My first fanfic ever published was Harry Potter and the Cetra Heritage, a crossover with Final Fantasy VII. While not quite the most popular of my fanfics, it nonetheless not only spawned sequels, but has recently gained not just a fanfic rec (thanks to long-term reader jgkitarel), but also a Tropes Page on TV Tropes (thanks to someone by the name of Emperor Max 2019). I tried to recreate that success, thinking I could copy and paste much of the story but make it more darker and adult. Sadly, while the first five chapters went fine enough, I struggled with doing the sixth, and anything further was beyond my reach.

I recently decided, given that I couldn't work any more on this story, and that I had a far superior and more popular dark crossover between Harry Potter and Final Fantasy VII (Vert the Emerald and the Cetra Heritage), I made, albeit somewhat reluctantly, the decision to abandon The New Cetra Heritage: Imago. I may revisit some of the story concepts involved in either a new crossover, or else use them in either the main Cetra Heritage Saga, or else Vert the Emerald and the Cetra Heritage. I decided to shift the chapters written to date into The Cauldron. If you've favourited The New Cetra Heritage: Imago, please favourite The Cauldron in its stead, as I will be deleting that story in a few weeks' time...

THE NEW CETRA HERITAGE: IMAGO

EPISODE 1:

HERITAGES

Endings are heartless. Ending is just another word for goodbye.

-The Dark Tower, by Stephen King

CHAPTER 1:

AZKABAN, APOTHEOSIS, AND AERITH

To say a place was Hell on Earth was a cliché so often used, people often forgot what it meant. Appellations of this kind were appended to places ranging from the harshest deserts to the coldest tundra. Prisons were popularly given this sort of name. But one that was perhaps one of the closest to emulating Hell on Earth was Azkaban.

To most people, the word Azkaban would mean little. But to the magical community of the United Kingdom, it was a name spoken of in awe, fear, and dread. A pimple of an island in the frigid seas off Britain's coast, isolated and cold. There were worse prisons in the world of magic (Nurmengard, the legendary prison of Grindlewald, for example), and even some in the mundane world, but Azkaban was close to the top.

Even before it became a prison for Magical Britain, it had been the lair of one of the darkest of wizards, Ekrizdis. His name isn't known to many modern wizards, but in his time, he was feared, using Azkaban as a fortress to lure Muggle sailors to the concealed island to torture and experiment on. Only with his death did the charms concealing the island fall, and the Ministry investigated. To this day, it's not known exactly what happened(1).

The thing that made Azkaban truly awful was not the cold or the isolation, or its dark and obscure history. It was the guards. Dementors, hideous wraith-like beings who were said to grow from dark and decaying places, creatures who existed to suck good feelings from anyone near their influence. The Ministry of Magic trusted them enough to remain as guards, but truth be told, the Dementors had no loyalties, save to themselves. They stayed as guards and wardens of Azkaban only because it meant they could feed off the feelings of prisoners.

And, occasionally, feed off their souls. For the Wizarding World, the ultimate penalty was the Dementor's Kiss, whereby the Dementor would consume the soul of the malcontent. The condemned would still be alive, but they would be in a condition where they would envy a vegetable. A vessel, even emptier than the Dementors themselves, capable of breathing, and virtually nothing else.

The Ministry of Magic was keen to stamp out any rumours that Dementors had fed on souls without permission. The truth was, however, that having the Dementors as guards of Azkaban was a Mephistophelean deal. If they ever received a better offer, they'd be gone in a trice.

The prisoners of Azkaban counted as their number the infamous. Many of them were Death Eaters, Lord Voldemort's fanatical supporters. A few had gone to Azkaban cheerfully holding onto their loyalty for the Dark Lord. But one had gone to Azkaban in a fall that was spectacular. From hero to mass murderer. From saviour to villain.

Look at him, in his cell, painfully thin, his once jewel-like emerald eyes dull. Behold, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, Saviour of Magical Britain…and Magical Britain's dirtiest secret. The man who killed Voldemort, and who wiped out most of the Death Eaters, killing off many lines in a bloody rampage of revenge, a rampage that left him here, a hollow wreck of what he once was.

So many deaths…his friends, his family, many of which could have been prevented if Dumbledore had been more forthcoming. Voldemort was dead, his Horcruxes destroyed…but it was a pyrrhic victory at best. Out of all his actual friends, only Harry survived. Ron, Hermione, Neville, Ginny, Luna, Lupin, Tonks, they had been killed during that battle. He frequently remembered, courtesy of the Dementors, a nightmarish vision of seeing Luna being killed by a Blasting Hex right in front of him.

It was his friends' deaths that set him on what they'd call a roaring rampage of revenge. And it was that that led him here. Shoved into here by the Ministry of Magic as a preventative measure against a new Dark Lord. The only reason why he hadn't been given the Kiss for his actions was that he had stopped Voldemort. This was, though, something of a poor reward for a lifetime of being expected to become the saviour of Magical Britain.

The lack of gratitude didn't truly hurt any more. He felt very little at all. Anger, hatred, all had died down, until a chilling emptiness was left behind.

Nothing changed for the years he spent in Azkaban…and he never expected them to. At least not for the better.

So when one day, he opened his eyes, and found three people standing in front of his cell door, one of whom looked like Luna Lovegood, he was certain that he was hallucinating, or seeing phantoms. "Fuck off, I'm not buying," he mumbled deliriously.

"Harry, it's me. The wrackspurts have really gotten to you, haven't they?"

That sounded like Luna's voice, but he retorted to the phantom, "No, that's the Dementors raping my happiness. Piss off, ghost Luna. I wanna suffer in peace."

The man with her, who had a mane of white hair and a surprisingly youthful, if somewhat long, face, rolled his eyes. "We're wasting time. The Ministry will be sending people soon." He formed what seemed to be bladed disks out of the air itself, and then sliced the door open. "I'm glad I learned how to use Aerospark in this form," he said in a slight French accent as he walked through and hauled Harry to his feet. "Harry, I am Nicholas Flamel. We haven't met, but you helped save something of mine about a decade ago."

"The…Philosopher's Stone?" Harry asked, long-disused realms of memory kicking into gear.

"Well, you saved something Voldemort thought to be the Philosopher's Stone. Even Albus only knew a little of what it was, or who I truly was, but I digress. We need to get going. Luna, can we do it here?"

Luna nodded, and as she walked into the cell, followed closely by a red-haired young woman, Harry stared at her. "Luna…your hair…your eyes!"

"Yes, I know," Luna said, her hair now silvery, and her blue eyes now having a slight green tinge…and reptilian slits for pupils. The effect merely made her look more alien, rather than at all sinister. She wore a bangle with two blood-red crystalline orbs on it. "I will explain later, Harry. Let's just say that this is the second Reunion I have had in a short period of time."

Harry didn't fail to notice that, somehow, she had capitalised the word 'Reunion'. Flamel said to Luna, "We'll retreat to our Materia for the time being."

The woman nodded. "Don't hesitate to call us, Luna." Then, Flamel and the woman (his wife?) vanished, light seeming to dart towards the blood-red orbs Luna had on her bangle.

"What are you doing?" he asked as she began drawing a circle on the floor of his cell.

"I'm going home," Luna said. "Well, home of a sort. I've never been there. But after the Battle of Hogwarts and that Blasting Hex, well, I think it's time."

"But how can you have survived?"

"I'm not human, Harry. I never was entirely human," Luna said, sadly. "I've known before I even came to Hogwarts. In a way, the place we're about to go to is home to you to. It can be considered home to every wizard and witch that exists, for while there have been wizards and witches on Earth before, it's the Cetra Heritage that ensured there's as many of us as there are."

"Cetra?"

"Yes. Humans with innate magical power from another world. But that is not all of my heritage. They call you monster, Harry, for what you did in your grief. If they would call you that…then they would call me monster even more. I am a hybrid of human…and Jenova."

"Jenova?"

"The Calamity from the Skies. An alien from another world. A parasite. The catalyst for the Cetra Exodus." Luna looked up at him, and stood once she finished her circle. "Harry…you don't deserve Azkaban. You don't deserve this. They've taken everything from you. Your friends…your heroism…your life. I don't want you to waste away in Azkaban. That is why I am taking you with me. No more prison. No more fame. Another world where the Boy Who Lived is, well, normal. Magic is commonplace there. I will explain more later. But do you trust me?"

Harry couldn't trust himself to speak. He had rarely seen Luna so serious. And he had seen her die! But if this was no dream, no Dementor-induced delirium, then he was willing to take any chance to escape. So he nodded.

"Thank you," Luna said, with one of the saddest smiles he had ever seen her use. Then, she gathered energy together, and slammed her hands down onto the circle. Almost immediately, it glowed with eldritch light, and soon, it consumed Harry's vision…

Aerith Gainsborough knew that she was close to her destination, even as she moved through the strange pathways of the City of the Ancients. She could feel it, as acutely as others could feel the temperature of the air. Even normal people would be able to feel it by now, but not quite as well as her. After all, she was an Ancient, a Cetra.

Not that that meant much. She was the last of her kind, especially now that the Temple of the Ancients, along with its inhabitants, were no more. Of course, those beings were merely the spiritual remnants of the Ancients, but she still felt their loss as acutely as she did when her mother, her real mother, perished on the steps of the Sector 7 slums' train station.

Pensively, she clutched at the Materia on her head she had carried for the longest time. Aerith had once said to Cloud, when they first met, that it was good for absolutely nothing. That was meant in jest. In truth, she knew what it was. Her mother had spoken to her from within the Lifestream and told her. The ultimate White Magic Materia. Holy.

It was the only thing that could stop Sephiroth.

Thanks to Cloud's actions, Sephiroth now had the Black Materia capable of summoning Meteor. Holy was the only thing that could stop Meteor, and Aerith was willing to bet that Sephiroth, with his intimate understanding of the Planet and the Lifestream, knew this. He intended to stop her. This was part of the reason she left for the City of the Ancients alone. She didn't want to bring any of the others into danger. And if truth be told…she couldn't trust Cloud. Not completely.

It wasn't that she thought him untrustworthy per se. Indeed, he had helped save her manifold times. They had fought together for too long over the past few weeks that she couldn't see him as anything other than an ally, and as a friend. Perhaps he could be more, though Aerith didn't want to upset Tifa. Despite his stern, sometimes cold demeanour, there was a warmth in Cloud that sometimes shone through. That time in the Golden Saucer, where she managed to finagle him into going on a date, wasn't the best possible time they could have had. But it was a good one anyway.

But even before Sephiroth took control of him in the hole left by the Temple and had him attack her, she found herself disquietened by him. He resembled her old boyfriend, Zack, so much it wasn't funny. Not that there was much physical resemblance, beyond the spiky hair and the eerie shine of the Mako infusion in his eyes. And the clothes and sword. No, it was his manner. Half the time, it seemed like Zack, and the other half, it seemed like someone else, presumably Cloud. She remembered saying something fatuous on that gondola ride back at the Golden Saucer, something about wanting to meet him, even though he was, physically, right in front of her. She had meant the real him, of course.

And then, there was Tifa's attitude to him, especially after his story in the inn at Kalm. Aerith noticed that she seemed (albeit subtly) disbelieving of his story. Not of the actual events, but rather, that Cloud had ever been there. For a childhood friend, that was a rather disturbing attitude for Tifa to take. It wasn't that Tifa was certain that Cloud hadn't been there, but rather, that she was uncertain as to whether he had been there. Like she thought she may have seen Cloud once.

That was why she left Cloud and the others back at Gongaga. As dangerous as the trek was, she needed to put some distance between her and Cloud. Once she got Holy activated, then she would come back, and work on getting him free from Sephiroth's control. And confront Tifa about why she seemed to have a guarded attitude towards her old friend. They needed to work things out if they were going to stop Sephiroth, not to mention Shinra.

Soon, she came to a clearing in the strange forest of pale, stone-like trees, and she halted as she beheld the sight in front of her. In front of her was a small lake, and on the other side of the lake, within easy walking distance, was a strange building that looked like a massive seashell, all conical and spiral and spiky. She closed her eyes, and sighed. It would be lovely to dip her toes briefly into the water. All that walking, even mitigated by careful use of Warp spells, had done a number on her feet.

But as she approached the water's edge, she frowned as she saw something on the shore. She moved on cautiously, only to realise what it was, and she ran over.

It was two people, a young man and a young woman, both about her age, sprawled on the shore of that lake. The young man had messy dark hair, a painfully thin face flecked with stubble, and dressed in clothes that seemed little more than rags. Prison garb, she thought.

The woman was dressed in a purple shirt and trousers, but had long, silvery hair. She was the first to regain consciousness, her eyes flickering open to reveal blue irises…and slit pupils. It was almost as if she was a female Sephiroth, and Aerith fought down a brief moment of panic.

"Oh, hello," the woman said with a fairly friendly, if somewhat dreamy smile. "Tell me, where are we?"

"…You're in the City of the Ancients."

"You mean the Cetra?"

Aerith nodded reluctantly. The woman seemed harmless, but every instinct in her body was screaming at her. This was a Jenova creature.

The young woman chuckled quietly, in relief more than anything else. "We made it. Harry…we're home."

"Harry?"

"Oh, sorry, how rude of me. I am Luna Lovegood, and I was intended to be the Embodiment of Jenova on my world. This is Harry Potter, the former Boy Who Lived. We're both Cetra, like you."

Aerith was taken aback about how casually the woman admitted she was a Jenova creature. She was also taken aback at how genuinely serene and calm she was, and it wasn't like the attitude of Sephiroth. Sephiroth had the attitude of a would-be god, whereas Luna seemed to act as if everything would be all right in the end. It was bizarrely very comforting. "How did you know I was a Cetra?"

Luna smiled. "I see a lot of things. Just because other people can't see them doesn't mean they're there. Anyway, what's your name?"

"Aerith Gainsborough. Listen, Miss Lovegood, I'm in something of a hurry. I need to do something very important for the Planet's survival."

The young man, Harry, groaned, apparently conscious. "Luna…" he complained, "have you just dropped us into a life or death situation?"

"Apparently so."

The young man's eyes flickered open, revealing emerald orbs like Aerith's own. He murmured, "Oh no, not again…"

CHAPTER 1 ANNOTATIONS:

Welcome to the first chapter of Imago. Yes, I start with a cliché, with Harry in Azkaban. But I needed him shorn of attachments so that, unlike Harry Potter and the Cetra Heritage, he won't have any desire to head back home. And Luna has become a Jenova creature at this point because one, she will be taking the place of Jenova in this story (we will have something of the Jenova from the original version, but more as part of Luna), and two, I wanted to have a different means of Harry heading to the Planet than in Harry Potter and the Cetra Heritage.

A lot of this chapter was taken from chapters 1 and 16 of Harry Potter and the Cetra Heritage. Hey, if the prose works…and keep in mind, I'm copying and pasting from my own works. Yeah, it's lazy. Deal with it.

1. As mentioned in Harry Potter and the Cetra Heritage, much of this backstory to Azkaban was taken from the Harry Potter Wiki, and actually came from stuff from Pottermore.

CHAPTER 1 SUGGESTED SOUNDTRACK

(FTG= 'From the Game', that is, Final Fantasy VII)

Broken Hero (Harry's theme): Nuclear (Instrumental version), by Mike Oldfield.

The Chrysalis of an Awakening Goddess (Luna's theme): Terra, from Final Fantasy IX, composed by Nobuo Uematsu.

The Flower Lady (Aerith's Theme): Flowers Blooming in the Church (FTG). I consider this Aerith's 'true' theme, whereas Aerith's Theme is more the theme of her death. This is considerably less melancholy, and a bit more descriptive of Aerith in life than in her death.