Breaking the Rules

by Professional_Heretic

Summary:

After his latest Auror assignment, all Harry Potter wanted to do was go home, eat a hearty meal, and sleep for 20 hours. Instead, a bloody portal opens up and swallows him whole, catapulting him into a world eerily similar to the dystopia he'd fought so hard to prevent.

Chapter 1

Notes:

There are three things you should know about this story:

1. Few of the available HP/ZNT crossovers explore the differences between Halkeginia's powerful elemental magic and the Wizarding World's versatile magic, and how characters from each world would perceive the other. This is an attempt to do that—and an attempt to write a Harry Potter with a spine.
2. I'm more familiar with HP than ZNT. I'll be consulting the anime and light novels as I write this, but if something doesn't seem right, please let me know.
3. Despite writing from the perspective of a British character, I am not from the UK. I'm trying to incorporate British lingo and measurement systems, but I may slip up occasionally. Please let me know if you spot a particularly egregious error.

Otherwise, please enjoy the story! I appreciate any and all feedback.

Junior Auror Harry Potter had fantasized about this moment for more than a year.

He'd be facing down a towering, cloaked figure in a dead-end alleyway, the moon at his back and Ron and Neville flanking him on either side. Ron would demand surrender, the opposing figure would spit in his face, and then suddenly they'd be dueling. Harry would dive out of the way and fire off a few jinxes from the ground. Neville would ultimately take a hit and collapse, and Ron would send a barrage of explosive hexes. They'd sweat. They'd bleed. They'd hurl insults and threats at each other. And finally, Ron would surprise their opponent with a punch to the face, then duck out of the way as Harry cast one final spell and took down Britain's last fugitive Death Eater.

In reality, however, it only took three spells: a Lumos Maxima to blind him, a Bombarda to knock him off his feet, and Petrificus Totalus to neutralize him. The Death Eater didn't cast a single spell. It was as if they'd taken him completely by surprise, which was a load of bollocks. With the innumerable traps he and his fellow Aurors had tripped and disabled, they'd been smashing the equivalent of a dozen battering rams into the wizard's fortress walls for weeks on end. The Death Eater he knew—or at least he thought he knew—would have fired off a volley of curses the moment an Auror stepped into his inner sanctum.

"Is this a trap?" murmured an Auror a few steps behind him. "Surely, it can't be that easy."

Harry paused mid-step. Scenarios flashed through his mind, chief among them one in which the enemy only pretended to be hit with the Full Body-Bind. Without a second thought, he fired off another Petrificus Totalus. The figure on the ground, however, didn't move, and the curse hit again.

"I didn't detect dark magic in front of us," came another hushed whisper. "The cave's clear."

If not a trap… then perhaps a trick. A task force of deadly Aurors would overwhelm ten dark wizards, much less one—had their enemy lured them into this chamber with an illusion to pick off their more vulnerable teammates at the entrance? His gut twisted into a knot. Conjuring a writhing ball of fire, Harry flung it at the back of the cave where the Death Eater had supposedly landed and jogged off after it. A few Aurors behind him hissed at the sudden newfound light, their eyes straining once again to adjust.

The sight awaiting Harry left him gaping in disbelief.

Warm light flickered over a defeated man. He lay rigid atop a bed of milky white crystals, a tattered robe draped about his body like a burial shroud over a corpse. Under the firelight, shadows seemed to swallow him up and spit him out in pieces—a patch of waxy flesh here, a gnarled finger or two there. Strands of oily black hair clung to the bony ridges of the man's face, framing dark, bloodshot eyes and a snarl that'd twist even a demon's innards.

It was like staring at someone he knew through a carnival mirror. He recognized that dark hair, that twisted face, those blazing eyes, but… the man on the ground looked like a caricature of the dark mastermind the Aurors had been hunting—had feared—for years on end.

"Are we sure this is him?" he blurted out. "I mean, this—" He jabbed his arm at the man, speechless.

This was the man who evaded capture for five years, nearly assassinated three heroes of the Second Wizarding War, and constructed a fortress with defenses so formidable it took five squads of Aurors weeks to dismantle them all? His head spun.

Dragonhide boots clacked against crystal as Cerberus Langarm, his tall, burly squad mate, strode forward and crouched down half a meter away from the man. He hummed as he examined the abandoned wand on the ground. "It's got to be. This wand matches his in the registry. And—" he flicked his wand, vanishing the man's left sleeve "—he's got the mark. Unless we missed one, this is Antonin Dolohov."

Harry's grip tightened on his wand. No, they hadn't missed one. They'd made damn sure of that. But hell, this… He wasn't even sure the man's own mother would recognize him. Granted, no one had seen neither hide nor hair of Dolohov for the better part of five years, but to think that the terrifying Death Eater would deteriorate into this starving hermit… Harry shook his head.

"... indicate that it's him. We can dose him just to be sure, if you want?"

Jolting at the sound of his squad mate's voice, Harry tore his gaze away from Dolohov and glanced up. Langarm was now standing and looking at him expectantly. "Er—yeah," he said. "Let's get him secured."

Harry started toward Dolohov with another squad mate at his heels. Behind him, a low murmur of voices buzzed about the cave as the other Aurors got to work. A couple broke off to examine the area for any lingering curses or hidden traps; one began disabling the disapparition wards and other protections. He heard a few hushed moans as the rest began moving the injured. Glancing back, Harry looked around for Ron or Neville but couldn't spot them; they must still be outside trying to stabilize the cave entrance. Ron had managed to break through the vicious enchantment protecting the chamber, but only while repeatedly casting the countercurse. The backlash had knocked down several Aurors and tied down about a third of their wands.

The chamber they'd stormed was small—just large enough to comfortably fit two squads of Aurors—and it only had one entrance, features Dolohov had no doubt chosen to his advantage. A gaping maw of sparkling stalactites bore down on them from above. They hovered just a few meters above the Aurors' heads, and Harry was suddenly sure that a stronger Bombarda would have collapsed the entire chamber on top of them. He could almost hear his squad leader berating him: Dammit, Potter! What have I told you about being aware of your surroundings? He grimaced. He was already on the man's shitlist for a reckless rescue earlier in the week; hopefully he'd been too busy supporting Ron and Neville to witness Harry's spell tactics this time.

Upon reaching Dolohov, Harry took up position behind the Death Eater's head while Langarm and Angelina Johnson stood to either side. As he shuffled through his Mokeskin pouch for a bottle of veritaserum, Langarm summoned restraints and began wrapping them around Dolohov's wrists and ankles while Angelina pocketed his wand and snapped a couple photos of the scene. Startled by the flash, Harry muttered a low curse as his fingers scraped against something sharp. To his right, Angelina caught his eye and winked.

"Ready," he grunted as soon as he grasped the tiny vial of clear liquid. Uncorking it, he dropped to one knee and let a few drops dribble into Dolohov's open mouth. His nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of foul breath. Beside him, Langarm reversed the Full Body-Bind; immediately, Dolohov's expression slackened and his eyes turned glassy.

"Can you hear me?" Harry asked.

The man took a deep, shuddering breath. "Yes."

"Are you Antonin Dolohov, an escaped convict and follower of Lord Voldemort?" Tensing, Harry leaned forward slightly in anticipation. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Langarm and Angelina become still as stone.

"Yes."

Harry breathed out. He felt his shoulders relax, and a building pressure dissipated in the back of his head. A part of him had still been expecting the man to say no despite all evidence.

"Do you have any active plans to maim, assassinate, or otherwise injure any other witch or wizard in Britain?"

"No."

Huh. He was half-expecting that they'd have to go chasing after Kingsley to stop some other sinister plot.

"Right," Harry said as he stood up and glanced at his squad mates. "That's all I have. Did I miss anything?"

"No," croaked Dolohov.

Angelina sniggered. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I agree with the criminal."

Langarm just rolled his eyes.

Lips twitching, Harry stepped back and stunned Dolohov. After a moment of consideration, he also reapplied the Body-Bind. Langarm leaned forward to check the ropes one last time, and after he gave the go-ahead, Angelina levitated Dolohov, who began to bob along in the air after her. Harry followed their plodding progress across the cave, wiping away the sweat trickling down his temples. Despite the frigid cave air, his robes felt hot and sticky against his skin. He was beginning to feel a low throbbing in his left arm and right leg, too.

A bony elbow suddenly jabbed him in his left side, making him wince as a shock of pain vibrated through his torso. "Not exactly the boogeyman we were expecting, huh?"

Turning around, Harry came face to face with Ron, who offered him a tired grin. No longer was he the gangling teenager who'd run off with Harry and Hermione to attempt the impossible. He'd built up some muscle during training, his face had grown leaner, and he now carried himself with the kind of confidence and grace that would have made 16-year-old Ron green with envy.

Harry looked back at Dolohov's body just as it exited the chamber. "I thought it'd feel better to finally catch him," he admitted grimly, "but this kinda feels like… I dunno, anticlimactic?"

Ron laughed. "Speak for yourself, mate. I was just about to collapse out there until Neville and Proudfoot finally destroyed the bloody trap." His eyes turned hard. "I hope that bastard gets Kissed. That's the only way I'd be sure he could never hurt my fiancée or sister again."

Harry's face darkened. "He will. I'm sure of it."

Both lapsed into silence, fraught memories hanging like a noose between them.

Closing his eyes for an instant, Harry finally let out a breath. "Let's get out of—" He stopped as he heard boots scraping against rock behind him. Spinning around on his heel, he nearly crashed into his squad leader, who eyed him with suspicion.

"Either of you lads injured?" he asked in a gravelly voice, casting an assessing glance over each of them. A stout, ruddy-faced wizard, Vincent Proudfoot was a veteran of two wizarding wars and didn't let his squad forget it—especially Harry, who he spent half his job berating for reckless behavior and the other patting him on the back.

"No, sir," Ron answered, shaking his head. Harry just shrugged. Eyes narrowing, Proudfoot stared pointedly at his torn left sleeve and the bloody mess it failed to hide. Harry blushed. "Er, well, maybe a little bit."

Proudfoot looked unimpressed. "Bullshit, Potter. I saw you take that potshot for Langarm. Get your arse down to Finnegan."

"But sir—"

"I wasn't asking," Proudfoot interrupted. Turning to Ron, he barked, "Weasley, you're in charge of making sure Potter sees the Healers. Drag him there by the bloody balls if you have to."

Ron shot Harry a dopey grin and swung an arm around his shoulders. "Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

Proudfoot let out a snort before stomping away toward Langarm, who looked like he wanted to bolt. Frowning, Harry tried to free himself from Ron's grip.

"Honestly, it's just a scratch—"

"Shut it, mate."

---

An hour later, Harry fell into his tent with the staggering gait of a drunkard. The healers had knitted together his wounds and given him a gamut of potions for pain and infection, but they hadn't been able to take away his overwhelming exhaustion. He was looking forward to a long night's sleep tonight.

Sighing, he collapsed onto a folding chair and closed his eyes. Five minutes, he told himself. Those five minutes, however, passed entirely too quickly and by the time they ended, Harry regretted taking them at all. His exhaustion had only deepened. Struggling to his feet, he haphazardly waved his wand. Clothes, dishes, and furniture flew around him, including a rogue dresser that almost clipped him on the shoulder. While the tent packed itself up, he stumbled over to his bathroom and splashed some cold water onto his face. The shock of the chill felt like a slap on the cheek, and he became a little more alert than he had… but not much. He rubbed his face. Just a little bit longer.

Straightening up, he couldn't help but catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He grimaced. Apparently, he looked as bad as he felt. His black hair, normally an unruly crow's nest, lay limp atop his head, greased flat with dried blood, sweat, and guts. Drops of red-tinged water trickled down both sides of his dirt-caked face. Puffy and bloodshot, his eyes carried bags the size of Scotland. Worse, his red Auror-issued trench coat looked like a muggle minefield, with a smattering of burns, holes, and slashes, and if he didn't know any better, he would have thought that a werewolf had ripped a chunk out of his left sleeve. Looking down, he saw black, oozing gunk clinging to the hem of his robe.

"Oh, that's just brilliant," he muttered.

He tried his best to vanish most of the potentially hazardous gunk but knew he had to wait on the rest. Post haste, Proudfoot had emphasized before he, Ron, and the rest of the squad left for the ministry with Dolohov in tow. He'd probably missed the booking by now—bugger—but maybe he could catch the moment they carted Dolohov off to Azkaban to await trial. And oh right, he had a statement to give.

Rushing out of the tent, he demounted it and hurriedly stowed it in his Mokeskin pouch before apparating to the Ministry. He arrived in an empty, dimly lit Atrium. Huh. He'd been expecting to smash into a mob of reporters swarming every wizard with even a hint of red coloring on his robes. Perhaps the Ministry just hadn't yet issued the press release… which Harry realized may mean that they hadn't finished processing Dolohov yet—or worse, that something had gone wrong. At the thought, Harry quickened his pace. Snagging a lift, he popped out at Level Two, turned the corner, and jogged the short distance to a pair of heavy oak doors guarding the way into the Auror Headquarters. Pausing, he took out his wand and—

"Ah, Potter! There you are."

Jumping out of his skin, Harry spun around with his wand outstretched and a nasty curse on his lips. He relaxed his grip once he saw the balding wizard walking toward him from the other end of the hallway.

Head Auror Gawain Robards was a rotund wizard in his fifties with a bulbous nose, mischievous eyes, and graying muttonchops that creeped up the sides of his face like well-groomed caterpillars. And in that moment, he wore the smirk of a man who'd just swindled a leprechaun out of an enormous pot of gold.

Harry shifted awkwardly. "Er—good evening, sir." Inwardly, he was swearing up a storm and trying to calm his accelerated heartbeat.

He never quite knew how to behave around Robards. The man had headed the Auror department while Voldemort controlled the Ministry—at least until his puppet government had disbanded it—and Harry had publicly accused him of collaborating with the enemy. Harry, of course, had looked like an ungrateful fool when it came out that Robards had been using his position to pass on information to the Order and prevent the new government from putting someone worse in his place. Since then, Harry had done his best to avoid sharing the same space with the man.

"I hear you're the man of the hour," Robards said, clapping Harry on the back. "Good work on taking down Dolohov. I can't wait to announce that the last of those bastards is rotting in a cell! Skeeter's been driving the Press Office mad."

Harry winced. She'd been pestering him, too, asking for daily updates on the hunt for Dolohov. He wouldn't be surprised if the Auror department threw a Ministry-wide party the day she retired.

"So, the news hasn't gone out yet?" he prompted, hoping Robards would tell him the state of things.

"No, we'll probably send out the owls in an hour or two. Dolohov's with the Healers right now."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Still? Did they find something?"

Expression souring, Robards crossed his arms over his chest. "We're not sure yet. The Healers found traces of some sort of potion in his system. They're going to keep him overnight to try out a more comprehensive diagnostic charm and figure out what it is."

Harry scowled. So much for watching Dolohov reunite with the Dementors. "What did the preliminary results say?"

"Valerian root and flobberworm mucus. They think it might be some sort of numbing potion or sleeping draught. Could even be a suicide attempt. Who knows? We'll know more tomorrow."

Suicide? Harry thought incredulously. After building a fortress and laying all those traps? There's got to be more to it.

"... sent most of the task force home for the night," Robards was saying. "I'll appoint some Aurors to guard Dolohov overnight, and then we'll all regroup in the morning."

Harry opened his mouth to volunteer, but Robards cut him off with a glare. "Absolutely not, Potter. You've been out in the shitter for weeks, and we need a fresh pair of wands. Go home and rest, kid. I'll have Dawlish collect your statement tomorrow." Sniffing, he coughed and added, "And take a bath while you're at it—you smell like the wrong end of a Blast-Ended Skrewt."

Harry cringed. You try diving into a lake full of dead bodies and see if you come out smelling like daisies, he wanted to say. But to his boss he dutifully replied, "Yes, sir."

Opening the double oak doors to the Auror Headquarters, Robards leveled one last heavy stare at Harry. "Home. Now. I'll see you tomorrow."

And then he was gone, the doors swinging shut behind him.

Harry let himself slump against the wall. After five long years, they'd finally done it—captured or killed every single escaped Death Eater. Only Dolohov's trial remained. Harry would finally be free to put Voldemort behind him—lock away the memories and loss and terror into the farthest corners of his mind and throw away the key. Perhaps he'd break them back out in a decade or two as a lesson for his kids and grandkids … and godson.

Harry closed his eyes in grief as Remus' cold, dead face flashed through his mind. We got him, Teddy. We got the man who took your father away from you.

They'd taken care of the burials, funerals, and memorial services in the first year following Voldemort's defeat. Said their goodbyes, honored their brave sacrifices, and mourned their absences. By the second, Interim Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt had repaired and restructured the Ministry of Magic; Hogwarts, too, had been rebuilt to its former glory, with the addition of a new monument in the courtyard to honor the countless fallen.

By the third, Hermione—clever, wonderful Hermione—was leading a governmental campaign to root out systemic corruption and open the doors to Muggleborns who had never imagined becoming an undersecretary, much less a department head. She'd decided to go back to Hogwarts for her last year and take her NEWTs; Harry and Ron, of course, didn't bother. They'd received personal invitations to join the dangerously depleted Auror ranks and had accepted almost right away.

By spring of last year, the Ministry had caught, tried, and sentenced almost all surviving Death Eaters and collaborators, including the Malfoys, who only managed to escape Azkaban thanks to Harry's testimony.

Only one remained at large: Antonin Dolohov.

That cunning snake had managed to give Professor Flitwick the slip after the Battle of Hogwarts and hadn't been seen since. Every time the Aurors caught even a whiff of his scent and raided his hideout, he was long gone, everything wiped clean in his wake.

If Dolohov were just hiding, he might have managed to escape altogether, but the bastard had opted for revenge and began attacking the heroes of the Second Wizarding War one by one. Neville almost died by mandrake cry when he entered his greenhouse and found several baby mandrakes de-potted and weeping. Only his nightly noise muffling charms saved him. Hermione collapsed shortly after drinking a glass of wine from a bottle a colleague had gifted her—and like Harry saved Ron in sixth year, Ron saved Hermione with a bezoar he had always kept handy since. A few months later, Ginny received a fan letter designed to wring the life from any who touched it.

Furious, Harry and Ron surrendered themselves completely to Auror work and began putting in 60- to 80-hour weeks. Ron had proposed to Hermione just before she'd been attacked, and Harry had bent the knee to Ginny a few days later. But they didn't dare hold any wedding until Dolohov had been apprehended and locked away.

That was just over a year ago—a year of stolen kisses, empty beds, and just a few more months. Twelve months of pure hell, intense training, and dozens upon dozens of dead ends.

A month ago, they finally struck gold. A casual informant let slip about a recluse who'd constructed a fortress in the middle of a magically hidden Somerset cave system. After verifying the information, the ministry secretly dispatched five squads of Aurors to investigate. Twenty-five Aurors, including Harry, Ron, and Neville, converged on the area, constructing defenses, building wards, and mapping out their enemy's fortifications.

On the sixth day, they tripped Dolohov's first trap—and so began a few hellish weeks of unraveling, evading, and fighting what felt like hundreds of dangerous magical traps, creatures, and wards. The lake full of Inferi had been particularly unpleasant—especially since Harry had been the only idiot to fall into the sinister lake that practically screamed I-am-a-trap!—but he'd wasted no time dispatching them with the same firestorm spell Dumbledore had used all those years ago. Thanks to Dolohov's Anti-Disapparition Jinx and their own countermeasures, no one could travel in or out to secure help or additional supplies, but at least it meant the enemy couldn't either. He blinked—huh, now that he thought about it, maybe they'd actually starved Dolohov out in the end. The Aurors had at least been able to supplement their food supplies with foraging, but Dolohov would have been more or less stranded inside his cave, unable to leave without risking capture or battle.

At that realization, tension he hadn't even known he'd carried melted away. That's probably what the potion was for, he told himself. I bet he was trying to numb the hunger pangs. Harry took a deep breath. Whatever it was, he'd done his part—now it was up to Hermione and the newly reformed court system to deliver justice. He felt exhausted and boneless and free.

Kicking off the wall, he made his way back to the lifts. He allowed himself to fall into thoughts he'd pushed away for over a year, thoughts of rings and weddings and children. I need to tell Ginny, he thought with a rush of excitement. They had so much to do, to plan! What day is it? Muttering a quick Tempus, he discovered it was Friday, October 26, 2003. He'd finish the week out and then take a few days off, he decided; he'd earned it a thousand times over by now.

His smile faded, however, when he realized Ginny was likely overseas with the rest of her team, training for the upcoming Quidditch season. Bugger. He'd hoped to go home to Grimmauld Place, slide quietly into bed next to her, and restart their lives. Merlin, he'd missed her this past month. Ever since Robards had made Dolohov's capture priority number one, he'd stolen a few nights and weekends with her here and there, but had spent the majority of the last year in forests, caves, alleyways, and the Ministry itself. She'd been busy, too, traveling all over Europe to play Quidditch. Their schedules rarely lined up even though they lived together, and it'd been absolutely maddening.

How long had it been since he'd seen Hermione? The Weasleys? And oh Merlin, Teddy—what if the little rascal had forgotten his Uncle Hawwy? He couldn't remember the last time he'd stopped by Andromeda's house. Had he missed Teddy's fifth birthday?

Tomorrow, he promised himself. I'll visit them tomorrow.

Turning the corner, Harry emerged into a long, narrow corridor housing at least twenty lifts. A few people hovered around the nearest ones, waiting like him for one to arrive. Most of them wore the dark red robes Harry had come to associate with his fellow Aurors. He nodded at several as he approached, recognizing them from basic training or Operation Dolohov (which was more colloquially known in the Auror offices as Operation Catch-That-Cunt). After a few minutes, a lift to his left rumbled to a stop. As soon as its golden grilles opened, a half-dressed Zacharias Smith hurried out and around the corner, probably to draft the press release of his life. Poor bloke wouldn't be going home tonight. Harry couldn't quite keep the grin off his face as he and several others stepped into the emptied lift.

By the time he reached Level Eight, he was alone on the lift. He stepped out into the hallway, and just as the grilles closed behind him, his stomach gurgled. Right. He'd need to pick something up to eat. Unless Ginny had done some shopping before she left, he had nothing in his kitchen and no energy to cook. What he wouldn't give for some of Mrs. Weasley's cooking right now… He and his colleagues had been subsisting on duplicated meals, berries, and overcooked squirrel for the past week while hunting Dolohov, and Harry was ready for something with a bit more flavor.

But first, he thought as he discretely sniffed his right armpit, a shower. A long, hot shower. He gagged as he caught a whiff of his stench. Maybe it was a good thing Ginny wasn't home; she'd probably lock him out of the flat if he walked into the bedroom smelling like he'd popped right out of a dung beetle's arse.

"Oi, Potter!" called a familiar reedy voice from behind him. "You might want to wipe that grin off your face. I hear Dawlish is after you for missing reports. Again."

Whipping around, Harry caught sight of a smirking Anthony Goldstein at the end of the hallway, dressed in plain black robes, jeans, and a pair of beat-up trainers. Relaxing, he let go of his wand inside his hidden holster.

"Dammit," he groaned. "I was hoping he forgot about those. We've had more important things to do than write the next edition of the Auror Diaries."

Anthony huffed a laugh. "And just how many reports do you owe him?"

Harry made a face. "Three." Anthony whistled. "Yeah, I know. Ron and I caught a few potion smugglers in Knockturn six or seven weeks ago, but we just haven't found time to finish writing it up."

"You know, the longer you take to finalize those, the longer it'll be before those smugglers get prosecuted."

"Would it be such a bad thing if they spent a little more time in the cells reflecting on their mistakes?" Harry replied, smirking. "What are you doing here so late, anyway? I thought you'd sworn off all overtime?"

Antony folded his arms and scowled. "I have to close out a case before I head out on holiday."

Harry winced in sympathy. "Robards?"

"Robards," Anthony confirmed with a grimace. A beat of silence rested over them, and Anthony fidgeted a little. "Anyway, good seeing you, mate."

"Yeah, you too, Goldstein," Harry said as Anthony made to leave.

Turning around, Harry quickly rounded the final corner into the Atrium, intent on Apparating home. Maybe he'd call Kreacher from Hogwarts; he bet the elf would be willing to smuggle him a meal or two from—

Harry froze.

A few meters from the nearest fireplace floated an oblong, silvery mass twice his height. It shimmered softly in the dark, abandoned Atrium, like a tapestry of shattered glass. Tensing, Harry flicked his wrist, summoning his wand from its holster. Looking around one last time, he silently cast Homenum Revelio. Nothing—or rather no one. His grip tightened around his wand.

What is that? he wondered. He tried a few more diagnostic spells to detect dark magic, but each and every one came back clean. Slowly, carefully, he approached the foreign… thing, making sure to stay at least two meters away at all times. It was paper thin, whatever it was, and cast no shadow.

For a moment, he considered that Dolohov might have—somehow—created it, but he'd entered the Ministry stunned, paralyzed, and under guard of at least a dozen Aurors. He wasn't even sure they'd come this way either, and this thing wasn't here the last time Harry had passed through the Atrium.

Squinting at the foreign mass, he tried to envision other possibilities. Maybe it's something the Unspeakables are working on and it just, I dunno, escaped? Wait… Did Goldstein see this and just walk away?

Harry groaned. At this rate, he wouldn't make it home before midnight. He stood still for a moment, and when the mass didn't move, he decided to experiment. First, he tried to vanish it, Unspeakables project or not. Unsurprisingly, that didn't work. It's probably been charmed against most types of magic. Bloody brilliant. Conjuring a large rock, he hurled it at the mass before he could think better of it.

At the same time, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Hermione's cried out, Harry, you idiot—!

He cringed and prepared to summon a hasty shield… but as it turned out, there was no need. The rock sailed right through. No explosion, no nothing. The surface of the glowing mass didn't even ripple.

A chill ran down Harry's back. He thought of another oblong structure just a floor above, one that housed a tattered black curtain and the whispers of the dead. Rushing a few meters behind the mass, his eyes swam across the darkened floor for any sign of his conjured rock.

"Accio rock," he whispered.

No rock emerged. He swallowed hard. Was this glowing mass a gateway too, some sort of one-way portal to a world beyond the living? But if that were the case, what in the blazes was it doing here? Unless… He stilled. Could the Unspeakables be trying to create another Veil? Or worse—his mind flashed back to his sixth year—could it be something like a Vanishing Cabinet to transport people and objects? But that would mean it could be anyone from an unknown enemy of the Ministry to a lazy Unspeakable trying to search for his missing keys. He sighed.

As he stared at the foreign mass and debated what to do, Harry could feel exhaustion crash over him like a tidal wave. Dammit, he'd been awake for nearly 20 bloody hours with little to no rest, hadn't eaten for nearly 10, and was covered in blood and literal mincemeat. Someone else could deal with this cock-up. Hell, maybe he'd call Goldstein; even dying was better than paperwork.

With a brief look behind him, Harry trained his eyes on the glowing mass, taking several careful steps away from it until he'd created at least a three-meter buffer. Well, it didn't look like the thing was going anywhere… and it didn't even react when Harry threw something at it. It'd probably be fine for a few minutes.

Still… if it did turn out to be some newfangled transport spell, he'd feel really stupid about just letting it float along. A pulse of violet light sprung from his wand and circled the foreign mass, coalescing around it into a sturdy metal box the size of a tree and twice as wide. As the box solidified, wisps of silvery and violet light slowly faded from view, and the Atrium once again fell into darkness, even blacker than before.

Harry stared at the box. It was a bad idea to leave it unattended, he just knew it but… He rubbed his eyes. He was too tired to think rationally, and perhaps Goldstein was still waiting for a lift around the corner. The bloody things were slow as molasses when they wanted to be.

Yawning, Harry sheathed his wand and turned on his heel to head back to the lifts—

—only to crash headfirst into the damn glowing thing itself.

What? But it wasn't—!

He tried to backtrack, but it was too late. Bolts of electricity pierced his skin like daggers, burrowing further and further into him. The pain overwhelmed him in an instant, and his body toppled forward like a ragdoll. White light consumed him, and even as the bolts fried his nerves, he could feel himself fa l l…

                                                                     …i

                                                                          n

                                                                             g…

---

A sharp pain in his back startled him awake. Where… what? His eyes fluttered but didn't open. Everything felt heavy.

"…a commoner? More like a vagabond! … filthy … unconscious … injured?"

"…thinking calling a half-dead commoner with Summon Servant…"

Voices. He heard voices. It didn't sound like English. French? Or… his mind blanked. What was the other one? He couldn't remember… His awareness was beginning to dim again, as if he were sinking into a blanket of static. A void slowly began to silence his thoughts and swallow his mind. And finally, he let go.

“… seal the con t r …

                                …a

                                     c

                                       t…”

Chapter 2: Explosion

Louise Françoise Le Blanc de La Vallière sat on her bed and tried not to cry. The tears felt hot on her cheeks, and she angrily wiped them away. A noble does not cry, she told herself. Even if she is a failure of a mage. She choked down a sob and tried to swallow the ball lodged in her throat.

"Stupid," she whispered, fingers digging into the folds of her duvet.

She'd fooled herself into thinking that today would be different. When the vicious speculations began over what kind of familiar "Louise the Zero" would summon, she'd presented a stiff upper lip, upped her bravado, and let their jeers roll right off her. To prepare for her familiar's arrival, she'd had servants lug in a bed of hay and position it to the left of her bed, a place of honor. She'd even spent a sum of écus on a gold water bowl, with plans to commission alterations after the summoning.

But her good show worked a little too well. Each act ladled a spoonful of hope into the deep pit inside her, and as the pool swelled, she began to believe. Between classes, she'd begun imagining the wind in her face as she flew on her griffin's back, or the feel of her wind rhyme dragon's hard scales—like polished armor—beneath her fingertips. But most of all, she'd dreamt of casting her first successful spell. There wouldn't be any smoke, soot, or ear-splitting booms. No sneers or insults. Just silence. And then—finally—respect.

She'd lulled herself to sleep night after night by envisioning the open-mouthed expressions of shock, awe, and ill-concealed jealousy on her classmates' faces as they took in her magnificent familiar. In her dreams, she would fly home on dragonback, her family would shower her with compliments, and for the first time in her life, she'd see a hint of quiet approval in her mother's eyes.

Today, Louise had hoped, would be the day she proved that she deserved her spot in the Tristain Academy of Magic among the blessed elite. Instead, she summoned a human—a grubby, unwashed peasant who was even more useless than she was.

As soon as she finished her invocation, an explosion shook the courtyard, fracturing the ground in front of her and whipping up a murky cloud of dirt and smoke.

It was the first sign of trouble.

The second was the smell: a mix of smoke, burnt grass, and one of the foulest stenches she'd ever breathed in her life. It was as if she were trapped in a windowless room with nothing but unemptied chamber pots. Wrinkling her nose, she coughed and held her sleeve up to her face to block it out. Her heart sank, and she prayed that she hadn't summoned a beast while it was… relieving itself. How humiliating that would be!

"Oh, that's absolutely rotten!"

"Can someone do something about that awful smell? I can't stand it for another minute!"

As the smoke cleared and the dust settled, she could just make out an unconscious man sprawled on his back in the dirt. The last drop of hope finally drained out of her.

This… is my beautiful, divine, and powerful familiar?

Louise approached the man in a daze. He looked young, with a lean frame and short, dark hair. She couldn't glean much else about him, though; layers of dirt and grime enveloped him like a cocoon. And his clothes… She grimaced underneath her sleeve. Stained, torn, and fraying at the ends, she had half a mind to call them rags.

His outer garment looked like a cross between a sleeved surcoat and gaberdine but possessed no hood, fur lining, or coat of arms. Unbuttoned, it laid in pieces around him, only held together by a thick belt. Blackened with dirt and water stains, the foreign coat was a patchwork of red hues. It ran the length of his body, stopping just under the knees, where dried mud peppered the torn hem like mold. Despite the coat's state, with its tapered sleeves, distinctive collar, and tightly woven fabric, it wouldn't look out of place on a noble or soldier, or even a wealthy merchant.

It did, however, seem out of place on the man himself. Underneath the coat, he wore only a short, threadbare tunic, grey breeches, and a pair of sturdy boots. She looked around for any other clues to his identity but found nothing. No weapons, no cloak, no wand. And his clothes… She couldn't imagine that a noble or even wealthy commoner would allow his clothing to fall to pieces to such an extent, and especially not for weeks at a time if that stench was anything to go by. He must be too poor to replace or repair them—that was the only explanation.

And save for the coat, the colors were too muted and the design too practical to signify anything but… a commoner. Louise's stomach dropped. From the growing laughter behind her, she realized her classmates must have reached similar conclusions.

"I'm impressed, Louise," called Kirche, laughing. "I can't believe you summoned a pleb!"

"What were you thinking, calling a half-dead commoner with 'Summon Servant'?" came another mocking voice.

"Congratulations, Zero! A commoner is the perfect familiar for you!"

Heart thumping in her chest, Louise's gaze raked over the unconscious form of her familiar, looking for any way to save face.

"I… I just made a small mistake!" she said, face reddening.

As she searched, her gaze snagged on an odd blotch on the man's left coat sleeve. It didn't quite look like mud. It wasn't dark enough, but… Oh—she felt faint—is that… blood?

"Mr. Colbert!" she shouted in a panic, pointing at the man. "I-I think he's injured!"

A hush descended over the courtyard. Hurrying over, Mr. Colbert knelt down beside the man. Louise pointed out the dried blood, and he began to conduct an examination, incanting a spell and waving his staff in a series of intricate movements. She stood on tenterhooks beside him.

Finally, Mr. Colbert stood up, frowning. "He's not injured, Miss Vallière. The blood must be old, or perhaps it belonged to someone or something else. Though," he coughed, "he does have a few burns on his exposed skin and on his clothes."

Louise's hands trembled. Wait… is he saying… Did I do that?

Whispered insults and high-pitched tittering rang in her ears as her classmates speculated over the nature of her commoner familiar. Was he a vagabond or a roving worker? Maybe even—and this drew a cacophony of laughter—a criminal on the run?

That broke her out of her trance. She tried to get permission to attempt another summoning, but Mr. Colbert wouldn't hear of it, and she was forced to complete the contract.

Covering her ears, Louise pressed her forehead against her crumpled duvet, remembering the horrible laughter crescendoing around her as she sealed the contract with a kiss. Oh, it was disgusting—the gritty skin prickling her lips and that awful stench wafting up her nose. Worse, she had gagged at first and had to try again, holding her breath and closing her eyes.

How could she, a noble who takes pride in her proper pedigree and ancient Vallière lineage, summon a stinky, plebeian familiar while that awful Zerbst contracted a fire salamander? What would her family say? Would her mother… Louise hurriedly banished that thought. Nothing good would come of it.

Well, said a small voice inside her, at least you summoned something. You could have failed completely.

She shuddered. That was a small mercy. The academy wouldn't expel her now that she'd finally passed a practical exam. But the ridicule she knew she'd continue to face, the frustration of failing to cast even a single spell correctly—she clenched her jaw, and the tears began to flow again.

Why can't I get a single spell right? she thought. What am I doing wrong?

She was a master at theory—she aced every test, studied until her eyes began to bleed. She knew the mechanics that undergirded every spell, how a noble's willpower determined her spellcasting, which reagents powered and amplified spells. Every time she went to cast, however, she only produced an explosion, or at best, a smoky fog of dust and ash. Originally, she thought that meant her element might be wind or earth, but spells across all elements produced the same result. She felt no particular pull to any of the elements, and a deep fear within her wondered whether she had any affinity at all. Maybe she was a broken mage destined only for a life of shame and obscurity. Her lower lip trembled.

Stop, she told herself. You are a noble, and this is not how a noble braves adversity. She took a deep breath and straightened. Sparing a glance at her unconscious familiar beside her bed, she thought, I'll find some way to make this work, Brimir help me.

After the ceremony, Mr. Colbert had levitated the commoner into her room and onto the pile of hay she'd prepared for a beast. The hay just barely supported his torso and neck, leaving his head to dip down toward her floor. Biting her lip, she wondered whether she'd have to find him a bed or a room. Then she scoffed. Given his particular stench, he probably felt more at home in a barn on a bale of hay, sleeping alongside Bessy the Cow and Cluck-Cluck the Chicken. That pile of hay would do just fine.

She tried to wake him after they were alone in her room, but he didn't even stir. So instead she rifled through her things to find her bottle of perfume and carefully dabbed a few drops underneath her nose. Closing her eyes, she took her first full breath since entering her room and basked in the luxurious lavender scent. Grabbing a few sticks of incense, she also lit them on her table and cracked open her window.

The first thing I'm going to order him to do is take a bath, she thought. This stench better not linger.

Her room then fell into silence, only broken by her familiar's deep, rhythmic breathing and the distant hoots and cries riding the outside wind. Perhaps that was why she'd allowed herself a moment of weakness. Idleness, as the Church taught, was an enemy of a mage's soul.

What was she supposed to do with a commoner familiar? What use was a plebeian in a beast's role? Though… this particular plebeian might not be much more than a beast, especially if he turned out to be a vagabond or criminal. She flushed as she contemplated the shame of having a representative of the Vallière family arrested for some petty crime or another. With any luck, he'd be a farmer or a laborer—perhaps even a guardsman for a noble or merchant household who'd simply fallen on hard times. That would be the best scenario. It was unlikely, however, since he didn't have any weapons about him, not even broken ones.

She'd just have to treat him like any other servant. He probably wouldn't be much use in retrieving reagents or protecting her, though she supposed he'd at least be a good distraction if she needed to escape a dangerous situation. Perhaps she should outfit him with some basic armor and weapons. If he died in the line of duty, she'd at least be able to summon a better familiar.

A low groan broke her train of thought, and hay rustled against the floor as her familiar slowly awoke. It's about time, she grumbled to herself. It's been four hours.

Louise stood and walked around her bed, directly across from the commoner's position on the ground. She smoothed down her blouse and skirt, shaking loose her black cloak around her. Peering critically at herself in the mirror, she checked her appearance—not a single hair out of place and no visible tear streaks. Perfect. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders, schooled her features, and folded her hands together in front of her. And then she waited.

The rustling grew louder, and the plebeian hauled himself up and onto his knees. Wisps of hay fluttered about his ragged clothing as he tried to gather his bearings, and his head swiveled about the room, eyes bleary and gaze unseeing. He just sat there, blinking deeply, until his entire body jolted and he shot to his feet, eyes locking on her like a startled rabbit who'd just spotted a fox.

"Wh—urgh!" In his haste, he banged his head against the wall and slunk back down onto the hay, muttering furiously to himself under his breath as he massaged the back of his head.

Trying to keep her distaste off her face, Louise cleared her throat. The plebeian tensed. Lifting his head, he met her gaze for the first time. Oh… Her familiar's eyes sparkled beneath the lamplight like two polished emeralds, and in the deepest, darkest crevices of her mind, she admitted that they were beautiful.

"Who are you?" she asked.

The familiar's brows drew together. "You don't—" He cut himself off. A strange expression flitted over his face, and he reached up just above his right eye before wrenching his hand away. "Er, I mean, I'm Harry." He hesitated a moment longer before adding, "Harry, potter."

His voice was low and scratchy, and he spoke with the uncultured cadence Louise had long associated with Halkeginia's lower classes. Wariness settled over his features as he studied her, eyes lingering on her hair and school uniform. Coiled like a spring, he seemed to be waiting for something.

"Potter…?"

I… summoned a potter? Louise slumped.

Well, it could have been worse. She didn't really want a farmer or laborer familiar anyway, but a guardsman would have been more useful. An artisan on the other hand… Was he a master? Journeyman? He looked too old to be an apprentice. As long as he had some skill, she'd at least never have to buy her own ceramics again and would have plenty of storage for any future reagents.

But protection was a familiar's most important duty. How would a potter defend her during battle while she was casting? Would he… hurl his earthenware at potential attackers and hope it broke their noses? And that's if I ever manage to cast a successful spell, she thought glumly.

A thought still niggled at her. But if he's a potter, why is he so filthy and ragged and smelly? Louise opened her mouth to ask, but Harry the potter spoke first.

"Who are you?"

Louise raised her head high. "My name is Louise de La Vallière. I'm a second-year student here at the prestigious Tristain Academy of Magic—"

"You're a witch, then?"

Louise's right eye twitched. So he was filthy, common, and rude. "Mage," she bit out after a moment, "not witch."

Harry shrugged. "Is there a difference?"

She glared at him. In Tristain's backwater villages, ignorant peasants whispered to each other about witches—wretched, cackling hags who broiled the bones and grilled the flesh of naughty peasant children. They already called her "Zero," here; she refused to be called a witch, too!

"'Witch' is an insult, and I won't tolerate it from you. The proper term is mage or noble."

Harry looked taken aback. "Since when? We've always said witch or wizard."

We? Don't drag me down to your level! "And just where are you from, commoner?"

The reminder of his station made the familiar pause. That's better, Louise thought. Looking again at his coat, she wondered if it was supposed to be some sort of pretentious gaberdine.

"I grew up in 'Surrie,'" he said. He was studying her again, searching for something. "But for the past five years, I've been living in 'London.'"

Louise had never heard of 'Surrie,' but London… Does he mean Londinium? She'd heard troubling things of late from Albion about unholy rebellion, hunger, and suffering. And if Albion is his homeland… Something clicked in her mind. No wonder he's in such a state.

"I see," she said softly. "You are safe here."

She expected to see Harry melt before her in relief and undying gratitude. As a floating island, Albion was difficult for those without magic to flee, and if the situation was as precarious as she'd been told… Well, she imagined waking up in Tristain would seem a blessing.

Harry's features, however, merely twisted in confusion. His mouth opened and closed before he finally asked, "And… where is here?"

Louise's lips thinned. Is he ungrateful or just stupid?

"I've already told you," she said impatiently. "We're in the Tristain Academy of Magic."

He scratched his cheek. "Never heard of it. Is this place anywhere near hog warts?"

"Hog… warts…?"

An image of pigs covered in discolored warts and rolling about in the mud surfaced in her mind, and her face screwed up in disgust.

"Yeah… you know, the 'yookay's' top school of witchcraft and wizar—er, do you call it magecraft? Magic?"

What kind of name was 'Hog Warts'? Her eyes narrowed. She thought back to the old cackling hags—the witches—about which peasants gossiped with giddy horror. Hags with warts… who lived near pigsties. Louise stilled.

"Are you mocking me?" She searched her familiar's face for any hint of ridicule.

Harry jerked back. "What? No, why would—"

"No self-respecting mage would ever name a prestigious magical academy after a pigsty, much less attend one. Hog Warts—" Louise sniffed in disdain "—sounds like a poor attempt at a peasant joke."

Harry just stared at her. "How the bloody hell do you not know about Hog Warts? You're an 'englische' wit—er, mage, aren't you?"

She reared back in surprise. "Why do you allow yourself, a commoner, to use such language and tone in front of a noble? I wo—"

"Oh, get off your high horse and just answer the question, would you?"

Louise's hands balled up into fists. "I don't know what you're talking about! I'm a noble of Tristain, the third daughter of the esteemed Vallière family. We are one of the most distinguished families in all of Tristain."

"Tristain…?" Harry looked lost. "But you're speaking the poshest 'englische' I've ever heard!"

… I've summoned an idiot. The thought echoed over and over in her mind. She sat heavily onto the vanity chair behind her.

"No," she said slowly, "we're speaking Halkegique."

What would she do with a plebeian who didn't even know basic things? Was he really a potter or was that just a lie? Would he even be able to do simple tasks?

"Halkegique…? You must be—you're having me on. I only speak one language, so I think I would know if—" A shock of realization stopped him mid-sentence, and his gaze drifted inward. Rubbing the back of his neck, Harry cleared his throat. "Er—scratch that. Where's this Tristan?"

"It's Tristain." Louise eyed him skeptically. "It's in the northern part of Halkeginia between Gallia and Germania."

Harry perked up. "Germania? D'you mean 'Germanie'?"

"No… I mean Germania."

He groaned. "Fantastic." Running his fingers through his hair, he continued: "Where is Tristain in relation to 'Britaigne' or 'France'? Or is it further—closer to 'Italie' or 'Belgiem'?"

Louise's stomach soured with each bit of gibberish her familiar spouted. Maybe he hit his head on the way here…? Uwah, why did I have to summon such a stupid, irritating familiar!

"Stop speaking nonsense," she snapped. "I told you, this is Halkeginia, and we're in the north—in Tristain. Gallia and Romalia are to the south, Germania lies in the east, and Albion floats overhead."

Harry made a strangled noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Did you say floats?"

Louise frowned at him. "I thought you said you were from Albion! How can you not know these things?"

"I—er, I guess? But Albion's the old—"

"Then stop wasting my time and pretending that you don't know!"

A muscle twitched in Harry's jaw. "Fine," he forced out through gritted teeth. "Say we're in Tristain in Halkegininy—"

"Halkeginia," Louise corrected.

"Right, whatever. How did I get here? Last thing I know I'm about to 'operate' home and then this silvery thing comes out of bloody nowhere, crashes into me, and now I'm here, wherever here is."

Operate home...? She pursed her lips. It was becoming clear she'd have to give her familiar some measure of education so that he didn't embarrass her.

"You're here because I summoned you in the Springtime Ritual today. You're my familiar—"

At that last word, Harry choked. "Your what?"

"—and I'm your master from now on. Remember that!"

There was a beat of silence.

"This is a joke, right?" Harry's voice was high with disbelief. The corners of his lips twitched, as if he were unsure whether to laugh or frown.

Louise sighed deeply and sagged against the back of her chair. "I wish. I wanted something cool like a dragon or a griffin or a manticore—at least an eagle or an owl—but I got… you."

Harry's expression hardened. He carefully began to stand up, right hand curling back into his sleeve. "And just what is a familiar?"

The hairs on the back of Louise's neck began to rise. His voice… it's different… She swallowed.

"A familiar is a mage's servant and guardian. It grants its master enhancement in vision and hearing, retrieves items like reagents, and most importantly, protects its master from any and all enemies." Louise paused, glancing at Harry. "But that might be a little difficult for you, so I'm only going to have you do things I'm confident you can do: laundry, cleaning, and… other miscellaneous…"

She trailed off.

Her familiar had… transformed. That was the only word she could think up to describe it. Fury settled about him like a mantle. It was a cold, practiced anger—the kind she'd seen her mother whet on criminals and rule breakers. His eyes were dark, his jaw clenched, and his filthy rags became battle armor. He towered over her, as if he were the master and she the subservient familiar. A cold fist gripped her heart.

But he's my familiar… He wouldn't—couldn't—hurt his master… Right? Discreetly, she felt around for her wand. Finding it between her back and her chair, she slid her right hand into the gap and wrapped her fingers around its warm, engraved handle.

She shook herself. You are Louise de La Vallière, and you will not cower before your own familiar! She drew her shoulders back, stood to her full height, and opened her mouth—

"So," said Harry in a low voice, "you've summoned a slave."

The accusation landed like a slap. "No! It's not like—"

"I refuse. Send me back."

She bristled at his tone. "That's impossible. I've already bound you by contract as my familiar. Once the bond is established, it can't be undone, except…" Louise hesitated.

"Except what?"

"Except through the death of the familiar! Do you want to die?"

"I—" Harry's jaw went slack. "Are you serious? That's mad! Death can't be the only way out—surely distance would break it off, too? Just reverse the summoning spell or something and send me back that way."

This idiot—! He refuses to listen.

"Even if that would work, no incantation of any kind exists to return a summoned familiar back to where it was brought from! 'Summon Servant' is a strictly one-way spell—"

"Oh come on, you summoned me here, there's got to be a way to banish me back. Sort it out because I won't be your bloody slave!"

"You're not a slave," Louise growled. "You're my familiar! How many times do I have to tell you—"

"Just what about this situation isn't slavery?" he snarled back, marching over to her position against her vanity. "You have abducted me against my will to do your bidding! I didn't agree to this and never would have even if you gave me a thousand galleons. Now," he crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at her, "do something or I will."

Panicking, Louise thrust her wand at him, incantation on her lips, but before she could even point it at his chest, he slapped it out of her hand and grabbed her right wrist in a strong, bruising grip. She tried to wriggle out of it, but he held firm.

"H-how dare you… to a noble like me…"

Standing about a head taller, Harry loomed over her, his eyes blazing with rage. The lamplight flickered, and a sharp crack resounded behind her, making her flinch. Cool liquid soaked through her cloak and the top of her skirt, lavender-scented rivulets trailing down the backs of her legs. Louise barely noticed.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Low and menacing, his voice could have cut diamonds. "You've taken me from my home, my friends, my family, and my fiancée. I have people who depend on me, who love me, and are probably going out of their minds with worry because they don't know where I am. And worse, you've done it just because you're too bloody lazy to do your own washing."

"I didn't choose to summon you!" Embarrassingly, Louise's eyes began to well up with tears. "Do you think I wanted to be stuck with a familiar like you? I wanted a familiar who would—" adore me, respect me, love me "—serve me faithfully and honor my family name!"

"Oh right, so you were ready to abduct and enslave some other unwilling creature instead?" Harry shook his head in disbelief and cast away her wrist as if it were burning steel. "Oh, yeah, that makes me feel loads better."

Louise stumbled a few steps back, cradling her freed wrist. "They all come willingly to serve—"

Harry snorted violently. "That's total bollocks. I was trying to get away from that bloody portal when it decided to drag me off anyway."

She shifted uncomfortably. "I-It's an honor to serve a noble. Magic is our divine privilege, and with it we hold the sacred duty of leading, guiding, and protecting Halkeginia. You should count yourself lucky—"

Louise reddened when her infuriating familiar just laughed, a wild, disbelieving sound. "You—you—! Don't laugh at me!"

Harry's face was grim. And the way he looked at her… it was the gaze of a man who'd just removed his blindfold and discovered where he really was. "… Magic is might, then?"

She squinted at him. "Well, yes. Isn't that obvious?"

Harry's face twisted in disgust. He shook his head, muttering something under his breath. "Right then," he said, straightening. "In that case, I'll just sort this out myself."

He took a few steps toward the door.

Louise's eyebrows drew together. "What are you talking—" But before she could finish her sentence, he turned sharply on his heel, almost like he was jumping into the air…

…and then promptly stumbled hard into the door. She just stared for a moment. A harsh laugh burst from her lips, and with wide eyes, she immediately clamped her hands over her mouth. He glared at her from his position on the ground, and the heat of it caused her laughter to shrivel up in her throat.

A second later, he was on his feet and slamming her door behind him.

"Wait—you can't just leave!" she shrieked after him, racing for the door. But for whatever reason, the door wouldn't budge. It was stuck… or the disobedient dog was using his weight to lock her in! A burst of scalding rage tore through her. Before she could think better of it, she grabbed her wand, aimed it at the door, and chanted the spell of unlocking she'd learned last year.

The center of her door exploded into sharp, thin splinters, and the remaining wood fell from its hinges, cracking into several pieces on the stone floor below. Several splinters pierced her skin, blood dribbling out onto her cheeks and arms. Fueled by rage, she barely noticed the pain and rushed out into the hallway, coughing as dust and ash darkened her vision and invaded her nose.

Her head swiveled up and down the hallway, ignoring the derisive shouts from her neighbors. But… her familiar wasn't anywhere in sight.

No, no, no. Her boiling blood froze over, hardening into shards of ice. He can't leave, he can't leave, they'll throw me out—!

And without another thought, Louise sprinted down the hallway past disgruntled classmates and winding staircases, searching for the only thing that stood between her and expulsion.

---

Underneath his Invisibility Cloak, Harry Potter jogged across a grassy courtyard, cursing every god he could think of and then some. It was just his luck landing in this cocked up situation. Just when he thought he was finally going to get a break…

His wand swung to the right on his open palm, and he looked up to see an arched stone entrance ahead. Ending the spell, he sped up his pace and passed under the arch, pausing briefly to look over his shoulder for any trace of that entitled, pink-haired brat. Nothing. Thank Merlin. With any luck, she was still trying to figure her way out of his sticking charm. He'd considered just locking her door but remembered that Alohamora was one of the first spells that Hogwarts students learned.

At the thought of her, Harry clenched his fists in an effort to keep his roiling magic inside him. He just didn't understand. Why would a witch go through so much effort to craft a ritual to summon a servant or pet when she could just find a house elf or buy a pet in the local equivalent of Diagon Alley? Bloody hell, what kind of person tries to enslave another just to make them do tasks that a few household charms could easily take care of? His nails dug painfully into his palms.

And that mess about some sort of contract… In his towering rage, he hadn't even thought to question it, but now—he wasn't sure he believed her. She clearly couldn't order him about, and the magical contracts he knew required both parties to consent, or in the case of minors, adults to agree on their behalf. He was no longer a minor and didn't recall agreeing to anything. That bloody portal abducted him; he damn well didn't walk willingly into it.

Harry was half-convinced that Dolohov was behind this whole farce. He couldn't help it—it'd become a habit in the Ministry to blame Dolohov for even the littlest things, like running out of toilet paper in the loo or tripping over thin air. Logically, he knew that the chances of Dolohov's involvement were lower than house elves unionizing, but he'd rather face an enemy he knew than one he didn't.

And this, of course, assumed that he wasn't just dreaming, being pranked, or unwittingly participating in some Unspeakable experiment. If those bastards were responsible for this, he was going to curse their sodding balls off when he got back.

When he'd first woken up in that brat's room, he couldn't remember what had happened or where he was. Trying to sort through his memory, he had belatedly realized that a young girl—maybe thirteen or fourteen—stood a meter or two in front of him. If he'd come across her eight years ago, he likely would have been a blushing mess. With flowing tresses the color of cherry blossoms, flawless skin, and perfect posture, she looked like a princess—an impression which her white blouse, grey pleated skirt, and clasped hands only reinforced. She even wore knee-high socks with a pair of old-fashioned shoes.

What gave him pause, however, was the long, black cloak fastened around her shoulders. It wasn't a wizard's robe, and no fashionable witch he knew would don a cloak or cape. For that matter, neither would the typical muggle, but Halloween was just a few short days away; perhaps he'd crashed some sort of costume party. When she didn't recognize him, his name, or even his red Auror robes, he'd thought that must be it—especially since she was clearly English. Only the Queen had a posher accent.

Of course, she then proceeded to topple every single one of his assumptions. First, she was indeed a witch—or excuse him, mage—and was not in fact English, but some noble from Tristain in Halkgininy (Halkeginina?), and they weren't speaking English, but Halkegique. He'd first thought that he'd somehow ended up in some far flung place in Britain that his fame hadn't reached. He'd never heard of Tristain, but then again muggle geography wasn't even a footnote in his Hogwarts education.

Slowly, however, he began to realize that something just wasn't right. She seemed to think that London wasn't safe, didn't recognize Hogwarts, and had weirdly similar, but distinct names, for neighboring European countries. Finally, he came to the conclusion that he'd somehow landed in an isolated magical enclave that either maintained a truly impressive translation charm, or had appropriated and renamed the English language, along with England and her European neighbors. Perhaps they were the old names for each country if her use of "Albion," was any indication. Though—he snorted to himself—how in Merlin's name did they come to the conclusion that England was a floating island? The Obliviator squads would go on a massive strike if that were the case.

And then there was the girl's attitude and overwhelming sense of entitlement. Claiming nobility and the divine right to enslave other human beings as she saw fit? Merlin, how did that tiny body support that big head of hers? He was half-expecting her to stomp her foot and squeal, "My father will hear about this!" He shook his head. It must be some isolated, pureblood cult. The sooner he got out of here, the better.

But if Albion was England, what the hell was "Tristain"? Somewhere on the mainland? Time had clearly passed—it'd been pitch dark when he'd left for the Ministry, and here a fiery swath of color still stretched across the sky. Dusk, he assumed, since the light faded with every passing second. So, how many days had he lost? Did Ron know that he'd gone missing yet? Did Ginny or Hermione? And Merlin, had Robards and Proudfoot and all them think he just skived off work in the middle of an operation?

He groaned. What a shitshow. If this little jaunt gets him shunted off to desk work, he was going to send that Louise girl a Howler for every single bloody day of it. And when the press got a hold of this, Skeeter was going to burn her at the stake. He knew he should feel bad about that, but he was decidedly out of sympathy for entitled pureblood princesses.

Stumbling over an exposed root, Harry let loose another string of curses.

Ten minutes later, he finally arrived at the mouth of a dense forest. Stopping, he cast Homenum Revelio to ensure his privacy, and then stuffed his invisibility cloak back into his Mokeskin pouch. Turning on his heel, he made another attempt to apparate home. And another. And another. After the fifth failure, Harry was one last drop of common sense away from punching the nearest tree.

"Bloody wards," he muttered.

They must stretch for miles. He'd since made a few inroads into the forest and still hadn't had a wink of success with apparating home. He had a feeling that the school's wards would encompass the forest—it was the same with Hogwarts—but he'd doggedly ploughed on with each attempt in the slim hope that they didn't. He rubbed his face. I'm getting nowhere with this.

Dusk had since faded into night. He was tired, cranky, and just wanted to get home. Clearly, he needed to get beyond the forest to do that, but if he couldn't apparate, then—he facepalmed. I'm an idiot!

Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out his trusty Firebolt, mounted it, and zipped through the dense canopy into the night sky. The wind was cold in his face, and he'd foolishly forgotten that his torn robes no longer offered insulation.

But it didn't matter.

His stress melted away the second he entered his second home. A sense of calm enveloped him, one that he hadn't experienced for months. Harry breathed in the fresh air and exhaled his worries, gaze roving curiously over his surroundings.

And that, of course, was when he saw it: two giant moons hovering above him, showering him in blue light.

He blinked and then blinked some more. Am I hallucinating? Or… maybe this really is a dream? He wiped at his eyes, trying to remove whatever magical mushrooms they'd managed to collect, but the impossible sight was stubbornly still there.

Taking out his wand, he first cast Revelio. When that didn't reveal any magical trick, he tried Finite Incantatem—both on the sky and himself. Maybe it's my contacts? He'd finally bought them a year ago after a crook managed to evade arrest by knocking off his glasses. They were new, though; surely the charms couldn't be fading already? He'd paid for the lifetime guarantee.

But… how else could he explain such an impossible sight? Harry stared at the twin moons. This can't be real…

…or can it? His grip slackened on his broom. A sinking feeling formed in the pit of his stomach. He reviewed the encounter with Louise—her clothes, her manner, the odd names and terms he'd thought the product of some isolated magical cult. What if they instead belonged to another world, a different culture?

The world spun. It took Harry a moment to realize that he was falling. His Firebolt had somehow disappeared from under him. With a panicked shout, he flailed about uselessly in the air, crashing through a blanket of leaves and sharp branches. Dark colors danced around him—his wand! Where was his wand?—and just as he was about to smack into the forest floor, he screamed out in desperation.

"Arresto momentum!"

For one tense second, he continued to fall. But a giant, invisible hand cupped him in its palm, suspending him in the air before disappearing into the ether. Harry hit the ground hard. The impact knocked the breath out of him, and he just lay there in a pile of dirt and disbelief, wheezing.

He stared unseeing at a tree trunk in front of him. His left elbow throbbed from where it had punched into the forest floor, but it was a distant pain. Nothing compared to the avalanche in his mind. His earlier words to Louise came back to him: "You've taken me from my home, my friends, my family, and my fiancée." Those words turned out to be even truer than he knew.

Another world… He felt sick. How the bloody hell had she done it? The kind of magic needed to summon across worlds… just what kind of witch or magical culture was he dealing with here? Not even the Unspeakables had dared to think such a thing possible. No wonder he couldn't apparate to Grimmauld Place!

But then… how will I get home?

He stopped breathing.

No spell he knew could cross dimensions, and that girl—his knuckles went white—clearly didn't know what she'd done. His blood turned to fire in his veins. After everything he'd done, this—! His magic rushed out of him in a ring of searing flames. They licked at the trees, the dirt, even the air, as hot as the rage burning inside him. Sweat trickled down Harry's forehead. No, not now. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing the magic to disperse. Instantly, the flames winked out of existence. Only the smell of burning wood remained.

Harry pushed himself to his feet. He summoned his Firebolt and was grateful when it flew to him unscathed. He let out a bitter chuckle. The youngest seeker in a century losing control of his broom. Ron would never let him hear the end of it. His breath hitched. But he may never get the chance to find out.

Harry sagged against a tree. As much as he hated the thought, he knew he'd have to go back. He knew nothing about this world and had nowhere else to go. The reason he was here—and possibly his ticket home—was back at that blasted school. And besides, a magic academy was bound to have a vast magical library and knowledgeable professors. He'd have to start his search there. With a weary sigh, Harry took out his tent, cast his protections, and prepared for yet another sleepless night.

He would get home… somehow. Even if he had to ruffle a few feathers. He hadn't come this far and survived so much shit just to give it all up here.

Harry's jaw set. I'll see them again, no matter what it takes.

Notes:

Thanks so much to everyone who's commented, bookmarked, and subscribed to this story! I appreciate your support and am absolutely delighted by your interest. I hope you enjoyed this second installment; I'll aim to update every month, though it may not be a month exactly from the last update.

Other notes:
(i) Some words are misspelled on purpose.

(ii) In my headcanon, Halkeginia has a common language, much like Latin in Europe's middle ages, alongside various regional dialects/vernaculars. I've named it Halkegique, but if there's already a name for it, please let me know! My Familiar of Zero knowledge is limited. If this isn't a thing, then... well it is now, haha.

(iii) I've recycled some phrases from the first and second chapters of the light novel and first episode of the anime. Although, ha, I couldn't find the English version and ended up watching the Spanish dub (which wow, Saito's voice actor is kind of hilarious). Anyone know where I can find the English version?

And lastly... happy holidays!

- Professional Heretic