Wizard Under The Troll Bridge

Abby Ebon

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Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, I would like to establish this as fact; however oft if must be repeated. Also repeat, rinse, and lather what is stated above for Hellboy which I've never posted anything for, so that should be somewhat of a give-away if there ever was one.

Note; …in which Abby wonders at her sanity in letting this sort of story loose upon the masses; Abby would thusly like to deeply apologize for bleeding out her insanity into your brain. She would also like to snicker while rubbing her hands together in a villainous manner. Unfortunately, these things can only be done one-at-a-time, so it's the villainous hand-rubbing and snickering, forgoing the "oppsie" for another day.

It livesssss!

Beta(s):

wolf-shinigami, (as of 10/19/09) who has done a fantastic job of fixing up some misspellings and sentences.

artscribler, (as of 10/26/09) who may or may not have lost a little bit of sanity converting ' - ' to ' , '. For her sake I'll try not to "do that!" so very much...

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Running On Train Tracks

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Harry crouched over the train tracks. A burning husk of embers falling into dust lay out before him. It used to be a body. He hadn't killed it. He had watched it die. It used to be Sammael. Harry frowned as he rubbed the stubble along his jaw with his rough fingers. If this were anything else but the demon hellhound of rebirth, called Sammael, Harry would have walked away.

He had not been on his way because it was not often an immortal demon was reduced to something akin to dust. Only another demon – something more powerful - could so damage them.

Unless, of course, a wizard or witch might have seen fit to wonder into the subway….Having been drawn by the screams of muggles – he knew there had been some notice taken. Yet there was no magic here. Only the scent of tears, of burning – of fear.

Harry had known that possibility to be dim; he would not have come to sit beside the body of Sammael if it was likely that he would be interrupted. The last thing he needed was the wizard media trying to find him.

He was dead to them.

He was a dead hero, it was a better ending title then what he was; insane (at least so much that his mentality and morals were buried so deep they would wonder if he was capable of such things) with a unstable current of magic –alike electricity - running amuck his body. He was as good as dead. He should be dead. He was not. Instead, he was what those of his likeness feared - a wandering power knowledgeable about their society in the midst of muggles.

Beneath the city, here in the subway, he was safe. Here, he was the only one of his kind that dared venture long down here, into the enclosed subway, entombed beneath muggle buildings. If something shifted and faltered in the wrong way, it could come toppling down like dominos. It would not, for there were things beneath the city streets that even wizards and witches did not guess to find.

There were trolls.

Trolls were, unlike giants or dwarfs, a people – a kind. There were certain characteristics and commonalities, but trolls but generally trolls simply had a motto – if you did not fit with the others, you could and would be one of theirs. They were a mixed bunch of the "least desirable" among the immortal; or the "being" or "beast" breeds.

Here, beneath the dirt and concrete, were the beings that had found forests home. They had known their danger, and had known what the wizards and witches denied – magic could not protect them forever. So they had used other means. They had fled beneath the feet of man, in the abandoned cities that man built under the new. In the sewers and cut-off passageways, the things that mortals feared dwelled – bidding their time. They were immortal, and knew that one day nature would take back what man had crafted. Until then, they had only to wait.

Harry found himself smiling grimly into the dark. Two flames of green, gleaming off his eyes, came out of the husk. This, Harry knew, was the soul of Sammael. He watched it, his head tilted to the side. It did not fade. Then – before Harry could close his fingers in a fist to finish off even one Sammael – the soul split into twins and flung away from him, as if sensing the danger he represented.

Even as he scrambled after one – which bobbed and weaved tauntingly airborne - Harry knew it was useless. He tripped onto his belly, the breath choked out of him. As he got onto all fours, determined to stand, Harry heard the train coming. He looked upward – caught by surprise – the glare of white light blinding him. His heart lurched, cursing even as he got haltingly to his feet; Harry glared ahead at the train as he felt the stench of it. Then, a sound much like knuckles popping could be dimly heard. The blare of a train horn shrilled too late.

Harry was gone.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry stumbled, unable to catch his balance. When he stood, he rubbed his neck and rolling the muscles along his shoulders. As his neck popped, he enjoyed the dull pain, the disconnected feeling. He groaned slightly, opening eyes. This was his reality.

Harry had found that for many of the immortal magic-natured creatures he lived among, there were only kinds. There were no personal or true name that they would share (certainly not with a wizard), and rarely were there more than two of any immortal creature.

So Harry had learned early that this was true of most of his neighbors and had learned to give them names – most times they were flattered, others, bemused or annoyed, most though tolerated him, He was a wizard. He was worth keeping as long as he had magic that he would readily and willingly use to make their lives easier.

"Our wizard boy, alright you are?" Wizard that he was, he glanced bemused to the gleaming teeth that grinned at him. He felt a stirring of fear. His skin crawled and he wanted to shudder with the illness that tightened in his stomach – all of which he throttled. It was for that reason that this creature – this bogeyman, who took readily to the short-name Bogey – found Harry fascinating and followed him about readily enough.

Save when Harry ventured into the upper world, as he had that evening, if only to observe those that he could not walk among. Then he was left alone on his adventures.

"I'm alright. Just fine, by fact, Bogey…though there is something strange going on up above. I saw Sammael. He was dead, for a time – and then came back – twice." There was a soft hiss in the dark, and Harry saw Bog'ma, Bogey's mate, who was far more protective of younglings, such as Harry (for all his twenty-odd years, to her those of four millennia were still young), than curious of what they did as Bogey was.

"You'll not go up above again; things are stirring, nasty lurking shadows that will eat little ones. We'll not have our hearts broke, little one, you are valued among us. Stay for a time, we'll see that no danger finds you among our throng." Bog'ma sang and hummed to Harry like a lullaby, her dark eyes glittered with something like worry.

Harry shrugged it off, careful not to look her in the eyes. He did not know if she could compel him to her will, even a short time would be risk enough. Though her voice was certainly something lulling, he did not want to risk being ensnared by sight as well as sound.

"I'll do my best, Bog'ma, as my curiosity and mortal heart allow." Harry remembered well that he had sickened and nearly died that first year among them because his neighbors could not guess at the cause of his illness. There really was something like homesickness that could kill. Only, for Harry, it had been not seeing people his own shape and features that had nearly been the end of him.

If not for Fragglewump, (which was awkward, for Harry owed her – but she ate cats – which was his Animagus form and thus he could not help but sympathize with) Harry knew he would likely have died. She was content that her actions showed her neighbors that she would not "accidently" kill Harry while he was a "pretty". Still, Harry kept well away from her if he dared venture about as a black-based calico in the upper world. He was equally wary of cat lovers who'd wonder over the once-in-a-life-time rarity of a male tortoiseshell.

"Wicked world above, ensnaring your heart, tearing you from us – when our time comes, little one, we shall ruin and bleed the upper world for the pain it's brought to you." Harry who was bemused by her threats – which were in no way empty – merely nodded thoughtfully as if considering her implied offer… it was something of a not-quite joke. Harry knew that if Bog'ma ever fished the location of a wizard village or manor, she would gladly and viciously wreck havoc on his behalf.

"Still, Bog'ma – what could kill the hellhound of rebirth? To do it once is still nearly impossible, but what is new – the accelerated growth and it splitting in two – bothers me…" Harry let himself sit down, trusting that he would be – if not protected – warned of outright danger. It was not in the like of trolls and their neighbors to be subtle by nature. Harry breathed, and noticed for the first time that his side ached as his breath hitched. Had he hurt himself worse then he suspected with his blundering fall?

"You should let it take care of itself, it will burn itself out." Bog'ma told him with a certain smugness that gave her away. Harry looked sharply up at her; her hulking form was lanky and stretched, fitting well in the shadows that surrounded them.

"What will burn itself out, Bog'ma?" Harry asked of her, frowning intently. Bog'ma would not have said anything if she knew something. All trolls coveted knowledge – to them, knowledge was guarded and protected as the gems, jewels and precious metals of the earth were to dwarves. Only trolls could not be stolen from. No wizard would be so foolish. It meant death.

Troll knowledge was given – sometimes with a price, sometimes out of trust. Still, for all that he counted them as his neighbors, not even if he lived among them for the rest of his life would he know every secret – just as they would not know his.

"The spell..." Bog'ma muttered the word, somewhat guiltily – she flinched from his eyes. Bogey cackled with laughter that she had been caught in her word play. Trolls liked their puzzles and riddles as much as a Sphinx (which some wizards thought was where trolls learned their word-play from, while Harry knew both kinds shared such knowledge easily) though they used it day to day – it still was useful if you caught on to it.

"Spell…you mean, one of my own….a wizard did this?" Harry felt his heart clench painfully, rage boiling up in his blood. The fine hairs along his arms rose, standing on end as if an electric storm was brewing. It was a storm – but it was nothing as tame as electricity. It was magic, raw primal creation, which flickered within him – alive and enraged; like a live wire.

"If you can still call the host-vessel of Ogdru Jahad a wizard – that was what he was." Bog'ma admitted in her own roundabout way. Still, she tried (though she failed) to tell Harry that this spell was not his fault. He did not need to fix it. She cringed to think of what dangers their little wizard would bring down upon himself if the Ogdru Jahad lashed out at him.

"What is his name?" Harry demanded, his voice hushed. She knew looking into the gleaming green eyes that there was no turning back. Harry would see this "right" or die trying. Though no one would ask it of him – indeed, Bog'ma had told Harry in her own way to let it be. What would come, would come – and be dealt with at the Gate of the Troll Bridge if such danger could reach them.

"I do not remember mortal names." Bog'ma knew it a poor lie – but Harry could not catch her in it; rarely did they call him by his mortal name – always "little one" or "little wizard" or "youngling" or "green eyes". Harry had not kept his name a secret from them, though most of them had outright ignored the telling understanding in their own way that Harry did not realize he had showed them naked trust. When he realized it, he had thought it just as well. He knew now his neighbors were trustworthy and loyal to even the likes of him.

"Bog'ma…." It was partly a growl, but Bog'ma sighed giving him sad eyes.

"Grigori Efimovich Rasputin. Do what you will with that cursed name. He cannot be killed, little wizard, for when he dies, he lives once more – revived. The Ogdru Jahad are woe to lose a willing servant." Her words were bitter, but she knew Harry had to know – or he might die. So she offered willingly sacred knowledge – if it saved Harry, it was worth the giving.

"Thank you, Bog'ma…" Harry smiled, mortal softness showing in his eyes, even as his power stormed within him. His black hair swirled and danced in the wind. His eyes were vivid gleaming green – as if they glowed from within with pulsing power. Bog'ma – who had seen all ages of human suffering from the very first who had fallen down from the trees – shuddered, with the claim of the little wizard who had found a place to belong among the throng of trolls. Still, he did not know he was so precious to them. Bog'ma clicked the talon-nails along her fingers together. It was enough to gain their attention.

"Do you go to war, little wizard?" Bog'ma glared at Bogey to keep his silence. They had to hear his answer uninterrupted. It was the only way to know his true intent. Harry knew he had to answer with truth.

Truth was valued as much as word-play (if not sometimes more), though there was a fear in certain truths.

"I will witness." Harry grudgingly admitted. He did not intend to rejoin his people – and that was what it would mean if he abandoned his neighbors with the thought of killing an upper world man who had not wronged him save with a spell.

"You will not interfere?" Mother-like, the spines along her back quivered with nervous tension.

"I will do only as I must." Harry granted, as was his right. He could tell an upper world man or woman how to kill Rasputin (if he found a way to do even this) or watch as that death was brought about. But he could not – unless he was threatened – act boldly against the upper world, least it brought the rage of his fellows upon him. In their fear of discovery, rashness was not unknown for all that they cared for his health.

"Then, as Bog'ma – I grant you, Harry Potter, passage and travel with our blessings – asks our aid, little wizard, and it shall be given. We mark you as our ambassador in this matter. You speak for the Troll; hold your tongue, or tell truth, as wisdom lets you. You will be eyes, ears, and your judgment will be ours." At the proclamation, Harry felt dizzy and lightheaded to the point where he wondered if he had been drugged.

As it settled, Harry realized what had been done. There was power in words and the words he had heard were power in themselves for they were so rarely proclaimed. It was a magic the trolls possessed. Something of its like could not be understood – not even by wizards – it could only be accepted. It was, in essence, a vow – an oath – and it could not be taken back, or broken – save with death. It could only be granted by trust and truth.

"W-why…?" Harry asked, half breathless – he felt tears fill his eyes, though he did not want to cry. Why did they trust him so? What had he ever done to deserve it? He was worthless as a wizard – he was someone whose power was a broken flickering thing – why could they not accept that he was useless? He would be helpless if a true wizard brought him to reckoning. Could they not understand?

Or was this an act of pity?

He knew it was not, still, the thought stung.

"You are our wizard, little one, we will not lose you. This way, you can find us – always – and we may find you if we seek and you are willing to be found. This is our gift, accept it – do not fear – you are worthy. This is an oath that would not allow utterance, if you were not worthy." Harry shook –with fear, with shock and hope and the kindness of his people (by truth and trust, they had named him theirs) – and, not for the first time, let the warm weight of Bogey against the length of him lull him to a sort of calm.

"Peace, little wizard, for now – sleep, in the 'marrow… we will walk you to the Gate with a proper envoy." There was a smug pride in Bogey. Harry blinked a few times, but his eyes could not stay open – they were heavy. He did not know if it was the oath or if sleepless night had finally caught up with him, but he did sleep – dreamlessly.

It was a small relief.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Note; so, the way I figure it, this isn't really going to be the sort of story that one follows until there is a clear resolution. Nope, this one is more of a "glimpse" into a bunch of random and coincidental meetings and short glimpses at a idea that turns into the sort of story where you think you know where the beginning was, but if you look a little deeper, you start to wonder if there ever was a beginning – or if there will ever be a real end. Or at least that is my sort-of vague impression. I just woke up.

Also, I know how rare calico/ tortoiseshell males are; odds being 3000:1 and those males usually being sterile. Though, I think calico-tabby males are slightly less rare…

Just remember, doves, no such thing as coincidence.

Also, vote for pairings;

Hellboy/Harry

Abe/Harry

John Myers/Harry

Nuada/Harry

Johann/Harry