Convergence

A Dragon Age/Harry Potter Crossover Fan-fiction

By Systatic

Summary

Harry chose to move on rather than live, but landing in a world just as war-torn as his own wasn't his idea of an afterlife. But after meeting Malcolm Cousland, he's decided Ferelden isn't all bad.

Chapter Three

Harry and Malcolm left their tent a little before noon, having skipped breakfast in favor of spending more time together. They stopped by the mess area for a bite to eat and were promptly handed a serving of stew and hard, crusty bread by the elves before being shuffled along. After commandeering an empty log to sit on, they stared despairingly into their bowls.

Malcolm sighed. "You've ruined me for life, Harry," he declared, poking at the tough meat and overcooked vegetables. Grease had already started to collect at the top, forming an unappetizing film over the entire dish. Harry hummed in agreement, swallowing down the meal and throwing the bread to Odin. The wizard nearly gagged at the flavor.

"That's foul," he grimaced. In all honesty, dirt tasted a fair bit better than whatever they'd been served. "Right—I'll sneak some food from the stores tonight and prepare it myself. I don't know if I can choke that down again."

Malcolm nodded quickly, eager for any excuse to eat Harry's cooking. He kissed Harry's brow in thanks when the wizard cast a discreet breath-freshening charm on both of them and the pair sauntered off to explore the camp for a few hours.

Harry almost immediately tugged Malcolm to the kennels. The slender teen ooh'ed and aww'ed over the gorgeous dogs, which all preened in delight at the compliments paid to them. Odin watched on jealously, and stared down the other mabari, clearly stating his claim on the two humans. Malcolm simply shook his head in amusement.

The met the kennel master, a dark complexioned and rather plain looking man, who spent most of the time admiring Odin's powerful form. Harry had noticed that Malcolm's mabari was a fair bit larger than most in the kennels. While he lacked the fierce-looking war paint the others had, he made up for it in sheer muscle.

He warned them about the taint, and told them to make sure that Odin didn't swallow any darkspawn blood. "Say, he hasn't been out to fight the darkspawn yet, has he?" Malcolm shook his head. "Good, good," the man said, relieved. "Means I can warn yeh against letting him bite the nasty creatures. Their blood be poisonous, I tell yeh. Lost more 'n one good dog to the taint."

Harry frowned worriedly. "Is there any way it can be prevented?" he asked.

The dark-haired man folded his arms, thinking. "Aye. If yeh be going out into the Wilds any time soon, there are some flowers that I've been using to prevent the taint. Wouldn't be easy for me to lose any o' ma' dogs to it, yeh see; they're like ma' children. The flowers be white with a dark red center, you'll find 'em growing near dead wood most o' the time. I'd go out there mahself if I had the means to, but I ain't no warrior, just a breeder."

Harry nodded. "We'll make sure to pick as many as we can, should we be out there."

The kennel master grinned, "Great! I'd be much obliged, sers, if yeh could do me that small favor. I'd love to stay longer, but one of the dogs is sick. Tryin' to muzzle 'im but he's fightin' it. Best o' luck to the both o' yeh," he called, walking off.

Harry looked up at Malcolm, concerned. "If Duncan doesn't send us out there, we'll need to find a way to get those flowers. I'm sure that Odin will swallow darkspawn blood at one point or another. I'd rather he not be affected by it." Malcolm nodded thoughtfully.

They spent the next few hours exploring the camp and met a few Grey Wardens on the way. Some were young—and talked incessantly, and some were old, around Duncan's age—and didn't talk much at all, just welcomed them and then waved them away. Harry noticed how none of the Grey Wardens seemed to be older than their mid-fifties, and wondered why.

"Well, if all else fails," Harry quipped as they were wandering past the latrines, "we could get lucky and the smell might scare off the darkspawn before they reach us." Malcolm snorted.

Overall, Ostagar wasn't anything to write home about; Harry detested the smell and the way people stared at them—gossip-hungry vultures seemed to exist in every world—so he spent his time admiring the architecture of the ruins themselves.

"I think—" Harry said out of the blue while they were standing outside the mage's encampment. "I think whoever built this used magic; it feels like it. Kind of like the stone under my feet is a little alive." He remembered the feeling—it was nothing compared to Hogwarts, which had been soaking in ambient magic for centuries, but it was still a welcomed reminder of home.

"You are correct," said a monotone voice from behind them. Harry jumped and he and Malcolm whipped around to look at the speaker. It was a mage, judging from their dress, but what really bothered Harry was the eerie blankness on his face, in his eyes—like he felt no emotion. "The Tevinter Imperium was a powerful magocracy in ancient times. Ostagar itself is a relic of that time and still resonates with the echoes of the magic used to create it."

The mage sounded like he was reciting from a text; his words carried no inflection, no feeling whatsoever. Harry felt chills travel down his spine. He forced a smile on lips, "Thank you for answering my question. If you don't mind me asking, are you a mage of the Circle?"

The Tranquil's expression remained slack, "I am a Tranquil." He gave no further information.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. What was a Tranquil? What sort of barbaric magic was the Circle dabbling in? The title alone caused him some alarm. "What is that?" he asked, hoping for more information. Harry drew comfort from Malcolm's steady presence at his side.

"I am an apprentice mage who has gone through the Rite of Tranquility, and am thusly disconnected from the Fade. As a result, I am unable to dream or feel emotion. I find it to be peaceful, compared to the irrationality of my previous existence."

Harry recoiled, feeling sick as realization struck him. Oh Merlin, what manner of abomination is this? What right do they have to do that? Could they do that to him, if he was captured? Harry shuddered, the Circle seeming much more dangerous than before.

To have no emotion, to feel no happiness, no pain—he turned to look at Malcolm, desperation on his features—to feel no love; it was unthinkable. Without emotion, or the ability to want, there was no magic. Harry had no idea what the Fade was, but if Harry's ability for emotion was destroyed, his core would literally collapse in on itself, and with it, his life.

The noble took in Harry's shuddering form and resisted the urge to strangle the unfeeling Tranquil, and the Circle in general. He gathered the small wizard into his arms and, ignoring the stares from his fellow soldiers, turned and took Harry back to their tent.

Harry curled against Malcolm, his magic banishing the armor from the warrior's form as soon as they were alone, and pressed as close to the other man as possible. "They took it away from him," he whispered against Malcolm's corded neck, trying to imagine a world where the feel of the magic in his veins was gone. He couldn't; that magnificent energy had always been there, a warm presence hovering on the edge of his senses. "They stole his magic."

Malcolm couldn't truly comprehend what Harry meant, but he held the wizard close to his chest anyway. Harry's fists gripped the fabric of Malcolm's shirt. The wizard had to make him understand. It was disgusting, what the Circle did. Harry's stomach churned violently. Had this happened in his world, the practice would have been shut down without a thought. It went against his every instinct and he fought the agitated tug underneath his skin. Do something! His magic screamed. Eliminate the threat!

"Malcolm," he said, "if—if they did that to me, I would die. I cannot survive without my magic. These mages—they aren't tied to theirs like the people in my world are. It's literally in my blood. If they find a way to take that away from me, I won't survive it."

Malcolm's face froze, Harry's reaction finally making sense. His Harry, his beautiful little green eyes—if the Circle decided he was a threat... Oh Maker, he silently prayed, cradling the back of Harry's head like it was made of glass, do not let them discover a way to hurt Harry.

Harry shut his eyes tightly. Why can't anything be easy, for once?

Duncan came to get them a few hours later, when the sun was finally starting its slow descent. He rapped his knuckles against the wooden board propped up on the side of tent for just that purpose, and called out, "Malcolm, Harry, you're needed outside."

The graying man heard some shuffling inside before Malcolm's large form appeared, pushing aside one of the tent flaps. The noble was in full armor—most likely in anticipation of his visit—and looked decidedly imposing. The young man had avoided weighing himself down with the entirety of his plate during their travels, preferring to just wear the essentials and carry the rest. His longsword and shield was slung over his shoulders and two sets of daggers—one on the outside of each thigh and two on his lower back—were within easy reach. Malcolm's already broad, muscled form was made even more impressive by the gilded shoulder, elbow, and arm guards, from which protruded lovingly-crafted but deadly sharp folds of metal.

"Come in," the warrior said lowly, turning away without waiting for an answer.

The Warden Commander's eyebrows rose in astonishment as he entered the tent and skirted around a large privacy screen just inside the entrance, his eyes finally landing on the lavish furnishings inside. He'd scarcely seen furniture so fine in the royal castle in Denerim itself, much less in a simple army tent.

Harry sat cross-legged upon the large, four-poster bed that dominated the tent. Malcolm moved to stand in the corner, hovering like a vengeful shadow as Harry gestured Duncan to take a seat in comfortable looking chair. By the way the noble watched his movements, the Commander knew he had a long way to go before he was over his family's death. It was obvious that he was unwilling to take chances with Harry's safety.

Duncan had the sudden feeling that he didn't have as much command over the two men as he had previously thought, Grey Warden recruits or not. Oddly enough, it didn't much bother him.

He watched as Harry glanced at Malcolm and rolled his eyes. "Stop hovering like a great, overgrown bat. Come here," he said, patting the bed beside him. Malcolm moved to Harry's side, but did not sit; presumably because his gear made it hard to. Duncan marveled at how little the noise the man made; plate was not a quiet armor, yet he had moved as it clothed in leather.

Harry turned back to Duncan, satisfied with Malcolm close to him. "I don't mean to keep you, but I have some questions I need you to answer before we go any further." Duncan looked thoughtful for a moment before he nodded his head for Harry to continue.

It was Malcolm that spoke first. "Do the Grey Wardens have any sort of protection from the Circle of Magi?"

Duncan looked at him, uncomprehending. "Why exactly would he need protection beyond what has already been offered?"

Harry looked afraid. "I, well, I met a Tranquil today."

Realization suffused Duncan's features and he suddenly looked very old and very sad. "Ah, yes. The Rite of Tranquility. I will not pretend to agree with the practices of the Chantry and its Templars."

"You mean it's not the Circle of Magi who performs the Rite?"

"It is indeed, lad, but the Templars are the ones that enforce it. The Circle of Magi is more than just watched over by the Templars; it is policed by them. A Templar has the ability to drain and contain a mage's abilities. It is how magic is controlled by the Chantry. Magi are doubly susceptible to demonic possession, as magic is a result of a strong connection to the Fade. If an apprentice mage is not believed to be strong enough to resist the lure of a demon, they are subjected to the Rite of Tranquility."

Harry frowned, both at the powers of the Templars and the Fade. What right did the Chantry have to control magi? It should be up to the mage what they do with it; it was their gift, after all. "The Tranquil mentioned the Fade, but I've no idea what it is."

"The magi believe it is the plane where our souls travel to and reside in while we dream. However, it is also home to demons and spirits, who often look for ways out. Weak-willed magi provide that way."

Harry glanced at Malcolm, who met his gaze evenly. Through mutual consent, they decided not to tell Duncan that the Rite could possibly kill Harry. "I don't think my magic works quite like that," Harry carefully said, turning back to Duncan. "But it's only expected, since I don't come from your world."

Duncan hummed an affirmation, scratching his beard in contemplation. "As a Grey Warden, you are protected from Templar law. However, I am unsure about how Templar abilities will affect you and I'm not eager to find out; it is best you avoid them for now."

Harry found himself agreeing. The only person that had a right to touch his magic was himself, and any Templar that thought otherwise would face his wrath.

"Thank you, Duncan," he said, hopping off of the bed. "I just had a few concerns, and you were the only person I knew I could ask."

Duncan smiled down at him, "It's understandable, Harry. You are new to our culture. The Rite of Tranquility or the true relationship between Templars and Magi are not common knowledge. As a Grey Warden, however, it would be a good idea for you to have this knowledge."

Harry and Malcolm nodded as they led the way out of the tent.

"Now, for the reason I came here; I have a job for you and the other recruits. It's imperative this be completed before the Joining. Malcolm, if you could go find Alistair, one of our junior Grey Wardens, and meet me at the bonfire, I'd appreciate it. In the meantime, I need to speak to Harry about his abilities."

Malcolm looked ready to protest, not wanting Harry to leave his side, but Harry placed a comforting hand on his arm, careful to avoid any sharp edges. "I'll be fine, Malcolm," he whispered, looking up at the noble. He sighed in contentment when Malcolm traced his cheekbone with a gentle hand.

"If you insist," he said. Malcolm dropped a kiss on Harry's forehead, an action that was quickly becoming commonplace, and departed, presumably to ask after Warden Alistair.

"What do you wish to speak about?" Harry queried, returning his attention to Duncan, completely unembarrassed about the interaction that had just taken place between him and Malcolm.

Duncan, tactfully, said nothing of it.

Malcolm was irritated. He'd not only been sent on a wild goose chase, but Harry had stayed with Duncan. He felt... itchy, without the wizard at his side—and it was showing, mostly in his fraying temper. Plus, this Alistair guy was proving to be a slippery menace. He'd already asked seven people for his whereabouts, and they'd all proven as helpful as the last. Luckily, he ran into a fellow Grey Warden recruit named Daveth, who had been attempting to romance a pretty female soldier by the quartermaster.

Attempting, being the key word.

He scowled as he ascended a steep ramp to the old temple. Once Daveth had stopped being so chatty, he'd informed Malcolm that Alistair had just walked by on an errand for the Revered Mother. He'd seen the old crone earlier that day, ranting about the Maker to anyone that would listen. He didn't doubt that she'd be able to talk someone into committing suicide, just to get away from her voice.

Sure enough, a man, probably his age and clothed in well-worn splitmail, was tormenting a rather frustrated mage, and looking to be having a hell of a time.

Malcolm sighed and leaned back on a weathered pillar, crossing his arms, and waiting for the bickering to end. His thoughts drifted, inevitably, to Harry, and then his brother, and finally, his dead family.

"You know," the man turned to him after successfully driving the mage off and dragging him back to the present, "the best thing about the Blight is how it brings people together." He eyed Malcolm, as if trying to place his face. Surely he couldn't be that slow; who else in the camp matched his description? It was all anyone talked about right now: the tragic tale of the youngest Cousland.

Malcolm merely glared, in no mood to put up with the man's repartee. He grimaced internally at his own attitude; he was horribly testy when he didn't have an adorable green-eyed wizard clinging to his arm. Harry would be delighted, the little minx.

"Right," Malcolm said, ignoring the man's words. "Duncan sent me to find you."

"Ah!" the man exclaimed, as if finally realizing who he was. "You must be the new recruit Duncan brought. Malcolm, was it?"

The noble nodded, not interested in speaking further.

Alistair quirked an eyebrow, "Cheerful thing, aren't you? Rather big, too. I bet you ate your vegetables when you were little."

Malcolm felt a muscle in his jaw twitch in irritation. Did this guy have an off button, or would he have to sew the idiot's mouth shut? He wasn't much good with needle point. It must be a Grey Warden thing—Maker forbid he ever prattle on like a brainless simpleton—since the young ones never seemed to shut up.

"Okay," the junior Grey Warden said, holding up his hands in entreaty. "No joking with the guy that could probably toss me across Ferelden with his pinky. Got it. Look, I'm Alistair, and since you look like you want to get going, I'll gather the rest of the recruits and see you in at the bonfire." He turned to leave, but glanced back at the last second, unable to resist a parting shot, "Oh, and try not to scare the Templars with your glares; they tend to weep. It's frowned upon, you see—tarnishes their armor, and Maker forbid they not be as shiny as possible."

Malcolm rolled his eyes and left, eager to get back to Harry. Who knew people could be so irritating?

The moment he arrived at the bonfire, he felt a weight crash into him. He glanced down as Harry virtually crawled up his armor to look him in the face. "Malcolm," he crowed in delight.

The corners of his mouth twitched upwards and Harry grinned, leaning in to rub his cheek against Malcolm's stubble. The taller man didn't understand the wizard's fascination with his facial hair, but he wasn't protesting it; he was quite amenable to whatever Harry wanted.

He wrapped an around Harry so the wizard sat on his forearm, and his slender legs wrapped around Malcolm's waist. They probably looked a sight to the other recruits, who had arrived after Harry's attempt to tackle him, but he couldn't bring himself to care, not when Harry had started to pepper his jaw with sweet little kisses.

"Missed you," Harry mumbled against his skin, his tongue flicking out teasingly. Malcolm growled lowly and tightened his hold on Harry in reply.

Their attention was drawn away from each other by a cleared throat. In an impressive display of flexibility, Harry bent backwards at the waist and met Duncan's eyes with an upside-down smile, still twined around Malcolm. "Yes?" he asked charmingly, his eyes large and green and innocent. The Warden Commander wasn't fooled for a second.

"I'd appreciate it if you would pay attention; what I've to say is of great importance, and not only to your Joining, but to the future of Ferelden in general." The graying man's expression held none of the good humor Harry had come to associate with the man, so Harry acquiesced to his demands and unwrapped himself from Malcolm. Once on the ground, and in his customary position against Malcolm's side, he looked to Duncan.

"Thank you. First, I'd like to introduce you to each other. This is Alistair," he said, gesturing to the attractive young man to his right. Harry thought he looked rather like King Cailan, though significantly less ostentatious. "He is the junior Grey Warden that will be accompanying you on your task."

"Pleasure," Alistair drawled, giving a small twist of his hand and a bow. Harry grinned in reply, liking the man's playful eyes. His smile widened when he felt more than saw Malcolm glare at the man.

"Jealous, dear Malcolm?" Harry leaned up to whisper. Even on his toes, he was only as tall as Malcolm's shoulder. The noble glanced down at him with a raised eyebrow.

"No," he growled back. "You're mine," he said, as if that answered everything. Harry supposed it did.

Duncan then introduced Ser Jory, a knight from Recliffe—whatever that was. He was a stocky, balding man. Harry thought he looked nice enough, and he was polite. Daveth—a "fellow from Denerim," Duncan had said—entertained him. The wizard had caught sight of the fading red mark on the man's cheek and wondered what he'd done to get it there. He had quick hands and an even quicker tongue.

Duncan finally turned to them, "This is Malcolm Cousland, from Highever." Alistair, Ser Jory, and Daveth's eyes turned to Malcolm, taking in his large stature and expensive armor, as one would expect from the son of a Teyrn—and who was probably now a Teyrn himself—and then the figure on his arm. Harry bristled at the disdain in their eyes. What did they think he was? A pleasure slave? As if!

"Pleased to meet you, your Grace," Jory bowed. Malcolm nodded in response.

"And lastly," Duncan said, "we have Harry Potter." Silence, save for the crackling of the fire in front of them.

"Wait, he's a recruit?" Alistair asked. Harry bared his teeth at him, his eyes spitting green fire. Any appreciation for the junior Warden's humor died a vicious death at the man's lack of tact. What was wrong with him? Was it because he was short?

"Got a problem with that, you great git? I could crush you like a bug!" Harry hissed at him, stomping his foot in agitation. Alistair squawked in indignation.

"Git? Git? I'll show you a git!" Alistair made to take a step forward but Malcolm's hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword stopped him. He met the noble's eyes and paled at the threat he saw there. The warrior was ready to separate Alistair's head from his shoulders, should he prove a threat to Harry.

"Enough!" Duncan roared, his voice snapping the men out of their squabble. He glared at all three. "You are all adults, act like it! The Grey Wardens do not need your childish bickering to tarnish our reputation! We're having enough trouble as it stands. Malcolm, you will not attack your fellows." The look in Malcolm's eyes didn't comfort him, but he did remove his hand from his sword—slowly.

"Harry, Maker, you of all people should know better." Duncan's voice had started to calm. He turned to Alistair, "Alistair, you should be an example to these four. You should not have let your temper get the best of you; I find myself disappointed in you."

Alistair flinched at the reprimand and bowed his head. "Sorry, Duncan," he whispered. Harry frowned and looked away, pressing his cheek against the cold metal of Malcom's breastplate, feeling a bit guilty. Alistair must really look up to Duncan, for Commander's words to carry such weight with him. He knew the feeling. He sighed when Malcolm's strong hand found its way into his hair.

"Now, if you're all quite done, I'd like to continue. I'm sending you out into the Wilds."

The five men listened as Duncan explained what their venture into the swampy forest, called the Kocari Wilds, beyond Ostagar was for: each recruit would be given an empty vial, which they were to fill it with darkspawn blood; secondly, they were to find and investigate an old Grey Warden archive, and retrieve four old treaties that promised the Wardens the military support of elves, dwarves, mages, and men should a Blight occur.

"The treaties are essential," the Commander stated. "If we do not retrieve them, we will not have enough manpower to combat the Blight. Ferelden must be united; the Grey Wardens alone are simply not enough anymore."

Harry nodded solemnly. "Understood," he said. "When do we leave?"

"Now," Duncan replied. "Gather your supplies as quickly as possible and meet at the south gate. You will most likely find yourself in battle; I trust you know how to prepare for it. Alistair, as a Grey Warden, will guide you through out your task."

Harry couldn't resist giving the junior Warden the stink eye, enjoying the way he bristled at the clear insult. No one, no one insulted Harry's height.

Malcolm tugged on his hair as they walked back to their tent for supplies. "Behave," the man rumbled. Harry pouted up at him.

"But he's so easy to rile up," he whined, flopping onto a stool. He'd had to release the spells cast on their pallets to prevent heart-attacks or fits of jealously should anyone enter their tent in their absence. Malcolm chuckled as he gathered food—which lazily Harry cast preservation charms on—and bandages and health poultices, and then stuffed them in his pack.

Harry wouldn't take no for an answer this time when he insisted that he shrink their packs. "You're going to be fighting," he reasoned. "You don't need a backpack, lightened or not, getting in your way." Then he batted his eyelashes at Malcolm, and coyly said, "Imagine if I got captured by a dashingly handsome bandit and you couldn't get to me because your pack got snagged by a tree branch and you were left hanging there while I, innocent in the ways of the world, was subjected to wicked, wicked things, hm?"

Malcolm snorted at Harry's theatrics and grabbed the teen's chin, forcing his face upwards. "I doubt you'd have any trouble rescuing both of us, should that happen," he retorted, his breath washing against Harry's lips, "isn't that right, little wizard?"

Harry's breath hitched at Malcolm's proximity, and he leaned in the slightest bit. The air instantly turned heavy between them. He could almost feel the man's lips against his and Harry swore he wouldn't get away this time—just a little more and—ohgodsfinally!

Malcolm crushed his mouth against Harry's, devouring the gorgeous man beneath him. The taste and feel of Harry exploded upon his senses; it was even better than he had imagined.

He bit and nibbled and soothed, coaxing that delicious, moist cavern into opening. Harry moaned—moremoremore!—as Malcolm's tongue thrust into his mouth and boldly tangled with his own, his arms crushing the wizard to his chest. Nothing was as good as this—this was bliss, pure unadulterated bliss and—

Ohhhh, that was nice.

Malcolm's hungry lips had descended to his neck, and he sucked an angry red mark right above Harry's collar, before trailing his way back up over the teen's jaw and right back to that delectable red mouth.

He mewled pitifully—his arms, which had wound around the taller man's neck, weakly trying to pull the warrior back—when Malcolm pulled away, his breathing only slightly labored. Harry, on the other hand, was a mess; his hair was mussed, lips bruised and swollen, and eyes hazy with pleasure. Malcolm's eyes consumed the sight greedily.

"You're mine," Malcolm growled against his ear, nipping at the lobe. Harry nodded incoherently; anything to get that mouth back on his. Merlin, he'd parade through the camp in a tutu and glitter if only Malcolm would just kiss him again!

He was disappointed, however, when Malcolm released him altogether, leaving Harry to melt into a pathetic pile of over-pleasured goo in the middle of their tent.

"The others are waiting," Malcolm said, reaching out and pulling the unresisting teen along. Harry almost tripped over his own feet, his mind still fuzzy from the way Malcolm had tried to practically suck out his soul through his mouth.

He'd make a good dementor, Harry thought, and giggled.

Later, Harry noticed the way that Malcolm glared at Alistair as soon as he came into sight, pulling the wizard closer to him. The teen smirked, his still-swollen lips threatening to break into a grin.

Not jealous? Yeah right.