A/N: This fic has been cajoled out of me largely thanks to the constant harassment from Demon Sloth- this fic is dedicated to you!

Summary: Trapped in Kalosis, Misos' plan to escape its depths comes across an unexpected problem- Harry Potter.

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter/ Dark-Hunter series. The honour for creating them goes to J K Rowling and Sherrilyn Kenyon respectively. Oh, and a term from the Artemis Fowl book series.

Warnings: None for this chapter, but will very likely have some in the story as it develops.

Gift fic for Demon Sloth- if slightly late XD

Prologue

When I was younger, the thought of there existing three items of considerable power that together would give you a supposed immunity from death (and all of its side effects) would have gotten me a walloping by uncle Vernon and two weeks in the cupboard from aunt Petunia.

An immunity against death you say?

They would say (or rather forcibly insist) that those three items would have to have been created by magical forces in this world, which they would then adamantly deny existed (That doesn't exist boy! Don't be stupid, or it'll be three weeks in the cupboard for you!) and would use me as the scapegoat (or whipping boy; whichever you prefer) in order to make their insular little world once more magic free and denial happy.

That is denial free and magic happy for them, for even during the most free and happy moments in my life, denial has never really been able to stick around and magic never seems to detach itself from me.

What can I say? I'm obviously cursed by those people who coined the phrase 'may you live in interesting times'.

Then I entered the hidden world of magic, where everything I had previously thought to be true was a lie, and everything I thought to be a lie was far closer to the truth than anything I had ever thought of.

But that doesn't mean that everything impossible could be possible (such as death defying objects), does it? First year and the Philosophers Stone taught me differently, and in seventh year (or what should have been seventh year) Hermione, through the guidance of a deceased Dumbledore (working from beyond the grave, I suppose) taught me differently again.

Whoever got Hermione into believing that the tale of three brothers was indeed true, and not just a favoured bedtime story of a young Albus Dumbledore should be shot, burned, decapitated and smashed into tiny pieces, to be hidden under that really ragged rug with highly suspicious stains in the rather depressing back room of no. 12 Grimwald Place (although the entire place is gloomy, not just that one room).

I mean you can't just say that because crazy Mr Lovegood believed in the story so much that he wore a symbol representing it to accompany his oft fluorescent robes that everyone else should see the truth in it.

And hey, in my (honest) opinion the tombstone engraving could have just been a coincidence, or maybe one night Mr Lovegood or one of his fellow believers could have carved it in remembrance of the discovery of the crumpled horned snorkack, or a really good night… cough… I mean conspiracy meeting at the nearby pub.

If that had been the case and no-one had interfered with my theory, I would have probably shrugged and continued on with life as usual, instead of half-heartedly believing in what Hermione believed, because let's face it, 99 times out of a 100 she is usually right, or at least in the right area.

This must just have been one of those rare occasions when she completely screwed up.

Admittedly, if I had not let Hermione get her own know-it-all way ( by letting her glass half full outlook on life overpower my slightly more cynical glass half empty ones) then I probably wouldn't be in this hell in the first place.

Yes. Hell.

Not the most cheerful of places I have ever inhabited, let me tell you that now. It leaves Voldemort's dining room slash torture chamber (complete with optional tortured muggles is various states of disrepair) look like a cosy tea room that the over 60's frequent to reminisce over times gone by.

But…okay!

Back on topic. The deathly hallows. The reason why I now room in such a cosy torture cell.

The actual tale behind the deathly hallows does not exactly follow how the children's story books say it goes.

Admittedly, the story books were created by the Peverell brothers (which was changed in some respects to make it more palatable to readers with a moral compass), and the bare bones of both fact and fiction are the same.

Yes, they did get the hallows from an intensely creepy old guy in black, who did have a rather skeletal appearance, but he was not death, or at least, not the type of death that the brothers portrayed him as.

No, he was something all together much, much more.

Back in the day, when Atlantis was unsunk and all types of mortal and immortal beasties roamed the earth freely (not cooped up in safety enclosures for ignorant mud-monkeys viewing pleasure), there were several forms of death – and by death it is not meant death-by-raging-Cyclops, or death-by-rapid-flooding, or even death-by-flaming-arrows-thanks-to-invading-army.

No, although the first and last are admittedly rare by today's standard, they all still occur and are covered up by various magical governments, in an attempt to lull the muggle masses that nothing out of the ordinary would ever happen anywhere near them. The ultimate form of NIMBY (1) I suppose.

By death, I mean the primordial death, the older then the really, really old caveman old death, the death that seeped into the world at the beginning of time.

It was this death (Deathforce? Deathness?) that would become the main well of power for the death gods that people still recognise today; Osiris, Hades and Nergal, as well as being the source for death gods that have been forgotten through the annals of time – many of them with unpronounceable names (which was probably why people forgot about them).

Unfortunately for myself, and the Peverell brothers I suppose, was that one of the diminished gods not only had an escape plan, but also an easily pronounceable name. It was actually a rather short name, and not unlike what happened in that muggle film Beetlejuice, the repetition of his name thrice (Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice) was to allow his entry into this world, but in this particular case, my exit from it.

(1) NIMBY – Not In My Back Yard

(And yes I couldn't help borrowing "mud monkeys" from the amazing Eoin Colfer.)