[FF] Trinity I: The Stone (Type-Moon/Harry Potter X-over)

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. Harry Potter and all related characters and concepts are the creation of J.K. Rowling, along with Raincoast Publishing, and Warner Brothers for the movies. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.



Writer's Note: Certain dialogue sequences in this story are lifted from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, but I trust in the intelligence of my readers (and the availability of the books) to make them recognisable when seen.



Chapter 1 - Strangers on a Train



September 1, 1991






His mind was a cacophony of white noise, appropriate for the blinding white light that had overwhelmed his sight. Coherent thought was all but impossible in the face of the sensory overload, and his sense of time, to say nothing of self, had all but disintegrated under the onslaught. After an eternity - or perhaps only seconds - the world gradually began to reform itself into something recognisable. With the shaping of his surroundings came thoughts.

I’m supposed to be dead . . . Why aren’t I dead?

His name, he remembered, was Shirou Emiya - and this had always been true. Had he another name, ever, it was long ago forgotten and ultimately unimportant. The identity attached to the name, however, was a different story. He was Shirou Emiya, but which Shirou Emiya?

He remembered being raised by Kiritsugu Emiya, and resolving to become a hero who could save everyone. He’d fought in the Grail War, and other wars besides, eventually making a pact with the world for the power to save lives. Dissatisfied, he’d made a further pact with the Grail system, to become the Servant Archer, and when summoned by the magus Rin Tohsaka, sought to end his existence by creating a paradox of killing his younger self. He had eventually given up that path, and as a part fused to his younger self, destroyed the Shadow that corrupted the Grand Holy Grail.

He remembered being resurrected as a homunculus by the Einzbern family, to serve as the core of a new Grail, and rebelling. His actions as this Shirou Emiya, a Master in the Sixth Grail War had led to the betrayal and near-deaths of everyone he knew and held dear. He’d been battling his onetime partner, Rin Tohsaka, and fully intended to kill her, before the last scion of the Nanaya clan had cut him down.

He remembered encountering Arturia Pendragon, ancient champion of the Powers That Be, in a world of demons and vampires. He remembered battling alongside her, falling in love with her, and bargaining with the multidimensional demons known as the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart for the power to release her from her duties. They had granted him that power - but as their tool, he’d granted Arturia release in the form of death, and been bound to the demons’ servitude forevermore.

He remembered battling on their behalf against Illyria, a primordial demon which had possessed the body of his lost love as a host, and nearly dying, before encountering a Slayer and his old partner - who had explained his existence as a lie, forced on reality by the overwhelming power of Illyria’s presence and the energies of the Holy Grail summoned in the Sixth War.

They had joined forces against Illyria, along with the Slayer’s Servant in the old reality, now the newly-anointed Mediator of the Holy Grail, its guardian and judge. And in using the body of one of its Servants, Illyria had merited the Mediator’s judgment. The clash had been epic in scale and power. It was the only appropriate word. And in the end, the intermixture of energies - demonic, divine, and dimensional - had led to a volatile reaction . . .

He should be dead, but he didn’t seem to be. And as the white light faded into sunlight shining through a pane of clear glass into a wood-panelled compartment, and the noise ebbed to the slow, rhythmic pulsing of a locomotive, he began to get a glimmer as to why that might be.

Because he now remembered being Shirou Einzbern, raised by the Muggle-born wizard Kiritsugu Einzbern and his wife Irisviel, and now on his way to his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

His response was atypical of him, and more commonly used by someone else, but under the circumstances Shirou thought it was appropriate, and that the individual in question would understand.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

A quick glance in the window showed his reflection - roughly himself as he’d been at eleven years old, with the red hair he remembered, but the same steel-gray eyes he’d gained on mastering Unlimited Blade Works. The juxtaposition struck him odd - but on reflection, what about this situation didn’t?

He tried to determine whether this was another reality overlay, as the Wolfram and Hart scenario had been, or if he’d somehow managed to possess an other-dimensional analogue of himself. Or if this was some bizarre afterlife that awaited Servants who’d been . . . What was he? Wiped from existence? What, exactly, had happened in that fight with Illyria?

He closed his eyes and tried to draw as many of the memories out as he could. Takara Aozaki had delivered her finishing strike, using the Mediator’s weapon, the sword known as Siege Perilous. As deadly as her Mystic Eyes were - and here he winced in pained remembrance of their effectiveness - when combined with the power of that weapon, Illyria should have been obliterated from existence. In point of fact, she had been.

They just hadn’t expected her to explosively self-destruct.

That much power should’ve wiped him from existence - or at least, the copy in use. But he obviously hadn’t been, because . . .

Because Takara Aozaki, his Master, had been holding the Kaleidostick.

Shirou was no expert on Jewel Magic, but he’d spent enough time around Rin (and to a lesser extent, Luvia) to get a semi-decent grasp on some of the principles - augmented by the few times he’d attempted to trace the Jewelled Sword. It was possible that the energy, when it hit the Kaleidostick, had caused an odd dimensional warp. It didn’t explain whether the world had been shifted, he was possessing himself, or actually here, but it was a start.

Now, where exactly was here?

Shirou concentrated on the newest memories. He was on a train to some castle in Scotland (an interesting concept, considering it meant they’d have to cross an island to get there) where he’d learn to use magic. He was the adopted son of Kiritsugu Einzbern, an Auror, or hunter of Dark witches and wizards, employed by the ICW - the International Confederation of Wizards. His mind also brought up the related term “hitwizard,” but apparently they were more like police - concerned with catching criminals, whereas Aurors specialised - although given that “hitwizard” brought specific connotations to mind, he wasn’t sure why the titles weren’t reversed.

Shirou had been raised in Germany with his family: Kiritsugu, Irisviel, and his older sister Ilya - who, he realised, actually was older now. Only by a year, true, but in this reality she’d actually get a chance to grow up. In any case, Ilya was attending a school called Durmstrang, as was tradition among her family. Kiritsugu had used his international connections to have him enrolled in Hogwarts, with the idea that his children could learn more from different education systems, and by cross-training one another.

Ilya, he recalled, hadn’t cared for that decision at all. This version of his “sister” could be just as light and playful as the ones he’d known, but whereas she played the role of little sister in his memories, this Ilya doted on her baby brother. Having him sent halfway across Europe for most of the year had broken her heart, and only the promise of long, detailed and frequent letters had given her any consolation whatsoever.

Memories of the native Ilya brought thoughts of her Mediator to mind. If he was here, he’d know where they were . . . Assuming he had survived at all, of course. Illyria had torn him up pretty badly before things went completely to hell. Still, he supposed there was the slightest possibility that the Servant had not only survived, but gone on to join him here - and he seemed to excel at realising possibilities like that. The man had managed to be lucky enough to be almost the last one standing in a Grail War which had included Shirou himself, after all.

That left Takara Aozaki. She was less durable than either of the two Servants, but she had been holding the Kaleidostick in the first place, and been contracted to Shirou at the time. It was possible those two facts would’ve drawn her along in his wake. But if so, she wasn’t in this compartment. Perhaps one of the others . . .?

Shirou’s musings were interrupted by the door of his compartment opening. A tall, thin boy with hair even redder than Shirou’s own stood there, his face spattered with freckles.

“Anyone sitting there?” he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Shirou. “Everywhere else is full.”






Takara couldn’t recall ever feeling so bad in her life. The sensations crawling through her body were worse than the worst flu she’d ever had - even with menstrual cramps thrown in. She curled in on herself and whimpered. Traditional Japanese stoicism be damned, she hurt. And what little she could glean out of the tangled whirl of her thoughts and memories did not improve her disposition.

She remembered being born Takara Aozaki, daughter of a schoolteacher and a painter, reluctant Master of a Holy Grail War where she gained use of her heritage - a powerful version of Mystic Eyes, and the gifts of the Nanaya bloodline. She remembered being a Slayer, like her mother before her, and fighting a primordial demon god-king named Illyria.

Unfortunately, she also remembered being born Takara Aozaki, eldest (and so far, only) child of Shiki and Ciel Aozaki, a Japanese pureblood wizard and Muggle-born witch, respectively. Raised in England, far from the family conflicts, she’d attended a Muggle primary school before receiving her letter of acceptance to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Having seen the movies as a child, this did not entirely please her. She almost would’ve preferred going to Beauxbatons (stupid etiquette courses aside), but she remembered her parents preferring this one, for some reason they wouldn’t explain to her satisfaction.

That made her worry. Any time her parents had kept secrets - in any version of reality she’d been in - it usually meant that they were trying to hide something life-changing and dangerous from her.

And, she realised, glancing around the compartment, it looks like I’m on my own, this time. Twin Indian girls sat across from her, and there was a quiet boy with a sketchpad to her left, who seemed to be trying to capture the view outside the train window. None of the three were the two Servants she’d been fighting with - barely minutes ago, though it seemed like a lifetime had since passed.

Takara frowned. What happened to them - or me, for that matter? Is this another dimensional rewrite, some kind of afterlife, or did I get kicked out of existence altogether and into this one? If I’m heading for Hogwarts, when is this? What do I have to worry about? And where are Archer and Aven . . . Jes . . . Damn it, whatever the hell he’s decided to call himself today, where is he?

She raised her hands to her temples, intent on rubbing them to banish the sudden headache - and froze.

Etched on the back of her left hand was a set of thin white lines, scar tissue that formed an unusual pattern. Her right hand, too, bore a scar - but it seemed to be incomplete, as though it was part of a larger design that had been inexplicably erased.

The Command Mantras of both Archer and Jester. Faded white as opposed to blood red, and scars in place of tattoos - but they still existed, were still visible on her hands. Whatever this place was, whatever changes it had made to her, one thing was clear - she was still connected to them, somehow.

And if so, then the question is, where are they?






The sad thing was, after so many instances of shifting between mental states, planes of existence, space-time continua, or just going from conscious to “un-“, the disorientation was becoming almost routine. That said, he had only one thing to say about the current state of affairs.

“Drunk first,” he groaned. “If I’m going to be this hung over, I freaking demand to have been drunk first!” Another groan. “Feels like I should have a blood alcohol level of ‘why aren’t you dead?’”

“You’re far too young to be drinking,” scolded a disapproving voice. Despite that, it was a pretty sort of voice, musically accented. It was only when he couldn’t pinpoint its source that he realised his eyes were closed.

He opened them blearily, wincing at the sudden bright light and cursing at their refusal to focus. All he could make out was a blur of brown, white and black.

He rubbed his eyes. “Forget hangover - the way my eyes are, maybe it’s a concussion.”

“Your glasses are probably in the case I can see peeking out of the top of the bag you were using as a pillow,” the indistinct blob said helpfully, causing him to blink in confusion. Glasses? He hadn’t worn glasses since . . .

The realisation was like a bucket of ice water suddenly thrown in his face - since he’d died. It came back to him then in flashes: the car accident, the Grail’s contract, the War, and finally, Illyria.

He should be dead. Long dead, from the car crash, but even without counting that, recent events should have had him pushing up the proverbial daisies. Illyria had hammered him in that fight, torn off his arm - and that was before she’d decided to go nuclear. But he felt (and could sort of see) both arms, and this was neither the blinding white of Illyria’s self-destruction, nor the stygian void that had followed it. Where was he? What was going on?

It might help you find out if you could see, pointed out that damnable inner voice again.

Slowly, he rose away from the bag he’d been pillowing against, and blindly fumbled for a hard, familiarly-shaped case. With practised ease, he popped it open to reveal a set of golden frames, which he slipped on without a second thought.

The world snapped into focus so suddenly it was almost disorienting. The sight of his partner in dialogue didn’t help. She was a young girl, petite in build, with a mass of long, dark wavy hair that sat piled atop her head like an overgrown bush. She had big chocolate brown eyes that seemed to gaze at him as if he was a specimen she was studying, and not entirely sure what to make of.

He echoed the sentiment. Save for a pair of slightly overgrown front teeth, the girl was a doppelganger for a younger Emma Watson in her role as Hermione Granger. And if that was the case . . .

His eyes snapped to the nearest reflective surface - the train window. With relief, he noted that he seemed to basically look like himself. While there might be a superficial resemblance - especially given his glasses - the distinct lack of a lightning bolt scar proved that he was not Harry Potter.

And effusive thanks to any deity who happens to be listening for that, he thought.

Still, what the hell was he doing here?

A number of explanations ran through his head right then. He’d either gone to heaven, gone to hell, or was still dying and this was a hallucination his subconscious had dreamed up to try and make sense of his brain’s death via oxygen deprivation. Actually, that would explain the Type-Moon stuff, too. It was the only reasonable explanation for the sudden shift between two such vastly disparate series . . . No, wait - he kind of had memories of being somebody else? He dug deeper into his own mind, trying to make sense of the impressions he was getting.

The link to Ilya was gone (if, indeed, it had ever really existed), and he had a sense of his own heartbeat, and of breathing and needing to breathe, so he was no longer undead (again, if he’d ever been). Instead the new memories - as ingrained as the ones he’d had of the druid, Kieran Holt - insisted that he was Galen Salvatore, a twelve-year-old half-blood on his way to his first year at Hogwarts.

Cute. Now, instead of my name having the ironic meanings of “divinely peaceful” and “hawk-eyed,” now it’s “calm” and “saviour” - which is equally untrue. And my initials match the old ones, just to add to the fun.

And his birthday was still the same, meaning he’d be older than most of his classmates by almost a year, just like Hermione. Speaking of which . . .

“Thanks,” he said aloud. “I’m basically blind without these things.” He tapped the right earpiece.

“And obviously not at your best when you first wake up,” she commented.

“Not even close - which can be troublesome when you’re not a morning person, but hardwired to be an early riser.” He sighed. “If I’d known years of sneaking downstairs at six AM to watch cartoons would form a habit, I’d probably have stayed in bed.”

He held out his hand. “I’m Galen Salvatore, by the way.”

She shook it. “Hermione Granger, pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.” He tilted his head to one side. “I don’t suppose the food cart’s been around yet?”

“No.”

“Pity - chocolate isn’t coffee, but it’s got enough caffeine to be a decent substitute.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “First alcohol, now coffee - that’s terribly bad for you! Your parents let you drink it?”

“Occasionally I get a glass of wine with Christmas dinner, but that’s about it.”

“And coffee? That will stunt your growth.”

I topped out at almost six foot one, so I don’t suppose it mattered much, he thought. It was not hitting 120 pounds until I was sixteen that ticked me off.

“It’s not too good for your teeth, either - any of it,” she added.

“Gotten a lot of lectures on that, eh?”

Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment as she admitted,“Well . . . Yes.” She hurried on. “My parents are dentists, you see - no one in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard - I’ve learnt all our set books off by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough -”

“Hermione, breathe!” he interrupted, struggling not to laugh. I forgot that she babbles.

“I’m not going anywhere, and the train ride’s pretty much all day,” he continued. “We’ll have time for a lot of conversation, if you want to. Don’t feel you have to try and cram it all into a single sentence.” He smiled. “Now, you said your parents were dentists - my dad’s a marketing rep for the power company, and my mom’s a housewife. She’s a witch.”

“Oh, so you’re used to all this.”

“Not exactly,” he admitted, searching through Galen’s memories - or were they really his? Had his whole life until this point been part of the dream, and this was the reality?

Not bloody likely, the inner voice informed him. You’d have to be a hell of a precognitive to have dreamed a series of books and movies based on the life you’re living now. No, the real question is - is this another effect like Illyria had, have you somehow possessed an alternate you, or is this some hella bizarre afterlife?

“I went mostly to mundane schools,” he admitted. “Magic isn’t unknown to me, but we didn’t have a big community - or a lot of contact with it - where I grew up.”

“Where’s that?” Hermione asked, her eyes bright and inquisitive.

“Canada.” The parallels to his actual life were frightening, and made deciding what was behind this all the more difficult.

“Oh!” she said. “That explains your accent.”

He blinked. “I have an accent?”

“About as much of one as I’d imagine I have to your ears,” she responded.

“Yeah, but I’d bet mine isn’t as pretty.”

To his surprise, she blushed. The Hermione of the books was supposedly a little more plain-looking than Emma was, but given that she was closer to the film version, should she be that unused to compliments?

Galen - deciding he might as well get used to the name - laughed. “I’m serious! If you decided to read the phone book aloud, I wouldn’t object. But if that’s not your cup of tea . . .”

He turned back to his bag, and began rummaging through it. If the wizard was anything like him - and so far, he seemed to be almost identical - then he had to have packed at least one book . . .

“Ah-ha!” he said in triumph, brandishing a tome entitled Things That Go Bump: A Survivor’s Guide to Nocturnal Creatures.

Hermione blinked. “That wasn’t on my booklist!” Her tone was almost one of protest.

“No, it’s one of mine,” he said. “Magical creatures are a hobby of mine.” This was true - he knew more folklore and mythology - especially as pertained to monsters - than most people he knew. He realised that, to properly adapt to this reality, he’d probably have to do a lot of rereading.

Setting that thought aside, he shrugged, continuing, “And I figured I’d need something to read on the train. I’m . . . I’m not really a people person.”

She gave him a measuring look. “Really? You could’ve fooled me.”

“I make exceptions for pretty girls,” he said dryly, smirking.

She blushed again. “I’m not pretty.”

“Sorry, I misspoke - cute girls. ‘Pretty’ might not apply for a couple of years, although it’s always possible you’ll skip ‘pretty’ altogether and go straight to ‘drop dead gorgeous.’” He paused. “And if you get any redder, you’re liable to pass out, so I’ll shut up now and read my book - unless you want to?”

He held it out for her to take. Hermione gazed it for a long moment, hesitantly.

“I’m a fast reader, Hermione - I brought more than one book. Take it if you want to, and I’ll start with one of the others.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled quietly, before taking it from his hand.

“You’re welcome.” He went back to rummaging through his bag for another book, catching a glimpse of a day planner with his name embossed on it. Curious, he picked it up and flipped casually through it. One of its prominent features was that the calendar showed the phases of the moon . . .

And there it was - the catch. The difference between himself and Galen Salvatore. Where he’d been born with cerebral palsy, which had left him weakened and ostracised his entire life, Galen had an entirely different affliction that nonetheless had much the same effect, if not an altogether worse one.

He was a werewolf.

The sudden knowledge left him silent as he tried to absorb all that it meant. He read quietly alongside Hermione, his mind only partly on his reading material, but not paying the outside world any attention at all the food trolley showed up - and shortly thereafter, a round-faced boy came in, looking for a lost toad . . .






After an hour and a half of Ronald Weasley’s company, Shirou was still unsure which of the two of them he wanted to kill. He’d be faster and in less trouble if he killed himself, but there was a certain visceral satisfaction in contemplating the other redhead’s demise.

Hell, he decided, was being an adult in a child’s body, sealed inside a compartment with an eleven-year-old boy.

It wasn’t that Ronald Weasley was unfriendly, exactly. It was that he managed to be sullen about his life, and still never stop talking. His family, his clothes, his wand, his rat, his lunch - everything was denigrated, and yet he got defensive any time Shirou politely agreed. He rambled on about Quidditch (which Shirou’s new memories were familiar with, although he hadn’t played) with the kind of attention to detail he’d expect from an otaku at least three years older, but it wasn’t much better considering he had little interest in the game. Moreover, any time Shirou made a reference to the non-magical (he refused to use the term “Muggle” - it just sounded naturally insulting) world, he got a look of such confusion from the boy that Shirou wondered if he’d even been raised on this planet.

Who the hell would ever call it a “fellytone?” You’d think after a century or so of its being in common use, they’d understand the proper terminology - especially if they want to not attract attention!

The difference between this “Wizarding World” and the way the Magi Association went about dealing with mundane society was starkly contrasting. Magi blended in, hiding in plain sight and carefully concealing their existence while living and working within the framework of society. The wizards seemed content to isolate themselves entirely, stick their collective heads in the sand and pretend that the rest of the human race - who outnumbered them some forty thousand to one in this country alone, if he had his numbers right - effectively didn’t exist.

The offhand mention Weasley had made of being a “pure-blood” was kind of disturbing, too. It sounded like Japan at its most insularly traditional - but with a population base as small as the British wizards had, that brought inbreeding and genetic defects into the equation.

No, Shirou didn’t think he was going to enjoy being here in the slightest. The only ray of hope he could see was that this school might have information on this world’s equivalent to the Second Magic, so he could start planning his attempts to get the hell out of here.

His ruminations - and Ron’s description of some spell or other for his rat - were interrupted by the sliding of the compartment door. The boy who’d lost his toad, whom Shirou was now bitterly regretting not offering to help - was back, with a couple of extra bodies in tow.

“Has anyone seen a toad?” asked the girl. “Neville’s lost one.”

Shirou barely heard her. His eyes were on the boy accompanying the pair. While his memories were still partly a jumble of all his different lives, he’d been an unwilling Grail core at one time, and thus retained knowledge of all the Servants involved in the relevant War. There were differences, mostly age, but the resemblance was unmistakable - as was the recognition in the boy’s own eyes.

“You,” Shirou said, reverting unconsciously to Japanese. “What the hell is going on?”






As Galen walked behind Neville and Hermione - partly a matter of a slower natural pace, and partly insurance to make sure neither of them missed Trevor in their urgency - he paused as he saw a flash of red in the next compartment.

Here it comes . . .

The first meeting of the so-called Golden Trio whose dynamics would define Hermione’s life - though why the hell she married Ron after everything he did to her was still beyond him. In any case, it was going to happen now, and if he was lucky, she might still have time for a friend outside that relationship - though given how werewolves were perceived, and how hard she’d have it as a Muggle-born, it might be best to forget about that altogether. Why give her enemies more ammunition?

She’s going to have more than enough trouble in the next few years . . .

As he stepped through into the compartment - might as well look around while they were engrossed in conversation - he noticed two things, and froze.

The first fact was that the boy next to Ron Weasley was not, in any way, shape or form, Harry Potter. In fact, there was a distinct lack of any black-haired, green-eyed wizards anywhere in the room, scarred or otherwise.

The second fact was that the boy next to Ron Weasley was a dead-ringer for a steel-eyed Emiya Shirou.

Then the Shirou-duplicate said “You,” in exactly the same tone of voice used a few hours ago by Nanaya Takara, and the first fact flew right out of Galen’s head as his brain concentrated on the next few seconds - which were likely to include his horribly painful demise.

Bloody hell . . .