Trinity II: The Chamber (Type-Moon/Harry Potter X-over)
DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon, along with anyone who's happened to license them, like Geneon or Funimation. Harry Potter and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of J.K. Rowling, along with her publishers and Warner Bros., as regards the movie material.
This is a not-for-profit, just-for-fun project.
Writer's Note: Certain dialogue sequences in this story are lifted from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, but I trust in the intelligence of my readers (and the availability of the books) to recognise them when they see them.
Chapter 1 - Lazy Summer Days
August 18, 1992
The battlefield was littered with bodies. Dozens of bodies, splayed out across the ground where they had fallen - where they had been ambushed. Some of them had taken each other out, some of them he had done in, and the rest . . . The rest were his.
Shirou admitted, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the skill required to create this kind of carnage was admirable. Almost every kill had been made with a single shot, straight to a vital point. He was very good with guns, Archer class notwithstanding. The bow might be his traditional weapon, but he was also a warrior of his time. Firearms might not be the stuff of epic legends, save in a very few cases, but they were just as common and widely used as swords, in modern times. As such, Shirou knew how to use them, and use them well - and also, how to judge the skill of those who used them against him.
He was good. Very good. As good as Shirou himself. Possibly even better, though Shirou was loathe to admit it - at least with these particular weapons, at these close distances. Where firearms were concerned, he was first and foremost a rifleman. Shirou believed that if he could see the whites of his enemies’ eyes through any other means but a sniper scope, he was too damned close to use guns. Whereas he thrived on being at the centre of it all, a whirling storm of leather and lead that tore down everything that stood against it.
Shirou had no choice, though. The circumstances were what they were, his weapon was all that was available - and he had reasons enough to go on, regardless. Those reasons had names: Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger, Takara Aozaki - and Ilyasviel von Einzbern. Every single one of them had been cut down, ruthlessly and efficiently, with as much thought and effort as Shirou would put into swatting flies - and an equal amount of remorse. For them, Shirou would fight under any conditions, even these.
His eyes scanned the gloomy interior, seeking cover and concealment points. Evenly matched as they probably were, his best bet for victory involved spotting his target first - a tricky proposition, since he had to make an extraordinary effort to keep quiet, lest he lose the element of surprise . . .
The sound of a weapon being primed brought an abrupt halt to Shirou’s stealthy efforts. Shirou turned, and saw the killer standing before him, weapon not raised but ready, as if he planned to give him a fighting chance.
All we need is a tumbleweed to roll between us . . .
Shirou felt a lazy smirk cross his features at the image, as he held his own weapon in a similar position.
“You know,” he said, almost casually, “I always figured that somehow, it was going to come down to you and me one day.”
The right side of Galen’s mouth twitched, a spasmodic half-smirk. “Bring it.”
Shirou’s reflexes were faster than those of anyone else he knew, bar one - and she was gone. That said, Galen had never been a slouch when it came to reacting to a threat, and especially when it came to protecting himself. Every shot Shirou took wasn’t dodged, it was countered - negated in mid-flight. One, two, three, four - not one was allowed to hit. Shirou abandoned the tactic as useless and dove to one side, hoping to exploit a vulnerable angle . . .
Galen, however, had spent hours learning to read Shirou’s body language in self-defence practice, and countered by rolling in the opposite direction, out of Shirou’s field of fire. The two warriors rose as one, fired another exchange of blocked shots, before Shirou dove behind a raised plate for cover and took off running.
It was a delaying tactic. While Shirou was a far faster runner, especially over longer distances, Galen had better endurance. Shirou could run at a good clip, and for far longer, but Galen would recover his breath faster and be able to put on bursts of quickness for a longer period than Shirou could maintain his best speed. He could gain a lead, even hold it for a long while - but Galen would run him down in the end.
Shirou cursed. He hadn’t really believed they would be that equal . . . But then again, he should have. Pistols were his weapons, as much as a sword was Saber’s. Where Shirou could kick Galen’s ass in a match of blades, bows, even bare hands - though admittedly, not without at least a few licks in the latter arena - this was what Galen was made to use. This situation was precisely his kind of fight. So if Shirou wanted to win, he’d have to do what Galen usually took as his own prerogative: change the rules.
The converted warehouse they were fighting in was large, spacious, with many nooks and crannies to hide in, and more than a few things to hide behind. It had been designed to be the ideal arena for large groups of competing forces to fight it out . . . Not that those facts had saved anyone here. No matter their age, conditioning, experience or allies, every single person here had fallen . . . A desperate plan suddenly blossomed in Shirou’s mind.
Worthy of Galen himself, noted a corner of the selfsame mind sardonically. Lacking better options, he ignored the commentary and decided to run with it. He ducked around a corner and into a room. As expected, it was filled with bodies - five of them. Each lay where they had been shot, scattered across the surface area, but he quickly spotted a space sufficient for him to have a good field of fire for the room’s only entrance, and he threw himself into it.
Shirou had never been much into meditation. He was a creature of action first and foremost, and the concepts of stillness and quiet communion ran counter to his natural inclinations. Still, he’d managed to pick up the gist of it, and so he ran through techniques in his head to slow his breathing, relax his body, and quite simply, play dead. Having done so successfully, he watched the room through near-closed eyelids - and waited.
It took a while. Galen was many things, but never stupid, not when it came to dealing with threats. Once Shirou was out of line of sight, Galen would have slowed his approach, quieted his movements, opened his senses. When ambush became a possibility, the key lay in awareness of one’s surroundings and above all, patience. It had now become a waiting game between them - and the first to break would fall. With that in mind, Galen wouldn’t be in any hurry to pursue, so Shirou had to resign himself to waiting, silent and still.
Eventually, of course, the stalemate had to end. Shirou didn’t hear Galen enter, but he was aware of the blur through his slitted eyelids that moved into the room. He might have been able to pop off a shot immediately, but given Galen’s proven reflexes, Shirou forced himself to wait for the ideal opportunity, when Galen’s weapon was so far out of the zone he couldn’t possibly bring it to bear in time.
. . . Of course, if Galen remembered how many bodies he’d actually left in this room, waiting would probably get him killed.
It seemed not, however, as the gunslinger scanned the area carefully before stepping into the room cautiously. Given the areas of potential cover, he’d actually have to step past Shirou to examine every possible hiding place, and eventually, he did. Shirou allowed him one step further before he shifted to raise himself up . . .
Shirou would never be entirely sure what betrayed him - a noise he didn’t hear over the sound of his own pounding heart, Galen’s natural paranoia suddenly realising there was an extra body, or maybe just the blind luck that seemed to follow him around like an overexcited puppy. Whatever the case, as Shirou began to aim, Galen turned to look behind him, his own gun raising.
Shirou fired, and so did Galen - at his own head. Shirou wondered if he’d decided to go for suicide rather than allowing Shirou to beat him, but decided it didn’t matter as he saw the other stiffen and fall to the floor . . . And then he realised that the bastard had managed - somehow - to simultaneously hit him with a ricochet of his last shot.
“Son of a bitch!” Shirou snapped.
“OI!” Galen’s “corpse” snapped, as he got up and dusted himself off. “Don’t talk about my mother that way!”
“You managed to refract the beam off your glasses to hit him?!” Hermione said in disbelief. “Do you realise the odds of a shot like that?”
Her voice was mostly inaudible, over the din in the pizza parlour. It was partly why they’d chosen the place - so much noise, a careful conversation could be held in private without the use of magic to assure it.
“Never tell me the odds,” Galen grumbled, in a lousy impersonation of Han Solo.
Takara chuckled. “Hermione, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, he excels at impossible things. It’s the normal stuff he’s rubbish at.”
“HEY!”
She smirked at him, not at all happy about his taking her down earlier. She’d been faster than him, and expecting it - though admittedly, she’d thought it would be Shirou who’d be the one to eliminate her. Galen had managed to play on that expectation expertly. She’d never seen it coming.
Still, it had been fun to do, so she pressed on, “So, the manager was pleased?”
“The manager was ecstatic,” Shirou corrected. “Said the footage will make for a great ad campaign. He even offered to double what we’d agreed to if the two of us would come back next summer for an exhibition match in a tournament he’s planning.”
Galen shrugged. “With the exchange working out to an extra twenty Galleons, I was game if Shirou was.”
Takara read the unspoken subtext: he’d needed the money. She knew very well that his parents had raised hell over his expenditures last year - though they couldn’t say much, as they’d all been gifts for other people - and set a strict limit over what he was allowed to withdraw for spending money this year. They would also be keeping his Gringotts key, after school supplies had been purchased and said amount had been withdrawn.
To his credit, Galen hadn’t exactly shirked earning money to replace what he’d spent. In addition to his usual paper route, he’d been doing yard work for the neighbours all summer. Combined with enduring two full moons without Wolfsbane Potion, and she was privately impressed the guy was still conscious, much less capable of a conversation.
Shirou shrugged in response to Galen’s statement. “It’s extra money. And besides, it was kind of fun. The guy also said that as long as we called ahead so he could set up a few extra cameras and competitions, we and our friends could get in for free any time we wanted.”
Neville shook his head. “No thanks. This ‘laser tag’ thing is fun, but I think it’d get old if we did it too often.”
“Still, it was a nice birthday present,” Takara admitted. “Thanks, guys. I had fun then. I even had fun on this trip, despite the fact that you killed me this time.” She scowled at her onetime Servant.
“He killed me, too,” Ilya grumbled. She pouted at him. “Some chevalier you are.”
Galen smiled apologetically. “Sorry, Milady. We had to do our best, to make the footage for the commercial worthwhile.”
“I’d say taking out the entire population in less than twenty minutes counts,” Shirou drawled.
Hermione shook her head. “The pair of you are monsters, you know.”
Shirou mock-scowled. “Hey, I’ve been trained to use firearms - he’s the freak of nature.” He gestured at Galen, smirking. “Bloody gun god, right there.”
Takara watched as a shocked expression crossed Galen’s face, followed by his visibly deciding that Shirou couldn’t possibly have meant whatever Galen thought he did. She supposed it was a testament to how relaxed he was becoming around them that she could read his face at all - usually it was so hard.
But as the day got closer to Hogwarts’ beginning of term, she knew he wouldn’t stay that way. Not with what lay ahead of them.
In a way, Takara knew, they were lucky. They knew what was going to happen, and the easiest way to stop it. They knew who, where, and when. With a little bit of luck, they could forestall everything with an hour’s work, and enjoy a nice, quiet year at school.
If they couldn’t . . .
If they couldn’t, a lot of them would be in danger. First and foremost, to Galen’s way of thinking, Hermione. And that would drive him crazy.
Takara admitted to herself that the boy in front of her was more than a little frustrating. He said he loved her, but didn’t treat her . . . No, that wasn’t fair. He did treat her as someone special. It was just that she wasn’t the only one he did that for. Hermione and Ilya got the same treatment - though in Ilya’s case, it was quite clearly and firmly demonstrated to be platonic on both sides. Hermione, though . . .
Galen fixated on her like only an otaku could. Her well-being seemed to be his obsession. He went out of his way to compliment her, give her presents, keep her safe. And for this, he’d managed to inspire a level of devotion and affection from the young witch that could best be described as “puppy love.” Yet he never seemed to acknowledge that, beyond friendship. It confused Hermione, and it confused Takara - did he love her, or not? He certainly acted as though he did, but there would always come a point where he’d pull back, or ignore what was in front of him. Takara wasn’t sure why that was . . . And she was afraid to ask if it was because of her. Afraid, because it might not be - and afraid because it might.
Takara had promised herself, as a small girl, that she would marry a Japanese boy. That her children wouldn’t have to suffer the same kind of prejudices she had, growing up. It was cowardly, prejudiced, and shameful - but it was also part of who she was. She didn’t like it, didn’t usually think about it, but it was there. If Galen was holding back from Hermione on her account . . .
He can be a good man, even if he is infuriating and occasionally frightening. He’s even kind of cute, when he makes an effort to dress up - here, memories of Neville’s birthday party, a formal dinner, flashed through her mind - but he’s not Japanese. Even if I gave in, he’d always be an outsider . . .
Except . . . We’re not in Japan, are we?
At Hogwarts, they’d been isolated from the world. It was only this summer that she was coming to realise what staying here, in this reality, really meant. She might be Japanese by birth and upbringing, but she was living in England. She was a witch, in a society of witches and wizards which set less store by racial and ethnic background than blood purity - though from what she remembered of the visit to Hogwarts by Beauxbatons, it wasn’t entirely ignored.
In the issue of blood, she was still somewhat behind, being half-blood - but Galen’s blood was no less, and neither her European nor her Japanese features counted against her. So long as she lived here, there was a real possibility that she could marry and raise a family without being subject to the kind of circumstances she’d endured while young.
Except . . . a little whispering voice in her head reminded her.
Except that Galen was a werewolf, a Dark creature who was required to be registered with the government, and subject to laws and restrictions not applied to the rest of the citizenry. No matter how nice a person he was, the curse would be all they saw.
And that would apply to his wife and children, as well - assuming he was ever allowed any, Takara thought grimly.
Perhaps that was why he was shying away from Hermione. Galen had to know the status of werewolves in British wizarding society better than she did. It was entirely believable that he was trying to ignore Hermione in order to protect her, as being “Muggle-born,” as they called it, would count against her as it was - but was still tempted by her.
Takara wished her own motivations were as noble.
She came back to her senses just in time to hear Galen say, “So, everybody up for Diagon Alley tomorrow?”
Hermione nodded. “I’m looking forward to Flourish and Blotts. We have a lot of books to buy this year.” She smiled. “I’ll be able to use that certificate you got me for Valentine’s Day, and maybe some of the gold in my Gringotts vault . . . “ She paused, glancing at Ilya.
Guessing at the reason for Hermione’s hesitation, Takara supplied, “She knows.”
Hermione paused to assimilate that, then pressed on. “Did you have any luck getting hold of Nicolas Flamel?”
Takara winced. They’d been dreading this question since the Daily Prophet had released the Flamels’ obituaries three weeks ago. Now it was a matter of how much Galen was willing to lie . . .
“He’s dead,” Ilya said bluntly. “He and his wife both.”
Takara froze, not having expected that. Shirou winced. Neville shrank into himself. Galen flashed his lady a look just shy of murderous.
Hermione, however, went white. She whispered, “We killed them . . .”
“You did not,” Ilya said sharply. “They created the Philosopher’s Stone in the first place, and the first thing any idiot would do is stockpile sufficient quantities of Elixir in order to sustain them long enough to create another one, in the event the Stone was lost, stolen, or destroyed. They’d lived for over six hundred and fifty years, and they chose to let the Stone go out of their possession for nearly a year - so that stockpile existed, all right.” Her face and voice softened. “You didn’t kill them, Hermione. If they died, it was because they chose to, not because they had no other choice.”
Takara found herself snorting. “Ten Galleons says Dumbledore convinced them it was ‘for the greater good’ that the knowledge of how to create the Stone be lost.”
“No bet,” Ilya said. “I hate wasting money.”
It was a measure of how disturbing they found the conversation - or the weakening of their faith in Dumbledore - that neither Neville nor Hermione leaped to the Headmaster’s defence. The “protections” around the Philosopher’s Stone hadn’t kept them out, and Dumbledore had been responsible for them. Given how he’d chosen to guard a priceless magical artefact, some sarcasm was probably justified.
Takara changed the subject. “The Animagus potion is nearly ready, by the way.”
Ilya’s eyes lit up. “Oho! How long have you been planning this?”
“Since November,” Takara answered. “After you gave Galen . . .”
Ilya nodded. She remembered the time perfectly well, of course.
“And you’ve managed to keep it from your parents all summer?” Ilya giggled. “Perhaps there’s a bit of Slytherin in you, Little Miss Gryffindor.”
“If so, I’m hardly the only one,” Takara said in a lofty tone.
“True enough,” Ilya agreed. She glanced at her watch - an old-fashioned mechanical timepiece. “Oh, my! We’d better finish our food - we’re supposed to meet Papa in the car park in ten minutes.”
Predictably, there was a run on the last of the pizza.
Thus far, Galen admitted, the summer is an overall success.
It hadn’t been perfect, by any means - and the full moon was only part of that. Without Wolfsbane Potion, he had no control over himself, and no real awareness save hazy flashbacks long after the night was over. No, problems had been had in the form of his parents - neither of whom had been particularly pleased at his spending three-quarters of his vault’s contents in a single year. Only the fact that his marks ranged from acceptable to excellent had kept him from being completely grounded all summer.
Besides, I’m twelve years old and never really had money to spend before - what did they expect?
The excuse was flimsy, because he wasn’t really twelve and he knew it, but he’d stick to it, nonetheless.
Still, by working like a dog, he’d managed to put back a good chunk of what he’d spent, and today’s bonus money actually put him in better shape than before. His expenses would hopefully be lower this year, to - it helped that he didn’t plan on buying the full set of Lockhart books. He, Takara, and Shirou had come to an agreement - they’d each buy two (he’d won the draw that got him out of buying a third), and share as necessary. Only the fact that they were considered required had them buying the books at all, since they all knew they were effectively worthless. Well . . . It was possibly useful if you could read through the florid self-aggrandising, but he didn’t really have the patience for it.
Still, Lockhart was only an annoyance. Unlike last year, the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was not a lethal threat, and thus could be (relatively) safely ignored. No, this year the problems came from much higher up, on the Hogwarts’ Board of Governors.
Lucius Malfoy.
Lucius Malfoy was, without a doubt, one of the most dangerous characters in the Harry Potter series - possibly the most dangerous. This year was the proof. The only reason to give the diary to Ginny Weasley was if he knew exactly what it was, and what it was capable of doing. He had gambled with the anchor for his Dark Lord’s soul, knowing it could be the only thing tying Voldemort’s spirit to this earth (though, presumably, not knowing about the others. Galen wouldn’t have trusted any follower with the knowledge that he had more than one Horcrux). He might not have intended for the diary to be destroyed - but Galen wouldn’t have made a similar risk unless he was absolutely certain of being either beyond the Dark Lord’s reach, or his superior in power and resources. But if the diary hadn’t been destroyed, Malfoy could’ve retrieved it at his leisure, with Voldemort presumably none the wiser.
No, Lucius was the most dangerous Death Eater alive - Bellatrix, for all her terrifying power, was simply a mad dog. Lucius was a spider, content to weave his webs and wait.
Malfoy had to have been nearing a position that would’ve allowed him to fully take over wizarding Britain - until Harry Potter mucked it up by killing the basilisk, and causing a chain reaction that saw him ousted from the Board. No, Malfoy was more dangerous than any other Death Eater - Bellatrix was simply vicious. And none of them was Harry Potter. None of them was a Parselmouth, capable of opening the Chamber of Secrets. If things went that far, if it became necessary to do so in order to save someone, or stop something . . .
If it comes to that, we’re finished, Galen thought.
And if it came that, Hermione would’ve been attacked already . . .
No. I’ll forge transfer papers to Beauxbatons first. I’ll pick her up and throw her through the damned Floo network. I will not let her come to harm!
Galen took a deep breath, trying to calm the sudden surge of adrenalin. He got up from his bed and began to pace.
It was happening again - puberty. Hormones that had already come and gone once before were reasserting themselves, and he was already sick of them.
And I’m not even thirteen, yet.
His temper had been terrible as a teenager. The arguments he’d gotten into with his parents had nearly landed him in the street, more than once - or the hospital. He was not looking forward to going through it again.
And God only knows what else puberty does to a werewolf . . .
Worse yet, he wasn’t in the body of the proverbial 98-pound weakling anymore. He’d been exercising, getting combat training . . . Only his self-preservation instinct - the voice that said anyone could slaughter him - had kept him from getting violent before. And the situation was different now. There was every possibility that his next fight could turn nasty, and he might seriously hurt or kill someone.
If it was Malfoy, I might not mind. But Hermione, say?
He’d mostly repaired his relationship with Hermione over the summer, he thought. She’d been upset because he’d been keeping secrets from her, when they were supposed to be friends. Given how many he actually was keeping from her, he could see her point. But she’d also made it a point to tell him that she was learning how to read him - that one day his ability to lie to and manipulate the people around him would fail against her, and she would be able to start understanding how it was he knew what he knew.
That would be bad.
In his defence, he didn’t particularly like lying to her - or lying in general, for that matter. But what was he supposed to say?
“Oh, by the way - you’re a fictional character in my home universe, but I won’t hold that against you? . . . And while I think of it, I don’t suppose you’d mind going out with a guy almost twenty years older than you are, biological appearance aside?”
Galen cursed his hormones for adding the last part, and cursed Hermione for being cute.
It didn’t matter. If he opened his mouth and said anything like that, he’d be hauled off to the psych ward of St. Mungo’s hospital, or Oblivated before sunrise. It was just as bad an idea to tell Hermione that as it would have been to tell Takara and her family . . . And in the latter case, if he did it now, only Takara would have a clue as to what the hell he was talking about.
Takara and Shirou seemed to have a better handle on this - but Takara didn’t have as many years between the age she was and the age she looked, and Shirou seemed to be living the life he’d always wanted. Settling into being a kid again wasn’t hard for him, under those circumstances.
Galen . . . Well, it could be argued that he’d never grown up, but he had grown old. He wore his age not well, but familiarly. And now that it was gone, he was off-kilter. He didn’t know what he wanted. He wasn’t sure what he should want. Or “if” - experience had taught him that wanting anything was leaving an opening for the world to hurt you.
Especially in the feminine aspect of life.
Fact: No girl has ever been interested in you, romantically or sexually. Fact: While different, your existence here isn’t that different. Ergo: They won’t care, either of them. Even if they show signs of it now, that will change when something more appropriate to them - more right for them - comes along. We’ve been through this already - repeatedly.
And even if those facts weren’t self-evident, they’re children, you pervert. Hands off, eyes off, mind off!
Galen decided he’d had enough angsting for one day. Takara and Hermione were friends, which was as much or more than he’d ever had with a girl before - largely, they’d just ignored his existence. In any case, their feelings weren’t and never would be his problem, end of story. There was need to concentrate on more important things.
The diary . . .
Tom Riddle’s diary was the key. If they could get to it before Ginny found it in her things, they could chuck it in the Room of Requirement with the other Horcrux until they had a means to destroy them. No diary meant no basilisk, no attacks on mundane-born students, and a nice quiet year to worry about inconsequential things until Sirius Black showed up. He might even have time to try making friends with people in other houses - like say, Ravenclaw’s Luna Lovegood - she was supposed to start this year, wasn’t she?
Galen consulted his memory.
. . . Yup, she was! Poor girl could probably use a friend now instead of three years from now.
Takara was fast enough. Shirou was sneaky enough. He could cause distractions with the best of them, if Lockhart and Arthur Weasley’s fight with Lucius wasn’t distraction enough. They should have enough time, and it would be easy. He’d even bring the cloak, just in case.
A little vigilance, a little luck, a lot of speed, and this year’s problems could be secured in less than an hour. Outright eliminated in twenty-four hours. It was just a matter of timing, and hard work.
Galen yawned, and found himself deciding to get ready for bed. A very taxing day was scheduled in the A.M.
It might be almost two weeks before school started again, but as of tomorrow, summer vacation was over. It was time to go back to work.