Disclaimer: If ye know of Harry Potter, then ye know I don't own it- I'm male. Seemplz.

The Bloke- I will endeavour to finish this and the sequel before I die a young and fulfilled death, in which I go out strangling Thor with Dobby's socks.

Sirius009- You're right- that was an amateur transition, if not retarded. Edits will be made later, after completion (unless they're completely horrific).

TRAINING

(A/N) This is definitely heading down the 'Gary-Stu' corridor, but in the interest of having a badass HP, what can I say? I understand that some readers are concerned with the 'planned' Game of Thrones sequel. To be honest, you'd have to tie me up and set me to work in a sweat shop before I stopped this fic! I have eighteen chapters written at this point in time (including published ones), and as the summer holidays approach, I find myself with FECK TONNES OF TIME. Ergo, more fic.

There were more spellbooks than any other genre in the library, and Harry had barely scratched the surface. He resolved to put his all into just maintaining his fitness, and immersing himself in magic.

Harry was tearing through spellbooks by the dozens each day, researching new rune sets, how to improve his casting, his accuracy, and the force he put into each spell. He spent a considerable time developing spell chains- a series of curses, charms, spells and even certain long-range martial art moves. These he memorised, and dedicated to certain situations, building a repertoire of situational strategies. Harry devised ways of getting rune magic to work with specific types of muggle technology, to make some explosions larger, or more focused, maybe dependant on what he wanted. He didn't just learn old spells or runes. He made new ones. With his continued advancements in Arithmancy, Harry had begun to develop new glyphs (arguably, he re-discovered old ones) that held elemental magic, as well as ethereal. His potions began to branch into the experimental- he finally found a book that depicted all known ingredients- rare and common- and their properties, reactions with the other ingredients etc. His studies into muggle chemistry had helped enormously. He knew from his reading that mere wand movements and speech patterns did not constitute a spell- it was the will of the user, linked to their magic. Their focus and ease of doing this was reflected in the effect of the spell. Trying to reduce wand movements and leaving out the speech component took nearly a month to perfect, but now Harry just didn't bother using either.

The library index- the tome that recorded which books had been learned from, with suggestions, useful areas, areas to avoid for now, locked areas of genres that were too advanced- had begun to 'suggest' the rarer books for Harry to read- Dark Grimoires written by long-dead Dark Lords and Ladies with curses, jinxes and hexes that not even the Weasley twins would know, Light Tomes that had healing magic that had gone un-used in centuries, nearly millennia. Harry was barely sleeping once in a week now, and he barely noticed. The weeks were flying by, and Harry was given new things by the room. A small computer desktop that somehow connected to the internet- there was so much there that wasn't written in books, it was insane! He had to be careful, though- some things were jokes, posed as knowledge- like blue waffle. Harry was disgusted when he found out it was an infected, bruised woman's privates. He was looking forward to blueberry waffles, but no!

Finally, something happened that completely threw Harry. Two books, both bound in brown leather, with gold leaf embossing the covers had appeared when he slept one night. One had a 'v' on it, obviously symbolising Dark, and the other a '^', symbolising Light. Opening the first book, Harry read the title: "Legilimency- Offensive Mind Arts and Their Application". The second seemed to be the opposite: "Occlumency- Defensive Mind Arts and Their Application". Harry was interested- his dreams were sometimes infested with weird visions of a black tiled corridor, with one door at the end. He could tell that the dream was not his- he'd never had recurring dreams about doors, mainly girls. The books would help him to defend his mind, and he may even need the offence later.

By Harry's calculations, he had spent nearly two years in the room. Two years of intensive study, information absorption, invention, and physical training. He knew the highest levels of offensive physical combat known to mankind, he could run miles without breaking a sweat at a full-out sprint, he could jump higher, move faster, lift more, see better, and cast magic for longer than any other wizard alive. His magic was under his full control- but he still didn't have access to all of it- the Occlumency meditation had led him to his core, where he had shored up the cracks until he could break them himself. His mindscape was, admittedly, terrifying. A large, white plain, with a black sky. No sun, no stars, no wind, no nothing.

He had fixed that, of course. It now resembled the rolling hills of the countryside around Hogwarts, with trees, long waving grass bending in the wind; a cool breeze stirred wispy clouds now and again. Every blade of grass was something locked away. Each field, every paddock, was an area of memory, of learning, of experiences that Harry had coded into his mind. From what he knew of Desmond Mile's writings, his memories were somehow coded into his DNA- if he locked his knowledge into it, his descendants were capable of accessing it when they came of age. Anyone who didn't have a password would be destroyed- all of the landscapes Harry had built would recede into the quarantine, and a firestorm so fierce it melted rock and metal with ease would sweep through. Every little hole a shoot of grass had crept from would eject poisonous gasses, every air molecule would be warded away from them. A glacial ice-freeze would ensue, freezing all left behind. Earthquakes, hurricanes, eruptions, you name it, the trespasser's probe- or, if they were stupid enough, their actual consciousness- would be eviscerated. This was all secondary, however. The defences to get through just to enter his mindscape would stop almost any intruder. Perhaps the Precursors would be able to break though… Eventually. His walls were not vertical. Nor had he buried his mind in a hole. A dome, so huge, it defied language's attempts of description. All made of the same metal that soaked up his magic, and provided an unbreakable wall even against the very best Harry could offer.

Harry knew that, with the coming year, Malfoy would be unendingly arrogant. So, he thought to implement something of a vice of his- music. He listened to it, if it was in games, films, on the computer, CDs, anything- he loved it. It didn't even matter what kind, really. But, to calm him down, Harry thought of one track he'd heard somewhere. Just a piano, playing a slow, mournful tune. A couple of chords, two bars. A tinkle of a higher note. A klaxon, from a keyboard. Drums. It jerked him out of any funk he worked his way into, and calmed him when he was angry.

The problem was, he needed someone to test his defences against, so he had to leave the safety of the room. Soon, Harry thought, soon I'll leave and be ready for what Voldemort will throw at me! Harry grinned ferally in anticipation.

There was a note upon his pillow one day, after another bout of meditation- his sleep pattern was so infrequent now, he made up for it with meditation. Jacques had left him a note, to be released when the room thought he was ready.

Harry, there are some things you need to take care of while you are still in the room-namely, your emancipation, your monetary and worldly inheritances, and your future. To start with the last one, it's not too late to change your electives- I know you will have read every book in there- it's in your blood! You could probably set up a couple of revision groups at Hogwarts, I don't know why they don't do them! Your parents- even the non-biological, as it were- left you everything they had. Sirius will leave everything but a small percentage to you, and once you kill Voldemort, you will have the Conqueror's Rights- anything he owned, will be yours. You will have vast amounts of gold at your disposal, companies that have been dormant for fifteen years will re-emerge into the market, technologies will race forwards once again, and the world will start to be a better place. You will need to sign certain papers stating that you are a legal adult, because, by the time you are out of the room, you should be seventeen. Then, you can have your present I mentioned to you all those months ago.

Sincerely, Jacques Delacour

The weapon rack rattled suddenly, as if something heavy had hit it. There, right beside the now-dull sword (it had been constantly repaired since his arrival), was a series of larger, heavier weapons. This room was just full of surprises! The weapons consisted of a large warhammer, with the head easily twice the size of Harry's own, a greatsword slightly shorter than Harry's current height of six and a half feet with a large triple fuller running down the centre of the blade. A long spear, taller than Harry was by an easy three feet, tipped with a leaf-shaped head inscribed with tiny runes all over its surface; a series of smaller, one-handed weapons presented themselves on another rack. A dagger and a longsword, two war-axes, a hammer, and two very special items- hand-scythes.

For most of these weapons, learning to use them would take no longer than a couple of days each- the spear was similar to the bō staff of Japan, the war-axes were somewhat similar to swords, Harry supposed. The greatsword, however. Something that much longer and heavier could only use a different style- one he'd have to develop. Harry sighed, I guess I'll have to train more. If Harry had looked, there was a small tin trunk lying slightly hidden next to the new rack.

It was coming close to Harry's third year in the room, and when he could leave to sign his emancipation. He'd trained with the new weapons; he'd learnt their intricacies and their weaknesses. He'd broken many of them into shards when fighting the increasingly difficult mannequins he conjured. He used the greatsword most often- he was quite happy when he found out he could wield it easily with one hand. The same went for the warhammer- although it looked mind-numbingly heavy, it weighed but a few kilograms- nothing to a man used to lifting a thousand at a time. Harry was keen to implement his next training task- using both of the hand-scythes. Oh my God- I can't wait! What if I run around shouting things like 'I am Death- fear me!' Haha! That'd put the frighteners on Dumbledore! Harry thought savagely one day. He knew, however, that the style of fighting that they required ensured that he needed to know where all parts of his body were at all times. Fast movements, even for him, would make up the bulk of his repertoire. But, before then, Harry knew he needed to learn to combine the other weapons' attacks into chains that would go with his spell chains in his personal tome- his mind. He made a record of which situations suited which attacks. Which ones were showy, which were damaging, which were designed to intimidate and inspire. His use of the heavy weapons in a single-handed way still allowed easy integration with the spell chains. He knew that the scythes would be his hardest challenge yet- he had managed to carve many scars into his arms, legs, back and chest as the training wore on. They were all superficial, but Harry liked them- they spoke to him of why he was doing this- plus, they didn't detract from his new 'image'. He was aware, now, that he was too introverted at Hogwarts. He needed to get out there, and make some new friends. Maybe even have several girlfriends.

He stopped his greatsword training, shutting down the mannequin. This one had lasted nearly seven hours before wearing out. He picked it up, and laid it out on a nearby table top. The room, he idly noticed, had expanded again. The mannequin was in terrible nick, to be honest. The arms were a mass of notched wood, the legs were even worse- not even fit for matchsticks. Harry almost felt sad for destroying it again and again- he could sympathise with the thing, to a certain degree. He knew that he had denied the mannequin pain, denied it memories beyond the match, even stopped any form of emotion. And yet the thing was like him- forged to be a weapon, not cared about until the last moment. Harry briefly wondered what it would be like to grant it animation. Sure, necromancy was a Dark Art, but this mannequin deserved a life more than some evil bastard who'd killed for a living. He made his mind up- he'd find a horcrux, and strip the soul inside to the bare essentials. He'd encase it in the mannequin- after some serious over-hauling, obviously- and build it from the ground up. He wouldn't lie to it what it was, but he wouldn't treat it like less than human. He smiled, as he thought of the friend he may have in the future.

As Harry wiped his forehead of the slight layer of sweat- the mannequin was that good- he leaned on the heavy weapon rack. Of course, if it had been secured to the floor, it would've been fine. It wasn't.

"Whoa!" Crash! Harry slipped straight past the rack and into a tin trunk, much like they used in the army to store their weapons. Interesting, thought Harry, as he lay with his nose not two feet away from it, it's a weapons locker! Why did I not see this before? He was confused. His eyes slipped off of the trunk, and he promptly started to forget the box. Then, his Occlumency kicked in, and his eyes snapped back. The box! Its hold broken, Harry thought he understood. If his mind wasn't strong enough to cope with Occlumency, then maybe, what was in this box was too dangerous for someone without it. Harry leant over slightly, eager to see what was inside.

(A/N: 'Leaving Earth' Mass Effect 3 OST)