A Harry/Labyrinth crossover

REMEMBER TO USE THE POLL IN MY PROFILE/AUTHOR'S PAGE! I DO NOT WANT TO LOOSE THE AMOUNT OF VOTING FOR EACH. YOU CAN PICK UP TO 3 DIFFERENT STORIES. THE ONE WITH THE MOST VOTES WILL BE FIRST, THEN I WILL DO THE SECOND ONE, AND SO ON AND SO FORTH.

THANK YOU!

!~

He wasn't sure how he got here, wherever this was, or why he couldn't just pop out like he wished to, but Harry rolled his eyes and looked to the oddly colored sky outside the window. "Fate? I loathe you right now."

The faint feeling of someone laughing did not improve his mood. "Bloody gods having a field day with my life. I swear, if I could, I'd strangle the whole lot! Thirteen and already too used to it," he grouched as he wandered around what appeared to be an abandoned castle, nary a sound of steps nor life. As suddenly as it came, a strange sound left to echo about, fraying taunt nerves. "Merlin, that did not sound good."

He swept his wand out, flicking it as he whispered a silence spell on his feet and clothes. Let's just hope he would be excused for using magic, especially since he sincerely doubted that any other wizard would find him here. Slipping his way sensuously down the halls to where he figured the sound originated, he swallowed a gasp. Goblins! And there with them he could spot Griphook as he counted out gold galleons and doubloons into tall stacks. Merlin! Where was he this time! Taking a deep breath to gather his Gryffindor courage, he stepped into the room.

"Um, excuse me? Mr. Griphook?"

The room stopped, many faces turning to him, their eyes widening. Harry gulped but squared his shoulders. "Could you or someone tell me where I seem to have gotten to this time?"

Griphook stood quickly, his face darkening. "Why are you here, Mr. Potter?"

"Haven't a clue," he replied with a shrug. "I blinked and poof I'm here. If I wasn't sure the Dursleys would rather be terminally ill than use magic, I would say they wished me here. We haven't been able to get along with me having a criminal godfather and all."

Griphook waved on what appeared to be an underling, staring at Harry in a less than pleasantly curious way. "I was led to believe your relatives took care of you."

Harry snorted. "Yes, well, that's a lie. I am not supposed to be as small as a firsty at almost fourteen."

The sound of heavy boots in a slow waltzing step brought Harry's attention to the open arch on the far side of the room. His breath caught at the sight of what appeared to be a human until the male being smiled, showcasing abnormally sharp teeth. The slightly glowing eyes might have had something to do with it, too. "Oh Merlin, what can of worms have I landed in?"

The man laughed. "Why a wee wizard! I have not had a wizard in centuries," he mused with a hand on his chin. Harry shivered and stepped back into the wall, this being making him wary all of a sudden as his instincts rose inside his chest, his magic unknowingly to him flaring like a living, breathing beast. "A strong one at that."

It was whispered, but the hall heard it. Harry, though, was trying to not drown in what should have been his protection, feeling it warm him from the inside, stealing his breath and causing his heart to stutter.

"OUT!" roared the man, his voice like silken thunder. "Out! Hurry, my fools."

Harry barely heard as he stumbled to the ground, scraping his hands along the floor. Tears fell from his eyes to splotch the floor as he arched his back, screaming in pain. His glasses clattered uselessly away from him, his vision blurring even more. The gentle hand on his back hurt . . . hurt so much . . . pain, oh Merlin, pain, and hurt and, oh gods, a sight of horror within his mind. Please, please, let it end!

"Sleep, child of man! Sleep!" commanded the man, his voice like black silk, soft, beautiful, deadly as it strangled you. So, he slipped away in to the darkness. Not that he had a choice anyway . . .

Jareth stared at the young man at his feet, his concern for the mortal absolute. Never had the Underland affected another being in such a manner! This land, while Wilde, was benevolent. It never took upon itself to cause another pain. It was as if a fay childe lay at his feet, their power trying to awaken . . .

"Daftjaw! Rawnak! Come to me, my Alchemists!"

Two stately goblins appeared in the room, their velvet robes announcing their station and level of expertise. "My Lord," the two chorused in soft gravelly voices as they bowed to their king. The man waved them upright.

"Rise, my Alchemists. I have a task for you." He picked up the child, lifting the thin and delicate form easily, mild surprise coloring his face. "Please take but a drop of blood. I have need to know of his heritage and quickly."

One produced a vial filled nearly to the top with a clear liquid, uncorking it deftly, while the other unwrapped a small bronze athame, the runes along the blade glowing as he whispered softly to the metal. The athame slit the mortal's finger, a bead of blood welling up and spilling down to the curve where finger met palm. Licking his finger, the one holding the vial gathered the drop, wiping the saliva coated appendage over the thin line. It vanished, the flesh healing with only a tiny curl of bronze goblin magic. With a deep bow, the two vanished soundlessly, only a thin puff of smoke rising from where they once stood.

With nothing else to do, Jareth walked off further into his castle. It was time to set the child in to bed.

Magic, Goblins, and Wizards

Morning came, and with it his Alchemists, their craggy faces worried and drawn. Jareth felt that this was something he was not going to like. "Speak, my Alchemists."

"My Lord, Daftjaw speaking," he announced with a bow, though shallow and worried it was. "There is troubling news, much troubling news."

Jareth raised a brow. He had more or less figured that out. Still, he humored his worn out and over stressed goblins. "Proceed, Daftjaw."

"It . . . it seems there is too much body and soul damage to even make an accurate tree line, my liege. We have no more knowledge today than we did yesterday about his true heritage."

The other goblin sighed and gave an uncharacteristic display of weariness as he rubbed his face. "Rawnak speaking, my Lord. His magic is completely stressed to the limit. While the human child may seem ten or eleven years of age, he is thirteen, almost fourteen. His magic has spent almost all of his young life trying to keep him alive and correct what we suspect to be malnutrition and severe neglect." Rawnak sighed. "It will take up to a month with a goblin healer to even bring him close to his natural order! A month! Of our time!"

Jareth didn't move for several seconds, his face void of emotion as his silence drew on. Finally, he growled, a low and throaty sound that declared loud and clear his displeasure and that there would be retribution when he got his hands on the ones responsible.

"My . . . my Lord, there is one among us, one the boy called by name," murmured Daftjaw softly as his king focused on him. When he was given the go ahead, he proceeded to elaborate. "It seems that the young mortal knew Griphook from sight. I believe it is because the child has been directed by our esteemed Banker some time in the past."

Their king nodded as he listened. His mind was trying to come up with reasons as to why a blood test would not reveal what it should, what he was to do for the child, and how was he going to heal the boy without taking him out of his world for too long. How could he heal the child in the span of a human day? Should he ask the Spell Masters or the Crafting Masters? Or a Runes Master! That could work . . .

"Milord? Milord? Milord Jareth!"

Jareth jerked up, his eyes seeking the source of the voice. One of the lowly grunt goblins stood behind his Alchemists, the boy behind him.

"Yes, yes, come in. Breakfast should soon be served," he mumbled distractedly. Turning to his Alchemists, he dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Whatever was going on with the boy, it would take time and resources, neither of which he currently had much of to spend. This would take much thought . . .