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Author: Sorting Hat Story: Through the Mists of Time Rating: Teens Setting: Pre-HBP Status: WIP Reviews: 3 Words: 25,476
Author's Note: The name of the game encountered in this chapter is pronounced Ang eng en. Sort of like hanging in, but without the H. "Sod off, Malfoy." Thomas said. "Make me," Malfoy replied. "I will," Thomas said firmly, his face going dark. Harry stared, unable to think of what to do. Hermione had a clearer mind, fortunately. "Hello, Merlin," she said quickly, as if he were standing there. Both boys spun around simultaneously and put innocent looks on their faces. They both turned to look at her when they realized no one stood there. "What are you playing at?" Malfoy spat. "Who me? It seems like a useful way to prevent...this. Unless you need a more direct message? I can see Lancelot limping away..." Thomas sighed. Harry noticed that he shifted just slightly, to protect himself. He probably didn't even realize it. "A bit bossy, isn't she?" Thomas wondered aloud. "She is at that. And we love her for it," Ginny replied. "Smartest witch in our town, she is," Harry said. Malfoy's eyes lit up. "Really?" "Yes," Harry supplied.
Harry shook hands with Agustus as well, while Thomas said, "Bastard," to Malfoy. "Oh I know my father quite well, thank you. You really should study more. Oh, and Johanna says hello." Malfoy strode away while Thomas fumed. "Idiot," he spat. Night had begun to fall, so the group turned toward the castle proper. Harry took the lead as Thomas fell behind, still seething with anger at Malfoy. Hermione had tried to calm him, but she had met with little success. It seemed that anyone whose last name was Malfoy had a talent for getting underneath the skin of others. Harry wondered just how long that had been the case. Harry slept fitfully that night, his mind plagued by horrible nightmares. He dreamed he was back in his own time, in the battle they had abruptly left, only this time he was being forced to duel a death eater with a stalk of celery, and his enemy laughed uproariously at Harry's inability to do any magic. Eventually, his opponent disarmed him of even that, and made short work of him. Harry bolted up in bed with a yell, causing Ron to bolt up as well, only Ron was tangled up in his blankets and crashed to the floor as a result. "Bloody hell, Harry," he snapped. Harry sighed and apologized sheepishly. Harry stared at the ceiling as Ron climbed back into his bed and fell asleep once more. The dream, which he should have dismissed out of hand, disturbed him. He tossed and turned for an hour more, but eventually kicked his blankets aside in frustration. He crept out of bed and left the room, having decided to roam the halls for a while. "Lumos," he whispered, causing the tip of his wand to light up. a nearby rat hissed in annoyance and scurried away. Harry shuddered, but kept walking anyway. He soon found himself outside the castle, though he didn't remember moving in that direction. Harry walked out a bit further, till the sound of a creek caught his attention. He angled toward it, and then sat down on a large boulder near the water. There was a large tree here, and it reminded Harry of the Burrow. He smiled and leaned back with a sigh. "They're beautiful aren't they? The stars, I mean," a voice came from the darkness. Harry moved so quickly that he fell off the rock and into a crumpled heap on the grass. He was up on his feet almost immediately, his wand raised. "Who are you?" he asked, looking around himself. "I am sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.Lumos," the voice said softly. A much larger amount of light than Harry expected began to form. In a moment, Harry could see that the owner of the voice carried a staff, with a large circular top, upon which was painted a large rune. No, Harry realized, it was engraved. "Who are you?" Harry asked, still keeping his wand at the ready. "Why, Merlin didn't tell you?" the man asked, sounding slightly hurt. "Tell me what?" Harry asked, starting to become more bewildered than wary. "Godric Gryffindor, at your service," The man replied, sweeping off his hat and bowing to Harry. For a moment, Harry was absurdly reminded of Professor Flitwick, though Gryffindor stood less than half a head shorter than Harry. "Oh. I'm Harry, sir. Harry Potter." replied Harry, dropping his wand in his haste to shake Gryffindor's hand. He snatched it out of the air with his left hand, while shaking with his right. "I say! Not many people can do that," Godric said, pointing at Harry's wand. "Do what?" Harry replied, quizzically. "Snatch an object out of the air with the wrong hand," Godric explained. "I've had practice," Harry said. "That explains it then. Are you enjoying your stay at Camelot?" Godric asked. "Yes, mostly." "Mostly? If you don't mind my asking of course," Godric pressed. Harry frowned, and exhaled slowly. "There's a knight I'd rather be rid of --" Godric cut him off, "By the name of Lancelot, I suspect?" "Exactly. Hang on, how'd you know?" Harry said, narrowing his eyes. "See him with my own two eyes, I do. Seems to have Arthur in a way though. I'd almost swear the man was a wizard," Godric explained. "That's impossible," Harry said flatly. Godric nodded, shrugging. Harry followed as Godric turned and walked slowly along the bank. Neither of them spoke for several minutes. "He'll be the death of this place," Godric said suddenly. "Pardon?" Harry asked. "Lancelot. He'll be the death of this place. Of Camelot, I mean." Harry's neck snapped toward Gryffindor so quickly he nearly broke it. "What?" "I can feel it. There's something not right about him." Harry shuddered. If you only knew. "Look at me, making predictions of doom and gloom. Must be past time for my rest. Well met, Harry Potter!" Godric said, nodding curtly and then turning and walking away. The moon had found its way from behind the clouds, and was so bright Harry decided he wouldn't need his wand light on the way back to the castle. Once back in his bed, he tossed and turned for nearly an hour, thinking of what Gryffindor had said. When sleep finally did find him, it harbored no more dreams. * The next morning, Harry was so busy he barely had time to breathe, much less tell his friends about his conversation with Godric Gryffindor. He and Ron, along with the girls, had started their studies under Merlin, who proved to be just as demanding in his own way as Professor McGonagall. He would demonstrate something, have them try it, and demonstrate it again, pointing out their errors and missteps. They'd started with the basics, levitation and the like, using their wands. At first, they had wanted to jump right into wandless magic, but Merlin had disagreed. He said they needed to work toward it. It was something that took time to learn, and since they had another method for focusing their magic, they should use it. Merlin would observe and take note of various things, so he could decide the best way to start training them not to use their wands. It was well past noon when they finally stopped, at Merlin's insistence. The girls left immediately, citing a desire for rest, but Ron and Harry decided to take a walk and try to unwind. Waving goodbye to their friends, the two boys left the area Merlin had set aside to train them, and began to walk around the grounds proper. "What do you suppose he'll make us do next?" Harry wondered aloud. Ron started to answer, but Harry's attention was suddenly jerked away. "Whoa," he said. "What?" Ron asked. "Bloody hell!" Harry replied. "WHA--" Ron started, looking as Harry's finger pointed upward. "Whoa!" Ron said. Several men were playing a game on their brooms high above the boy's heads. It looked like some sort of obstacle course, but one of the players seemed to be throwing a ball through a set of burning barrels. Another player was batting rocks at the one flying around the barrels. A crowd of spectators stood some distance away. Harry took off at a run, Ron close at his heels. "What-is-this?" Harry asked the nearest person, yanking the man around to face him. The peasant stared wide eyed at him for a moment. "Tis Aingingien sir!" the startled man replied. "What is it? What are you supposed to do?" Harry persisted. Another man launched into an explanation, and Harry turned toward him immediately. "Aingingien is easy enough to understand, even if it isn't easy to play. See those two blokes up there? The one with the rocks is trying to knock the one with the ball, called the dom, off of his broom. You have to put the dom, through all the hoops without getting burnt to be a the winner. You get burned, you lose points. You start with ten, and lose two for each burn. ‘Course, no one's ever done it perfectly before. That's impossible." "What happens if you fall off your broom? Is there some sort of--" Harry began. The man cut him off. "You probably don't want to fall off. It's not as easy as it looks, but no one's died yet this week." Harry nodded. The man who had been trying to put the ball through the barrels had just been burned so badly he had to drift to the ground, wincing in pain. Another man stepped up to the broom, but Harry pushed him out of the way. "MOVE!" he said. The would-be player looked startled, but owing to the finery of Harry's clothing, did little but grumble. Harry mounted the broom and lifted off. It wasn't nearly as easy to control as his Firebolt, or even one of the school's old Comet two-sixties, but it came to Harry easily enough. Someone tossed him the dom, and the rock slinger hovered about 20 feet away from the first barrel. Harry's eyes narrowed, his pupils widened, and his hands gripped the handle of his broom easily. "Now!" someone shouted. Harry shot forward. The flames from the first barrel grew larger and more intense as Harry drew closer. He threw the dom. A rock missed his eye by about an inch. Harry flew under the barrel and grabbed the ball as it started to fall out of the sky. He shot quickly toward the next barrel, dodging rocks and tree limbs as fast as his broom could fly. The crowd roared as the ball sailed through the next barrel, and gave a terrified gasp as Harry dived straight toward the ground below. He leveled off seconds before he would have hit the ground, the ball clutched in his hand. A rock bit into his left shoulder, but all Harry did was wince. He swung around another tree and glanced backward just long enough to see the rock slinger crash into it. The crowd below laughed uproariously. The ball sailed unhindered through the next barrel. Harry looked ahead. Two left. A jet of flame ripped through the air where Harry had been seconds before. He caught the ball as he flew past it, hearing the crowd give an admiring "Oooh," in response. He swung up in a high arc and threw the ball, diving toward the next barrel without bothering to watch where the ball went. He caught it about four seconds later, just in time to throw it though the last barrel and dodge a hail of rocks from the rock slinger, who had by this time recovered from his mishap. Harry caught the ball one last time, before swinging up and around and landing near the assembled crowd, totally exhilarated. "That was wicked!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, passing a hand along his forehead where his hair had plastered to his head. "Ye did it perfectly," someone said in total awe. "Ye must be the greatest flyer who ever walked these lands!" Harry laughed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lancelot slink out of the crowd, a furious look on his face. If anything could made the end of his impromptu flight perfect, this was it. He laughed heartily, and gave the broom back to the player whom he'd shoved out of the way. Instead of being angry, the player took the broom with awe, as though he'd just witnessed a miracle. Harry and Ron turned back toward the castle, with Harry panting a bit from the thrill of his flight. That was when he remembered Gryffindor. "Ron," he began, "you'll never guess who I met last night. You know, after I woke you up." "Yeah? Who?" Ron asked casually. "Godric Gryffindor." Ron stopped so suddenly he almost fell over. "What?" "Yeah. I met Godric Gryffindor last night, out by the brook." "Wicked!" Ron cried, envious. "What'd he say?" "Lancelot is going to be the death of Camelot. And he doesn't like the guy much." "What's to like?" Ron asked. "Lancelot's a git." "That's not the point. The point is, he predicted that Lancelot would lead to the destruction of Camelot," Harry said. "So what?" Ron asked. "Haven't you read any of the stories of this time period? King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, or anything?" Harry asked, exasperated. "No. You're confusing me with Ginny or Hermione. I don't care about knights in shining armour, Harry." "Ron! Lancelot will lead to the destruction of Camelot. How could Gryffindor possibly know that?" Before Ron could answer, a voice cut into the silence. "Well. It seems we have much to discuss." Harry turned around slowly. "Pardon?" Thomas just looked at Harry as if he'd gone mad. "You just said that Lancelot was going to be the destruction of Camelot. You also mentioned a book. Either you're crazy, or there's more going on here than meets the eye." Harry said nothing, just looking Thomas in the eye. Thomas nodded. "Merlin will want to know this as well." Harry sighed and spread his hands. The trio marched off to find Merlin in silence.
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