Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter series or the fucking Mass Effect series. Anyone who thinks I do can go fuck themselves, because I'm not being sued for writing fanfiction.

Pairings: Harry/Garrus, F!Shepard/Tali, past Harry/Ginny, mentions of Ron/Hermione and Neville/Luna

Beast
Prologue I:
Wrex and the Myth

He's surrounded by darkness. There's no other colour except black, and even if he tries to move his hand up close to his face, he sees nothing, nor does he feel anything. He can't move; his back is pressed up against something solid, with a fine lining of a slimy substance, and his body is curled up on itself, all of his appendages crossed and stuffed into whatever he's in. He feels no hunger nor discomfort, because even though he's probably in the worst and most uncomfortable position ever, he doesn't feel anything.

He can't see, he can't feel, he can't sense and he can't smell. He should feel like panicking, but he doesn't. He's comfortable and warm. There's nothing… wrong.

But he can hear, and that's great; it's the only kind of sense he has, and it was by far the most useful. Because he can open and close his eyes but can't see, he can attempt to move his arms and legs and body but won't be able to do anything, and he can't smell what he's in, but he can definitely hear what's going on outside the hardened wall of slime. So even though his ears aren't near enough close to the wall of slime, he strains his ears—and, isn't that a peculiar feeling, not being able to tell if it works or not—and listens for any sounds of life.

At first, he hears nothing—just the faint whisper of his breathing, and the sound of distant waves crashing against the rocks—but then he hears a noise, one he's not familiar with. It starts as a mumble, the sound reaching low and then going high, and then ascending into a high, ear-splitting shriek. It does nothing to his eardrums; the noise, while ear-splitting and hair-raising, isn't as clear as it should be. The sound is muffled, and even if he were to be outside of wherever he is, he's pretty damn sure the sound still wouldn't be able to do anything to him except create a headache or a mild annoyance for him. So he continues to listen, since the noise does nothing. The sound isn't something he's familiar with, even when at its highest and lowest pitch, which means wherever he is; he's not anywhere remotely where he thought he'd end up.

He listens when the noise gets further and further away, and is replaced by other guttural noises, some above his head and some next to him. At first, it bothers him; after all, these noises are completely new and different, but then he relaxes, and enjoys the noise.

Over some of the silences when most of the noise has gone, he tries to duplicate the noises he's heard. Of course, it doesn't work, seeing as his mouth refuses to listen to his body and his body refuses to listen to his brain. But he still tries, day after day (and he doesn't know how long has actually past since he's come to a certain awareness) to make some effort to move some part of him that isn't his ears, but it doesn't work. Over and over again, he becomes disappointed, and frustrated, with his lack of progress.

And it doesn't help that when he hears noises—and voices—that suspiciously sound like words, he can't pronounce those either. It doesn't help when his body starts to feel constricted, and the slime wall starts to dig into the spines in his back, and the knuckles of his hands are starting to push and scrape against the linings, or that his head is starting to ache from having it arched all the time.

He's frustrated because he's no longer feeling comfortable and warm. Instead, he's feeling uncomfortable and over-heated, too pushed in and constricted, and hungry.

It's a new feeling he doesn't want, to feel hungry, to want to snap and gnash his teeth at the wall. But he can't help feeling it, and it's decidedly unpleasant.

Wherever he is, he wants out.

So mustering up all of his strength, he cranes his neck backwards, until the back of his head is resting gently against the wall—and this is when he realises that he's made progress. He's actually made progress. His chest vibrates in happiness, and he gives an embarrassed chuff, until the noises he makes have died down. He listens for any additional noises from the outside, but hearing none, he continues, and tries to move his body so that he has enough support to try and push his head through the wall—it couldn't possibly be anything as thick as metal, so he assumes he'd be able to break out of the wall quite easily.

Except, he puts too much weight on one side of where he is, and he has the sudden sensation of falling—and that, more than anything else, disorientates him; because whatever he's in is small enough to fall or roll with his weight.

He tumbles head over heel, his cacoon-like shell wrapped protectively around his ever-enlarging body, and it's somewhat exciting that he's going somewhere, but disorientating all the same. When he comes to a complete stop, his head uncomfortably on the ground where his legs and tail should be, he listens for any sounds, any movement outside. Just as he starts to receive some sort of noise from the outside, the walls surrounding him start to crack. A large, spidery crack splinters down the side, on his right, and the middle starts to crumble. Light filters in through it.

He keens, nudges the hand closest to the opening even closer, uses his claws to tear at the edges of the crumbled wall, and concentrates on moving the very tip of his tail. It slashes against the wall. The crack splinters off into more directions, the spider-web of destruction going above and behind his head, surrounding him. He hears a sound like running footsteps, and the sudden panic that overwhelms him is used to his advantage; his body coils in tightly and then, after a brief moment, he lunges to the side, spreading his body out as much as it can go, trying to spread his wings at the back.

His scaled wings, and spines, are stuck to the slimed wall, and he crushes his back into it with all of his might.

At once, the protective shell that's been there since the beginning crumbles all around him, showing him in slime and debris. The light burns his eyes and he hisses, closing them; sounds enter his ears, overwhelmingly loud and heavy against his eardrums; the smell of the sand and the earth overpowers his nostrils, and he lets out an ear-splitting cry of fear and hunger.

The sound of the running footsteps are still there. He opens his eyes slowly, mindful of the light, and wobbles, hesitantly, to his feet. He looks over and there, running towards him, is the largest thing he's seen (so far). Its head looks like it's been encased in flesh-hardened armour, and it's wearing the most ridiculous suit of armour he's ever known. It's large, though, so no matter how ridiculous it looks; it's still a very real threat that's running straight at him.

As it gets closer, it lets out a large, bellowing yell, and he flinches away from it, turning his head, curling his wings close to his body. He stumbles back, his clawed feet catching on his eggshell, crunching beneath him, shattering it. Slime drips from his body almost smoothly—

And the large beast steps right in front of his face as soon as he looks back.

A frightened keening noise rises in his throat; he's ready to let it loose—

"What the hell is this," it growls in a deep voice, staring down at him with red, beaded eyes.

—but instead, he doesn't; he's too surprised by the talking armour-clad thing before him. It had spoken the language he'd heard in his shell. Which meant whatever this thing is, it should be trustworthy. He growls somewhat pitifully, straightens up, and takes a step closer to it, his snout raised high to catch its scent.

"It looks to me… like a dragon," the thing says to itself, thoughtfully, before shaking its head and growling in anger. "But it can't be—it's a myth—they're extinct—been extinct for—"

He takes a deep breath and interrupts its rant with a plume of smoke, which then turns into a blazing fire, pointed upwards, into the dry, heated sky. He stops, looks at the flabbergasted thing with its weird armour-flesh and metal guns, and decides that whatever it is, it's his. He takes a few confident steps forward, brushes his head against the armour-clad leg, and keens happily.

It grunts above him. "You seem useful," it says, thoughtfully, "and you can breathe fire." There's a nasty, bloodthirsty grin in its voice when it speaks next, "I'll call you Beast." He looks up into its red eyes, rumbles, and waits for its name.

He's not disappointed.

"You, Beast, will call me Wrex."