One crossover with Harry Potter that I've been meaning to do for some time was Fate/Stay Night, something you can thank or blame (depending) Lupine Horror and sakurademonalchemist for. I recently obtained the first anime series, and thought now was the time to start, despite not actually having watched it yet.
Another impetus was the challenge issued by Gabriel Herrol, who asked writers to come up with a story where Harry is raised by Caster/Medea. I thought the concept intriguing, but ultimately decided I'd had enough of writing pre-Hogwarts/First Year stories. My next impulse was to take a leaf out of the Master of Death Harry stories I wrote, especially my rather cracky Final Fantasy XII crossover Nitimur in Vetitium, and their inspiration the Mass Effect crossover Getting Too Old For This by ManMadeofLasers. I also was intrigued by the opening conceit of another Harry Potter/Fate/Stay Night crossover, Second Chance of They Who Have Been Betrayed by Soaring Midnight Raven.
That being said, having written one chapter and being partway through another, I find myself getting bored with the story already. One day, I WILL write a Harry Potter/Fate Stay Night crossover, or at least a Fate/Stay Night fanfic. It may even be this one. Who knows? But for the moment, this taster is all you're getting.
Incidentally, in case you're wondering about the title, the title is derived from the warning that used to be on fireworks in Britain: Light the blue touch paper and retire (meaning retreat) immediately.
EDIT (October 15 2016): I have done a new fic with the title of Light the Blue Touch Paper and Run Like Hell. While the emphasis is on Medea-shipping, it is not a crossover with Harry Potter any more, nor is it set during Fate/Stay Night. Instead, it is set during Fate/Zero, is a crossover with Thor...and ships Medea with Loki.
LIGHT THE BLUE TOUCH PAPER AND RUN LIKE HELL (ORIGINAL)
CHAPTER 1:
BROKEN
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.
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 an old man with red eyes looking at him with a thoughtful smirk, he was certain that he was hallucinating, or seeing phantoms. "Fuck off, I'm not buying," he mumbled deliriously.
The reaction of the old man was odd, to say the least. He roared with laughter. "I have lived for many centuries, Harry Potter," the old man chuckled, "and yet, I don't think anyone has ever said that to me." His voice was deep, dark, and mellifluous, as if someone combined the voices of Christopher Lee and Tom Baker with a hint of Gabriel Woolf. "But in a way, I am selling something, so you are not inaccurate. My name is Kishua Zelretch Schweinorg, though my friends, enemies, and victims call me Zelretch."
"Never heard of you," Harry retorted, in the hope it would make the hallucinatory old man go away. That twinkle in the man's red eyes reminded him a lot of Sirius Black, his godfather. That same cheeky malice of someone about to pull a prank on somebody else. The recollection sent a pang through his heart. Sirius' death, as with those of all his friends, was very much an open wound.
"That's hardly surprising," Zelretch said. "Only a few on your world know of me and my reputation, and they are right to fear me. I am what is known in my world as a Dead Apostle, though a more common term for what I am would be a vampire."
After a moment, there was only one thing Harry could say coherently or intelligently to that.
"Oh."
Zelretch chuckled. "Don't worry, I'm not here to drink your blood. As I said, I am here to sell you something. Namely, your freedom from Azkaban."
"In exchange for what?"
"Putting your 'saving people thing' to good use, causing some chaos, and hopefully saving people's lives," Zelretch said bluntly. "Unlike Dumbledore, I won't keep any information from you. Unless it's funny to do so."
"Oh, great," Harry muttered.
"No, no, it could be fun."
"For you."
"And for you too." Zelretch's face became solemn. "The wizards here, they don't know what you have become. By gathering the Deathly Hallows for even a moment, such powerful artifacts brought together affected you. They are Mystic Codes that might as well be Noble Phantasms if they were wielded by a Heroic Spirit."
"…Do I have to pretend that you're making any sense?" Harry asked.
"Well, I was getting to the point, my boy," Zelretch said.
Harry scowled. "Do not. Call me. My boy. Dumbledore did that."
"Yes, but, well, what can you do about it, my boy?" Zelretch said, grinning widely. Harry could tell that Zelretch was enjoying riling him up. He could actually see, in his mind's eye, a cartoon caricature of the vampire poking a chained-up and muzzled Hungarian Horntail repeatedly and asking, with a big grin, Does this bug you? Does this bug you? Does this bug you?
The thing was, what could he do about it? Harry was weak from so long spent in Azkaban, physically and magically. What could he do against a vampire? Especially one so assured of himself, he could give a Malfoy lessons in self-assuredness.
"Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Voldemort was right in one way, that those who gather the Hallows become the Master of Death, and thus immortal. But it depends on the Hallows themselves, infused with so much power, they may as well be sentient. They would only grant immortality to someone who is willing to die. The irony is so thick, you can spread it on toast," Zelretch said. "That makes you immortal, unable to die under normal circumstances. I found out about you while I was nosing around the multiverse. Your manifold alternates fascinate me, Harry. There was one who became the adopted grandson of one of my alternate selves, and another who I sent to help shield the soul of a girl whom you'll be meeting soon. I like throwing pebbles into the pond of reality, watching the ripples unfold." A broad grin split his features once more. "And you, my boy, are a boulder. You will make such a splash."
"Hang on, I haven't agreed to anything!" Harry snapped.
"Now, where's the fun in that?" Zelretch said with a smirk. Before Harry could mount any form of protest, he found himself feeling like he was in a washing machine, being spun at high speeds. "By the way, my boy, do you know what a telefrag is?" were the last words Harry heard before multi-coloured oblivion, like a rainbow suffering from terminal dysentery, consumed him…
Atrum Galliasta was an unpleasant man by normal metrics of morality. But he wouldn't care. Magi set themselves beyond morality in their search for the Root of All Things, Akasha. And the blonde, arrogant man with the dark skin was supremely confident in all things, including his handsomeness, his supremacy, and his ability to win the upcoming Holy Grail War, which, oddly enough, was about to be held in Fuyuki City some decades too early. Not that that mattered, really, as it meant he could surpass Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald, and show the Magus Association how it was done, and not that Irish bint Bazett.
He had started the ritual to summon up a Servant. He had the right catalyst. He intended to summon up Medea of Colchis as a Caster class Servant, so that her rumoured ability to summon the Colchis Dragon would be his to command. And the ritual had taken on a life of its own. Even if he wanted to stop, he couldn't. The cadence of the intonation, the rhythm, was like the chuffing of a steam engine impelling a train relentlessly along tracks towards an inevitable destination.
As he concluded the chant, a blinding light filled the room. A triumphant shout died on Atrum's lips when he felt a pain in his chest. He looked down, and stared, in an imbecilic manner, at his torso. His last coherent thought before everything went away in an explosion of crimson pain didn't seem coherent, but was understandable, given the circumstances.
Why do I have someone's leg sticking out of my chest?
The room was currently looking like something out of a horror film. Occult and scientific instruments were dotted around, a massive pile of viscera and blood (enough to comprise two men, had anyone bothered to quantify the remains) like a sacrifice in front of a ritual circle. Said circle had a hooded and cloaked figure in it, looking bemused and a little irritated.
The figure appeared to be a woman, wearing a dark purple dress that seemed rather old-fashioned, and over that, a hooded cloak, the hood currently concealing her features, save for a pair of lips that would normally be quirked in an amused smirk, framed by blue hair. Currently, however, those lips were pursed in confusion and irritation. Here she was, ready to make her entrance as a Servant, say those damned words, and participate in the Holy Grail War. But she had no Master in front of her, just a pile of wet, wobbling meat that looked like two people had recently exploded. Thankfully, she had materialised after said explosion, she reflected. She could get rid of the bloodstains easily with her magic, but she preferred not to be at ground zero to bodies exploding.
Then, she realised part of the pile of meat was moving. To her astonishment, disgust, and, to be honest, macabre fascination, part of the gory pile was reforming into a human being. Eventually, within about half a minute, a young man, of about twenty-odd years of age, scrawny (even emaciated: it was lucky he was even standing at all), dark-haired, and with green eyes that glittered with weariness and madness, was standing before her. Naked. A small part of her, the part that Aphrodite had fucked around with, was looking at him, and thinking, in between 'hummina's, that if he was fed up a little, he'd definitely be a looker.
A more calculating part of her mind noticed that there was something in his eyes beyond the tiredness and madness glittering in them. It was something she saw in the mirror every day of her life, as a human and as a Heroic Spirit. And she was getting a lot of prana from somewhere. It seemed to be coming from the naked, blood-spattered young man in front of her.
Then, as he looked around confused, and then looked down at the bloody remains of another man, he then yelled something rather odd. "ALL OF MY HATE, ZELRETCH!"
The woman cleared her throat rather pointedly. "Servant Caster has answered your summons," she said. "I ask of you, are you my Master?"
The young man stopped, and stared at her, before looking down at the ankle-deep pile of organs he was standing in. "Umm…I think you got the wrong guy. I think this was your master. Anyway, what do you mean, Servant? Master? Caster? You're not a House Elf, are you?"
Caster blinked. Not that the young man could see it with her eyes concealed by her hood. After a moment, she looked at his hands. And there she saw it. On his left hand, he had Command Seals. "I do not have the wrong guy, as you put it. You have Command Seals on your hand. That means that you are now a Master in the Holy Grail War."
The astonishment and confusion on his face would have been highly amusing under other circumstances, as was the torrent of expletives he soon emitted. However, Caster, known millennia ago as Medea of Colchis, knew somehow that she was going to be in for the long haul with her new Master…
CHAPTER 1 ANNOTATIONS:
And here you have it. Harry just telefragged Caster's original Master, and has become her new Master by default. Eagle-eyed readers will note that the opening is taken, to a degree, from the first chapter of The New Cetra Heritage: Imago, which is posted in The Cauldron (which some of you may first be reading this chapter in).
I was wondering how to make Harry the Master of Caster. Do I do it when Caster has killed her first Master? Do I do it after her first Master summoned her? I thought it'd be funnier, in a macabre way, to have Harry telefrag her first Master, and survive by stint of being the Master of Death. I was partly inspired by similar, though less gory, scenes in Doctor Who, especially episode 1 of Remembrance of the Daleks, where the Doctor fiddles with a transmat to ensure that one half of a Dalek materialises where the other half does.
No numbered annotations for this chapter.
