A/n: Written for the semi-finals of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition as Beater 2 of the Chudley Cannons. Go Cannons!

Main prompt: [Cyberpunk] The definition of the prompt was somewhat convoluted and difficult to conceptualise, so I used this simpler definition from wikipedia: "Cyberpunk is a subgenre of science fiction in a dystopian futuristic setting that tends to focus on a 'combination of low life and high tech' featuring advanced technological and scientific achievements, such as artificial intelligence and cybernetics, juxtaposed with a degree of breakdown of radical change in the social order." I've also added magic to the mix because why the hell not lol.

If you hadn't guessed already, this is a sci-fi/fantasy (or sci-fantasy) AU.

Optional prompts: [word] Burn and [song] It's The End Of The World As We Know It.

Word count: 2986

Thanks to my wonderful team for beta-ing!

Of Magic and Microchips

Aah—aah—testing—testing. Why's that bloody red light not—aah, there we go. Right. It's the year 2043, and I'm dead… Alright, alright, I won't joke. It's the 31st of July, 2022. That's right—it's Harry's first birthday! Happy birthday, son! Except, well, you've guessed it—Lils and I are stuck in this arsehole of a hideout, waiting for the green signal so we can get home to our little boy. Any moment now, I'm sure—blimey, what was that? Lils? Lily? Lil—

The hologram image of James Potter warped and crackled before disappearing entirely. A few moments of silence followed, then Harry leant forward to hit the rewind button on the small circular device to rewatch the video log for the millionth time. Blue light flickered then stilled as his father's chest came into frame, blocking the camera.

Aah—aah—testing—testing. Why's that bloody red light not—aah, there we go.

James moved backwards slowly, as though afraid the contraption wasn't recording, then settled down on a rickety chair. He grinned, bright and abashed, the mirror image of Harry.

Right. It's the year 2043, and I'm dead…

James trailed off, his voice low, perhaps in an attempt to sound mysterious, but then he broke into laughter and shook his head.

Alright, alright, I won't joke.

Harry scoffed. Where's the joke in that, he wanted to say. It was the year 2043, and his father was dead. Harry wished it was a joke.

It's the 31st of July, 2022, James began again, and he beamed as he said, That's right—it's Harry's first birthday!

Harry clutched at his chest, nails digging into his skin, teeth gritting against the sharp pain. He waited for the words that came next, knowing what they were but never prepared for the heartbreak they brought.

Happy birthday, son!

Doubling over, a muffled groan escaped Harry's lips as he buried his head in his arms. He no longer had the strength to turn off the video log. James' hearty voice filled Harry's ears as he spoke on.

Except, well, you've guessed it—Lils and I are stuck in this arsehole of a hideout, waiting for the green signal so we can get home to our little boy.

Digging his nails into his arms, Harry scrunched his eyes shut, willing his brain to stop listening—for his ears to turn deaf as the dreaded end to the vlog approached.

Any moment now, James said, and a strangled sob escaped Harry's lips. I'm sure—blimey, what was that? Lils? Lily? Lil—

Silence.

Harry inhaled deeply, focusing on the stale smell of his sweaty tunic melding together with the dusty underside of the couch he was sitting on. One, two, three, four, he counted as he eased his breathing to a rhythmic pace in order to slow his racing heart.

Several minutes later, he raised his head and eyed the battered antique device. He snatched it off the worn coffee table and turned it around in his hands, tracing each crevice and dent it had withstood over the course of two decades. His finger momentarily hovered over a depression where the power button used to be, and he sighed.

To his right, atop a ratty old mattress, Ron groaned from under a pile of laundry. "Cold," he whined.

Harry clicked his tongue and rose to his feet. Grabbing the duvet by Ron's feet, he tossed it at the redhead. Ron wriggled and twisted as he attempted to get under the covers, pushing the freshly washed clothes onto the dirty floor.

Hermione'll have his head for that, Harry mused. Shaking his head, Harry plucked his—or rather, his late father's—worn leather jacket from the nail by the door and scuttled down the wrought iron staircase.

It creaked and moaned as he took two stairs at a time, and Harry patted the rusted railing in gratitude for withstanding the abuse. As he slipped out the battered front door, he nearly bowled someone over.

"Harry, is that you?" Hermione's muffled voice asked from behind a pile of boxes.

Curious, Harry peered into one, then raised his eyebrows. The box was filled with miscellaneous pieces of tech, from circuit boards and silicon chips to batteries and cables. Hermione's side hustle was turning their hovel of a flat into a cyber dump site.

"I could use a hand," she said, but Harry was already backing away.

"Sorry, duty calls!"

"Harry!" she yelled after him, but he was unperturbed. Ron rolling around in the laundry he was meant to fold and then dropping them to the floor was a greater evil than Harry abandoning Hermione to wallow in self pity.

"Ron's upstairs, and he forgot to fold the laundry!" he called back before rounding the corner.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley, get your ripe arse down here this instant!" Harry heard Hermione bellow and grimaced. He'd done Ron dirty, but he would make it up to him.

As he neared the main street, he slowed his pace and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. Reaching into an inner pocket sewn into his jacket, Harry pulled out a penny-sized square. He pressed it against the back of his neck, wincing at the jolt of electricity that passed through him.

This device, the latest version Hermione had designed, would let him blend in with the rest, making him seem like just another regular, microchipped Londoner who was alright with being constantly monitored by the System.

Head bowed against the damp November morning and hands balled in his pockets, he stepped onto the busy street. Matching the brisk pace of the office goers, he wound through the crowd, careful not to brush against anyone or anything lest it distort the electromagnetic shield surrounding him and expose him to be the fraud he was. Death would be the desirable punishment if his farce was discovered.

Man and machine alike paid him no heed, however, each focused on their own haste to get to their destinations. Harry turned into a park, his eyes scanning for the morning patrol but finding none.

A light drizzle had begun as he'd entered the large metallic garden. Storm clouds thundered overhead, casting the already grey stainless-steel structures in an insipid hue. Harry circled around the large gothic fountain in the centre of the square, looking past the bubbling waters to spot the metallic glint of the AI circuitry within that tracked every inch of the large park.

He felt the oppressive sensation of being watched and looked away, skin crawling. Ensuring he maintained his pace, breathing, and heart rate in order not to raise any suspicion, he continued his leisurely stroll through the gardens.

As he exited the square and strode up a smaller path, the wind picked up, turning from a low hiss into an angry growl. The rain splattered against his glasses, fogging them up and reducing visibility. Nevertheless, he found the small wrought-iron gate, hidden away behind a curtain of vines along a circuit wall, and pushed it open.

It whined feebly as he stepped through, then swung shut, the lock clicking into place. Harry paused for a moment, finally looking up, and exhaled a shaky breath. The wind and rain had died down in the little glen, the only piece of real greenery in the city, a miracle that he'd stumbled upon a few weeks prior. It was as though there was a forcefield around it, keeping the all-pervasive, omniscient cybernetics systems outside at bay.

Swiping a thumb across his rain-splattered glasses, he ducked under the sagging boughs of a nearby willow and shivered in his damp clothes. He settled down on the mossy floor, ignoring the wetness that clung to it, and pressed his back to the willow's trunk. A gentle warmth seeped through him, and he smiled as he pulled out the little hockey puck from his pocket.

Pressing the play button, he waited. The blue light flickered for a moment, then disappeared. Harry tried again, realising he'd forgotten to charge the battery. He stared at the flat device, a mixture of sadness and relief flooding through him. He was wondering if he should try forcing it to power up, when a soft voice spoke from beside him.

"I see you still have that piece of trash."

Harry stiffened for a moment but relaxed when he recognised the speaker. The lithe figure settled down on a knotted root, his long silver hair glittering and his pale skin glowing, as though he had a light source of his own within him.

"And I see you're still here, Pixie," Harry snapped, irked by both the interruption and the untimely death of the device in his hands.

"Don't call me that," the fae hissed, his gunmetal eyes flashing black. Then he relaxed, a genial smirk playing on his thin lips. "Then again, it doesn't matter what you call me—I'll be long gone before you can muster up the courage to ask my name."

Harry scoffed. "I'm not stupid enough to fall for that."

"Are you not?" the fae asked, tilting his head so his long, silvery tresses flowed down his shoulder, his eyes growing hooded and his expression seductive.

Harry turned away, flushing. "Bloody faeries."

The blond laughed, a soft, tinkling sound that sent shivers down Harry's spine. He sidled closer, and Harry backed away.

"I should report you," Harry said weakly.

The fae laughed again, but it was mirthless this time. "You know you can only enter this glen because I allow you to, right?"

Harry had not known that, so he kept his face turned away, his cheeks hot and his breathing ragged.

"After all, where else can you cry while watching your dead father's message on repeat?"

Harry whipped around, knowing the other had said that only to anger him and furious that he'd fallen for it anyway. He stilled as he came face-to-face with the thick, stainless-steel band around the fae's throat. Red scratch marks were etched into the pale skin above and below the band where the blond seemed to have struggled to pry it off, yet the steel was pristine and unblemished.

Wide-eyed, Harry looked up at the faerie. "They caught you," he whispered, aghast.

The fae's smile was bitter. "They did indeed."

Harry looked around, expecting a battalion of mind-controlled soldiers to appear at once and drag the blond away. The other scoffed.

"They don't know where I am yet. But they will, soon enough." His silver eyes softened. "I'm afraid you may not be able to return here after all, Harry Potter."

"How did you—"

Harry's question died on his lips as the wind cut through the glen in a shrill whistle, whipping violently against them. The two looked about, startled.

"They've found me already," the fae whispered in shock, his words nearly lost in the gale. He turned to Harry quickly. "You must look for me, Harry Potter. Promise me this."

"What?" Harry gasped.

"Promise me!" The blond shook Harry.

"I—I will!"

The fae nodded, looking satisfied. The wind's howl had reached a deafening pitch, the boughs of the willow whipping frantically, as though the glen was battling forces Harry couldn't comprehend.

"Listen to me," the blond said, leaning close, his eyes pools of molten silver. "When the glen allowed you entry, you were chosen to be its guardian—to protect its magic until such time that it may be free again. Do you understand?"

Harry shook his head. He was chosen? As protector of a magical glen? Against what?

The fae pressed his lips together. "I wish I had more time to explain. Your parents died fighting for a cause that was far more important than you know. You must finish their fight."

"What? How?"

The fae looked up sharply, jaw set, fear etched in his porcelain features. He turned back to Harry and leant so close that Harry could see the flecks of gold in his stormy eyes.

"Find me. You must find me. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded, questions and doubt swirling in his mind, the shriek of the wind giving him a headache.

"Remember my name, Harry Potter. It is the only way you'll find me. It is the only way you'll save this wretched world ruled by machines and return magic to it. Will you remember it?"

Harry froze, knowing what it meant to be told a faerie creature's name. It formed a bond of magic between the bearer and the speaker, one that tied them together inexplicably. He wasn't sure if that was a responsibility he wanted to bear.

If the fae sensed Harry's hesitation, he either pretended not to notice or didn't care. He leant close to Harry and whispered in his ear, his breath hot against Harry's skin, burning him, branding him, sealing his fate.

Outside the perimeter of the willow, metal forms clattered; somehow they hadn't spotted Harry and his companion yet. The fae grabbed Harry's face and looked deep into his eyes, and Harry felt something hot engulfing the very core of his being.

"Remember your promise, Harry," the fae whispered. "Remember my name."

A sharp cry sounded as the retinue discovered them. Before Harry could react, soft lips were pressed against his, and his consciousness faded just as quickly as he tried to grab hold of it. In moments, he was asleep, the little, circular device clutched tight in one hand, as soldiers discovered him.

The fae was nowhere to be seen.

When Harry awoke, it was to the harsh discomfort of having slept on cold, hard metal for several hours. Every muscle in his body was sore, bruised and battered as though he had just been in battle; sharp stings and burns erupted from little nicks along his skin.

His first instinct was to check his hand, and his heart fell when he discovered it empty. The disk was no longer on his person, and he felt an immense self of shame and anger at having lost his only connection to his legacy. Looking through the glass front of the small prison cell he was in, he wondered how much time had passed since they'd found him.

He hoped beyond hope they hadn't found the fae.

As he stared at his empty palm, the morning's events replaying in his mind, he felt the blond's hot breath against his ear. The whisper of his name came to Harry's lips without him intending it.

Draco, he thought, afraid to speak it out loud lest someone overheard.

A sudden tingling developed in his fingertips and toes, running through his body until it was burning through him, white hot, making him feel feverish yet alive. He was being transported from the prison, in spirit if not in form.

He watched the world of faerie being wrought with terror, pillaged and plundered and burnt to the ground by vengeful humans who feared their magic. Of those who survived, Draco was the last. He became Keeper of the glen, the only remaining natural source of magic, until the time would come when the fae could be free again.

Harry's parents, and Harry by extension, he quickly learnt, were descendants of these faerie creatures, their magic diluted from generations of inter-mixing with human DNA. As humanity created its own purgatory by giving too much power to technology, they decided magic was the only way to save themselves. They hunted the last of the fae folk in secret, captured and experimented on them, wishing to replicate the magic and use it as their own.

That was the fate his parents had suffered, and one he would have as well, had he not been living in hiding for all of his life.

Harry returned to himself with a gasp, abruptly pulled out of the barrage of memories, and understood why he had been chosen for the fae's task.

The Chosen One, he thought. The last free fae.

"Draco," he whispered, lips barely moving, wondering if the fae's name was some sort of magical trigger that would guide him in his quest.

Nothing happened, and Harry sat disappointed in the cold dampness of his cell. Then, a warmth spread through him, not as feverish as before but a softer sort, and it zeroed in on the skin just under his left trouser pocket, the size of a small disk.

The size of a hockey puck.

With bated breath, Harry slipped his hand into the pocket and nearly exclaimed in surprise when his fingertips hit hard plastic. He clutched the device tight, drawing it out slowly and glancing down at it to ensure it really was what he thought.

How is this possible? He wondered. He was certain the disk had been taken from him, yet here it was.

Magic, a voice whispered in his mind—a voice that sounded too much like a certain blond's to have been a trick of the senses.

Harry glanced about, trying to find the cameras, then angled himself so that it seemed as though he was resting his head on his knees. He pried open the back of the device and located a small, red switch. Back in the day, the antique contraption was capable of sending untraceable SOS signals back to its source. He hoped it still had the capacity to do so.

However, hope began to slip away just as quickly when he remembered the device was out of power.

Have faith, Draco's voice flitted through his mind. Believe, and it shall be.

Harry would've scoffed at that a few hours prior, but the encounter with the blond and experiencing the truth of his past had changed Harry in ways he didn't really understand. So, he closed his eyes and believed. Then, he flicked the switch.

"Now we wait," he whispered.

Now we wait, the fae echoed.

Miles away, in the tiny flat Harry had left earlier that morning, an alarm went off, loud and shrill. Its occupants exchanged glances, knowing expressions on their faces.

"It's begun," Ron said.

Hermione nodded. "Let's go."