Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue Chapter 69: Epilogue: Fragments and Dreamtimes, a harry potter fanfic

Author's Notes -

When I started writing Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue, I had no real concept of how the story would end. Nevertheless, I was determined to keep writing until a conclusion was reached.

As it turns out, determination sometimes works. Over three years of on-and-off writing later, Harry's ended up in a story almost unrecognizable - with an ending that I find simultaneously satisfying and nerve-wracking. Did the ending make sense? Does the story have good pacing? Will my readers - I have readers! - be satisfied? These are not uncommon fears for most authors, but that does not diminish their impact on the individual, both during and after the events for which these fears are born.

In case I haven't mentioned this elsewhere, yes, Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue is the first full-length story I've ever written.

Not counting tabletop adventures, as those are more of a collaborative effort.

I'm going to bear down on my other pursuits - namely, music and music teaching - but I might decide to pick up the proverbial pen again a few furloughs down the metaphorical road.

You've been a wonderful audience. Have some deleted scenes, outtakes, omakes, homages, et cetera...

Harry sighed, dropping his bag of excessively heavy books at the side of his desk. He hadn't bothered to ask who this year's Defense teacher would be. After Lupin, who could compare? Even a competent Professor would come across as a joke.

"Late for class, are we, Mister Potter?" a sharp voice barked, accompanied by a sharp rap on the desk at the head of the room. Without waiting for a response, the odd-eyed Auror who'd saved Harry back at Privet Drive ploughed on. "That's a bad sign, a bad sign, when the hope for the Wizarding World is getting soft in the head already!"

Harry frowned, unsure of the Professor's actual point. He'd arrived almost five minutes early - was this nut just trying to mess with him? Actually, come to think of it, wasn't this guy dead?

Eyes McNewOldguy was still on a tirade. "-down to the last clash, are you going to be ready? I said, Mister Potter - "

Harry leaned out of the way of the hovering book that was poised to crush his hands, smiling just a wee bit as it landed on the desk before him.

"-READY? Good! Now, the key to success in any battlefield is-"

"-CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" crowed an identical peg-legged figure from the classroom door. "Such as for example, knowing where your cover identity is - not to mention making sure he's still actually alive - before you start teaching in his name." He smirked, popping the larger of his eyes right out of the socket.

That's going to give me nightmares, Harry observed, suffering from just a scoche of shock.

"Impostor!" cried the first Professor, leveling his wand at the newcomer. "Stupefy!"

"Protego! Expelliarmus!" the second madman countered, narrowly defeating the first. "This man's face is called Alastor Moody," he explained, levitating the loser up before he could reclaim his wand. "But since Moody died three months ago, it's time to play guess that pretender!"

Hermione raised a very tremulous hand.

"Yes, you in the brown hair."

"Er, Hermione Granger," Hermione said, still trembling. "If Alastor Moody is d-d-dead, then, well, who are you?"

"Tonks," Tonks replied, her entire body springing back to bubblegum-pink and just-out-of-teenage spryness. "Wotcher."

That scene would have taken place in Book Three, if Dumbles hadn't insisted on good old Shacklebolt taking the post. Plot mutation at its finest, ladies and gentlemen - and cybernetic intelligences that have no gender.

Oh, and just to set your minds at ease: Harry survived his final clash with Voldemort, thanks to the swift and salubrious salves of Severus Snape. He spent three weeks in the hospital, then finished his terms at Hogwarts with slightly above-average scores in all subjects.

Except Ancient Runes, because Professor Babbling is irrationally prejudiced against Harry Potter.

Ron flashed into the creature's throne room, orange mist becoming manly sinew faster than any eye could follow. Hogwarts Castle had never been so... foul, as it had become this day.

Skipper the Third, last and most potent scion of the dreaded Acromantula Aragog, lounged on his throne. He wasn't even trying to be nonchalant, draped in silks of red and black; he was succeeding. Ron suspected the silks had been crafted by Skipper's own fallen brothers and sisters.

Ron shuddered. Even a normal spider would deserve the fate he had in store, but Skipper had done far, far worse than most spiders could even dream.

The flickering fire of the nearby braziers tried to warm Ron's hackles.

It failed.

No more waiting.

"Die, Monster!" Ron spat, clenching his wand in desperation. "You don't belong in this world!"

Skipper didn't bother to move, but somehow produced a voice of almost human quality from its disgusting mouth. "It was not by my maxillae that I am once again given noms," it clacked. "I was called here by... humans, who wish to pay me tribute."

Ron shook his head, disbelieving. "Tribute!? You steal men's souls - " metaphorically speaking, at least, as Skipper was often called 'cute' by those idiots that forgot he was a flipping giant spider. " - and make them your slaves!"

Skipper gave a shockingly realistic attempt at a smile. "Perhaps the same could be said of all religions."

Ron set his jaw, letting magic cycle through his wand at redoubled pace. This spider thought itself the heart of a religion? An object of worship? That... "Your words are as empty as your soul," he spat. "Mankind ill needs a saviour such as you!"

Skipper drew its latest snack to its mouth, draining the pathetic creature of its last vital fluids.

"What is a man?" it asked, flinging the fluffy animal's husk to the ground. "A miserable pile of secrets!"

Ron winced. It wasn't as though he could counter that - it was true. Far too close to home. Had he just lost the fight before it even began?

"But enough talk. " Skipper rose from its bed of silks, a full three meters' height of arachnid power. "HAVE AT YOU!"

Ron blinked, amazed at the spider's sudden turn from banter to combat. Had it not realized its victory through words?

He leaned to one side as Skipper launched itself into the open space at the foot of the throne, a grim smile forming on his face. Ron chuckled. I think I can win this!

From somewhere, music began to play...

(This is just a Tribute)

If you don't know what that was shamelessly ripping off - *ahem* - referencing, then this is your lucky day!

This extra scene was lifted almost wholecloth from the pixels of Konami's Castlevania: Symphony of the Night. It is an homage - a tribute, if you will - to one of the most memorable scenes from that game.

The title I've used here is also an homage, though in this case to a different art form.

...so, Harry Potter. When I first wrote the final chapters, I rolled dice to determine how many characters - and which ones - would die. Originally, Hermione was on the chopping block; once I realized that somebody would have pulled all the strings they had to get some Felix Felicitas, I went back and rerolled Our Heroes once or twice, to emulate the luck-plundering effects of the potion.

Greg got the 'dead' result four times in a row. I am very sad about this.

And now, for something completely different!

Ron grumbled, drawing his windbreaker close enough that he almost worried he'd tear the seams.

Almost.

Harry might joke about it, but frankly he and Hagrid were the only people - both of them bloody insane - who didn't go a bit mad at the sight of one.

Normal spiders were already bad enough. Why did it have to be giant spiders?

A late evening wind drew across the treetops, shaking and rattling the new branches with the old in a manner that was far too reminiscent of what Ron imagined as the sound of giant OK we get the point let's stop thinking about it now please.

Trusty inherited wand gripped in one hand, slickness-enchanted windbreaker death-gripped in the other, Ron slogged deeper into the Forbidden Forest.

"Why can't Hagrid just come back for a day to feed his bloody spiders, I'd like to know?"

(with very special thanks to WhiteMoonKnight, whose idea it was)

Poor Ron. Wait, didn't the last scene also have Ron facing off against Acromantulae? I'll make sure the next one's got somebody else in the spotlight.

...Neville Longbottom continued his studies of Herbology, human psychology, and the true potential of Boggarts. After graduation, he moved to the edge of a large forest, where he could train up a generation of socially-conscious Boggarts - and where he wouldn't have to deal with all these people demanding his attention. The first class of Boggarts managed to learn to maintain a single, generally-frightening form when facing crowds, and to use words instead of shapes to inspire terror in their audience. They became politicians, newsmen, and tax collectors, and they are very good at their jobs.

Hagrid trundled through the door of his beloved shack, a bundle of not-entirely-legal new housepets mostly secure under one arm.

Dumbledore would understand. And even if he didn't - well, the Forest had plenty of room for a few more harmless little critters.

Hagrid felt a very faint, imagined twinge in his left ear, as though McGonnagal had fixed one of her disapproving glares on him again. The woman had nearly had him trained, a few years back. Still reminded him of Mum.

"No' that either of 'em'd be quite keen on the description, mind," Hagrid said, sotto voce, to himself.

"Who?"

"McGonnagal and me mum- here, what're yeh doin' in my home?"

Ron turned from the corner he'd been - well, not hiding in, you had to do more than just step behind the table to be hiding, but he'd certainly been concealed there - that he'd been standing in, a sort of half-guilty expression on his face. The other half seemed a bit miffed. "I've been keeping track of things for you, remember? Aragog, Firenze, all the little monsters that try to bite my bloody hands clean off?"

Hagrid frowned. Had he asked this weed of a boy to take care of his various perfectly-harmless nonsapient dependents? He could have sworn he'd asked Filius to sort it out.

"Lost my wand on the third day, found it broken in seven pieces in the Grottlesnarker's nest." He seemed a bit grumpy.

"Aye," Hagrid rumbled, mostly on automatic as he tried to ferret out the train of people Filius would have had to ask to get Ron Weasley in charge of so many sensitive creatures. "They'll do tha'." Perhaps Sprout...?

"That used to be Charlie's wand, Hagrid! It was inherited!"

Hagrid blinked, interrupted halfway between Bartemious Crouch and Aberforth Dumbledore. "A righ' shame, tha'. Unicorn tail hair?"

Ron nodded, fighting to keep his tears from showing their unmanly little faces. Not that tears have faces, of course; it's just an expression. Wizards aren't that magical. Mostly.

"Would've done yeh well against werewolves, then. Unicorn tail's th' best sort o' silver for that lot."

Ron stared at him, dumbfounded for a moment.

Hagrid began to feel a little uncomfortable, and reached for the security of his umbrella. "Yeh got a new one, then?"

"Yeah," Ron choked, wiping away a particularly indomitable tear. "Dragon heartstring. Really responds, too."

Hagrid nodded. "That'll be alrigh', then," he decided, unrolling the bundle of exotic new creatures on his ample tabletop. "Didjeh remember to visit Aragog every second Thursday?"

Ron ducked out the door without answering.

"Well tha's not a good sign," Hagrid said, gently squeezing the venom out of his fingertips as his little bandersnatch hatchling tried to sharpen its claws on him. "Didn't even stay fer introductions."

OK, the next one's DEFINITELY not going to be about spiders. That's part two of my take on WhiteMoonKnight's idea. Wait for the exciting conclusion - just not right away!

...Hermione, after the defeat of the Dark Lord, managed to finish her N.E.W.T.s by her fifth year, scoring Outstanding marks on all subjects.

Except Divination, because come on, you can't learn how to see the future.

After graduation, Hermione spent a year tracking down all of the leftover Dark Lord wannabes in England, and tickling them until they stopped doing evil. This was perhaps the most inhumane method of behavioural correction that she could have employed, not counting Dementors.

She then joined the Aurors, with a part-time job as adjunct junior assistant to the second Undersecretary, and assisted in reaming the reams of paperwork that the Ministry required to stop requiring reams of paperwork for everything. Simultaneously, Hermione invested scads of time in nationalizing the HELPERS movement. In short, Hermione was an unmitigated badass of law and justice, and made the wizarding world a slightly better place every year for the rest of her life.

NOPE! I said NO MORE SPIDERS, and I meant it.

"Harry awoke, in the cupboard under the stairs. He looked down at his surroundings. No trunk. No owl. No wand. It had- it had all been a dream. Harry started to reach for the closet door. With a flicker, the bulb above him burned out."

Thanks to Miss Tanglewood for that one.

...Luna Lovegood graduated with her marks arranged to spell HOW CURIOUS. The staff at Hogwarts are still trying to figure out how she managed to receive letter marks that are NOT part of the standard system. Nevertheless, with Outstanding marks in both Charms and Transfiguration, she was able to fast-track her Magical Researcher's license, following in her dear mother's footsteps.

Luna later took over the Quibbler from her father, who retired to Fiji to hunt Snarks. Fans say the Quibbler's quality remains... queer.

Harry stumbled down the hall, still unsure if his adventures had been real or imagined. The sheer emotion he'd experienced - the amount of time that had passed - it couldn't have been a dream, could it?

The sound of water, of someone showering, drew his attention. Did we used to have a loo there? Harry shrugged, knocking on the unexpected washroom door.

To his surprise, it was not Vernon who answered. Not even Petunia.

It was someone he hadn't remembered at all.

Harry couldn't support his own weight any longer. He fell into the fatherly arms, tears flooding forth.

"What's wrong, Harry?"

Harry caught his breath, arresting the sobs with some difficulty. "I- it was awful, I was a wizard, and and and Greg died, and Vincent's father died, and our house fell on Moody, and Uncle Vernon was eaten by by bees, and I had to fight Voldemort, and Sirius got burned up by a giant firesheep, and Dumbledore's arm got blown o-o-fff-"

"There, there," Bobby told him, awkwardly patting the boy's hair. "It was only a dream."

Harry nodded, still unable to process much of anything.

Bobby hesitated. "Wait." He pushed Harry away, gently, so he could ask him face to face - "Who's Voldemort?"

In response to Miss Tanglewood's omake, my father suggested the above recursive fiction. Yes, my actual father suggested this.

I'm not quite sure why it's funny. I do know that it's a reference to Bobby Ewing of the television series "Dallas."

Anyhow.

After Harry reunited Tom Riddle (Voldemort) with his erstwhile soul-shard (Cyncism), the newly restored Tom - finally capable of understanding Love - discarded his old moniker and his murderous ways, took up the mantle of Minister for Magic, and utterly reshaped the face of English wizardry. He also reshaped the face of his actual face, so as to have an actual face again. This was a big win for public relations.

Blowing the Statute of Secrecy had some interesting backlash for the rest of the Muggle world as well, though most other nations' wizards chose not to admit to being wizards.

However, as wizarding weaponry and combat magic were only slightly more versatile - and slightly less powerful - than modern military technology, the main fuss boiled down to Obliviation and enchantments. A very profitable industry sprang up around magic-detection services, and Hermione's later revisions of her Potion of Pyrrhic Purification - also called the Painful Purgative - became a best-selling item for paranoid elites.

By the time Tom Riddle retired from the position of Minister for Magic, the whole world had accepted the existence of wizards - some more violently than others - and a new saga of war had begun to unfold.

Harry Potter was very sad about this, but people will make bad decisions no matter how much power they have.

And now, the continuation of SPIDERS!

Every second Thursday? Ron had been out there every Thursday! Aragog had insisted that any less would be an insult to the friendship he'd shared with Hagrid for so many years - he'd claimed they used to ... twice a week!

"Bloody bloody bloody bloody BLOODY bloody bloody," Ron cursed, intending to repeat the word until it lost all meaning. Maybe that would help him forget about all those midnight visits to Aragog's lair, hauling mop and bucket for the spider's 'long-overdue' bath.

"Bet Hagrid doesn't even give that bloody thing a bath," Ron growled, kicking at a loose stone that had the misfortune of being within three paces of his foot at that moment. He drew his wand, intending to fell a few trees.

With tickling jinxes.

By the time he'd torn through the bark of the first unlucky tree, Ron realized his error.

He'd stormed off into the Forbidden Forest. Specifically, on the path to Aragog.

Ron shivered. He didn't even have his windbreaker.

Might as well turn around, head back to the castle...

...or, as his feet seemed to have already decided, he could keep walking toward the bloody spiders why is this happening.

Ron noticed, but didn't particularly care, as the usual honor guard assembled itself around him. Is it Thursday? I think it's Tuesday. Mandibles flexed, venom pooled, and one of Aragog's children went so far as to tap-dance on the invisible webbing that spanned the trees above Ron's head.

Don't ask how a spider can tap-dance. Especially don't ask how it can tap-dance on lines of silk, which is not known for its percussive qualities.

Ron dismissed all of this as unimportant, proceeding to Aragog's hideaway as though to the home of an old, old friend.

Aragog had very quickly become Ron's closest confidant, on the grounds that Aragog was not about to jeopardize the weekly bath, and Ron had nothing better to do than gripe about absolutely everything while polishing the old Acromantula's various chitinous plates.

Ron was definitely in the mood to gripe.

...Vincent Crabbe, shorn of his father, dropped out of Hogwarts after getting his O.W.L.s. He surprised all his peers by scoring top marks in every subject - including divination - and then went on to achieve the celebrated rank of Head Auror before retiring at the age of thirty-seven.

Vincent married a beautiful and intelligent woman, and had many sons and daughters - but who was his wife? I'll leave that to your imaginations.

So, without further ado, the thrilling conclusion of Ron's encounters with the spiders!

"Right," Ron barked, calling the class to attention. Years had passed, and adventure had been had by all - but frankly, it was too much hassle not to show off his skills to the first-year Griffindors. So, here he was: Head Boy, Quidditch Captain, Defense Tutor.

"Right. You're here to learn one spell today - Tobias Square put your wand down or so help me I will give you spider dreams for a month - and that spell is the Patronus."

Some of the students applauded. Tobias Square seemed to be wondering exactly what spider dreams entailed, but was wise enough not to find out with a full month's experience right off the bat.

Ron smiled. "So. The elements of a good Patronus are simple. Joy, joy... joy. The more you pack in, the stronger the charm." He demonstrated with a simple shield-form Patronus, filling the air with quicksilver glitter. Boxing Malfoy's ears. Always works.

The girls - and one slightly unconventional boy - squealed in delight at the aerial display.

"For the first day's training, that will be your goal. Find your strongest, happiest, most joyful memory, draw it up, and let it out into the world." He glanced at the front row, where the children were usually most self-conscious. True to form, one of the Skaarsburg twins was already shifting in his seat.

Ron leaned down, not quite kneeling, and murmured to the boy. "Don't worry. You get the memory back." He stood. "That's the whole point, really."

Tobias drew his wand again, whipping it carelessly through a wide loop, and shouting "Expecto Patronum!"

To Ron's surprise, the kid was actually able to make the right color of shine - not just glitter, but light. On his first try, no less!

Ron smirked. Just the excuse he needed. "Alright, kids, have some fun. Experiment - DO NOT POINT YOUR WAND AT YOUR FELLOW GRYFFINDORS, KATIE. Point it at a Slytherin, sure, but never a Gryffindor. Unless he really deserves it."

He let them enjoy themselves for a few seconds, walking back to the head of the room. "But remember - in the end, you'll want to find a memory so powerful, so integral to your psyche - a memory that literally changed your life. Changed for the better," he clarified, whipping his wand through a complicated warm-up.

"A memory so good, so joyful, so ALIVE - it could turn even hatred into friendship! EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

Silvery mist whooshed from Ron's wand (still Dragon heartstring, if anyone's counting), shimmering like fine silk, flowing like water. It whirled around the room, then coalesced into a truly titanic form, legs perched at crazy angles to avoid touching any students.

Ron reached out, placing one hand on the last truly living memory of Aragog.

"That's how it's done."

Thanks again for the idea, WhiteMoonKnight!

This concludes the epic story of how Ron hated the spider, then loved the spider.

...After graduation, Harry immediately constructed the Sirius Black Home for Lonely Dementors.

Everyone laughed, until Azkaban was empty.

Everyone feared, until he sent out the pictures.

Six hundred dementors crowding around a tiny table, waiting their turn for a nice cup of tea. Harry fed them with the happy memories he made with them, for he understood the needs of Dark creatures.

Harry shared a long correspondence with Neville, as they spent decades trying to acclimate the darkest monsters to polite society.

They never quite succeeded, but hey - Azkaban got shut down. Can't go wrong when you start with that.

A cold night, for a cold heart.

Starlight on oak.

The Dark Lord Voldemort eased his consciousness inward, seeking the tremulous vein that still tied him to the accursed Potter child.

The Chosen One. He'd scoffed at that, before.

Come, little Harry. You should have known I'd spy you out, in time.

He focused on odor, first. Unlikely to arouse the child's suspicion; the sense of smell was often overlooked as a point of entry for Legilimency. It was, perhaps, not the core of his legendary skill, but it had certainly made the Art less of a bore. This was one of the reasons he'd elected to omit the nose from his ascendant form.

A smell of leaves, still damp in the winter chill. Woodsmoke and oil of pennyroyal. A hint of wild Sorrel. Something beneath, a foul odor - perhaps a corpse, or the unguents to Salazar's thirteenth ritual...

Newspaper?

A straining in the bowels - !

Tom Riddle snapped back to his own body, recently restored by dark magic, one hand clamping over his eyes.

THAT scene is why Voldemort didn't have insider knowledge on Harry. Every time he tried, the Boy who Lived just happened to be on the loo.

There are some things even evil doesn't want to see.

...Tonks and Lupin got married, a few years later, and had three very beautiful children of whom they were justly proud.

They named their second son Sirius, and their daughter Alistair. Most folks just call her Alis, but she knows who she's named for.

Being the old draft of the latter half of Menuet and Trio

Sirius Apparated the four of them - plus Skipper - into an old, dilapidated shack at the edge of Hogsmeade.

"This certainly brings back memories," Lupin murmured, placing one hand on the ruined wood of the nearest wall. "Not good ones, mind you, but memories all the same."

Harry settled himself on Skipper's back, Sticking himself in place. "Are we authorized to be in Hogwarts?"

Sirius shook his head. "I had special dispensation while you were there, but now... if we're lucky, the Aurors won't bother us, but I don't have any particular hopes about Snape."

"He's not that bad-"

"I have had plenty of experience with old grease-head, thanks," Sirius snapped, leading them down into an old, disused tunnel. "Even if he did teach you Occlumency."

"And helped me master Parseltongue," Harry added. "And kept an eye out on my behalf the whole time I was there. And," as Sirius scourgify'd the cloud of dust he'd been kicking up, "he trained Neville."

"Ooo-er," Tonks piped up; she and Lupin had been bringing up the rear of the expedition, probably in hopes of catching a moment for private conversation. "Now there's a point for his resume!"

Sirius growled, loudly, from the back of his throat.

"Sorry," Harry apologized. "Just... don't hate him, alright? He's not evil. Not anymore, at least." Harry pondered for a few minutes, ignoring the whispers from behind him. "Er, not very evil, anyhow."

Sirius grunted. "We're here." 'Here' appeared to be the end of the tunnel; Harry couldn't see any exits or obvious secret doors. "It'll be a quick hop across the grounds, then in through the front gate."

"Really?" Lupin asked, getting his wand out. "Because I thought we wanted to avoid attention."

"Who's going to notice a fifth-year witch with a giant black dog?"

Tonks grumbled, shrinking down to the size of a teenager.

"So I just Disillusion myself again, is that it?" Lupin barked. Harry could almost see the hackles rising across their shoulders, despite the fact that Lupin and Sirius were both in human form. "Have me run around where no-one can see me?"

"Just until we get inside, yeah," Sirius retorted. "Same for Harry." He slapped his wand down on Harry's head, producing the disquieting sensation of Disillusionment. Harry watched in grim fascination as, not for the first time, his body blended out of sight, matching the hues of the tunnel too perfectly to see. The enchantment flowed down over Skipper as well, and in seconds both boy and spider were effectively invisible.

Sirius then punched a nearby root at its most gnarled and twisted point.

"Well fine," Lupin grumbled, Disillusioning himself. "I'll be here if you need me."

"We do and we will, old friend," Sirius assured him. "We do, and we will. Always." As he spoke, the earth opened up ahead of them, showing the early morning sky over Hogwarts castle. Sirius transformed into his canine alter-ego, and led them out - unless Lupin had already started, but he wasn't visible, so that wouldn't count as leading, would it?

"I'll check on the Horcrux," Harry said, urging Skipper to follow Sirius. Tonks had decided on a slightly stocky build, with bright blonde hair, a snub nose, and freckles. She nodded assent, then put one hand on Sirius, her expression matching his name.

Harry turned inward.

Do you mind if I drive while you're out?

Behave, Harry ordered. Or no ice cream.

Cynicism gave him a mental salute, and Harry drifted away into visions.

I'm still sorry about Sirius.

...But as for Cedric Diggory, who did NOT die, he spearheaded the human-everyone else relations efforts, heading off the Goblin War and the Elvish Rebellion, as well as negotiating peace with most of the various Centaur tribes. He was notorious for declining invitations to visit the Veela, however; perhaps because of his longstanding relationship with Cho Chang, who had gained some small fame for herself as a championship Seeker in the Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch Longcats, a Quidditch team that was curiously undersold in media presentations.

Inspiration for Harry Potter and the Garden of Intrigue has been provided in part by:

J.K. Rowling - Harry Potter series
Sarah1281 - Oh God Not Again! (where I first heard of Flower Language, and its connection to a certain Potions Master. This was the reason I started writing my own story.)
J.R.R. Tolkien - Various works including Farmer Giles of Ham
Jim Butcher - Various works including the Dresden Files
Lois McMaster Bujold - the Young Miles set. It's all I've read of her work, and it's still enough to influence my writing. Well worth a read.
Brandon Sanderson - if you haven't heard of him, go try a book. If you have, I don't need to explain further.
Chengar Qordath - Forever! (and sequels, look in Favorite Authors below)
The Infinite Loops (including but not limited to Innortal's Loops and Saphroneth's Loops)
Wildbow - Worm (parahumans dot wordpress dot com)
Eliezer Yudowsky - HPMOR
Anything you catch a reference to, unless I don't know it.
Numerous published novels of varying quality
Numerous fan works of varying quality
The oft-retranslated Bible.
Life
Friends
Gregory Goyle
And comments/reviews by Readers Like You.

Special thanks to Miss Tanglewood for being my beta reader for the first sixty-three chapters, to David305, aalens, Paint Pancakes, iwillnottellasoul, and Rumour of an Alchemist for pointing out many of my typos, name gaffes, and Americanachronisms; to WhiteMoonKnight for extensively detailed reviews, to AlaskanKing for helpful comments and feedback, and to smilingcrescent and not really sane fairy for an unstoppable cornucopia of reviews.

God bless you, gentle readers. Good night.