Not sure if I'm allowed to make suggestions but... Anyone want to do:
Hagrid v.s Gilderoy Lockhart
Mad-eye Moody v.s Bellatrix Lestrange
Weasley Twins v.s Severus Snape
Dolores Umbridge v.s Quirinus Quirrell

 

Hagrid roaming around the Pokemon world, not giving a fuck, training vicious beasties only he could love, when he comes upon Giovanni doing something douchebaggy to a baby Pokemon.

 

So I was just browsing the challenges list by Jibril (which needs to be updated, btw), and got an idea for the Bill Weasley vs Fleur Delacour one by Peace. I had some time on my hands, and hammered out a scene. I did not have time to review it, though. Hope you guys like it.

Warning: Since Fleur is involved, there is some sex in this. Quite a bit of sex, I'd say. This pretty much qualifies as a PWP.

Edit: Zenzao has commented that this piece has rapey vibes. It does. Intentionally so, as a slight homage to the fanfiction trope of the veela allure.

--

It was a hot summer day. Bill Weasley wiped a drop making its lonely way down the back of his neck just before it disappeared into the neck hole of his shirt. He was sitting in the kitchen of Shell Cottage, wearing a thin tee shirt and a pair of shorts, trying to work on some documents which required his attention. He'd tried to make this Sunday free, but sometimes the nature of his work meant that it couldn't be helped.

But right now, his work was the last thing on his mind. His eyes were fixed on the lovely derriere of his beautiful wife, who was on the counter, back to him, chopping some vegetables. Every movement was elegant, seemingly calculated to waste as little energy as possible, yet Bill couldn't tear his eyes away. Something in the simple movement of her back muscles as she worked was winding him up.

Fleur was a veela. Well, a quarter-veela to be accurate, but having experienced the sexual appetite of a quarter-veela, Bill had no delusions about being able to handle a pureblooded one.

She suddenly dropped something on the ground, and bent over to pick it up. Bill's mouth went dry as that lovely derriere he had been admiring presented itself to him. It wasn't big. It wasn't small. It was just right. It was as if it had been made for his hands, and at that moment, his hands were itching to latch onto that delectable bum and pinch it hard! He wanted to slap that ass, and slap it red. We wanted to hear her squeal as he swatted her ass again and again.

Mind made up, Bill got up from his chair. His dick was crying for some pussy, and he would have it right now. His hands would find that ass, knead it till it was raw, then tie her up to their bed, and have his wicked way with her.

He got behind her, his hands sliding around her waist and his face finding its way into her hair. His erection was pressing against her derriere.

"Not now, Bill," came her voice distractedly. "I 'ave some work to do after zis."

Bill's head jerked back, though his hands remained where they were. "What?" he asked. He had certainly not comprehended her speech. Did she just say no to sex?

"I zaid not now, Bill," she replied, gently prying his hands off her waist, turning around and pushing him away. She was smiling kindly at him, but not naughtily. "I really 'ave to get zome work done today. My boss will be angry if 'e doesn't get it by tomorrow."

"But Flower," began Bill, "It's not much. Just a quickie, that's it."

Fleur laughed gently, a naughty gleam entering her eyes. Oh, how Bill loved it when she looked at him like that... "No can do, lover boy," she replied, her words jerking Bill out of his daydreams. "It's never a quickie wiz me, remember?" She winked at him before turning back to the cutting board, leaving Bill staring at her chemise clad behind.

This was not good.

Scratch that.

This was unacceptable! And there was just one way of resolving this issue. Bill was too horny for anything else. This would have to be done by the wand. The wooden one first, and then the biological one. He set out to get it from the bedside.

It took him all of fifteen seconds to get it. He came back to find her in the same position as he had left her, diligently working on the chopping board. But this time, instead of simply using his eyes, he lifted his wand and pointed it between her shoulder blades.

"Fleur," he said, a slight quaver entering his voice, "will you yield, or will I have to use my wand?"

"What?" she asked, turning her head. Her eyes widened as she saw Bill, wand out, pointing at her. He wasted no time. "Incarcerous!"

She dove out of the way, rolling on the floor before throwing the knife in her hands at him. A wave of his wand transfigured it into a flock of birds which flew out of the window, and he fired a full-body bind curse on her. A shield suddenly sprang out of nowhere, and he saw that she had her wand in her hands.

"Where did you keep that?" he asked, his breathing quickening.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she asked, her voice sultry.

Bill wasted no time, blasting a trio of stunners at her. She gracefully dodged one, and batted one away, leaving the third one to hit a pot, which clanged loudly as it fell to the floor. She retaliated with a leg locker curse, her jaw set and her expression determined.

Bill blocked it and threw out another incarnaceous as she began her own barrage. A stunner, a body bind and a leg locker. Rinse, repeat. He smirked. She was a fighter. That's what he loved about his flower. She was a fighter, and she was ferocious. Both in bed and out of it.

But not today. Today, he would be the master, an she would be the slave.

"Incarcerous!" she yelled, and Bill swatted it aside, bringing his own wand up. A swish later, and the kitchen utensils began to fly towards her, transfiguring themselves to ropes. "Not so fast, my love," he said, a smirk twisting his lips.

She frowned for a second, before flashing him a confident grin. Just as the ropes were about to bind her, she screamed out some spell he couldn't catch, and the ropes burnt themselves to cinder.

Veela. A shiver ran through him. Of course she'd use fire.

"You won't catch me, Bill," she said, a smile stretching her lips.

"Don't be too sure of that, my love," replied Bill, excitement thrumming through his veins. He was sure that his erection was just about to burst through his shorts, but he didn't care. It wasn't just about sex anymore. It was about domination. And he would dominate over her.

He began firing spells rapidly. She retaliated in kind. Pans, pots and forgotten documents flew through the air, transfiguring themselves into ropes, harnesses and in one notable case, a whip as magic saturated the air. Adrenalin flooded his body as he caught sight of her, moving her wand through a hail of spells and objects. A wind sprang up in the confines of Shell Cottage and the table suddenly began to move towards him. A sharp jab of his wand and it was cut in two. He pointed his wand at her and suddenly paused as his eyes focussed on her.

The remnants of his curse had hit her chemise, and it had ripped along one side, exposing part of her breast, but just stopping short of the nipple. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed at the sight.

A blasting curse from her brought him back into reality and he jumped back. Not a moment too soon, as a black scorch mark appeared on the floor. His eyes narrowed. Kid gloves off. He fired another couple of cutters at her and leapt to the side as she retaliated likewise. Her face was an animalistic snarl, clearly visible through the fine powder of destroyed utensils and walls.

She jumped to the side, and a large rip sounded where her chemise caught on a nail. She turned to face him, and Bill temporarily lost his reason as her perfect body tuned to face him. Naked, flushed, and breasts heaving, it was all he could do to concentrate through the messages his "wand" was sending.

"Incarcerous," she yelled, features appearing strangely distorted through the dusty air.

He blocked.

"Petrificus totalus!" he retaliated, before noticing a cutting curse heading his way. He dove out of the way, but it caught his shorts and his erection sprang free of its constraints.

"I zee what effect zis ees having on you, mon cheri," said Fleur, her voice suddenly becoming more animalistic. Bill ignored her, though his heart was pounding with both adrenalin and testosterone.

He jabbed his wand at her, and a bolt of electricity lashed out, leaving an angry welt on her skin. She howled with pain, and before Bill could understand what had happened, he was defending against lashes raining down from him on all sides. He grinned. Time to end this.

A curse left his lips, causing a ball of fire to radiate outwards in all directions, destroying the invisible whips. He turned to face her, and gasped.

Feathers had begun appearing out of her back, and her features had started growing decidedly more animalistic. She couldn't transform completely, but this was enough for him to understand that she was a slave to her instincts now.

Bill tutted. That wouldn't do, now, would it? He waved his wand in a complicated pattern, causing all the debris nearby to close in on her. She let out an avian cry and jabbed her wand at it, causing it to implode. But Bill wasn't done yet, not by a long shot. He shot spell after spell at her, designed to incapacitate her which she kept dodging as she came closer to him. Her wand was held loosely in her right hand, though she didn't use it any more. Her attacks now mostly consisted of conjured balls of fire and sonic shockwaves.

She suddenly appeared in front of him, elongated fingernails poised for a strike. But Bill was faster. "Incarcerous!" he yelled. And this time, the spell struck true. Ropes slithered around her and bound her limbs together. Her face retained its animalistic qualities, and she was trembling in fury, but she was trapped. And she knew it.

"Now, ma cherie," said Bill, sitting down next to her. "Look what you made me do." He raised a finger to stroke her cheek, and she snarled at him, completely impotent. Bill snatched his finger back, making an expression of fake shock. "Is that the way you treat your master? Now, that just won't do, will it?"

A few deft strokes of his wand later, and she was face-down on the floor, her ass exposed to him. He had removed the ropes from her lower half and paralysed her muscles.

"You know what happens to veela who don't obey their masters?" he whispered in her ear. She snarled in response, shaking impotently. Her rage was writ plain on her face. "They get punished."

And he smacked her ass. Hard.

She roared.

Another smack.

She roared again.

His fingers disappeared into her folds and came out wet. "Merlin, you're fucking wet!" he exclaimed, waving his fingers tantalizingly under her nose."You're a fucking pervert, aren't you? All this is turning you on. You just want more and more, don't you?"

She growled at him, words forming in French and being thrown away to the wind.

"English!" he barked, slapping her ass again.

She shouted at him in French.

"English!" he shouted, his hand hitting her ass again.

"Bill!" she shouted out finally. "You let me go this, ahhh..." His fingers had slipped into her, and he'd found her sensitive spot. He rubbed it in circles."

"Mon dieu," she moaned, and then squealed as he hit her ass again.

"Not French!" he said to her, slapping her ass again, his fingers leaving their dancing to find the flesh of her ass. She snapped her teeth together, and Bill saw (and the colour fled his face as he realised) that her teeth were just inches from his rock hard cock.

"Ah, you just don't understand when I teach you gently, do you?" he grinned savagely as his heart slowed from the shock he had just got. He waved his wand, and she was suddenly on her back again. Her features had got even more avian, had that been possible. He could see both fury and lust glinting in her eyes.

Another flick of his wand and a feather appeared in his hand. Fleur paled as she saw it. He could see her muscles trembling under the thick ropes as she tried her hardest to break through. His grin widened. She was very ticklish.

He began working with the feather on her feet. He slowly, but surely moved it from her feet up to her ankles, and watched her face for any signs of laughter. Her eyes, bright and avian, followed the feather, and as it reached a sensitive spot, she gave a sharp squeal.

He turned her over and slapped her ass.

"No noise!" he scolded. "No noise at all! I'm the one giving commands here. Yours is just to obey."

He stole a glance at her pussy and his cock practically throbbed with lust. She was dripping like there was no tomorrow. He ground his teeth together. He was in control. He was the one deciding what to do. Her pussy had nothing to do with his decisions. Nothing at all. She would just-

And suddenly, the ropes gave an almighty rip as her claws scratched through them and she whirled upon him. Bill's wand rose up instinctively and a shield formed as she opened her mouth and a sonic wave smashed at it. She waved her wand, and was suddenly mobile again from the waist down. Bill stood up, and jumped back as she clawed at his chest, tearing his shirt open.

"Incarcerous!" yelled Bill. She swiped her wand and negated his spell. "Stupefy!" Again, the same thing. "Rictusempra!" Blocked.

"Petrificus totalus!" she yelled, and Bill blocked it. However, he had not anticipated her lunging at him from nowhere, and was unprepared for supporting the weight of a veela. Both of them fell down, and Bill lost his wand. And then suddenly, there was pressure on his wrists and ankles, and he found himself lying spreadeagled on the ground, his limbs secured by invisible ropes. His wife was straddling his waist, a peculiar grin on her face. Her breasts were heaving as if she'd just run a marathon, and her lower lips were practically drooling on his abs.

And before he could really comprehend what was going on, she slapped him. His head jerked, but she grabbed it and kissed him. Her tongue invaded his mouth and Bill could do nothing but just go along with the flow. And suddenly she separated her face from his, and her fingers closed around his neck in a vice-like grip. Her right hand rose into the air, and Bill closed his eyes.

Slap! Slap!

She was slapping him again and again, and just as Bill thought that he must cry out, her lips found his and they were kissing again, deep and passionate. His face was red, and he was sure his cheek was swollen, but Bill couldn't care. He kissed her back ferociously until she stopped and reached behind her. Bill sighed as she grabbed him and began stroking him slowly.

"You zaid, mon amour," she began, her voice throaty, her accent heavy, "that I was a pervert, didn't you. Well, look at zis." She squeezed and a slight, almost inaudible moan came from his mouth. "Looks like zomeone is enjoying eet more zan 'e should."

She kept stroking him, and Bill couldn't help but begin moving his hips slightly with the motion of her hand.

She leaned down a little, breasts hanging above him. "You like zis, don't you Bill?" she whispered huskily.

"Yes," breathed Bill. Oh God, this was almost torture. He had been the one dominating him, but now-

Slap!

"Don't talk until you're given permission, get it?" she said. "I asked you a question, I did not tell you to speak." Bill nodded, gritting his teeth against the pain. His cheek was raw.

"Poor baby," she crooned, stroking his cheek with one hand as her other hand continued its ministrations on his cock. "Your cheek hurts, doesn't it?" Her avian features had begun fading now, but her dripping had only intensified. She bent over until her lips were on his red cheek and latched on to it.

Bill groaned and turned his face towards hers, consequences be damned. And suddenly his lips found hers, and they began kissing passionately, fervently. Her hands left his cock and held his face as they kissed, and suddenly she moved, and he was inside her.

By the Gods, she was wet. Sopping wet. He moved his hips, and she moaned into his mouth as he went deeper into her. And then her lips weren't on his anymore, and she began bouncing on him, crying out every time. Her moans spurred him on, and he began thrusting harder and harder. His hands and feet began straining the bonds, and his breathing became ragged. They were fucking like animals.

Suddenly, he broke free of his bonds. They just vanished. One moment they were there, and the next they weren't. The moment his brain caught up with him, he acted. He reached up, grabbed her waist, and rolled over. He kept thrusting, and Fleur didn't seem to mind as her ankles locked behind him. She was moaning and screaming like there was no tomorrow, and Bill knew that he couldn't hold on much longer. Her fingernails were digging into his skin and he was certain they had drawn blood. He didn't care.

And then her fingers tightened on his shoulders, and her walls around his cock. She began writhing and shaking uncontrollably, shouting out words in French. That pushed him over the edge, and he grunted as he came, gripping her thrashing body hard. It was out of this world, and Bill had to almost fight to remain conscious. He was aware only of the sensations flowing through his body and the emptying of his balls.

And then it was over. The only sound was their ragged breaths, and the only thing he could feel were her breasts against his chest and her pussy around him.

"Mon dieu, Bill," she gasped at last.

"My God," he agreed. He raised his face to find her grinning at him naughtily. Her fingers were making circles against his chest as she said:

"Round one. International duels have five rounds, mon cheri. Are you up for Round Two?"

 

While I can't fault the quality of your writing, for it is indeed well spun words by and large, I also cannot shake the rape vibe at the start. Sure, she eventually gives as good as she gets, but uh, yeah.

Dark Lord Publishing studios proudly presents, a Fight Club Challenge by director Zenzao, with executive producer Peace......

Bill Weasley vs The Mummy
part I - Who, what, why, where?​

The chair creaked like a rusted faucet as he leaned back and stifled a yawn behind his left hand.

A pair of matching thumps followed as it settled to the cold floor again, and he dug at his eyes with the heels of each palm until his vision felt fuzzy enough to convince him he was indeed hallucinating. One of the goblins - Igh’ruhk, most likely - had finally spiked his firewhiskey. It was the only answer that made sense; the hedge-witch before him, barely more than a squib, could not possibly be real.

Yet there she sat prim as a rose, back ramrod straight, brows set in determination and button nose scrunched, fingers faintly twitching as if eager to swat at something.

The song on the wireless buzzed into another strange ballad that would have driven his mum sparse, something vaguely Germanic in its roots this time, and he pushed back from the table to stand up, walk over, and fiddle with the tuner idly in distraction - give him irate hobs, incensed veelas, and would-be dark enchanters over the uninformed, fresh-faced inquisitors and treasure seekers like her nine times out of ten.

He could always floo-call on his younger brother Charlie and send a Norwegian Ridgeback to handle the difficult issues. A faint, toothy grin spread across his lips in memory of his going-away celebration and subsequent divorce from his ex-wife.

But this?

Bill’s grin dissolved as he reached up to rub at the back of his neck where a knot the size of a galleon was forming, brushing the dragontooth earring dangling from his right earlobe, and he blew out his breath in a rush.

"Look, ma'am," he finally responded. He shut off the buzzing device and turned around to face her, unable to miss the change in her now standing stance that he knew all too well - dear Fleur tended to assume the same whenever she felt particularly stubborn, arms crossed just beneath the bust, thunderous scowl predicting the weather ahead. He relaxed just a little with the knowledge that this woman at least couldn't chuck a raging fireball at his groin.

In the momentary lull between casual observation and continuing, however, she snatched the prerogative away from him.

"Now see here, Mr. Weasley, I will not be 'looked’ into anything! The rude garden gnomes in the lobby directed me to your office specifically, and with rather more bitterness than I think the occasion warranted! I have tried several other locations throughout this Wizarding Britain to little avail, and I have braved worse than their scowls to do it!"

Bill winched at her misspoken term, perfectly understanding of why she had arrived on his doorstep. "Goblins," he intruded in a fierce whisper over her tirade of self-righteous indignation.

She blinked like an owl blinded by a sudden flash of light and drew back slightly. "I beg your pardon?

“The host of Gringotts where we stand are Goblins. Gnomes are scruffy imps that like to hole up in old boots and terrorize gardens throughout the British Isles.” Before she could utter anything else likely to get him killed, he added, "With all due respect, ma'am, I'm a curse breaker. I don't do treasure hunts in the middle of the Egyptian desert, or the African Sahara, or the Gobi or any of the other famous searing sands, be they yellow, gray, red, or white. Gringotts has a wonderful search team you can hire to locate any lost tombs, and I recommend the Egyptian branch highly. I can floo them myself to save you the difficult of departure and transcontinental flight."

The younger woman regained her temerity with a huff. “As I have tried to no avail long before coming here!” She drew the faded parchment from her purse anew and waved it at him like a ruler. “No one in the magical community is interested in this map, Mr. Weasley, and I can hardly go to parliament with it! They laughed uproariously at the notion of Hamunaptra and sent me on my merry way!”

Her expression wavered just a moment as her voice quieted, glancing toward the door of his office. “Ever since I have felt a deep unease. I fear I am being followed.”

Bill knew what was coming before the words even spilled from her mouth like a broken treasure urn dumping its shiny goods. He exhaled and slumped down to his seat.

“Gringotts is the last location I expect I may find answers to this inquiry! If I must hire goblins-” her voice cracked for a moment over the term, as if not quite able to accept that she had uttered it seriously, “then I will do so. I trust that they also offer a reasonable security force?”

Merlin’s balls, he swore to himself, taking in the vulnerable expression she had transitioned into like a master metamorphmagus. You never could resist the doe-eyed ones. Even Fleur in her downtime, those little glimpses of flaw beneath the hard exterior.

He sat upright, drumming the fingers of his left hand out of rhythm along the edge of his desk. Gradually a beat, a tune, began to echo as he keyed in the algorithm securing his secrets from prying eyes and prying hands.

The hedgewitch watched him in some fascination.

Like a snake charmer at work, lines of runes came to life, slithering this way and that, untangling, unknotting, freeing up a path amidst the pattern. His right hand slipped in between gaps to pry open a drawer here, a drawer there. He fished out an assortment of tiny leathery pouches of no discernible difference and shut the desk tight. When he was done his fingers slowed, a different ballad tapping out, and the runes stirred back toward their complex inner-outer dance.

A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek as he smiled at her with that toothy grin again. “Come on, Miss Carnahan. Let’s find out where that map of yours will take us after all.” All three pouches vanished into his rugged jeans pockets as he swept to his feet with surprising vigor. “We’ll find it in forty days and forty nights, or the expedition costs are on Gringotts, sure as the ink is red on the contract ahead.”

~1000 words. Act 1 done, fade to black. Smattering of applause.

 

Well, they did have to start fighting somehow, and it is a slight tip of the hat to fanon's version of the veela allure. It was, in other words, done deliberately.

 

Mm.

Dark Lord Publishing studios proudly presents, a continued Fight Club Challenge by director Zenzao, with executive producer Peace......

Bill Weasley vs The Mummy
part II - Contract of Blood​

Footsteps bounced back in double step, the echoes magnified by how closely pressed both wizard and hedgewitch were by the narrow walls underneath the bank. Even so Bill lead her on steadily, the path familiar by rote, and he turned his head over his left shoulder to say, "Remember to mind your gaze as much as your tongue, ma'am. My employers have been known to gouge, in both notions of the term, for little less than full respect."

Miss Carnahan met his single visible eye and tried to measure the honesty of that rather dreadful statement. She was disheartened to see his vision remain steady the entire time, even as they wound around a sudden bend in the hall.

"I must confess that I do not find the thought of being gouged delightful, Mr. Weasley. I might hope you were simply jesting..."

Bill broke her gaze and their forward march by turning completely to stare at a particularly solid looking span of bedrock, much the same as all the rest passed thus far. "I've learned quite a few subjects on goblins that Hogwarts never got around to openly saying, ma'am. The average surface level employee may sneer at a wizard's- or witch's- lack of kindness, and tolerate indignity to a very measured point, but those this far down hold their posts for a very good, very grim, set of reasons. Don't insult Igh'hre-" he made a sound like a choking cat partially submerged, one that she doubted she could ever imitate no matter how hard she practiced, "-or my head is going to roll before your own; one of my duties is to educate potential clients before a meeting."

"Goodness, why ever do you stay here then if your life is so easily put at risk?" Her expression reflected the spark of anxiety coiling up inside of her, waiting to go off with a bang.

I don’t doubt we’ll see something then, he thought, glancing from the corner of his eye.

He reached up, flicked his dragon fang earring, and gestured at the old, not-quite-faded scar running across his face. "You could say I’ve had some experience with danger.” She had been avoiding staring, but the faint light in the cool tunnels illuminated the ravaged path of a pre-transformed werewolf’s assault, the thin gap across his brow, the bridge of his nose, and now she could not help but look. He grimaced with remembrance. The more things change. The memory remained bittersweet twice over; firstly for the assault, and secondly for drawing Fleur into his life as his would-be wife. He pushed on before he could be drawn back to darker alleys in his head.

“But mostly, it’s because of my younger brothers. Charlie's the dragon tamer; Ron's best friends and dueling partners with the Boy-who-lived-again. Call me crazy, miss Carnahan, but I'm not about to be outshone by those two berks!" His grimace stretched upward wildly, perhaps, she thought, even ferally, as he smiled, and he added, "Cursebreaking is my one true devotion. And just maybe, if you make a mess of this, I can stall long enough for Igh'hre-" again that ghastly sound, "-to calm down. Now mind your manners and let me lay the outline, please!"

She sniffed primly with a suspicion taking shape in her head and set her hands across her hips, a sour quirk to her mouth.

"Is this a... a game you're on about?"

Bill kept his awful grin in place. "They do say Cursebreaking takes a certain madness, ma'am." Then he drew a rugged, carved-stone key from one of those tiny pouches extracted from his desk so hypnotically and began to slash it above the surface of the wall. "What-" she got no more out but that before thin vertices of light, hitherto latticework, unfolded and gnawed a sunken hole into the wall.

"Remember," he warned, and ducked inside.

"Ooooh, I hate it when men act so childishly! Completely reckless!" Striding after him with barely a dip in her posture, resisting the urge to hug herself lest she come into contact with the unnatural opening around her, she emerged into a subterranean vault of dank glory gone to rot.

Dry lanterns burned red from an anchor in the far wall. The pallor they cast set the tone for what they illuminated, a small hoard of gems sitting atop of and occasionally buried inside of moldering stacks of paperwork everywhere, old charts yellowed with dust decades in the making, a desk of dark ivory that too resembled bone for her taste against the far wall.

Then her gaze panned down as her escort began to settle to the messy floor Indian style, and quiet shock rooted her to the spot. Oh Atem. Seated in the midst of such entropy was a blackened corpse. To her sudden horror she understood that he was speaking to the rotten body-- and it was speaking back, in that same choking, almost wheezing, half-under water grumble. Then one sunken wrinkle twitched and withdrew upward enough to expose a shrunken black pupil. Brown teeth spread from the gash in its face making up the mouth and a bark of unpleasant language followed.

"The map."

When she did not enter, did not in fact respond, Bill reached back without looking and gestured, then grabbed for her reluctant wrist while all she could do was stare, and pulled her in. Then he drew her down to his side, almost in a heap, and helped her sit upright even as he rooted through her purse for the item in question.

That finally snapped her out of her daze and she focused down, rather than upon the… goblin… that looked as old as some of the recent mummies excavated. Her tongue remained glued to the roof of her mouth when she tried to say something. Unbeknownst to her, he had silently applied a langlock as his supporting hand retreated behind his back for a moment.

He laid the map out and spread it open. Igh’rhe crooned. He murred in return and once more they took to that unintelligible choking. She could do nothing more than watch. After a handful of minutes Bill offered his hand out, palm up, and the decrepit goblin spoke again, giving some sort of approval, for Bill then extended his reach over to a stack of papers between them and rooted around momentarily. At last he drew forth a dark, scaly feather, the nib of which terminated on a needle’s wicked tip, and accepting the map itself as the contract for which they would sign, he turned the aged parchment over to scrawl in short, concise loops.

What am I getting myself into? She wondered, shivering. At first nothing happened. Then she would have gasped had she been free to, for lines of red bled, literally bled, to the surface where he had passed. Duplicate marks decorated the back of his hand. He did not flinch. Partway through he passed the awful thing to her. “Sign your name, please. I’ve set things out fairly for both parties.”

Pleading doe-eyes looked up into his own. He felt the urge to comfort her, for she so clearly sought comfort in that moment, and he could not give it to her before Igh’hre. Read it, he mouthed instead. Her head turned down. She did. It was not easy, but she did. He had not lied-- the terms were more than fair for her and the bank, and he had not included himself as anything other than a member of the bank, earning the salary he typically earned, as plainly stated-- a salary that was not conveyed in numbers. Her shaking hand scrawled her name.

Then he took it back from her and passed the calcified feather to the ancient creature across from them, who in turn leaned forward to accept, and scrawl its own name. The blood that welled up on the back of the map appeared thin, yet so dark as to appear to be actual ink, and when it was through the eye closed and the mouth shut, and the goblin leaned back in rest.

In a matter of hours, the two of them were packed up and emerging from a fireplace on another continent, an area far more familiar to Miss Carnahan, despite her dismay. Two nights later saw them in the desert.

-p-p-p-p-p-p-​

Midnight on an Egyptian sea, waves of white dust gliding beneath the cold breeze of a bright, cloudless night. Stars blazed a trail for the camel riders and their orcish company making a languid pace across those dunes, a chart sailors had been reading for three thousand years and more. Rays of spun silver bobbed across the puffing sand and the huffing mounts at labor.

"Tell me more about this Hogwarts you have hinted at so fervently, Mr. Weasley." The relationship between they two had been tentatively recovering from their meeting with his superior. She still could not pronounce the impossible name, and she had no desire to succeed.

Minutes trickled by tirelessly before he answered. "Wonder. If I could sum up my school years in a word, wonder." Bill leaned over the ragged edge of his carpeted rig, swaying moodily by ropes. "The professors knew how to teach not just the textbook lesson, but the principles behind it, that defined it. I haven't learned everything that I know from them, but rather because of them." He leaned back beneath the shuffling canopy and closed his eyes. "I'm the man I am today due to Hogwarts. And Professor Albus Dumbledore most of all." And he began to hum, a quiet tune of Gaelic origin, rolling his index fingers through the air, and faded gray motes of fire were conjured overhead, banshee fyre, or ghost wick.

Miss Carnahan trotted her camel closer. Her soft lips shaped into that always pleasing 'o' of surprise, he noted through half-lids, and Bill smiled around his hum to slow his conducting so the illusional kindling held just a little longer. When the song was done he sat upright and looked ahead to the moon glistening above another slope. "I'll always be in Hogwarts in one way or the other, to the day this job finally takes my life at the ripe old age of a hundred and fifty-six.” He paused to laugh at himself, adding, “Might finally have earned a chocolate frog card by then, though you wouldn't know much about those, I suppose.”

Her inquiring gaze grew sharper in suspicion, another trait he knew well. "I have not had the acquaintance of such a term, no," she confirmed.

Bill nodded. "Best to leave that alone until after we get back to London." He laid back and stared out into the quiet night.

"Must you do that once more? Tease a... a common facet of this society of sorcery and conjuring and goblins! As if I should know exactly what you mean!" She urged her camel to a hard trot, taking the lead away ere he could answer her.

And this is why Fleur could never be satisfied. I just can't help but drift like the wind through things of this nature.

Bill let her keep a safe distance ahead. It’s better this way. She’s almost a squib, and I live a dangerous life. Our world may very well be too much for her to handle. He hummed a Norwegian lullaby to distract him, of Yggdrasil's roots sheltering the last man and woman alive come the winters of Ragnarok. His dragon fang earring hummed along, however, and fed a much different tune into his head; the translated whisperings of treachery from the foreign goblins at his back.

~1900 words. Scene two concluded. Hope your day feels better, Peace.

 

Zenzao, glad to see this and it's cool, but for the love of Rowling, fix yer damn font, eh? It's fucking weird.

 

A reply to the Harry and Neville vs Jurassic Park challenge. 2300 words written in three days (or three hours if you want to count it that way) - the most I've written in about six months.

I wouldn't object to some feedback on the actual writing, though I know this isn't really the thread for that.

~*~*~​

“The driver’s scared.”

Neville looked at the Chilean boatman. He was pale and tight-mouthed, his eyes bouncing across the shoreline.

“It’s the stories, mate. The muggles reckon bad things happen here. These are good fishing waters but no one fishes here anymore – too many boats have disappeared. Are you scared?”

“Ask me again later.”

The Chilean said something in Spanish.

“He says we’ll have to take the zodiac in. He’s not getting closer.”

“I’ll grab our packs. You make sure he knows the pick-up time,” Harry said.
Fifteen minutes later they were zipping through frothy white-water in a brand new black zodiac. Isla Nublar grew rapidly even as the fishing boat grew smaller as the fisherman ran for the mainland. Neville drove. Six years searching for rare plants in some of the remotest places on Earth had taught him to drive all-manner of muggle vehicles. Harry sat in the bow, watching for rocks.

Neville cut the engine as they neared the beach, causing them to drift slightly. Harry, with a well-practiced flick of his wrist, cast a gossamer thread of magic at the beach. It buried itself into the sand and he touched his wand to the zodiac’s bow, attaching the other end of the thread to it. The boat’s sideways drift stopped and it began to move forward again, pulled onshore by the spell. It didn’t stop until the boat was completely beached.
Harry jumped out of the boat and looked around. There was a wall of trees one hundred metres from the waterline, thick foliage crowded at their base.
“It looks like the Forbidden Forest,” Neville said.

Harry stared at the trees, considering that. “A little bit but the Forbidden Forest isn’t as dense. Should we camp here?”

“It’s as good a place as any.” Any place was good when wizards went camping. “I’ll set up the tent while you cast the protective enchantments.”
“I’ll do a standard shield-and-disillusionment around the tent and a caterwauling charm a bit further out. I’ll set the charm to detect anything human size or larger. Sound good?”

“You’re the Auror.”

“I’m retired.”

~*~*~​

Nightfall found the friends sitting around the kitchen table in the tent. The table was littered with the remnants of their dinner and they nursed glasses of twelve year old scotch.

“Why did you quit?”

“I didn’t quit, I retired.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

“Quit implies that it was an acrimonious split. There was nothing acrimonious about it. I just got bored. Things are pretty quiet in Britain right now and I could never stand the paperwork. And I was on the fast-track for promotion to Head Auror. It would have meant less time in the field and more time in the Ministry supervising investigations, playing politics. I would have gone mad.”

“So you retired.”

“So I retired,” Harry agreed. “I handed in my papers, closed up my apartment and grabbed the first portkey to South America to see what you were doing.”

“And here we are exploring an island shrouded in rumours of death and bloodshed … you know Hermione’s going to kill you, right?”

Harry smiled fondly. “She’ll be pissed for a while but she’ll get over it. It’s Kingsley who’ll moan like an old woman every chance he gets.”

“He doesn’t like the idea of his protégé retiring at twenty-four. He …”

The bone-rattling shriek of the caterwauling charm drowned out Neville’s next words. Harry dropped his glass onto the table, spilling scotch everywhere, and leapt to his feet, his wand appearing in his hand. Neville was two steps behind him as he ducked out of the tent, silencing the charm as he went.

Harry had illuminated the beach by the time Neville exited the tent. He was scanning the area, wand extended in front of him. The expression on his face was fixed and intent. Neville joined him, scanning in the opposite direction.
“See anything?”

“Whatever set off the charm’s gone. It came through there.” Neville pointed at a section of tree line seventy metres away. “Do you see how the foliage is disturbed? It wasn’t like that earlier.”

“It’s human height, maybe a bit wider and definitely heavier. You or I wouldn’t cause that much of a disturbance if we pushed through the tree line in a hurry. Stay here and to my left.” Harry walked forward, alternating between checking the tree line and checking the ground. “I’ve got footprints – it’s an animal, two feet, three toes with claws. I don’t recognise it.” Harry had spent some time with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures’ Capture Unit and had learned a lot about tracking and recognising footprints. “Do you?”

Neville snorted. “I’m a herbologist not a cryptozoologist. I wouldn’t know the difference between a werewolf’s footprint and dog’s.”

Harry refrained from commenting on that.

“Whatever it was is gone,” Neville continued. “The caterwauling charm scared it off.”

“Unless it’s magical we’ll be safe behind the shield-and-disillusionment if it comes back and isn’t scared off. Even if is magical it’ll have to be rated XXXX or higher to get through the shield. You haven’t heard of anything that dangerous here, have you?” Harry had only joined Neville in Chile two days before he left and hadn’t had time to research the location.

“There aren’t meant to be any magical creatures here. No one has any information on anything even remotely magical. The rumours the muggles spread about this place don’t even sound like anything magical.”

Harry lowered his wand and let the tension drain from his body. “Well, if it comes back and isn’t scared off by the caterwauling charm I’ll do a capture and contain until we’re ready leave. Or we can have mystery beast steaks. Your choice.”

“You can have mystery beast steaks if you want. I’ll have the rack of lamb that we brought. For now though, I’ll settle for another scotch. I’ll even give you one if you promise not to spill it this time.”

“One of us had to get out here quickly,” Harry retorted. “If I’d waited for your slow arse to move first I’d still be sitting at the table sipping my scotch. You should think about exercising more. Imagine how poor Hannah feels when she sees your flabby arse.”

“Oi! Leave my wife out of this. And Hannah thinks I have a very nice arse, thank you very much.” Neville considered mentioning that Hannah had said the same thing about Harry once but refrained. It would just embarrass his friend. He was funny like that – supremely confident in a fight but a blushing schoolboy when a pretty girl paid him a compliment.

Though a lot of women seem to like that whole bashful act if the Prophet’s Society Page is even half right, Neville thought as they returned to the tent.

~*~*~​

Midmorning found the pair pushing into the rainforest in search of the plants that Neville hoped to find. It was slow going. The herbologist insisted that they use non-invasive methods to create a path even though cutting curses would have been much faster. Despite his conservative methods they’d gone several kilometres from the camp.

Neville led the way, eyes peeled for anything vaguely magical or rarer non-magical plants that could be used in potion-making. Harry followed, slightly uneasy at the closeness of the surrounding undergrowth. They’d followed the mystery animal’s path into the forest until the footprints disappeared on a patch of rocky ground. Harry was slightly concerned by the three other sets of similar tracks that they’d found beyond the tree line. A pack of animals was more difficult to handle than a solitary hunter, especially if they had the intelligence to send a single scout ahead of the main party.

Neville stopped, stooping to peer into a rotted tree hulk. “You see this? Chilean Black-seed Flowers. These are bloody rare. And useful. The South Americans use them in about half a dozen different antidote potions, there’s a bunch of researchers who’re always looking for them.”

“Worth a bit, then?”

“There’s about a kilogram of flowers here. If I harvest most of that I’ll be able to fund my next expedition. I’ll transplant a couple as well. It’ll make a nice little earner.” Neville didn’t need the money. His family fortune still paid regular, sizeable dividends that were more than enough to live on even if he didn’t work and Hannah hadn’t recently brought a controlling share in the Leaky Cauldron. If you’re going to do what you love it’s nice if it pays well, Neville thought as he pulled on his dragon-hide gloves and began harvesting the plants.

The harvested plants went into non-magical storage containers that Harry and Neville carried in their non-magical packs. Potion ingredients couldn’t be stored in enchanted containers – the less magic they came into contact with the better, in fact. Spells cast on potion ingredients could cause strange reactions during the potion-making process. They didn’t even lighten the packs.

Harry leant against a tree and scanned their surroundings while Neville worked. It was boring work but no worse than a stakeout or kicking his heels in the Minister’s outer office while assigned to his protective detail.

“I was thinking about opening a private agency,” he said.

“A private agency? You mean like in muggle films – beautiful women, corrupt Aurors, a bottle of whiskey in your desk?”

Harry smiled. Hannah was a half-blood and had introduced her husband to the wonder of movies. “Well, there’ll be less whiskey and corrupt Aurors than you see in the movies but that’s the general idea. A bit of security work, some freelance work for the Ministry, toss in some bounty hunting and I’ve got a career. I inherited enough gold that I don’t need to do the seedier jobs – divorce work and the like. It could be interesting, Auror work with half the paperwork and twice the pay.”

“If that’s what really interests you I know some people who wouldn’t mind having a retired Auror along on their expeditions. I know a potioneer who’s organising an expedition to West Africa in a couple of months. Good pay, a bit of danger, she’s pretty too. It could be interesting.”

“Could be,” Harry agreed. “Savage has offered to let me buy his agency. The same deal Tom offered Hannah – he’ll maintain a minority share to fund his retirement and stay on for a few months to smooth over the transition. He wants seventy thousand galleons but …”

A dark shape, lean and fast, burst from the undergrowth. It came straight for Harry, screeching.

“Pello Hostis!” The banisher caught it in the chest and hurled it back into the undergrowth. A second creature was already bursting through the trees and the screeches of a third and a fourth filled the air from somewhere nearby.
Neville’s shield sprung to life around them. The second creature slammed into it. It halted for a moment, stunned by the sudden impact. Harry saw sharp teeth and too-intelligent eyes that stared hungrily at him. Then he blew its face apart. Pieces of bone and flesh flew through the air, splattering the foliage.

Levicorpus! A second creature was hauled into the air where hung, snapping impotently at the air.

Neville beheaded the third attacker. That had become his go-to method of dealing with hostile creatures. He figured if it had worked on Nagini it’d work on just about anything else. Harry’s gutting curse ripped open the last creature’s stomach, spilling its intestines all over its feet. The one hanging in the air continued to screech until the two wizards stunned it.

“What the fuck are they?” Neville exclaimed, staring at the corpses and unconscious beast with wide eyes.

“Don’t look at me, I don’t have a clue.” Harry raised his wand and muttered a protective charm that flared blue, engulfing everything around them. “That should keep them from coming back. I think I’ve seen them before.”

“So it’s muggle, then?”

“Or something Hagrid tried to raise when we were at Hogwarts.” Fluffy, Norbert and Aragog had just been the most memorable of Hagrid’s ‘friendly critters’. There’d been a slew of other creatures that had regularly tried to bite, poison and immolate Harry, Ron and Hermione when they’d visited him. “Do you know how to test if a creature is magical or not?”

Neville shrugged.

Harry stared at the creature, the sense of vague familiarity niggling at him.
“It’s a dinosaur!” The realisation came in a flash of insight. “I used to play with dinosaur figurines when I was a kid. You know what dinosaurs are, right?”

“Yeah, Hannah took me to see a movie about them a few years ago. But I thought they weren’t around anymore.”

“They’re not. But I swear that’s a dinosaur.”

The two wizards exchanged a bewildered look.

“Well, that might explain why the muggles are terrified of this place. Should we take it with us?”

Neville gave Harry an incredulous look. “Why would we want to take it with us?”

“A real-life dinosaur has to be worth a bit of gold. If it’s not Hagrid’s got a birthday coming up.”

“You’re not giving it to Hagrid.”

“Come on, he’d love it!”

“It tried to kill us Harry and you want to put it in a school. McGonagall would fire me for letting you do it and kill you for actually doing it.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I should probably kill it.”

“We could just stun it.”

Harry shook his head. “Stunners keep different animals down for different lengths of time, you know that. Who knows how long it’ll keep a dinosaur down? I don’t want to risk it coming after us. These things are damn fast.”

“I’ll do it.” Neville made to raise his wand but Harry him to it, raising his wand and firing a piercing curse in a single fluid movement. The curse punched through the dinosaur’s chest and it crashed heavily to ground as Harry cancelled the Levicorpus jinx.

“You know there’re probably more of them, right?” Neville asked.

“We’ll use a series of protective charms to walk out and stick to the beach until the boatman comes back. I don’t want to hang around here too long while we don’t know what else is out there.”

~*~*~

Ended here because I realised that dinosaurs don't really pose a challenge for a couple of talented wizards.

 

I'm gonna shabump this with a rather esoteric request.

Zevran of Antiva, hired out to the Crows from a rather unexpected source in Val Royeaux, after his redemption during the fifth blight, sets out to infiltrate Skyhold, the seat of The Herald and Rift Mage of Andraste: His grace the Inquisitor; under the defense of the ashes of the trade routes of the house of Montilyet; under the watchful gaze of Lady Nightingale; commander and chief of the forces under the former Templar Cullen; confidant to King Alistair of Ferelden; blessed by the grace of the Dalish; friend of the Wardens; ally to the Champion of Kirkwall; favored of the Empress; ruler of the dried Crestwood; lawbringer to the Hissing Wastes; protector of the Hinterlands; cleanser of the Mire and yoke to the Avvar; temperance of the Storm Coast; protector of the Dales; explorer of the Western Approach; judge of the Emprise. Holy Wielder of the Heart of Despair. Blessed be his name.

Dragonslayer. Demonsbane. Fadequeller. Riftmaster.

And eliminate him.

Dead or alive.

In the seat of his incredible power.

Meanwhile, Solas, as well as the witch of the Winter Palace watch. Interested.

(Substitute Zev for anyone, really, if you've a better assassin)

 

I've looked at the challenges list and there's nothing there that interests me. Can someone give me a Harry Potter challenge?

~*~*~​

“Can I sit here?”

Harry took a moment to make the visual journey from the speaker’s leather boots, up her shapely legs – displayed to good effect by a dress that ended at mid-thigh – over her covered chest to a lovely face. She was smiling as she conducted her own perusal of him.

Harry pushed out the spare chair with his foot and smiled as she sat down.
“It’s been awhile since I met one of you. The last time didn’t end so well for me.” Harry’s hand drifted to his side where scars from the nightmare-creature’s claws were hidden by his shirt. The Gatekeeper had had him patched up after that mess but the scars would linger forever.

Her smile slipped. “One of what?”

“Wizards – free wizards to my kind. What’s your name?”

She folded her hands into her lap, ignoring her newly purchased coffee. “You may call me Kumori, Harry Potter.”

“Kumori,” Harry repeated, eyes narrowing slightly as the name pinged in his memory. He flicked through his knowledge of outlaw free wizards – the White Council’s Wardens regularly shared intelligence with various ministries. “Chicago – that to-do with necromancy last year – you were involved in that. You work for one of Kemmler’s disciples.” The expression dropped from his face and he palmed his wand. “You know, I can legally kill you, even here in a coffee shop full of muggles, and I’d get a pat on the shoulder and an ‘attaboy’, that’s how badly you’re wanted.”

“Visionaries are often persecuted in their own time.”

Harry’s lips curled into a sneer. “You dark wizards are all the same, so sure that you’re visionaries or gods or just so fucking right that you’re beyond all rules and basic morality. This conversation is already boring me, Kumori. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here before I decide to collect an attaboy from my boss?”

“Since our failure in Chicago my master and I have begun to research alternate routes to power and in the past months we’ve come across rumours about a most fascinating cloak held by your family. Then we learned about the wand –” Kumori looked pointedly at the length of twisted elder that he held, “and about the stone. We would study these items, with your consent if we can. Without it if we must.”

“Do you know how many people have tried to take this wand from me?”

“Two, counting myself and my master. No one else knows you still possess. Those few who knew to begin with believe that you snapped it after killing the Dark Lord Voldemort. It’s only our gifts that allowed us to realise that you still possess it.”

“You know the problem with using ghosts and shades to gather intelligence on me?”

“Please enlighten me.”

“I am their master, no matter what petty tricks you and your master have learnt.” Harry tapped the rim of his cup with his wand and the other patrons – Seamus Finnegan and Lavender Brown, the Patils and Dennis Creevey – all disappeared as their portkeys activated. Hannah, who had been acting as proprietor, had already left after serving Kumori. “That makes it really easy to draw you in where I want you.” He spoke an incantation and a spider web of light raced across the floor, climbing the walls and the along the roof before disappearing. “That was an Auror trap enchantment. We use them to keep suspects in a building. It cuts off everything – apparition, portkeys, even portals to the NeverNever. It’s just you and me here now.”

Deep, violent purple light engulfed Kumori’s hand. Harry was faster. Flicking his wand and blasting her across the room before she could complete the spell. Harry swept his wand through the air as sprang to her feet – she’s resilient and has some nice defensive spells in that dress.

The tables and chairs rushed her like a rugby team. Black magic flashed from Kumori’s palm, washing over the furniture. Wood turned brittle and crumbled, fabric became dust and metal rusted away as the spell rapidly aged everything it touched.

Harry swept his wand through the air – much like he was drawing a question mark – and there was the sound of suction as the spell was drawn into the wand. It shook violently as it absorbed the spell.

Kumori’s dark eyes widened in surprise. Harry laughed, the sound tinged with adrenaline-fuelled euphoria.

“Your master should have come himself.”

Harry blew up the room. Fire and force filled the café, hammering Kumori. Her shield crumpled under the assault, the defensive magic weaved into her clothes faltered, leaving her fragile human flesh exposed to a lance of fire that seared it black, splitting it. She ended up against an explosion-shattered wall, her legs broken, her torso pulverised. Her eyes were wild with pain.
Harry stood at the epicentre of the explosion, untouched by it.

“You are under arrest.” He hit Kumori with a body bind. Her body was already pulling itself back together – one of the benefits of necromancy. “You will be interrogated and you will tell us where your master is and we will hunt him down and kill him, for good this time.”

~*~*~​

I had three ideas for this story – Auror Harry, independent operator Harry and amoral killer Harry – but I couldn’t decide which one to use so it ended up pretty crappy.

 

Voldemort vs Voldemort.

It can be Horcrux vs Original, AU!Voldemort vs Canon, or a Time Travelling Voldemort fighting himself from another time period.

 

I was reading Stirling's The Peshawar Lancers when I read this and it pretty heavily influenced the AU. Skitterleap probably deserves some credit as well.

~*~*~

Part 1?​

Tom stared at the steep mountains in mute surprise. His wand was raised, caught in an aborted wand movement.

Interesting – He turned slowly, conscious of the loose rocks beneath his feet. Black mountains rose above him and in the distance he could see the fuzzy outline of small buildings and, even further beyond that, the majestic bulk of Hogwarts. Even in the dying light and with failing eyesight he could recognise the castle.

Tom sighed and withdrew a pair of spectacles from the inner pocket of his short robe. Age takes something from even the best of us. He slipped them on and the small buildings and castle came into focus. Magic couldn’t fix eyesight ruined by a lifetime of reading fine print in old texts – at least not without dipper into darker magic than he would use – but a good pair of spectacles could be charmed to grant vision greater even then the sharpest natural vision.

It looks like Hogsmeade did in the Forties. Have I time travelled? It would certainly explain where the rest of the village has gone and why I’m no longer in my laboratory. He conjured a mirror to check his appearance, even though his poor eyesight suggested nothing had changed. Tom let out a relieved breath when he saw the face that he had seen when he shaved that morning – handsome and distinguished with threads of grey through otherwise dark hair. At least I haven’t reverted to my teenage body. Hmm, I wonder if Albus is home …

Tom twisted and disapparated, intending to apparate to the further edge of the village where there were no anti-apparition jinxes, even at the height of the war.

He let out a strangled cry when a jinx bounced him away from his arrival point. Tom stumbled, pain lancing through his body as it was forcibly redirected. A wave of pain-induced nausea twisted his stomach and he dry heaved. He gave brief thanks to having missed lunch.

Tom almost missed the tendrils of foreign magic that were grasping at him. Binding spells, he thought. Very good binding spells. He slashed his wand in a quick, aggressive motion. The invisible binding magic shattered in a ripple of displaced air. Not up to my standard, however.

“That’s quite a potent counter-spell, though not one I recognise.”

Tom spun to his right to find Albus Dumbledore standing in the shade of a tree. He held his wand at his side, almost hidden in the voluminous folds of his robes.

“Albus! Just the man I was coming to see. Tell me, what’s the date?”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows drew together and his eyes darted over Tom’s face. “November 12th, 1996. Do I know you?”

Tom’s smile faltered. “November 12th, 1996?” he repeated, a note of uncertainty slipping into his voice. “Are you sure?”

“I may be old but I’m quite certain I have the date correct.” Dumbledore took a long step forward, drawing himself up directly opposite Tom. “Your name?”

“Tom, Tom Riddle.”

Dumbledore inhaled sharply, his eyes widening fractionally behind his glasses. He brought his wand up in a quick, slashing motion that ended with the tip pointed at Tom’s heart.

“What trick is this?”

Tom swallowed back his first response. He suppressed his initial response to raise his wand. Provoking a duel with Albus Dumbledore is about the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. It’s not a mistake I intend on making again.
“There’s no trick, Albus. I’m Tom Riddle, you know me – or at least you should.”

“And when did you stop going by Lord Voldemort? I must admit, I find the possible reasons behind the change quite intriguing.”

“Lord Voldemort? I’ve gone by aliases before, it was a necessity in the war and when I was in China, but that was never one of them. The only lordship I have is the Dukedom of Cape Town but that’s largely ceremonial.” Tom could feel Dumbledore skimming his thoughts. He effortlessly directed him away from his deeper thoughts and memories even as he skimmed Dumbledore’s thoughts.

Dumbledore half-lowered his wand. Tom calculated the new spell trajectory and decided he’d prefer to have it pointed at his heart.

“Alternate reality?”

Tom nodded. “It seems so. I thought time travel at first – Hogsmeade looks much as it did in my schoolyears but even at the height of the war there were never such extensive protections around the village. There was no need for them. Do I want to know about my counterpart?”

“Your arrival here was very distinctive. I noticed it and, I imagine, others did as well, several of them who no doubt report to your counterpart. He’ll investigate soon enough, even if he was too far away to sense the disturbance.”

“Perhaps we could have this discussion inside over something strong.” Tom glanced at the castle.

“The Hogshead serves a fine glass of mead.”

“Perhaps a shot of Veritaserum to begin with?”

Dumbledore smiled. “Three drops should do it.”

“Six.”

“Of course, you are right.” A silvery blur shot from Dumbledore’s wand in the direction of the castle.

The pair made their way to the Hogshead in stilted silence. As the first resident came into view, they both flicked wands, diverting attention away from themselves and allowing them to pass unnoticed through the streets.
They entered the pub through a back entrance, following a dusty corridor that allowed them to avoid the main barroom. The private room was dusty and a half-hearted fire was sputtering in the grate. Fawkes was perched on the mantle and two tankards of mead waited on the table, a vial of clear liquid in between them.

Dumbledore went first without asking, uncorking the vial and dripping three drops onto his tongue. Tom mimicked him.

The younger wizard felt the perfect bliss of the potion settle over him. It felt similar to being drunk – a light, floating feeling that made people want to speak the truth, compelled them to. But only if they talk, Tom thought. A wizard with sufficient self-control can choose not to talk, though if he does talk he will speak the truth, no matter how much self-discipline he has.

“The Dukedom of Cape Town?”

“It was granted to me when South Africa was declared a Viceroyalty. It gives me a seat in the House of Lords but other than that it’s ceremonial. There’re no incomes or property associated with it.”

Tom could see that Dumbledore understood the words but was utterly without context to understand them. “Perhaps you should explain why I should be so concerned about my counterpart? Then we can compare worlds.”

Dumbledore nodded and started to speak. He spoke tersely, weaving a story of terror, hope and death. Despite the bloodless words Tom felt a mounting sense of horror.

It’s the same old story, blood and death and men thirsting after power, but this time I’m the boogeyman in the darkness, not the man driving it back.
“And this boy, Potter, he’s important, isn’t he? Beyond what you’re telling me, I mean. Is he up to the task?”

“He’ll succeed.” Dumbledore’s voice rang with bone-deep conviction. He believed that Potter would succeed, believed it with fibre of his being.
“I can’t believe I could become so consumed by dark magic.”

“You didn’t,” Dumbledore said. “Lord Voldemort sought power and thought dark magic was the surest way to achieve that … and mistakes were made. I have wondered what would have happened if, when I first met him, I hadn’t tried to cow him and had instead tried to teach him as a good professor should. Things might have been different.”

“Or he might have stabbed you in the heart. He sounds like a vicious little bastard. I know the divergence, if you’re interested.”

“Oh, I am. I’m very curious about what diverted you from becoming the darkest wizard I’ve ever faced to a wizard who, it appears, my counterpart has a cordial relationship with – perhaps even a friendship?”

“Friendship is, perhaps, too strong a word. He was my teacher at Hogwarts and my master during the early Fifties. We have a very good collegial relationship, we frequently collaborate on research projects, support each other’s politics. He was my best teacher and I am his best student and the greatest heir of his knowledge. I was adopted when I seven.”

“The Jenkins’,” Dumbledore said, not the slightest bit fazed by the sudden change of topic. “In my world they died boating on the Channel before the adoption was official.”

“I know the accident you mean. In my world Father pulled strings to take me on the trip before the adoption became official. My accidental magic saved all three of us. Instead of staying at the orphanage I spent five years in a wealthy home with a loving mother and a kind, though somewhat distant, father. He only adopted me because Mum wished to have children but was unable to conceive. Still, he cared for me in his own way.”

“Yet you still go by Riddle, not Jenkins.”

“I attended Hogwarts as Riddle. It’s how my name was recorded in the Book and, frustratingly, it couldn’t be changed. Later, when I became known, it was as Tom Riddle, not Tom Jenkins.”

“What was your childhood like?”

Tom considered that for a moment. “Splendid, amazing, pick a positive adjective and that describes my childhood. Father was an investor – Chinese silk, South African diamonds, Argentinean beef. He had stocks in all of it and believed in seeing how his money was being spent. I lived on four continents and spoke five languages by the time I came to Hogwarts. I was happy, loved, set to inherit a sizeable fortune and incurious about my magical heritage. The war changed everything.”

“War often does that. For the moment, however, I’m more interested in how you arrived here.”

“To understand that you need a slight history lesson. In my world everyone knows about magic. Grindelwald made sure of that.”

“Moscow?”

“Moscow,” Tom agreed. “You stopped him?”

“I did, though I wouldn’t have if the goblins hadn’t fielded an army to support me.”

“There’s a second difference. In my world the goblins remained neutral.”
When the German Wehrmacht’s advance had stalled in front of Moscow Grindelwald had set into motion a plan to reduce the city using thousands of inferi and dozens of wizards from his Dark Army. In Tom’s world the city had been torn apart in the fighting that followed as the Soviet Red Army defenders were eaten alive and Grindelwald’s followers and Russian wizards duelled in the city. The fighting had lasted for weeks and word had leaked out, a trickle at first and then a torrent that forever shattered the Statute of Secrecy once Grindelwald had single-handedly levelled the Kremlin and burned the city’s ruins with Fiendfyre.

“After a lot of messy fighting and politics Grindelwald was dead, his state dismantled and Britain set about rebuilding its empire – a combined empire under the monarchy, House of Lords and Wizengamot. At the moment the Empire is one of the most powerful entities in the world, rivalled only by the Chinese empire and the Muslim Caliphate, though the North Americans will join that group if New England and the Republic of Texas can learn to work together. The Empire currently consists of the United Kingdom, the Viceroyalty of the Cape, the Viceroyalty of Oceania, the Viceroyalty of India and the Province of Egypt. All told there are three hundred and seventy million citizens. Thanks to post-war population growth initiatives over half a million of them are wizards. You would love it, I think, the sight of wizards living openly, magic benefiting muggles.”

“There are, of course, tensions. In the Cape there’s a small pro-independence movement called the Brotherhood that’s turning increasingly to terrorist tactics. Cape Aurors raided one of their safe houses and confiscated a magical device. After the Aurors and Unspeakables couldn’t ascertain its purpose they gave it to me. I was tinkering with it, trying to ascertain its purpose and dismantle it, when I appeared here.”

“Your world sounds almost utopian.” There was a wisp of longing in Dumbledore’s voice.

Tom laughed. “Oh hardly. The Arithmancers are predicting that there’ll be a war between two major powers in the next two decades. I think we’ll see it within a decade, mostly likely fought between the Caliphate and ourselves over Egypt. We’ll win, our armies are better trained and our internal divisions are less divisive and I’m worth a regiment of line wizards by myself, more if you and I are working together. They have nothing that can match us. It’s the fight against the Chinese that I fear.”

Dumbledore nodded as though this made perfect sense to him. It didn’t though. Tom was talking about politics and nations that meant nothing to him. Dumbledore found even the concept of wizards living openly alongside wizards hard to grasp. It was just so foreign.

“I will assist you in returning to your world in any way I can, though I hope you understand that I have many demands on my time.”

“Actually, I thought I might help you with that while I’m here.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I thought I might help you kill my counterpart.”

 

Oh my god you can't just stop there!

This deserves a full fic, sir!

 

I'm considering it. It'd be Harry-centric with Tom as a very strong secondary character.

It'd feature Harry as either an Auror or officer in one of the magical regiments and see him getting swept up into a plot to destabilise the Empire. There'd be a bit of intrigue, some violence and some swashbuckling.

 

That sounds awesome, but I have to say that the scene you posted felt incredibly rushed. When Tom and Dumbledore were like "Moscow?" "Moscow." it read like an interaction between the twins. I know they're both super smart, but this could use some fleshing out.

 

It was rushed, partly because I've got all these ideas in my head and I was trying to jam as much of them in as I could.

The Moscow comment was an attempt to suggest, without actually saying it, that many major past events were the same in both worlds and that the divergence was when Grindelwald tried to help take Moscow and failed in one world but succeeded in the other.

I think it'd end up being Skitterleap-light.

If I turned this snippet into a proper oneshot I'd flesh out the interaction between Tom and Dumbledore.

In a story set in the AU world I'd also flesh out the point of divergence. I've got this image of Harry going to meet a senior figure and finds him teaching a class on the Battle of Moscow to new recruits.

 

I'll be going over your prompt responses in a bit, Peace, but kudos on keeping the thread alive.


Dark Lord Publishing studios proudly presents, a continued Fight Club Challenge by director Zenzao, with executive producer Peace......

Bill Weasley vs The Mummy
part III - A whiff of betrayal

They made camp some several hours onward as the lengthening morning rays outpaced the languid mounts of men and goblins. Bill would have preferred to slog onward with a kip of Pepperup to purge his wearies and a chaser of Inuit Hail to soften the ungodly heat soon to follow, but it had been made clear when they set out the conditions to which the goblins and their ilk would ride; direct sunlight would burn the leathery beasts of burden alive.

As Bill slid off of his camel's back and tugged at the ropes holding his elaborate rig in place he kept his ear perked toward their muttering. Behind his back the seditious employees were pouring some strange purple ichor across the sands from the mouth of a tiny black teapot, raising a stranger fog that smelled of tar around the orcneas fidgeting in place. He scrunched up his nose and tried not to gag as a gust of wind spread the scent in his direction. Nevertheless he couldn't dally forever, and with little more understanding than he had already gleaned beneath the stars, Bill folded the straps and rugs and wood up into a roll and carried his rig across the back of his shoulders as he made for Miss Carnahan and the rising sun rather gladly.

"What are they doing?" she inquired as soon as he was near. Apparently their disagreement over his habits had cooled during the ride.

Bill dropped his rig to the sand and shrugged, rolling his taut muscles. "Warding, in their own way." She gave him another one of those looks and he clarified, "A barrier against the sunlight. Now, I don't suppose you've had much to eat since we set out yesterday evening, and we need to establish a tent before much longer."

The spark of fire redoubled in her gaze. "'A tent'?" she challenged. "If you think I am going to snuggle up to your side, Mr. Weasley, you are sadly mistaken."

He quickly intervened before she built up any more steam. "Trust me, ma'am, one wizard's tent will have enough rooms to keep us good and separate." He dug out a bulky napkin from his jeans pocket, a crude and eye-searingly loud orange, and knelt to unfold it. She did not share his enthusiasm, not at first, but the more he unwound the little cloth the greater it grew in size, spanning more than a meter in just seconds. In under a minute he stepped back from an arching tent as tall as he and just as wide as their camels meandering nearby.

"Ladies first."

He gestured her in with a hand on the opening, pulling back the thick fold. Miss Carnahan peered in warily. The next moment she made a little noise of delight mixed with wonder in the back of her throat that did very interesting things for his libido, though he squashed the initial stirring before it bloomed into something harder to wrangle under control.

"As I said, ma'am, more than enough rooms, and all the comforts I pegged you for needing, full bedroom and bath, stocked kitchen, even a small library next to the common room to help with your inquiries. Unfortunately no wireless seems to pick up a signal where we'll be going in the weeks ahead."

He let her enter and stepped back, fiddling with his satchel of ropes dumped carelessly to the sand. While far more simple he had no need to enjoy the luxury or accommodations of a team-class dwelling. She poked her head back out to stare at him with a good deal less animosity. "Aren't you coming in?" she asked.

"No ma'am. Wouldn't want the crew to get suspicious," he said good-naturedly. Then he tugged a rope end and his workman's tent began compiling like a set of dominoes falling into place, popping into position at knee-height. Unlike her own, his truly was a simple thing, only a little wider within than the size without. He shrugged his way in and sighed when his head met the make-due pillow of a rolled up rug.

He heard her footsteps coming around the end and then she was kneeling by his boots and looking at him incredulously. "Surely you cannot be comfortable in that, Mr. Weasley."

He yawned behind one hand. "If I worried about comfort, Miss Carnahan, I wouldn't be a curse breaker. Don't forget to zip the opening before you turn in. Good morning." He tucked his feet in and toed the opening closed before her nose, letting his mind drift to a place of quiet contemplation.

"Ooh!" Her protest brought a rough grin to his lips.

-p-p-p-p-p-p-

Their journey ticked by on the calendars kept by Bill and the leading goblin, Cthukuk, who finally deigned to speak with him on the eighth night.

Unfortunately for them both, that happened to be the point by which he'd put together a reasonable understanding of where and when his life, and by association Miss Carnahan's, would be forfeit; when they finally found her fabled Hamunaptra. And the stars in conjunction with the analysis of her map were leading them fairly true.

"We are nearing, wizard."

Cthukuk's voice in English felt as comforting as a Banshee's opening wail. Given his run in with two over the course of his life to date, and Fleur in full-on Veela wrath did not count, Bill resisted the urge to wince with a surprising degree of success.

"I was beginning to think the same," he answered obliquely.

Cthukuk gave him no other warning. No sinister, premeditated chuckle. No whistle to coordinate with the others nearby. Not even the swish of a hitherto-concealed dagger rising from the folds of a thrown-back cloak. The goblin simply pointed and the rune-encrusted rings around his swollen index finger spat a wave of invisible force against the body of Hannibal, his camel.

Bill had known to expect something, but kinetic energy was not one of the areas he had prepared for. Hannibal went down in an explosion of blood and fur, sending Bill himself into a headlong tumble that he barely turned into a halted roll back toward his beloved mount for a fraction of protection.

Nearby Miss Carnahan screamed. The other goblins split their numbers, two more encircling his position to flank him, the remainder going after her.

Bugger this!

As they adjusted their aim a thin brass flute materialized in Bill's own hands. His breath emerged in a seemingly nonsensical rush; and a much more piercing note rose on the wind, lasting less than a beat and then repeating twice. Every set of ears in the immediate environment threatened to burst; for those of the orcneas underneath the goblins, the ugly beasts went insensate with pain. Thick spurts of metallic green blood burst from their flapping ears and they reared up, throwing the would-be-murderers into the night sky.

Bill recovered from the actual Banshee shriek with an awful groan, then, rolling upright with a steadying hand to dead Hannibal's nearest hump, he whistled as best he could with the flute aimed at Cthukuk. A belch of purple dragon ice, that of the long-deceased Croatian Carcholtog, enveloped Cthukuk whole, leaving a perfectly preserved boulder behind. Bill spun around to cover the others only to find that Miss Carnahan had spurred her camel racing across the sands. A charging orcneas was fast approaching and likely to run them both down.

Bloody hell, he thought. He checked the urge to finish what he'd started - that of leaving the traitors to thaw over the next few days - and spun on the spot.

When he reappeared he was a short distance ahead of the hedgewitch responsible for their current situation and the mad beast covering ground as if possessed. In between checks against the orcneas he watched her eyes widen as she flailed about helplessly. Her camel nearly bowled him over seconds later. He pointed his flute as he adjusted. He whistled. Then he rolled aside, as momentum carried the seven hundred pound boulder of permafrost skidding across the sands.

"Well, that's one problem down."

~1300 words. Found the top half of this update from some months ago in my writings and decided to tune it up and expand. A few little things here and there that I hope continue to capture the interest.
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