The Boy Who Returned: Chapter 1

A/N: I do not own Harry Potter.

A/N 2:

How the sword talks

Notes are written like this.

Thoughts like this. Same for spells
Recaps look like this

Chapter 1 – Beneath Ruined Stone

Harry turned to his left. At the center of the vault, buried in a stone dais, was a sword. Jet black hilt. Thin, almost too elegant for war as well. But it pulsed with a soft golden hue, chasing away the darkness around it.

Harry stepped forwards, but warily. Objects that could talk had brought him only pain before. "What are you?" he asked.

"Your inheritance. Now hurry."

Harry kept his distance. Worried about, well, pretty much everything about this vault. The sword seemed to have a personality. Almost like the Sorting Hat. If that's the case, I'll ask it something else.

"Who are you?"

"I am a blade that was once wielded by warriors of the light long ago. Here, I am nothing more than the inheritance of a house long dead. For a time, I have simply been a vault-guardian. It has been quite lonely."

"How long have you been here?"

"More than a thousand years."

"Why was this vault sealed?" Harry asked, looking, but seeing no door. The only opening was the crack that he managed his way through moments ago.

"This vault was sealed with only one purpose: to wait. To await a time when fate decreed that blood no longer mattered. Only then would fate bestow a champion upon the vault, worthy of wielding me. Had it simply been a quirk of fate, and had you been dark and corrupted, you would have been cleansed the moment you stepped foot into this vault."

Harry did not like the sound of the word 'cleansed,' but he got the gist of it.

"So what? Is this some holy ground?"

"Holy?" the swords deep baritone softened a little, seeming amused, "That is a word I have not heard in a long time. No. I am a blade of purpose. As is this vault. I was merely forged in a time where darkness reigned, and designed to destroy it. The ground you stand on is more hallowed than I, as it was walked upon by those brilliant souls that carried my weight before you. There is one change however."

Harry did not like where the sword was going with this. He had come back to save his timeline. Not whatever the hell was going on here. But he couldn't abate his curiosity, and asked, "What change?"

"Then runes you see around the room react to the magic of the one that walks within. I have never seen it react this brilliantly. And thus, you must be the one fate decreed."

Harry didn't answer immediately. He did glance at the glowing runes surrounding the vault however, their shifting now subtle. As he looked closer, he saw little pulses of silver and gold that flitted to and fro.

"That doesn't mean much," he mumbled quietly to himself, "It could simply be that their magic reacts differently to different people."

The swords voice rumbled through out the vault again, firmer this time. "Fate does not make mistakes. She waits and watches, and when the time is right, she wills."

Harry moves closer to the sword and reaches forwards with his hand out, but he stops it just above it. The niggling question in the back of his mind surfaced and he asked, "Why me? This is not where I wanted to arrive. I went back to save my friends of my world. Not whatever broken mess this world is."

The sword paused, as if considering his words deeply.

"You may have not been of this world, but your magic carries weight. Traces of older magic stirs within you. Your magic is cold, but soothing. Deadly, but not cruel. Yes… this is not a mistake. This is just part of your fate. You were meant to come here."

Harry stared at the blade, an uncertain frown marring his features.

"You are not of the blood," it continued, "but you are enough. And fate has opened the way which blood could not."

Harry sighed to himself, partially annoyed at getting himself caught in whatever world this was, and now somewhat regretting he had even done the ritual. His friends he once knew were dead there, but he could have gotten over them in time. Couldn't I?

He shook his head. Now was not the time for lost thoughts. I'm alone… wherever the hell I am. I have no way back according to my mother's ritual notes.

"Might as well make the most of it." Harry grumbled.

The sword pulsed, as if in agreement.

"If it eases your troubles, you have crossed a threshold few ever reach. The runes have responded. And… to be fair, the only way out of this vault is if you wield me."

He immediately grabbed the hilt. Warmth greeted his touch and rushed up his arm, but it didn't burn. His magic stirred in response. It felt tense at first, then it relaxed as the sword's magical presence folded into it.

From behind him there was the groan and rumbling of rock. He quickly turned around to find that some stones had fallen, revealing a narrow path out of the vault. Before he could leave however, stone grinded and a simple pillar arose from the far side of the vault near the newly created exit. Circling, geometric runes glowed faintly at its base. Never seen those before.

Atop the pillar rested a book, thick with dust. It was plain and leather-bound. No title, nor any markings.

It eerily reminded him of Tom Riddle's journal from second year.

Seeming to sense his unease, the sword spoke up again. "You'll want to take that with you. Much of the Michaels family magic lies within those pages. The rest lies with me."

Harry glanced at the blade in his hand, and then back towards the book.

It didn't pulse with magic, unlike the runes. It just looked like a normal journal.

Throwing chance to the wind for once, and trusting the sword, Harry stepped forward and picked it up. It was heavier than it looked.

-[break]-

Once Harry had stumbled his way out of the vault, he was met with a small platform to walk upon, and a little further on, an edge who knows how deep. About three feet from the edge, there were two rails. Upon which, no magical minecart was to be seen.

He looked around. Before, the goblins had all but rushed him onto the platform to grab his things and rushed him back out. Now, unbothered within the silent cavern, he had time to look around.

It was different from how he last saw it in Seventh year, when he and his friends broke into the bank. It was quiet now. Much more than before. It almost seemed abandoned.

He looked back to the rails, his eyes trailing up and down their length. The tracks on his left side seemed to dip downwards, heading deeper into the cavern. To the right they tilted slightly upward.

Beside the rails was a stone walkway. It was just wide enough for a goblin to walk across comfortably, but quite tight for him. With no cart in sight and no signs of evident life, this was likely his only option of getting out of the bank.

Without further delay, he fastened the sword to his belt with a sticking charm, shrunk the journal, and slipped it into his coat. Then, cautiously, he started along the narrow path to the right. It was his best guess on a way out, following the upward slope of the tracks.

The path was narrow, forcing him to keep close to the cavern wall as he followed it up. His only reprieve from the abyss below were the platforms for the vaults providing extra space to walk upon.

As he moved, several of the vaults he passed had collapsed, though a few were on fire, likely a magical one, slowly burning away the contents within. Others were still pristine and left untouched by whatever had happened here.

The path wound around for some time, but much to his relief, always at an upwards angle. After a steady climb, the path leveled out near a bend. Bolted into a wall was a metal sign, marking level 5.

He glanced at it, before moving forwards once more. The air was cooler here, and the silence was only broken by the distant echo of dripping water, and the occasional stone falling from above, striking the railing and making it sing. He kept his pace steady and his eyes ever cautious, always scanning the area ahead for any signs of movement or change.

The vaults continued to vary in their condition. Again, some remained untouched, but still more were broken open, their contents scattered or gone. Others sealed tight as if untouched for some time. One vault in particular stood out from the others. The ground of the platform in front of the vault was dark, cracked and pulsed faintly with an eerie purple glow.

"That doesn't look good." Harry muttered.

"This place reeks of cursed magic," the sword announced from its place at his hip. "Step carefully."

Curiously he conjured a feather and let it drift down toward the cracked stone. The moment it touched the surface, it ignited in a gout of purple flame.

Harry didn't wait for more confirmation. He cautiously moved around the edge of the vault, sticking to the narrow goblin walkway. Each step was careful; his movements slow to maintain his balance along the tight path. Eventually he made it to the other side, and without looking back continued forwards.

Soon he reached the fourth floor of the bank, as indicated by another metal sign bolted into the wall. Unlike previous levels however, this one looked different. The path opened up, away from the railing, and revealed a larger, more spacious area. But that wasn't what caught Harry's attention.

All over, dead goblins littered the floor.

His heart skipped a beat at the sight. He drew the elder wand from the holster on his wrist, as his eyes scanned the room. The floor was stained with dark splotches of blood. The bodies of the goblins were sprawled across the floor, some in twisted contortions. Others lay with their limbs missing. All clearly having met a very violent end. Many were on top of each other, forming small piles around the room. They had been gathered here. Their once-pristine uniforms were caked in dried blood, and their faces bore expressions of pure terror. Whatever had happened here was quick and brutal.

The air was thick with the stench of rot and dried blood, and as it hit him fully, he gagged, lifting a sleeve to cover his nose. The smell clung to the back of his throat. It was so bad he quickly cast the Bubble-Head Charm, sealing his sense of smell away from the worst of it.

The space was understandably quiet, the only sound being the faint whisper of wind in the distance. Harry stepped cautiously into the room, making sure not to step on any of the victims of whatever onslaught had been brought to this place. Vaults lined the walls, and their doors were left wide open. Some were ripped clean off their hinges with brutal force, whilst others showed blackened metal that had been visibly warped—characteristics of powerful blasting curses or extreme magical heat. Their contents had been spilled and scattered across the floor. Desks around the area were overturned, and papers were scattered everywhere. Some were soaked in blood, but many lay resting atop the bodies.

"What in Merlin's name happened here?" Harry murmured, his voice slightly muted from the bubble around his head.

"Whatever it was, it was not kind. Keep thy guard up."

He didn't linger any longer. His eyes scanned the far side of the room and landed on a staircase leading upward. He took it without hesitation, as it was far better than edging along the cavern walls again. The steps were dusty, having not been swept in some time. He climbed quickly.

Soon he reached the third floor. Another metal sign confirming it, as it was bolted just above the stairwell entrance. As he walked out into the open floor, he spotted more stairs up ahead, but they were crushed beneath another pile of fallen rock. He tried casting a quick Reparo spell, but nothing came of it.

This place is a damned maze.

"Fret not young warrior," the sword coaxed, "I sense we are closer still to escaping this pit of despair."

Looking around, the pathway around the base of the stairs diverged into left and right hallways.

"Which way?" Harry uttered, hesitant to start on a path.

"I sense the magic clinging to these depths seems to recede along the right path," the sword stated. "We should likely head in that direction."

Harry nodded and turned right, his wand held at the ready, eyes looking for any sign of movement. The hallway was narrow, but the ceiling was high enough that he could stride forward somewhat comfortably. Offices lined both sides. Some of their doors shattered or ripped off their hinges. Others stood intact, their nameplates left undisturbed.

Harry continued down the office-lined corridor. A fine layer of dust coated everything, muffling his footsteps. After walking for several minutes, his eyes caught something unusual up ahead, standing starkly within the dim light.

It was a goblin, frozen mid-stride, its body turned to grey stone. Its mouth was open in silent warning, one hand outstretched as if warning others back, the other clutching a small, tarnished silver box to its chest. It faced Harry, away from the direction he was walking towards, seemingly fleeing whatever threat had originated higher within the bank long ago. The statue stood near the entrance to one of the offices, its door destroyed.

"Hold," the swords voice commanded, echoing softly from its place on his hip. "This is not mere stone. It is a curse. Place the flat of my blade upon this poor creature's brow."

Hesitantly, Harry drew the sword. The golden hue within the blade pulsed brighter as he neared the statue, coating the walls in its light. He gently laid the flat side of the steel against the stone goblin's forehead. A soft warmth bloomed from the blade, resonating with another coming from deep within Harry's own magical core. He felt the gentle energy flow from him, through the blade, and onto the petrified creature's brow with a whitish-gold glow.

Instantly, the grey stone began to crumble, flaking away like dried mud. It cascaded downwards, revealing the goblin underneath. Its skin was pale, and its eyes were still wide with terror, but astoundingly the creature gasped for air. It was still alive. Then it fell to the floor, trembling.

Harry watched, stunned. The magic that had flowed from him and the sword had reversed a state of petrification he would have considered to be permanent. No spell he knew, no magic he had ever witnessed or possessed could have replicated what the sword had just done. He lowered the blade, looked at it, then to the goblin and then back to it. The wonder gripping him felt familiar, reminding him of the awe he'd first felt watching Dumbledore confront Voldemort in the ministry many years prior. For the first time since arriving here, he felt some form of hope.

A/N: Sorry to break it here but I felt like this was a good place to stop. I've been at this off and on all week to come up with something that fit. I've had to constantly write and rewrite certain sections to make it fit better. But anyway, yes, the sword will have holy-like properties. I always wondered what holy magic or light magic would be like in the world of Harry Potter. The inspiration being the Patronus Charm. I figured that it would have significant healing potential and anti-curse properties. That and being able to counter the horrors of potent dark magic.

The only reason I think it wouldn't completely fit in the original world of Harry Potter is because that one already seems to be tainted with dark magic, and I feel like light magic would be just a bit overpowered for any character. To balance that out, the world has changed, and the Voldemort of this world will have started his rise a little earlier. He's smarter and more powerful as a result. And chaos is afoot.

But anyways, I'll get another chapter out soon enough. I've got some idea of where I want to go with it, and hopefully by that point we'll be at the point where Harry is out of Gringotts. The idea is then to put him and the sword on a path to Hogwarts.

At some point, when there's hopefully a lull in my classwork between this semester and summer, I'll have time to write a larger chapter. But no promises hahaha. I've just got the new oblivion game and that's bound to distract me with nostalgia. I'll try though.

And there's been some comments of people asking if they can make some art of my story or something. If it's legit, and you leave me a link, I might take a look at it. Otherwise, I'm going to be very cautious. I wasn't trained in Comp Sci to throw caution to the wind, after all.

Till then, fare thee well.