal flesh, and that of the walking dead, and so…he acted.

He flowed to the gate behind which the elevators were sealed, synchronizing his will with that of the earth to raise a wall, with the precious few ofuda he'd made to latching onto it, ready to pour their contents into the barrier the moment an enemy touched it – so that they would be impaled.

"Golems…exit the sealed area…" he hissed. "We will eliminate their army, and then…we will come for them…"

The wall wouldn't last forever - he knew that - even as he felt the first corpses touch the wall - only to explode into vile clouds of corrosive power that tore at his wall, but then it didn't need to. It just needed to last long enough for his golems to get into position.

'Fools...the moment that wall is down, my golems will swing into action.'

And then, all that awaited would be carnage.


Alexander Sokolov had not been quite sure what to expect from sending the inferi forward. He'd thought that perhaps he would expose the dragon, or at least destroy the gate, but he had not expected a wall to simply erupt out of nowhere.

Was there a wizard nearby? An invisible British agent who somehow evaded the inferi? Perhaps one who was on a broomstick?

He doubted it, though he didn't know for sure. He did know that their attempts to cover the walls with confringos had revealed nothing, and with his troops ensconced within a formation of overlapping magical shields reminiscent of the tortoise formation of the ancient Romans, he felt relatively secure. For now, they would see what response the inferi provoked, and if the beast the British had bound – or perhaps created through twisted experiments – were to appear once more, then…

Well, that was what Fiendfyre was for, so they could detonate every single one of the cursed undead, in a move sure to slay even a dragon.

'At least it should, theoretically.'

There had never been the chance to test such a thing in the field, given the usual opponents they'd faced and the rules of engagement they were under.

'No time like the first, they say.'


The moment the wall collapsed, chaos exploded onto the battlefield, with a cloud of ofuda spilling into the air as the draconic form of Matou Shinji burst into action, his body wreathed in flames as he surged into the mob of corpses, his claws tearing through their ranks with a bloody vengeance, with his golems hot on his heels.

His blood sang with the thrill of destruction as he ripped them limb from limb, tossed them into the air like rag dolls with bursts of prana, skewered corpse after corpse after corpse with threads of eerie shadow.

Had these worms really thought they could threaten him with these? With these shambling things that the lowliest of the Children of Gaia would have scoffed at? With these pieces of…walking kindling?

The wretched fools. They were as nothing before him.

Nothing.

...which was right about the time when the air ignited with the fury of a thousand suns, twisted beasts of fire landing amidst the countless corpses and triggering each of them to explode, with the result being some strange fusion of shadow and flame that turned half the Atrium into a window onto the face of Hell.

Around the boy, the wood of the Atrium burned to cinders in an instant. The stone beneath flashed to molten heat in an instant, just like his flesh and bones and nerves, with the being that called itself Matou Shinji reduced to nothing more than slag as the air, the stone, the world itself burned.


The members of the assault force were all but silent as they bore witness to the destruction they had wrought. Few wizards – few people – for that matter – had even been in a position to stand at what was nearly ground zero of such a titanic blast and live to tell the tale, yet through their coordination and ingenuity, they had.

"Bozhe moi," Alexander breathed, as his eyes took in how everything in the half of the Atrium in front of the great shields that his company had conjured and were reinforcing was burning.

The gate was gone, simply erased, as if it had never been.

The wood had been scorched away from every surface. The very stone of the walls and floor was molten and bubbling, with the floor on the verge of collapse. The ceiling was in even worse shape

A hole had even opened on the ceiling, through which some of the flames had escaped, with the floors above having turned into a raging inferno that would have consumed any still present.

And of the dragon, there was no trace.

"We won…?" someone spoke, seeming dazed. "Is it…is it gone?"

"It has to be…" one of the others murmured reverently. "Nothing could have survived that."

Alexander whirled about, wanting to rebuke whoever it was who had said such a thing, as one never simply assumed that an enemy was dead without confirmation.

But mid-movement, he froze as he saw something out of the corner of his eye.

A hand.

Not just any hand – a hand wrought of molten stone.

'No…' he thought desperately, hoping that the worst thing he could imagine was not about to come to pass.

Yet his protests availed him naught, as the hand was followed by an arm, and then a head…a reptilian head who seemed to look right at him with a baleful golden gaze.

"FOOLS," the monster snarledin a voice that was like stone rubbing against stone. "I AM FIRE!"


Matou Shinji was caught by surprise as a conflagration hotter than anything he'd ever known in his short existence consumed him, flames laced with malice and hunger ripping at his flesh, tearing at his bones, boiling his fatty tissues, charring him to cinders even as he was engulfed by molten stone.

And yet, as the heat washed over him, flowed into him, hurt him in a thousand different ways, he welcomed it, breathed it in, let the lava envelope him even as he reshaped it into him, drawing out every last scrap of prana within it to replenish his reserves and regenerate, his injuries from the curses of decay withering his body attempting to reduce him to dust over and over again, even as he remade himself as many times as it took.

For in the end, he was not something as weak and fragile as flesh and blood – he was fire – he was rage, born from a supreme act of destruction that had crippled even a god.

If these fools wished to kill him, they would have to do far better than they had, and as he clawed his way out of the molten chrysalis he had found himself in, spreading his wings, he found himself laughing at their folly, a sound of contempt for the scum who thought they could fell a dragon.

He looked for a moment at the wretch who was responsible for his suffering, before sending a blast of dragonfire at the man, for was turnabout not fair play?

…but his attempts were thwarted by a great barrier than apparently spanned the width of the atrium, a barrier that was absolute proof against fire.

"Hmph," the boy scoffed. So these practitioners had a fancy trick or two. No matter. It wasn't as if he had to sully his hands to bring down their vaunted shield, not when… 'Hm…that will do.'

The golem wielding the shadow blade was mostly a pile of slag, but for all that apparently still functional, at least in that functional meant 'able to move at all.' Surprisingly, the artificers of Britain were not utterly useless when it came to creating things that endured after all. He would have to take back…perhaps one in fifty bad things he'd said about the country and those in it, since he was being generous?

No, one in a hundred, since the one wielding the blade of light was utterly ruined, even if the blade itself seemed just as bright and unblemished as when he'd first seen it.

'Well, then, time to finish this little charade,' the figure of molten stone thought to himself with a little chuckle, ordering the one surviving golem forward. While they kept up the barrier, it wasn't as if they could harm him, after all.

As he did so, there was a loud pop, as a number of giants arrived.

'Tch. More worms. Big ones, but worms all the same.'

They would not distract him from his true enemies – the wand-wielding wretches who had been a thorn in his side since the beginning of the battle, who'd had the audacity to raise their hands against their betters.

Those little worms – they needed to die.

Now.

Even if their little trick with fire and decay had failed to truly harm him in the end, much as their other devisings were useless before the might of a great wyrm, they had sought to end his existence, and such a thing deserved no less than death in turn.

After all, it was said the only ones who should kill were those prepared to be killed, yes? That was the rule for magi, and soldiers, and any who mattered. And he, the one carrying out the will of Britain, would be generous by showing these worms they mattered – by ending their lives personally.

Flowing forward, he scooped up the sword of light, marveling as its warmth filled him, the heat and sharpness of the ancient weapon feeling most pleasing to his senses. He could almost feel the weight of its Mystery, of the history etched upon it by the blood of all it had slain.

It's thirst for human life, born of a curse that would only be quieted by the spilling of blood each time it was drawn.

The being laughed, or would have, had he not already been licking his lips in anticipation of the slaughter to come. Seeing the last expression of these arrogant fools as the life bled from their eyes would be so very...delicious...

All the more so that what would ensure their destruction them would not be this ancient blade, not the fire of a wyrm they had rejected, but a construct wrought of mortal hands.

'Golem. Charge the enemy position,' he ordered, even as he launched a barrage of fiery ofuda to try and cover the approach of the lumbering, half-melted automaton, with him flowing from one place to another and unleashing gouts of fire meant to blind the defenders as they impacted the fortress shield, keeping them from seeing what he was doing.

Such a distraction wouldn't last long, not against trained and disciplined forces like these, but it didn't need to - it only needed to last a handful of seconds, just long enough for the golem to arrive on scene and plunge its sword of darkness into the barrier, with magical energies hissing and bubbling at the point of contact as the sword began to disintegrate, and the golem with it, the fell presence within devouring and devouring anything it could touch, until at last, the shield began to flicker.

With his lips tugging upward into a cruel smile, Matou gave the golem one final order, one it could do even when it was sparking and jerking about.

'Detonate.'

His foes had no chance to react before the blast, which even the boy had underestimated, blew everything away.

The barrier collapsed, shredded into nothingness before what seemed like the hammerblow of a War God.

And with it down, the blast wave continued, with Shinji adding a gout of dragonfire to ensure they met their end.

With his senses, Shinji thought there might have been a blur of movement, with something vanishing or being displaced just before the twin blasts of the golem's destruction and his fire hit the doomed practitioners, but it didn't matter to him, not really.

It wasn't as if any worm could have escaped this trap with apparition or one of those other pedestrian ways the westerners used to get around, but just in case something survived this…he added a confringo supercharged by dark prana.

All he knew was that when the terrible din faded, the darkness itself had been banished, and all that remained where the merely human wretches had stood was a massive crater in the ground, one that tore clear through to the next floor, if not beyond.

The boy tried to remember exactly what was beneath him, what was below the Atrium, but caught up in thrill of battle, he couldn't recall, really.

'They're dead. That's all that matters,' he told himself, though he loosed a second Confringo into the area below, just in case there were...survivors. Not that there would be after that, but there was nothing wrong with overkill, was there?

With that bit of pleasantness settled, he turned his focus to the giants, some of which had been knocked on their arses by the might of the explosion.

'Right. Time to die.'

The dragon grinned, Tyrfing held high as he flashed in, cutting, cutting, cutting, as blood spurted, beings roared, and lives were extinguished. Their armor...was useless. The resistance of their hides...was useless. Their futile struggle...was useless, as he killed and killed and KILLED, his laughter echoing through the Atrium as he reveled in the slaughter of his stricken foes.

Death. Death. Death. Death. DEATH!

He'd shown them. He'd shown them all. Truly, in this moment, he was unstoppable.

...which made it all the more ironic that it was at that moment that a darkness deeper than that of the powders he'd released billowed up from the floor below, with the boy feeling a sense of all too mortal terror as he laid eyes on it as it bubbled forth like an inescapable tide.

At once, the figure of molten stone sprung into the air, trying his best to get away from it, to escape what every shred of instinct within him knew would be his death, should it touch him. Almost – almost he made it to the hole in the ceiling…but not before the ceiling collapsed, with an entire floor – no several floors – of rubble raining down upon him.

He tried to dodge, and to his credit, he evaded five, six, nine pieces of stone – but it was the one he didn't see that smashed his head in, slamming him down as the darkness rose up to meet him, and the boy named Matou Shinji knew no more.