I blame Arawn D Draven, ThatOnePsycho and NeonZangetsu for this one, the first sample chapter of the new year. It was they who opened my eyes to the potential for fanfic for the Souls games. Arawn D Draven and ThatOnePsycho had great Bloodborne crossovers that got me interested in that game, while NeonZangetsu got me intrigued by Dark Souls thanks to their irreverent Naruto story Not My Soul, part of his Not Going Home series. I have to admit, while the games are hard, they're hard in a good way, and the lore and story are quite interesting.

Now, my first foray into Souls-related fanfic was going to be a Bloodborne one. I actually considered a Potterverse crossover, and while still on the cards, my first attempt went nowhere for now. I'm still keeping it in reserve, just in case. I did manage to write a oneshot crossover, with the Neil Gaiman comic series The Sandman, named Galatea (plug, plug).

Now, admittedly, I am not that far into Dark Souls (as of writing, I've only finished the first Capra Demon), but the lore and some of the characters fascinated me enough that I wanted to write a story. And my first notion for a pairing for Harry? Well...I recently completed Primordial Song, a Fate/Grand Order crossover with Tiamat as the pairing. And I had heard of another gorgeous dragon waifu, so...I think you can guess how fluffy this tail...I mean, tale will get... :P

EDIT: I decided, after writing the first couple of chapters, to actually switch years for Harry. If I write a story set at Hogwarts, I usually set it during Year 4 or 5, both for pairings' sake as well as a good intro to the story, with the Tri-Wizard Tournament being a good plot skeleton, and the Goblet of Fire being a good Macguffin.

However, unusually, I decided to set the new version of Quebrith during Year 3. I'm hoping this works out. I am posting the revised version of the second chapter. The revised version of the first chapter isn't that much different, save for Hermione's removal and discussion about the TWT.

Setting it during Year 3 should give Priscilla more to do, with her and Harry deciding to cull the Dementor population on the QT. More on this later...

QUEBRITH (ORIGINAL)

CHAPTER 1:

LOST AND FOUND

No light entered the cell. The darkness was a Stygian, palpable thing, a solid presence. It was meant to be part of the punishment, the prisoner knew. An attempt to wear away at his resolve. It wasn't working, or at least as well as his captor had hoped. The prisoner was still very much sane, and while he'd be lying if he said he felt no fear or anxiety, he also knew that this was going to be his end, and he was going to go out defiantly.

No, what he truly despised about this situation was not his impending demise, but that he would never see his beloved again. First, he had been barred from visiting her in Anor Londo. Then, he had been stopped from meeting her at the prison to the north. And then, when he found the painted prison she had been put into, he had been stopped then, forbidden from visiting her on pain of death by the arrogant dotard whom he was now languishing as a prisoner of. Then again, in the end, his plotting treason against the so-called Lord of Light was merely an excuse. Said lord had been looking for a way to dispose of him for years, because he had done the unthinkable.

He had defied Lord Gwyn.

The faint echoes of footsteps came from behind the door, and the first sliver of light for a long time showed themselves beneath the door. It was then opened, and the prisoner nearly recoiled at the light from the torches. One of them was held by a man in armour, elegant armour that denoted him as one of the Four Knights of Lord Gwyn. Specifically, Lord Artorias.

A dry, rasping chuckle came from the prisoner's throat. "So, the old bastard sent thee here to be mine executioner?"

The noble knight frowned. "…I am not here to kill thee."

"Oh, so thou art a cur, fetching whatever thy master bids thee to do!" retorted the prisoner. "Artorias, Walker of the Abyss, being at the beck and call of one far less noble than he."

"Be silent, prisoner!" snapped the gaoler, lingering in the door, though Artorias held up a hand.

"…Let him speak. I understand his anger towards mine person," Artorias said quietly.

The prisoner chuckled mirthlessly again. "Oh, 'tis anger I feel towards thee, Artorias, but I pity thee too. Thou art a good man, shackled to the will of one so much lesser than thee, along with the other Knights. He deserves none of the loyalty thou giveth him."

"My honour dictates that…"

"Honour? Honour is a shackle that lesser men use to bind greater men to them, to force them to die. Honour is worthless in the world."

"…We hath had this argument before. Never would I hath believed that it would lead thee to treason, to try and murder our lord, and…"

"HE IS NOT MY LORD!" roared the prisoner, before he degenerated into pained coughing. After he recovered, he snarled, "Lord Gwyn ceased to be my lord when he imprisoned his child and grandchild for the crime of being born, forcing Gwyndolin to be a priestess and indoctrinating him in his twisted worldview. He ceased to be my lord when he proved himself unworthy of the loyalty of anyone but fools, cowards and sycophants. No wonder his firstborn sided with the Ancient Dragons, for he probably saw what he truly was."

Artorias did not deny these accusations. "I suppose thou see me as a fool…but what do thou see thine mother as?"

"A coward and sycophant, who holds more with a fellow coward than her own kin," the prisoner said. "Only a few of my sisters have come to see me. Quelaag, Quelaan, and Quelana. I was sent here as a scapegoat, so that thy lord would have no reason to target Izalith and the bitch ruling it. She is not kin, nor art those who forsook me."

"…I am sorry. I truly am. But…my duty calls. I am to take thee to the gallows. Thou wilt be given last words to say. While I would counsel thee not to make a spectacle, I doubt thou would heed me."

"Indeed. Let us make haste, then…"

There was a massive crowd in the square, a part of Anor Londo used for festive celebrations, but also used for executions. The prisoner, his magic suppressed by a ring pinned to his very flesh, was led out to the gallows. He sneered at the sight of Gwyn and his so-called mother, who had the gall to look remotely remorseful. He couldn't read the look on the masked features of Gwyndolin, while Gwynevere looked subtly horrified.

Gwyn, showman that he was, spread his hands wide. "All of thee stand here today, to witness the execution of a traitor! On numerous occasions, he refused to obey direct and lawful commands from his rightful lord, before conspiring to murder said lord! He has delved into forbidden sorceries, intending to tamper with the Lord Soul I possess, and thus end not only my life, but put an end to the Age of Fire, and all the prosperity that comes with it. Thus, in daring to not only attempt such blatant treason, but in attempting to destroy the foundation of our very existence, he will be not only put to death, but his very name forbidden to be spoken, on pain of following him into oblivion. My fellow Lord, the Lady of Izalith, shall only have one son, not two." He turned to him, and sneered, behind his beard. "Should thou hast any last words, speak them, and know they will be forgotten."

The prisoner sneered back, before he faced the crowd. "Forgotten? The False Lord Gwyn has forgotten that ideas and words are difficult, if nigh-impossible to slay, whether by blade or sorcery! He wishes me dead, because he fears me, and is right to do so. I refuse to beg or plead, for I am in the right! My crimes were born from these so-called Lords' own, where they feared their children enough to sin against them! Thou art no better than the Dragons you displaced! You cling to power like ticks to a hound! The Age of Fire? No, this is another Age of Chains and Shackles, like the Age of Ancients before! If thou art to silence me, then engrave these words on thine memory forevermore! The Age of Fire will end, and the Age of Dark thou tremble at shalt begin, with thou both choking on the ashes of thine cherished Lord Souls. This is no curse, but indelible fact, spoken by the unjustly condemned. I spit on thy Age of Fire, kindled by the lives of the innocent and ignited by malice and injustice. May Velka judge thee, and may thou burn in fires of thine own making and suffer for all eternity."

He knew that his words had shaken them. It wouldn't delay his demise, save for if Gwyn decided to be sadistic about it, but he knew he had left an impression. Even as Gwyn coldly commanded him to kneel at the block, he made them force him down, even as Gwyn readied his sword. As Gwyn swung the sword down, the condemned prisoner managed to inflict one last indignity: spitting on the man's robes.

As his head bounced and rolled away, one last thought came to him before the darkness consumed him. That of a young woman in white, taller than any man, and with features no human should have, but with peerless beauty. And then, his lips moved, mouthing that last thought.

Priscilla…I'm sorry…

The nightmare was not new to Harry Potter. He'd been suffering from them, and dreams as well, for much of his life, though they came more and more frequently since last year, since the Dementors. They felt so vivid and real, as if he was living another life. That's what made them, even the nicer dreams, so disturbing.

Of course, this wasn't all that was disturbing in his life. Leaving aside the other weird dreams he was having, of what seemed to be Voldemort, or the attack on the Quidditch World Cup, there was the fact that he had just been entered as a fourth Champion in the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Many in Gryffindor had celebrated that, but Ron hadn't believed him when Harry told him the truth, that he hadn't entered the Tri-Wizard Tournament himself, not willingly.

It was why, early in the morning, he showered and dressed early, before heading out of Gryffindor Tower, stalking through the corridors of Hogwarts under the Invisibility Cloak, before finding himself near a painting of Trolls being taught how to dance. He began pacing, thinking that he needed to find his hideout, before a door appeared on the wall. He went through without hesitation.

He'd found this room quite by accident during his Second Year, while trying to hide away from people accusing him of being the Heir of Slytherin. Eventually, it became his little hideout, with him coming here often. It was here that he indulged a little hobby he had told nobody of, save for Hermione. And even that wasn't until the end of last year, after she had revealed the Time-Turner to him.

Ever since he found this place, he'd found a compulsion to do something he hadn't before. He had begun to paint. Not portraits, but landscapes, huge landscapes across canvases at least a few metres wide. A cave filled with webs, egg-like structures, and pools of lava. A bonfire, surrounded by ruins near a cliff. A sprawling prison.

But prominent amongst these was of an ancient complex of buildings in a snowy landscape. Beautiful and bleak, there was a lugubrious air about the painting, much as there was to Harry as he painted it. This had been the one he had concentrated on most. He'd even infused his magic into it, though he was only aware of this in hindsight, when he felt drained after one particular session, and had to see Pomfrey.

He began painting more of the snowy landscape, and wasn't aware of how much time had passed until he heard the door open, and the smell of toast filled the air. He turned to see Hermione entering, looking pensive. "I thought I might find you in here, Harry."

Harry nodded absently, before returning to his work. "I just want to get away from it all. Didn't want to face Ron again. I mean, what the bloody hell is wrong with him?"

"Language, Harry," Hermione chided automatically. "And…well, it's pretty obvious, isn't it? He's jealous."

"Jealous that I've been thrown into a tournament meant for NEWTs students, and with a historically high bodycount?" Harry asked sardonically. "I mean, I thought about the prize money and the glory…but…well, does it matter? I have more than enough of both to go around. Is that why Ron's jealous? Because I've got a shot at more money and fame?'

"I think so. I'm not saying it's right, and I'm not saying he won't come around, but…anyway, I brought you food. I thought you would be up here. You've skipped breakfast before doing this, I don't want you to make it a habit."

Harry sighed, before finishing a final dab of paint, and coming over to Hermione, who had set up at a table. "And you believe me that I didn't enter this?"

"Of course I do!" Hermione snapped, affronted. "Firstly, all those precautions would be difficult for a student to bypass, even a NEWTs student. The Weasley Twins may waste their talents on pranks, but they're not stupid, so if they couldn't figure it out, it'd be hard for a student of our level to do it. I can think of maybe one or two potential ways, but they'd take too much power or trouble. Secondly…well, I saw your face when your name was read out. You were shocked and surprised, not pleased or triumphant. You had a deer in the headlights look."

"…Thanks, Hermione," Harry said quietly and sincerely. "I appreciate that."

She nodded, and they ate their breakfast in silence. Once they were finished, Hermione said, "I would write to Sirius. He wanted you to keep him apprised of what's happening at Hogwarts. I brought along parchment and quill, and…Harry…your painting."

Harry turned in his chair to look at it. It looked fine, and he turned back to her. "Sorry, what about it?"

"…It's snowing. The snow is moving."

Harry turned back, and realised she was right. Snow was gently drifting across the snowscape. Clouds drifted across the sky. He looked back to Hermione. "I…what? Is it like one of the wizard portraits here?"

"…I don't know." As Harry got up from the table and approached it, she said, "Harry, don't go near it. Maybe I should get a teacher…"

"I don't want them here, not in this place. I need this sanctuary from everything that goes on here," Harry said to her, shooting her a look. Of course, what he did then probably wasn't so smart. He reached for the painting, one of the areas he was sure had been dry when he was painting it, and touched it.

Almost instantly, it was like he was being sucked in. He heard Hermione scream his name, before he felt her arms around his waist, trying to drag him back, but to no avail. They were both torn off their feet and drawn into the painting…

The first thing Harry noticed was the cold. A bitter cold that bit into the flesh, flurries of snow blowing around them. The second thing he noticed was that they seemed to be in some building, a cylindrical one, open to the elements. Facing them was an archway, filled with a fog of solid light.

Before he could process this, he heard a voice. Soft, musical, gentle, and melancholy…and coming from behind them…and from very high up.

"Who art thou? One of us, thou art not. If thine missteps brought thee into this world, then plunge down from yonder plank, and return whence thou came. If I am what thou seek, then thine desires shalt not be fulfilled. This demesne is peaceful, its denizens kind, but thou dost not belong here."

Harry and Hermione scrambled around, and looked up. And up. And up. Standing there in front of them, holding what looked like a scythe, was a woman. A very peculiar one indeed.

How peculiar? Well, she was dressed in robes that seemed to be composed of white fur, or perhaps a fine down, but it was hard to tell where the robes ended and her skin did, for her face was framed by tufts of a similar or even identical substance. Said face was the epitome of serene beauty, though it was an inhuman beauty. Her green eyes had slitted pupils, watching them warily, and she had what looked like a crest of horn-like growths instead of eyebrows. Of course, if any further proof were needed that she wasn't human, then the tail poking out from beneath her robes was something of a clue. So too was her height: she was taller than Hagrid or Madam Maxime.

But while clearly not human and certainly dangerous, Harry wasn't as scared as he probably should have been. Part of it was the woman's body language. While she had a scythe at the ready, and she looked wary, she didn't appear to be hostile, at least not yet.

But there was another reason Harry wasn't as afraid as he could have been. He had a massive sense of déjà vu. He had seen this woman before. Younger, smaller, but he had seen her.

Hermione seemed to get over her shock. Harry was glad that, of all the people to be dragged here with him, it'd be someone with some modicum of sense. "We're sorry for intruding, but…we came here by accident. I'm Hermione Granger, and this is Harry Potter. We came here through a painting that Harry created."

At this, the large woman frowned. "A painting this one created? Art thou certain it was not in Anor Londo?"

"Anor Londo? I've never heard of the place. No, we come from Hogwarts," Hermione said, clearly gambling that this woman, given her inhuman nature, would know of magic.

"Hogwarts? What a peculiar name," the woman said. "Where in Lordran is it?" On their blank looks, she asked, "Perhaps Oolacile? Astora?"

"It's in Scotland in the United Kingdom!" Hermione snapped, exasperated.

"…Scotland? I know naught of such a place, Lady Hermione Granger," the woman said, kneeling down and peering at her. "And while I hath been in exile for an age and more, I would think that thou would recognise some of those names. But I hath been most remiss. Thou hast given me thine names, but I hath not given thee mine own. I am…"

"…Priscilla the Crossbreed."

The name came almost unbidden to Harry's lips. The now-named Priscilla turned her head to stare at him in shock. And he knew the names he had spoken: his blank look had been disbelief, not incomprehension.

As if speaking her name was like a key in a lock, he felt something in his mind burst. A great flood of memories swept him off his feet, both physically and mentally. He toppled to the ground with a strangled cry, convulsing as he nearly drowned in memories unleashed, and with them, a power long suppressed, burning through his veins like magma.

But as soon as the tide came, it receded. Memories had merged almost seamlessly. The new personality remained, but changed by the old. Not without pain, but to the one standing in Harry Potter's place, pain was a sadly familiar friend.

He was helped up by Hermione, and, gingerly, by Priscilla. "…Are you all right, Harry?"

"As much as I can be, under the circumstances," Harry rasped. "Oh, that was not fun." And then, his eyes turned to Priscilla, and reached out a hand to her face.

She recoiled. "I beg of thee, touch not my mien, lest thine life be leeched from thee."

"…It's okay, Priscilla," Harry said. "I know you can never hurt me." He managed to touch her, and clasp her, before allowing a familiar feeling to seep through his veins…and he knew now that Priscilla could feel it too.

"…Impossible," she whispered, her eyes wide with shock. "The few who came through here…he had died."

"I did. I got better. I swear to thee now, Priscilla, daughter of Gwynevere of Sunlight and of Seath the Scaleless, that I am he. I am Quebrith, betrayed child of the Witch of Izalith." A tired smile touched his lips. "And I am glad to see thee again, Priscilla…"

CHAPTER 1 ANNOTATIONS:

Okay, so, that just happened. Harry was a son of the Witch of Izalith, and he was in love with everyone's favourite fluffy half-dragon waifu? Okay, it's far from the first time I've done a story with a dragon waifu (witness Primordial Song and my take on Tiamat from Fate/Grand Order), but still…it's Priscilla!

Now, using the reincarnation trope is a bit trite, but really, it was the best way to make this story work. We'll get more details on the hows and whys about Quebrith and Priscilla's relationship in later chapters, as well as why Quebrith was executed by Gwyn.

However, one question I'm sure more than a few of you are asking is where the hell did I come up with the name of 'Quebrith' for Harry's past self as a son of the Witch of Izalith. Well, it's actually simpler than you'd think. The word may seem made-up, but I actually looked it up on Wiktionary by browsing a list of nouns starting with 'Que', given that every other offspring of the Witch of Izalith has a name staring with 'Que'.

So, what does 'Quebrith' mean? Well, it's an alchemical term, for sulfur. Sulfur has connotations with fire, heat and lava, so it's quite fitting for the Witch of Izalith and her brood.

Now, given the lore, the lore of the Dark Souls universe is quite ambiguous and loose, so having a second son of the Witch of Izalith is not implausible, and neither is, frankly, bashing her or Gwyn. Gwyn's actions, even when taken in the best possible light, can be dubious. Gwyndolin's treatment is the main sticking point for me, from what little I admittedly know of the lore of the game. And then, there is the possibility that he was the one who inflicted the Darksign on humanity.

As for the Witch of Izalith, well, she can be portrayed in a better light more easily than Gwyn, but she could easily have created what became the Chaos Flame as a means to create her own version of the First Flame, as an attempted coup against Gwyn's rule. I view her, for this fic at least, in much the same light as I view Rowena Ravenclaw, a self-absorbed and self-centred woman who didn't truly care about her family, and would throw them to the wolves if they threatened her station.

Don't worry, we'll deal with the Yorshka issue later. Just know that there'll be fluffy tail fluff in the future.

No numbered annotations this time.