Harry Potter and the Book That Never Was

Chapter 2

After Scott "Fearless Leader" Summers had been duly sorted into Gryffindor, Dumbledore rose majestically and boomed - courtesy of a well placed Sonorus charm - at the expectant students.

"My children," he said, "welcome to Hogwarts. I hope you've all listened closely to the Hat's song and mean to model your conduct after its wonderful advice. I only wish to add that the Forbidden Forest is a dangerous place, fit only for the terminally insane and the suicidally adventurous. Please think twice, or thrice, or fice, before going exploring there. We have, luckily, acquired a new DADA professor in the person of my esteemed colleague Gandalf the Grey. Please welcome him and our odd new students with a warm applause." He thought for a moment, then added: "Or a cold, contemptuous one in the case of the Slytherins."

The student body duly clapped hands.

"Wonderful! Wonderful!" the Headmaster twinkled. "Let the Starting Feast start!"

The student body enthusiastically demolished the food.

*

Later on, the Hufflepuff common room was enlivened by song and laughter. Frodo, glad to be in a warm, safe place, had started his famous comic song and dance routine, ignoring Sam's groan, and was now hopping merrily on a table to the Hufflepuffs' delight.

There was an inn, a merry old inn

beneath an ld grey hill,

And there they brew a beer so brown

That the Man in the Moon himself came down

One night to drink his fill.

"Hey," Justin Finch-Fletchley said. "That's the Three Broomsticks!"

"It's not beneath a hill," Zacharias Smith pointed out. "It's not even near a hill."

"It's a place from where we come from," said Sam grumpily and ungrammatically.

"Oh!" breathed Hannah, batting her lashes at Frodo. "It must be a lovely lovely place."

"No, it ain't," snapped Sam, glaring at the unfortunate girl.

"May I go on?" Frodo asked mildly, eliciting an enthusiastic chorus of assents and one snort. "Well, then," he said, "why don't you clap hand to the rhythm and dance?"

*

Meanwhile in the Gryffindor common room there was much questioning by Hermione and much scowling by Aragorn, who resented being sixteen again; by Harry, who resented not being the one pelted by questions; by Scott, who resented being separated from Jean and by Ron, who resented not being the one Hermione had been drooling at.

Ginny Weasley looked soulfully at the tall, bespectacled new arrival and sighed. She always had a thing for glasses, but this new boy's ones were beyond mere designer eyewear: they were so cool she felt she could look at them for hours, trying to picture the obviously beautiful eyes they were so efficient in hiding.

Scott Summers, she thought dreamily, what a perfectly splendid name. She had envisioned herself as 'Ginny Potter' for years, but, as lovely the idea of being the Boy Who Lived's wife was, his surname grated on her nerves. Yes, the Potters were a family of heroes and that was all well and good, but the sound of that surname was... was... She hadn't really any words for what it was, she only knew that the unfortunate plosive at the beginning was designed to be pronounced with explosive contempt, a thing that that disgusting ferret Malfoy kept exploiting with malicious glee.

She couldn't see any way out of her destiny as hero's wife, nor did she really want to avoid marriage to a famously brave person, what she'd have liked to avoid was being branded, having children branded, with that surname. She had resigned herself to it, studiously ignoring Harry's very obvious lack of interest, but the new year had unexpectedly brought her hope. This newly arrived hero had a much more alluring surname to dream about, not to mention him being one hell of a stud.

Ginny Summers... Ginevra Summers, she chanted like a mantra. I'll get you, mister superglasses, see if I don't.

*

The Slytherin common room was frizzing with unleashed hormones. Male and female fifth, sixth and seventh years were endeavouring to enter the inner circle of Malfoy's court, but all their efforts were inexorably thwarted by those ever-popular gorillas Crabbe and Goyle.

In the inner circle, a cosy arrangement of sofas and comfy chairs around the fireplace, Malfoy's court was enjoying its leader's antics.

"Blond," said Malfoy imperiously, "stop ogling Cinnamon, I got dibs on him. Well, yes," he added in a more reasonable manner, "I got dibs on you as well, but I never meant I wanted a threesome..." he thought a second, "Not now at least," he added in an uncharacteristic burst of honesty.

Legolas drew himself to his full height, no mean feat for one almost submerged in an overly soft comfy chair. "I am not ogling," he said rather haughtily in ringing tones. "I am an elf."

Laughter erupted at this statement, accompanied by spluttered exclamations of merry disbelief.

"You will not debase the elven race, mortals!" Legolas was now offended to the core; he couldn't remember when he had been so angry. "You have the manners of an orc! Elves do not ogle. Elves mate for life, their marriage a true communion of soul and body. Elves do not ever," he ranted, "mate with elves of the same sex. And when they marry an elf of the opposite sex, they have carnal conjunctions only once every thousand years..."

This last statement shocked everyone silent.

"Mec, I pity you," commiserated Gambit.

"What? Not even a few snoggings?" Zabini muttered. Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"I heard that, mortal. My hearing is exceptionally good, and so is my sight. Elves do not 'snog'," he invested that innocent little word with a world of disgust. "Elves kiss chastely on the day of their betrothal, on the day of their marriage and then no more."

"Pull the other one," the Slytherins' Ice - Prince... Queen... Princely Queen... Queenly Prince... pick one - drawled, unamused.

"If, with your uncouth phrase, you mean to insinuate that I am lying," said Legolas, firmly entrenched on his dignity, "then no. Elves do not lie."

"Elves are an unusually dull bunch, then," said Malfoy. "Tell me, what do you do to while away the centuries between shags? For fun? R & R? Anything?"

Legolas had to think about that one for a while.

"We sing, we hunt," he finally said, "and we kill orcs."

"Whee, fun," Malfoy said flatly. "So it's not only a hair thing that got you into Slytherin. I was beginning to wonder the Hat had gone completely gaga. You sound like a Death Eater, you know?" The boy's brow furrowed and he added: "No, you sound like You-Know-Who, actually. Pity, because I've discovered I don't like you."

Gambit decided it was time to intervene, he liked a bit of mayhem every now and then, but not after a big meal made interesting by so many odd dishes. He wanted to digest it in peace.

"Look, chere, no offence, but if you could explain a bit more about elves, we'd sure appreciate it."

"Elves are the first race..." Legolas started but was immediately interrupted.

"Species," Gambit said. "You, me, the kids here, those funny lil mecs with the foot fur, and normal humans are five different species, not races. Elves, Mutants, Wizards, Hobbits and Men. Five. Different. Species. 'S a lil thing called science."

"I know nothing of your puny mortal thoughts," said the elf. "I only know what the Valar told us. Elves are the first race, the only one to be granted not to die and the only one to have the choice to go to Valinor across the ocean..."

"America!" yelped Pansy "What's so great about going to America? We can go to America, if we want, which I, for one, would be sooner dead than do."

"He comes from Another Reality," patiently explained Remy, slotting the capital letters in place. "In his reality there is no America."

"Cool," Pansy said. "Can I go there?"

Malfoy smirked.

"Enough of elves, dullest bunch on Earth," Draco said suddenly. "Have you noticed how all the moody buggers go to Gryffindor? Look at the new ones, between them and Potter it's a miracle that anybody managed to keep their appetite."

Their minds went back pensively to the scene at the Starting Feast and the Gryffindor table, where Aragorn's scowl had been given a run for his life by Potter's and Scott's scowls.

"Gloomy gits, aren't they?" said brightly Draco and plopped a chocolate frog into the really sexy, though sartorially challenged, new tall-and-handsome housemate.

"Weh," Gambit agreed a little indistinctly, and swallowed. "The gloomy git with the chic glasses is our Fearless Leader. Surly as a bear, and twice as boring. The other happy face must belong to a friend of our resident elf. Who's he, Leggypoo?"

The whole inner circle snickered.

"What did you call me, mortal?" the elf nearly roared. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that, as the sole representative of the elven race in this abode of madness, it behooved him to comport himself with the dignity and propriety that was expected of him.

"Leggypoo," Remy said sweetly and grinned winningly. "Moi," he said, "I'm addicted to nicknames. Live with it, mon elfie. Who's the surly mec? The other surly mec," he added, in an effort to be clear.

The Slytherin common room was by then abuzz with comments interspersed with sniggering and, in the case of Millicent Bulstrode, outright cackling.

Legolas took a firm grip on his temper. Remember those are mortal children, not foul orcs of Sauron. Foul mortal children, but not orcs, he told himself sternly over and over again.

"His name is Aragorn," he said at last, a trace of shock still in his musical voice. "He is a ranger, a great hearted and brave man. If he rarely smiles, it is because he is parted from his true love. He has been waiting seventy years to wed his lady, the beauteous Arwen Undomiel."

Gambit's cry of "Waited how long?" clashed with Malfoy demand to know which House was this beauteous from.

"Seventy years," Legolas answered, in order. "The House of Elrond,"

"Where's that?" asked Zabini, suddenly much more interested. "Is that a Beauxbaton house?"

*

The Ravenclaw common room was hosting a much more sedate exchange of information. Jean was explaining the manner of their universe jumping. So good was she at narrative that her interested housemates experienced a proper flashback...

"Mind the Marauders!" Scott barked at Chamber who seemed to be dead to the world, fascinated gaze fixed on the tableau at the edge of the battle.

Sinister stood, ragged cape blowing to an unseen wind, leering at the X-Men, while nimbly deflecting their assault. He seemed to be searching for something or someone.

Suddenly his red eyes glittered like jewels illuminated by the white arc lights of an asylum search-beam and he shouted, pointing his fingers at a slim, agile figure oddly unhampered by the long trench coat he was wearing.

"Gambit!" Sinister said, deftly projecting his voice to raise above the din of battle, "You are my son! Come to daddy!"

"NOOOOOO!" Remy capslocked wildly, shocked to the core. "I DON'T BELIEVE YOU! YOU ARE NOT MY FATHER!" He staggered back some steps and bumped into Xavier's futuristic sled. "HE CAN'T BE, CAN HE?"

Xavier looked gravely to the young mutant and then to one of his arch-enemies and seemed to ponder a bit. "Well, " he said, "The colouring of your eyes would seem to point that way, my young friend..."

"Is this the time to discuss genetics?" shouted Scott, much incensed. "Fight, X-Men! I want these damn Marauders down! Now!"

Suddenly there was no time to think, the Marauders acted like one and their assault was so overwhelming that the X-Men were forced back unto one another.

Sinister walked through his henchmen's onslaught like a hot knife through butter until he reached the knot of fighting mutants, bent on protecting their mentor.

He opened his ragged mantle, ready to englobe Gambit and said: "Mine" with the finality of a coffin lid slamming shut. No amount of capslocking could have delayed the Master Thief's fate.

Chamber flared in protective anger and, at the same moment, Jean whomped into Phoenix flames. The two terrible forces collided and reality wavered.

"No! Jean, be caref...!" Scott yelled as an indescribable energy source cut all human utterances into white noise. A sound so loud it went beyond hearing shattered the universe into particles and rebuilt it anew.

But different.

But not the same.

Most assuredly not the same.

"Krot!" A thoroughly pissed off voice cut through the medley of grunts and moans filling the air. "What the krot happened? Where the krot are we? And will you krotting keep your krotting paws off me?" Remy LeBeau shoved brutally against Sinister. "I'm not your krotting son, you krotting pervert!"

"Shut up, Remy, " Jean said kindly. "Essex, leave Gambit alone. This isn't the time or place to indulge in petting."

"I'm not petting," Sinister's usual ice-cold voice was wavering with shock. "He's my son and I think I have a right to..."

"Shut up!" Scott barked. He looked at the still tightly-knit knot of mutants, mentally ticking off names against a remembered roster. "Jean," he said, at long last, "Chamber, Gambit, Wolverine, Beast and me. Ah, yes," he added, distaste plain in his voice, "and Sinister."

Somewhat calmed by the roll-call, they all looked around. They were on a verdant hill, one of a series of verdant hills stretching, apparently, to infinity. There was nothing even remotely resembling a landmark or any sign of human habitation.

"Any idea of what happened, Hank?" Jean asked.

"Well, Jeanie," Beast replied slowly, "I'm not quite sure, but it seems that the interaction between your Phoenix fire and Jono's psionic energy may have set up an interdimensional portal keyed to your unconscious desire to evacuate our resident thief into a reality that would resolve positively the quantum uncertainty of his parentage."

"What the...?" Wolverine growled. "Stop spitting dictionaries at us and talk like a normal person, bub!"

Hank sighed. "Some things can't be explained in two-syllable words, Logan," he said.

"Yeh, they can!" Wolverine countered, belligerently. "Einstein said so."

They all stared, round-eyed, at the half-mustelid.

"What?" Logan said, annoyed. "I read loadsa books. So what? Wanna make something out of it, bubs?"

"No, of course," Hank said, a tad shell-shocked. "You're right. Well, in lay terms..." He paused to think and then went on, magisterially. "You know that there are infinite universes all occupying more or less the same space..." he paused again and then resumed, "for a given definition of space, of course, but that's not important now. Jean and Jono wanted Remy safe and not Sinister's son, so when their energies... collided, we were all transported into another universe."

"I'm not the pervert's son in any universe," Gambit stated flatly. "And even if we were in some kind of perverts' universe, I would disown the mec."

"Yes, well," Scott had never been more conscious of the onus and responsibility of being Fearless Leader to a bunch of mutants who seemed to have never outgrown their teens, saving his lovely wife, of course. "We'll have to explore this reality. Hank, you think of a way to get us back home. Sinister, try anything and I'll personally fry you into a crisp." There, he thought, that should shut them up for a bit.

Grumbling, but willing, the X-men prepared to explore the boring countryside.

"LOOK!" Gambit capslocked again, in surprise this time. "THERE ARE PEOPLE... SCRATCH THAT, BEINGS, COMING TOWARD US!"

"What's with you and the capslock, Cajun?" Wolverine asked angrily. "I've got sensitive ears."

"Sorry, chere, I was surprised," Gambit said.

Scott looked all round the horizon, but could see nothing. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I can't see a thing."

"I'm taller than you," Remy said, smugly. "I can see farther off."

"Okay, 'taller than me', why did you say 'beings'?"

"Lots taller, mec," Gambit smirked. "You should see them by now. But there's one... two... three... four tall mecs, all headbangers by the length of their hair. One is old and wears a dress, the others look like extras in a Robin Hood movie. Then there are... five very short mecs. Odd looking very short mecs. One has a helmet with horns like a veeery very short Viking. Shorter than Wolvie here," he finished with another smirk.

"Spare us the commentary, my son," Sinister said. "I can see them too."

There was an ominous fizzle fizzle. A fuchsia-pink light changed Sinister's paper-white skin into something approaching a very allergic sunburn.

"Krotting stop the krotting son bullshit, chere," Gambit threatened, his smirk widening into a shark-like show of teeth.

"Well met on this green hill, strangers."

The sonorous greeting made them all jump.

"What the...?" Wolverine growled.

"Distances can be deceptive on hilly ground," Hank said weakly. "Hello and well met. Allow me to present ourselves..."

"Not on your life!" Scott said, testily. "I am the Fearless Leader and I present the group. We are the X-Men, mutants who battle for a better future with humanity. Ah, yes," he added with the exact same distaste that had coloured his voice before, "and this is Sinister. He's a villain. Nothing to do with us as such. He just got transported against our will."

"And he's NOT my father, no matter what he says," added, darkly, Gambit.

"I see you come from a faraway land," the old man said with unnerving calm. "Welcome to Middle-Earth. I am Gandalf and these are my companions. We too battle for a better future against a great evil."

TBC