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The Arguments (Harry Potter/Original Story Crossover)
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Chapter 1 - Albus Dumbledore and Victor Walton
Fulcon
Working on a new project.
- Joined
- May 1, 2019
- Messages
- 643
- Likes received
- 8,589
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters are the property of J.K Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing and Scholastic Press. Please support the official release. All other characters are the property of yours truly and will be appearing in an original work some time in the future.
---
Dumbledore looked at the man sitting across with him with a careful indifference, his disdain well hidden by a long, white beard. "Well, I suppose we'd get to business, shall we?"
The other man, dressed in a black, muggle suit, simply stroked his silver goatee. "Lets." Dumbledore picked up the stack of parchment on the table in front of him.
"Professor Victor Walton, is that right?"
Professor and Headmaster Victor Walton gently clasped one hand in the other, allowing his fingers to fall on his knuckles like falling dominoes. "That is right. Professor Albus Dumbledore is yours, if I'm not mistaken."
"Quite right," Dumbledore replied.
The room was quiet, a small study with a low ceiling, books lining the shelves and lit by candles which floated throughout the air. The smoke filled the air, giving the place an especially cozy and home-like feeling. Of course, neither of the two guests were feeling particularly warm and charitable at the moment, staring each other down like they were glaring at a dark looking glass.
"And his name is Davis Shepherd?" Dumbledore asked. "Was it really necessary to kidnap the boy?"
Walton balked. "Kidnap? We saved that boy."
"Saved him?" Dumbledore parroted. "You saved him by removing him from his loving family and stripping them of his memory?"
"The Dark Lord Malcidor would've killed him if they found him," Walton explained, his words cutting through the air like ice. "They would've tortured his family to find him and then what would we do?" He glared at his counterpart across the table. "An outcome that clearly never occurred to you. You sent poor Mr. Potter back to his horrific aunt and uncle year after year."
"He was safer there than he was at Hogwarts," Dumbledore replied. "The blood ward there was unassailable, Voldemort could not accost him at home."
"A luxury Davis never had." Walton sniffed. "At least our defenses caused Malcidor never to attack Atreus Academy. But your Hogwarts? Your Voldemort cursed your teaching positions, infiltrated your staff and turned your castle into his personal fortress near the end."
"That has far more to do with his activity outside of your school and much less to do with the strength of your institutions defenses," Dumbledore argued, pushing his half-moon glasses up his nose. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but he never even knew where it was, correct?"
"Yes, that's right," Walton said.
"And he didn't know about Davis until Davis had nearly accomplished his transfiguration, is that correct?" Dumbledore asked.
Walton grit his teeth. "Yes."
"Then I suppose you had a luxury Hogwarts never had," Dumbledore replied. "We rarely get to pick our enemies. Voldemort was a former student of Hogwarts, you see."
Walton simply glared. "And you brought Mr. Potter directly there? Why not hire a private tutor if teaching him was so important?"
"He needed to be able integrate into the world he had saved when all was said and done," Dumbledore repeated. "He needed friends, loved ones. A place to call his own apart from his family."
"Put him with a...what do you call them? A squib, pay for them to emigrate." Walton rested his hands on the table. "Move to America or Canada. Enroll him in magical education over there, away from Voldemort's schemes."
"And take him away from the country and people his parents died to save?" Dumbledore asked, incredulous. "Better that he stay connected to his roots."
"Roots sh-moots." Walton waved it off. "You needed him to save the world, send him off then bring him back when he's needed."
"Even you kept Davis where you could watch him." Dumbledore pointedly glared at his verbal opponent. "You took him to that Academy of yours, trained him and guided him, as I did Harry. Only Harry had a place to go in between his school years. But Davis? You isolated him there."
"I also taught Davis everything I knew about it so he could have his run of the place," Walton replied. "He was the only student exempt from curfew and knew every secret passage and room the academy had. He even found things I never knew about."
Dumbledore frowned. "Making him exempt from the rules isolated the boy from his peers even more than he already was."
"Well, he wasn't like everyone else," Walton replied. "He had a job to do. I wasn't about to force him to do it without giving him a few perks."
"You took an average student and gave them perks because they may one day defeat a dark lord," Dumbledore summarized. "Are you even an educator? Students need structure and peers and you sabotaged both. No wonder Davis was a mediocre student."
"He was an average student," Walton said through grit teeth. "He spent most of his midnight oil practicing spells and doing extra credit, I'll have you know. Not every," he made air quotes, "Chosen One", he folded his arms on the table, "can be a prodigy, now can they?"
"Harry was not prodigy," Dumbledore said.
"Oh, come off it! The boy was one of the finest Defense Against the Dark Arts practitioners that ever came out of Hogwarts and you know it," Walton said, pointing at the wizard across the table. "Davis, bless his heart, had perfectly average talent for casting spells. It's only a miracle that he took to Alchemy as well as he did."
"A transmutation to something other than human," Dumbledore said. "Harry never had to do that."
"Well, Mr. Potter was a talented person in the ways that mattered," Walton replied, squinting at the half-moon glasses. "Mr. Shepherd, I'm afraid, was not. He had to improvise, and did it extraordinarily well, if I do say so myself."
"And where is Mr. Shepherd now?" Dumbledore asked. "Your magical world has completely forgotten him."
"Well, the afterlife gives us many insights, doesn't it?" Mr. Walton replied. "He's back with his loving family, reconnecting with them after his disappearance and honestly, more power to him. Malcidor is gone and there's no more danger, so it's perfect."
"Is it wise to let someone so powerful go unchecked?" Dumbledore asked. "Harry has an entire society that he's a part of. Davis has nothing."
"Hey, we're dead," Mr. Walton said. "It's not my problem to solve and, frankly, he saved the Magical World. He can do whatever he wants."
Dumbledore withdrew a pipe from his robes and lit it, saying nothing further.
Victor Walton withdrew a time-piece from inside his suit jacket. "I'm afraid I must be going. I can't say it was a pleasure."
"No, I'm afraid it wasn't." Victor stood, and walked off, leaving Dumbledore alone with his thoughts.
---
Author's Note: So this is what consumed my life for the past, I don't know, few days? It's been fun. Occasionally I get a new idea and it winds up sucking me up and refusing to let me go. This is the first time I've gone and followed that urge and it was fun!
The goal was to take my original characters, which are a part of an original story I will be posting later, and contrasting them with Harry Potter because it was a huge inspiration for the story and characters itself. I hope I succeeded! Each subsequent chapter will feature one or more characters from Harry Potter and one from my own story.
This is also complete, with five chapters. I will post them over the next few days, excepting Sunday for personal reasons.
Until the next time!
~Fulcon
---
Dumbledore looked at the man sitting across with him with a careful indifference, his disdain well hidden by a long, white beard. "Well, I suppose we'd get to business, shall we?"
The other man, dressed in a black, muggle suit, simply stroked his silver goatee. "Lets." Dumbledore picked up the stack of parchment on the table in front of him.
"Professor Victor Walton, is that right?"
Professor and Headmaster Victor Walton gently clasped one hand in the other, allowing his fingers to fall on his knuckles like falling dominoes. "That is right. Professor Albus Dumbledore is yours, if I'm not mistaken."
"Quite right," Dumbledore replied.
The room was quiet, a small study with a low ceiling, books lining the shelves and lit by candles which floated throughout the air. The smoke filled the air, giving the place an especially cozy and home-like feeling. Of course, neither of the two guests were feeling particularly warm and charitable at the moment, staring each other down like they were glaring at a dark looking glass.
"And his name is Davis Shepherd?" Dumbledore asked. "Was it really necessary to kidnap the boy?"
Walton balked. "Kidnap? We saved that boy."
"Saved him?" Dumbledore parroted. "You saved him by removing him from his loving family and stripping them of his memory?"
"The Dark Lord Malcidor would've killed him if they found him," Walton explained, his words cutting through the air like ice. "They would've tortured his family to find him and then what would we do?" He glared at his counterpart across the table. "An outcome that clearly never occurred to you. You sent poor Mr. Potter back to his horrific aunt and uncle year after year."
"He was safer there than he was at Hogwarts," Dumbledore replied. "The blood ward there was unassailable, Voldemort could not accost him at home."
"A luxury Davis never had." Walton sniffed. "At least our defenses caused Malcidor never to attack Atreus Academy. But your Hogwarts? Your Voldemort cursed your teaching positions, infiltrated your staff and turned your castle into his personal fortress near the end."
"That has far more to do with his activity outside of your school and much less to do with the strength of your institutions defenses," Dumbledore argued, pushing his half-moon glasses up his nose. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but he never even knew where it was, correct?"
"Yes, that's right," Walton said.
"And he didn't know about Davis until Davis had nearly accomplished his transfiguration, is that correct?" Dumbledore asked.
Walton grit his teeth. "Yes."
"Then I suppose you had a luxury Hogwarts never had," Dumbledore replied. "We rarely get to pick our enemies. Voldemort was a former student of Hogwarts, you see."
Walton simply glared. "And you brought Mr. Potter directly there? Why not hire a private tutor if teaching him was so important?"
"He needed to be able integrate into the world he had saved when all was said and done," Dumbledore repeated. "He needed friends, loved ones. A place to call his own apart from his family."
"Put him with a...what do you call them? A squib, pay for them to emigrate." Walton rested his hands on the table. "Move to America or Canada. Enroll him in magical education over there, away from Voldemort's schemes."
"And take him away from the country and people his parents died to save?" Dumbledore asked, incredulous. "Better that he stay connected to his roots."
"Roots sh-moots." Walton waved it off. "You needed him to save the world, send him off then bring him back when he's needed."
"Even you kept Davis where you could watch him." Dumbledore pointedly glared at his verbal opponent. "You took him to that Academy of yours, trained him and guided him, as I did Harry. Only Harry had a place to go in between his school years. But Davis? You isolated him there."
"I also taught Davis everything I knew about it so he could have his run of the place," Walton replied. "He was the only student exempt from curfew and knew every secret passage and room the academy had. He even found things I never knew about."
Dumbledore frowned. "Making him exempt from the rules isolated the boy from his peers even more than he already was."
"Well, he wasn't like everyone else," Walton replied. "He had a job to do. I wasn't about to force him to do it without giving him a few perks."
"You took an average student and gave them perks because they may one day defeat a dark lord," Dumbledore summarized. "Are you even an educator? Students need structure and peers and you sabotaged both. No wonder Davis was a mediocre student."
"He was an average student," Walton said through grit teeth. "He spent most of his midnight oil practicing spells and doing extra credit, I'll have you know. Not every," he made air quotes, "Chosen One", he folded his arms on the table, "can be a prodigy, now can they?"
"Harry was not prodigy," Dumbledore said.
"Oh, come off it! The boy was one of the finest Defense Against the Dark Arts practitioners that ever came out of Hogwarts and you know it," Walton said, pointing at the wizard across the table. "Davis, bless his heart, had perfectly average talent for casting spells. It's only a miracle that he took to Alchemy as well as he did."
"A transmutation to something other than human," Dumbledore said. "Harry never had to do that."
"Well, Mr. Potter was a talented person in the ways that mattered," Walton replied, squinting at the half-moon glasses. "Mr. Shepherd, I'm afraid, was not. He had to improvise, and did it extraordinarily well, if I do say so myself."
"And where is Mr. Shepherd now?" Dumbledore asked. "Your magical world has completely forgotten him."
"Well, the afterlife gives us many insights, doesn't it?" Mr. Walton replied. "He's back with his loving family, reconnecting with them after his disappearance and honestly, more power to him. Malcidor is gone and there's no more danger, so it's perfect."
"Is it wise to let someone so powerful go unchecked?" Dumbledore asked. "Harry has an entire society that he's a part of. Davis has nothing."
"Hey, we're dead," Mr. Walton said. "It's not my problem to solve and, frankly, he saved the Magical World. He can do whatever he wants."
Dumbledore withdrew a pipe from his robes and lit it, saying nothing further.
Victor Walton withdrew a time-piece from inside his suit jacket. "I'm afraid I must be going. I can't say it was a pleasure."
"No, I'm afraid it wasn't." Victor stood, and walked off, leaving Dumbledore alone with his thoughts.
---
Author's Note: So this is what consumed my life for the past, I don't know, few days? It's been fun. Occasionally I get a new idea and it winds up sucking me up and refusing to let me go. This is the first time I've gone and followed that urge and it was fun!
The goal was to take my original characters, which are a part of an original story I will be posting later, and contrasting them with Harry Potter because it was a huge inspiration for the story and characters itself. I hope I succeeded! Each subsequent chapter will feature one or more characters from Harry Potter and one from my own story.
This is also complete, with five chapters. I will post them over the next few days, excepting Sunday for personal reasons.
Until the next time!
~Fulcon
Chapter 2 - Harry and Cordelia
Fulcon
Working on a new project.
- Joined
- May 1, 2019
- Messages
- 643
- Likes received
- 8,589
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters are the property of J.K Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing and Scholastic Press. Please support the official release. All other characters are the property of yours truly and will be appearing in an original work some time in the future.
---
"Nice scar."
Harry looked through his circle-glasses at the woman, only a couple of years his senior. She had caramel colored eyes and deep, curly brown hair that was just right above her chin. She was wearing a form-fitting black coat with a fur collar, and a pair of winter pants and boots.
He had meant to stick his wand out for the night bus, but unfortunately, this muggle showed up. A Yank, going by her accent.
"Thanks," Harry said.
"Harry Potter, right?" She said, arching her eyebrow.
Harry sighed. "Yes, that's me. I'm not doing autographs."
"Not what I'm asking for," She replied. "Did he manipulate you too?"
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Dumbledore," she said, immediately making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "The old headmaster of Hogs-it or something. You were the chosen one who came out of that school, right? Harry Potter?"
He blinked. Rapidly. Tilting he head, he looked at the woman in confusion. "D-do I know you? Who are you? Where are you from?"
She sighed. "Lieutenant Cordelia Greenwich, US Air force. Nice to meet you, too. I'm from America and yeah, I'm...what do you call it, a muggle?"
Harry boggled and went to draw his wand from his pocket.
Cordelia immediately pulled out a pistol from inside her coat, and let it hang at her side, tightly gripped with her finger on the trigger. "And don't even think of trying to wipe my memory. We're going to have a talk, and when we're done, you're going to call the night bus and scurry away like nothing happened."
He found himself staring at the pistol, realizing that in this fight, she would win before he could even get the words out. "Alright."
"Put the stick away," she ordered.
Harry followed her instruction. "Alright, I've put it away. Now, would you tell me what this is about?"
"Dumbledore. He manipulated you. From the start of your time at Hog...at your school," Cordelia said.
"What does that mean?" Harry asked, frowning deeply.
"He shaped you and groomed you into a weapon to fight Voldemort," Cordelia said, arching her eyebrow. "I wanted to see if you figured it out yet."
"Dumbledore didn't manipulate me," Harry argued. "I got accepted to Hogwarts like a bunch of other kids and then fought the man who killed my parents a bunch of times. Dumbledore didn't manipulate me into killing Voldemort, he helped me."
Cordelia's eyes narrowed. "The T in Voldemort is silent?"
Harry arched his eyebrow in confusion. "Yeah."
"Good to know," Cordelia replied. "Look, you shouldn't have been fighting a dark lord at all."
"There shouldn't have been a dark lord at all," Harry snipped.
"Fair, but they happen." Cordelia said, the fingers gripping her pistol flexing. "But from what I heard, the guy attacked you when you were a baby, then came back to finish the job when you were eleven. Do I have that right?"
"He tried to kill me as a baby, that's right," Harry said. "Then he came back about ten years later trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone from Hogwarts. I just happened to be there."
"How did you stop him?" Cordelia asked.
"He was hiding on the back of one of the professor's head at the time," Harry explained. At her expression, he hastily continued. "It's strange, I know. But the stone had been hidden in the Mirror of Erised and he couldn't get to it."
"Why couldn't he get it?" Cordelia asked.
"Because it was set so that the only person who could get to the stone was someone who wanted to find it, but not use it," Harry said with a shrug. "It wound up in my pocket."
"Oh. So you waited until he got impatient and wandered off?" Cordelia asked, arching her eyebrow.
"No, not exactly," Harry said, shifting uncomfortably in his shoes. "Touching me burned Quirrel's to ashes, so I won."
"And Quirrel was the professor at the time?" Cordelia asked.
"Yes," Harry replied. "Look, would you tell me what this is actually about?"
Cordelia looked off to the side. "I'm trying to help someone."
"Help someone?" Harry asked.
"Someone who's been through it like you," Cordelia continued. "Prophecy. Dark Lord. Manipulative Mentor. The whole thing. But getting information from you wizard types has been difficult, so I'm stuck at oh-dark-thirty holding people up just to get them to talk to me."
"Dumbledore wasn't manipulative," Harry said. "Like I said, he helped me. I was going to fight Voldemort anyway."
"Okay. So he made sure you knew everything you needed to know before you did anything stupid." It was Cordelia's turn to raise an eyebrow at Harry's tightening jaw. "Or was it more like he kept you in the dark and fed you bullshit?"
"He didn't tell me everything when I might've wanted to know it," Harry admitted through grit teeth.
"That's what I'm talking about," Cordelia replied.
Harry took a breath. "You mentioned someone else? Someone like me?"
"Yeah. My...boyfriend. He went to a magic school and fought a dark lord," Cordelia said, frowning. "Starting to think you guys aren't as similar as I would've hoped. How'd you beat him for good?"
"In a magical duel," Harry replied. "I used a disarming spell, he used the killing curse, it rebounded and killed him."
"The disarming spell makes spells rebound?" Cordelia asked, confused.
"No, there were extenuating circumstances. He split his soul up and my friends and I went on a quest to destroy them and it was this whole ordeal," Harry said. "Tell me about your boyfriend. What dark lord did he beat?"
"A guy named Malcidor," Cordelia said. "A guy who could literally pull people's ghosts from the afterlife and enslave them."
Harry's eyebrows shot straight up. "That's...that's not possible."
"Well, that's what I got from the people I talked too from his school," Cordelia replied. "Take it up with them. The point is, he was bad news."
"Then what did your boyfriend do to beat him?" Harry asked.
"He used Alchemy, er...potions, to turn himself into a quasi-godlike figure," Cordelia answered. "Then he just put him the grave."
Harry blinked. Rapidly. Often. A lot of times. "That-okay, why do you think I can help?"
"Because he spent his entire adolescence training and trying to learn magic to beat the Dark Lord," Cordelia replied. "Headmaster Walton told him from the beginning that there was a prophecy and that he needed to work hard."
"He told him." Harry's jaw was agape. "Right from day one? No secrets? No drip-feeding important information."
"Nope. No secrets," Cordelia said.
"That's amazing," Harry breathed. "He just knew right from the start. I mean, if I knew I had to die in order to stop Voldemort, that would've made everything a million times easier."
"No! No, it's not amazing!" Cordelia said, shaking her head with wide, enraged eyes. "You shouldn't be fighting dark lords as kids!"
"Well, we didn't have a choice," Harry said, gritting his teeth.
"Yeah, because of people like Dumbledore and Wa-wait, did you say you had to die?" Cordelia asked, shaking her head in disbelief.
"Voldemort put a piece of his soul in me when he returned," Harry explained. "So in order to get rid of him for good, he had to 'kill' me and destroy that piece."
Cordelia looked disgusted. "Golly."
"But that wouldn't have been a problem if I had known from the start," Harry said brightly, almost wistfully. "What was that Headmaster's name?"
"Walton," Cordelia said. "You have no idea how hard it was to track down the wizards in America who knew about this."
"Wouldn't your boyfriend have told you?" Harry asked.
"...actually, I'm going to be telling him," Cordelia admitted quietly. "He got his memory wiped."
Harry froze. "I am so sorry."
"It was before he met me," Cordelia said. "It was such a nightmare because he didn't remember the wizards, but the wizards didn't remember him either, so I had to track down student records and all that bullshit just to piece together what happened."
Harry was stunned, shaking his head in a vain attempt to force himself to comprehend what he just heard. "Wait, how did all the Wizards forget?"
"That's the one part I haven't figured out yet," Cordelia said. "By the way? That bit about drip-feeding you information? That's how Dumbledore manipulated you."
Harry took a deep breath, and let it out. "Fine. Whatever. I do think he should've told me when I started first year at Hogwarts."
"How old were you?" Cordelia asked.
"Eleven," Harry reminded her.
"...no, you can't tell an eleven year old they're going to be a sacrificial lamb," Cordelia said, blinking owlishly.
"Well, I mean, that didn't come into play until my fourth year, when Voldemort came back in full," Harry explained. "But he could've told me about the prophecy."
"True," Cordelia said, nodding her head. "Um...listen, I'm sorry for pulling a gun on you. I just don't want to forget."
"I understand," Harry said. "I won't obliviate you. Promise."
Cordelia holstered her pistol. "So...this is where you call the Night Bus and disappear?"
"Yeah," Harry said. "What's your boyfriend's name?"
"Davis."
"Give Davis my best," Harry said, drawing his want. "Lumos!"
Cordelia backed off into the shadows cast by the shining wand-light and disappeared into the night.
---
Author's Note: This discussion felt a little awkward at first. I got everything I wanted to get done, of course. Still a little awkward, I would expect Harry to give a little more push-back...I mean, a lot more push back, to having a gun pulled on him but...eh. This story is short and I didn't take it too seriously.
Hope you liked it, regardless.
Until the next time!
~Fulcon
---
"Nice scar."
Harry looked through his circle-glasses at the woman, only a couple of years his senior. She had caramel colored eyes and deep, curly brown hair that was just right above her chin. She was wearing a form-fitting black coat with a fur collar, and a pair of winter pants and boots.
He had meant to stick his wand out for the night bus, but unfortunately, this muggle showed up. A Yank, going by her accent.
"Thanks," Harry said.
"Harry Potter, right?" She said, arching her eyebrow.
Harry sighed. "Yes, that's me. I'm not doing autographs."
"Not what I'm asking for," She replied. "Did he manipulate you too?"
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Dumbledore," she said, immediately making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "The old headmaster of Hogs-it or something. You were the chosen one who came out of that school, right? Harry Potter?"
He blinked. Rapidly. Tilting he head, he looked at the woman in confusion. "D-do I know you? Who are you? Where are you from?"
She sighed. "Lieutenant Cordelia Greenwich, US Air force. Nice to meet you, too. I'm from America and yeah, I'm...what do you call it, a muggle?"
Harry boggled and went to draw his wand from his pocket.
Cordelia immediately pulled out a pistol from inside her coat, and let it hang at her side, tightly gripped with her finger on the trigger. "And don't even think of trying to wipe my memory. We're going to have a talk, and when we're done, you're going to call the night bus and scurry away like nothing happened."
He found himself staring at the pistol, realizing that in this fight, she would win before he could even get the words out. "Alright."
"Put the stick away," she ordered.
Harry followed her instruction. "Alright, I've put it away. Now, would you tell me what this is about?"
"Dumbledore. He manipulated you. From the start of your time at Hog...at your school," Cordelia said.
"What does that mean?" Harry asked, frowning deeply.
"He shaped you and groomed you into a weapon to fight Voldemort," Cordelia said, arching her eyebrow. "I wanted to see if you figured it out yet."
"Dumbledore didn't manipulate me," Harry argued. "I got accepted to Hogwarts like a bunch of other kids and then fought the man who killed my parents a bunch of times. Dumbledore didn't manipulate me into killing Voldemort, he helped me."
Cordelia's eyes narrowed. "The T in Voldemort is silent?"
Harry arched his eyebrow in confusion. "Yeah."
"Good to know," Cordelia replied. "Look, you shouldn't have been fighting a dark lord at all."
"There shouldn't have been a dark lord at all," Harry snipped.
"Fair, but they happen." Cordelia said, the fingers gripping her pistol flexing. "But from what I heard, the guy attacked you when you were a baby, then came back to finish the job when you were eleven. Do I have that right?"
"He tried to kill me as a baby, that's right," Harry said. "Then he came back about ten years later trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone from Hogwarts. I just happened to be there."
"How did you stop him?" Cordelia asked.
"He was hiding on the back of one of the professor's head at the time," Harry explained. At her expression, he hastily continued. "It's strange, I know. But the stone had been hidden in the Mirror of Erised and he couldn't get to it."
"Why couldn't he get it?" Cordelia asked.
"Because it was set so that the only person who could get to the stone was someone who wanted to find it, but not use it," Harry said with a shrug. "It wound up in my pocket."
"Oh. So you waited until he got impatient and wandered off?" Cordelia asked, arching her eyebrow.
"No, not exactly," Harry said, shifting uncomfortably in his shoes. "Touching me burned Quirrel's to ashes, so I won."
"And Quirrel was the professor at the time?" Cordelia asked.
"Yes," Harry replied. "Look, would you tell me what this is actually about?"
Cordelia looked off to the side. "I'm trying to help someone."
"Help someone?" Harry asked.
"Someone who's been through it like you," Cordelia continued. "Prophecy. Dark Lord. Manipulative Mentor. The whole thing. But getting information from you wizard types has been difficult, so I'm stuck at oh-dark-thirty holding people up just to get them to talk to me."
"Dumbledore wasn't manipulative," Harry said. "Like I said, he helped me. I was going to fight Voldemort anyway."
"Okay. So he made sure you knew everything you needed to know before you did anything stupid." It was Cordelia's turn to raise an eyebrow at Harry's tightening jaw. "Or was it more like he kept you in the dark and fed you bullshit?"
"He didn't tell me everything when I might've wanted to know it," Harry admitted through grit teeth.
"That's what I'm talking about," Cordelia replied.
Harry took a breath. "You mentioned someone else? Someone like me?"
"Yeah. My...boyfriend. He went to a magic school and fought a dark lord," Cordelia said, frowning. "Starting to think you guys aren't as similar as I would've hoped. How'd you beat him for good?"
"In a magical duel," Harry replied. "I used a disarming spell, he used the killing curse, it rebounded and killed him."
"The disarming spell makes spells rebound?" Cordelia asked, confused.
"No, there were extenuating circumstances. He split his soul up and my friends and I went on a quest to destroy them and it was this whole ordeal," Harry said. "Tell me about your boyfriend. What dark lord did he beat?"
"A guy named Malcidor," Cordelia said. "A guy who could literally pull people's ghosts from the afterlife and enslave them."
Harry's eyebrows shot straight up. "That's...that's not possible."
"Well, that's what I got from the people I talked too from his school," Cordelia replied. "Take it up with them. The point is, he was bad news."
"Then what did your boyfriend do to beat him?" Harry asked.
"He used Alchemy, er...potions, to turn himself into a quasi-godlike figure," Cordelia answered. "Then he just put him the grave."
Harry blinked. Rapidly. Often. A lot of times. "That-okay, why do you think I can help?"
"Because he spent his entire adolescence training and trying to learn magic to beat the Dark Lord," Cordelia replied. "Headmaster Walton told him from the beginning that there was a prophecy and that he needed to work hard."
"He told him." Harry's jaw was agape. "Right from day one? No secrets? No drip-feeding important information."
"Nope. No secrets," Cordelia said.
"That's amazing," Harry breathed. "He just knew right from the start. I mean, if I knew I had to die in order to stop Voldemort, that would've made everything a million times easier."
"No! No, it's not amazing!" Cordelia said, shaking her head with wide, enraged eyes. "You shouldn't be fighting dark lords as kids!"
"Well, we didn't have a choice," Harry said, gritting his teeth.
"Yeah, because of people like Dumbledore and Wa-wait, did you say you had to die?" Cordelia asked, shaking her head in disbelief.
"Voldemort put a piece of his soul in me when he returned," Harry explained. "So in order to get rid of him for good, he had to 'kill' me and destroy that piece."
Cordelia looked disgusted. "Golly."
"But that wouldn't have been a problem if I had known from the start," Harry said brightly, almost wistfully. "What was that Headmaster's name?"
"Walton," Cordelia said. "You have no idea how hard it was to track down the wizards in America who knew about this."
"Wouldn't your boyfriend have told you?" Harry asked.
"...actually, I'm going to be telling him," Cordelia admitted quietly. "He got his memory wiped."
Harry froze. "I am so sorry."
"It was before he met me," Cordelia said. "It was such a nightmare because he didn't remember the wizards, but the wizards didn't remember him either, so I had to track down student records and all that bullshit just to piece together what happened."
Harry was stunned, shaking his head in a vain attempt to force himself to comprehend what he just heard. "Wait, how did all the Wizards forget?"
"That's the one part I haven't figured out yet," Cordelia said. "By the way? That bit about drip-feeding you information? That's how Dumbledore manipulated you."
Harry took a deep breath, and let it out. "Fine. Whatever. I do think he should've told me when I started first year at Hogwarts."
"How old were you?" Cordelia asked.
"Eleven," Harry reminded her.
"...no, you can't tell an eleven year old they're going to be a sacrificial lamb," Cordelia said, blinking owlishly.
"Well, I mean, that didn't come into play until my fourth year, when Voldemort came back in full," Harry explained. "But he could've told me about the prophecy."
"True," Cordelia said, nodding her head. "Um...listen, I'm sorry for pulling a gun on you. I just don't want to forget."
"I understand," Harry said. "I won't obliviate you. Promise."
Cordelia holstered her pistol. "So...this is where you call the Night Bus and disappear?"
"Yeah," Harry said. "What's your boyfriend's name?"
"Davis."
"Give Davis my best," Harry said, drawing his want. "Lumos!"
Cordelia backed off into the shadows cast by the shining wand-light and disappeared into the night.
---
Author's Note: This discussion felt a little awkward at first. I got everything I wanted to get done, of course. Still a little awkward, I would expect Harry to give a little more push-back...I mean, a lot more push back, to having a gun pulled on him but...eh. This story is short and I didn't take it too seriously.
Hope you liked it, regardless.
Until the next time!
~Fulcon
Chapter 3 - Ron, Hermione and Rick
Fulcon
Working on a new project.
- Joined
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters are the property of J.K Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing and Scholastic Press. Please support the official release. All other characters are the property of yours truly and will be appearing in an original work some time in the future.
---
The atmosphere of The Leaky Cauldron was alight. A warm, friendly air had filled the pub as the wizards inside were celebrating. A pint was in every hand, a smile on every face and every candle was lit. The fireplace snapped and cracked, occasionally hiccupping a wizard whom brought party favors from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.
One such Weasley, Ron, was enjoying the festivities, waiting for both his fiancé and his best friend to arrive. Hermione, the aforementioned fiancé, would arrive by Floo any minute now. Any minute.
Harry was coming by Night Bus. After what happened the last time he tried to Apparate, Ron couldn't blame him. Still, it meant that he was alone and he didn't want to get horrifically drunk until after his two comrades in arms had arrived to get horrifically drunk with him.
So there he was, nursing a water of all things.
"Another round on the house!" Tom called from behind the bar, causing the patrons to go insane, rushing like a mob for the bar to get to their new alcohol.
Ron was really hoping Tom was keeping track, because that was three free rounds tonight and he was hoping to drink all of them. If not, at least Harry said he'd pay.
It was the first year anniversary of Voldemort's defeat, the one where he had tried to take over Hogwarts, kill Harry and plunge the whole world into darkness. The one where Voldemort had been defeated for good.
"How about you, Mr. Weasley?" Tom called, holding up an empty pint. "You in the mood for drinking?"
"Waiting for Hermione and Harry," Ron said with a grin.
"Ah, I see!" Tom said. "I'll keep your drinks on tap for you."
"Thanks, Tom!" Rom said. Perfect!
He took a moment to appreciate the atmosphere again, slapping the table in front of him like a bongo, when a shadow cast itself over him.
"Hey, can I sit here?"
Ron looked up. The new visitor was a dark-skinned, bald man, smiling a little too wide. He was a Yank, too, so it was a mystery as to what he was doing here. But Ron wasn't about to be a buzzkill today of all days. "Hey, sure, mate! What's your name?"
"Uh, Hitchens," the man said, timidly offering his hand. "Rick Hitchens. You're Ron Weasley?"
"That's me!" Ron said with a grin. "Helped save Hogwarts, liberate the house elves and defeat Voldemort!" Ron felt oddly proud that he was able to say that name after many, many years of calling him 'You Know Who'.
"Yeah, your reputation precedes you," Rick said. "One of the bravest people in the Wizarding world."
"Thanks, mate," Ron said with a grin. "So what's an American doing around here?"
"Oh," Rick said. "Trying to check into Saint Mungo's, actually. You have directions?"
Ron sat up a bit straighter. "Saint Mungo's? How come?"
Rick swallowed a bit. "Well. You see, back in the states, we actually had a Dark Lord of our own."
"You did?" Ron asked, taken aback. "Who?"
"Malcidor?" Rick replied, drumming his fingers on the table. "Yeah. That's his name. Malcidor. Got put down a couple of months ago."
Ron beamed. "That's brilliant, mate!"
"Yeah, huge relief," Rick said. "Except there's something wrong, and I need help. Badly."
"That's a huge shame," Ron said.
The fireplace belched out a cloud of smoke and out stepped the love of Ron's life, Hermione Granger, soon to be Hermione Weasley. So, being the dutiful fiancé he was, he stood up and offered a brief 'excuse me' to Rick before running off.
"Hey, love," Ron said, wrapping a surprised and delighted Hermione in a hug and giving her a kiss. "How are your folks?"
"Finally straightened out," Hermione said with a sigh of relief. "Undid the memory modification and now they're back where they should be."
"Bit of a nightmare, wasn't it?" Ron said.
"If I had known what a mess I was about to make when I cast that Obliviate, I would've thought it over a few more times, lets just say that," Hermione said, her expression turning dour for just a moment. "How about you?"
"Oh, just waiting on you and Harry," Ron said with a grin. "I was actually talking to that bloke over there. American. Trying to check into St. Mungo's."
Hermione spared him a concerned look before turning back to Ron. "Why?"
"He hasn't actually told me yet," Ron replied.
"Well, why don't we find out," Hermione requested brightly. "Maybe we can help."
"That's a great idea," Ron said, pointing a finger.
So, the two returned to Rick Hitchens and sat down.
"Hermione, this is Rick, the American I was telling you about," Ron began introducing them. "Rick, this is Hermione Granger, my fiance."
"Oh, congratulations!" Rick beamed happily. "That's excellent. It's great to meet you, Ms. Granger."
"Thank you." Hermione entreated him with a smile. "So, Ron told me you were trying to check into Mungo's? Maybe we can help you out."
"Well, thank you." Rick said, seeming a little embarrassed. "But I don't think you could help."
"Eh, try us," Ron said. "It couldn't hurt, right?"
"Right," Rick said. "Right. Okay. So, I was telling you about how our dark lord, Malcidor, got defeated. The problem is that I watched it happen, but I don't remember anything about how it was done."
Hermione looked at him quizzically. "You don't remember?"
"No," Rick replied, shaking his head. "I don't. And that's not normal. I have what's called Memoria Perfecta, so I shouldn't have forgotten anything."
"Memoria what-now?" Ron asked, blinking owlishly.
"Memoria Perfecta," Hermione repeated. "Magically assisted memory. He has perfect, photographic memory and can recall anything if he wants too. At least, he should. But you forgot something like a dark lord being dispatched...that's not normal."
"No," Rick agreed. "No, it's not. I remember seeing him. One moment he was standing, the next he was on the ground, begging for his life and the next moment he was dead. Three instant moments. But it's like half the picture is missing, or blurred out so I can't see who or what he was talking too."
"Sounds like your memory's been modified, mate," Ron said.
"Yeah." Rick nodded. "Yeah, I agree. But I've been to a few mentalists but they've told me the memory's haven't been modified, they've been amputated."
"Amputated?" Hermione parroted. "But...look, I just had to finish undoing some memory modification. Obliviate doesn't amputate memories. That's not how that works."
"You're telling me," Rick said. "But that's what the healers back home said, so I'm hoping Mungo's can help me better than they could."
"Right," Hermione said. "You can get over there through the Floo network. You have that over in the states, right?"
Rick blinked and frowned. "Let's pretend we don't. How do I use it?"
It was Ron's turn to frown. America did, in fact, have a Floo Network. Multiple Floo Networks, actually, due to how mindbogglingly huge America was. But Rick never used it? Something was wrong.
Hermione showed him over to the fireplace, got him some Floo Powder and gave him instructions. In a flash of green flames, Rick was gone.
"There now," Hermione said, brushing her hands off.
"What an odd bloke," Ron said, shaking his head.
"What do you mean?" Hermione asked as they sat back down.
"They have Floo networks over there," Ron explained. "Several of them, because of how large that place is."
It was Hermione's turn to frown. "Well. That sounds like something for us to investigate later. Where's Harry?"
"Still waiting on him," Ron said. "He's taking the Night Bus."
Hermione hummed, but said nothing further.
---
Author's Note: This is less an argument and more of a...conversation? I don't know. Hard to demonstrate a contrast between a sidekick who takes pride in his victory and one who doesn't remember anything. Let me know what you think.
Until the next time!
~Fulcon
---
The atmosphere of The Leaky Cauldron was alight. A warm, friendly air had filled the pub as the wizards inside were celebrating. A pint was in every hand, a smile on every face and every candle was lit. The fireplace snapped and cracked, occasionally hiccupping a wizard whom brought party favors from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.
One such Weasley, Ron, was enjoying the festivities, waiting for both his fiancé and his best friend to arrive. Hermione, the aforementioned fiancé, would arrive by Floo any minute now. Any minute.
Harry was coming by Night Bus. After what happened the last time he tried to Apparate, Ron couldn't blame him. Still, it meant that he was alone and he didn't want to get horrifically drunk until after his two comrades in arms had arrived to get horrifically drunk with him.
So there he was, nursing a water of all things.
"Another round on the house!" Tom called from behind the bar, causing the patrons to go insane, rushing like a mob for the bar to get to their new alcohol.
Ron was really hoping Tom was keeping track, because that was three free rounds tonight and he was hoping to drink all of them. If not, at least Harry said he'd pay.
It was the first year anniversary of Voldemort's defeat, the one where he had tried to take over Hogwarts, kill Harry and plunge the whole world into darkness. The one where Voldemort had been defeated for good.
"How about you, Mr. Weasley?" Tom called, holding up an empty pint. "You in the mood for drinking?"
"Waiting for Hermione and Harry," Ron said with a grin.
"Ah, I see!" Tom said. "I'll keep your drinks on tap for you."
"Thanks, Tom!" Rom said. Perfect!
He took a moment to appreciate the atmosphere again, slapping the table in front of him like a bongo, when a shadow cast itself over him.
"Hey, can I sit here?"
Ron looked up. The new visitor was a dark-skinned, bald man, smiling a little too wide. He was a Yank, too, so it was a mystery as to what he was doing here. But Ron wasn't about to be a buzzkill today of all days. "Hey, sure, mate! What's your name?"
"Uh, Hitchens," the man said, timidly offering his hand. "Rick Hitchens. You're Ron Weasley?"
"That's me!" Ron said with a grin. "Helped save Hogwarts, liberate the house elves and defeat Voldemort!" Ron felt oddly proud that he was able to say that name after many, many years of calling him 'You Know Who'.
"Yeah, your reputation precedes you," Rick said. "One of the bravest people in the Wizarding world."
"Thanks, mate," Ron said with a grin. "So what's an American doing around here?"
"Oh," Rick said. "Trying to check into Saint Mungo's, actually. You have directions?"
Ron sat up a bit straighter. "Saint Mungo's? How come?"
Rick swallowed a bit. "Well. You see, back in the states, we actually had a Dark Lord of our own."
"You did?" Ron asked, taken aback. "Who?"
"Malcidor?" Rick replied, drumming his fingers on the table. "Yeah. That's his name. Malcidor. Got put down a couple of months ago."
Ron beamed. "That's brilliant, mate!"
"Yeah, huge relief," Rick said. "Except there's something wrong, and I need help. Badly."
"That's a huge shame," Ron said.
The fireplace belched out a cloud of smoke and out stepped the love of Ron's life, Hermione Granger, soon to be Hermione Weasley. So, being the dutiful fiancé he was, he stood up and offered a brief 'excuse me' to Rick before running off.
"Hey, love," Ron said, wrapping a surprised and delighted Hermione in a hug and giving her a kiss. "How are your folks?"
"Finally straightened out," Hermione said with a sigh of relief. "Undid the memory modification and now they're back where they should be."
"Bit of a nightmare, wasn't it?" Ron said.
"If I had known what a mess I was about to make when I cast that Obliviate, I would've thought it over a few more times, lets just say that," Hermione said, her expression turning dour for just a moment. "How about you?"
"Oh, just waiting on you and Harry," Ron said with a grin. "I was actually talking to that bloke over there. American. Trying to check into St. Mungo's."
Hermione spared him a concerned look before turning back to Ron. "Why?"
"He hasn't actually told me yet," Ron replied.
"Well, why don't we find out," Hermione requested brightly. "Maybe we can help."
"That's a great idea," Ron said, pointing a finger.
So, the two returned to Rick Hitchens and sat down.
"Hermione, this is Rick, the American I was telling you about," Ron began introducing them. "Rick, this is Hermione Granger, my fiance."
"Oh, congratulations!" Rick beamed happily. "That's excellent. It's great to meet you, Ms. Granger."
"Thank you." Hermione entreated him with a smile. "So, Ron told me you were trying to check into Mungo's? Maybe we can help you out."
"Well, thank you." Rick said, seeming a little embarrassed. "But I don't think you could help."
"Eh, try us," Ron said. "It couldn't hurt, right?"
"Right," Rick said. "Right. Okay. So, I was telling you about how our dark lord, Malcidor, got defeated. The problem is that I watched it happen, but I don't remember anything about how it was done."
Hermione looked at him quizzically. "You don't remember?"
"No," Rick replied, shaking his head. "I don't. And that's not normal. I have what's called Memoria Perfecta, so I shouldn't have forgotten anything."
"Memoria what-now?" Ron asked, blinking owlishly.
"Memoria Perfecta," Hermione repeated. "Magically assisted memory. He has perfect, photographic memory and can recall anything if he wants too. At least, he should. But you forgot something like a dark lord being dispatched...that's not normal."
"No," Rick agreed. "No, it's not. I remember seeing him. One moment he was standing, the next he was on the ground, begging for his life and the next moment he was dead. Three instant moments. But it's like half the picture is missing, or blurred out so I can't see who or what he was talking too."
"Sounds like your memory's been modified, mate," Ron said.
"Yeah." Rick nodded. "Yeah, I agree. But I've been to a few mentalists but they've told me the memory's haven't been modified, they've been amputated."
"Amputated?" Hermione parroted. "But...look, I just had to finish undoing some memory modification. Obliviate doesn't amputate memories. That's not how that works."
"You're telling me," Rick said. "But that's what the healers back home said, so I'm hoping Mungo's can help me better than they could."
"Right," Hermione said. "You can get over there through the Floo network. You have that over in the states, right?"
Rick blinked and frowned. "Let's pretend we don't. How do I use it?"
It was Ron's turn to frown. America did, in fact, have a Floo Network. Multiple Floo Networks, actually, due to how mindbogglingly huge America was. But Rick never used it? Something was wrong.
Hermione showed him over to the fireplace, got him some Floo Powder and gave him instructions. In a flash of green flames, Rick was gone.
"There now," Hermione said, brushing her hands off.
"What an odd bloke," Ron said, shaking his head.
"What do you mean?" Hermione asked as they sat back down.
"They have Floo networks over there," Ron explained. "Several of them, because of how large that place is."
It was Hermione's turn to frown. "Well. That sounds like something for us to investigate later. Where's Harry?"
"Still waiting on him," Ron said. "He's taking the Night Bus."
Hermione hummed, but said nothing further.
---
Author's Note: This is less an argument and more of a...conversation? I don't know. Hard to demonstrate a contrast between a sidekick who takes pride in his victory and one who doesn't remember anything. Let me know what you think.
Until the next time!
~Fulcon
Chapter 4 - Ginny and Davis
Fulcon
Working on a new project.
- Joined
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- 643
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters are the property of J.K Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing and Scholastic Press. Please support the official release. All other characters are the property of yours truly and will be appearing in an original work some time in the future.
---
Ginny was not having a good night.
It was the anniversary of Voldemort's defeat. Hogwarts, as the battleground where his fate was sealed, threw a party. A massive, school-wide party with lots of butterbeer, fireworks, delicious food, dancing.
Started pretty well, until it was time for the broom show.
Being the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, she and the other three captains had been collaborating on a show for nearly six months, now, trying to get everything perfect for the show. Flying in formations, cross-team maneuvers, the works. It was going to be incredible.
They got to the stadium, the night air was brisk and invigorating. They were all had lights mounted to their brooms to lighten their banners and the show had begun.
Of course, some bloody idiot just had to let the bloody bludgers out.
It was Peeves. It had to be Peeves.
And it just had to hit her in the back as she and the other captains hit the highest point in the performance.
So, there she was. Falling. To her death. A veritable storm of bludgers had taken the stadium by storm, proving that Peeves had gone above and beyond his normal mischief and let out every single bludger that Hogwarts had in storage.
Curses, hexes and counter charms rang throughout the arena as the Professors attempted to bring the bludgers down and restore order. Didn't they have a spell just for that?
Of course, she lost her wand when she was forcibly dismounted, so there was nothing for it but to close her eyes and await the solid, grassy and hopefully painless embrace of death.
Imagine her surprise when instead she found herself cradled in a pair warm, muscular arms swathed in soft cotton. Her eyes bolted open, and she looked up at the strong, chiseled jawline, which then led up to a powerful nose and the brightest blue eyes she had ever seen.
"Hey, are you okay?" The mysterious man asked.
Ginny could only nod as they began gently descending to the ground. Then, she looked over her shoulder at the ground to see that, instead of riding a broom, her mysterious rescuer had decided to rescue her with a flying charm.
She was not about to complain. But she was about to raise a voice of alarm as one of the iron balls, measuring ten inches in diameter, was rocketing back toward her, only for her rescuer to nonchalantly catch the ball with his bare left hand and crumple it like it was made of wet paper, even if the noise of this action proclaimed that it was very much still iron.
Flight charm and a strength potion. She would need to remember this for her and Harry's next date.
When her rescuer landed on the ground, he gently let her down...and then seemed to flicker in and out of existence for a brief moment. "Okay, those balls are done. Everything should be fine, now."
"Thanks so much," Ginny said, right as it started raining crumpled bludgers in the sky, causing her to flinch until she was sure nothing would drop on her head. "Who are you?"
"Name's Davis," he said, pointing to himself with his thumb. "I saw your airshow from the sky and decided to stick around and watch. Glad I did."
"Me too," Ginny said.
The Quidditch arena had calmed down. The students, now that the show was over, were being shepherded prematurely back to the castle. The rest of the Quidditch players, captains and all, had descended to check on her.
This included the professor, including headmistress Professor McGonagall. "Ginny, my dear! Are you alright! You took a bad hit."
"I'm fine," Ginny said, even noting that as the adrenaline was wearing off that her back hurt like crazy. She found herself hunching over.
"Oh dear, we need to get you to the Hospital Wing," McGonagall said, waving her wand and muttering a spell at speeds which would cause most rappers' jaws to drop, transforming the bits and scraps of bludger all over the field into a stretcher that floated She gave a pointed look to Ginny. "Go ahead and lay down dear."
Gratefully, she did so, noticing an immediate end to her pain.
"And we'd like to thank you, young man," Professor McGonagall said. "You may not be a student here, but we'd like to invite you to stay for dinner as our guest."
"Thank you, ma'am, I'd greatly appreciate that," Davis replied with a smile and a nod. "It's been a long flight."
---
Madame Pomfrey gave Ginny a quick tap with her wand and a tonic for her back, so she'd be on her feet by Wednesday.
All things considered, it was a good weekend. She had even been provided with a whole plate of Treacle Tarts to help ease her recovery.
The door to the Hospital Wing opened and...in flew Davis, carrying a plate of food. "Hey there. You doing okay?"
"I am. Madame Pomfrey says a few days and I'll be right as rain," Ginny said, grinning. "Thanks again for saving my life."
"Happy to do it," Davis said, offering a small salute with his fork. "So, if you don't mind me asking, what is this place?"
"It's the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Ginny said. "You're American, aren't you?"
"That's right," Davis replied. "So, was there a special occasion for the airshow or is it just something you all do over here?"
"It's the first anniversary for the defeat of Voldemort," Ginny explained. "Maybe you haven't heard of him over there, but he was a terror."
Davis frowned slightly, looking over the piece of turkey he had skewered on his fork. "He wasn't some kind of dark lord, was he?"
"He was." Ginny nodded.
"Well, that's just great," Davis said. "How'd he die?"
"He was defeated by Harry Potter," Ginny said with a smile, grabbing a tart from her plate. Then she started gushing. "You should've seen it! They were contesting spells, Harry was casting a disarming spell, while Voldemort went for the killing curse. Then Harry managed to get Voldemort's killing curse to backfire on him, killing him!"
"That's amazing," Davis said, the smile he gave was only half-hearted. "Was he...I don't know, some kind of chosen one?"
"You know, he was!" Ginny said. "Still is, I say."
"Must be nice to have such a lovely fan," Davis said with a grin.
"He's my boyfriend," Ginny replied, full of pride.
"Nice."
"So where are you from?" Ginny asked. "And what brought you to Hogwarts?"
"Oh, I'm from the American Midwest," Davis replied. "Small town named Autumnvale. Started flying around since I turned eighteen. Trying to see the world."
"That sounds amazing," Ginny said. "So...how'd you get so good at flying charms?"
Davis was taken aback slightly. "I'll be honest, I'm not casting a spell or anything to fly."
Ginny blinked. "You're not."
"I don't even think I'm magical, to be honest," Davis said with a shrug. "Though I don't know for sure."
Ginny tilted her head. "Then how did you see the airshow? Hogwarts is protected from muggle sight."
"Muggle?"
"Non-magical people?" Ginny pressed.
Davis frowned in thought. "I guess I'm magical, then. Huh."
"But you're not casting a spell," Ginny repeated.
Davis shook his head. "Not that I know of."
"Where's your wand?" Ginny asked.
Davis stopped himself from scoffing for whatever reason, and answered plainly. "I don't have one."
Ginny took a bite out of her tart, tossing Davis's claim in her head as he ate his dinner. "Are you having a laugh?"
"Huh?"
"Is this your idea of a joke?"
"I'm not yanking your chain, I promise," Davis replied, leaving his fork stuck in the pile of mashed potatoes. "Though given how most of my life is just one big blank, I might have a wand. But have no idea where I left it."
"Did you get hit with a memory charm?" Ginny said.
Davis went oddly still. "If I did, I don't remember."
"You got hit with a memory charm," Ginny asserted. "Guarantee it."
Davis was quiet, staring at his food. Ginny ate her tart, giving him time to think before she decided that he had had enough time.
"So, you don't remember if you've ever done anything to do with magic before tonight?" Ginny asked.
"Does flying and crushing iron balls with your bare hands count?" Davis asked.
"Yeah."
Davis sighed. "Look, once I hit eleven, my life becomes kind of a blur. I know I did stuff, I just don't remember what and with who," Davis said with a shrug. "It doesn't clear up again until that night I woke up on my parent's door step, able to fly and stuff. Apparently, they didn't remember I even existed until I showed back up."
Ginny went pale. "You're kidding."
"Nope, totally serious," Davis said. "Honestly, if I did get hit with a memory charm, I'm almost okay with it."
Ginny looked at him. "But what if you forgot something important?"
"I probably did," Davis said. "But I'm okay with that. Not sure why, but I am."
She arched an eyebrow. "Maybe you asked for the memory charm?"
"That feels right," Davis said. "So, apparently I'm magic and this is a school for magic where people learn to fly on brooms."
"Exactly," Ginny said. "We play a sport on them, too. It's called Quidditch."
"Seriously?" Davis asked, grinning. "Tell me more."
"Well," Ginny said. She relayed the basics of the game, the various roles, the seeker and the snitch, only really stopping when she explained the bludgers.
"Wait, those psycho iron balls are a part of the game?" Davis asked, looking thunderstruck.
"Yes."
"The ones that knocked you off of your broom?"
"Yeah, they're called bludgers,' Ginny repeated. "Their job is to knock people off of their brooms."
"Those things weigh like a hundred and fifty pounds," Davis said. "How many people die playing this sport?"
"Uh, no one," Ginny said, a little perturbed. "But there was this one time last year where I took a bad hit and woke up here a week later."
Davis started sputtering. "You people are crazy!"
"It's fun, though," Ginny said, frowning. "Alright, I take it back. You aren't magical at all."
"Not wanting to play psychotic murder-sport has nothing to do with how magical I am," Davis argued, taking a defiant bite of his turkey leg. "You guys must be tougher than normal people because I refuse to believe no one dies playing Quidditch otherwise."
"I'm a very tough girl," Ginny agreed with a grin. Then she got a thoughtful look on her face. "So what else can you do?"
"What do you mean?" Davis asked.
"Well, you said you don't cast spells, really," Ginny said. "So, what else can you do?"
"Uh…" Davis droned as he recalled what he could. "Well, besides flight and super strength, I can see to the ends of the earth, shoot energy blasts out of my hands and stop time."
"Stop time?" Ginny repeated.
Davis demonstrated. In an instant, his plate of food was across the room. Then he was sitting next to the door. Then both the plate and Davis were at her bedside in another instant. "Stop time."
Ginny shook her head in disbelief. "I thought I was good with my Reducto."
"That's a spell?"
"Yeah. Reduces objects to dust," Ginny said.
"Handy."
"And what does seeing to the ends of the Earth mean?" Ginny asked.
"I can literally watch as things disappear behind the curvature of the Earth," Davis answered. "It doesn't matter how dark it is or how far away it is, I can read a newspaper like it was right in front of me."
"Whoa," Ginny said.
"Thanks, I thought it was cool," Davis replied. "Flat Earther's drive me nuts, though."
"Flat what?" Ginny asked, arching an eyebrow in confusion.
"Don't worry about it," Davis said, overly quickly. "So! What role do you play on your murder-sport?"
Ginny rolled her eyes. "I'm a chaser. But I can substitute as seeker if I need too."
"Neat. Can't do sports anymore, myself," Davis replied. "Might kill someone."
She had to admit he had a point. "So, are you going to stay long?"
"I will stay as long as Professor McGonagall lets me," Davis said. "This place is fascinating! How do you get around with all those moving stair cases?"
"There's a pattern," Ginny answered. "Once you memorize it, getting around the castle is a breeze."
"Cool," Davis said. He looked over at the clock. "Oh, wow. It's getting late. I should be getting going, you need your rest."
"Will I see you tomorrow?" Ginny asked. "It gets awfully boring without anyone to talk too."
"I'll be here," Davis replied, waving goodbye. "See you!"
Ginny returned the wave.
Yes. Strength potion and a flying charm. Harry's going to learn the recipe by heart, if Ginny had anything to say about it…
---
Author's Note: Eh...okay. I'm not sure how I feel about this one. It felt nice as the creative juices were flowing, but now that I've got some distance from it, it's kind of odd. Davis in this chapter feels like a Gary-Stu, but that's because in his own story, the problems he faces are appropriately scaled to his power level. Here, however, it feels story-breaking.
You know, that's an essay I should write at some point. What is a Gary-Stu? Because there's tons of definitions and opinions out there, it's hard to pin down what it is.
Let me know what you think.
Until the next time!
~Fulcon
---
Ginny was not having a good night.
It was the anniversary of Voldemort's defeat. Hogwarts, as the battleground where his fate was sealed, threw a party. A massive, school-wide party with lots of butterbeer, fireworks, delicious food, dancing.
Started pretty well, until it was time for the broom show.
Being the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, she and the other three captains had been collaborating on a show for nearly six months, now, trying to get everything perfect for the show. Flying in formations, cross-team maneuvers, the works. It was going to be incredible.
They got to the stadium, the night air was brisk and invigorating. They were all had lights mounted to their brooms to lighten their banners and the show had begun.
Of course, some bloody idiot just had to let the bloody bludgers out.
It was Peeves. It had to be Peeves.
And it just had to hit her in the back as she and the other captains hit the highest point in the performance.
So, there she was. Falling. To her death. A veritable storm of bludgers had taken the stadium by storm, proving that Peeves had gone above and beyond his normal mischief and let out every single bludger that Hogwarts had in storage.
Curses, hexes and counter charms rang throughout the arena as the Professors attempted to bring the bludgers down and restore order. Didn't they have a spell just for that?
Of course, she lost her wand when she was forcibly dismounted, so there was nothing for it but to close her eyes and await the solid, grassy and hopefully painless embrace of death.
Imagine her surprise when instead she found herself cradled in a pair warm, muscular arms swathed in soft cotton. Her eyes bolted open, and she looked up at the strong, chiseled jawline, which then led up to a powerful nose and the brightest blue eyes she had ever seen.
"Hey, are you okay?" The mysterious man asked.
Ginny could only nod as they began gently descending to the ground. Then, she looked over her shoulder at the ground to see that, instead of riding a broom, her mysterious rescuer had decided to rescue her with a flying charm.
She was not about to complain. But she was about to raise a voice of alarm as one of the iron balls, measuring ten inches in diameter, was rocketing back toward her, only for her rescuer to nonchalantly catch the ball with his bare left hand and crumple it like it was made of wet paper, even if the noise of this action proclaimed that it was very much still iron.
Flight charm and a strength potion. She would need to remember this for her and Harry's next date.
When her rescuer landed on the ground, he gently let her down...and then seemed to flicker in and out of existence for a brief moment. "Okay, those balls are done. Everything should be fine, now."
"Thanks so much," Ginny said, right as it started raining crumpled bludgers in the sky, causing her to flinch until she was sure nothing would drop on her head. "Who are you?"
"Name's Davis," he said, pointing to himself with his thumb. "I saw your airshow from the sky and decided to stick around and watch. Glad I did."
"Me too," Ginny said.
The Quidditch arena had calmed down. The students, now that the show was over, were being shepherded prematurely back to the castle. The rest of the Quidditch players, captains and all, had descended to check on her.
This included the professor, including headmistress Professor McGonagall. "Ginny, my dear! Are you alright! You took a bad hit."
"I'm fine," Ginny said, even noting that as the adrenaline was wearing off that her back hurt like crazy. She found herself hunching over.
"Oh dear, we need to get you to the Hospital Wing," McGonagall said, waving her wand and muttering a spell at speeds which would cause most rappers' jaws to drop, transforming the bits and scraps of bludger all over the field into a stretcher that floated She gave a pointed look to Ginny. "Go ahead and lay down dear."
Gratefully, she did so, noticing an immediate end to her pain.
"And we'd like to thank you, young man," Professor McGonagall said. "You may not be a student here, but we'd like to invite you to stay for dinner as our guest."
"Thank you, ma'am, I'd greatly appreciate that," Davis replied with a smile and a nod. "It's been a long flight."
---
Madame Pomfrey gave Ginny a quick tap with her wand and a tonic for her back, so she'd be on her feet by Wednesday.
All things considered, it was a good weekend. She had even been provided with a whole plate of Treacle Tarts to help ease her recovery.
The door to the Hospital Wing opened and...in flew Davis, carrying a plate of food. "Hey there. You doing okay?"
"I am. Madame Pomfrey says a few days and I'll be right as rain," Ginny said, grinning. "Thanks again for saving my life."
"Happy to do it," Davis said, offering a small salute with his fork. "So, if you don't mind me asking, what is this place?"
"It's the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Ginny said. "You're American, aren't you?"
"That's right," Davis replied. "So, was there a special occasion for the airshow or is it just something you all do over here?"
"It's the first anniversary for the defeat of Voldemort," Ginny explained. "Maybe you haven't heard of him over there, but he was a terror."
Davis frowned slightly, looking over the piece of turkey he had skewered on his fork. "He wasn't some kind of dark lord, was he?"
"He was." Ginny nodded.
"Well, that's just great," Davis said. "How'd he die?"
"He was defeated by Harry Potter," Ginny said with a smile, grabbing a tart from her plate. Then she started gushing. "You should've seen it! They were contesting spells, Harry was casting a disarming spell, while Voldemort went for the killing curse. Then Harry managed to get Voldemort's killing curse to backfire on him, killing him!"
"That's amazing," Davis said, the smile he gave was only half-hearted. "Was he...I don't know, some kind of chosen one?"
"You know, he was!" Ginny said. "Still is, I say."
"Must be nice to have such a lovely fan," Davis said with a grin.
"He's my boyfriend," Ginny replied, full of pride.
"Nice."
"So where are you from?" Ginny asked. "And what brought you to Hogwarts?"
"Oh, I'm from the American Midwest," Davis replied. "Small town named Autumnvale. Started flying around since I turned eighteen. Trying to see the world."
"That sounds amazing," Ginny said. "So...how'd you get so good at flying charms?"
Davis was taken aback slightly. "I'll be honest, I'm not casting a spell or anything to fly."
Ginny blinked. "You're not."
"I don't even think I'm magical, to be honest," Davis said with a shrug. "Though I don't know for sure."
Ginny tilted her head. "Then how did you see the airshow? Hogwarts is protected from muggle sight."
"Muggle?"
"Non-magical people?" Ginny pressed.
Davis frowned in thought. "I guess I'm magical, then. Huh."
"But you're not casting a spell," Ginny repeated.
Davis shook his head. "Not that I know of."
"Where's your wand?" Ginny asked.
Davis stopped himself from scoffing for whatever reason, and answered plainly. "I don't have one."
Ginny took a bite out of her tart, tossing Davis's claim in her head as he ate his dinner. "Are you having a laugh?"
"Huh?"
"Is this your idea of a joke?"
"I'm not yanking your chain, I promise," Davis replied, leaving his fork stuck in the pile of mashed potatoes. "Though given how most of my life is just one big blank, I might have a wand. But have no idea where I left it."
"Did you get hit with a memory charm?" Ginny said.
Davis went oddly still. "If I did, I don't remember."
"You got hit with a memory charm," Ginny asserted. "Guarantee it."
Davis was quiet, staring at his food. Ginny ate her tart, giving him time to think before she decided that he had had enough time.
"So, you don't remember if you've ever done anything to do with magic before tonight?" Ginny asked.
"Does flying and crushing iron balls with your bare hands count?" Davis asked.
"Yeah."
Davis sighed. "Look, once I hit eleven, my life becomes kind of a blur. I know I did stuff, I just don't remember what and with who," Davis said with a shrug. "It doesn't clear up again until that night I woke up on my parent's door step, able to fly and stuff. Apparently, they didn't remember I even existed until I showed back up."
Ginny went pale. "You're kidding."
"Nope, totally serious," Davis said. "Honestly, if I did get hit with a memory charm, I'm almost okay with it."
Ginny looked at him. "But what if you forgot something important?"
"I probably did," Davis said. "But I'm okay with that. Not sure why, but I am."
She arched an eyebrow. "Maybe you asked for the memory charm?"
"That feels right," Davis said. "So, apparently I'm magic and this is a school for magic where people learn to fly on brooms."
"Exactly," Ginny said. "We play a sport on them, too. It's called Quidditch."
"Seriously?" Davis asked, grinning. "Tell me more."
"Well," Ginny said. She relayed the basics of the game, the various roles, the seeker and the snitch, only really stopping when she explained the bludgers.
"Wait, those psycho iron balls are a part of the game?" Davis asked, looking thunderstruck.
"Yes."
"The ones that knocked you off of your broom?"
"Yeah, they're called bludgers,' Ginny repeated. "Their job is to knock people off of their brooms."
"Those things weigh like a hundred and fifty pounds," Davis said. "How many people die playing this sport?"
"Uh, no one," Ginny said, a little perturbed. "But there was this one time last year where I took a bad hit and woke up here a week later."
Davis started sputtering. "You people are crazy!"
"It's fun, though," Ginny said, frowning. "Alright, I take it back. You aren't magical at all."
"Not wanting to play psychotic murder-sport has nothing to do with how magical I am," Davis argued, taking a defiant bite of his turkey leg. "You guys must be tougher than normal people because I refuse to believe no one dies playing Quidditch otherwise."
"I'm a very tough girl," Ginny agreed with a grin. Then she got a thoughtful look on her face. "So what else can you do?"
"What do you mean?" Davis asked.
"Well, you said you don't cast spells, really," Ginny said. "So, what else can you do?"
"Uh…" Davis droned as he recalled what he could. "Well, besides flight and super strength, I can see to the ends of the earth, shoot energy blasts out of my hands and stop time."
"Stop time?" Ginny repeated.
Davis demonstrated. In an instant, his plate of food was across the room. Then he was sitting next to the door. Then both the plate and Davis were at her bedside in another instant. "Stop time."
Ginny shook her head in disbelief. "I thought I was good with my Reducto."
"That's a spell?"
"Yeah. Reduces objects to dust," Ginny said.
"Handy."
"And what does seeing to the ends of the Earth mean?" Ginny asked.
"I can literally watch as things disappear behind the curvature of the Earth," Davis answered. "It doesn't matter how dark it is or how far away it is, I can read a newspaper like it was right in front of me."
"Whoa," Ginny said.
"Thanks, I thought it was cool," Davis replied. "Flat Earther's drive me nuts, though."
"Flat what?" Ginny asked, arching an eyebrow in confusion.
"Don't worry about it," Davis said, overly quickly. "So! What role do you play on your murder-sport?"
Ginny rolled her eyes. "I'm a chaser. But I can substitute as seeker if I need too."
"Neat. Can't do sports anymore, myself," Davis replied. "Might kill someone."
She had to admit he had a point. "So, are you going to stay long?"
"I will stay as long as Professor McGonagall lets me," Davis said. "This place is fascinating! How do you get around with all those moving stair cases?"
"There's a pattern," Ginny answered. "Once you memorize it, getting around the castle is a breeze."
"Cool," Davis said. He looked over at the clock. "Oh, wow. It's getting late. I should be getting going, you need your rest."
"Will I see you tomorrow?" Ginny asked. "It gets awfully boring without anyone to talk too."
"I'll be here," Davis replied, waving goodbye. "See you!"
Ginny returned the wave.
Yes. Strength potion and a flying charm. Harry's going to learn the recipe by heart, if Ginny had anything to say about it…
---
Author's Note: Eh...okay. I'm not sure how I feel about this one. It felt nice as the creative juices were flowing, but now that I've got some distance from it, it's kind of odd. Davis in this chapter feels like a Gary-Stu, but that's because in his own story, the problems he faces are appropriately scaled to his power level. Here, however, it feels story-breaking.
You know, that's an essay I should write at some point. What is a Gary-Stu? Because there's tons of definitions and opinions out there, it's hard to pin down what it is.
Let me know what you think.
Until the next time!
~Fulcon
Chapter 5 - Voldemort and Malcidor
Fulcon
Working on a new project.
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters are the property of J.K Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing and Scholastic Press. Please support the official release. All other characters are the property of yours truly and will be appearing in an original work some time in the future.
---
Hogwarts, of course, was ablaze with activity, in spite of the airshow being disrupted. Even though a ghost had set loose every single enchanted cannonball they had in storage, it still teemed with life as none had been lost.
Of course, Malcidor was surprised to see the weapon of his demise show up and save the life of some damsel. Perhaps he'd claim his prize for rescuing the fair damsel but it mattered not to the ghost.
Malcidor, following his ignoble defeat at the hands of what was almost a physicalized deity, had returned. Of course he returned, that's what dark lords did. His form may have been transparent, capable of flight, but he was who he was.
Specifically, a man of commitment, focus and sheer will. He wasn't going to move on, he wasn't done with the world at large.
Which only begs the question, why come to Hogwarts?
To ingratiate himself in the community of ghosts? No.
He was seeking a powerful artifact, of course. Well, three of them. A necromancer of his stature could feel them, these artifacts crafted by death itself.
And of course, to see what the Wizarding world of Britain was celebrating.
Of course, the fame of Voldemort had barely reached the shores of America. He had tried to take over and was defeated by a heroic chosen one. Just as Malcidor himself had been.
Malcidor, eyes made scarlet through the albinism enforced by his magical discipline, set eyes on the small grave which held the Dark Lord. Here lies Tom Marvolo Riddle – may his evil fade from the world, and the lessons never be forgotten.
"An ignoble tomb for such a famed lord of the dark arts," the ghost of Malcidor said.
There was a reply, carried on the wind itself, spoken by seven different mouths with one voice. "And who are you to disturb my imprisonment?"
"I am Malcidor, a peer in the pursuit of darkness, though a stranger to the use of a wand," Malcidor said. "Am I speaking to the shattered soul of Lord Voldemort?"
"You do," Voldemort's many voices confirmed. "I confess to have never heard your name, Malcidor. What brings you to my squalor this horrific night?"
"A chance to pay my respects, and to learn from you the story of three artifacts," Malcidor replied. "I, of course, speak of the Deathly Hallows."
"And why would I speak to you of them?" Voldemort's many voices betrayed many emotions. Irritation. Outrage. Hope. Despair. "When I may yet use them to return from darkness?"
"Oh, I'm afraid your hope is unnecessary, Voldemort," Malcidor said. "I can sense them. I know where they are. I don't need you to find them, I merely wanted to know their history."
Voldemort's voices were wroth, the despair amplified and the hope turned to anguish. "Of course. You are but the first person capable of stirring my broken soul to the waking world, I had hope that perhaps you may use it to assist me that I may then assist you."
"A trite suggestion," Malcidor replied, rolling his eyes. "But not a bad one. But you realize, Voldemort, that while you studied the arts of control, torture and murder, I studied the arousal and binding of ghosts. If I were to bring you back, what makes you think you'd escape my clutches?"
Voldemort's voices spoke as one in a single, enraged and horrified voice. "Leave me!"
Malcidor hummed. "No."
"Leave me!"
"You surprise me, Voldemort," Malcidor continued on. "You see, from one practitioner of the black arts to another, I saw that you confined your studies to mastery and prevention of death. Avoiding death was your obsession, wasn't it?"
"If you had spent any time in this black hell you would know," Voldemort said. "There is no light, there is no joy. None to serve me and none to crush beneath my heel. I am trapped in this horrid box, never to know the joys of life ever again. Never again to taste sweet wine or to feel the scales of my poor Nagini beneath my fingers."
"A horrible fate to be sure," Malcidor said, smirking and trying not to laugh at the drama of it all.
"And you will share it," Voldemort snarled in anger.
"Voldemort, we are both dead," Malcidor informed him. "Yet I am free to roam the Earth as a ghost. But you? You are bound to your grave, your spirit too weak to leave the rotting corpse of your mortal form."
Voldemort didn't answer immediately.
"You see, that's where we truly differed," Malcidor continued, stroking his long, white beard. "I always understood that death was inevitable. The Reaper, I'm afraid, is a relentless hunter who has few rules to follow and there comes a point when all of those rules dictate that we die. But you? You spent all your time, energy and resources trying to cheat The Reaper."
At that moment, Voldemort's many voices, carrying spite and vengeance returned. "A curse upon you. If I had the strength I'd spit on you."
"But alas, you don't," Malcidor continued. "Yet I can move freely, for I spent all my time, energy and resources learning how to return from that endless darkness that awaits all practitioner of the darkest disciplines."
"Then go," Voldemort hissed. "Go restore your life. Leave me to my suffering."
"Oh, but you had that wonderful idea, didn't you?" Malcidor said, his smile carrying the poisonous bile of a rat. "After all, there are things you know that I don't and I'm afraid I will need a fair bit of instruction in the use of those three artifacts. Worry not, Lord Voldemort. Rest well! For on the morrow, you will return to the land of the living as my servant."
"I would rather rot in the depths of hell than serve another." Voldemort's seething spite erupting like a volcano.
"Ah, that's just the thing, isn't it?" Malcidor said. "What you would rather do no longer matters. Ta!"
The ghost rose into the sky, flying over the grave. Regrettably, only two were in the vicinity. The first, as he flew into the woods, a simple stone. It had been taken by a crow up to it's nest and it was swiftly plucked.
He could feel the power of the stone even in his ghostly fingers. Could it restore him to a physical body on its own? Doubtful, but it was on the right track.
The second was ensconced in a white marble tomb, gripped in the hands of an old wizard whom Malcidor neither knew nor cared. He could sense the Wand's power, a perfect and flawless weapon that could defeat anyone. It was a proud thing. An arrogant thing. A useless thing, until it was properly broken and taught humility.
Malcidor would do it, but later.
The last artifact, regrettably, was not here. But, with the two in hand, cooperative or not, he would find the last. Then?
Well, step one was complete.
---
Author's Note: Yeah, this story sucks. I kind of like Malcidor but...this was not the right way to introduce Davis. It's really, patently obvious that Ms. Rowling's magic system and my system don't really mix well. On top of that, this story doesn't make much logical sense, either. Harry is kind of OOC, the conversation with Rick, Ron and Hermione doesn't really have anything interesting.
Eh.
I'll be honest, though, I'm still glad I wrote it. I gave myself permission to suck, used it and...it was kind of liberating, actually. I mean, obviously I want to write good stories but this project was interesting for my mental health.
Anyway.
Until the next time!
~Fulcon
---
Hogwarts, of course, was ablaze with activity, in spite of the airshow being disrupted. Even though a ghost had set loose every single enchanted cannonball they had in storage, it still teemed with life as none had been lost.
Of course, Malcidor was surprised to see the weapon of his demise show up and save the life of some damsel. Perhaps he'd claim his prize for rescuing the fair damsel but it mattered not to the ghost.
Malcidor, following his ignoble defeat at the hands of what was almost a physicalized deity, had returned. Of course he returned, that's what dark lords did. His form may have been transparent, capable of flight, but he was who he was.
Specifically, a man of commitment, focus and sheer will. He wasn't going to move on, he wasn't done with the world at large.
Which only begs the question, why come to Hogwarts?
To ingratiate himself in the community of ghosts? No.
He was seeking a powerful artifact, of course. Well, three of them. A necromancer of his stature could feel them, these artifacts crafted by death itself.
And of course, to see what the Wizarding world of Britain was celebrating.
Of course, the fame of Voldemort had barely reached the shores of America. He had tried to take over and was defeated by a heroic chosen one. Just as Malcidor himself had been.
Malcidor, eyes made scarlet through the albinism enforced by his magical discipline, set eyes on the small grave which held the Dark Lord. Here lies Tom Marvolo Riddle – may his evil fade from the world, and the lessons never be forgotten.
"An ignoble tomb for such a famed lord of the dark arts," the ghost of Malcidor said.
There was a reply, carried on the wind itself, spoken by seven different mouths with one voice. "And who are you to disturb my imprisonment?"
"I am Malcidor, a peer in the pursuit of darkness, though a stranger to the use of a wand," Malcidor said. "Am I speaking to the shattered soul of Lord Voldemort?"
"You do," Voldemort's many voices confirmed. "I confess to have never heard your name, Malcidor. What brings you to my squalor this horrific night?"
"A chance to pay my respects, and to learn from you the story of three artifacts," Malcidor replied. "I, of course, speak of the Deathly Hallows."
"And why would I speak to you of them?" Voldemort's many voices betrayed many emotions. Irritation. Outrage. Hope. Despair. "When I may yet use them to return from darkness?"
"Oh, I'm afraid your hope is unnecessary, Voldemort," Malcidor said. "I can sense them. I know where they are. I don't need you to find them, I merely wanted to know their history."
Voldemort's voices were wroth, the despair amplified and the hope turned to anguish. "Of course. You are but the first person capable of stirring my broken soul to the waking world, I had hope that perhaps you may use it to assist me that I may then assist you."
"A trite suggestion," Malcidor replied, rolling his eyes. "But not a bad one. But you realize, Voldemort, that while you studied the arts of control, torture and murder, I studied the arousal and binding of ghosts. If I were to bring you back, what makes you think you'd escape my clutches?"
Voldemort's voices spoke as one in a single, enraged and horrified voice. "Leave me!"
Malcidor hummed. "No."
"Leave me!"
"You surprise me, Voldemort," Malcidor continued on. "You see, from one practitioner of the black arts to another, I saw that you confined your studies to mastery and prevention of death. Avoiding death was your obsession, wasn't it?"
"If you had spent any time in this black hell you would know," Voldemort said. "There is no light, there is no joy. None to serve me and none to crush beneath my heel. I am trapped in this horrid box, never to know the joys of life ever again. Never again to taste sweet wine or to feel the scales of my poor Nagini beneath my fingers."
"A horrible fate to be sure," Malcidor said, smirking and trying not to laugh at the drama of it all.
"And you will share it," Voldemort snarled in anger.
"Voldemort, we are both dead," Malcidor informed him. "Yet I am free to roam the Earth as a ghost. But you? You are bound to your grave, your spirit too weak to leave the rotting corpse of your mortal form."
Voldemort didn't answer immediately.
"You see, that's where we truly differed," Malcidor continued, stroking his long, white beard. "I always understood that death was inevitable. The Reaper, I'm afraid, is a relentless hunter who has few rules to follow and there comes a point when all of those rules dictate that we die. But you? You spent all your time, energy and resources trying to cheat The Reaper."
At that moment, Voldemort's many voices, carrying spite and vengeance returned. "A curse upon you. If I had the strength I'd spit on you."
"But alas, you don't," Malcidor continued. "Yet I can move freely, for I spent all my time, energy and resources learning how to return from that endless darkness that awaits all practitioner of the darkest disciplines."
"Then go," Voldemort hissed. "Go restore your life. Leave me to my suffering."
"Oh, but you had that wonderful idea, didn't you?" Malcidor said, his smile carrying the poisonous bile of a rat. "After all, there are things you know that I don't and I'm afraid I will need a fair bit of instruction in the use of those three artifacts. Worry not, Lord Voldemort. Rest well! For on the morrow, you will return to the land of the living as my servant."
"I would rather rot in the depths of hell than serve another." Voldemort's seething spite erupting like a volcano.
"Ah, that's just the thing, isn't it?" Malcidor said. "What you would rather do no longer matters. Ta!"
The ghost rose into the sky, flying over the grave. Regrettably, only two were in the vicinity. The first, as he flew into the woods, a simple stone. It had been taken by a crow up to it's nest and it was swiftly plucked.
He could feel the power of the stone even in his ghostly fingers. Could it restore him to a physical body on its own? Doubtful, but it was on the right track.
The second was ensconced in a white marble tomb, gripped in the hands of an old wizard whom Malcidor neither knew nor cared. He could sense the Wand's power, a perfect and flawless weapon that could defeat anyone. It was a proud thing. An arrogant thing. A useless thing, until it was properly broken and taught humility.
Malcidor would do it, but later.
The last artifact, regrettably, was not here. But, with the two in hand, cooperative or not, he would find the last. Then?
Well, step one was complete.
---
Author's Note: Yeah, this story sucks. I kind of like Malcidor but...this was not the right way to introduce Davis. It's really, patently obvious that Ms. Rowling's magic system and my system don't really mix well. On top of that, this story doesn't make much logical sense, either. Harry is kind of OOC, the conversation with Rick, Ron and Hermione doesn't really have anything interesting.
Eh.
I'll be honest, though, I'm still glad I wrote it. I gave myself permission to suck, used it and...it was kind of liberating, actually. I mean, obviously I want to write good stories but this project was interesting for my mental health.
Anyway.
Until the next time!
~Fulcon