An Incomplete Potter Collection ch Collection 2
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
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Death's Master
Ambitiously Ron
Hippogriff Escapees
Harry Meets Stitch
Harry Fiendfyre
Dragons and Feathers
Harry Zombie Job
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Story: [Death's Master]
Summary: Harry musing on his rather... peculiar love-life after becoming Master of the Hallows.
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Harry sometimes really wanted to punch Dumbledore in the face. Repeatedly.
This wasn't because he'd ruined his life with his numerous plans and schemes, that he'd caused the deaths of his loved ones and that he'd manipulated him into doing whatever Dumbledore thought that he ought to be doing.
No, the reason Harry really wanted to punch Dumbledore in the face, was because... well, her.
She never left him alone, following him around like an excited puppy. It was maddening, and he couldn't get rid of her no matter what he tried.
After all, it wasn't like he could actually kill Death. And nothing less would stop his bizarrely cheerful servant.
Turns out that Master of Death wasn't quite as conceited a title as he'd originally believed, and that Death was perhaps a little bit of a masochist. Still hot as hell though, even if she did have a rather peculiar interest in being tied up and ordered around. All in all, Harry wouldn't have exactly minded having Death stalking him with a lustful expression, except nobody else could see her, and didn't that just make it terribly awkward to introduce anyone to her?
Ginny hadn't been very forgiving. Though, considering she'd walked in on him getting molested in his sleep by something she couldn't see, Harry could hardly blame her for it. In fact, he thought she'd handled it remarkably well up until Death tried to convince them into a threesome, at which point Harry had scolded the invisible pervert rather severely since her touch had a tendency to kill pretty much anyone else she touched.
Harry's and Ginny's relationship had understandably crashed and burned after that. It takes a special kind of woman to not only let her boyfriend sleep around with his invisible stalker, but ignore how said stalker could kill her at any point in time completely by accident.
Then again, having sex with Death was always a... confusing, but almost disturbingly pleasurable affair. The jokes about him being a necrophile had been uncomfortable at best, and led to public outrages at worst.
Where had they even gotten all those pitchforks?
So yeah, for so horribly complicating his life and accidentally hooking him up with Death, Harry really wanted to punch Dumbledore in the face.
Not that he didn't like her a lot, despite her quirks. Harry had lived a rather isolated and lonely life, and to say that he had trust issues would be a lot like calling the ocean 'wet', so the absolute loyalty he could so easily find in the pretty – much older – woman's personality had quickly made him rather content with his lot.
But that didn't make his love-life any less complicated, and so his determination to punch Dumbledore in the face persisted.
Harry was still trying to figure out if there was any way that he and Death could end up with kids. It sounded absurd, and he wasn't entirely sure of if it was a good idea by any stretch of the word, but Harry had always wanted a big family and if Death was the only female in his life, then perhaps it was a worthy thought to consider.
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Story: [Ambitiously Ron]
Summary: Ron Weasley, in a world designed for the general bashing-fic, is determined to make a difference.
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Harry Potter looked up at the freckled redhead sticking his head inside of his compartment.
"Hello. My name is Ron Weasley, can I sit here?"
Not wanting to scare off this possible first friend of his life, Harry nodded hurriedly, gesturing at all the empty seats.
The boy smiled in an interestingly nervous way, but took one of the seats, closing the door behind him, but not putting away his trunk.
Harry thought that this was odd, but he really didn't want to risk scaring away this new potential friend.
"Right. Well..." The boy's ears turned a little red. "I'm just going to say this bluntly." He cleared his throat. "My name is Ron Weasley, you are from description, Harry Potter. I've been assigned to be your 'best mate' for the rest of our schooling." There was embarrassment in his voice, as well as annoyance.
"Assigned by who?" Harry asked with a frown, not liking the thought of having friends only because people told them to be friends with him.
"My parents, of course, and technically on the orders of Albus Dumbledore." Ron answered with a frown. "Which leads me to my next point. Don't trust my family." He stared deep into Harry's eyes, trying to convey just how serious he was about this. "Percy will follow even the rules that are obviously retarded. The twins don't understand the concept of not crossing the line. And my sister has been... well, 'brainwashed' doesn't seem like a bad choice of words, into believing that she will become 'Mrs Potter' when she graduates."
Harry's mouth popped open as he stared at this boy who was telling him this kind of stuff about his own family. Suddenly, the Magical World was making Harry feel distinctly uncomfortable.
"Bottom line: Don't trust my family, and don't trust Dumbledore. I don't know for sure that Dumbledore is out to get you, or actually evil, or whatever, but don't trust him." Ron then slumped back into his seat. "Sorry to dump this on you, but like I said, I've been 'assigned' as your best mate, and I need to convince you that Gryffindor is the only House worth a damn, and that my family is 'poor but noble', so if you can pretend to believe that by the time we show up at Hogwarts, it'd be great."
"Why are you telling me all this?" Harry wondered if this boy disliked him.
"Because you deserve to know." The boy shrugged. "And I would really like not to be forced to pretend to be a retarded monkey around someone."
"Retarded monkey?"
"I have five older brothers." Ron began, frowning slightly. "All of them driven, all of them talented, all of them popular in their own way. We're poor, so I will always be given hand-me-downs, and no matter what I do, I will never be anything more than 'the sixth son'. Especially since my little sister is the first female Weasley in generations." He paused, staring out the window. "I was eighth when I realized that I didn't matter. Only my age mattered, because I was your age, and that gave me the ability to be used to become 'the friend of the Boy-Who-Lived'. And the best way to make sure that I don't mess up their plans, is for me to be too stupid to realize that what I'm doing is morally questionable. So I fake it, pretend that I'm hopeless at everything, act like a moron whenever possible." He shook his head in disgust. "I don't want that to be the rest of my life. I don't want to fade away into obscurity, but there's nothing I can do about it." He suddenly turned back to Harry, a smirk dancing on his lips. "But you can. Because you are the Boy-Who-Lived, and you're 'destined for great things'."
"So you want to bask in my glory?" Harry's frown had turned into a glare.
"No." Ron's face distorted into indignant anger as his fists clenched. "That's what my family wants me to do. I want to get the hell away from my family, and to do that without being labeled as 'Dark' I'm going to need your help."
"Why would you be Dark if you don't want to be with your family?" Was the curious question he received in turn.
"Because I'm a Weasley, one of the blood-traitors, and thus belonging to the poor but noble, and prominently Light family." Ron explained. "If I break off from them, I can't be 'Light' and therefore I must be 'Dark'."
"But that makes no sense!" Harry exclaimed, trying to wrap his head around such illogical logic.
"We're wizards. Common sense hasn't been seen naturally occurring for centuries." Ron pointed out bluntly.
Harry considered what he knew of Hagrid for a moment, and found himself reluctantly agreeing with Ron's assessment.
"So, how do you expect me to help?" Harry finally asked.
"Don't blow my cover until after the OWLs in our fifth year." Ron admitted. "In order for my plan to work, I would need to be around you too often for it to be mere coincidence. And if you then break off from under Dumbledore and actually make a side worth supporting, I can easily join your side against my family and Dumbledore's without being labeled as Dark."
"So you want me to pretend to be the 'mastermind' behind some organization that you can join?" Harry wasn't sure he liked where this was going. "What for?"
"Well, obviously, unless you're planning on marrying my sister and doing whatever Dumbledore tells you to, then you're going to need to start up a new side." Ron pointed out reasonably. "There are a few ways of doing that: you could become the next Dark Lord, you could trick Dumbledore into killing himself after making you his heir, or you could convince the muggleborns that your side is inherently better for them than any of the others."
"How would my side be 'better'?" Harry demanded, now slightly intrigued, and rather relieved that Ron's expression made it rather clear that becoming a Dark Lord wasn't a recommended option.
"Dumbledore is a traditionalist." Ron leaned forward conspiratorially. "That means that he'll support 'old laws' and 'culture' and stuff. Whilst Dark Lords only really crop up from the purebloods and wouldn't be interested in muggleborn rights by any stretch of the word. This all means that as long as 'old laws and culture' include 'discrimination against muggleborns', Dumbledore will support it." Ron grinned an almost evil grin. "And once the muggleborns start to actually realize that before they get too old to make a difference, his support-base will crumble underneath him. All you need to do is to shake things up a bit, and then offer an alternative flag to flock to."
Harry didn't know anything about politics, he didn't really understand who Dumbledore was, and he had no clue as to what might be included in wizarding culture, but Ron's enthusiasm was infectious, and it didn't take long before Harry accepted Ron's plan on a 'trial basis'.
They shook hands and everything.
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When Hermione Granger first entered their compartment, apparently trying to help the stuttering Neville with finding his toad, Harry's and Ron's eyes met.
She was muggleborn. She was in their own year. And she was both helpful and smart.
The only question they could ask themselves now was: would Longbottom help?
"Harry. What would it matter if you get seen in the company of Longbottom, and a muggleborn, helping him out?" Ron said with a serious face, obviously deep in thought.
Harry considered this for a while, ignoring the way that Hermione bristled and Neville slumped.
"It would mean that I'm helpful." He admitted. "It would also give most of them a short glimpse of me, might force me to confront people I really don't want to meet."
Ron nodded. "Right, but it would also mean that I'd be forced to come with you, in order to keep my cover."
"And in the presence of a Weasley so early on..." Harry trailed off. "I would be Dumbledore's man, solidifying my status as Light, but also risking to turn me into a puppet in their eyes."
"What are you two going on about?" Hermione finally demanded angrily.
Ron and Harry's eyes met, and they shared a nod.
"Close the door you two." Harry told them. "We'll explain everything."
It took a while, and both of them protested against Ron's assessment of their headmaster's games. But in the end, their duo had become a quartet.
Harry would be the 'Gryffindor Golden Boy', keeping everyone assured that nothing was wrong, whilst at the same time being distant enough that nobody would look twice. Ron would be their 'beard' so to speak, making absolutely sure that nothing slipped out to the public before they were ready to move. Hermione was to show off as the 'muggleborn prodigy' in everything, even if it meant that they would all have to chip in to teach her, just to make her a symbol against the purebloods. And Neville was to become the 'social network' to keep them aware of everything around them.
Harry would only interact with the rest of the quartet, and was allowed to have casual acquaintances outside of them, but not anything deeper – Ron had considered the involvement of romance later on in their lives, but it was of no consequence right now. Ron would interact with the rest of the quartet, and be rude in that oafish sort of way to anyone trying to come closer to them. Hermione would interact with the quartet, the teachers and any other potential prodigies. And Neville would interact with the quartet, and the Hufflepuffs.
The Hufflepuffs were chosen as Neville didn't believe he'd be brave enough for Gryffindor, despite Hermione's quote of bravery not being the absence of fear as much as the determination to go on regardless. Ron was worried that he might be Sorted into Slytherin, as that would completely ruin all of their plans. And Hermione was likely either a Ravenclaw or a Gryffindor. Harry wasn't given a choice in his House, as Slytherin would again ruin their plans utterly, Hufflepuff wouldn't get him taken seriously once they made their move, and Ravenclaw would make him appear too 'neutral'.
Yes, they'd planned it all. Because Ron was determined to get away from a family trying to manipulate an eleven year old orphan on the orders of an insane old man. Because Hermione was always curious about what else they might add on their new lists and schedules. Because Harry didn't want to be blindsided by the madness of the Wizarding World. And because Neville wanted concrete instructions on how in the world he was supposed to 'befriend' enough people to work as a social network.
It took them most of the train-ride but in the end, they had their plan. And Neville was determined to make the most out of his continuously escaping toad.
Ron Weasley never showed off Scabbers to his new friends and partners in crime, not because he got distracted through his endless plotting, but rather because – despite what he wanted people to think – he didn't trust the thing.
Rats lived for maybe four years, not ten.
Rats enjoyed rat-activities, such as eating, sleeping, and running in a wheel.
Therefore, perhaps it was rather obvious that he greeted Harry, only once he'd made sure to dump the fat rat into another person's bag.
The rat ended up in the bag of one Susan Bones.
She screamed when she found it there the next morning at Hogwarts, which caused several older Hufflepuffs to rush to her aid.
Only to discover that the rat in question wasn't really a rat.
Susan sent an Unbreakable box to her aunt by owl before lunch.
Sirius Black would get a trial before the school year ended.
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They were all Sorted into Gryffindor, much to their relief. This would make their quartet so much easier to form, so much less suspicious.
Hermione had been thrown into Gryffindor once the Hat realized that despite her Ambition and Intelligence, it was her Bravery that told her their plan ought be successful. Neville was Sorted into Gryffindor after a brief discussion about what Bravery truly was, and noting that his Loyalty had already been 'stolen' by his fellow conspirators. Harry was finally given to Gryffindor after he'd managed to convince the Hat that he was being foolishly Brave with the whole plan-thing since he had no idea what he was getting himself into, and not at all Ambitious or Cunning, honest. And Ron was sent to Gryffindor after a few very long moments that consisted of him viciously denying that any true Slytherin ever gets Sorted into Slytherin.
The Hat had sounded suspiciously amused on all four occasions, but they were willing to let that slide as they were after all rather grateful to it for allowing them to sneak under the radar.
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Story: [Hippogriff Escapees]
Summary: Hermione and Harry follow Sirius in his escape together with Buckbeak, because being on the run is infinitely better than returning to their respective 'homes'.
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It's a small thing. Barely worth mentioning, really. But as they descend to land on the school grounds, Buckbeak moving beneath them in a bizarrely effortless way, Sirius muses that this was the first time he'd been happy to leave his first true home.
And Hermione and Harry learns that they're not alone. That someone else knew of parents who ignored their existence no matter how well they did their schoolwork, that someone else knew of relatives who locked them in a cupboard for wanting to eat their fill. That someone else came to Hogwarts and hoped only to find a way out.
And they look at the man who he became, and how the world would treat someone who only wishes to be free, and two third year students wonder if Hogwarts won't betray them too, in the end.
Harry and Hermione's eyes meet, and they know that they're thinking the same.
Sirius refuses. Resolutely denies them.
Hermione tells him how she made her first friends. And Harry shows him his scars, both of an upbringing that should never have happened, and of school years that should've never been imagined.
Sirius caves, eyes clouding in silent rage at what they've faced.
That night, contrary to the plans of an old man, contrary to the wishes of a petty bully, contrary to the beliefs of a coward, three broken people ride out of Hogwarts on the back of a condemned Hippogriff.
One is a genius that would never be appreciated for the parents that birthed her. One is an innocent man sentenced to death for crimes he never committed, without a trial ever being considered. And the final one is a boy who learned his own wildly famous name wasn't 'boy' or 'freak' only when a teacher called attendance on his first day of school.
Three people, betrayed by their world every step of the way, who found comfort in the appearance of others like them. Three people, who would never willingly separate again.
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"Dumbledore sent another note." Harry called to the rest of his companions.
Sirius made a frustrated noise. "You'd think the old coot would learn to give up."
"Did Fawkes bring it?" Hermione asked cautiously, wanting to know if their attempts at warding themselves from the Instant Return Transportation Bird had succeeded.
"No, a school owl." Harry very carefully did not touch the letter, having been warn previously by Sirius of the dangers of portkeys.
Hermione let out a breath in relief, before turning to the letter in question. "So, what do we do with it?"
"Burn it?" Harry suggested.
"Burn it and ward against future owls?" Sirius added onto his suggestion.
"I would like to say, disarm it and read what he's got to say... but yes, considering who he is, it'd be an unnecessary risk for reading what is most likely another message for Harry to return to the Dursleys." Hermione sighed in disgust.
She'd admired Albus Dumbledore, once. She hadn't been as close to him as Harry, but then she wasn't the Boy-Who-Lived and essential to some obscure plan of his. Now, she wondered just what 'Greater Good' that the old headmaster would always speak of was.
"He really has a one-track mind." Harry commented absently as he used his Trace-lacking wand to turn the letter to ashes.
There was a brief flash as the magic in the parchment-bound portkey activated, and the pile of ashes disappeared.
They'd almost fallen for it the first time, only Sirius' well-founded paranoia from having been on the run for most of a year keeping them from being dragged back, kicking and screaming.
Removing the Trace had proved a tiny bit annoying, a little bit complicated, but surprisingly simple. Apparently, Sirius had removed the Trace from his own wand when he was still in school. Something about not wanting to be found out for doing pranks. A lot of his stories were based around pranks. In fact, they were pretty much the only happy memories he had left to cling to after the Dementors had finished with him.
It's not truly happiness when you curse a traitor in those memories, and endlessly mourn your best friend, before feeling guilty of suspecting the third. The memories were at best bittersweet, and Hermione could understand just what it meant that Sirius had actually managed to be motivated to do anything whilst in the presence of those things, let alone actually break out.
Of course, the fact that an owl had found them meant that it was time to move again. Very quickly, before anyone who might've followed that owl decided to drop in.
And so the three escapees hurriedly asked Buckbeak for a ride.
Buckbeak thought that they were idiots, but he'd apparently become fond of their idiocy over the last week, because he let Harry and Hermione up. Sirius mounted Harry's Firebolt with Crookshanks and they were off, Hedwig following in their wake.
This was because Hermione didn't trust either of the boys not to make dips and turns on the broom whilst she was with them, and thereby causing her to scream in a most undignified manner. Sirius thought it was funny, Harry thought it was cute, Hermione threatened to take vengeance on them and both males folded.
Hermione would be riding Buckbeak, and since she wasn't to be trusted in the air, Harry – the lighter of the two males – rode with her.
By the time they'd landed after that first night rescuing Sirius, Crookshanks had greeted them. None of them could figure out how the half-kneazle could've known where they were going, but Hermione had for once been too happy to ask too many questions. Hedwig had shown up a night or two after that, looking perfectly content, and giving off the impression that the only reason she was late was because she'd decided to go sightseeing on the way.
She'd also been carrying Harry's broom in her claws. And a bag that'd been charmed feather-weight, that was filled with both Harry's meager possessions and food. Glorious, heavenly food.
In hindsight, they really should've packed something to eat before they fled Hogwarts.
Still, there'd been a lot of confusion as to how Hedwig had gotten her hands on such a brilliant packer, until they'd found a note telling Mr Great Harry Potter Sir to be careful on his trip.
All three agreed that if they ever saw Dobby again, they'd kiss him.
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Ron Weasley sat with the Daily Prophet in his hands, reading silently and ignoring his mother's screeching.
Harry had left. Just up and left, no goodbyes, nothing. Hermione had followed him, and now they were on the run.
A part of him wanted to rant and scream, to yell at them for abandoning him. But he was happy at home, and he knew very well that neither of his friends were.
He couldn't blame them for not wanting to go home, for wanting to get away from their 'families', even if he didn't like the idea of being left alone.
The Daily Prophet was filled with headlines concerning his two best friends, and the supposed mass murderer Sirius Black. Apparently, they'd been 'kidnapped' by the madman. The thought made him want to laugh, because he was fairly sure that he would've been the one most against them leaving with him.
He hoped that they would manage to clear Sirius' name before September, so that he would be able to continue his schooling with the two of them, but he wasn't expecting that to happen. He'd heard of what Fudge had done before, and it was clear that he didn't want to allow Sirius his trial. Ron wasn't sure why; if it was Malfoy lining his pockets, or his attempts at covering up his own incompetence, but Sirius Black wouldn't be receiving a trial – even if the DMLE had apparently gotten Fudge to withdraw the Kiss-on-sight order on behalf of him traveling with two minors, one of which was the Boy-Who-Lived.
No, Ron had resigned himself to trying to find someone else to spend time with for his next year in Hogwarts. Possibly for the rest of his schooling.
His mother, on the other hand, was ranting and raving about the evil man kidnapping innocent children, which was actually starting to get on Ron's nerves.
"Mom. Shut. Up." He finally growled at her.
The silence was almost deafening. Nobody interrupted Molly's rants, especially not her own children, it just wasn't done.
"Harry went happily, Hermione followed without hesitation, and Sirius Black is innocent." Ron explained to his stunned mother.
"Innocent?! Bah! And what do you mean Harry went happily?! Why would he consort with a criminal?!" She demanded in a shrill voice.
"Because he is his godfather!" Ron yelled back. "And anything that gets him away from his relatives is a good thing in his book!"
"Humph! And what of this girl, then?! Is he her godfather too?!" Molly demanded angrily.
"No, she went because she can't stand her parents and probably didn't want to leave Harry alone!" Ron glared at her.
"I didn't raise you to be snappy!" She pointed angrily at him.
"You raised me by yelling at me, and stuffing me with food!" Ron scowled back at her.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley! Go to your room!" She yelled.
Ron threw his hands up in the air and marched off. "And Scabbers was Peter Pettigrew in disguise!" He shouted back at her as he slammed the door.
It would be some time before he realized it, but it was at that moment that the Weasleys began to realize that there was something... 'off' about their household. It would be even longer until Ron realized that he might've actually had a good reason for following his friends away.
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Remus took a deep breath as he made his way towards Number 4 Privet Drive.
Hermione's parents had been... bad, and he really wasn't looking forward to whatever Harry's relatives were like.
After he'd realized what had happened during his transformation, Remus wanted answers. Because children shouldn't believe that being on the run from the Ministry was better than going home for summer.
Okay, sure, most kids would hear about being on the run and think of all the cool and exciting parts, but to actually have a child go through with it? That set off alarm bells in Remus' book.
So, he'd visited the Grangers, trying to get a good clue as to why their daughter was willing to just up and leave one day.
He'd found a house so clean that it could be called sterile, and faces so indifferent that he wondered if they weren't made of plastic. Imagining a child growing up in that environment sent shivers down his spine. It might not have been as bad as what Sirius went through growing up, but it was certainly enough to leave the child with scars for life.
So, having determined that Hermione's home wasn't a very pleasant place to return, Remus continued on his way in order to check up on what Harry's home-life had been like.
He knocked on the door.
A face appeared on the other side. "You people!" The woman hissed, her face twisted into disgust. "We don't know where he is! Bugger off!"
Remus, slightly taken aback at the poison in the woman's tone, felt his eyes narrow in suspicion.
He wasn't an auror, he wasn't a minor, and he'd lived a harsh enough life to know that sometimes you couldn't play nice with everyone.
He pulled his wand.
The door opened and he was grudgingly invited inside by the Confounded muggle.
Then, inside of the revoltingly pristine house, Remus began to ask his questions.
To say that he wasn't pleased at what he found would've been an understatement.
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"There were bars on his windows Albus!" Remus roared as he swept into the Great Hall, ignoring the teachers startling at his sudden entrance.
Dumbledore flinched in his seat, but Remus didn't care.
He'd been upset when he'd first been told that he wouldn't be allowed to visit his friend's orphaned son all those years ago, but he'd accepted it just as he accepted all other discrimination he was subjected to due to his disease. He'd accepted to teach DADA for a year as the world searched for his supposed-massmurderer of a friend in order to keep that same boy safe, and he'd been rather upset when he woke up after the moon set only to realize that the innocent man was still on the run due to a childhood grudge from a 'respected professor' and that he'd lost his job because of the same man.
But calling him 'upset' didn't quite cut it anymore. Absolutely furious might come closer.
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Story: [Harry Meets Stitch]
Summary: Stitch doesn't land on Hawaii, but in Surrey. He still gets run over by a truck though, and when Dudley asks for a puppy, Harry meets Experiment 626.
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Sometimes, the smallest of differences, can make all the difference.
So, when an insane genetic experiment under the name of '626' makes just the tiniest miscalculation in the space-jump as he's chased down by the entire space-fleet for termination, he doesn't land on a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. No, instead he lands on a rather large island, in the middle of Europe.
His landing is still just as uncomfortable as it would've been, and in a fit of irony, he still manages to get hit by a truck, despite landing half a world away from where he would've originally ended up.
Perhaps even more ironically, he still gets dragged off to a dog pound once the driver calls in an alert.
And in a twist of insanity, a rather large boy decides that he wants to go see the dogs at the pound, and complains in a loud and whiny voice until his parents take him there. He's visually annoyed that his cousin has to come with them, but comforts himself with the thought of laughing at stupid animals that might get offed if nobody picks them up.
His cousin thinks that he's a bastard, but knows better than to say it out loud.
So, enter two snotty parents, a spoiled brat, and a boy who feels a rather distinctive empathy for the poor animals that might catch his cousin's eye.
Vernon and Petunia Dursley stay outside, talking to the owner, and not getting themselves involved with whatever mutt they might be keeping. Dudley Dursley gleefully charges in amongst the cages, only to frown angrily at the lack of animals. Harry Potter follows his cousin sedately, not wanting to draw the bigger boy's ire.
Dudley continues searching for an animal to make fun of, but can only find a blueish pile of fur in one corner of a cage. And whilst the pile of fur does seem rather alive, it also appears to be sleeping. Dudley of course, immediately decides that it should be awake, and sets about convincing it to wake up.
Harry tries to keep his mouth closed as he stares up at the forms of dogs in the ceiling. Dogs that are shivering in terror. Dogs that must've climbed there to get away from something.
The last Potter briefly wonders why his cousin isn't looking up into the ceiling of the cages, but realizes quickly that his cousin is an idiot and therefore hardly the type to think outside of the box.
Then the pile of blue fur wakes up, and all hell breaks loose.
Dudley is hurled through a window – maybe for being annoying, maybe for being within reach – the owner and his parents rush in and promptly get exposed to the same amount of violence.
Harry watches, and comes to the conclusion that whilst he's only eight years old, and has his whole life ahead of him, this is the coolest moment of his life.
The genetic experiment called 626 considers attacking the dark haired boy with glasses, but encounters something weird before he acts on it.
He doesn't want to hurt the kid.
He wants to bring chaos and destruction, he wants to laugh madly and ruin people's lives. But he doesn't want to hurt the kid.
Perhaps, if someone had explained to 626 what magic was, and what the Blood Wards that the late Lily Potter left behind signified, he would've understood it. But he didn't.
So, confused and distracted, 626 decided that his escape and reign of terror wouldn't be badly affected by dragging the scrawny kid along until he figured out what was going on.
Harry Potter, age eight, not yet introduced to magic, had just watched a tiny creature manhandle his relatives in a very admirable way, when suddenly he found himself dragged along for the ride by a creature barely reaching his shoulders.
And thus a legend was born. An infamous legend rather than a heroic one, but a legend nonetheless.
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Albus Dumbledore wouldn't realize that Harry Potter wasn't going to be returning to the Dursleys until several days after that incident. By then, he would find no trace of the boy.
Or, well, he would. After all, the seemingly endless line of destruction that turned the muggle world on its head was technically Harry's trace. But Dumbledore would only find panic and chaos on his search, and he would not be brought a moment closer to the boy who was slowly beginning to awaken the Marauder blood running through his veins.
Experiment 626 originally only brought him along due to a mixture of confusion and curiosity, but by the time they'd made their way to London, the chaotic little menace found a certain degree of admiration for the tiny human. He could make things happen that 626 couldn't, and if he did them very... 'loudly' in the vicinity of electronics, there was usually even more chaos as a result.
Harry on the other hand was slowly coming to grips with the idea that 'crime' only really mattered when you got caught.
It was an attitude that whilst it might serve him well in times to come, would drive all those around him into some degree of insanity.
Interestingly enough, a problem appeared once they actually arrived in London.
They couldn't carry any more left shoes, and they'd run out of things to clog up the sewer system with. Understandably, the shoes' owners wouldn't want their left shoes back once the two chaos-spreaders solved both of their brief dilemmas at once.
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Story: [Harry Fiendfyre]
Summary: Voldemort decided to make a thorough example of the infant Potter, so rather than use a spell of instant death, he used Fiendfyre.
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There are many things that Wizards never bothered to truly explore. Sometimes it's because of the danger of the experiment, sometimes it's because of how easy it is to simply continue to ignore something. Why try to understand something that already works, after all?
How does the Cruciatus curse actually convey pain? Is it by hurting all the nerves in the responding areas, or is it by simply hijacking the pain-center of the brain? How does the Killing Curse kill it's victims? By scaring them to death, or by simply separating their flesh from their souls?
Why does Fiendfyre act as though it's sentient? Is it through the magic of the caster, or is something on a different plane of reality reaching out through the flames?
Voldemort, like most of the Wizarding World, cared little for the precise truths of the world, as long as they worked in his favor. And though he'd entertained the idea of killing the infant Potter, the possible child of prophecy, by slinging a Killing Curse at him, Voldemort had decided that it wouldn't leave much of an impact on the remaining opposition.
Yes, it would most certainly prove his cruelty and inhumanity, to use the Killing Curse on a fifteen months old infant, but it wouldn't leave much of an impact. No, better to use something bigger, flashier. Something to prove that nothing could stand against him.
Lord Voldemort smiled cruelly as he called up Fiendfyre over the crib. Let it be known that Voldemort burned the infant's soul to dust.
His smile turned to laughter as the boy began to scream, and he turned to disappear back into the night.
Something grabbed a hold of him. Fire given flesh. Fire given spirit, it held onto him, and it dragged him back into the room.
His wand blazing against whatever dared to defy him, Voldemort threw curse after curse into the raging inferno that was once a nursery.
"We claim the soul of Tom Marvolo Riddle, for defiance of the contract." A melodic voice spoke through the flames. "The threads of Fate will burn. The contract is broken."
There was a pause which Voldemort used to scream incoherently as the flames began to blacken his skin, before the voice spoke again.
"The Prophecy is claimed. The child is claimed. The six pieces of soul are claimed." And then the voice was drowned out by the roaring of the fire.
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Hagrid had rushed to the location of the Potters at Dumbledore's orders.
What he found was a blazing inferno. There was no way anything could survive that. No way that anyone could live through that.
"No." Came a gasp to his right. "No. Not Harry..." It whispered in horrified sorrow.
Sirius Black stood with his famous motorcycle, tears pouring down his face, horror filling his entire expression.
Hagrid opened his mouth to say something, to ask something, but then the young man's face twisted into unspeakable rage.
"Wormtail." The man glanced around. "I need to find him."
"Why?" Hagrid questioned warily, not liking how the man's eyes lit up with madness at the mentioning of his fellow Marauder.
"To bury the remains, or to kill him myself." He growled out, his eyes snapping over to Hagrid's form. "When it dies down," he glanced meaningfully over at the flames, "... find them?" His voice seemed to break, heavy with sorrow and guilt.
Hagrid nodded, turning back to the flames as Sirius took to the skies once more.
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Harry's first true memory would always be the fire.
Everything burned. Nothing was spared the relentless flames.
Sometimes there was screaming, cruel laughter turned into pleas for mercy. But there was always fire.
It was odd, he would later think. That he felt no fear despite the inferno surrounding him. He felt warm and safe, as if held in a loving embrace.
Even later in life, whenever he was faced with an open flame, it was as if he could hear it whispering to him. The greater the flame, the louder the voice.
A part of him wondered if this meant that he was a pyromaniac. He'd read that those weren't nice people, and he really hoped that he wasn't like that. But the fire always sounded so nice, so kind, when it whispered to him.
He grew up with his relatives the Dursleys, a family obsessed with normalcy. And he supposed that hearing the whispering voice of fire wouldn't be considered 'normal', so he kept quiet about it, never telling a soul.
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Story: [Dragons and Feathers]
Summary: Harry walks to his death in the First Task, but Fate is a strange thing, and Hedwig is a very beautiful owl.
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Harry stared at the tent-wall separating him from what he could only assume was a much much bigger version of the small miniature dragon in his hand.
Ron believed him to be a traitorous friend and a liar, Hermione had broken off from him in an attempt to avoid being ostracized as well, Gryffindor was avoiding him for his continuous 'lies', the rest of Hogwarts were quite vocal in their support for Cedric, the newspapers were slandering him in any way they could think of, his fellow Champions viewed him with disgust, and nobody seemed all that worried over how he was going into a challenge for people several years his senior in which people died with disturbing regularity.
He was alone.
Completely and utterly alone.
The call to exit the tent finally sounded.
Taking a deep breath, he walked out into the sunlight.
The sky was blue, he noted absently, a few fluffy white clouds spread across it in a very picturesque way. There was a faint smell of something burnt, with something he couldn't pinpoint hiding beneath it.
The dragon roared, the very ground shuddering underneath the sound.
There were people who signed up for this? Truly, wizards were mad.
Harry met the raging mother's eyes. If he lived today, Voldemort would return to try to rectify it, probably getting someone he liked caught up in it. Perhaps that was why he didn't feel nervous. Terrified, desperate, horrified, sad, angry, but not nervous.
He had yet to draw his wand, which should perhaps have been the audience's first clue.
He stood before a nesting dragon, one belonging to the fiercest species in existence, and he had yet to make any move to defend himself.
The Dursleys would be pleased, the Weasleys might feel a bit bad, the Malfoys would hold a parade, and the rest would most likely just go on about him being some kind of martyr and how they'd known it all along.
And in that moment, Harry realized that he didn't care. What was his life but an endless flight from the Dursleys? It explained his desire to forever hide away in Hogwarts. What was the point? They'd send him back next summer, just like they had all the previous ones.
Taking a step closer to the gigantic reptile, Harry realized that he wasn't scared any longer.
Fear was something for people with something to lose.
Another roar caused the gravel to rattle silently, and Harry took another step closer, still not looking away from the mother's eyes. She wanted to protect her children, she wanted to keep them safe from the wizards surrounding her, the wizards who'd stolen them away from their home.
This was the Wizarding World? Spreading cruelty and terror for its own entertainment? To endanger a mother's young to keep them motivated?
Why had he ever wanted to live in a world that was ruled by honorary Dursleys? A world where racism wasn't seen as wrong, but as a difference of opinion? It seemed silly now, in hindsight.
Another step, his wand still carefully tucked away.
He'd never kissed a girl, he suddenly recalled. That was probably kind of sad. Fourteen years old, famous, reasonably attractive, hadn't even kissed, let alone lost his virginity. He couldn't actually imagine anyone for him to kiss, but that didn't make it any less disappointing. A bummer, really.
Sighing a little at that thought, Harry kept his eyes locked with the dragon.
He wasn't sure why he wasn't looking away, perhaps because the eyes weren't quite as threatening as the rest of its body, perhaps because she was going to kill him and he wanted to remember her eyes.
Yellow. They reminded him of Myrtle's description of her own death. Big and yellow, and attached to a very lethal magical reptile.
Still, he couldn't relate the protective mother in front of him with the mad snake in the Chamber. She looked too... sympathetic.
It was almost as if she understood that he was as much a prisoner as she was.
Another step, and she roared a warning. She wouldn't remain peaceful if he walked further.
He already knew that.
He took another step, ignoring the audience who was just starting to realize what was happening. The audience who'd just gone silent in horror, as their great savior walked to his death for their entertainment.
With a final step on his part, the mother breathed fire in defense of her young.
Screams tore through the air as Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, was engulfed in dragon-fire.
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It burned. His lungs were slowly turning into charcoal, his eyes were burning even through his eyelids, and he could feel his skin bubbling and cracking under the heat.
It hurt. It burned. It hurt. It burned. It was endless. It was an instant. It was pain. It was heat. It was the end. It was the beginning. It was a death. It was a birth. It hurt. It burned.
His scream was silent, the air consumed by fire, his vocal-chords falling apart into ash, his tongue burning away into smoke.
He was nothing. He was dying. There would be no final words. This was his end.
He gasped in a final breath, drowning in the endless fire, his eyes long since gone, his tongue lost, his blood boiled away.
He was at peace.
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Dumbledore hurriedly sent Fawkes to the Chosen One's aid, hoping desperately that he wouldn't be too late, yet knowing that he already was.
Harry James Potter had committed suicide. His chosen path, dragon-fire.
How could it have gone so wrong? It wasn't supposed to be like this! He was supposed to have made it through the tournament so that the False Moody could steal him away to revive his master. What were they supposed to do without their prophesied savior? How could the Light succeed without its martyr's destruction of the Dark Lord?
This was all wrong!
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Hermione stared in horror along with the rest of the audience as the boy who'd saved her life, who was her closest friend, the boy whom she'd been avoiding, took his own life rather than participate in a tournament that he'd never signed up for.
It was supposed to be safe! That's what Dumbledore had said! He'd lied to them! He'd lied to them all! Harry was dying!
Tears streaming down her face, her eyes still focused on the fire, Hermione raged in her despair.
This was what the greatest wizard in generations had accomplished? Turning a happy, caring, loving boy suicidal?
And with her despair, with her horror, with her anger, Hermione realized that she hated this. She hated this place. She hated Hogwarts. She hated the teacher's who allowed it to happen. She hated magic. She hated purebloods. She hated it. She hated it all. They took away Harry. They took away her brother.
She hadn't even been allowed to apologize.
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Something touched the fire. A soothing touch in a world of fire and pain.
Harry was at peace.
Death was not important. It was merely a transition.
It pulled.
It hurt. It burned. And yet it still pulled. It would not give up. It would not give in.
The briefest snatches of phoenix song were viciously batted aside by the pull.
It hurt. It burned. The pull remained, the soothing touch not giving in to the endless fire.
I'm sorry. A voice, heavy in despair, horrible in its desperation briefly joined the pull.
Harry saw white feathers, dancing across his vision, whispering soothingly of endless skies.
He let go. Let the fire and the pull choose where he went, he was at peace.
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Fawkes returned, looking dazed, and Dumbledore suppressed a sudden urge to growl at the bird.
If it'd realized what was going on before he did, it could've saved their Chosen One.
Frowning as he caught the briefest glimpse of what looked like white feathers in the plume of fire, he dismissed the notion immediately. No, he should continue to more important problems. Perhaps he could convince Gringotts that the Potter fortune should go to the aid of the Light. Yes, that was an important step. Almost as important as how he was going to spin this foolish sacrifice and destruction of his plans into something useful.
The fire finally cut off, and Dumbledore craned his neck to get a better view of what would be the remains of their savior.
Fifteen years of plotting, ruined because of a foolish child. The dragon would be executed, of course. Couldn't let such a scandal go without some manner of revenge.
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Harry stared up at the blue sky, at the white clouds floating gently above them all.
He ignored the dragon, the mother who'd defended her young from a potential threat. He ignored the audience and their exclamations of surprise and awe.
The sky was calling to him.
He turned to the source of the white feathers. The one who wouldn't let him fall into the endless fire.
Hedwig tilted her head, asking silently whether he was planning on doing something or not. He smiled at her. His first friend. His most loyal friend.
He knew he was burning still, embers smoldering all over, but that didn't matter. Only the sky mattered. And the beautiful white wings of his personal angel.
Glancing back towards the dragon, he met its eyes.
"I'm free. Magic is nothing. Magic is everything. My name is Harry." His name was sung, a sound of survival and struggle, of abandonment and hardship, of peace in soaring through the endless sky.
Harry turned to the Goblet of Fire that stood proudly by the judges.
"And I am bound by none." The last word was growled, and fire sprung from the goblet, raging red with unforgiving black.
With a final sound akin to thunder, the goblet disintegrated.
He turned again to meet Hedwig's calm eyes, still ignoring the embers on his robes. She gazed at him, and he sighed heavily, knowing better than to argue.
"Who called for me?" He asked the audience carefully, his eyes roaming across all those gathered, judging them, passing them by.
Dumbledore stood in his seat, and opened his mouth.
"Don't lie." Harry interrupted him. "I asked who called for me?" His voice descended again into the song, a sound of despair, of horror and desperation, of abandoning their ideals for a loved one, of watching their family burn over an argument that they should never have had.
The gathered stared at the boy in front of them. The boy who spoke in a language that wasn't human. The boy who lived through dragon-fire. The boy who rejected Albus Dumbledore.
"I-I did." Tears were still running freely down her cheeks. Horror and relief were mixing together in her eyes. But Hermione still stood, still met his inquiring gaze.
Harry smiled. It was a sad smile, filled with sympathy. "Then come. We're leaving." He held out a hand to her.
Hermione stared at him for a moment, then she was moving, and suddenly she had jumped into the arena, not even noticing the Headmaster who tried to stop her.
Harry caught her before she hit the ground, and she launched herself into his chest, sobs wracking her frame. He gently rubbed her back, not bothering with the rest of those watching, nor bothering to acknowledge the still-present dragon.
Turning towards Hedwig as she made a soft sound, her beak nipping gently at his ear, Harry nodded calmly.
"Goodbye Magical Britain. May you tear yourselves to shreds for your sins." And with that, he picked up Hermione into his arms, and the three of them dissolved into a cloud of white feathers.
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Story: [Harry Zombie Job]
Summary: Harry does some work in the Curse Breaker profession. Specialization: Inferi.
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Perhaps the most common way of battling inferi or undead was with fire, therefore, it was hardly surprising that any creator of the undead worth their salt, would take usage of fire into account when making them.
Normally, the way to do this is to ward them against fire or heat. But there are numerous other ways for this to be accomplished, such as creating wards around where they exist in order to make flames a very unfortunate choice of magic, or even dressing them in fire-proof material.
It could only be the mind of a sick genius that reacted to this common practice and decided to hide extremely flammable gas inside of the inferi created, thus making them into living bombs for anyone unfortunate enough to attempt the standard approach.
Of course, hiding flammable gas inside of an undead body is a lot of work, and it might not last very long as the gas will most likely find some way to escape if left alone for long enough. But, in an enclosed environment, without any experience on just how long such a deterioration of flammability would take, nor the means to find a rough estimate at their date of creation... well, it definitely canceled out fire as an option.
Even if none of the inferi had the gas within them any longer, the air would still be saturated enough with gas for them to blow themselves up the moment they tried anything.
Harry was willing to admit that there was a certain sense of satisfaction in not falling for the trick, and actually being able to calmly explain to the rest of the rookies why one of their less experienced companions had been tackled to floor the moment he began trying to cast an Incendio.
The fact that they'd spent a few minutes staring at the three more experienced members of the team with awe was really just a nice bonus. It wouldn't even have been that had they not been inaccessible to the undead at that moment. A battlefield was no time to stand around and gape at veterans, it would just get them all killed.
He really wished that they hadn't been saddled with newbies. This was going to be a fairly long mission, and he could easily hear the bitterly sarcastic voice of his late teammate, commenting on the likelihood that one of them would snap and try to kill everyone.
It wasn't as unlikely as he'd first imagined when he'd heard the man's muttering about himself when he'd been new. Being surrounded on all side by undead monstrosities, trapped in an oppressive and nervous environment, smelling rotting flesh, and knowing that there was a distinct chance they wouldn't live to see the dawn. Harry had ended up stabbing an older man through the neck when he'd tried to kill them.
He didn't blame the man, and none of the others on the team blamed him for stabbing him. One had thanked him, one had gone out to kill a few inferi to relieve the tension, and the man that would become something like a mentor to him had squeezed his shoulder and told him that such was life.
So, getting stranded on a potentially very long mission, in an in fact unusually unpleasant environment – which was saying something – with a bunch of inexperienced newbies... Harry really hoped that they wouldn't get them all killed, and he really hated the idiot who'd thought that they didn't need experienced people on this job.
Thankfully, the idiot in question wasn't in the near enough vicinity that Harry could maim them, meaning that he would have extra motivation for surviving this spectacle, if only to gut the bastard once he got back out.
Harry wasn't entirely sure when he'd learned to cast his spells silently. Somewhere between the beginning and when one of the old crew patted him on the back and told him that if he was learning, then he should probably learn a summoning charm wandlessly too.
It was easy doing it silently, it was just the same damn spells repeated into infinity, only now without slowly turning your vocal-chords into barbed wire. Doing things wandlessly was a lot more complicated, yet a lot more simple. You had to want stuff to happen, and then they happened. It was the antithesis to everything they'd learned at Hogwarts, no fancy wand movements, no correct pronunciation, no book-based theoretical stuff, just you and your will.
Harry learned it the moment he'd figured that out, much to the casual annoyance of his more experienced colleagues.
Harry shook his head, dismissing the thoughts of past times, and motioned for everyone to move.
Then he charged.
It wasn't because he was a foolish Gryffindor, or because he didn't know what 'cover' meant, or because he had some idiotic idea of fighting the inferi head-on. It was simple experience.
The moment the battle started, the inferi would come out in mass. And then they'd be forced back, not accomplishing their objective, but still risking being overrun in their retreat. Better to charge straight ahead and blast everything that moved.
Of course, not every plan was fool-proof, and there was a certain chance that the creator of the inferi had laid out traps against this kind of charge, but Harry was managing to sling a few detection spells around as well, so hopefully that wouldn't be a problem.
The smell of blood, flammable gas, and what might've been rotting blood – Harry wasn't entirely sure if it smelled like that, but it sounded likely enough since it was coming from some kind of sickly-looking liquid – filled the air as the seven of them charged forward.
It was hard to say if undead could die, but Harry knew that the magic holding them together could be forced to give up, and he was endlessly thankful that the horror-stories he'd heard of arms bereft of a body still crawling around to strangle you in your sleep were just stories. He still made damn sure not to sleep in the vicinity of dismembered limbs though.
Ignoring how some of the sickly-looking blackish liquid made its way onto him as he destroyed as many undead as he could without stopping, Harry wondered briefly if perhaps he might want to consider a different career. A career that wouldn't make him wish for the heavenly smells of fish-guts and puke.
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