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.
Hogwarts
May 4, 1998
It’s been a very long time, Takara realised, since I was last in this position.
It was, she supposed, a measure of how very strange her life had become. Whereas visits to the Hospital Wing had once been often a monthly occurrence—given Galen’s transformations—and at the very least an annual one, it had actually been well over a year since her last trip here. Mostly because she hadn’t been in the castle, of course, but even so, Galen had only really required medical attention once since his first exposure to the Elixir of Life; it was incontestably a new record for him.
So naturally, when he does need it, it’s nearly as bad as it was then.
Takara grimaced as she took in her boyfriend’s primary injury. It wasn’t as life-threatening as the stress that curing his lycanthropy had put his body through, but it was severe—and even with the healing capabilities of both the Elixir and Madam Pomfrey, he’d been unconscious for just over twenty-four hours. Granted, that didn’t sound like a lot, until you took in just how accelerated his nature as a wizard, as an Animagus, plus the Elixir made his ability to recover; in mundane terms, he’d have been out for about two weeks.
Although, had he been mundane, Takara was sure he’d never have survived at all. Still, her alchemical and medical studies assured Takara that Galen would survive, and even recover. The Elixir’s potency was such that those pieces they couldn’t find to reattach were growing back . . .
Alchemy was, at its base, the study of attaining perfection—and when they said “perfect,” they meant it—
Whether it was a facet of her predatory Animagus nature or a quirk of her Nanaya genetics, Takara was very aware of subtle changes in her environment: for example, the suddenly-rising heart rate and breathing rhythms of her previously-unconscious boyfriend. As such, she wasn’t startled when he spoke—much as he might have anticipated the surprise.
His eyes still closed, Galen grunted, “What’s the butcher’s bill?”
“. . . Really?” Takara asked flatly. “That’s what you start with?”
“I’m not restrained, and I have a lot of experience in recognising the sounds and smells of the Hospital Wing—and yours, too—while coming out of unconsciousness,” he replied (still without opening his eyes, annoyingly). “Therefore, we won, which leaves only the question, ‘how many did we lose?’
“What’s the butcher’s bill?” he repeated, and this time, he opened his eyes to stare at her.
“There were a lot of casualties,” Takara admitted, “but only one fatality.” She took a deep breath. “Professor Sprout was at ground zero when Riddle blew the top off the North Tower.”
“. . . Damn,” he muttered feelingly, and she agreed with the sentiment. Neither of them had been particularly close to the Herbology Professor, but Neville had been—and more than that, she’d been a fixture at the school for years. The Hufflepuffs would be devastated, but they’d hardly be the only ones . . .
Takara smirked slightly. “For what it’s worth, you got Riddle back by dropping the rest of it on him.”
Galen blinked. “Is that what happened?” At her disbelieving look, he tried to shrug, and halted mid-motion with a wince. “Honestly, I kind of lost everything in a blinding flash.”
Takara’s face went blank. “Oh, you were blind—and also deaf, with pressure-related fractures and severe electrical burns over your right arm spreading from the point where your hand was blown to pieces. And that’s not even getting into the broken ribs you got from the twelve-story fall off that broomstick . . .!” She shook her head. “I’m honestly starting to think that bit in the story about the cloak ‘hiding its wearer from Death’ is meant more than poetically.”
“. . . It’s possible,” Galen admitted.
Takara’s smirk returned, and it was far less pleasant. “And since you scared me half to death, I feel no guilt in letting you know that after all that, your wand was destroyed and Shirou was the one who had to actually kill Riddle.”
She savoured her boyfriend’s agape expression. “. . . He survived that? For God’s sake, how much plot armour did that bastard have?”
“Not enough,” she said in icy satisfaction, her voice as cold and quiet as softly falling snow.
“Anyways,” she continued, in a more cheerful tone, “the good news, for you, is that your hand will be fine, and that nothing is actually linking you to the destruction of the North Tower. Thanks to the cloak and the fact that not many people actually know about that spell—not many who are still alive, at least—it’s mostly been written off as something Riddle did, since he was trying pretty hard to tear down the tower himself.”
Visibly recognising both her tone and phrasing, Galen prompted, “And the bad news is . . .?”
“Well, your wand is a write-off,” she noted, before smirking again, more widely than ever before.
“But more importantly, you have to deal with the fact that Mirai-chan will not be happy that you injured your petting hand.”
She laughed—demurely, as her mother would have insisted—at the expression of dawning horror on her boyfriend’s face.
Diagon Alley
May 6, 1998
The silvery tinkling of the bell as the shop’s door opened aside, Ollivander’s shop was a welcome oasis of silence, compared to the outside party that had apparently not stopped in the last two days.
It was dark, dusty, and even more cramped than Galen remembered—but it was also blessedly, blissfully, quiet. His sharp hearing had been a curse in regards to crowds and other sources of high-volume sound for decades; when it was enhanced to outright supernatural levels like this . . . Well, if he hadn’t actually outright needed to do this, he’d have been anywhere else. As it was, there was a good possibility he was going to be nursing a migraine for the next several h—
“Good morning, Mister Salvatore,” came the unexpected greeting, causing Galen to both jump and curse that he hadn’t heard the old wizard coming.
Said wizard, for his part, shuffled into view, looking pleasantly-tanned, in comparison to his normal complexion. It made for a startling contrast with his white hair and shining eyes, which were glimmering with inquisitiveness.
“I admit, I had not expected to see you today,” the wandmaker said in a tone that radiated curiosity as much as the rest of him. “What might I do for you?”
“I need to replace my wand,” Galen said. “Honestly, I’d have been by sooner, but I wasn’t sure you were back, or ready for customers, yet.”
“While this was certainly one of the most terrible wars I’ve seen, it’s far from the only one, Mister Salvatore,” Ollivander said dryly. “Nor is the rest of my family, for that matter. I am not unaccustomed to closing shop and moving, if necessary. I can do so quite quickly. Likewise, reopening is just as simple a matter, with proper practice.
“Not,” he added quickly, and firmly, “that I am ungrateful for the timely warning that convinced me to leave in the first place . . . But I am rambling, forgive me—you came to replace your wand, you say? You are quite certain it’s beyond repair?”
“I landed on it from several stories up,” Galen replied, in a tone whose dryness matched Ollivander’s own, earlier. “I did bring the pieces, just in case, but splinters of it put several punctures in my lung, I was told.”
The elderly wizard grimaced in sympathy. “A nasty business, Mister Salvatore; I’m pleased to see you hale and whole, in that case. Regrettably, while it has many admirable qualities, hardiness is not among reed wood’s virtues—”
He stopped, and looked down.
“This is eleven inches’ worth of wood, Mister Salvatore,” Ollivander said grimly. “But that wood is about as far from reed wood as it is possible to be, and that hair did not come from a unicorn’s tail.” He fixed the younger wizard with a look. “Where, pray tell, is the wand that I sold you?”
“Destroyed in my first year,” Galen admitted, feeling some measure of guilt given how, exactly, it had been destroyed. “A family friend took responsibility for that and replaced it.”
“I see,” he said, in the sort of chilling tone that one might expect from an artist whose creation has been destroyed. He surveyed the fragments with an air of professional offense, though no hint of it showed in his tone.
“Going by the nature of the hair, I can fathom a confident guess as to whom—and as I told Miss von Einzbern several years ago, I find that Veela hair makes for a very temperamental wand.” His eyebrows rose in a somewhat sardonic expression. “I imagine you had more than a few difficulties with it, hm?”
“A few,” Galen admitted.
“Naturally,” the wand-maker murmured, in the tone of one who’d expected to be proven right. “Still, it’s obviously Gregorovitch’s handiwork, which means it’s hardly an inferior wand . . .”
He trailed off, staring at the pile of wood pieces.
“His handiwork, and familiar in more than just that,” the old wizard said firmly, after a moment. “This was part of a matched pair, wasn’t it? Miss von Einzbern’s own wand was its counterpart?”
“So far as I know, yes,” the younger answered with a shrug. It wasn’t as if there was anything in particular to lose by admitting it now.
“I thought so,” Ollivander said in that self-assured tone. “His work, but a cut above his usual, as with its sibling.” He gazed at the fragments with an intensity that his naturally luminous eyes rendered unnerving. “And now that I’m examining it more closely than the last, I’m confident in saying that it’s Gregorovitch’s work, but not his design . . . Most curious.
“I wonder, Mister Salvatore,” the wand-maker said amiably, “might I purchase these pieces from you, for study? Offer you a discount on your replacement, perhaps?”
“You’re welcome to them if they interest you, Mister Ollivander,” Galen said honestly. “There’s no need to buy them—what else would I do with them?”
“Indeed,” Ollivander murmured. “Most generous of you, Mister Salvatore, just the same . . . But that is for later. You did come for a replacement wand, after all—and I would be most remiss in delaying your service, even without such largesse . . .”
“So, what did you wind up with?” Takara asked curiously, later—and Galen smirked.
Hermione’s eyes widened.
“Don’t say it . . .” she warned.
Ignoring her, he brandished the wand (a fair bit longer than his last two) and responded, “It’s a combination of laurel wood and unicorn hair, this time—fourteen-and-a-half inches ‘with a surprisingly swishy flexibility,’ according to Ollivander.”
“Don’t say it . . .” Hermione repeated pleadingly.
“Just as good at protective Charms as any of my prior wands, even if it’s oriented more towards finesse than power,” he explained. “Supposedly, it’s an excellent wand for a duelist. Whether or not that’s true, though it’s not the most important thing—”
“Don’t say it . . .” This time had an air of resignation to it, spoken more by rote than by any expectation her plea would be heeded.
“That being the fact,” Galen announced with a grin, “that mine is bigger than Voldemort’s.”
The simultaneous whacks to both shoulders—one from each witch—were totally worth it.
The Aerie
June 10, 1998
Shirou let out a sigh of relief as he stepped through the Floo. After spending weeks tracking down a number of individuals who’d either fled or been hidden from Wizarding Britain, and ensuring that they were able to safely return, it was good to be home.
“I’m back!” he announced in Japanese.
“Welcome back!” Ilya called from a distance, in the same language.
As he quickly divested himself of his outer robe and boots, Shirou followed her voice to find Ai playing with blocks on the playroom floor, and Ilya emerging from the bathroom across from it—she nearly ran into him, in fact, causing them to both take a step around the corner, out of the playroom’s sight.
“Sorry—bad timing on my part,” he apologised.
“That’s certainly one way to put it,” Ilya murmured, an amused smile on her lips.
. . . Too amused, Shirou realised, and he gave her an appraising look.
“What is it, Ilya-chan?” he asked.
“Well, that’s not going to be accurate in the near-future,” she drawled, still sounding entirely too entertained about something. “Remember that victory party at Hogwarts . . .?”
He blushed at the mention of it (and flushed deeper at her lascivious smirk), but managed to answer the question, nonetheless. “Yes—”
“So do I,” she cut him off. “In fact, I’ve very recently been reminded of it—along with the fact that I should unpack my maternity clothes before I start growing back into them.”
Shirou blinked, needing a moment before parsing what she’d said—and even then, he still had to ask for confirmation. “You’re—?”
“Pregnant again?” she said in a suddenly cheerful tone that he didn’t quite trust. “Yes—so I’m very glad you’re home. It means that there will finally be someone to hold my hair back, first thing in the morning . . . “
Unlike her earlier emotional undertones, the annoyance in Ilya’s voice was entirely unexaggerated. Remembering her last experiences with morning sickness, Shirou could hardly blame her for it, either.
Her eyes went to a half-lidded gaze, suddenly; her voice dropped with them, to a husky murmur, as she added, “And that tonight, we can try for twins . . .”
Yes, Shirou thought as his wife dragged him back towards his daughter; it was very good to be home . . .
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Originally Posted by Arbitrarity
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