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Scourge	By : Tainted_Blood_Lust Category: Harry Potter Crossovers > General - Misc Views: 2170 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I also do not own the Naruto franchise. I make no money in writing this.

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Scourge – Fragments of Yesterday I

TBL: I don't feel like saying much here. Although, I should mention the fact that this is coming just about two months after the last update is completely awesome. And unlikely to happen again. Also, please read the NOTES section; it'll give you some important info.

Just hold onto your hat as you take the plunge and hope someone can save you.

Disclaimer: I, Tainted_Blood_Lust, do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I also do not own the Naruto franchise. I make no money in writing this.

Also, the definition for 'scourge' is directly from Wikipedia's sister dictionary/thesaurus website. Therefore, it is not mine.

Enjoy.

X

SCOURGE

(n.) a persistent pest, illness, or source of trouble; cause of suffering to people

X

August 27, 1351

A deep frown formed on Ronald Weasley's face as he sat in the kitchen of the Burrow, his ramshackle home. His head was down, looking at the table in front of him yet not wholly seeing it, and long, shaggy red bangs covered his freckled face from the world. In the background, his older brother Percy bragged to their parents about his new prefect position at Hogwarts (“And you know that only two per house are chosen!”) and all the other recent achievements. His high, nasally voice annoyed Ron to no end, and it had him grinding his teeth in frustration. Oh how he wished Percy would shut up or that Ron could make him.

Cornflower blue eyes darkened on Ron's face, reflecting a mind filled with vengeful, hateful scenes. His imagination was a wild, wicked thing, not to be stopped easily – not that Ron wanted to. All his life, Ron had been cast aside and pushed down by his family in favor of his older, more successful brothers and the only girl, Ginny. It was a given that the imagined punishments were well earned. Especially that little circle in Hell reserved for Percy.

Ron could heard his brother asking for a new owl, as the family one was too old for a prefect's important duties. He gave an unseen sneer worthy of any Malfoy at the sheer arrogance of such a request. The Weasley family, as a fact, was dirt poor, and none knew this more than the family themselves. They didn't need another owl if the first one still worked. And yet, their mother, gushing with maternal praise, didn't refuse the ass. Somehow, Ron wasn't all that surprised.

“Thank you, mother,” he heard, then the quiet sound of a kiss on the cheek. How disgustingly well he played the part. Their parents, after all these years, still remained ignorant of their sons' true natures, and Ron knew the others intended to keep it that way. Even so, the youngest son knew that if he were to tell his mother the truth, she wouldn't believe him anyway. In his dark mood, Ron acknowledged that they didn't believe much of what he said.

He wished he had some strong alcohol to take a swig of at that moment; it would be appropriate.

Finally, the one-sided conversation with Percy and their parents ended, and Ron let out an inaudible sigh of relief. Another minute more and he would have done something he would most definitely regret later. A bit of the tension drained out of his body, only to reappear when the woman walked into the kitchen.

“Oh, Ron,” she sighed in half-exasperation, the pity dripping off those two words. Lately, she had been doing this whenever she saw her youngest son, as she had finally noticed his worsening condition after two years of decline. It was ridiculous, and Ron hated every second of it. The hatred came easy and grew in his heart more with each passing day. If his family understood how he felt and just how far it went, they would most likely throw him out. In the Weasley family, loyalty (no matter how twisted) was valued above all else. And Ron definitely felt not a single iota of loyalty towards his kin. Her son didn't reply to her after she asked about his well-being. A normal, caring mother, Ron felt, would have pursued it, but his merely dismissed him, beginning to bustle around the kitchen in preparation for dinner.

His temporary domain invaded, Ron got up, pushing back his chair noisily, to go head to his room. On his way to the stairs, he had to pass where Percy was lounging on the family's favorite chair, the only cushioned one in the house. He gave his younger sibling an intense, half-lidded gaze as he walked by, something nasty lurking in those chocolate eyes. Ron didn't return it, trying to get past without conflict. It was not meant to be.

“Ronald,” Percy called out just as his foot hit the bottom step. Said boy halted, hand tightening to the point of blood loss on the railing. Oh, how he despised how his brother said his name, a formal tone that covered his opinion of Ron as less than dirt. Slowly, he turned to face the older Weasley, and almost involuntarily, his lips slowly parted to reveal teeth in a crocodile's grin. It was a parody of nicety that seemed to take Percy aback a bit. The older Weasley almost said something but stopped himself, mouth open, for some reason. He then, after a moment, decided to just say imperiously, “Get along now.”

He continued his journey to his small room and was soon eagle spread over the threadbare sheets, gazing absently at the deteriorating ceiling. As he did this, he was reminded of the promise he had made to himself years ago.

He would rise above his family, above this world. He would show them that Ron Weasley conquered. And in this, nothing could stop him.

X

September 1, 1351

Hermes Granger sat alone in his own section on the magically-expanded carriage to Hogwarts. It was nothing new to him, being alone that was. In his own home village, he had always been isolated from others. He, of course, wasn't the village idiot, but it was a close call. Even his widowed mother, bitter from Hermes' birth that had been unwanted and from her husband's death, treated him with a cold disdain. It had only worsened when it was revealed Hermes was a wizard, something unnatural. While his mother wasn't very religious, the Bible's teachings of Satan and sin loomed ever-present.

As he stared out the window at the passing scenery, his mocha eyes darkened at the thought. The Christian religion was something he was coming to loathe, an opinion the wizards apparently shared. For that, he was grateful; understanding, given for once in his life, would be much welcome.

His mother watched him with a fire in her eyes, looking at the son that almost completely copied her former husband in his looks. It rivaled the one engulfing the torch in her hand, a not-so-subtle threat.

Hermes shuddered at the memory, hugging his form tightly. His eyes closed of their own violation, the boy not wanting to remember, but the scene played behind his eyelids in vivid detail. He opened them quickly after that and stared ahead with a blank look, not quite anchored in reality. In his thoughts, he questioned why, why this all had to happen to him. His very existence was a curse, he knew deep in the darkest recesses of his mind. Over the years, he had become bitter, uncovering this revelation one night at the tender age of six.

The crowd grew at a rapid pace, too fast for comfort. The ones closest to him cried out, Stone him! Stone him! The chant rose to a crescendo, catching like a plague among the masses. Stones – thrown for wizardry. But they did not yet know the truth, and how right they were all along. Stone him! Stone him!

Sometimes, Hermes contemplated taking his own life in moments of heightened misery. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. It was wrong to think such things. Hell or something very much like it, for that was where he was sure to go, wouldn't be a pretty place. He would take the lesser evil, no matter how hard it seemed. Besides, he somehow sensed, knew with all his being, that he was destined for a greater purpose, something more. With that in mind, he managed to survive each day. Reminding himself of this, he forced himself into a better mood. It worked to an extent, and the day suddenly seemed a bit brighter. It was not to last.

At that moment, the door was forcibly slammed open, three older students coming in with arrogance and surety in their every move. By the crimson robes and lion badges, it became apparent to him that they were Gryffindors. A small grimace crossed Hermes' face at the notion. He had not heard good things about the fiery house. They were, according to gossip, a rash bunch, quick to jump to conclusions and lacking half a brain. Definitely not a group he would belong to – or even wanted to.

As they swaggered further into Hermes' current domain, the three, all girls, finally noticed the first year.

“Eh, look!” one, a brunette that could easily be seen as pack leader, crowed, blue eyes lighting up in a bully's delight. The others, both with hair a dirty gold color and green-blue eyes, let out overly-loud chuckles, the sounds as similar as the twins. Their leader continued, “It's a little firsty, all alone!”

A grin, a nasty thing that spoke of a mild sadism, spread across her lips. The twins held an alike expression. She spoke again, “What's your name, firsty?”

In all three of them there seemed to be some sudden anticipation, as if the question were vitally important, would determine his future. It all set Hermes on edge, suspicion ripe in his mind. Nevertheless, seeing no way out, he answered, “Hermes Granger.”

The brunette burst out into loud, obnoxious laughter, and the twins giggled. And Hermes' fate had been decided.

“A mudblood, a mudblood!” she shouted, and right away, he could tell it wasn't a favorable term.

Stone him! Stone him!

He stiffened, both at the remembrance and their words. The trio could see his visible tension and became excited at the prospect.

“Know what that means, do you?” one of the twins taunted. No, Hermes didn't know what 'mudblood' meant, but he didn't let it show. Ignorance was a weakness that these types exploited with ease.

He lifted his head, as if proud of being a supposed mudblood, but didn't say anything. Their grins soon turned into sneers, the three offended by this.

“You should be bowing to your superiors, mudblood,” the lead Gryffindor said, sneer only widening. “You're good for nothing else.”

You're good for nothing, worthless! his mother screamed at his face. They were in the middle of a street, yet she still yelled. To make an example, perhaps. A little girl, no more than seven, stopped to stare at the scene, eyes wide and curious. The girl's mother realized this after a minute and turned back to grab the child, eyes averting from the yelling woman.

Come now, she said to the girl, pulling on her arm urgently, we have to go.

But, Mommy! the child protested, tugging the opposite way. Why is that lady yelling?

There's nothing there, Catherine.

Hermes stood up, brown eyes hard and filled with a hidden rage. Though shorter, he stared the three down, a thousand times taller in spirit. The twins, sensing a drastic, dangerous change, backed down a bit, sneers turning to frowns. The last seemed not to have noticed, intelligence obviously lacking. She opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off.

“Don't,” he commanded in a warning tone. Hermes then turned to his things and grabbed them with stiff, wooden movements. Silently, he glared at the three, eyes promising a vicious revenge. He walked out after that, slamming the carriage door behind him. To the Gryffindors, it held the feeling of a final bell tolling, something ominous that did not bode well for them.

X

Hermes, after searching through the carriages, eventually came upon one that seemed empty. However, as he walked in further, he found that there was a single boy there. He appeared to be asleep, but his head suddenly snapped up to gaze at Hermes through a veil of pitch black hair. Those eyes were a piercing, almost unnatural green, and he felt something primal within that gaze. The boy under scrutiny quickly looked away. He sensed that this black-haired boy was deadly in some way, but he was not repelled. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Hermes felt compelled to be by his side until the end of time. And he just knew the boy was going to be something great, it being an instinctive conclusion.

Trying not to give any of this away, he said to the other male, “Hello, may I sit here?”

That eerie gaze lingered a moment more, intense and judging. Then finally, Hermes could no longer feel it on him. He looked to the boy and saw him staring out the window by his side. A green orb gave him a side glance before his head nodded slowly. Hermes, almost timidly, made his way over and sat across from the other. He put his stuff down and turned to the boy with curiosity.

“Hermes Granger,” he introduced. He didn't hold out a hand, guessing the boy wouldn't shake it anyway. There was a long moment of silence.

Then, “Harry Potter.”

X

September 3, 1351

It was again the first day of classes, and as the students filed into the classroom, Minerva McGonagall watched, hidden by a spell. She did this every year, for it helped to gauge this year's newcomers. That and it allowed her to make a grand entrance, subduing most of them in the process. As the Fire Arts professor, her opening to the class would, of course, be based in her specialty. Each year, she tried to do something different, if only to amuse herself.

It was really too bad the Slytherin first years wouldn't be in this class. But alas, the Slytherin house was Water-based, the opposite of Fire, and thus they were unable to preform the Fire Arts. Minerva always loved to show up Trelawny, the Water Arts professor, head of Slytherin, and her rival. Everything was always a competition between the two.

As the last stranglers went in, the door, charmed to do so, closed behind them automatically. The professor dropped her spell, becoming visible once more. Then, she started the spell that would herald her coming.

“The hawk, the vessel of the mighty Sun God, comes on lighted wings. As the great fire in the sky rises in the east, you are awakened. Your slumber during the darkness has been cast aside! Glide forth as the messenger to these lowly mortals. Harm not the innocents and let them see your magnificently shining form!”

With that, she dropped some hawk flight feathers on the ground before her. It helped to lessen the drain of a spell such as that. Even without directly invoking the god's name, it was a bit of a tiring spell. Unfortunately, it was a five-lined spell, and those with five or six lines usually took more effort than those with seven, the most magical number there was. Besides, they had another effect: helping to control what was to come. After all, she couldn't be harming students!

The feathers, upon hitting the ground, immediately lit up in flames, sparked by no human. The flames rapidly consumed them, and as the last of the feathers was eaten up, the form of a fiery hawk came into existence. It started out tiny but soon grew to the size of Minerva. Its wingspan was narrow and long, a deep red with wisps of sunny yellow at the ends. It let out a screech, not a physical sound but one that echoed in her mind as the caster of the spell. Its wings flapped once then twice, even though it was already airborne. It then flew towards the door to the classroom and passed through without trouble, leaving a few scorch marks to the door that already had quite a few.

Minerva could hear the gasps (and the few frightened screams) of her students from within and was pleased. With a display like that – she really had outdone herself this year! – she was sure the vast majority of them would be inclined to respect her, and thus behave better. It was a lesson she had learned from being a Slytherin's rival for so long: it's easier to go through life with more power. All the top Ministry of Magic officials were powerful in their own rights or had some sort of unique, useful talent. (For example, there was her good friend in the Auror Department, essentially the law enforcers of the magical world, that had a gift with plantlife. Being in the field regularly, he made use of it by binding foes with trees or turning ordinary grass into deadly spikes. And he was by no means a low-ranking employee.) She herself could have gotten into such a position but had declined the opportunity in favor of doing what she loved best: teaching.

Shaking herself of her thoughts, Minerva focused again on the situation. She strode over to the door and slammed it open, the wooden construct banging loudly against the stone wall. The students startled and quickly turned in their seats to look at the disruption. As she observed them, she noticed that only two did not have this reaction. One was a bushy brown-haired boy she couldn't recall the name of who merely tensed and shifted a bit, while the other was a shaggy black-haired boy she recognized as Harry Potter who was calm and remained seated forward. She was somewhat surprised, as there had not been a student this unresponsive in quite some time, much less two of them.

While observing, she had never stopped moving swiftly to the front of the classroom, not as intimidating as the Potions professor, Severus Snape, but intimidating nevertheless. When she reached the front, she swiftly turned on her heel to give them all a sharp look. Most cowered, but Potter returned it boldly. She made a mental note to watch that one.

“I,” she began, “am your professor for Fire Arts class.”

She lifted a hand and said, “Minor element of the Spirits, show your fiery form.”

A sphere of fire formed above her hand, glowing mildly and pulsing between gold and a burnt orange. The children were awed, and even the notable boy leaned toward her slightly with a strange glint in his eyes. She was suddenly reminded of a young Tom Riddle in the Wind Arts class he shared with Minerva at the time, all in an interest that was later revealed to be less than moral. As he had transformed into the infamous Voldemort during their Hogwarts years, a metamorphosis hidden until it was too late, that same interest and thirst for knowledge remained the whole time. Terribly disturbed, she pushed away the thought forcefully, not wanting to relive it.

“You may call me Professor McGonagall,” she said to them, thoughts not showing in any way and only because of her years of experience. “Anything else will not be acceptable and will result in punishment.”

None of them paled at the mention of punishment, as they would later on in their schooling. Punishment in Hogwarts meant the Cruciatus Curse, a newly-created torture spell that taught students well in the lessons of respect and discipline. It was a purely Dark Arts spell and thus a little frowned upon in certain circles, but for the most part, was a good motivator for many a thing and useful enough to be legal.

“As you may have noticed, there are no Slytherins in this class. For those of you wondering about this, it is because the Water Arts are the polar opposite of the Fire Arts. People with an elemental specialization in Water are completely unable to preform Fire spells, and thus it is useless to teach them any. The other elements are Earth, Wind, Dark, and Light. Earth and Wind, Dark and Light are also opposites. However, no one can have an elemental affinity for Dark or Light. Despite this, Light and Dark are considered to be the most essential elements for their ability to change the four other elements' spells into something otherwise unattainable.

“The Fire-Dark combination spells produce the Hellfire Arts and the Fire-Light combination ones produce the Cleansing Arts. The Hellfire Arts, appropriately named, is a form of fire that takes on a more powerful guise. However, it is often uncontrollable and sometimes, in spells of a higher caliber, has some sentience. The Cleansing Arts are a branch that is used in a variety of ways. Such include several healing rituals and purification. Or cleaning, if you so wish.

“The other combinations for the Fire Arts are Fire-Earth, which makes the Lava Arts, and Fire-Wind, which is the Lightning Arts. Both of them are usually easier to cast than the Hellfire and Cleansing Arts. We will discuss all these combinations in later classes, and they are electives choices in your third year and after, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws included.

“Of course, all this will be taught in more detail in Professor Binns' Basics of Magic class.”

She paused, concentrating on the students' reactions intently and gathering information expertly on just who was a muggleborn and who was not. It was odd that Potter acted like a muggleborn, even if subtly with an outward mask of the purebloods' manner she often saw in the wizarding elite. Though he had been left with muggle relatives, something she had protested but eventually accepted grudgingly after Dumbledore's insistence, she had expected Petunia Dursley, being the sister of Potter's mother, to at least explain some of the magical world. It was as worrying as it was strange. Minerva made a mental note to check out the situation.

She continued, getting right into the lesson, “Now, the first Spirit, the general term for a god or goddess, we will study will be a low-ranking god. For those unaware of this, there are ranks for Spirits based on their power and the amount of abilities they have or can give. The ranks go from low to ultimate with medium and high between them. There are more levels between these four, such as medium-high and high-medium (which differ, though slightly). They are also organized into categories by what elemental they have control over. Each lives in one of seven different Realms outside of this one, the Earthly Realm, like the Inferno Realm, where Fire-based Spirits reside. But, that is not for this class.

“This first Spirit you will learn about is...”

Minerva started the first lesson of the year as she always did, the lecture just the same as the ones she did five, ten, more years ago. Though, instead of eying the whole class, her gaze kept straying to Potter and, to a lesser extent, the boy next to him.

Visions of Riddle haunted her from the corners of her mind, relentless and suddenly very similar to the present.

X

October 31, 1351

Ron was in the back of the library, hunched over a book on the Wind Arts, a subject he struggled in. He was only half concentrated on it, mind still going over thoughts of his family. His siblings were all Gryffindors and, being Slytherin, they had shunned him. It was an almost immediate reaction, seemingly instinctual, that hatred between Gryffindor and Slytherin. But, contrary to the beliefs of everyone around him, Ron knew it was a deeper matter than that. Pure and simple, it was them showing their true, darker nature. Their Gryffindor fellows more than allowed this, encouraging it with jeers and, with some, their silent by-standing.

One of the worst parts, though not totally unexpected, was the non-involvement of the Slytherins. Being from a well-known muggle-loving family that had been sorted into Gryffindor for generations, there was much prejudice from his own house. They had their own way of jeering, though. They often gave him cold shoulders, never helping in any situation. He had no doubt that they would not lift a finger even if he were on the floor dying.

Also, Ron could hear their cruel whispers behind his back and the sudden silence when he got too close. He often had visions of walking up to a whispering group of those bastards and confronting them. But, he knew, it would be useless. Slytherin retribution, he learned early on, was worse than the blunt, public Gryffindor style. It was a subtle thing with more far-reaching consequences, life-ruining if given the chance. Thus, he preferred not to provoke the sleeping viper.

He often hid like this these days, avoiding trouble, even though his mind demanded he take action. He placated it with thoughts of 'later' and 'their time will come,' but it still was not enough. One of these days he would snap, and that was a fact he felt deep in his soul.

Ron looked up from his book when he heard a noise, something unusual for being this far into the depths of the library. His expression darkened like storm clouds on the distant horizon at what he saw. Percy, the worst of his brothers, was coming around the corner, peering this way and that at all the books. The younger boy wished to remain unseen, but alas, it was not meant to be. Percy caught sight of familiar red hair out of the corner of his eye and immediately turned to learn his suspicions were correct. A slow, predatory grin spread across his lips, and he closed in on Ron like a shark scenting blood.

“Why, hello, Ronald,” he greeted, anticipation underlining his tone. The younger sibling decided to ignore him, hoping Percy would leave him alone after he received no reaction. Apparently, though, the older brother was in a mood to doggedly pursue the torment of his sibling. “Have we been hiding, traitor?”

Ron grit his teeth, the sound loud in the otherwise silent library section. Ever since his sorting into Slytherin, the other Weasley brothers had taken to calling him traitor and other such names, convinced that he had betrayed their family with a decision that the sorting hat had made. He calmly closed his book, knowing he would not get a chance to read it now that Percy had come over. He maintained a cool facade, unintentionally acting like the Slytherin he loathed to be. Percy, the second most vigilant of the Weasley clan (after Ron), noticed this, and it just further cemented his ideas of Ron.

“I have no need to talk to you, brother,” Ron announced, with a bit of a haughty attitude, something he had been slowly picking up from his housemates. After all, in the house of snake, one did well to blend in. The added 'brother' was a habitual thing, one he had not completely taken out of his vocabulary yet.

At this, Percy's anger, a typical Gryffindor inferno that grew rapidly, began to take over at this simple slip. He whispered harshly, as if there were people listening in, “Brother?”

He glared at Ron, his emotions clear as day, and then snorted. “You're just a Slytherin, a stain that could not even be considered a Weasley. You are no brother of mine!”

Though he had been expecting this, Ron was still, deep down, hurt at these words. It felt like Percy had stabbed him in the back and had left him to slowly bleed out. Even if he had saw this coming, even before his sorting, the younger Weasley felt like crying. Did familial bonds, the blood connecting them, mean nothing? Even after all these years, apparently it didn't matter. And for that, Ron would never forgive them.

Ron just barely managed to show nothing of his hurt, but his own rage still rose in response. It was a glacier, slow to gain momentum but all-encompassing in its destruction that lasted far longer than any fire. For now, it was still building, but when fully formed, it would wreak havoc upon its targets.

He stared at Percy for the longest moment, and it unnerved the older Weasley in its intensity and hidden promises.

“If I am no brother of yours,” Ron stated, and it was a matter-of-fact thing, undeniably true and without doubt, “then nothing shall save you. When your time comes, there will be no obligations holding me back, and I will laugh. I will laugh in your face at your pain.”

His own grin, far more malicious and vile, took a hold of his face, matching the expression in his eyes.

“Death will come for you,” he continued, “and it will not be swift.”

With that, Ron swiftly brushed by Percy, and the older male shivered, feeling as if Death itself had brushed its cold, cold hands against him, not yet able to take his soul but reminding him of his mortality all the same.

X

Ron, after wandering around for a bit after his encounter with Percy, decided to head toward the Great Hall when his stomach admonished him for neglecting it. He walked in quietly, moving the humongous door minimally in an attempt to not be noticed. It worked to an extent, as only a few heads turned in curiosity from seats nearest the entrance. However, all his work was undone the moment he sat at the Slytherin table.

It was crowded at this time, so Ron had no choice but to place himself near his yearmates. An unknown boy, perhaps a third year by the looks of him, leaned over to sneer at the Weasley as the younger male piled food unto his plate and tried to ignore the others.

“Back again, Weasley?” he asked with a mouthful of food, and it seemed a particularly obvious question to Ron. He didn't answer, preferring the idiot to realize the stupidity of his own question.

Draco Malfoy, three people down to Ron's left, perked up a bit at this. Malfoys had always had a feud with the Weasleys as long as anyone could remember, one that went far beyond conflicting elements and personalities (though that was part of it). Him, being a subscriber to this hatred, did what any Malfoy would have done: join in.

“Yes,” he drawled in that obnoxious, pompous way of his, “what are you doing here? You should be over there.”

He casually made a vague gesture toward the Gryffindor table, two tables in front of Malfoy. Percy, somehow sensing it or perhaps by poor fate, looked over with hawk eyes at that exact moment. The older boy sneered, hateful eyes locking with Ron's, then turned to his side to start a conversation with a fellow Gryffindor. The message was clear.

Have fun with them, because you're not worth my time.

The bitterness, already stewing within him, only grew at this. It showed in his voice as he told Malfoy, “You will get what's coming to you.”

The white haired boy flushed in anger, something he was sure to catch hell for later from the older Slytherins, who did not recommend public displays of emotion. “My father will hear of this!”

While not an idle threat, it was said in such a whine and highly overused, thus losing its potency. Ron's own threat was hollow at the moment, having no money or much power to back it up.

The Slytherins in that area were muttering to each other in the meanwhile. One, the older Greengrass sister, Ron thought, spat from down the table, “Traitor.”

All at once, the confrontation with Percy came back to him, all the rage and bone-deep hatred and, most of all, his inability to do anything about it. Suddenly not hungry anymore, he roughly pushed back his chair and stood up, a combined look of absolute loathing and sadness flashing briefly across his face. The Weasley knew he couldn't do this, show his weakness to these predators, but he needed to get away – from the Slytherins, from his family, from reality. It was all becoming too much too quickly, and he felt constricted, a tight pressure against his heart squeezing with all its might. Not daring to look at anyone, he swiftly left the Great Hall, eyes burning viciously with restrained tears the whole way.

X

After leaving, Ron had begun to wander around the castle, seeking and seeing nothing. His eyes were a bit glazed, immaterial visions dancing before him and taunting with nasty voices.

Poor, poor, little Ron. He can't do anything, can he?

Running away like a dog with its tail between its legs – such a coward.

Useless!

He started to mumble under his breath, talking back uselessly to them, mostly pleas for blessed silence. The sting of tears being held back began to get to him, and he, after realizing where he actually was, headed in the direction of the nearest bathroom. Luckily, it was one hardly ever used and would provide the perfect place to shame himself in private.

It was the only place he could go, even if the mere thought of it bothered him. It was a room with several stalls separated by walls with the only entrance to one as a lockable door. Inside each was a large, stone bowl, big enough to sit on, so that had runes carved all over it. It was designed to magically send off droppings to... wherever it was they went. They were appropriately named 'waste pots' and a new invention, only having been on the market since a few years ago.

They were expensive items, and the whole of the Weasley fortune could not buy even one. Hogwarts, as a whole, often reminded him of how pathetic his situation was. As it was, Ron and his family only went to the wizarding school because it was free to all magicals. Magic was a precious gift, after all, and with so few magicals, even including the muggleborns, many felt that as many of them as possible should be trained. This sort of thinking only made Ron feel worse at times.

The Weasley, upon arriving, immediately went to the stall furthest from the room's entrance. He sat down heavily on a waste pot, and the tears began to flow swiftly. He choked a sob down as, all at once, the images and thoughts of his inadequacy bombarded him again. He mumbled under his breath incoherent and broken phrases.

He continued for what seemed like hours, fading in and out of reality. Then suddenly, something disturbed him. It was the sound of heavy footsteps, too loud to possibly be human, and it left Ron highly confused. It was a welcome distraction, and knowing it wouldn't work if he stayed here, he got up, rubbing his face thoroughly to rid of the tears.

He opened the door, feeling as if it were necessary to do this quietly. He, as stealthily as he could, made his way to the room's entrance. He peered out cautiously, looking left first. It was when he looked right that he found the source of the disturbance – a troll. It was as alien an encounter as it was unexpected. He closed his eyes tightly then opened them, half expecting to find out it was an illusion cooked up by his exhausted brain. When the troll was still there, Ron paled drastically. Merlin, was this a disaster. Ron knew if he went head to head with a troll – in Hogwarts! – he most definitely wouldn't survive.

Then, Harry Potter arrived.

It was as if the boy had appeared out of thin air, so sudden as it was. He stood in front of the monster, staring it down with blazing eyes. Despite the odds being against Potter, in that moment, Ron fully believed the other male could do it. Proving this, Potter pulled out his wand, pointed it at the troll, and conquered. The fiery lance that appeared above black hair was utterly awe-inspiring. It was poetry in motion, that spell, as it shot toward the troll and even as the troll was destroyed messily. Ron's jaw dropped involuntarily at the display of magic far beyond what Potter should know.

His moment of stupor was interrupted as Potter spotted him, a stormy and foreboding expression taking a hold of his face. It terrified Ron like nothing had before. Potter opened his mouth to say something but was stopped when they both heard the sound of people approaching, not yet in sight but soon to be so. Before he knew what was happening, the other boy had grabbed Ron and dragged him to a shadowy corner of the bathroom.

The conversation over the troll between the people they hid from that followed was lost to Ron, who remained a bit comatose. He did, however, notice when Potter moved, and reality reasserted itself all at once as he felt the wand pushing harshly over his heart. He looked down to see its red glow and knew that with one wrong move, death would be close at hand. Potter leaned in and whispered into Ron's ear a command, the threat in it very obvious. In response, he nodded his assent frantically.

And even as he next ran away from that monstrous face, a strange feeling mixed with Ron's terror. It was a contradicting feeling of connection with Potter. In a way, that scared him more than the boy himself.

X

November 3, 1351

Lately, Hermes had been noticing Harry Potter more and more. It was a gradual thing, below his notice until recently. It was more than just a calculating notice, emotions beginning to tie themselves in. He didn't want to but could nevertheless feel an intense longing, a craving to be noticed by Harry in return.

Having had no friends or anything of the sort growing up, Hermes had hoped that Hogwarts would be better, a place where he could flourish. He was heavily disappointed when the truth of the situation came out. It jaded him just that little bit more every time a passing student, random yet judging, called him a mudblood or something similar.

Despite all the wrongness in Harry's presence, that indescribable niggling in the back of the mind that warned of the impending danger, Hermes somehow felt he was the light at the end of a seemingly never-ending tunnel. It was a soul-deep kinship that he felt with Harry, confusing yet welcome all the same. He didn't know why exactly this was, as they seemed so different. Yet, the dark poison inside of Hermes, born of all that had happened to him – Stone him! Stone him! his mind screamed – and what was still going on, whispered that yes, they had something in common. They both held that same rage, that nasty and vile thing that urged with a wicked smile. For the most part, he ignored it, terrified of that uncontrollable monster and its sheer potential, and only when in his dormitory late at night, nursing mental wounds, did he pay any attention to it. Here in this hidden world, separate yet just the same as its non-magical counterpart, it thrived.

Harry was a Siren's call to Hermes, and thus he could not resist making his move at long last. He was currently searching the library, and trying to avoid other students, for Harry. It took a while, as the library was huge and Harry had chosen to sit in a shadowy section hidden deep in the back. Hermes saw that he was intently studying some book and was suddenly hesitant to approach, contemplating turning around to head back to solitude and loneliness. He shuffled around a bit, doubts and brief bravery warring with each other.

Then, Harry looked up with glowing eyes the color of the infamous Killing Curse, the darkness making them seem all the brighter while concealing the rest of the boy in an eerie manner. Hermes' prepared speech, a grand proposition for friendship (or, at the very least, a passing alliance), faded from memory the second their eyes met, leaving him silent and shy. Their gazes connected for several long minutes, the Granger unable to tear away. After forever, Harry blinked, and the other boy was able to glance to the side.

“Yes?” Harry asked in that rough tone that Hermes was jealous of, the one that made every word sound like a growl, surprising for an eleven year old yet wholly fitting.

“I, uh, I...” Hermes said then stuttered a bit more before stopping himself. He took a deep breath, gathering the last shreds of his courage together.

“I need some help with the Fire Arts,” he said slowly, as to not mess up again. There was a moment of silence before Hermes dared to gaze at Harry another time, and the look in his eyes for that brief second left Hermes shaken. It was a wild, beastly gleam, full of that beast so close to the surface in the boy in some remembered moment, and it made Harry seem like a demon in human skin. Hermes had once heard that eyes were the windows to the soul, and now he saw the truth in this. His form shuddered lightly as his eyes darted away swiftly.

“Sit down then,” Harry said, voice just a tad more rough than usual. When he spoke again, it was back to normal, “What sort of help?”

Hermes timidly sat down as requested, half in amazement that this was actually working out. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He tried a few more times, Harry patiently waiting in an uncharacteristic move, before he could finally get out, “I have some questions about the spell McGonagall showed us yesterday.”

After that, the two stayed in the library until closing time, as it was a day off from classes. They discussed all of Hermes' questions. All the while, Harry didn't change from his normal, distant behavior, but the other boy felt that something was changing between them. Later, when lying in his bed, a smile, small and genuine, formed on his lips, reluctant to leave. Things were finally starting to look up.

X

December 2, 1351

Ron was making his way toward the library. He was searching for Potter and had heard through gossip that the boy was usually spotted there. The Weasley, after many weeks of debating with himself, had come to the conclusion that he needed to say something to Potter about that October's run-in with the troll. The threat still lingered in the back of his mind, forever reminding him of the potential in Potter for violence that simmered just below the surface. Ron tried to ignore his instinctive fear, his pride demanding nothing less. The lessons his mother taught him also demanded something: giving his thanks to Potter. He wished she hadn't, for he didn't want to, in his conscious mind, to face Potter again.

As he opened the doors to the library, Ron told himself it was necessary. He ignored the small part of him that whispered of the strange connection he felt with the boy. He didn't need to rely on anyone.

It took a while to find Potter, and Ron finally found him in the History section (a place few ever went). He sat with that Hermes Granger boy from Ravenclaw. It was an odd scene to the Weasley's eyes. Potter never associated with anyone, as far as Ron knew. He stood there awkwardly for a bit, half hoping the other two wouldn't notice him. Potter, apparently the more observant of the two, looked up from his books and parchment to the third male. He stared at Ron with that gaze he always had, the one that darkly told of horrifying deeds committed and enjoyment in having done so, the one that chilled to the bone anyone comprehending of it, and tilted his head, rather like a wolf surveying a rabbit with its legs broken. This didn't make it any easier for Ron, but he felt paralyzed in the barbed grasp of that stare.

The moment was soon broken as Potter looked away, as if dismissive of his presence. Ron remained tense in the aftermath, still quite aware that a predator was in his midst. Before he could do anything, escape or otherwise, Potter, without once glancing up again, asked, “Yes?”

“I...” the Weasley started then licked his lips in an unintended, nervous gesture. His eyes darted from his feet to Granger before swiftly returning. He wished Potter was alone, as he was sure the boy would not want a witness to this conversation. However, he had enough sense not to mention anything about the Ravenclaw and could only hope this wouldn't go horribly wrong. His long-standing promise to himself, a vow he would never forget, popped into his thoughts just then, and it gave him the drive to continue. “I wanted to...”

Here he struggled with himself, an internal battle he attempted not to show and only partially succeeding.

He would rise above his family, above this world. He would show them that Ron Weasley conquered.

“...to thank you,” he finally finished. There was a moment of strained, strangling silence then he elaborated slowly, “For... October.”

As soon as he had said that, Potter looked over sharply, narrowed green eyes on Ron's face and immediately pulling out his soul through his eyes. It was an invasive, foreign thing, and the Weasley jerked back in an involuntary, aborted motion. Granger did not once look up or otherwise interact, but Ron could see the slight smirk curling his lips.

“Mentioning that,” Potter spoke in a whisper filled with a warning to be heeded with care, having finished ripping out Ron's soul and digesting it much like a fairytale creature painted in the vile shades of evil, “would be... inadvisable.”

You saw nothing, Potter whispered into Ron's ear like a lover, one that was a demon donning stolen human skin. It was a cunning imitation of normality and sanity, but one with rips and tears revealing the true nature of of something damned by Nature herself.

The vision of Potter wavered in front of the Weasley for a split second, flickering between reality and pure insanity cloaked expertly. The images abruptly overlapped and melded, leaving Ron with bile rising up his throat and a creeping panic stalking in the shadows of his mind.

“I didn't tell anyone,” he got out quickly, not knowing how he did so but grateful nevertheless. “I won't, I swear.”

Potter sought out the validity of his words, once again through Ron's eyes, and seemed to find something satisfactory there.

“Good,” was all the boy said, everything he needed to convey in that one word. Ron recognized it for what it was, and though he couldn't relax – and felt he could never do so before this demon so above the Earthly Realm – now, the bile and panic receded. Potter focused again on the book on the table, this time the dismissal meant. Ron did not read further into it, taking the opportunity to collect the shattered pieces of himself. He left as fast as he could.

X

May 30, 1352

“Yes, yes, Master shall get what He desires. Yes, very soon indeed. All there is left to do is...” A short silence and an unhinged grin. “I shall get it for Him, and He shall be very pleased... Rewards – yes, yes, yes! – rewards for His loyal servant.”

A deep frown in another moment of silence. “But, the obstacles! How to rid myself of them... How, how, how!”

A howl of rage, that of a mindless animal discovering its prey to be gone. “A plan! I need a plan! What about... No, no, no, that won't do at all.”

Bony hands tangling in short brown hair, likely an unconscious gesture. “Maybe that... No, not that. Maybe I could, maybe...”

More growls of frustration. “Master, what am I to do?”

Quirrell, the current Light Arts professor at Hogwarts, was pacing in his office, the time long past sunset and his last class of the day. Abruptly, he stopped and turned sharply to stride toward his desk. He, with a certain desperation and shaking hands, reached out to try to open one of its drawers. He failed at first, hands getting in the way of it, as unstable as they were. He then forced himself to not exactly calm himself, but nevertheless stand still with hands that steadily stopped shaking. He impatiently tried to open the drawer again after their trembling fell to an acceptable level.

He pulled it open with a force that almost ripped the drawer from its place, reaching inside to grasp a well-worn piece of parchment. Quirrell almost tore it with his hastiness but managed not to out of reverence for what it was – a letter from his Master. Well, not exactly his Master, the letter having been written and sent by another of His servants on His pre-defeat orders. His Master was a very intelligent man, Quirrell knew for sure, to be able to make such plans for all possible outcomes in the future. It was but one of many reasons he adored Him so and would follow his Master to the ends of the earth.

Quirrell smoothed out the letter and read its message, despite having memorized the words a long time ago. He mouthed them silently as he read them again.

Q,

The King is to arrive soon. Your help is needed to gather the food necessary for the feast. It is located in the Storage Room for now. I suspect the Rebel will move it in spite to prevent the King's coming. The Rebel is a cunning one indeed.

If it is moved, the food will be with the Rebel, for he keeps his possessions close. I need you to talk to the Rebel. I am sure he will see reason once the situation is explained. He needs a new sword, as we all know, since the last one was broken in that last battle. If you take a new one to him, perhaps he will be more willing to give up the food. We can only hope for the best.

P

It was, of course, all in code, only His servants being able to read it – what a nifty spell! – and even if they managed to break the spell, the words would only confuse them. Quirrell once again marveled at his Master's brilliance. However, he was interrupted when there came a knock at the door. He looked up sharply to it with a cunning gaze. He put away the letter slowly and muttered a spell to lock the drawer away from prying eyes. He paused for a brief second, visibly putting away his madness, tucking it away on a shelf for later retrieval. He was not so far gone that he would not recognize that this was the right time to do so.

He straightened as the knock sounded again and once more put on the mask he needed, becoming Poor, Foolish, Stuttering Quirrell to all the world. Though it was such a shame he couldn't reveal his true personality, he delighted in fooling them all, the sense of accomplishment making him feel every bit of his superiority. A grin of crazed joy wanted to make itself known as he turned the knob to face the intruder, but he smothered it like a determined murderer in the night.

Quirrell finally opened the door after a third knock to reveal Dumbledore standing behind it with a happy little smile and his blue eyes sparkling.

“Why, hello, my dear boy!” Dumbledore immediately started off with in his usual cheerful way. Quirrell greeted the old wizard and asked what he needed of the professor in his quiet stutter.

“I just wanted to request something of you, a simple task really,” the headmaster responded. He then asked the other man if he could take over the Water Arts classes for a day, as Trelawny was apparently a bit under the weather. Quirrell agreed to take on the task, as he had only one class that day that didn't conflict any Water Arts ones. It was what any good professor would do, and of course he didn't mind. After this, Dumbledore left, exiting with an expression of gratitude. Quirrell's smile fell the very instant the door closed, as did his mask. He unshelved that part of him almost full to the brim with insanity, the ever loyal and fanatic servant taking over.

The man was tempted to get out the letter again but restrained himself, knowing he had other things to do. Like planning on how to get the item required for his Master's return.

Quirrell would get the Philosopher’s Stone, even if it cost him his life.

X

END of Fragments of Yesterday I

NOTES:

The different Arts: Magical spells are divided into six elements: Fire, Water, Earth, Wind, Dark, and Light. Fire and Water, Earth and Wind, Dark and Light are polar opposites and cannot be paired together. Elements can be separate or can be combined for different, often more powerful effects. Th combinations are: Fire and Wind, Lightning; Fire and Earth, Lava; Fire and Dark, Hellfire; Fire and Light, Cleansing; Wind and Water, Ice/Snow; Wind and Dark, Illusions/Object Curses; Wind and Light, Wards; Water and Dark, Binding; Water and Light, Sight (telling the future, past, and/or present); Water and Earth, Plant; Earth and Dark, Soul/Death; Earth and Light, Healing. The reason for changing the magic system to this, and as to why they use Spirits for casting, will become more apparent later on (most likely in the Narutoverse part). That and I like it better.

The different Realms: There are seven Realms that make up the world in this story. Spirits reside in the other Realms besides the Earthly Realm, where most non-Spirits reside. Each Spirit has an element and has to live in that corresponding Realm. They are as follows: Earth, Death Realm; Wind, Tempest Realm; Water, Depth Realm; Fire, Inferno Realm; Dark, Abyss Realm; Light, Shining Realm. They all vary in the level of danger as well as the few non-Spirit creatures living in each one. Each Realm has an Old One, an ancient entity from the beginning of time, assigned to it. The Earthly Realm is considered neutral grounds, and thus Spirits cannot reside there, only lend their powers through the barriers separating the Realms. More will be explained about this (especially the Old Ones) in great detail in later chapters. The Realms themselves do not play much of a role, but the Old Ones do.

Snape not being the head of Slytherin: Snape, if he was to be the head of Slytherin, would have to be the Water Arts professor. He, in canon, is, to anyone not blind, deaf, and mute, the Potions professor. I knew I needed him as the Potions professor for one of the scenes in this chapter. Besides that, potions are his passion as much as the Dark Arts. However, if he were in the Dark Arts position, more suspicion would be upon him – not something he needs (being a spy and all). I added Trelawny as the head of Slytherin (yes, I know, very unfitting) because I needed a Water Arts professor and she is a Seer (and thus her element is Water, Sight being a Water-Light combination). Trelawny, though you'll see little of her, will be OOC because of this. Plus, I wanted a canon character to be in that position.

Quirrell being the Light Arts professor: If I have the magic system set up the way I do, Voldemort would be against Light Arts while favoring Dark Arts. It makes more sense for the cursed teacher position (which will not be changed from canon) to be the Light Arts one since he doesn't want the future generations to learn about the element he loathes so. This way, they get more exposure to Dark than Light, as the teaching is scattered, and he can convince more to join his side. Also, Quirrell would be less scrutinized in this position.

Professor Binns' Basics of Magic class: Basics of Magic is much better than just History of Magic. It never made sense to me why there was a class on history but never any on subjects like English and general, everyday magic things like culture. Basics of Magic covers all those and more, wrapping up what could have been several classes into one.

“Minor element of the Spirits, show your fiery form.”: This is just a simple spell to conjure a bit of the element asked for. Just replace “fiery” with something else and you'll get another element. For example, “show your watery form” would conjure a hovering ball of water.

“The hawk, the vessel of the mighty Sun God, comes on lighted wings. As the great fire in the sky rises in the east, you are awakened. Your slumber during the darkness has been cast aside! Glide forth as the messenger to these lowly mortals. Harm not the innocents and let them see your magnificently shining form!”: This is a spell taking power from the Sun god in ancient Egyptian mythology: Ra. Supposedly, he is associated with the hawk. The sun if a giant ball of fire and thus I felt the hawk in the spell would have to be made of fire.

TBL: Hope you enjoyed it. None of those italic interrupters in this one. You can count on them being in the next chapter, though! XD Once again, god/goddess info is taken from Wikipedia. Correct me on anything if you feel you need to.

The few. The proud. The strong. The reviewers. Be a reviewer today. Help your writer.

1/29/2012

EDIT (6/5/2012): Updated and added things for AFF version; nothing major.
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