Wizard Under The Troll Bridge

Abby Ebon

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Disclaimer: This one does not own Harry Potter – or Hellboy. Please remember to tell them that, if ever you met said characters.

Note; … I've realized, though, that in eighty days, writing two-thousand words a day, you'd write the average novel (which is now a days, truthfully 160,000 words); in about three months. I'm thinking I might give it a try.

Maybe…

It's really more of a November thing, you know, national novel writing month; 50,000 words.

Beta(s):

artscribler, (as of 11/5/09) who confirmed Abby Ebon to be "a comma and hyphen nazi"!

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Swimming With Swamp Thing

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His skin was slick with the wetness. It warmed him even as he felt lost to it, and Harry… well, Harry didn't want to know if it was blood (his?) though it was as warm as he was, and it surrounded him from his toe to his lips. He felt as if he could not get away from the wet-warmness of it, even if he tried in his half-waking pain. So he kept his eyes closed, and the burry haze cleared; Harry had never been one to wake slowly.

"You waken? This is a relief, I must say." Harry opened his green eyes to see shark-black ones looking sympathetically back at him. Harry realized then that he was underwater and still breathing it. He wasn't sure how long he had been 'out of it', but, however long it had been, his body was still under the sway of the gillyweed. Harry judged it had not been too long.

Long enough, though, for everything to have changed. When he 'breathed,' he would have been fool to think he was still the dirty subterranean sewer water. It was pure, clean – though clean in a way that could only be manufactured by humans from the upper world. Harry felt fear push at his gut, but stayed still, hovering motionless in the glass pool as the other swam about him curiously. There was something playful in the others movements. That, more than the kind-sounding voice that echoed between his ears, reassured Harry.

"You are safe here, and I…I must thank you. You may not have known I was there, but you nonetheless saved me from ending up in the poorer condition for meeting that cursed creature, Sammael." Harry could not help but snort his amusement, choking it down. He hadn't done what he had for this other, yet it would be inconceivable to begin to explain that the origin of all this had started when he had realized there was something wrong about Sammael, and Harry would still see it put to rights. And settle the matter of the cursed-wizard Rasputin and the Ogdru Jahad, somehow.

"I am, as I said before –though it was a sadly hasty and interrupted beginning for an introduction– Abe, and you are…?" Pressed the blue-hued swimmer, who – Harry knew and observed – was watching him carefully for reactions to his mind-spoken words, waiting for a response that was not physical.

"I am called Harry; I thank you for your…hospitality. Now, let me out of your tank. It will become my tomb." Harry returned, aware he was being rude, but unable to help himself. He was, after all, not exactly sure how much time he had until the gillyweed wore itself off, but sensing it was not long at all. That was worth a bit more panicking over, and then a little rudeness could be forgiven.

"Surely not, I assure you, you would not survive outside here; you are even less suited to the air-world then I." There was sympathy, but an edge of wary care that was taken with those words. Certainly, Harry thought, Abe had assumed he would be somehow more reasonable. Harry was not a creature of reason or logic, which was just as well given how little such things seemed to be taken as truth in regard to him.

"Let me out, this isn't my proper form, you must listen to me - I ate gillyweed – do you understand? It will wear off, soon – I am lucky I did not drown while I was unaware. You must let me out!" Harry felt then the tingle in his palms that he had long ago come to associate with gillyweed's effects leaving him. First his webbed toes and feet would go, and then… well, he wouldn't be able to breathe. That fact was becoming clear enough. Harry found himself kicking franticly at the glass that looked as if it opened up to a library,and above seemed to be nothing but white paint and metal edges. Harry had long ago learned that in water, he had less depth-perception then he did out of it.

Abe took his web-less hand, and pulled him upward. Harry was quickly tiring, hurt as he was with his arm, and trying to remember that he would soon need to hold his breath but not knowing when he should start. Abe took hold of a metal wheel and turned it. It flipped open, upward and Harry swam for the small opening. Gasping and shaking, Harry found himself suddenly able to breathe. Abe had just saved his life, of that much, Harry knew without a doubt.

"Thank you," Harry muttered, knowing Abe would hear if not the words – sounds traveled well in water – then by listening within his mind.

"You are more then welcome, Harry. What a fascinating specimen you are." Harry could not help a soft laugh at the open curiosity Abe held of him. Abe was so open to what he felt, and those feeling fell over Harry's mind like a soothing summer rain. It was rare for anyone to have such openness, of that much, Harry was aware of.

"Not as special as all that, really, Abe …where am I?" Harry looked around him self. It was an empty room, padded with metal and cold. There was something about it that Harry did not trust. He did not like that Abe would be kept here, for surely, Abe was being kept – even if he knew and acknowledged that, or no. There was a tank near at hand with tubes that were filled with water and the tank within the backpack – well, Harry was sure it was likewise filled with oxygen rich water, just for Abe. There were no corners in the oval room, but there was a door toward the narrower end. Harry pulled himself the rest of the way out of Abe's tank, still tense with nerves and shaking with the adrenaline of a near drowning.

"This is the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense, B.P.R.D for short. This is where I, and others like me, call home. It is a secret of the American government." Harry tried not to show too much surprise as he heard Abe tell him this. The Troll Bridge, of course, moved around beneath the ground and cities mortal man laid claim to. The Gate, Harry well knew, took you to where you needed to go in the upper world. Harry had not much thought at the distance that his recent trips might take him from his homeland of Europe. Still, that was what made the Troll Bridge the perfect place for him – it moved itself, always in a half-hiding.

It didn't, Harry knew, matter where he was on the surface world; so long as Harry returned to the underground, he could find his way back to the Gate and his neighbors beneath Troll Bridge.

"And you…like it here?" Harry asked, unable to hide his doubt. The place looked like a cage. Harry had seen enough of those, after all, to know.

"Well, no, but it is a safe place, a refuge, and there are so few of those offered to…our kind." Abe allowed, and Harry kept himself from looking down into the sub-tight hole that opened up to the tank Abe watched him from. It was a little eerie to hear his voice within his mind, and still know that Abe was watching Harry from beneath the water.

"I'll keep that in mind. I wouldn't want it, refuge or no; it's a cage. I know better places to hide-away within." Harry didn't – yet – wish to offer to take Abe with him. He didn't know this place – how hard escape would be – and though Abe knew it better then he, Abe obviously found his accommodations suiting, fish-tank or not.

"Intriguing…" Abe murmured, and for the first time, Harry wondered just how much of his thoughts Abe could interpret. His magic was supposed to protect his mind, but it didn't always do so. Harry hoped his trust in Abe (for if he couldn't trust someone who he had "accidently" saved and been saved by in turn, who could he trust here after all?) wasn't about to proof displaced.

"Well, well, look at this, sleeping beauty woke up! And no longer part-fish, Abe must be so very disappointed. Unless he got a kiss?" Harry didn't jerk in surprise even as the outer door was opened by man in a suit. Harry, seeing him, inhaled sharply through his nose. A muggle. Harry didn't know admittedly very much at all about governments, but if they'd stumbled onto Harry and planned to keep him… well, magic would seek him out, naturally, and their secret here wouldn't remain so for very long to those who'd come hunting for Harry.

"You'll want to let me go." Harry told him, point-blank, because he wasn't about to stay if he could help it. Though, of course, it was never very easy to convince detainers they wanted to let "prey" just go free.

"Ah, you're British. I had wondered where you'd crawled out from. And why would we want to let you – someone very likely dangerous to the unknowing fair citizens of this county, a possible shape shifter, no less! – out of our sight…?" The drawled words grated on Harry's nerves, and he felt his magic twang in sympathy and forced himself to calm. Nails bit into the bare skin of his palm.

"I've done nothing wrong." It was softly worded, but true. He hadn't done anything wrong that they would know of.

"Hm, that is true enough so far as we know at the moment. But, let me tell you what we do know, as it's all quite fascinating – your name is Harry James Potter. At age eleven you started to disappear regularly during the school year, only to come back every summer holiday until you were thirteen. Your guardians at that time, a Vernon Dursley and Petunia Evans-Dursley, claimed you to be enrolled into the private school, called St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. A peek in their records indicated you've never set foot in the building. You supposedly died later that same year as you have a lovely tombstone in Godric's Hollow alongside your murdered parents stating it to be so. Yet, Mr. Potter, here you stand now, alive, nearly ten years later." With every word spoken, Harry became tenser as the man came further into the room, nearing him – goading him. As his arms finally crossed over a broad suiting chest, the elder sneered down at Harry.

"So, forgive me, there must have been some mistake after all. Nothing suspicious about you in the least, is there?" Harry remained sitting on the metal floor, very still, as he considered his options. He didn't know where he was so apparition would be an incredibly stupid thing to do, and any sort of magic would draw unwanted attention. No matter how tempting.

"That's enough of that, Manning. Run along." An elderly man with a kind voice, though also in a suit that seemed less for business and more for day-to-day use, stepped in to intervene. The other man quickly stepped away from Harry as if he hadn't intended to be caught interrogating him. Harry watched in bemusement as Manning turned a narrow-eyed look on Harry. He shook his head, unable to leave without having something like a final word.

"Yes, Professor Bruttenholm. Be careful of him, sir." Professor Bruttenholm watched the younger man go without a word, only then turning to Harry with something like a fatherly-smile and held out his hand to help Harry stand. Harry got to his feet without his assistance, acting as if he had thought the man had wanted to shake his hand. Professor Bruttenholm went along with that, though there was a steely glint in his eyes that Harry thought to mean that Bruttenholm hadn't, after all, been fooled.

"Don't pay too much mind to him, he isn't a trusting fellow, and – I imagine – all this worries at him endlessly. I assure you Mr. Potter, you are a guest here until at such a time we deem you safe to release into the public. It should only take a few days of observation." Professor Bruttenholm guided him away from the egg-like metal chamber. Harry noticed as he turned back to look that there was no door handle or visible way in.

"Abe chooses who comes and goes into his rooms, I dare say he thought that Manning would be more understanding of your situation than he proved himself to be. Bless him. Abe is a trusting soul, if innocent and knowing in strange turns." Bruttenholm gave enough a pause in a silence between them that Harry realized he was supposed to – or was being encouraged – to speak his mind. He did, though only using a few words.

"I've known stranger sorts." Harry let a small strange half-smile cross over his lips, and caught Bruttenholm glancing to him. There was something like pity in his eyes.

"Somehow, Mr. Potter, I do not doubt that for truth when it concerns you. It worries me, you see, I think myself very well informed to what things are going on within this world, and, truly, when we bring our agents and paranormal researchers within the fold of the B.P.R.D. for the very first time, Abe is our preferred envoy. There is nothing in the world quite like him." There was a strange sort of sympathy in the way that Bruttenholm spoke about Abe, and Harry remembered enough about people to know that they did not like being alone. And, from Bruttenholm's perspective, Abe very much was alone in the world. Harry knew otherwise.

"You'd be surprised." Harry couldn't keep the taste of irony from slipping into his tone and off his tongue. Harry would never betray the location of the Gate to Troll Bridge, any more then he would tell them where to find Diagon Alley. Though telling them where to find wizards and witches might be the more tempting option.

"Yes, I do admit, I very well might be. Let me tell you, Mr. Potter, what I think you are. You are someone I have only before dared prayed unvoiced to meet face-to-face. You were born human, of course. But, yet, you were also born as one of them; a wizard, we would say. Among these paranormal creatures, well, you are both feared and terribly revered. They warned us we should let you go – because a wizard, Mr. Potter, isn't someone that we could tame or lure into becoming an 'Enhanced Talent' agent, as Manning dearly wants of you." Bruttenholm allowed, and Harry couldn't help but be a little impressed by them, these muggles. They were doing what they could to protect the people who didn't suspect and were blind and helpless to what stirred in the dark using what resources were available to them. It was a little stupid, yes, but braver then most "monsters" would have given credit to a normal human for being.

"You've wise friends, then." Harry said, knowing that he was supposed to say something. He still wasn't sure what they wanted of him. Was it to become an agent? It depended on how much they did know, and how much they thought they knew. If the B.P.R.D. could, indeed, get him closer to the goal of laying Sammael to rest in Hell; or of finding Grigori Efimovich Rasputin and Ogdru Jahad… well, Harry just might decide to stick around. Such things couldn't be helped, really. Harry had vowed to help those he could in the killing of Grigori Efimovich Rasputin; but Ogdru Jahad was personal.

"They say you are well known and liked among them, Mr. Potter. Almost kin to them – someone to be protected, trusted, even. I can not tell you how rare it is; trust among them is a flimsy thing. It is very strange for us to be told this, you must understand, because we know of one other like you in your magical – shall we say – nature?" Bruttenholm was testing him that much Harry understood. He wasn't being devious about it, and Harry could respect that. They also, he knew, needed to have an idea of just how much he knew. It was a round-about way of earning their trust. Harry needed to have that if he were ever to be free of them.

"You speak of Grigori Efimovich Rasputin; if you were indeed hunting Sammael in the sewers?" Harry knew it wasn't nice to tease, but found he couldn't truly help himself. It'd been a long time since he really had the upper hand in anything.

"Like you?" Bruttenholm allowed, and Harry said nothing, though he did nod in acceptance of the truth behind the facts that Bruttenholm has fitted together. Harry was really rather impressed with him, though he'd never say so. A troll would find it rude. Harry thought that, for the first time in a very long time, Dung might have been right in saying that Harry was spending too much time underground.

"Well, isn't that a relief. We're all on the same side, huh?" Harry went very still, and though he stood in the same frozen position, he looked because he couldn't help but not look. He tilted his head to the side to be sure of what he saw. It didn't waver, or flicker in and out of sight as an illusion might. Some creatures made themselves to be more than what they are.

Others, less. Such as this case.

Harry knew now, that things might go very badly, very quickly. Harry was a moment away from snapping the small control he's managed to gain upon his magic, of letting it fill him like a dull roar. Harry's magic would act something like a calling card, and everyone he knew if they meant him harm or were friend would come running to find him. He'd go insane with it – might die for this warning. And find not this creature at all.

"This, Harry, is my son, Hellboy." Harry didn't let himself laugh as mania tickled against his throat. Of all the ways he thought he might die – well, never like this – then he hears Bruttenholm speaking and his mind begins to feel as if it is unraveling in a mix of sickening shock and a jolt of horror, overlaid with a bit of hysteria. All of it, he very carefully did not show.

Bruttenholm was fond of it, and smiled as a father might at a favored – though only sometimes delinquent – son. He did not yet suspect that Harry recognized "Hellboy" (would be fool, not to) and isn't taking the physical representation of the end of the world nearly so calmly.

"That is Anung Un Rama, the Beast of the Apocalypse." Harry said so very carefully, very softly, as if they didn't – couldn't possibly – know this and stand about so calmly. Surely they were not so very stupid – or suicidal. Or both. They both heard him, and weren't so stupid not to hear the warning, the danger. Harry felt bristling at his fingertips as magic tugged at him to use it.

"Hey, there's no need for name callin'." There was something very like hurt in that gravely voice; those eyes – human like – were narrowed in anger, as if this was some game that Harry wouldn't play along with. Harry was still watching it, ready to rip into his magic and burn it like a roaring storm; but he quivered, wavered with Bruttenholm (who he trusted, who he likes!) standing almost protectively in front of it – Hellboy! – as if Harry was the one who might end his world.

"Please, Harry, listen to me? Do not do anything rash. He's on our side, Harry. His ties to Hell were severed more then fifty years ago. I raised him since his infancy. He is a son to me." He was pleading. Harry felt as if his skin was smoldering. He could not keep a grip on his magic and felt as if he was about to use it and not use it for very long. It was a danger to do so, more so than Anung Un Rama seemed. So he did something he prayed he wouldn't live to regret. He trusts Bruttenholm and half staggering, falling to the floor as he let it go. He let his magic settle firmly back under his skin where it was content and most comfortable. His magic, as if it was a sentient entity, did not like him awaking it so rudely.

Harry found his vision fading, blurring the image of Bruttenholm and his son, the creature Anung Un Rama, called Hellboy in this place, by these people. If Harry had the strength to, he would have protested Hellboy settling on his hunches to kneel down next to Harry. Dazed as he was, Harry said not a word.

"Sammael did a number on him, father. Didn't you notice the blood on his robe sleeve?" His robes were black, Harry wanted to protest, people weren't supposed to notice when he was hurt and bloodied; but monsters would know, would smell it. Hellboy reached for Harry, dragging him into its arms, lifting him as easily as if he were some cotton-crafted doll. Harry found himself unable to say anything, feeling his limbs like heavy weights, his mind oddly detached from the feeling of flame-warm skin against his chilled wet wool and cloth. Such warmth pulled him. Disjointed as his mind was; he tried to stay aware and awake.

"No. He gave no sign of it; I thought he would be able to heal, just as you do." Bruttenholm said in a puzzled tone, as if he did not quite know what to do. It was true enough that if a normal person (not a witch, or wizard) had gone through what Harry just had, they would be unquestionably dead. But Harry knew he wasn't dead and trying to rip himself to pieces with magic hadn't helped him heal up any.

"Too human for that, I guess. I wonder what else he might know of …what, who, I am." There was wariness there, as if Hellboy wanted to know, if only to avoid it. Harry didn't particularly blame him on that score. He was rather glad for it, in fact.

"Hellboy, whatever else you might be, you are my son and loved." Bruttenholm reassured in soft, almost soothing, words.

"I know, father." Hellboy sounded firm of that, as if he couldn't doubt Bruttenholm, would not believe him capable of such deceit. Harry wondered, in awe, of such open trust between what was human and what was not; even as he slipped beneath the waking world, dragged under and unable to protest this with his energy so recklessly spent.

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Note; well, I have Tom's story all sorted out, now. It's the rest of it that's sort of gotten sort of tangled up by accident.