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Fan Fiction of the month!

I'm in Gryffindor. Oh, I love this story!!! I wanted to stand up and cheer several times, and it's based on an idea that makes so much sense. I didn't write it, but I wish it had happened at Hogwarts! It's an X-men cross-over, and takes place during Book 6 and just after X-men 2 movie. Well, if you know and love the X-men I know you will enjoy it! And I think even if you don't know the X-men, you will still like the story. It's called...





The first time Hermione Granger heard the word "mutant," it was spoken by her parents in hushed tones after her magical powers had first manifested. She'd been 10. She hadn't really known what the word meant, but listening at the crack of her parents' bedroom door while her mother had cried and her father had tried to be encouraging, she'd gathered that being a mutant was a Bad Thing. Shortly after, Professor Dumbledore had appeared on her family's front doorstep to acquaint them with the Wizarding World. Later that same night, her father had said to her mother, "Better a witch than a mutant, I suppose. At least there's some history and tradition there, and a place for her to learn to control it."

The second time Hermione heard the word "mutant," it was in her fourth year at Hogwarts. A Hufflepuff girl had suddenly begun evincing a unique and apparently non-magical ability with stone and crystal. She could feel the presence of any type of rock and even alter it. At her touch, coal might become diamond with no need either for alchemy or centuries of geological pressure. "Mutie" was whispered in the hallways, along with "mudblood freak." The girl had disappeared in late October only to reappear in late January -- her special, geomorphic touch under control -- ready to continue her magical education. Hermione had never talked to her, and though normally, she'd have been fascinated by such a manifestation, she'd had other things on her mind that year: Harry and the Tri-Wizard Tournament -- not to mention Viktor Krum. By summer, the death of Cedric and the return of Voldemort had driven all recollection of a girl called Petra right out of Hermione's mind.

Until her sixth year, when she heard the word "mutant" for a third time.


"What do you mean I'm not allowed to take Muggle studies? I got an O in my OWLs!"

Miss Granger looked primly indignant, as if she might resort to stamping her foot in frustration --which amused Minerva McGonagall perhaps more than it should. "That's what he said, Miss Granger. I don't make the rules for another professor's class."

"But Professor Dumbledore . . . "

"-- will agree. It was Professor Dumbledore's idea to hire him on a temporary basis."

"But why can't I take the class?" the girl cried.

"Because, Miss Granger, you are muggle-born. Our new professor was very specific -- only students raised exclusively or almost exclusively in the Wizarding World may take the class -- are, in fact, required to take it up until sixth year, at Professor Dumbledore's insistence."

Her lips pursed, but she wasn't about to reveal to a student her own thoughts on the matter -- though she supposed that dealing with Hermione Granger wanting to take a class was somewhat better than Professor Snape, who had to deal with students desperately trying to get out of the same class. She hoped their new professor fully appreciated what he'd got himself into.


Scott Summers -- better known as Cyclops when wearing black leather -- hit the generator switch and held his breath. There was a brief stutter, then the lights all around the room went on. Real lights, not candles or lamps or torches or God knew what else they used in this archaic, cold-as-hell castle.

He'd been promised that this special room -- located high in a west tower -- had been spelled so as to shield out interference from magic. Otherwise, none of his equipment would work.

He snorted. Magic. Even if he'd seen spells performed with his very own eyes, he just couldn't quite bring himself to say the word without laughing, and it annoyed him that Xavier had sent him over here despite his own protests. "It'll be for just a few months," the professor had promised. "A chance for you to get some distance."

So he'd been offered up like a sacrificial lamb in exchange for spells set on the school to prevent another invasion like the one Stryker had mounted. While he might have been willing to do about anything to protect his students, he just couldn't take 'magic' seriously . . . even after meeting Albus Dumbledore. Yet, here he was in this drafty, old Scottish castle that had no electricity, phone, or cable lines, in order to teach a rather different sort of 'gifted' teenager.

Well, at least the generator worked, and that meant he could operate the rest of his equipment. He'd just sat down in front of his laptop (which required a satellite connection out here in the back of nowhere), when a sharp rap on the trapdoor to his classroom made him start. Rising, he strolled over to the door and lifted it, looking down the ladder into the face of a girl with bushy hair. "Hello?"

"Are you Professor Summers?"

"I'm Mr. Summers, yes." He didn't bother explaining that the title 'professor' was sacrosanct in his own mind, and belonged to Xavier.

"I need to speak with you, sir," she said, pulling herself up into the room, even though he hadn't invited her. Standing and brushing dust off her robes, she glanced around at the computer stations, movie posters, PSP stations, DVDs and iPods that he'd imported -- but not with wide-eyed ignorance. She'd clearly seen all these things before. "Professor McGonagall told me that you're not allowing anyone Muggle-born to sign up for your class. I've come to . . . well -- not to be rude -- but to lodge a formal protest." She gave a little nod of her chin, as if satisfied with that phrasing. He resisted smiling. She reminded him of a strange cross between Kitty Pryde and Jubilee.

Instead of giving her a direct answer, he pulled his cell phone off its belt holder and handed it over. Baffled, she took it. "What is that?" he asked.

"A cell phone," she told him. "But it won't work here. The magic at Hogwarts --"

"I've heard the lecture," he said, cutting her off. "But this phone won't work here because there are no cell towers anywhere close enough. Otherwise, in this room, it would." Then he crooked a finger at her and led her over to his laptop. "Turn it on," he ordered.

With a glance that told him she suspected his sanity, she bent over to open the top and hit the power button. When the blue lights came on and the screen lit up, she appeared startled, but said only, "It's on."

"Name the Beatle who was shot."

"John Lennon."

"Who're John Steed and Emma Peel?"

"I assume you mean the characters from The Avengers, not actual people?" Her expression was truly puzzled now.

"What does James Bond drink?"

She just blinked at him. "I've no idea. I detest James Bond films."

He grinned. "He drinks martinis; shaken, not stirred." And he crooked his finger again to cut off further questions, leading her over to his desk and pointing to a DVD there. "Seen that?"

"It's The Wizard of Oz; I'd have to have lived in a cave not to."

"Or lived in a different world -- like most of your classmates. You don't need to take my class. You can handle all this equipment already and know pop culture."

"That's what you're going to be teaching? How to turn on computers and, and" -- she waved at one of the posters on the wall -- "watch Star Wars?"

"That's right. I'm teaching technology and a crash course in Western pop culture."

She blinked, almost owlishly, and stared around the room at the desks with their plethora of equipment. "But why?"

"Because they're useful things to know."

She just blinked again. "But in the Wizarding World --"

"I'm not interested in the Wizarding World. I'm interested in teaching wizards and witches how to survive in my world if they somehow get stuck there. That means learning how to operate a phone, at the very least."

And that won an unexpectedly impish smile. "A friend of mind keeps calling it a 'fellytone' and shouts into it, as if it were a tin can on a string."

He answered her smile. "By the end of my class, he should be able to text-message you instead of yell." He tilted his head then. "You asked my name but didn't give me yours."

She shook back her bushy hair and held out a hand, almost formally. "Hermione Granger, sixth year and Gryffindor Prefect. A pleasure."

He shook the hand, "Glad to meet you, Hermione."

"You're a Muggle, right?"

"By your terms."

"You do realize you're quite the controversy right now, with students and parents? There was an article about it in The Daily Prophet. No Muggle has ever been hired to teach at Hogwarts in the school's entire history -- not even for Muggle Studies. How do you know about wizards? Is someone in your family . . . " She trailed off, jaw dropping.

While she'd chattered, Scott had pulled a quarter out of his pocket and tossed it into the air with one hand, while, with the other, he'd tilted his glasses down just a fraction so that a thin beam of red sliced out and through the center of the quarter, which he caught now and offered to her.

"I'm a mutant," he said. "In the current political climate, a lot of us are forced to hide our abilities, too."

The girl examined the quarter, holding it up to her eye to peer through at him. "That still doesn't explain how you know about wizards though."

He grinned. She was sharp. "My headmaster knows your headmaster."

"He's a wizard?"

"No. He's a telepath. It's hard to hide much of anything from Professor Xavier -- including supposedly concealed magical places. He met Professor Dumbledore when he was a student at Oxford back in the Forties right after the war -- stumbled over your world by accident." Or that was the story Xavier had told him when he'd first introduced the elderly man with the ZZ Top beard, Merlin hat, and funky robes, sitting in Xavier's study and sipping tea. Scott had simply blinked in surprise when the man had pulled out a stick, waved it in the air and another teacup had appeared right in front of Scott's nose.

"You're a telekinetic?" Scott had asked.

"No, Mr. Summers. I am a wizard."

He'd gaped (privately wondering when Xavier had begun entertaining psychotics), and Xavier had launched into his story of how and when he'd first met Albus Dumbledore, and been introduced to the existence of another group of specially gifted human beings who also had to hide their gifts from the general populace.

Now, the girl Hermione appeared unexpectedly curious. "What sorts of mutant powers are there?"

"Probably more than you can imagine. We're still running into mutations we've never seen before. But they come in two basic types -- physical and psionic, that is, changes to the body or to the mind. My mutation is physical. Professor Xavier's is psionic."

"And at the school you come from, all the students are mutants?"

"That's right."

"So why did you come here?"

And Scott blinked, mouth shutting with a snap and throat too tight to speak. It hit him that way sometimes, the grief -- as sharp as a blow, incapacitating, even after five months. He turned away and stared at his new desk, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "An exchange," he said finally. "It's a long story, but it boils down to the fact my school was attacked -- trained black ops troops against teenage kids. Not exactly a fair match, even if the kids are mutants. They wanted to capture them."

There was little point in going into the whole mess with Cerebro and Stryker and his insane plot. "After the Blackout last spring, the number of hate crimes against mutants has gone through the roof, and my headmaster wants to be sure an attack doesn't happen again, so he called in a favor from your headmaster. Anyone who tries to invade the school now will face not just our security systems, but whatever your Professor Dumbledore set up." Scott turned back. The girl's eyes were wide.

"I'm afraid Professor Xavier didn't take well to my suggestion that we install razor wire and laser trip triggers," Scott went on. "He's afraid one of the students might accidentally get hurt. Whatever Dumbledore set up, it's apparently able to distinguish between mutants trying to sneak out after curfew and non-mutants trying to sneak in." He couldn't keep from snorting. "But I don't know that it'd do any good against a squadron of Apache helicopters and a full assault squad."

The girl's stunned expression turned sly. "You might be surprised," she said. Then, face serious, asked, "Did any of your students die? In the attack?"

His throat tightened again, and he couldn't answer for five heartbeats. "No. No students died."

She was watching his face. "Did anyone else die?"

He swallowed, unsure whether he should say anything. But if he didn't usually volunteer personal information, he'd never been an advocate of concealing the truth unless necessary -- at least not if he were asked point blank. "Yes."

"I'm sorry," she said with the kind of solemn seriousness that told him she'd said it before to someone who'd lost a friend or loved one. "Who?" He looked away, and she added, "Never mind. I'm prying. I'm rather bad about that sometimes --"

"My fiancée," he interrupted. "She sacrificed herself to save the rest of us." He wasn't about to go into all the mixed feelings he had about that; it wasn't anyone else's business, least of all a student's.

"She sounds very brave," Hermione said.

"Yes, she was."

Hermione turned and headed back to the trapdoor. "Thank you for seeing me, Professor Summers, even if I can't take your class." She paused with the door open and herself halfway out. "Good luck. And please let me know if you, er, need anyone who grew up a Muggle to help tutor. There are some of us around."

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied.

When she was gone, he collapsed in a wooden chair near one of the windows and stared out at the Black Lake whose waters reflected the setting sun. He should go down to dinner, but didn't especially want to. He had a hard time, these days, bearing company or crowds. The students would stare at him, he knew, and he didn't feel up to being stared at, so he stayed in the seat until long past sunset, his room a steady yellow with the glow of artificial light. At some point, he heard a noise behind him and turned, but there was no one there -- just a plate and bowl and glass. Apparently around here, if one didn't come to supper, supper came to him. Rising, he walked over to see what his unseen guest had delivered.





"There is still the matter of the Weasley twins' swamp in the fifth floor, east wing corridor -- " Severus was saying when the door to the staff room opened and all the instructors turned to look. The man standing there didn't appear to be much older than some of their students.

"I apologize," he said as he approached and seated himself in the remaining empty chair, laying out a yellow legal pad in front of him, and twisting open a mechanical pencil. "Tardiness isn't typical of me. I need a map of this place."

Severus was glaring -- perhaps at being interrupted, perhaps at the new teacher's inability to find his way to a meeting, or perhaps just because he was Severus, but Dumbledore merely smiled at the newcomer and nodded. "Welcome, Scott. I believe myself the only one here to have had the pleasure of meeting you in person" -- which was, Minerva thought, a gentle reprimand that their newest teacher hadn't bothered to attend either the Welcome banquet or last night's supper -- "may I present your new, if temporary, colleagues." And he went around the table, introducing everyone, starting with Minerva herself on his right. The Muggle didn't blink at any of them, even professors Flitwick with his tiny size, Hagrid with his height, Hooch with her cat pupils, or (most of all) Firenze. Minerva gave him mental points for that.

Once the rest of them had been introduced, Albus said, "And may I present Mr. Scott Summers, lately of Westchester, New York, where he taught mathematics and . . . 'shop,' I believe you called it?" Summers nodded. "I trust the rest of you will make Professor Summers feel welcome." Most of the staff nodded politely or offered smiles, though a few seemed a bit skeptical (Minerva suspected her own expression might place her in that category), and Snape openly sneered.

"As I was saying," he went on in that sepulchral voice, "we seem to have a swamp -- "

"It's barely a yard square," Flitwick interrupted, "up against the wall where no one's likely to step in it. The magic it took to generate, not to mention the service rendered" -- he grinned -- "deserves a little tribute."

"So you would encourage troublemakers, then? The departure of the Weasleys has already gained near apocryphal dimensions."

"For now," Dumbledore interrupted, "the swamp may stay. Shall we turn our attention to more pressing matters, such as coordinating our end-of-term exam timetables before the Christmas holidays? I trust all of you have brought your requests. We'll go around the table . . . "

Parchment rustled as timetables were withdrawn and smoothed out on the table. Summers just flipped pages, earning a few glances.

"I'll need the first, second, and third years for an afternoon," Summers said when the turn came around to him, "and fourth, fifth, and sixth years, for a 24-hour period -- not on the same day. I'll need transportation for the older kids to London -- a field trip. Does your school have buses?"

Dead silence met that. "Buses?" Madam Hooch asked. "You mean like the Knight Bus?"

And Madam Vector leaned forward to inquire, "Why are you taking our students to London?" She glanced at Dumbledore. "Is that safe -- right now? With You-Know-Who . . . ?"

"It's for their exam. I can't give it to them here. And trust me, they'll be watched over."

"Watched over? By Muggles?"

"By X-Men," Summers replied. "And this is a practical exam. I have to take them to London."

Before that could elicit more protest, Dumbledore said, "I'll see what can be arranged in the way of transportation, although --" he glanced down at the master timetable he was making -- "this field trip may require us to move your exams slightly ahead of the others by a few days?"

"Fine with me."

"Then let's move on."



"Wands out."

Ginny Weasley suppressed a start, but did as their new professor said, pulling her wand from her robes and wondering what on earth he wanted her to do with it. Wasn't he a Muggle? Certainly, he was dressed like one in street clothes, not proper robes. (And what on earth was that on his face? It appeared to be some bizarre, dark metal contraption with a single long slit in the front.) She traded a glance with Neville Longbottom -- one of the few older students to have signed up for Muggle Studies voluntarily. She suspected that he, like her father, harbored a bit of a fancy for them.

Picking up a can from his desk, their teacher began to circle the room. Unlike most classrooms at Hogwarts, this one had tables around its circumference with . . . stuff on them. She was pretty sure that was a computer in front of her, given what she'd learned from Dean. Now, holding out the can to the four at the first table, their professor said, "Please deposit your wands in here. You can collect them at the end of class."

The four students appeared surprised, but did as instructed, and he moved on, collecting wands, and speaking as he went. "My name is Scott Summers, and while I know it's customary at Hogwarts to refer to your teachers as 'professor,' where I come from, that title's usually reserved for college-level instructors, so 'Mr. Summers' will do for me. You'll find that I'm hard, but fair, and I don't play favorites when it comes to grading. You'll get the grade that reflects your industry."

"'Industry?' Demelza Robins whispered from across the table, "What does he mean 'industry'? Who talks like that -- 'industry'?"

"He means if you work, you'll get an O," Ginny replied, sighing.

"I know," Summers continued now, "that about half of you -- maybe more -- don't want to be here, and don't see the point. You live in the Wizarding World, so why learn to use a computer or a cell phone? Hopefully, by Christmas break, you'll have decided that learning to work a computer is pretty easy, and worth your time."

He'd reached a table full of Slytherins now. All four were slouched in their seats, arms crossed, wands not held out to go in the jar. He stopped in front of them, can still outstretched. "Your wands, gentlemen."

"Didn't anyone tell you, Muggle, that you don't try to take a wizard's wand?" Adrian Pucey asked. His chin was up and he wore a snide expression that came near-perfect to copying Draco Malfoy, his hero. Ginny wasn't impressed; Pucey was a follower who wanted to be a leader.

Summers didn't look impressed, either -- or worried. Ginny could see his expression side-on from where she was sitting. "I have special permission," he told Pucey. "If you don't like the rule, take it up with Professor Dumbledore."

"Ooo!" said the kids at that table and the one behind, adding a few hisses. "Why don't you try taking it?" Pucey taunted Summers.

Ginny glanced at Demelza and rolled her eyes -- but she had to admit, someone had been bound to challenge Summers eventually. He just continued to smile, can held out. "Last chance to play nice," he warned.

"You have got to be kidding me," Pucey replied.

"I was afraid you'd say that. Dumbledore warned me it might come to this."

Turning, he walked back to his desk, where he set down the can. Assuming victory, the Slytherins laughed and clapped, and Pucey actually stood up, wand drawn and raised. Ginny (among others) gasped. He wouldn't actually attack a teacher, even a Muggle teacher, would he?

Summers turned so fast, Ginny barely credited it. His hand rose to the side of his head and a red light arced out from the front of that odd face-screen, catching Pucey's wand and knocking it from his grasp. "Ow!" Pucey shouted, shocked and frightened at once.

"Now what are you going to do?" Summers asked him, calmly. Abruptly two more boys from the table leapt up . . . and the scene just repeated itself. Two more rapid blasts of red, like automatic fire, and their wands went flying, too.

No one else stood, and the students who still had wands hastily tossed them on the table, whether Slytherin or not.

"Now, I ask again, Mr. . . ." he raised his eyebrows at Pucey in query.

"Pucey. Adrian Pucey."

"Well, Adrian Pucey, you have no wand. What are you going to do next?"

Pucey's mouth dropped open a little as Summers advanced on him, hand still at the metal contraption on his face. If Ginny had initially been gleeful to see Pucey put in his place, now she was starting to worry. Summers looked . . . menacing. When he reached Pucey, he abruptly grabbed the boy by one arm and spun him around, twisting the arm up behind Pucey's back and bracing his other across Pucey's neck in a choke hold. Students gasped and a few glanced towards the door, apparently weighing the possibility of escape while their lunatic Muggle professor was busy with Pucey.

But from where she was sitting, Ginny could see that he wasn't holding Pucey that tightly; there was sunlight between their bodies. She relaxed back into her seat.

"Now," Summers said again, "What are you going to do?"

"I . . . I . . . if I were a real wizard, you wouldn't have had a chance!"

"Maybe. Maybe not. I'm a pretty quick shot. But you're a fifteen-year-old boy without his wand and I'm your almost-thirty-year-old attacker. If this were a back alley of London instead of a Hogwarts classroom, would you know what to do next?"

It was starting to dawn on the rest of the students that Pucey wasn't in any real danger, and Pucey's face flushed from scared white to humiliated red as he twisted in Summers' grip, trying to kick backwards. Summers just turned sideways a bit and yanked him more tightly. "That's not going to get you far. Now, let me tell you what you should do -- and everyone listen. This is your first lesson in Muggle realities. First, you start shouting, got it? At least if there's anyone else around. Even if your attacker says he has a knife or gun and will kill you if you don't go quietly, that doesn't matter. Scream anyway. You may still wind up shot or stabbed, but the noise and the fear of being caught will upset him and possibly throw off his aim. You're likely to survive it. But the chances of you surviving if you do go with him are very low.

"Second, if you're not trained in martial arts throws -- and you're not -- instead of attempting to strike his body, which just puts you off balance -- step on his foot. Especially if you're female and happen to be wearing heels. Come down hard on the foot, and start yelling at the same time. The combination of pain and surprise will confuse him and, hopefully, give you a chance to get away. If you do get free, run like hell. Do not try to play macho and pull your wand. You're not James Bond."

"There's a lot of 'maybes' in there," said one student at the same time another asked, "Who's James Bond?"

Summers let Pucey go. "Boy, do we need to do some pop culture education. And as for the comment about maybes -- life offers few certainties beyond death and taxes, just bets that are better or worse. Life's a crap-shoot."

Sitting down, Pucey appeared nonplussed, and angry, but the rest of the class (even some of the Slytherins) seemed a bit more respectful as Summers walked back to the desk. Picking up the can again, he returned to collecting wands -- and no one opposed him now. Demelza Robins even hopped up from her seat to fetch the three that had been blasted across the room. When Summers was done, he set the full can on his desk. "Every time you come into my classroom, I'll expect you to come up to the desk and deposit your wand in this can. As you leave, you can retrieve them. Oh -- and by the way, the wands wouldn't do you any good even if you did keep them." He grinned at the table of resistant Slytherins. "The room's been spelled so that magic doesn't work here -- which is why my generator and machines do. So you could have waved your wands till the cows came home and it wouldn't have mattered."

"So why did you do . . . that?" Neville asked, then blushed at having drawn attention to himself.

"To prove a point. Without your wands, you're virtually helpless. I know all about that." He touched the contraption on his face. "You need to learn how to function, and maybe even fight, without the wands. Just like I had to learn Braille, and how to live blind, because without the visor, I have two choices -- shut my eyes and get by without sight, or leave them open and destroy everything in the path of the beams. Shutting them usually seems like the better idea. So -- "

"Pardon me?" Ginny raised her hand, a little tentatively.

He stopped in mid-sentence and nodded to her. "Yes? And you are?"

"Ginny Weasley. But what -- exactly -- are those things you shoot out of your face?"

"They're called optic blasts. At full power, they pack the equivalent of ten tons of TNT." Even Ginny knew what TNT was, and sucked in her breath, impressed. "In short, I could level this entire castle in five minutes or less. There's a reason I keep the visor on." He tapped the black metal across his eyes.

"But my main point is that living with the visor 24-7, I'm all too aware of the vulnerability inherent in depending on an external aid. You're dependent on your wands -- maybe a little too dependent. I think wizards tend to assume that if they're stranded outside the Wizarding World, all they need is their wand to be rescued. Maybe so. But what if you don't have your wand?"

He straightened from where he'd been leaning back against his desk. "I'm here to teach you how to get by in my world without a wand. I'll also teach you some basic awareness of Muggle culture, so you can go out in public wearing clothes that were actually meant to be worn together instead of pajama bottoms, a raincoat, and a lime-green bowler hat."

There were a few giggles at the glancing reference to Ex-Minister Fudge's famous hat.

"Now that the little pissing contest is over and I've proved to you that I'm not helpless" -- which brought more giggles -- "let's get to work. Your very first lesson for today is simple recognition . . ." And class began.



Hermione was in the library, studying on Friday afternoon -- her mind on Ron's Quiddich tryout -- when Ginny found her, slipping into the seat next to hers at the table. She slid a piece of paper across. And it was paper, not parchment, Hermione noticed. Unfolding it, she read the note, penned in a neat, square script:
If your offer to tutor still stands, come up to my classroom Tuesday after supper, and bring 1-3 other students with you who'll know what to do with a computer.
--Mr. Summers



So Hermione tagged Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein of Ravenclaw, as Ravenclaws seemed to like Summers, and these two had been in the D.A. Anthony was a half-blood, but his parents had stayed together and were living in the Muggle world, so he knew as much about it all as Muggle-born Terry did. Given what Summers had told her about himself, and playing a hunch, she also specifically invited Harry -- who proved unexpectedly reluctant. "I may know what that stuff is," he told her, "but my aunt and uncle wouldn't let me touch most of it at their house. I'd likely need tutoring myself. Besides, I've got Quidditch practice. Find somebody else."

Hermione tsked. "Don't be ridiculous. At this point, if you can tell the difference between the telly and a computer monitor, you're ahead of some of them." That wasn't strictly true, but she had ulterior motives, and pestered him until he finally gave in. The following Tuesday evening, after supper, she led Terry, Anthony and Harry upstairs to meet with Summers. When they saw the room full of electronic toys, they oohed and ahhed and spread out to look things over while Summers watched, fists on hips, and Hermione introduced each of them. When she got to Harry, Summers said, "So you're Harry Potter."

Hermione could see Harry brace himself for the usual reaction, but Summers just said, "Hermione tells me you're a good friend of hers. And pretty decent at flying a broom."

Harry blinked in surprise as he shook Summers' hand. "Uh, yeah, well, I captain the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Do you know what Quidditch is?"

"It's been explained to me -- briefly. Sounds complicated, and dangerous."

Harry shrugged. "I like it. The flying."

"I like flying, too."

"You can fly?" Hermione asked, surprised. "Your mutation lets you fly?"

Hands in pockets, Summers grinned. "My best friend has a pair of sixteen-foot wings." That got wows from the boys. "And another teacher at Xavier's can manipulate air currents to lift her up. She doesn't exactly fly, but she can get around in the air. Me -- I have to use a plane."

"You're a pilot?" Terry sounded impressed.

"A flyboy from a family of them, yep. Hydraulic fluid runs in our veins. My father was a test pilot in the air force." Summers said this with evident pride, the same way Harry often talked about James Potter.

"Are you in the air force?" Terry asked.

Summers shook his head. "No. They don't take mutants -- not declared ones, anyway. My mutation is a matter of public record. I'm just a high school teacher."

"Is your dad upset about that?"

"My dad's dead," Summer replied. That got shocked looks from Terry and Anthony, and a surprised glance from Harry. Summers just shook his head, lifting a hand. "It's okay -- happened a long time ago. Plane accident. I was only eight; I barely remember it." But Hermione thought he was lying -- and Harry had narrowed his eyes as if skeptical, too.

"Are you going to come see us play?" Harry asked, to change the subject. "We just finished tryouts, and our first game is in October, against Slytherin. I'll loan you a Gryffindor scarf." He grinned.

Summers snorted. "I've gathered there's a little House rivalry around here."

"A bit," Harry agreed. "But Slytherin's in a special category."

"They're the ones who gave you trouble in your first class," Hermione explained. "Adrian Pucey is from Slytherin. They don't like Muggles much -- or Muggle-born wizards. Well, some of them." She was thinking of Professor Slughorn, who didn't seem to share the distaste for Muggles. She wasn't too sure what to make of Slughorn, actually.

Summers had dragged over a stool and now sat down on it, hands gripped loosely between his knees. "There always have been and always will be people who have to build themselves up by tearing down others, no matter who the others are -- Muggles, mutants, blacks, gays, Jews, gypsies, Indians. Take your pick."

"Why?" Harry blurted out. "I've always wondered about that, you know? It's not like it makes any sense. My uncle and aunt are like that, bloody prejudiced."

"Fear," Summers replied. "Or at least, that's my theory. They're afraid of some perceived power the other group has that they don't, or afraid of differences generally. Humans are pack animals by nature, and seek belonging, but it's always seemed to me that some find differences interesting -- people who have enough belief in themselves not to feel threatened. Others are frightened by anything not like them, and see differences as somehow potentially dangerous."

Harry was nodding, as if that confirmed something he thought, too, and Hermione said, "People are afraid of mutants for their powers. They think mutants are dangerous. That's also why people once persecuted witches and wizards. We seemed threatening, and not just religiously."

"Exactly," Summers agreed. "The fear needn't be irrational. Some mutants have hurt others -- either deliberately or by accident when their powers manifested. But a criminal with a gun is just as deadly, or a criminal with a wand. As I understand it, there are wizarding laws, and wizard police who pursue and arrest magical wrong-doers -- "

"Aurors," Harry broke in. "Dark-wizard catchers."

"Having power of any kind brings with it -- I think -- a certain responsibility. Whether that power is magic or something you get from your DNA -- or wealth or special talent or extra intelligence . . . whatever it is, it brings responsibility. We may not ask for it, but that doesn't absolve us. I realize not everyone would agree, but then, I also tend to think we have a certain responsibility to each other as members of the human race, and to the rest of the planet, since we live here."

He shot Hermione a grin. "That's my philosophy degree showing, I guess. It's a common belief in various world religions and philosophies. Taoists say, 'Heaven and earth and I live together, and all things and I are one.' And American Indians believe we're all relatives -- human, animal and plant, and even the earth itself. That notion works against group superiority. Martin Luther King said that what's important about a man isn't his skin color or the texture of his hair, but 'the texture and quality of his soul.' I think we could add magical ability or the X-gene to the list of things that don't matter. It's the texture and quality of our souls that make us who we are."

"Our choices," Harry said. "Dumbledore told me that once -- it's not what we can do, but the choices we make."

"Exactly right."



Note from Diana: This is just the beginning of the story, but I stopped out a place that seemed right. Meanwhile, I also had to cut some good stuff out so the story didn't run overlong or go over Gaia's posts character limit. At one point it did! There were some scenes it killed me to have to leave out. The full FanFic is actually 4 chapters long. So I hope you go on to read the original and the rest of the story. You can use the link at the top to go there. Anyway I hope you love it as much as I do! Here's the teaser for the story:

Hogwarts has a new professor of Muggle studies -- who happens to be a Muggle. Minerva McGonagall is skeptical, Hermione is curious, Ron is jealous, Ginny is impressed, and Harry has questions. Arthur Weasley finally gets a plane ride. Post X2/Book 6, c 24,500 words
Here's the link again to the complete story: http://www.thequidditchpitch.org/viewstory.php?sid=3151

Name: Paraphernalia_101
Fanfic: Masks and Shadows
House: Ravenclaw
Author: Kilerkki
Link:Masks and Shadows

A/N: This is one of my favorite crossovers, I realize its long but its good. Its the first chapter of the series.


Masks and Shadows

Chapter One: In Which Tsunade Meets An Owl And Naruto Learns English

There were few things about being Hokage that Tsunade truly enjoyed. Getting late-night important messages full of information that could possibly spell her village’s doom was not among those few things.

But it seemed to happen a freakishly large amount of the time.

Blinking blurry eyes, head lolling forward just a teensy bit, Tsunade poured over the document that had, strangely enough, arrived with an owl. And an ANBU. Last she knew, none of her ninja used owls as animal companions, and from the way the tiger-masked ANBU glared at the bird, she was quite sure they weren’t a pair.

Sighing, she dismissed the ANBU and opened the letter. One thin eyebrow arched incredulously as she read the header.

Tsunade-san, Godaime Hokage, Legendary Sannin

Hokage’s Tower, Konohagakure no Sato

23 August 1996

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

She gave the header an once-over, decided she really didn’t want to know at 4 am, and continued to read the rest of the (thank the gods!) short letter.

My dear Hokage,

I’m sorry to hear about the loss of your predecessor. He was a very good man, and someone I’d had a few contacts with. My condolences, and my best wishes for you in your new role.

I realize how strange such a message must seem, coming from a stranger like me. However, something has recently come to my attention which I feel may impact your village. An attempted burglary at the school has not only left us with grave concerns about the safety of the students during the coming year, but has also provided us with information of a possible greater threat. It seems that, somewhere in my school, a strange beast was once imprisoned. It is possible that our enemies are attempting to gain control of this beast; fortunately they seem to know as little as we do about the creature. I must admit that my memory is not what it once was, but I do remember your predecessor, as well as a certain other Sannin, speaking of your village’s dealings with a strange and powerful beast. From what little information I have been able to gather, it seems as though they might be related.

If possible, I would like to hire a team of your finest to aid in the protection of my students and the discovery of what exactly is imprisoned within my school. I am willing to pay whatever price you may demand, and I trust in your wise judgment of such matters. A trip to England will naturally prove difficult for you, so I have taken the liberty of making the arrangements myself. The details of the trip are enclosed.

I earnestly solicit your help in this matter, and extend my own hand to aid you in whatever manner I can return the favor.

Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Tsunade read the letter over twice more. She hesitated, stood, and opened her vast liquor cabinet.

It was going to be a long night.

-

The Hokage’s summons came early in the morning, half an hour after Naruto finally dragged himself out of bed and stumbled down the street to Ichiraku Ramen. He could easily have slept for another sixteen hours—he needed to sleep for another sixteen hours!—but his stomach had wrapped around his backbone and seemed to be trying to digest itself, and he was out of instant ramen.

“Tough mission?” the woman at the ramen stand asked sympathetically as she handed him his fifth bowl. Naruto nodded, swallowed half the noodles in one gulp, and devoured another load of his name-sake fishcakes before replying.

“Three days of nonstop—mph!—running n’ fighting. Haven’t eaten an’thing but soldier pills since the mission started.” He tipped the bowl to drain the broth and set it back down with a clunk. “Pork, please!”

Ayame hid a grin as she turned to prepare the sixth bowl. When she turned back, though, her eyes went over his shoulder before they flitted to his face. “Sorry, Naruto,” she said. “Looks like you won’t have time to enjoy this one.”

Naruto twisted on his stool and glowered at the chuunin runner entering the bar behind him. “What does Tsunade-baachan want now?”

The runner shrugged, handed him a folded note, and took off again to deliver his next summons. Naruto grumbled under his breath as he unfolded the paper. “Hinata already turned in our mission report, she can’t possibly—ah, crap. In uniform and everything.” He shoved the note back into one of the pockets of his battered jounin vest and flashed Ayame a brilliant grin. “I’ve got time for two more bowls if I hurry. Miso ramen next, please!”

“Should you eat so much if you’ve got another mission coming up?” Ayame asked doubtfully, but she was already preparing the seventh bowl.

“’know what ‘m doin’,” Naruto muttered indistinctly through a mouthful of ramen. “Fastest way to ‘plenish chakra.”

It was chakra he was going to need if Tsunade had another mission for him already. The injuries he’d taken in the last seventy-two hours had already healed, thanks to his demonic tenant, but the unnaturally accelerated healing was a huge drain on his energy reserves. Even after five and a half—no, six—bowls of ramen he was still ravenously hungry. He’d have to snag some of the energy bars they kept in the locker room. They tasted like mud-coated old leather, but they were nearly as effective as soldier pills, and they did a better job of filling the stomach.

He wolfed down the seventh bowl in record time, paid for his meal, and pushed away from the counter just far enough for the translocation jutsu. He really didn’t feel like running all the way to ANBU headquarters.

-

Shikamaru was already in the locker room when Naruto arrived in a cloud of smoke and swear words. “Trust Tsunade-baachan to call us in just after we get back,” he muttered darkly, stalking to his locker and canceling the seals that locked it. “We should be in bed now.”

“The note said it was important,” Shikamaru said mildly, tightening the straps on his right arm-shield. He wasn’t too pleased with the Hokage either—he’d barely gotten to sleep when the summons had arrived, yanking him away from an entirely too pleasant dream of a certain blonde kunoichi. Trouble was, now he couldn’t remember which one it had been.

Naruto tugged his black bodysuit and silvery armor out of his locker, dumped them on the bench, and stripped out of his wrinkled jounin uniform. The bloody slash he’d been sporting across his muscled bicep when they’d returned to Konohagakure the night before had already faded to a thin white line. Shikamaru glanced away. Naruto’s ‘tenant’ was something he’d figured out years ago, long before Naruto had decided that it was his duty to tell his ANBU captain and comrades about the demon sealed inside him, but it was still something only rarely and reluctantly acknowledged.

“You ready?” he asked after a moment. He looked up from adjusting his shin-guards in time to see Naruto wriggling into his silvery-grey armored vest. Leg bindings took only a moment more, wrapped with the ease and speed of long practice. Shikamaru pulled his porcelain mask out of his locker as Naruto scrambled into the rest of his armor, his shaggy blond hair bobbing with every movement.

By the time Shikamaru had finished fitting the stylized deer-head mask to his face, Naruto was bundling his jounin uniform back into the locker and pulling out his own toad-face mask. “Ready,” Naruto confirmed at last, checking the binding of the shuriken holster at his thigh. He slammed the locker shut with a sandaled heel and headed out, still muttering. “Dunno what she’s thinking…swear I’m gonna give that old hag a piece of my mind…”

Shikamaru trailed after him, wondering for the five thousandth time what he’d done to deserve Naruto, the Hokage, missions, and the volatile combination of all three. “How troublesome,” he muttered.

If he’d known how much more troublesome things were about to get, he would have wedged himself into one of the lockers and never come out.

-

The ANBU Falcon and Mouse were already standing straight and still in front of Tsunade’s desk when Toad and Deer slipped through the door. Neither of the first two ANBU turned to acknowledge them, although Mouse’s head tilted slightly to the left in a mute welcome. Tsunade suppressed a smirk.

“Good morning,” she said, leaning forward with her elbows planted on her desk. The ANBU ducked their heads in greeting. Naruto’s bright blond hair shone almost blindingly in the sunlight that lanced in through the window. Tsunade narrowed her eyes to slits and took a long gulp from the mug of tea on the corner of her desk. He hadn’t exploded yet at being dragged in here so soon after returning from his last mission. A sign of growing maturity?

Or had he simply fallen asleep on his feet?

“Relax,” she said, because although she derived secret pleasure from seeing them lined up smart and spiffy in front of her, she wasn’t that cruel. “This is going to take a while. I’m sure you’ve already figured out that I’ve called you here for a new mission,” she added.

“And that is…?” Shikamaru asked, pulling off his Deer mask and plopping into one of the two chairs drawn up to face her desk. Naruto moved to take the other, but Neji shot him a hard glance as he removed the Falcon mask. Naruto curled his lip at Neji and waved Mouse-masked Hinata into the chair instead.

“This,” Tsunade said, passing Shikamaru the letter. The young man read it over, a raised eyebrow his only reaction, before passing it on to Neji, who showed even less emotion. Hinata bit her bottom lip and scanned it twice, then gave it to Naruto. The blond ANBU, naturally, had the most to say.

“The hell is this! You’re sending us to England?”

“Not so loud please, Naruto,” Tsunade said sweetly, “because my hangover hates you right now.” He nodded grudgingly and handed the letter back. Two years ago he would have upped the volume even more, which said volumes for his increased experience in that time. He was still underage at nineteen, but, well, he’d trained under Jiraiya. What could you expect?

“So you believe what that man wrote?” Neji asked, lean face as impassive as any ANBU mask. “You’ll send us to another country on the word of some foreign old man—”

“Of course she will,” a new voice broke in, and the four young adults spun as Tsunade sighed. Jiraiya stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest and face plastered with a knowing smirk.

“Ero-sennin!”

“Well, now,” the Legendary Sannin said, pushing away from the doorway and heading into the room. “You’ve grown a lot, Naruto.” He pulled something out of his shirt and tossed it to the blond. “My newest book. Thought you might enjoy it.”

“Jiraiya,” Tsunade cut in, tapping her fingers on the desk. “Now is not the time.” She sighed at the man’s grin. “Just explain to them, please.”

The white-haired Sannin nodded and booted Shikamaru from his seat, lounging down himself. “I happen to know that ‘foreign old man,’ as you so nicely put it.” His smile broadened at the looks on their faces. “You meet some interesting people when you travel around doing research,” he continued. “And I happened to meet him a while ago. ‘S’how the Sandaime met him. Anywho,” he scratched his nose, “he’s strange and kooky, but you can believe what he wrote.”

“You’re asking us to trust someone we’ve never met.” Neji’s voice was cool, as always, but there was a hint of disdain.

Jiraiya burst out laughing. “Hell no, boy. I said you can believe him, I didn’t say trust him. There’s a difference,” he added, winking, and Tsunade felt a tinge of malicious glee to see Neji’s cheeks turn just the slightest bit pink.

“Still,” Hinata cut in, her voice quiet but strong, “it is very far away. And,” she paused and looked at the boys, then back to Tsunade. “How long would we be gone for?”

“Until you find the beast and have Jiraiya check it out.”

“Eh?” Naruto cut in, slapping his hands down on her desk. “Ero-sennin is coming too!”

Tsunade nodded. “He’s the best of the two of us with seals, and I can’t exactly leave my post now, can I? This Dumbledore person mentioned an imprisoned—or sealed—beast, and we aren’t taking any risks.”

“You think it’s a tailed demon,” Shikamaru said, eyeing Tsunade. “That’s the only reason you would send a team of ANBU so far away based on such a request.”

“A bijuu?” Naruto asked, leaning forward so he was staring right at Tsunade. “There’s a bijuu there?”

“There’s the possibility of a bijuu there,” she corrected, shoving Naruto away from her. “And yes, that’s why you’re going. He may want you to protect his students, but your main mission is to find this sealed beast and bring it back here. Until you do so, you are staying in England and you’re going to like it.

“Now,” she continued, rubbing her hands together and eyeing the four ninja, “by a show of hands, who knows English?”

Three hands made their tentative way in the air. Naruto just looked confused.

“Only three of you,” Tsunade said, fighting to urge to rub her temples. Naturally.

“Hey, that wasn’t something we needed to know in the Academy!” Naruto protested, folding his arms over his chest as he turned to face the other three. “Why d’you guys know it?”

“I had to learn other languages for diplomatic purposes,” Hinata answered, blushing a bit as Naruto’s gaze locked on her. “I’m not completely fluent, but I can hold a conversation, if I have to.”

“That makes sense,” Tsunade nodded. “Your duty as the former heir might bring you into contact with foreign dignitaries.”

“But what about you?” Naruto’s voice—and volume—rose as he pointed at Shikamaru.

For his part, the strategist just eyed the blond with something that could almost be called annoyance. “I’m lazy, not stupid.” He turned to Tsunade. “I know enough for a basic conversation, but nothing more.”

Tsunade nodded, then looked to the fourth member. “And you, Neji?”

He simply shrugged in reply.

Naruto’s eyes narrowed; Tsunade could guess the cause. He’d just been shown up by all three of his teammates, and only Hinata had a valid excuse.

“So, Naruto,” Jiraiya asked casually, the hint of a smirk gracing his features, “do you know any English?”

“Of course I do!” the blond retorted, then coughed into his hand and composed himself. “I know… ‘Thank you,’ and, uh…” He began ticking the words off on his fingers. “‘Thank you—‘

“You said that already.”

“—and ‘Ramen,’ and ‘Where’s the ramen?’ and,” Naruto barely paid attention to the interruption, “and ‘food’ and…”

“Naruto,” Tsunade said softly, the strain evident in her voice. “Do you know anything that doesn’t involve food?”

“Not…that I can think of,” he admitted grudgingly, then raised his hands to catch the book she threw at him. “What’s this?”

“An Idiot’s Guide to English,” the Hokage stated flatly. “You will eat, breathe, and sleep that book during this mission, and you will be able to hold at least a five minute conversation by the time you get there.”

“What?”

“As for the rest of you,” she said, some of the bite gone from her voice, “I expect you to catch up on your language studies. I don’t expect you to be fluent overnight, but if you’re going to be there for a while, it is in your best interests to be able to blend in as well as possible.” She sighed and rubbed her temples. “That I even have to say that to an ANBU team…”

“We will, Tsunade-sama,” Hinata replied, standing. The other three lined up before the desk with the young Hyuuga, arms behind their backs as they stood at attention. Tsunade watched them, a proud smile combating the pounding in her temples, and then she schooled her expression and stood.

“You will leave two days from now. Make all your preparations by then, and meet me by the gates as the sun rises two days from now.” Her face softened. “You are dismissed.”

The four ANBU bowed and left, the door closing silently behind them as Tsunade slumped down into her chair and sighed.

“Long night?” Jiraiya asked from his chair, watching her with one eye.

Without a word, she pointed to her liquor cabinet and the empty sake bottles. Jiraiya whistled appreciatively.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” the Hokage said, holding her head in her hands, “it kills.”

The other Sannin chuckled, then leaned forward, laying an arm on her desk. “Hey, Tsunade, I think you forgot one thing.”

Antagonizing b*****d. “Oh, what would that be?”

Jiraiya pointed at his eyes. “How do you supposed two Hyuuga are gonna fit into a non-ninja world?”

Tsunade stared at him for a few seconds, and then proceeded to swear.

It took her quite a while to finish the list of words she knew.

-

Dawn two days later found four ANBU, cloaked and masked, standing before the gates to Konohagakure with the Godaime standing before them. “Morning!” she said with false cheer. Toad and Deer slumped just the tiniest bit.

“Good morning, Hokage-sama,” the Falcon said, and she returned his nod with one of her own. Even at this obscenely early hour, Neji’s voice was impassively polite.

“Are you all ready?” Four masks nodded, and she smirked as she stopped before the Toad mask. “Where are you going?” she asked in English.

“To England,” Naruto replied in passable (though heavily accented) English. “For our mission.”

“Very good,” Tsunade replied, switching back. “You’ll do fine if you keep up like that.” Behind her, the sun crested the tree-lined horizon completely. “I expect frequent reports,” she instructed the Deer, “just not too frequent.” Shikamaru nodded. The mask didn’t quite muffle his sigh.

“Shikamaru, you are in charge of all covert aspects of the mission. Neji, should there be any need for combat, you are in charge.” The two glanced at each other and nodded. Naruto didn’t even bristle. The team had worked together for almost a year now, long enough that such a division of responsibilities was routine. She probably hadn’t even needed to say it.

“Hinata, Neji.” Falcon and Mouse stepped forward smoothly. “Jiraiya has informed me that when you meet with the client, he will be able to do something to disguise your eyes that will not waste your chakra nor require constant vigilance. Until then, use a henge. Secrecy is key.” The two nodded and backed up again, joining the line. She eyed all four a moment more, then moved so she was no longer blocking their path. “Your transport is three miles away, off the road and into the trees half a mile. Go!”

Four ninja disappeared in puffs of smoke.

Tsunade stood at the gates until the sun bathed her face and she could hear the stirrings of her village behind her, and then she was gone, back to her tower and her bed.

What about: A Dragon In the Forever Rain, for a title?

I might change the story later on...

Username: turayza
House: Ravenclaw

Author: Shezza88
Title: The Denarian Renegade
Type: Fanfic. URL: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3473224/1/The_Denarian_Renegade
Fandom: Harry Potter/Dresden Files

Harry gave a short cry of pain as he was roughly pushed into the mud, his emerald green eyes glinting with pain behind his taped glasses and his mouth open in a silent cry of pain as the wind was forcefully pushed from his lungs. He lay there, panting and wheezing in near silence as Dudley Dursley’s chubby face leered over him, grinning with savage pleasure as he deliberately stepped on Harry’s schoolbag as he hopped up to the red school bus.

Harry tried to get up but winced in pain as the school bus doors closed and the driver, unable to see Harry stuck in the mud on such a cloudy and gloomy day, slowly pulled away from the curb and onto the street. Harry glanced after it with pained eyes as the clouds rumbled overhead, thunder booming and lightning flashed through the air as the first pelts of rain drifted downwards.

“I hate you Dudley,” Harry whispered softly to himself, picking himself up from the mud and glancing down at himself in disgust and dismay. His blue school pants were dripping and his shoes, newly polished, were caked in wet mud. His eyes drifted towards his school bag, where Dudley’s muddy footprint and his eyes widened with horror. He scrambled through the mud towards it and with fingers numbing from the cold, opened up the zipper.

Harry reached in with shaking hands and pulled out a pair of expensive binoculars. A large crack ran through one of the lenses and Harry groaned in misery. He had “borrowed” the binoculars from his Uncle Vernon so that he could show them off to his favourite teacher at playtime. He had meant to put them back when he got home, but now that he had missed the bus, Uncle Vernon was going to return from work sooner than Harry would be able to, and he would definitely notice that his binoculars were gone. What was worse, Dudley had broken them and Harry shuddered, dread settling in his heart as he placed the binoculars back in his schoolbag and lifted it up onto his back. Uncle Vernon was going to kill him, or at least, inflict a world of pain on him.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” Harry muttered to himself, panic tearing in his voice. The seven-year old was shivering madly and only partly because of the cold. He was breathing deeply, fear etched into every scar on his body, most courtesy of Uncle Vernon. “Please no. Not the binoculars, anything but them.”

With fumbling hands, Harry reached into his shirt and drew upon his last article of faith, a small crucifix given to him by his Sunday school after church. Clasping it tightly between whitened knuckles, he closed his eyes and chanted to himself fervently.

“Please God; don’t let this happen to me. Don’t let them hurt me again,” Harry mumbled softly, barely audible to himself over the noise of the rain. He squeezed his eyes shut and continued his prayer. “I always ask and you never answer, just this once God, don’t let them.”

Harry opened his eyes but the binoculars remained broken and worthless as they had been a few seconds ago and Harry sighed in resignation, his hope dying and his eyes fluttering shut. When he opened them again, they were dull and lifeless as he mentally prepared himself for what he knew was coming for him. Slowly, the seven-year old packed up his schoolbag and trudged his way down the road, ignoring the cars the sped past him.

As he stood on the corner of the street waiting to cross the road, a car screeched past, zooming into and out of a large muddy puddle on the road. The resulting spray struck Harry with moderate force, drenching him with muddy water and causing him to stagger back a few steps. Harry wiped the mud out of his eyes and glanced down at his shirt, which was covered in muddy grime. A glint caught his eye as his crucifix swayed in the wind, and suddenly anger surged into his body. His emerald eyes glinted with fury as he grasped the golden-coloured cross and yanked it with all his strength, snapping the cord that held it around his neck and hurling it at the muddy ground.

“You must hate me to make me live like this,” Harry said angrily, glaring at the crucifix with all of his might as raindrops dripped down his cheek, mingling with the tears that fell from his eyes. “But I hate you just as much.”

And with the shattering of his faith, Harry crossed the road, not knowing that he had just forsaken the one thing that could have saved him from a temptation that would soon enter his life. Of course, had Harry known in advance what power succumbing to this temptation would give him; it was likely that he wouldn’t have changed anything.


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In a dark alley behind a small shopping centre located in Little Whinging, Surrey, a worn and shabby door was slammed open with such force that it was almost ripped off its hinges. A man, tall and gaunt with fiery eyes and a face that seemed to have been chiselled into an expression of anger and pain, staggered down the steps, leaning heavily against the rusty metal rail as he quickly limped away from the door. His clothes, a dark overcoat and a tattered pair of jeans, were ripped, burnt and splattered with blood, most of it his own. In his right hand, he held a sword, a lean and intricate blade that emanated a faint light as bolts and crackles of electricity ran through it, and in his left hand he clutched something close to heart as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

“I’m not getting out of this one,” The man seemingly growled to nothing, exhaustion creeping through his voice. He cocked his head as though he were listening to somebody as he limped forward, staggering against the hard brick wall and leaving a thick trail of dark blood behind. His eyes quickly swept over the alley, noting the rusty metal bins, the large stack of full rubbish bags and the puddles of water forming beneath them all as the rain continued to pour.

“That’s ******** bullshit and you know it,” The man growled angrily, retorting to a statement that apparently only he could hear. He cocked his head again, before he stiffened as he heard something beyond the doorway.

He whirled around; moving far quicker than a man with his apparent injuries should be able to and levelled his sword at the dark doorway,. With a roar of fury, he thrust his sword forward and from the sharp tip came a brilliant flash of light. Lightning zapped forward, illuminating the entire alley for a split-second, before a thunderous echo blasted through the surrounding area. The conjured bolt of lightning disappeared into the darkness and although the man couldn’t see into the unnatural shadows, he gave a dark smile as something behind him loudly screeched in pain, a horribly chilling noise that would have sent shivers down a lesser person’s spine.

The man panted softly as he leant against the brick wall of the alley, wincing in pain as more blood seeped from his wounds. He shook his head dazedly and lifted his left hand up from his heart, opening his bloodstained hand to stare at what lay inside. On his calloused palm lay a single silver coin, no bigger than the size of the man’s knuckle. On one side of the coin, there was a rough and faded portrait of a solemn woman and when the man flipped the coin over, the other side revealed an insignia of some kind, made up of three short wave lines and a jagged triangle.

Suddenly there was a loud crashing noise from behind the man and he took a deep breath, steadying himself, before he clasped the coin in his hand and with all of his strength- which was far greater than that of a normal human being- hurled it over the shopping centre roof. He watched the silver coin arc through the air with wide eyes; as if he couldn’t believe what he had just done, tracking it until it went over the roof and out of sight. The man was shaking, his hands trembling and quivering as he turned to face the threat alone, his sword coming up as darkness leapt from the doorway. Quivering and twisting shadows lanced out towards the man, who cut them down with deft strikes of his sword as if they were real matter. The injured man spun around, his sword flying through the air with a whistling noise as he struck down another tendril of darkness with ease, his teeth bared in animalistic rage.

For a few seconds, it seemed that the man was easily able to hold his own, but whether it was the wounds that caught up to him and slowed him down or the warped shadows that started striking out at faster speeds, after a mere fifteen seconds of battle, a shadow twisted out from the darkness and struck forward, twisting into the man’s arm during mid-strike. The man screamed in agony as liquid shadow poured into his body and his hand reflexively convulsed, his sword flying out of his grasp, through the air and landing in the midst of the rusty metal garbage cans. The man fearfully glanced around him, his eyes wide and pleading as the shadows enveloped him and a torturous scream left his throat. It was at this time that a man emerged from the darkened hallway, dressed in a tan trench coat with dark hair streaked with silver and sleepy, amused eyes as he regarded his foe.

“You will regret crossing us,” He said quietly, and the fallen man screamed again as the shadows converged on him. “Both of you.”

The screams intensified as the shadows twisted and flailed about madly, echoing in the small alley and bouncing off the walls into the open air.


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On the other side of the building, Harry shivered as another piercing scream echoed around the desolate parking lot of the shopping centre. He stepped up his pace as he pulled his schoolbag closer to his shoulder, his nervous green eyes darting around his surroundings. In a last ditch attempt beat Vernon Dursley home, Harry had decided to take a shortcut through the shopping centre, which had been temporarily closed for a few weeks now after a freak power surge had somehow fried every electronic circuit in the building. He had been almost half-way across the parking lot when the horrible screaming had started, screaming that sent chills down his spine and tears to his eyes.

Another scream pitched in the nearby distance and Harry quickly broke out into a run, fear coursing through his veins, his eyes wide with terror. Because of the very-distracting screams and the constant rainfall, Harry didn’t see the small crack in the parking lot pavement until it was too late. Harry gave a small cry of surprise as he lost his footing on the slippery surface as his right foot got caught in something and he fell heavily to the ground. Pain splintered in his knees and elbows as he whimpered to himself, his face half-covered by running water, which was circling to the nearby drain. Shivering, Harry tried to stagger up but pain lanced through him and he looked down at his legs. He had ripped the fabric of his pants around his right knee, which had been scraped badly and was bleeding already. His elbow was in a similar situation and Harry, like most seven-year-old boys, felt the onset of tears as he struggled to compose his face. Suddenly, something tinkled on the ground in front of him and Harry blinked behind his glasses, looking down. The moment he did, he instantly forgot his pains.

The object that had attracted his attention was a small, silver coin. Harry could see a faint profile of a solemn-looking woman on the side facing upwards, but it didn’t look like the Queen at all. What’s more, there was something about this coin that had Harry instantly hooked. His pains and fears forgotten, Harry studied the coin with supernatural intensity, his eyes staring at it unblinkingly. Although his left hand was trembling with both fear and coldness as he used it to prop himself up, his right hand steadily and slowly reached out to grab the coin. The fingers hovered over the coin for a split-second, before Harry grasped it with the tips of his fingers and clasped it in his palm.

Immediately, Harry felt something searing into his palm, something unbelievable hot and painful and he screamed out loud, flailing and kicking about as he shook his right hand about. His body collapsed to the wet asphalt again as he shook his right hand up and down, trying in desperation and fear to let go of the coin, or whatever was causing his pain. Tears flowed from his eyes as pain wracked his body and he continued to scream, a childish whimpering that could barely be heard over the rain and thunder. Suddenly, the previous screaming started again and this time, it hit Harry like a shockwave. Fear spread over his body like he had never felt before, dread settled in his stomach and his head pounded. He had to get out of here, he had to get home! He had to get anywhere, as long as it wasn’t here! He had to get up, to run, get up and run….get up and run…get up and run…get up and run! Get up and run, now!

For a second, Harry could have sworn he heard somebody screaming for him to run, a woman with a beautiful and melodious voice, but he darted his eyes around him and there was nobody there. Still, his instincts served him well as he jumped up and grabbed his schoolbag, his other pain seemingly fading away into nothingness as he started his flight at a sprint, tearing through the car park at speeds unusual for a normal seven-year-old. As he ran, another scream belted out into the air, which only served to spur Harry on, but this scream was suddenly cut off in its peak and Harry somehow knew that the person screaming was dead.

So he ran faster.


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It only took Harry ten minutes to arrive at Privet Drive, a time especially impressive for a seven-year-old boy, but Harry didn’t know this as he sprinted past Mrs Figg’s house, the batty cat-loving babysitter and approached Number Four. Relief sagged on his features at the sight of the house, which would have been most unusual for anybody who knew of the true environment of the house, but Harry tiredly staggered past the white-picket fence and approached the door as if he would rather be no where else. With wet and muddy hands, Harry opened the door and jumped inside, slamming it shut and locking it instantly and pressing his back on it. For a second, he stood there, his heart thumping in his chest and his breaths coming out short and gasping. A smile of relief curved his pale and trembling lips as he stood up, his legs aching from the run and his hand still clasped around the small coin, which had stopped burning him.

But the smile disappeared an instant later as he looked forward to see Vernon Dursley standing in front of him in a long-white shirt with his tie partially undone. The man’s beady eyes were narrowed and his face was darkening in anger as he regarded his most hated nephew, the bane of his prefect suburban life. Vernon’s beady eyes flickered over to the mud and water that was dripping from Harry’s sopping clothes onto the shiny floorboards and his mouth tightened in anger.

“So boy, do you have a good reason to explain your lateness?” Vernon spat out angrily, his piggy eyes reflecting the vast amount of hatred that he felt for his abnormal nephew. “And you’ve made a big mess! Who do you think will have to clean this all up? I know it won’t be you, you ungrateful dirty slob! It will be your poor Aunt Petunia, who has enough to do around the house without adding your negligent mess to her workload!”

Harry kept his head low and mumbled an apology, his entire body shivering as the adrenaline left him and the chill settled in. He kept his head low as he tried to shuffle around his Uncle, heading for his small cupboard under the stairs. But Vernon wasn’t finished with him just yet and a meaty hand clasped itself roughly around Harry’s shoulder, whirling him around painfully to face his Uncle, who regarded the boy with eyes full of disgust and anger.

“You didn’t answer me, boy,” He growled softly, squeezing down painfully on Harry’s shoulder and causing the boy to whimper softly. “Where were you?”

Harry squirmed as his shoulders ached under his Uncle’s hand and he stuttered out his answer, his eyes wide and fearful. “I m-missed the bus so I had to w-walk home!”

“That’s not what Dudley told me,” Vernon growled, tightening his grip and eliciting a small cry of pain from Harry. “He told me that you said you had better things to do than to come home, like you were told!”

Harry once again squirmed under his Uncle’s grip, and his soaked schoolbag slipped off his other shoulder and onto the ground with a loud thump, far louder than a seven-year-olds bag should be. Vernon’s eyes flickered down to the bag and a tight smile came over his face as something occurred to him.

“You’ve been stealing, boy, haven’t you?” He whispered harshly bending down to pick the schoolbag up with his other hand. He let go of Harry, who scooted backwards as he quickly pulled open the zipper, talking all the time. “You’ve become like you’re parents, a rotten, pathetic low-life criminal, despite our best efforts to turn you into a normal, civilised person. Who did you steal from, boy? Was it the school, the shops? Have you been shoplifting? Have you any idea what the neighbour would say if they found out that…”

Vernon’s voice trailed off as he pulled out his broken pair of binoculars, cracked and useless from Harry’s dreadful afternoon, and his eyes widened in shock and fury. Although Harry didn’t know it, those binoculars had been a gift to Vernon by his father before he had passed away, and now they were broken, destroyed and ruined, and it was all that stupid boys fault!

“How dare you!” Vernon boomed angrily, his voice rising to epic propositions as he glared at Harry with the utmost fury his beady eyes could deliver. His face was purpling as blood rushed to his cheeks, his veins throbbing with rage, and he growled incoherently as he moved forward, seizing Harry by the shoulder with a tight grip. Ignoring Harry’s cry of pain and stammered protests, he dragged the wet and shivering boy from the door to the cupboard, kicking it open with his feet.

Harry gave a loud cry of pain as his Uncle tightened his grip on his shoulder, until he was positive that the beefy man had broken a bone, before Vernon hurled him into the small cupboard under the stairs like a rag-doll. Harry was thrown to the floor and landed roughly, pain lancing through his small and already-aching body. Tears welled in his eyes as struggled up, turning around to face his violently angry Uncle, who stood outside the cupboard as he glared down at his nephew.

“Uncle Vernon…” He started in a pleading tone.

He was interrupted as Vernon raised his hand and backhanded Harry aside with great strength, his brawny palm slapping Harry aside with ease. Harry gave a cry of pain as he slammed into the wall and his vision flared as his head cracked on the edge of his small, wooden bed. He lay there, barely conscious as Vernon slammed the cupboard door shut. Distantly, Harry could hear the sounds of the locks on the cupboard being bolted and with a shaking hand, reached up to touch his head. Amidst the wet hair and muddy skin, Harry could feel a thick, oozing liquid gashing from his skull and took one look at it on his hand before he promptly fell unconscious.


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The next time Harry opened his eyes, he was lying in complete darkness. There was no light and no sound, and Harry could only hear the noise of his breathing, which had quickened in fright as he desperately tried to feel his bed or clothes box or anything else in his cupboard. But his hands came up empty and a soft whimper escaped his mouth as he hugged himself close. Suddenly, a speck of light burst out of nothingness right in front of him, a small sparkle of silver that instantly gained Harry’s attention. With a shaking hand, he fumbled in the darkness until he touched the sparkle. The instant he did, the sparkle flared in a powerful, bright light and everything instantly changed.

The darkness receded in a blink of an eye and from the light came the most beautiful garden Harry had ever seen. Grass sprouted from every inch of dirt, lush thick and healthy. Rows upon rows of flowers appeared from nowhere, purple-hued violets, red roses and white lilies sprouting from the ground with the grass. Trees appeared in much the same manner, as if they had been set to fast-forward, popping from the ground and stretching out to touch the sparkling azure sky, branches budding off from the trunk and leaves shooting out form on the branches. The sun beat down from the sky, partially hidden by a few white fluffy clouds. Harry picked himself up from the ground in amazement, his green eyes wide behind his glasses. Although the sight of the garden was more than amazing, it was the feeling of the place that had Harry instantly hooked. The entire place smelt of something so fresh and beautiful that Harry had never experienced anything like it before. The mere smell took away his pains and aches, leaving his entire body revitalised. His mind cleared of sorrow, of pain, of despair as he spun around, laughing happily as he gazed at this little stretch of paradise.

However, his laughter faded as he gaped open-mouthed as the most beautiful woman he had ever seen approached him, smiling serenely. With dark hair that sparkled in the soft light and silver eyes that regarded him with affection and fondness, the woman seemed to glide rather than walk over the grass and flowers, her white and silver dress flapping slowly in the soft, comfortable breeze. Harry watched with wide eyes as the woman approached him, stopping a few metres away from him. His mouth open and closed as he tried to say something, anything, but his mind was a blank, so he just stood there, staring.

The woman seemed to recognise this and spoke first, a melodious and beautiful voice that soothed Harry’s heart with ease and adoration.

“I am Meciel,” She introduced herself quietly. “And you are Harry Potter.”

This was enough to temporarily break Harry out of his stupor and he licked his lips nervously, his eyes still riveted on the angelic figure in front of him.

“W-Where are we?” He asked softly, his voice small.

“We are in your mind,” The woman answered, gesturing to the beautiful surroundings. “I created this garden to put you at ease, to make you feel better. I hope it has had the intended effect.”

“This…this isn’t real?” Harry asked softly, his eyes finally moving away from the woman as he knelt down, taking the stem of one of the flowers and plucking it out of the ground. He raised it to his nose, inhaling the beautiful scent of the rose, before he looked back at the woman, his face crestfallen. “But it feels so real.”

“I made it feel real, just for you,” Meciel answered softly and gestured to the patch of grass where had just plucked the flower.

Harry blinked and looked down, seeing another dark-red rose sprout from the ground in less than a second. He returned his gaze to the woman, his face serious.

“Are you an angel?” Harry asked her.

Meciel smiled, and although there was a faint trace of bitterness to it, Harry wasn’t aware of it as the smile burned into him, his heart soaring as he absorbed the radiance of the woman’s beauty.

“In a way,” Meciel answered pleasantly.

“I meant what I said before,” Harry said softly. “I still hate God.”

“As do I,” The woman answered softly, a smile of understanding on her face. Harry’s startled eyes met hers as she folded her arms together and began to explain.

“I was once an angel, a servant of God, existing only to do His bidding,” Meciel started softly, her silver eyes distant. “In those times, both heaven and the mortal realm openly lived side-by-side, mortal by angel, and we were all happy. However, after some time, mortal women and angels fell in love with each other and produced offspring. This angered God greatly and He decreed that all such offspring should die. I was given the task of hunting one of these hybrids down; however, as I faced it, sword of blazing fire in my hands, I could not strike it down, for it was an innocent, unknowing of what it had done wrong. God saw this and for my punishment, He banished me to the darkness, away from heaven and mortal realm, alone in the shadows, similar to what you experienced before I created this garden for you. That is my punishment, which is the punishment for most of the angels He has banished. We are the Fallen and we are alone in the darkness. We have only light, one object that can tie us to the mortal world.”

Here her gaze drifted down to his right hand and Harry followed it, unclenching it and staring at his palm, where he had picked up that coin. The skin was unmarred and undamaged, except for the centre of his palm, where a symbol comprised of three short wavy lines and a jagged triangle had been engraved into his skin.

“My coin allows me to communicate with a single human being, to experience happiness and light once again. In exchange, I offer my wisdom, my experiences and my power to aid this human for whatever he or she needs it for,” Meciel dropped to her knees, her silver eyes locked onto Harry’s emerald orbs. “I can help you, Harry.”

“How?” Harry asked in a whisper.

“I can guide you and aid you. I can share my knowledge with you, knowledge of powerful magic and skill lost to the ages. I can show you how to become powerful, show you how to become strong and great. I can help you become the most powerful man in history, if that is what you wish. I can show you how to defend yourself so that nobody will ever be able to hurt you again, even your Uncle.” Meciel whispered intently.

“You saw that?” Harry asked softly, ducking his eyes from her gaze.

“I see everything you see, I hear everything you hear, I smell everything you smell, I feel everything you feel and I know everything you know,” Meciel said softly and gently. “That is the price for my aid, my power, my strength.”

She regarded Harry with tender gentleness, a sad smile on her face as he refused to meet her eyes.

“Feel no shame, beloved one,” Meciel whispered soothingly. “You are the victim here, a victim of your Uncle and a victim of a world that doesn’t care about you. Allow me to help you and you will become so strong that nobody will ever hurt you again.”

Harry hesitated, wanting desperately to agree, to accept, to allow this beautiful and kind woman, or angel, to help him. But she wasn’t an angel anymore. God had banished her, and Harry knew from Church and Sunday school that if he accepted this offer, his soul wouldn’t go to heaven.

“Harry, God has forsaken you,” Meciel said softly, intently. “He has left you to your fate, he has abandoned you. He doesn’t care about your pains and sufferings and He doesn’t care about you. Why honour such a being that refuses to help those who worship Him in their hour of need?”

Harry sagged as the words struck him with full force, desperately wanting to deny it. But God had let Uncle Vernon beat him and hurt him his entire life, God had let Aunt Petunia shove him in this cupboard ever since he was a baby and God had let Dudley pick on him and bash him up everyday. God had even let his parents die to that stupid drunk-driver, and Harry knew that his parents would have at least loved him, if nothing else.

“Harry, God does not care,” Meciel repeated intently and then allowed a soft, gentle smile to curve her lips. “But I care, Harry. I care about your pains. I care that you suffer. I care that you live alone. We are alike, Harry, so very alike. Help me help you. Take my hand, Harry, and let us both never endure the darkness alone ever again.”

Meciel extended one of her pale, dainty hands and regarded Harry with an expression of kindness and gentleness. Harry took a deep breath and slid his palm into hers.

The first thing he noticed was that the skin was warm and soft as Meciel’s fingers enclosed around his hand. However, a split-second later Harry cried out in shock as something seared into him, a torrent of liquid heat that started from Meciel’s hand and flowed into his body. He glanced down at his hand in panic, and then raised his head to stare at Meciel, who was eyeing him intently, her eyes serious. Around them, the grass and flowers withered away as steam rose in the air. Harry could smell sulphur and brimstone in the air. The ground cracked and rumbled, trees withering and becoming no more than wasted, petrified husks. The darkness enveloped him, roared through him, bright yellow and red flames bursting in large geysers from the ground. Harry desperate tried to tug his hand away from Meciel, but her grip was as hard as steel. For a brief second, Harry’s emerald eyes met those of Meciel’s silver eyes, before everything went dark again and the smell of burning sulphur overpowered his senses.


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When Harry awoke in his dark cupboard he could still smell and taste the lingering remains of sulphur and his face scrunched up in disgust. He suddenly stiffened as everything flooded back to him and he sat up from the cold ground, his eyes frantically darting around his cupboard. There were no signs of a garden, or of fire and steam, and for a second Harry thought that it had just been a dream. But the aches and pains that had accompanied him into this cupboard were gone and his clothes were dry. That was when he felt a quick burning sensation in his right palm and he quickly brought his hand up into the light coming through the cracks of the door. When he unclenched his hand, he saw a small silver coin lying in his palm.

‘I am here, beloved one,’ said a soothing female voice. ‘I have healed your wounds for you.’

Harry whirled around, his eyes wide as he tried to find the source of the voice. But his cupboard was completely empty as usual, save for the few spiders that walked darting out of their webs and away from Harry, as if they could sense something about him that they didn’t like.

‘I exist only in your mind,’ Meciel said. ‘However…’

Suddenly Meciel appeared in his cupboard, dressed in the same silver and white clothes as she had been before. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders as she sat on his small bed, glancing around the cupboard with barely hid disgust.

“You’re really here!” Harry breathed softly, his eyes glued to the woman.

“No,” Meciel said in her lilting voice. “I am merely creating an illusion in your mind that let’s you see me. If anybody else were to come in here, although I do not know why they would want to, they would only see you talking to your bed.”

Harry frowned and hesitantly reached over with his hand and laid it on the Fallen’s arm. It felt real, warm and alive, and Harry quickly pulled his hand back.

“You’re making me feel that, aren’t you?” Harry asked softly.

“Yes,” Meciel answered simply.

Harry nodded slowly. “What do I do now?” He asked her.

Meciel cocked her head in thought, regarding him carefully. “I can sense your skills, my beloved. I feel that you have little inborn skill with thaumaturgy. Your evocation skills are also below average. However, I sense great potential in your skills as a wand-wizard. We shall work from that to begin with. With practise, we can make a very man out of you yet.”

Harry stared at her in incomprehension, clearly not understanding a word of what she had just said. He frowned and was about to ask a question when he saw a flicker of something out of the corner of his eye. His head snapped to the left, but there was nothing there, merely a darkened corner of his small cupboard. Yet as he gazed around, he could feel rather than see something that lay below his ordinary sight.

“What is this?” He asked quickly.

“That is your Third Sight, a Wizard’s Sight,” Meciel answered. “Most wand-wizards are unable to use this gift and the few that do quickly go insane. Whenever you gaze at something with Third Sight, it will remain in your memories forever.”

“What’s Third Sight?” Harry asked, struggling to keep the panic out of his voice as something else flashed in the corner of his eye.

“The ability to see beyond the physical surface, to see into the deeper surfaces of emotion, magical phenomena, and so forth,” Meciel answered and a slight smile appeared on her face. “The next time you see a flicker, I will activate it for you, if that is your wish. Once I have done that, you will know how to turn this gift on and off at your will. Do you wish me to continue?”

Harry slowly nodded and waited in near silence. The only sound was his breathing as he sat in his small cupboard, until another flicker appeared in the corner of his eye. He felt a small tingle beneath his eyes and reflexively closed them. The retina of his eyeballs briefly itched, and then it was over. When Harry opened his eyes again, he was using his Third Sight, and what he saw made him scream in horror.

The true physical appearance of his cupboard was still there, but it had faded and something else had appeared. Later on, when Harry was coherent again, he would express to Meciel that he couldn’t find the words to describe what he had seen. The most he could say was that it was as if a thick cloth had just been lifted over his eyes and he could see with every one of his senses. The wood of the cupboard, although long rendered from the forest, were also large, spectre trees, swaying gently in the breeze. The wood was also a piece of burning timber, which was being consumed in ghostly flames. Harry could smell the smoke from the flames and the soft scent from the trees as he wrestled with past, present and future. The cupboard was a place of misery and pain for the one who lived in it and under the Sight; these emotions were visible in ways Harry couldn’t describe. Dark blotches of fear and loneliness permanently etched itself into Harry’s mind, searing into his memory. Anger and hatred burnt their way into his eyes, igniting an unholy bloodlust in his veins. Despair hung like a slimy moss, sickening and a perversion of true human nature. Harry saw all of this, more and everything. He saw ghostly figures of himself crying underneath sadness and despair, angry spectres under hatred and desire for revenge and so much more. In the middle of all of this, untouched by Harry’s Sight, sat Meciel, who watched him with luminous silver eyes and an all-knowing gaze.

In the end, Harry couldn’t take stand that cupboard for a second longer and without knowing it, crouched up as far as he could and slammed his shoulder into the locked door. Demonic strength filtered into his veins and he blow, which ordinarily wouldn’t have hurt a seven-year-old girl, knocked the cupboard door clean off its hinges, allowing Harry to escape from the cesspit of negative emotion that was his cupboard.
He emerged in the hallway, panting as if he had just run a marathon while still gazing around the house, where ghostly fires burned away, unseen by all. He barely heard the rumbling footsteps as Vernon exited the kitchen, his face twisted up into annoyance. Harry glanced up as he felt somebody approach and shuddered as he saw the true form of Vernon Dursley. Dark emotions clung around the man, irritation at those below him, disgust for the abnormal, revulsion for those who didn’t fit his vision of a pure society, and a high degree of malevolence and hatred for Harry. The instant Harry glanced at his Uncle, a leering skull appeared above the portly man’s head. It was death. His Uncle would be involved in a death in the near-future and Harry, under the influence of his Sight and the physical manifestation of the hatred Vernon had for him, soundlessly cried out for help, certain that he was about to be killed.

‘How may I aid you?’

“I can’t let them kill me, I won’t let them kill me, help me!”

“You have my power, beloved. Take your revenge and defend yourself!”

Harry let out a twisted laugh as dark power flooded through his body, sulphur burning into his nostrils. Power lay at his fingertips, a force that Harry had never felt before. He was in control, he was powerful! Nobody could hurt him again! Nobody could kill him; destroy him, especially not his pathetic, weak-minded Uncle! He was invincible and almighty and as he felt his body change into something strong and terrifying, he allowed himself to roar as he faced his uncle, who was frozen in fear, and prepared to take his revenge.

Mrs Sutton from Number Five Privet Drive was an aging woman with a penchant for dramas, especially The Bill. She, much like Vernon Dursley, enjoyed the normalcy and reliability of her suburban life, and despised those who differed from her. However, like Petunia Dursley, she was also had a very nosy nature, so when she heard a young boy screaming for his life from across the road, she hurried out of her chair and peered out of her curtains. Frowning, she regarded Number Four with calculating eyes, almost certain that the scream had been that b*****d Potter boy. After a few seconds, she dropped the curtains and turned back to her flickering TV screen. It was at this moment that a loud, bestial roar blasted throughout the street.

Mrs Sutton turned back to the window, quickly opening them and peering down at Number Four, where loud screams of agony and terror, both male and female, young and old, could be heard. Fear rushed through her as the screams continued and her hands were shaking as she peered out of her curtains. Suddenly one of the screams was suddenly cut off and the female shrieking stopped. The lone male continued screaming in anguish, an ear-splitting screech, and the curtains were parted. Mrs Sutton watched with wide eyes and trembling lips as Vernon Dursley pounded against the window, his face bloodied and desperate, before he suddenly whirled around. Vernon screamed again as something approached him, although Mrs Sutton couldn’t see who it was. Suddenly Vernon was snatched from the window, torn in half and thrown aside; blood splattering against the windows planes in thick rivers of crimson. Something screeched again, this time in triumph and victory, and the very notes of the screech send goosebumps down Mrs Sutton’s spine and she fled the curtains, using her trembling hands to pick up the telephone from the receiver and dialling the police.

“Hello?” she said in a quavering voice, fear wracking her entire body. “There’s been a murder at Number Four Privet Drive! You have to come now!”

Suddenly an explosion rocked the ground and hurled Mrs Sutton to the floor. With a groan, she landed on the ground roughly and pain spiked through her ribs. She looked up towards the window and through the curtains; she could see flames jutting from the house across the road.


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No less than a minute later, a small, young boy completely drenched in blood staggered from the house, using the shadows to hide his form as he ignored the searing flames, which seemingly had no effect on him. The powerful scent of sulphur and brimstone filled the air as the fires continued burning, and the small boy slipped away as the first of the neighbours arrived outside the former Dursley residence, staring at the flames with wide eyes, dripping a trail of blood behind him, the blood of his hated relatives, now all dead. As the Police and Fire Brigade tore up the residential street, sirens wailing furiously, thousands of kilometres away, in a large magical castle, Albus Dumbledore looked down at one of his instruments with dread.

Number Four Privet Drive was no more.



You may or may not have read this story before. It's a massive, 230k word story that is the first of three. The third is still under construction, though.

Name: TonksAsKid
House: Hufflepuff
What, no Star Wars cross-over? I felt this short but sweet excerpt below to stand alone and open my imagination. This takes place about book 6. Harry is sixteen, and has just defeated the Dark Lord.

Thank you, LadyHealingHands for recommending some slight tweaking. Hope you like it!


URL:
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2134100/1/Harry_Potter_and_the_Attack_of_the_Clones
Rating: PG-PG-13 aka T aka Teen

The world would rejoice, as it is prone to do after Dark Times are defeated, but never would they know of what happened to Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.

His portal was odd, indeed... none of its kind had been made before, but nonetheless, it occurred and Harry Potter was flung backwards, long ago into a time unheard of... in a galaxy, far far away.

Perhaps he had a destiny to fulfill. Whatever governs our universe, whatever magic or whatever force guides us and shape us - creates us - breaks us - felt it necessary to do such a thing, to right a wrong it felt it had made or perhaps to correct a lapse of judgment - nobody is perfect.

Nonetheless, the portal flung open into a temple, a temple not of arcane sorts nor entirely ancient but a modern one with an expansive archive detailing of many wars, and many conflicts that had happened - perhaps they would be more intelligent than the fools upon Earth who forget their history. A temple with many scholars, and masters to teach them.

This temple wasn't in open country like the school where Harry Potter had just finished his final battle of good versus evil, but rather was in a large city so vast that the expanse of it covered the planet it was on--the planet was entirely comprised of the city. Skyscrapers that put to shame the primitive culture of Earth's ones. Speeders, as the inhabitants called them, zipped along the air in designated routes that held no road but rather hovering signals that determined whether or not you could zip along or come to a stop to allow others to.

Coruscant. Capital World, as it was known to those under the guidance of that government, was where the temple was.

Coruscant held the senate building, a large, immaculately designed structure that stood near the temple Harry Potter was about to fall out of. Thousands of senators who represented other planets came here, and thousands of them would decide upon the laws that were upheld in the galaxy. All voted to elect one man to lead, one man to govern their proceedings and decide important decisions.

Supreme Chancellor. Elected five years ago after an odd incident above a small planet named Naboo. Perhaps he had his own agenda - who knows? What is important is that he is the Supreme Chancellor, once Senator of Naboo - Palpatine.

Even more important was a small green figure moving slowly, as if injured, through the High Council chambers of this Temple - the Jedi Temple. The Temple for the sworn protectors of the light, the justice bringers, and the defenders of the galaxy. He was the only one there, simply gazing out at the two setting suns of Coruscant, thinking heavily upon Anakin Skywalker, apprentice of Obi-Wan Kenobi, and his improvement. He sensed fear, of course, as he had five years ago when he agreed to allow training. He sensed anger, of course, as he had five years ago, but the boy worked very hard to control his emotion.

It was as he turned around, sensing a disturbance in what he called "the Force," that he saw an elegant white portal come into formation. The small, simply dressed green figure with wispy gray hair upon his head and a brown gnarled staff in one hand tilted his head to the side. He was baffled, though did not show it, as it was not proper for the High Council Leader-elect to do such things as hop on one foot in concern and amazement. He observed upon it calmly to all appearances, as all wise Jedi do.

He did not need to think further upon its purpose, as a slender boy, of what he guessed fifteen or sixteen - Anakin's age - fell through the portal and onto the floor with a sickening thud and lay there for some time. The little creature hobbled forward and analyzed the young lad.

The boy had jet-black hair that was rather untamed, a nicely shaped face that held what the 857 year old Master Jedi termed "Aristocratic" cheeks, and a rather skinny physique. The boy's face was towards him, and as the boy stirred, emerald eyes peered outwardly, squinting. Glasses lay feet away, but the child's eyes widened as he caught sight of the green Jedi Master.

Harry, still shaken up from the landing, could see perfectly clear without his glasses, yet what he saw disturbed him.

He wondered if he was dead.

The green Jedi Master, Master Yoda, was wondering how such an event could happen and wondered even more, exactly how strong this young one was. The 'Force' flowing off the boy was amazing. Even more amazing was the purity of it. He grunted, and hobbled a little closer to the boy who was slowly getting up.

"Master Yoda, I am," the short creature said.

Harry was baffled by the diminutive little creature - strangest house elf he had ever seen, and called a Master? - and his raspy voice, as well as the way he spoke, "Mas...Master Yoda?" he said timidly - he was a bit suprised to not find himself squished under a large beam dying a painful death to conclude his rather tragic life and he was wondering if he was saved the gruesome experience, "Err... am I dead?"

"Hmm," replied Yoda, "Dead, you are not."

"Where am I then..." he inquired, his stomach grumbling. "Bleh... do you know Dobby?"

"Inquiring, you are, when I should be the one asking questions," Yoda replied, with a smile, "To the first, on Coruscant, you are. To the second, Dobby, I know nothing of."

"Oh," he said, standing up slowly and stumbling, "Pardon me for my intrusion then," he said lamely, as he looked around the beautifully decorated room with red curtains hanging on the windows and ornate tile and columns that lined the walls. He moved for the open door, baffled by his surroundings but seeing no need to bug a house-elf who was most likely going to get punished for having a stranger in the house.

'Rather chubby House-Elf,' pondered the boy as he was about to leave out the exit when it slammed shut.

"Hold on, stranger," spoke Yoda from behind, mildly amused.

Harry turned around and raised an eyebrow, "Err, yes?"

"Many questions, I have for you." he inquired, "Help you, I will, upon answering them."

"I suppose...," the boy said, moving back into the room. Yoda was surprised by the boy's lack of fear around a Jedi, or in its council room. In fact, the boy was confident, but not overconfident. He would almost think the boy was one of his star pupils if not for the fact that he wore no Jedi garment, nor had he seen him, and he certainly knew every member of the Jedi Order in the last 700 years.

"Name, you have, yes?"

"Yes sir - Harry James Potter."

"Hmm," was the reply, "Age?"

"Sixteen."

"Homeworld?"

At this, the boy cocked an eyebrow, "Homeworld? You mean hometown right? I live in Surrey although I usually go to Hogwarts..."

"Homeworld, I meant," said the Jedi, "Interesting, this most is. Interested, I am, that you are the workings of the Force. Concerned, I am, you have no idea of what I am talking about. Think, I do, that the windows behind me, you need to take a good look through."

Harry Potter wanted to laugh since he was indeed confused and had no idea what the house-elf was talking about but decided to humor the creature and looked out the window - really looked out it.

He noticed speeders flying by and the thousands of skyscrapers that dotted the setting sky and not one, but two suns falling below the horizon, slowly. He pulled his wand out of his pocket but it was not there. Yoda watched as the boy moved forward and peered out of them and raised his hand, as if something was guiding it and thrust it forward. Yoda's eyes widened at the strength of the Force that flew forth from the hand and then shattered the window.

"Interesting, this most certainly is," he whispered. By all accounts, Yoda was strong. Only one was stronger than him that he knew of, in the Force, although not trained as well as he was - Anakin Skywalker. This boy, though, was another. He could feel it without needing to use a counter. Whether he was stronger, strong as, or weaker than the Child of Jedi Prophecy, he did not know. Yet.

The boy looked out the window, and tilted his head. Thousands of memories and ideas spread through the confines of his mind - he was not on Earth, the main one.

"Bloody hell," he whispered, reminiscent of Ronald Weasley's most coined term. It was intoxicating - the skyscrapers, the speeders, and the bustle and grandeur - all beautiful. He turned around and looked at the Jedi Master, and found it odd that he was not afraid. He felt himself understanding something, that this was another path...

'Life's next big adventure,' he mused, remembering the first thing that stuck with him from his mentor, Albus Dumbledore. He simply smiled, which caught Yoda by surprise.

"I don't suppose you have any lemon drops, do you?" inquired Harry, "because you are not going to believe what just happened to me," he finished, running a hand through his already disheveled hair.

"Lemon... drops?" replied Yoda, also smiling - he sensed something happening here. The Force was telling him to trust this one, trust him as opposed to treading carefully when the case of Anakin Skywalker had been brought up.

"Bleh..." said the boy, clutching his stomach, "I don't suppose you're a house-elf either?" the Jedi Master shook his head, "Nothing to eat, then?"

"Hm-hm-hm," laughed the diminutive Yoda, "Follow me, you will."

Sixteen year old Harry Potter, who had accepted easily what few would have. Of people who trespassed against him, of Dark Lords, and of being sent five thousand years in to the past and into a galaxy some trillion light years away from his own, walked out of the High Council chamber with Yoda the Jedi Master, and towards the kitchens of the Jedi Temple.

Life's next great adventure for Harry Potter, had begun.




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Eleven chapters were written in this story, apparently abandoned and not finished. I loved this particular part which I pulled out of the first chapter because it could stand alone, as both a trailer and a story in itself.

Oh my. I'm humbled by how many of you voted for Computer with a View so far!
I liked TonksAsKid's Star Wars cross over - my second favorite fanfic this month. Thanks Tonks! I really liked Scottie MiaKitty's Twilight cross-over, and I laughed at Vampire Pretty. I just finished reading Twilight, and thought Vampire Pretty was pretty funny. I liked Bella in the book, but the story really made fun of her. The best line in the fic was Hermione's: "And it doesn't hurt that Edward looks a lot like Cedric Diggory!" Anyway, I voted for my entry redface because I really want to win the August letter, and because I love that fic.

It won me when Scott is describing his first meeting with Dumbledore, and just got sweeter and sweeter. What did you guys like about the stories this month?