Rated: Fiction T - English - Humor - Chapters: 75 - Words: 74,437 - Reviews: 125 - Favs: 81 - Follows: 79 - Updated: Dec 16 - Published: Jan 18, 2016 - id: 11739934
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"Thank you to all who enjoyed these fanfictions! I will pull [them] and repost them in the collection on Mary 1st." –BeautifulHalfBlood, author's note to "Five Birthdays of Sirius Black", "Tanning", and "Sirius Black and the Learnt Lesson"
Welcome to The Mary Tudor Collection! In these stories, you will learn what happens when Sirius Black is transported back to the year 1553, and becomes the friend and loyal sidekick of Queen Mary the First of England. Highlights of the collection include:
"Tanning": Stung by King Philip's dismissal of wizards as wand-waving wastrels with no appreciation of honest labour, Sirius apprentices himself to the crotchety old tanner Gilbert Hyde. Hijinks ensue.
"Sirius Black and the Learnt Lesson": Enchanting an archway to cause anyone who passes under it to grow antlers is something more than a jolly prank in the 16th Century; Sirius discovers this the hard way.
"Five Birthdays of Sirius Black": Four times Sirius spent 17 November as the honoured guest of the Queen – and one time he didn't.
In these and nine other unforgettable tales, Renaissance elegance and intrigue mingles with Marauder ebullience to produce an ff experience unlike any other. Don't miss out! Acquaint yourself with The Mary Tudor Collection today!
"We all knew that no one in Salem had a name with a J that was my age. If they did they were ether in the ground or soon would be." –In Pursuit of Magic, "The Spirit of Hollow's Eve"*
"So, Mr. Mayor," said the mysterious little girl, "I understand you've been having some rather unusual civic difficulties lately."
Mayor Levesque snorted. "That's putting it mildly," he said. "In the past three weeks, fully thirteen people in their early teens have walked into Gallows Hill Park, in full view of unimpeachable witnesses, and then simply dissolved into diethyl ether – at least, that's what the police scientists say they've found in the soil. There's no connection between the victims, except that they're all Salem residents, they're all between 13 and 15 years of age, and, for some misbegotten reason, their first names all start with J."
The girl shot a sudden, startled look at him. "Indeed?"
"Absolutely," said Levesque. "Jessica Vaughan, Jodie Meister, Javier Sosa, Jared Pouilaitis… I could rattle off all their names in my sleep by now, and I promise you there's not one exception. It's uncanny."
"More than uncanny," the girl murmured. "Oh, Mancie, why did you have to tell him so much?"
Levesque glanced quizzically at her. "Pardon?"
The girl shook her head. "Never mind," she said. "Listen, I need to make a long-distance call; do you know if there happens to be a working fireplace anywhere in this City Hall of yours?"
"What these two men conversed over was lost on the slumbering child, even as the very things they were discussing would be so integral to the child's future, if not the future of the word itself . . ." –NostalgicTimes, "The Luminary of the Wizarding World"
"So you see, Mr Dursley, there's nothing so very difficult about your task," Dumbledore concluded. "You and your family need only remember to use euphemisms when discussing the concept: 'hence-time', perhaps. And I, for my part, will work to influence the Muggle media so that anyone who utters the word will be demonised as inexcusably bigoted against someone or other; it's remarkable how easy that's becoming, these days."
Vernon Dursley, red-faced and breathing stertorously, seemed unmoved by these reassurances. "Do you mean to tell me," he said, "that my wife and I are expected to take in a curse-scarred freak child so addled in the brain that he'll summon a bag over his head if someone says the word 'future' to him?"
"Precisely," said Dumbledore. "And, of course, whenever he mentions a number, you'll have to multiply it mentally by seventeen and three-eighths." At the look on Vernon's face, he hastened to add, "But, apart from that, he's perfectly all right."
"He eluded an atmosphere, one that made Harry's skin crawl and the hairs on the back of his head stand on end . . ." –VivyPotter, "The Many Harry Potters of Little Hangleton"
"Are we… safe here?" said Harry in a small voice, rubbing the spot on his cheek where the dromozoön had gotten him. (A toenail was starting to emerge there; they would have to do something about that, Voldemort thought, when they got a chance.)
"We're not safe anywhere," he said flatly. "Not while the Wreaker knows that the wizards who spoiled his first-edition Voyage to Arcturus are still alive and sane." He shook his head. "Whatever possessed us to hold a showdown in the sanctum of a science-fiction-obsessed Dark Lord with the power to make reality out of dreams, I can't…"
He broke off abruptly, sniffed the air, and then threw himself onto the ground with lightning speed. "Mentirosan atmosphere!" he hissed. "Down, Potter, quickly! It's slightly less dense than Terrestrial air; if you keep your head low enough, it may…"
But it was too late. The terror-inducing atmosphere of Robert Silverberg's nightmare world had hit Harry full in the face; as Voldemort pulled him down, he saw the telltale pallor and spasmodic shuddering, and knew that he had been infected with the unreasoning fear that haunted Yakoub Nirano Rom throughout five long years of slavery.
He groaned wearily. "Honestly, Potter," he said, "you've got to learn to start eluding these things."
*Crossover with Rise of the Guardians.
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