Hero Against Own Will

Chapter One. He who seeks the past.

A brief course into history...

Ever since the Fine Lord Voldemort took rule of the world, the Hogwarts School ceased all activity related to Squibs and Muggles, even Muggle-born wizards and witches. Now referred to as 'Muggle-born potentials', these poor souls could get a job in the wizard- related world only if they had a recommendation of being extremely loyal to the Fine Lord, for most of such beings were extremely rebellious, demanding equal rights, like those given to the dementors and vampires, and thus, along with werebeasts they were made outcasts amongst the non-Muggle folk...

*****

Harry Potter was not a normal wizard. To be precise; he was as normal as normal itself could be when the talk was of his genes - a wizard father, a witch mother but, unfortunately, he was a complete failure at magic though maybe it had something to do with his general dislike of the ways of wizardkind.

He detested magic in all of its forms. That was why he was skipping lessons at school, not doing his homework and insulting the teachers. Expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in his fifth year, after having failed with his O.W.L.s, he was labelled a latent Squib-- a rebellious and possibly dangerous one at that, and sent off back to his home.

Having grown up, he mastered only two skills -- History, along with his hobby of archaeology, and sword-fighting. Actually, anything related with swords - from history of their creation to how to forge them to how to wield them in a dozen or so different styles, it was a bit more than a hobby, more like an obsession. For these reasons, everyone who knew him, except maybe his parents, called him queer. His parents just did not wish to acknowledge that they thought him so as well, deep inside.

His affection for history was so high that all who studied alongside him at Hogwarts could swear he would have bored Professor Binns to death if Professor Binns hadn't already been a ghost.

After reaching the age of twenty, he was forcibly moved to a Muggle reservation in Germany. As it always was with Squibs, they were treated like objects even worse than Muggles, but not as badly as Muggle-borns, of course. There he did his archaeological digs in peace, quiet and loneliness...

*****

He woke up on that day in the same way as usual -- worn, feeling awful, wishing to be dead. Then, as he did every day, he thought about how he would then become an object of no interest to any archaeologist and decided that he could postpone his death to a later date.

He got up, put on his well-worn jeans and a worn out cream-coloured shirt, and moved to making himself breakfast. It had been the same for the last three years. He did not make any friends here, for he was an outcast among outcasts.

The Muggles did not want anything to do with him since he was once a wizard, and the local Squibs did not know English. He himself had learned only a handful of words in German, enough to ask for help or say 'Hello', but not enough to have a chat, and so he was quite literally alone.

After breakfast, he moved to the caves nearby -- what was left of the adamantium mines -- and did his digging. The fact that he was all alone in a foreign country caused him to dig everything with a simple shovel, alone. And that made him quite strong, both physically and mentally.

As the day passed he once again settled down after a day of digging and made a new entry to his diary...

*****

Diary of H.J. Potter, July 9th 2003.

...I have made more progress in the last week than in the whole previous years! It seems that I've reached a layer that contains blood, which means I am close to my purpose! I will dig more tomorrow, for now I have to settle with what I did as it is night already...

*****

He was not taking this as an exile, for he had made enough studies in England to find out that the fabled Demonhunter Guild that mysteriously battled an army of hellspawn and disappeared afterwards, was last seen near the very area on which the reservation he was in stood. That had been what fuelled his enthusiasm and made him study the mines even though he had no more sophisticated digging tool than a shovel.

*****

The next day brought a much-needed, though not very pleasant, change into his life when a strange man appeared in front of his house in the middle of his having breakfast.

Harry got up quickly and went outside to find out what was happening,

"Are you a Herr Harry James Potter?" the man asked, his German accent horribly thick.

"Yes, I am, why do you ask?" Harry replied.

"Zen I must inform you zat your fazer, James Godric Potter, died a veek ago in America," the man's words made Harry's heart sink, "So, as a representative of the local office of the Von Martin Lawyer firm, I haff to pass you this package. May you sign ze receipt?"

Harry signed the proffered paper and took the package. Judging by its size and shape, he came to the conclusion that it contained a couple of books.

"May I ask you one thing..." he started, "How did my father die?"

"Didn't you know?" the man asked, confused, "Your fazer had cancer. Nothing could haff saved him."

"I hadn't talked to him for four years... Since my mother died."

"Oh. My condolences, Herr Potter."

Harry shook the man's hand as he left. Still holding the package, he walked into the room and absent-mindedly sat onto the sofa, dropping the package next to him,

"He died... And all I thought of him the last time we met was that he looked miserable..." he thought sourly as he ripped the package open.

Inside there were two books - the first one being "The diaries of a madman" without the name of an author, and the other was "The History of Demonhunters" by an Ian Michael Ded. He flipped through the first book, discovering that page sixty-four was marked by the presence of an old parchment used as a bookmark. It was completely empty, however. Knowing his father's nature, Harry smoothed the parchment out and looked at it with a light behind it. Nothing.

He tried looking for writing with invisible ink. Nothing.

A Revealer did not help more than the previous ways, so Harry supposed that it really was blank and his dad just needed a bookmark, or that there was some other way that the message was hidden. His mind jumped to one of the many bed-time stories he heard from his father, the one from his school age, when he and his three friends made a magical map of Hogwarts... though if this was it then Harry could not use it without a wand, and he had rejected the ways of the wizards.

He put it back into the book and flipped onwards. Page one-hundred and twenty-eight revealed to have another parchment, this one bearing words. Harry unfolded it and looked at the words. "...First walked Sir Christian the Brave, of England. He carried his sword, its black rune- covered blade an eerie sight in the sunlight, for it reflected the sunlight in a strange way..."

An excerpt from the legend about the Demonhunters, describing Sir Christian's sword... That was strange, for one of the reasons he quarrelled with his father was the difference of their points of view concerning the legend. Harry thought it to be true, while his father thought otherwise. That, and the fact that Harry's mother died from cancer as well, had made James Potter reconsider the need of looking after his son, who turned seventeen only a few days before that. James moved to the US, while Harry remained in England until he was sent off to Germany.

Harry put this piece of parchment back inside and flipped on. To his surprise, page one- hundred and ninety-two had a dried flower next to it. A lily flower.

"He never forgave me... Always kept thinking it was my fault she died," thought Harry as he looked at the flower.

Flipping further, he was not surprised that page two-hundred and fifty-six had fingernail marks underlining the words on it. Taking a pencil, he carefully shaded the page, revealing the lines his scratchings had made. They were letters.

D... e... m... o...n... Demon... s...l... a... ye... r...

Demonslayer? Sir Christian's legendary sword? That was even more interesting, as page three-hundred and twenty had more fingernail underlines.

I... s... t... h... e... r... e...

"Isthere? Is there? Where?" Harry thought. The next page, page three-hundred twenty-one had more highlighted letters...

Y...o...u...

"You? He means the sword is... here? And since when he became a believer?" Harry thought. But there were more letters here.

M...u...s...t...s...e...e...k...it...

"Must seek it? Then it's not here... Wait! The map... If it is the map, might mean that it's at Hogwarts...And how will I get there?"

There were only three-hundred and fifty-two pages in the book, so no more messages were hidden in it... The text itself was meaningless, surely a madman wrote them, so Harry had no more pointers here... Unless the parchment on page sixty-four had something... But without magic Harry wouldn't be able to do anything with it, and the flame way of seeking out hidden messages was not a good idea, for it meant burning the paper to see if it revealed anything.

Leaving the second book for later, Harry went to his dig site to get his mind off his father's death... And the strange message too.

*****

The diary of H.J. Potter. 10th of July, 2003.

...I received news of my father's death today. Not the nicest thing to know... Aside from getting two books from him, one of them on Demonhunters and the other - actually a pack of secrets, I did not get anything. I didn't know if he was poor or rich, but he sure had a bit of money always... Anyway, my digs prove to be making success now! I breached the layer of bloodied rock and am now moving downwards, I hope I'll see some actual relics there soon!

*****

The reason for an adamantium mine to be there was as simple as possible - during the early thirteenth century, crusades and all, the Demonhunters had a large-scale battle with the demonic armies.

According to most sources, the battle ended in a stalemate, while others say the demons won. This was the first and last defeat of Demonhunters, for one of the demons that took part in the battle summoned a horrible earthquake, forcing lava out of the crack he formed in the ground. It was believed that the Demonhunters were pulled or pushed or thrown or otherwise forced into the crack and thus sealed together. They were led into that battle by Sir Christian himself.

The few survivors of the Demonhunter heritage had not continued the way of the sword as their predecessors, switching to quiet one or two-man demon assassinations, and that was the state in which the order of Demonhunters entered the Third Millennium.

The adamantium had formed from the lava the demons summoned, for it was not ordinary lava, but the lava of Hell itself. It is believed that weapons and armour made of adamantium are impermeable to magic.

*****

Harry flipped through the second book, taking his time to realise that it was one of the few books on the subject he saw referenced to everywhere, but the actual book he saw for the first time. He made a mental note to read it as soon as possible, and went off to sleep.

*****

He had the most vivid dream that night - a dream of seeing a man wearing silvery plate armour riding a horse and in his hands a sword made of black steel, its mythical runic blade glittering maliciously in the sunlight as if it were the offspring of Hell, not a weapon of hell's opposition.

*****

He woke up early in the morning feeling completely unrested. His main thought was what the chances were of his father's theory was correct. If the sword was at Hogwarts, then how would he get it? And why should he get it?

"Wait, that last one is wrong! I know why I should get it; it is a major historical artefact!" thought Harry, "But how? They won't let me out of this country unless... Unless I give them a major discovery of the century! And what is more major than the place of an ancient battle that destroyed an order of knights? I sure hope there is something to discover here though."

With this in mind, he set off to dig. In fact, he took his sleeping bag and food supply with him and was gone for several days.

*****

Diary of H.J. Potter, 13th of July, 2003.

I have done it! Dug up an old sarcophagus! It's half buried still, but I could not dare to contain this within myself any longer! Along with a lot of well-burnt bones and ripped chainmails bearing the symbol of the order, this will make a mighty fine historical discovery.

Scribbled out were the lines:

...And there's more to the sarcophagus that meets the eye...

*****

The next few days had him digging feverishly in the area, until on the 17th of July he sent an owl to England's Ministry of Culture, reporting his success. They did not believe it at first, but then he sent in a photocopy of an old parchment he found within the sarcophagus, and they quickly changed their minds.

Having returned to England, Harry published two books based upon his findings - one concerning the proved theories regarding the Demonhunters, the other - a fictional book with a simple yet captivating romance-oriented plot that starred Sir Christian. Most old-school historians frowned upon that, but the thousands of fans (mostly female) that the second book earned thought otherwise, making Harry one of the richest Squibs alive... For now.

*****

Two years later...

He was sitting at a Christmas celebration in one of the more ritzy restaurants. Alone and wishing to be dead, as usual, he was gently rocking the glass in his hand back and forth, observing the swirling of its contents, and only vaguely became aware of somebody standing behind him,

"Sit down, it'll do you more good than standing," he said grimly as he put the glass onto the table.

The wonderful vision that appeared in front of his eyes then was worthy of a painting of a Renaissance artist - beautiful face, kind, almost laughing eyes, and a wonderful orange-coloured aura created by lightly flowing hair of a beautiful reddish hue. He knew her. She was the sister of the Minister of Culture himself, Ronald Weasley, and her name as beautiful to his mind as her face was to his eyes - Virginia.

She sat down at his table, looking intently into his face.

"And I have imagined you to be a different person, Mr. Potter," she said finally.

"Really? And what did you expect?" he asked, feeling amused.

She looked at him thoughtfully, then seemed to reach a conclusion,

"Well, I expected a studious man in his mid-forties at least, and here I see a sporty young man in his mid-twenties instead," she informed him, smiling in a way that made him comfortable, but did not give him any hidden messages except one - 'I expect my life to follow my name, if you know what I mean'.

"And you think that sporty young men in their mid-twenties have no craving for Her Majesty, the History of the World?"

Harry asked, his own smile showing that he had no intentions of the particular kind she tried to prevent with hers.

"Well... No," Virginia replied earnestly, "But it's even better for you to be that way..." she looked as if she was about to blush, but refrained from it,

"For your fans, you know," she added hastily to clear up the issue.

"Of course," Harry replied, observing the intense mind-work that was taking place in front of him.

"And then there is the fact that most historians spend their most of their time in old dusty libraries, so they have no time to build up muscles," she said, trying, but failing miserably, not to look at his arms.

"On the contrary, Miss Weasley, they spend a lot of time heaving those old and dusty tomes of theirs all over the place, and some of them might prove to be extremely heavy," a drawling voice observed. Harry turned to find its source - a tall young man of about his age, short blond hair cut in a military manner, cold grey eyes - a Malfoy, that was obvious, "So, even if you're in your mid-twenties, you'll be as strong as a bodybuilder."

The man was wearing a military style black jacket and non-descript black pants to match, somewhat reminiscent of the German Secret Police uniforms during the Second World War.

"Yes, I suppose you're right, Mr..." said Harry, encouraging the stranger to introduce himself, "Malfoy, right? I don't think I got your name."

"Oh, terribly sorry," the man said, "My name is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy, Captain of His Majesty's the Fine Lord's Secret Service."

"How right I was," thought Harry, "And to think we studied at Hogwarts together..."

His mind jumped to his time at the school instantly, remembering Malfoy's persistent sneering, his looking up to the Death Eater-turned Potions master, Severus Snape, his pure and unrefined hatred towards anyone and anything that was not a pureblood Slytherin.

"Is it so Secret," Harry started, "That its Captain may walk around telling everybody he's a Secret Service Captain?"

Virginia laughed heartily at this joke. Malfoy, however, did not even smile, "I don't like your attitude, Mr. Potter," he said coldly, "Please remember that while you're still in the Wizard Society, I am the only thing protecting you from those pesky Muggle-born terrorists."

"Unlike you, Mr. Malfoy," Harry replied even more coldly as he stood up, "I am not afraid of death, for death is merely another state our body and mind go through on the course of their existence, much like flu or puberty... Or insanity."

Even the faintest trace of a smile was gone now from the face of Miss Virginia Weasley, sister of the Minister of Culture himself. She, too, stood up.

"Stop it you two!" she commanded, "Leave your differences aside, don't let your emotions ruin this evening!" The addition was made in the same tone of a person used to be the one in charge, "But if you're so eager to rip each other's heads off, then please, do it elsewhere!"

Harry sat down, and Malfoy simply left.

"...So, what we were talking about before we were interrupted?" Harry asked as if nothing happened.

"Historians and sports," she replied.

"Oh, right. So, Miss Weasley, my sporty state, as you put it, was caused by the fact that I did all of my digging at the excavation site on my own. When you dig the same rock-hard ground for three years straight, your muscles tend to grow like under a powerful Engorgement Charm," he explained.

"Enjoying yourself, Virginia?" said a new voice. It was quite familiar to Harry, yet he could not precisely remember who it belonged to, and so he turned to see.

Ronald Weasley, Minister of Culture, in the flesh. Harry remembered him as well - the natural-born leader of the Gryffindors, though his life was not a very happy one - he and his sister were the only survivors of the massacre that took place at the Burrow, the Weasleys' home, when Ronald was just nine.

It was after that event that he picked up the habit of taking the course of events into his own hands... That's how he became a prefect, then Head Boy, and now - the Minister of Culture in the government of the very man that ordered his parents and brothers to be murdered. Some things were stranger than one could ever imagine.

"Yes, Ron, Mr. Potter here was just telling me the side-effects of long-term excavation works," Virginia said merrily.

"Oh, Mr. Potter!" Ronald exclaimed, noticing Harry's presence, "I was looking for you all over the place! How goes the life of a treasure hunter?"

"Fine, sir. I just returned from another excavation - a wereraven colony in the Alps. Very interesting, really," said Harry, feeling that Ronald did overhear his little 'chat' with his sister and was now checking if Harry was trying to hit on her. Since Harry was not, talking his way out of trouble was somewhat easy.

"And did you find the Demonslayer, Sir Christian's sword, yet?" Ronald asked.

"No, sir. Either it's a myth created over the years... Or it's hidden elsewhere. If it's the first, then we might discard that particular part of all stories related to the Demonhunter order, if it's the second... Hope dies last," Harry replied.

"I sure hope your next book will be as interesting then, Mr. Potter," said Ronald, "My sister is quite a fan of yours!"

"I wonder if that Malfoy character told him everything already," thought Harry.

"Yes, we've talked about my books as well, sir," he said, "So, I suppose I must be going now." He added this as he glanced at the big clock hanging on the wall.

"Why so early, Mr. Potter?" Virginia questioned him, "The night is still young, you should enjoy it!"

"I'd like to, Miss Weasley, but I'm afraid the time restriction for Squibs does not allow it."

It was, indeed, true, a time restriction was imposed onto the movements of Squibs, Muggles and non-police Muggle-borns, and everyone caught violating it was arrested immediately. Even though Harry's reputation might've saved him from it, it was still not a very pleasant experience, as he once found out. And it was a nice reason to leave, evading the impending troubles with Ronald Weasley and Draco Malfoy as well. She looked slightly disappointed,

"Well, goodbye then, Mr. Potter," she said, holding her hand up.

Harry kissed it gently, shook hands with Ronald, and left.

*****

He did not sleep that night, for he was engrossed in studies. He carefully extracted the package he made after returning to London - a long box containing the only item Harry did not pass over to the historians, for it was a longsword forged out of black steel.

A weapon of a Demonhunter. It did not bear any runes on its blade, so Harry concluded that it was not Demonslayer, but rather a sword of some other Demonhunter, but he was very aware of the fact that even the cheapest and weakest of those swords was powerful enough to kill a demon, not to mention the immense damage it did to mortals. And the price any collector would pay to find this beauty in his or her very own private collection...

*****

A week after that, a Daily Prophet issue started with the lines:

"Resistance leader seized!"

"The notorious Hermione Granger, the leader of the English branch of the self-proclaimed Resistance, the terrorist organization trying to sabotage and overthrow the Fine Lord from his rightful throne, was arrested today. She was caught in an action of attempting to place a bomb at a government building, and will be held in the prison of Blackheart Fortress until trial..."

Two weeks later, a Daily Prophet headline reported:

"Squib saboteur arrested!"

"A dangerous Squib, the famous archaeologist H. J. Potter, was arrested yesterday for illegal storage and use of a magical weapon. The weapon itself was not found, but there are enough witnesses to prove Potter's guilt. He himself does not deny the fact that he found the sword amongst the other items he dug up at his excavation site in Germany, where he made his first great discovery. He is to be held in Blackheart Fortress until his trial..."

**********