AU for Wizarding world. Mix of multiverses from DC. Yes MC has magic but not "wizarding world magic". Plot is wizarding world with DCAU mixed in. Or the other way around. Whatever I fancy
25 June 1995
I gently pushed open the heavy door of the Colonel's office, my eyes quickly scanning the room. The walls were adorned with framed commendations and historical memorabilia. Seated behind a large, polished desk, the Colonel looked up and gave a solemn nod.
"Alaric, enter. Have a seat, son."
The weight in the Colonel's voice immediately set my nerves on edge. I moved across the room, my steps measured, my mind racing. Settling into the chair opposite him, my eyes briefly caught a glimpse of a black-and-white photograph of a group of soldiers.
"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but your brother has passed," the Colonel said.
The words hit me like a physical blow. My face remained stoic, a mask of composure, but my eyes betrayed a storm of emotions—shock, disbelief, denial. Staring unseeingly at a point just over the Colonel's shoulder, I gripped the arms of the chair with white-knuckled intensity.
Observing my reaction, the Colonel leaned forward slightly, his expression softening. "Alaric, there's more you need to know. In light of this tragedy, and considering your circumstances, you will not be completing your time here at the school."
His words, though spoken gently, were another jolt. Not finish my training? My mind reeled at the thought.
"It's a difficult decision, but it's based on a long-standing tradition. You're now the last surviving son in your family, Alaric. We have a responsibility to preserve the lineage, especially in times of loss such as this."
The Colonel's words were gentle, but they felt distant. My mind became a whirlwind of memories and unspoken words. I sat motionless, lost in a sea of grief and unspoken sorrow, the Colonel's office a silent witness to the life-altering news just delivered.
"Son, I can't begin to fathom the weight of what you're going through. The loss of your brother is a tragedy, and it's a burden no one should have to bear alone. I understand you've had your differences with your family, and that can make this all feel even more isolating. But know this: we're not making these decisions lightly. We're granting you passing marks and all privileges due to ex-alumni, excluding direct recommendations to the British Armed Forces. This isn't about your capabilities; it's about acknowledging the immense loss of your family. You're now the surviving son, and there's an old tradition carried from times of war to preserve the lineage of those we've lost. Take your time to grieve, to process. We're here for you."
Moving silently through the dimly lit corridors of the boarding school, my steps echoed in the empty hallway. Each footfall felt heavier than the last, laden with the weight of the news that had shattered my world only hours before. I reached my room, a small, spartan space with a pair of bunk beds that had been my home for the past years. Methodically, I began to pack my belongings, my hands moving of their own accord while my mind replayed the Colonel's words. The familiar objects – books, photographs, and mementos from my brother – felt hollow in my hands.
As I zipped up my bag, my fellow cadets gathered outside the door. Their faces showed a mix of sympathy and awkwardness, unsure of what to say or how to act. They mumbled words of condolence, patted my back, and some offered awkward hugs. I barely managed to nod in acknowledgment, my throat tight with unshed tears. Yet, I managed a faint "Thank you" to each of them, appreciating their efforts to comfort me in my loss, even as I felt utterly disconnected from everything around me.
I knew they couldn't truly understand the depth of my grief. But in their faces, I saw a genuine attempt to reach out to me in my time of sorrow, and for that, I was silently grateful. With one last look at the room that had been my world, I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked out towards the ride the school had arranged to take me home.
1 July 1995
Although nearly a week had passed, I hadn't once set foot on the family grounds since my arrival in Ottery St Catchpole. The decision was made to hold the funeral on a Saturday, in keeping with the wixen traditions of the Diggory household. This timing coincided neatly with the conclusion of the Hogwarts school term, allowing both family and close friends to attend.
Even from a distance, I could discern the gathering of people placing flowers in my brother's coffin, and a cluster of red-haired wizards standing near my parents. Among the assembled, some were familiar faces, many were not. Sighing, I approached with my hood drawn, realising it was time for me to bid my farewells too.
Few spared a glance in my direction. There were those, consumed by their grief, who paid no heed to their surroundings – these I disregarded. Yet, there were others who did notice. A handful recognised me; some made tentative moves to approach, but I silently yet courteously dissuaded them. The rest sneered upon seeing me – those faces I made a mental note to remember.
Approaching the coffin was excruciating. I had warned him, pleaded with him, and did everything within my power to divert his focus from that accursed tournament. Yet there he lay, in a coffin. I paused, took a deep breath to compose myself, then advanced the final few steps towards his resting form. Edging past two figures by his side, I drew out a figurine of our childhood dog and delicately placed it in his clasped hands.
"Hello, Ric. I—" My voice broke, the words dissolving into tears that streamed unchecked down my face. It took a moment, a long, aching moment, to gather myself again. As I wiped my eyes, my voice emerged again, tremulous and laden with grief.
"I bloody warned you to stay away, but no, you had to be the star, didn't you, you daft git. Now I'm all by myself. I just... I hope you're at peace, wherever you are. I'm leaving Gromit's figure with you, so he can keep you company until I eventually find my way to you. Farewell, Ric."
In a cruel twist, as if nature itself mocked my sorrow, the wind suddenly picked up. A gust swept past, snatching the hood from my head and exposing my face to the world. The cold breeze felt like a harsh reminder of the void left in my heart, a void where my brother used to be.
A sharp gasp from a girl to my side shattered the solemn atmosphere, drawing the attention of others nearby. "Cedric? But how?!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with disbelief.
"No, I'm—" I began, but my words were cut short as she threw her arms around me in a tight embrace, while others turned to stare in our direction. The seconds stretched on, each one a test to my fraying patience, until finally, I managed to gently but firmly pry her away.
"I'm not Cedric. I'm Alaric, his twin," I hissed, a flare of irritation igniting in my voice.
Her eyes widened in sudden realization, and a look of deep misery washed over her face. "Oh," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, before she turned and hurried away, tears streaming down her face.
Exhaling deeply, I tugged my hood up again. The last thing I needed now was attention. Spotting my parents approaching, I veered off in a different direction, but another figure, persistent, followed and halted me with a firm grasp on my shoulder.
"Wait. Please!" implored a voice that rang oddly familiar. I turned to face a bespectacled boy with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. "I'm—"
"Harry Potter, the champion. I know," I cut him off sharply, irritation lacing my words. As I turned to leave again, he held me back.
"No! Well, yes, I am Harry. But that's not what I came to say," he insisted, a note of desperation in his voice.
Trapped by the inevitable encounter with my parents, I resignedly faced him. "Alright then, what?"
Harry hesitated, gathering his thoughts, then spoke in a tremulous voice, "I'm sorry. It was my fault. I was there at the end. If it wasn't for me, he—"
I seized his shoulder, my grip firm, my response more heated than I intended. "He would probably still be dead. Cedric knew the risks. And be sure, he would hold nothing against you, Harry. He wrote to me about you, said you were a good man. Conveniently left out his involvement in the tournament, though."
Harry looked torn, struggling with his words. "But still, I—"
"Happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like Cedric. Your apology is appreciated, but unnecessary," I interjected firmly. "It's those who murdered my brother, and those covering up their actions, who are to blame." I cut him off before he could continue, and just as he opened his mouth to respond, a sharp yell captured our attention.
"Alaric! Where have you been?" my mother exclaimed, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd as she pushed past Harry to confront me.
My father, Amos Diggory, followed in her wake, his voice raised in anger. "Have you any idea the mess your arrival has caused?!" He grabbed me by the scruff of my coat, his eyes blazing. "Your presence here is unnecessary!"
"Are you mad? He was my brother, I loved him!" I retorted, pushing him away to break his grip.
"We all loved him, same as we love you, dear," my mother interjected, her voice strained in an attempt to calm the brewing storm.
"Don't lie to me! You've never loved me! In your eyes, I see it. You wish it were me in that coffin, not him!" I yelled back, the years of pent-up resentment boiling over.
"Now, son, this isn't the time," Amos tried again, reaching for me.
"This is the perfect time!" I shouted, swatting his hands away. "Not once since I left have you spoken to me, sought me out. Not even a single letter. It was always Cedric, only Cedric cared!"
Our argument escalated, voices rising, drawing the attention of the crowd around us. Our tempers flared, and the words became harsher, louder. Until finally, I had enough.
"Now I'm all you've got, and you still can't see me for who I am. You'd rather see him, not me. To you, I'm just the stain, the squib, the spare!" My voice broke with the weight of my own words. "Sod off. Without Cedric, this place, this family, means nothing to me."
As I ran away from the funeral I made my way to the local pub. The pub was quieter than I'd expected, with just a few inebriated souls and one man in a grimy overcoat, reeking of smoke, nursing a bottle of whisky in solitude. I settled at the counter, sliding a few notes across and asking for whatever they'd fetch me Fully intended to drown my sorrows away.
I had barely savoured half of my pint of Guinness when the tranquility was shattered. The doors burst open with a resounding bang as a trio of cloaked figures, donning ornate silver masks, strode in confidently. Their sudden entrance made me swivel in my seat to face them.
The figure in the centre was slender and tall, his mask distinguished by a golden streak. The second, more robust and squat, had a mask with a silver crack, while the third, leaner and shorter, wore a mask adorned with a bronze spiral. The metal of their masks mirroring the rings in their wands.
"Well lookie here, lads," taunted the apparent leader with the Golden Mask, his voice dripping with contempt. "Looks like we have a few pigs to cull." He turned to his companion on the left. "And wouldn't you know it? What do we find with those who waddle in the mud?"
"Heh, mudbloods, of course," chuckled the second witht the Silver Mask, his laughter thick with malice.
I sneered back at them, my gaze quickly scanning the pub. The barman, alert to the danger, was subtly reaching for the landline, while the drunken patrons remained blissfully unaware of the unfolding drama. The man in the overcoat had vanished, leaving no trace behind.
"Oh, looking for an exit, is poor little Cedric scared? No, wait, Cedric's dead. Saw him myself I did. Even left a pretty little flower I did. Now who might you be? I was so sure the Diggorys only had one son," sang the mocking voice of a young woman in the Bronze Mask.
Fury ignited within me. In a swift motion, I hurled the remnants of my pint towards them and launched myself in their direction. I swerved agilely, barely evading the spells that whizzed past me, and lunged at the smallest figure.
We collided with a nearby table, the impact resounding through the pub. As we grappled, I tried to pry the wand from the bronze-masked figure's grip. But before I could succeed, the air was split by the sound of incantations.
"Bombarda!" The table I was using for cover exploded, sending splinters and debris embedding into my back. Pain seared through me, but I had no time to react.
"Stupify - Leviosa!" The voice of the first assailant echoed, and suddenly, I was immobilized, hanging helplessly in mid-air, unable to move a muscle. Below me, the figure in the bronze mask was already picking herself up off the ground, her mask glinting ominously in the dim light of the pub.
"Oi! What the bloody hell is going on here, you freaks?" a slurred voice shouted from the drunkards' corner. Desperately, I tried to yell a warning, to tell them to stay out of it, but my voice was silenced by the spell.
"Why don't you have some fun with the pigs, eh?" the tall figure, Gold Mask, gestured dismissively towards the drunkards, prompting Silver Mask to act.
"Heh, with pleasure. Dance for me, piggies! Dance, Tarantallegra! Hahahahaha!" Silver Mask's laughter echoed as he cast his spell, causing the drunkards and the barman to start dancing uncontrollably.
Meanwhile, Bronze Mask had regained her composure and seized the opportunity to send a stool crashing into my ribs, wrenching a pained grunt from me.
"Ho ho! Quite resilient, aren't you, 'Cedric'?" Gold Mask sneered. "Look at the chaos you've caused. Needless destruction, an inconvenience to your betters. But no matter, we'll have our fun."
"Oh oh! Let me! Let me! I need to get him back for laying his dirty hands on me!" Bronze Mask pleaded eagerly, her voice laced with malice.
I struggled against the magical hold, fighting with every ounce of strength I had, as Gold Mask merely shrugged indifferently. That's when I caught sight of the grungy man from earlier, motioning for me to stay quiet and close my eyes.
"Yes! You'll love this one, 'Cedric'! It's one of Mad-Eye Moody's, just like we learned in class!" Bronze Mask cackled with glee. Gold Mask, following my gaze, began to ask, "What are you staring—?"
"Cruci—!" Their words were abruptly cut off as I snapped my eyes shut, just as the grungy man's surprise attack detonated beside them. The force of the explosion broke their spell, and I crashed to the ground, tumbling and disoriented.
Regaining my bearings, I took a quick stock of the scene. Bronze Mask had been thrown to the far side of the pub, while the man in the trench coat was skillfully dismantling Silver Mask. Taking deep, shaky breaths, I spotted a gold adorned wand lying a few meters away, equidistant between me and Gold Mask. Our eyes locked, and then we both sprinted towards the wand.
I lunged from my position, diving for the wand. As I turned, I saw Gold Mask only just managing to regain his footing. Seizing the moment, I snapped the wand in half with a swift, decisive motion.
"NO! I'll bloody end you now, you piece of filth bloodstain!" Gold Mask wailed, scrabbling on the ground in a futile attempt to retrieve his broken wand.
Bronze Mask was already on her feet again, her wand raised in response to Gold Mask's cries. "Sectum—oof!" Her incantation was abruptly interrupted as Silver Mask, propelled by a forceful blow from the trench-coated man, collided into her, sending both sprawling. Her wand slipped from her grasp, skittering across the floor, out of her reach.
Gold Mask and I locked eyes on the wand lying near his feet, and instinctively, we both lunged for it. But before I could reach it, strong hands grabbed me by the back of my clothes, yanking me violently out of the pub.
"What the hell are you doing?!" I yelled at the figure dragging me away.
"Saving your bloody life, brat!" the figure retorted as we weaved through a hail of spells.
"We nearly had them!" I protested, frustration boiling over.
"You're a damned fool if you think that," he shot back, his grip unrelenting. "I'm all knackered out from a long day, and you're embarrassingly unprepared. It was only a matter of time before reinforcements arrived." Releasing me, he gestured for me to follow.
We ducked into an alley where he pulled out a piece of chalk and began drawing on the wall.
"Hurry up, whatever you're doing," I urged, hearing our pursuers' footsteps drawing nearer.
He ignored my plea, focused on his arcane scribbles.
As the trio's voices echoed just around the corner, the man finished his drawing and produced a lighter seemingly out of thin air. "This isn't the time for a bloody smoke!"
"Ecitsuj fo llah eht ot su ekat!" he intoned, flicking the lighter's flame onto the symbols. A swirling vortex of fire erupting on the wall.
"What the bloody hell is—?!" I barely managed to exclaim before he dragged me into the fiery maelstrom. A stream of green and red spells zipped past where we had stood just moments ago, vanishing into the flames that enveloped us.
The next moments were a disorienting whirl of heat and smoke, blurring my senses. Time seemed suspended until fragments of a conversation reached me through the haze.
"And of course, the library," a voice said, just as I was abruptly expelled from the vortex, crashing hard onto the ground.
As I struggled to rise, shuffling and voices surrounded me. "John, this is unexpected," came a gruff, authoritative tone.
"I know, Bats, but we hit a spot of trouble," John, the trench-coated man, replied to the speaker, whom he called 'Bats'.
Another voice, younger and more energetic, chimed in, "And who exactly is 'we'?"
"A good question. Who exactly are you, young man?" a regal voice inquired. I finally pulled myself up, only to find myself facing a gathering of caped crusaders. My eyes widened as I took in the sight of Aquaman, Flash, Batman, Martian Manhunter, Green Arrow, Red Tornado, and a group of youthful sidekicks.
"Why don't we introduce the league member we are familiar with, to allow the young man to gather his wits?" Martian Manhunter suggested. The older members nodded, and the younger ones turned expectantly to John.
With an air of nonchalance, John introduced himself. "I'm John Constantine, the League's expert in the occult." The skepticism was apparent among the younger crowd, except for Kid Flash, who scoffed openly. Unfazed, John turned to me, "This is a stray I whisked off the streets. Oi, give 'em a name, aye?"
As John's claim of ignorance about my identity hung in the air, I couldn't help but mentally scoff at his blatant attempt at misdirection. For a brief moment, I wondered whether being found by him was a stroke of luck or misfortune. Knowing John, it was almost certainly the latter. Yet, in the world I inhabited, where fates turned on a dime, every opportunity, no matter how dubious, had to be seized.
With that in mind, I steadied myself, facing the array of legendary figures before me. "My name is Alaric Diggory, and I'm John's protege."