Looks Like a Sith
by Polydicta
The now obligatory selection of plot-bunnies, orphaned scenes, omakes and idiocy that sometimes bring my mind to a grinding halt. Ongoing warnings for smut, language, character death, bashing, torture, mutilation and reader brain-damage. Brain bleach recommended.
Disclaimer:
All fiction is derivative and fan fiction doubly so. I make no claim to own any part of any of the following, all I have done is an attempt to put together the elements in a novel fashion, using words and ideas like Lego ™ bricks.
There is no money involved – all I do is to share what I do for my own amusement.
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A discussion of Magic vs The Force on Caer Azkaban resulted in the following post ...
Shenanigans send Harry into the Star Wars universe at the height of the Cold War between Sith and Republic.
There he was, getting ready for bed and being half-undressed, and the next thing he knows he's face down in the dirt. Confused as fuck, he wanders Korriban and stumbles across the Sith Academy there. Magic isn't the Force, but it does give off vibes -to a Force user- that make it feel very similar or near-identical to being heavily immersed in the Dark Side, unless very carefully looked at.
And he reeks of magic.
He's bewildered when lower Sith and Imperials shy away from him, pay him respect, etcetera, even subconsciously.
Then he realizes why: he's in his tattered black nightgown with a hood, wearing his boots that he didn't have a chance to take off: by freak chance he looks like a stereotypical Sith Lord. :rofl:
The fact that he has a British accent kinda seals the deal for his image: hell, even his infamous green eyes look poisonous in the minds of the locals. `:p
So, while researching a way to find a way home, he has to comically bluff being a Sith Lord, like how they expect - given how he's seen first-hand their interrogation of prisoners and Jedi... erk.
...
"Do you feel that?" The Acolyte turned to her companion, looking as though she were ready to vomit. "The... cold?"
He shifted uneasily. "Must be one of the Council, returning from a sojourn into the Valley. Don't piss whomever it is off."
The old, stone door opened with a grinding crunch - but who stepped through wasn't a Dark Councillor: they had never before seen him walk the Academy's hallowed halls.
A fine black robe, spun from obviously exotic and expensive cloth, clung to his thin, lithe body; the hems of his sleeves were worn and adorned with strange glyphs. Each stride revealed black boots that effortlessly crushed debris and loose stone beneath their heels. As he passed them by, she caught sight of cold, unnaturally green eyes that burned under the shadow cast by the hood.
As if feeling her scrutiny, he paused and inclined his head to examine her.
Her 'friend' edged away, and she swallowed nervously - and her eyes couldn't help but drift to the unusual scar marring his forehead, one that was far too neat to be a wound of conflict. Ritualistic, perhaps?
"My Lord," she said respectively, trying her best to keep the tremor out of her voice.
After a moment, he continued on without saying a word.
"I think I pissed myself," her friend said unhelpfully.
The door closed behind him, leaving the two Sith behind... and Harry exhaled in relief.
Sweet mother of Merlin, I thought I'd have to Stun them and leg-it.
It was a good thing he had his night-robe charmed the fuck out of: otherwise his profuse sweating would have given away his little con.
"I am-" Shit, think of a name: think of a name: think of a name! Boggartus? No... Dementor? Nah, too cheesy... bollocks, they're staring... quick, quick, qui- I got it! "-the Dark Lord Azkaban."
Nailed it! Thank Merlin for the Sith's love of dramatics!
This is my response. It may be continued, one day.
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Looks Like a Sith
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1. High Adventure in the Veil Chamber
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"You need to cover up, Harry. You're distracting Luna."
Harry looked at Neville and then at Luna who was staring at Harry's bare torso.
Looking sheepish, he stripped the tattered remains of his school robe from his shoulders, wondering what kind of curse it was that reacted so ... strangely with the re-sizing charms on his clothes. Having the fabric instantly rot and shred was hardly a major problem, after all.
Looking around, his eyes lit upon the unconscious form of Lucius Malfoy. Nice calf-length dragon-hide boots, acromantula silk robe with a similar silk tunic beneath.
A minute later, Harry was much better dressed. Lucius' feet were the same size as his own, and judicious use of severing charms cut the robe to length. The tunic already had short sleeves.
As he stripped off Lucius' boots, the three saw that Lucius' socks were more ragged and full of holes than anything they had seen. Harry wondered whether to send Lucius a pair of socks for Christmas, or maybe a book on how to darn socks.
While Harry put on his new clothes, Luna put her Uncle Lucius away in a cupboard - stunned, bound and with two broken hands and a mouth full of old socks. She had attached Lucius' mask to his face with a permanent sticking charm after drawing a black, handlebar moustache on it. Neville decided that he would never, ever get on the wrong side of the sylph-like Luna.
Harry decided that the temperature and comfort charms on his new outfit were worth every galleon that Malfoy had paid for them. He also took Malfoy's wand as it seemed like a sensible thing to do.
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The battle had degenerated into a magical melee in a vast, underground amphitheatre. The centrepiece, the focus of the place was an ancient, ruined arch.
Sirius had been duelling Bellatrix Lestrange when Voldemort arrived. Her momentary distraction allowed Sirius to hit her with a blood-freezing curse, taking her out of the fight, and probably out of the ranks of the Death Eaters.
Harry had swung into action and once more He and the Dark Lord were surrounded by a golden cage and the sound of Phoenix song. Once more, Voldemort's wand began to regurgitate its dark history. This time, Harry was able to bring another wand to bear.
"Deflagrate!"
The burning curse hit Voldemort's body. Their wands' connection was broken and released a massive, magical surge.
As Harry flew backwards, the wild magic arcing across his form, he saw Voldemort hit the first row of stone benches. He bounced once - his body broken, sheared in half ...
... and then Harry was aware of passing through the arch ... and then darkness. A black cloak of unconsciousness claimed him as he passed from history.
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2. Korriban, Korriban, There's no Place like Korriban.
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Consciousness returned somewhere to the East of Harry's brain. He lay there, wherever he was, sprawled, face down and aching all over.
Vaguely, he wondered when Dudders had arrived at the ministry.
As his mind began to work better, he realised that he lay face down on an uneven, gritty surface.
Eyes opening slowly, he saw that he was in a cavern of some sort, a soft, reddish light filtering in through a gaping hole somewhere overhead. He rolled over and sat up, groaning, and took stock of himself.
His robes were tattered at the sleeves and lower margin, a result of his being in a battle. His new boots were incredibly comfortable and ...
He looked around, finally spotting his wand - and another. Lucius' wand with the snake-head handle of his pimp-cane still attached. Harry grinned, pushing it into the top of one of his boots. His own wand went up his sleeve.
Now paying attention to his surroundings, Harry saw that the cavern was of a reddish sandstone and ...
He gasped. There, against a flat, plain wall carved into the living rock was the arch from the Department of Mysteries ... or one very like it.
He turned and left, looking for a way out.
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As he left the tunnel, he realised that he was in a desert. A cold desert.
He felt heavy, as though he was wearing clothes made of lead rather than acromantula silk. He was thirsty, too.
The sun, close to its zenith seemed smaller than he was used to. He assumed that it was an effect of being in the desert, but he wondered why it was so cold. The question was answered when he realised that the moon didn't look like he was used to ... and there were three others in the sky at the same time.
He pulled the cowl of his robe over his head and plodded on, cursing quietly in a monotone drone about crazy things in his life.
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A kind of path, little more than a foot-smoothed way wound around the feet of the mesas and stacks that defined the land. The chill air made his breath smoke, and the stillness prevented the vapour from dispersing - so much so that he took his glasses off in order to be able to see anything other than fogged glasses.
At length he came to some kind of settlement - a few low buildings built of local stone and some kind of concrete. The denizens all turned to watch him, feeling his aura even from a distance. The sharper eyed amongst them could see glowing glyphs of the charms woven into the fabric of his robes, even though Harry was unaware of such.
As he passed them, they each gave obesiance to him - a complex gesture that included them going down on one knee, the opposite hand in a fist to the ground and the free hand in an open-palmed gesture at the forehead of the bowed head.
This gave the wizard the opportunity to see that these people were not human - red-skinned beings with dewlap-like tedrils on their faces and bony protrusions around their deep-set eyes. The variable number of fingers and toes was just plain disturbing.
"Bloody pureblood inbreds," was his muttered comment. What he hadn't realised that he was muttering in Parseltongue, a habit that he had developed since his second year at Hogwarts.
The locals just thought that it was some kind of Dark Invocation, and shivered more at his passing - the feeling of wrongness surrounding him like a miasma beyond anything that these people had ever felt. Even on this world where The Dark Force held sway, this being's aura was beyond dark - he reeked of twisted force energies.
He walked on.
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Harry had no idea how long he had been walking in the cold of the desert, but as the sun began to dip toeward the horizon, he came upon what could only be a caravanserai or hostel.
Ducking through the low doorway he came into a firelit bar room, and all conversation stopped. All eyes were on the newcomer with the dark, cold aura reeking of corrupt forces.
A bar-keeper, Harry had the impression that it was female, approached.
"Welcome to Dag'hrath s'Dakh, Lord. How may we serve you?"
Slightly surprised at the use of English, even though heavily accented, Harry blinked.
The locals saw the cold, greeneyes beneath the concealing cowl extinguish for a moment.
"I would like a room for the night, and something to eat and to drink, please."
The clear English tones spoke to these creatures, of a person of high breeding, though the dust-roughened voice of the thirsty teen sounded like someone steeped in the darkest of Force Rituals.
"Of course, My Lord. At once. Would you join us?"
"I would rather eat in my room, thankyou."
"Naturally, My Lord."
The servitor showed him to a room which contained little more than some kind of a bathroom and a bed, table and chairs.
After returning to deliver the required meal and Blutentwurf (Sith blood-ale), the servitor went back into the tap room and made herself a Circumstellar Death-Rattle, which she downed in a single, long, swallow.
Just before she passed out, she murmured, "The cold politeness ... I thought I was dead..."
And then her world was filled with heavy-metal bars wrapped in slices of some kind of yellow fruit.
Meanwhile, Harry was fighting down a meal of Bloodsoup (a rather rich oxtail soup, Harry thought, heavy on the pepper and, possibly, thyme) and some kind of desert insect (lightly stunned). There was a coarse bread that smelled like wet dog and tasted of mushrooms.
The beer was obviously alcoholic, and the flavour and syrypy texture was reminiscent of a liquorice, prune and fig milkshake that he had tried at Fortescue's.
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Harry was already awake, and had performed his morning ablutions well before the dawn. He cleaned his clothing using magic and cast a tempus charm which resulted in him knowing that it was six in the morning, but the date was meaningless. What he didn't know was that his magic had been felt by the other residents of the inn, and caused many of them to suffer the most disturbing of dreams - nightmares of pain and loss in the cold, dark void.
Morning dawned fourteen hours after the sunset over the desert world of Korriban, and slowly began to melt the frost that formed nightly, summoning forth the multitude of small, desert creatures that would drink a few, precious drops before they evaporated.
Harry was already in the tap room by the time anyone else was about. He helped himself to a bowl of the soup that was kept warm over the fire, and another lump of the mushroom bread. Sated, he sat and stared into the fire, thinking ...
And incidentally wondering why his eyesight seemed better without his glasses this morning.
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It was thus that the inn keeper found him, cloaked and hooded, obviously deep in meditation. The owner of the place felt as though her very blood was turning to ice, and she trembled when the figure silently stood, returned his crockery to the bar and spoke.
"Thankyou. How much do I owe you?"
A trick question! One designed to give this Master reason to level the inn!
"Nothing, My Lord. It is my pleasure to serve you."
Shaking his head, Harry reached into the purse that he had found in these robes. Lucius' purse. He pulled out two galleons and put them on the bar.
"My thanks then."
He turned and left.
The Innkeeper looked at the coins. Such as these were rarely seen any more, an ancient minting and still seemingly new - and greasy with the burnt-tin tasting feel of The Abyss. The Dark Lord, most powerful, had given him enough to buy the inn three or four times over.
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