AN: This is a Harry Potter x Highlander Crossover.

This is just an odd idea I had one day. I tried making it into a challenge titled Blood of Kings but couldn't think of how to work it. It has been many years since I have seen Highlander as well so if I did make this into a story, it wouldn't be for a long time. In this, Harry dies and is brought back as not only an Immortal but Master of Death thanks to blood of Ignotus that runs in his veins. Now how can you beat an Immortal who is also magical and master of death? Answer...you can't.

Prologue

A cold day in November brought with it dark thunder clouds that rolled across the heavens, bringing with it flashes of lightning. A myriad of colorful leaves littered the ground, mixing with the wet earth. The trees around the ruins of a village stood fast against the incoming storm, like they had for years. All that remained were the stone foundations of buildings and homes, vegetation taking over the land around it. A figure cloaked in black suddenly appeared out of thin air at the edge of the village, their face shrouded in the hood of the cloak so that their features could be neither seen nor discerned. With swift steps, the hooded being strode down the road that led through the ruined village, a fog beginning to appear as the rain came down from the heavens.

The cloak trailing behind the figure along the ground made a slithering sound. There was the slight shifting and crunch of leaves black calf-length boots made of some type of scaly beast…the boots were made of the hide of a Hungarian Horntail, boots that only a wizard might wear for muggles or regular folk didn't believe in dragons' existence, nor the existence of magic itself or of the myths and legends that had been forgotten with time. Concealed within a black scabbard was a sword. Once a lively little village, it was now silent, a strange thing for it had been the home of a few prominent families…families that were now extinct.

Striding with purpose, the man made his way through the ruins, a single destination in mind. Through the overgrown paths and roads, past ruined homes, the figure arrived at a shell of a stone cottage, half the roof and second floor missing, and as he watched the cottage fell to the ground in a rush, almost as if it had been waiting for this exact moment throughout the centuries. The figure continued to stare at the ruins of the of this cottage, their features undiscernible within the hood that cast shadows over the figure's face. "So, it finally ends after all this time," the figure spoke gravely before turning and making his way down the lane, heading towards a new destination.

The storm overhead broke, torrents of rain coming down upon the earth, bringing with it an eerie chill to the ruined village that had once housed great families. Reaching an iron gate, the figure removed a hand from the cloak, a pale hand with slender fingers and pushed the gate open. The creaking was the only sound in the immediate vicinity and the figure pushed through, striding through the rows of tombstones to a grave that stood alone, the fragments of a statue that had long since been destroyed by time and war. The United Kingdom had split over the years, dissolving with the third world war into three separate kingdoms.

In another part of the cemetery, this being holy ground just as all cemeteries with religious buildings were, a man with tan skin and long black hair walked towards the cloaked figure, withdrawing a sword with a dragon design on the scabbard. "This is your family my protégé?" the man questioned, staring at the figure with his dark eyes.

The silent figure turned to see the tan-skinned man before him and bowed his head in respect. "It is Master McLeod," said the figure in a baritone voice with an English accent, the words coming out hoarse from not speaking in so many years. "What are you here for? The Gathering it is not for half a decade."

"It is not that," said the figure known only by McLeod. "It has been years since I have been back to the place of my birth and I know it has been a long time for you as well. I merely wished to lay eyes on my old homeland before I retire from the Game."

The figure's eyes widened beneath his hood and he slowly lowered his good. Surprised that his master was in fact retiring from the endless Game the Immortals played, he turned back to the gravestone and stepped closer before crouching and pulling out a stick that was bleached white, containing the core of a Ukrainian Ironbelly. "Indeed…it has been centuries and everyone I knew is dead," said the figure in a baritone voice that had a pronounced English accent to it, his voice hoarse from disuse. Waving the stick in the air, he conjured a wreath of lilies and petunias, wiping away the autumn foliage from the ground so that the earth lay bare and laying the wreath upon the ground at the foot of the headstone, two names on the large stone.

The figure slowly removed the hood as he stood up again and turned to the other headstone he knew would be here. It wasn't as old as the gravestone that had been laid but as the figure looked at it, a flash of lighting caught the features of the man for a moment. In that moment, they revealed pale sickly skin and pitch hair like ink stained feathers…a raven's feathers. His eyes lit upon the name and then on the date before turning away and walking off out of the forest, pocketing his wand as he did so. The figure before him followed and withdrew his sword but before he could do much more, a wandless stunning spell sent the man to the ground and a black sword flashed in the lightning, swiping down across the man's neck and cleaving his head from his shoulders.

Power…like blue lightning flowed from the man into the body of the younger male. This was a different rush…different from the sports of Quidditch and Quadpot…played on different sides of the pond. "Thank you Duncan for teaching me how to survive," said the figure to the dead man as he continued to consume the power of his ancient mentor. As the last traces of lighting faded into the male's body he lowered his hood and glanced back at the tombstones within the graveyard, remembering the skies lit with fire…of fear coursing through his veins…of the cold waters of the deep and a graveyard...turning on the spot the man sheathed his sword and disapparated.

Appearing on the edge of a forest, the figure stared at the ruined walls of a castle…once a house of learning for those with…uncanny abilities to wield magic. Staring at the castle the figure withdrew the Yew Wand, for it was magick that the man possessed and held it into the air in reverence of the learning he had achieved that had been tragically cut short. A swirl of smoke appeared before him and he smiled to the skeletal figure in a hooded cloak of his own, the figure then taking upon an older replica of himself. "Hello Death."

"Master," the being greeted in his dark and hollow voice, his voice like water dripping within a cavernous pool of water. "Why have I been summoned?"

"It is time my old friend."

"You mean…"

"Yes, I mean it is time to once again resurrect the empire from the ashes and bring the world back from the flames that consumed it." With that the figure made his way towards the ruins of the castle that stretched out ahead of him, the dark forest lying foreboding and silent. As he walked he again remembered…the day his life had ended and the events leading up to his first death…

Back within a ruined village, inside a church cemetery, lighting split the air, lighting up a pair of graves with a name that had been laced with a sickening moniker and made a boy famous before he was meant to be but below that name was a short effigy and the dates….

Here lies a friend and brother in arms. Youngest seeker in a century, betrayed by but a few. May his memory live on infamy. The last obstacle that shall be defeated is death.

July 31, 1980 to November 24, 1994.