Disclaimer: Neither Harry Potter nor TES 5: Skyrim belongs to me! All rights are owned by their owners, Rowling and Bethesda, and I am just grateful to be able to mess around with their wonderful tales.

Author's Note: I'll try to keep this short but basically, this is a cross-over between the Harry Potter series and the awesome computer game known as Skyrim! I decided to give it a shot since there's not nearly enough HP/Skyrim crossovers and couldn't resist this plot-bunny once it struck in my head. And so that I don't give a huge info-dump about Harry's life (since we all know who he is, or should know), I decided to give him memory loss but it's for a reason and all will be revealed eventually.

As of right now, I am unsure about the pairings or if this will be a Harem fic. The two primary candidates for Harry's love interest though are Aela the Huntress and, of course, Lydia the Housecarl (no slash). Also, Harry can get married since he's eighteen in this fic. It's set a year after the war with Voldermort and way after the books. Last but not least, forget the Epilogue since that didn't happen right away. And now without any further ado, allow me to present you with my latest endeavour!

CHAPTER 1: To the Chopping Block

Harry James Potter awoke to the sound of clattering iron against rock. His head ached and his whole body felt like it was on fire with pain. He was jostling from side to side in some sort of transportation device that could have been a car but felt much cruder and more archaic like a wagon; except that was odd since he never rode on a wagon before. Or did he? Funnily enough, he couldn't quite remember. In fact, he didn't quite remember anything.

A thrill of fear shot through him causing his eyes to snap open as he realized he could not recall a single thing about his past or who he was save his name, gender, age, and the fact that he had not been here a few moments ago but had come from somewhere else. Alarm woke him up fast as he shot up into a sitting position only to grimace as pain lanced down his back again.

Groggy, dazed, and disoriented, he uttered a feeble groan as his eyelids fluttered back and forth while he drifted between consciousness and collapsing from exhaustion. Eventually, he steadied and regained control of his senses.

Through his blurry vantage point he could see the vague shapes of what looked like people hunched together on some sort of a wagon led by a horse that was jostling down the road. And after what seemed like an agonizingly long time, his vision cleared and his eyes confirmed that he was surrounded by people.

But they were quite unlike any people he had ever seen before, at least something in the back of his mind told him so. Taking deep, ragged breaths he glanced around warily taking in every single shape and form he could lay eyes on. Directly in front of him, there was a man who looked well in his twenties with a shoulder-length blond hair.

Strong and rugged-looking, he wore a suit of strange brownish armour, or what Harry thought was armour, that could only be compared to that of a Roman soldier's. Likewise, the wagon driver also wore a similar suit of armour except for the fact that he wore an open-faced helmet with cheek guards also of the same reddish-brown material.

The blond man, white-skinned man was sitting opposite Harry on the right side of the wagon and his hands were tied together with thick sturdy rope. His head was tilted and he looked oddly comfortable as if he didn't mind being tied up on a bumpy wagon in the middle of nowhere and surrounded by nothing but trees, the dusty road ahead and the open sky above. Truth be told, there were a few more jostling wagons driven by horses and other soldiers carrying more prisoners.

Suddenly, a flock of birds burst into the air as the groans and creeks of cartwheels disturbed their foraging, or whatever it was that birds did. Harry shifted in his seat feeling uncomfortable. Licking his parched lips, he turned his gaze to the next person in the wagon: Another man, thinner and weaker looking with closely-cropped brown hair and a strange red tattoo on his forehead. His head was bowed as if in shame and he wore tattered rags. His hands too were tied.

Feeling more curious than ever before, he shuffled in his wooden seat to glance at the person sitting in the back of the wagon. Once again the stranger was male with flowing shoulder-length brownish hair and a beard. He wore some sort of fur robes over his outfit which and was sitting with his back to the others as much as possible. For the briefest of minutes, Harry caught a glimpse at his rugged face and saw a fierce glint in his eyes. But then a voice called his attention back to the blond-haired man who was looking, and speaking, at him.

"Hey, you," The man said in a strong voice, but one that was thankfully English.

"Eh?" Harry managed to croak out hoarsely.

He'd give anything for a drink of water, even his wand. Wait. He had a wand? What was a wand as a matter of fact? But the blond didn't give him time to finish his riddle.

"You're finally awake," He was saying.

Harry shrugged awkwardly unsure as to how to respond. He didn't know any of these people or where he was or who he was. What the heck was going on here?

"You were trying to cross the border, right?" The man continued, not unkindly. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

"I dunno what I was doing," Harry grumbled. "Can't remember a damn thing."

Not like anyone seemed to care, the thief least of all.

"Damn you Stormcloaks!" The thief groused, shooting a glare at the blond man. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy."

So they were in a place called Skyrim, were they? And ruled by a medieval-sounding government called the Empire. Sounded rather unlike the place he had come from, if he could remember it that is.

"If they hadn't been looking for you," The thief whined. "I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."

Harry could not resist a chuckle.

The names people came up with around here were real funny. Well, Skyrim was okay but Hammerfell? Seriously? Obviously a hammer falls whenever it's used in carpentry, or when a carpenter gets frustrated by a bent nail. Still, the thief had a point even if he was a criminal. The folks he was lumped with seemed like a troublesome lot.

"You there," The thief hissed, looking Harry in the eyes. "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

"Nice that I have a fan," Harry said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "But flattery won't get you anywhere. I hate my fame."

As suddenly as he said that, he frowned in confusion. Where had that come from? Had he been famous once upon a time? Obviously he didn't like it but why had he said that? What did this all mean?

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," The blond man retorted, unfazed by the thief's jibes.

Harry sighed. Perhaps he was wrong about his initial assumptions. Why was everything so difficult all the time?

"Shut up back there!" The soldier driving the wagon barked.

Harry grimaced as he struggled to retain a flash of rage. He remembered having difficulty trusting people in authority. They usually betrayed him, attacked him, or died.

Thankfully though, the thief distracted Harry's attention providing a welcome relief from the bottled rage as he glanced towards the direction the thief was looking at. It was that brown-haired, fur-robed man sitting in the back of the wagon. He had an air of authority himself and that of a warrior, someone who didn't like people messing around with him.

"Watch your tongue!" The blond man snapped rudely. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

Harry groaned. They still had kings over here? What the hell was going on? Had he gone back in time or was he in another world? His mind reeling, he could only watch haplessly as his fellow prisoners bickered.

At least not everyone was confused and the thief answered Harry's unspoken question, sort of.

"The Jarl of Windhelm?" The man asked with the hint of awe, or maybe not. "You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you, then...oh gods! Where are they taking us?"

The note of panic in the thief's voice made something stir within Harry. He could feel it in his bones. An adventure was about to happen soon, something dangerous and terrible but glorious to behold, something he had never experienced before and something that might never happen again, if he didn't survive.

"I don't know where we're going," The blond muttered sullenly but resigned. "But Sovrenguard awaits."

Sovrenguard? Harry wondered. Where on earth was that?

Some kind of death obviously, judging by the defeated look in the blond man's eyes.

"No!" The thief rambled. "This can't be happening!"

Harry felt a spark of fear kindle in his own heart. It was evident that they were about to die and somehow, he felt he had been through something like this before. But it was in different circumstances and he was completely unprepared for this bleak turn. If it was in his own world that might be a different story, but out here...

"Hey," The blond man interjected. "What village are you from, horse thief?"

"Why do you care?" The thief sulked provoking an eye-role from Harry.

He was too tired and confused to interfere.

"A Nord's last thought should be of home," The man explained.

Harry grunted. That was a good notion if a bit bleak. Who knows? They were still alive and while they were, there was a chance that they could escape and pay back whoever was doing this to him. One thing was for certain: He was innocent and he wanted to stay alive, thank you very much. He also wanted to find out who he was and where he came from and, if possible, get back home.

All this talk about horse thieves, ambushes, and rebellions didn't sound too good to him.

"Rorikstead," The thief ground out. "I'm from Rorikstead."

Before Harry could ask where that was from, since it was a possible location to make to in case they escaped, an announcement dashed his hopes to pieces causing him to squirm around and see where they were heading.

"General Tulius, sir!" A man cried in a posh accent. "The headman is waiting."

Headman.

An olden-day term for an axe-man or, in other words, an executioner. This couldn't be good. Was this it? Was it all over? Before whatever this was even began?

Taking a deep calming breath of the cool fresh mountain air, Harry stared out into the distance as the horse carts ahead jostled back and forth along the road making their way under some kind of bridge.

Well, it looked like a bridge but also a gate. The gate was open without any doors and made completely of wood. It had a bridge walkway on top covered by a long thatched slanted roof. Guards dressed in the same Romanesque armour patrolled the walkway holding torches in their hands and armed with swords at their belts. Fires in pots stood by the gate that was patrolled by more guards.

The whole place had a very medieval feel to it but still retained a majesty and splendour that the modern era – what was that again? – could not afford. Through the wide open gate, Harry spotted square wooden houses with thatched slanted ceilings. Smoke climbed into the frigid air from squat stone chimneys and people dressed in tattered clothes of brown, cream, and green lined the street. Farm animals brayed obliviously to each other and more guards in the centre of the village, near a wooden block where the headman stood, chatted lazily with each other.

"Good," Said a gruff voice, snapping Harry out of his reverie. "Let's get this over with."

"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynereth, Akotash, Divines," The thief rambled frantically. "Please help me."

Harry rolled his eyes and shook his head. The things people resorted to when they felt like it was all over.

"Look at him," The blond man snorted in distain. "General Tulius of the Imperial Division."

Harry turned lazily, not really feeling the rage or sense of urgency and desperation the others felt, for some bizarre reason.

But what the man said was true. Another warrior wearing similar armour to the others but more regal-looking, and no helmet upon his head of buzzed hair, was sitting astride a lofty brown horse and conversing with some strange human-like people. Except, they weren't people. They looked more stately and graceful and beautiful but mean, cold, and terrible to behold. They also had long, slender, pointed ears and wore different outfits, black robes with some sort of design, as opposed to the others.

Okay, he was definitely in another world! Had he come to Middle-Earth or something? That couldn't be too bad.

"And it looks like the Thalmer are with him," The man spat. Okay, maybe not. "Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

"That sure is jumping to conclusions," Harry muttered under his breath.

But he held his peace. Things were already tense enough in the wagon of death.

As said cart creaked and groaned while ploughing through a bend in the road, Harry's eyes widened as he saw the proud ruins of an old stone fort. It rose high above the cottages and wooden walls of the town but was in an obvious state of disrepair. Stone blocks lay here and there and smoke rose from various torches and fires around the fort.

"This is Helgen," The talkative blond sighed, diverting Harry's attention again. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries."

The ghost of a smile touched Harry's lips as the captured soldier reminisced on his childhood sweetheart but then faded as he felt a pang of remorse and loneliness in his own heart. Something told him he wasn't too good with girls, if he could only remember who they were.

"Funny," The man continued dryly. "When I was a boy, the Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel safe."

Harry chuckled dryly at the irony of that statement. The man seemed like a decent sort or he could have been and was only having a change of heart on the verge of death. So far as he could tell, this land was caught in the middle of a war and the man was now on the wrong side of it, the side with a chopping block. And no matter how terrible a criminal you might be, it was always possible to vie for redemption a foot away from the cold embrace of the Grim Reaper.

"Who are they, daddy?" A curious kid, who Harry couldn't see from his position, asked his father. "Where are they going?"

Harry wondered then if they were thought of as heroes or villains.

"You need to go inside, little cub," The boy's father said hastily, obviously uncomfortable with his child staring at doomed prisoners.

A weary-looking woman leaning on the rail of their home's porch di

"Why?" The boy, who was squatting cross-legged on the porch before the few steps leading up to it, protested. "I want to see the soldiers."

Harry sighed. Wartime propaganda always made soldiers and warriors out to be heroes. If anything, they were the true victims of the war since any kind of battle, whether with guns, wands, or swords, always left a soldier with his own personal demons, demons no one could heal. And there it was again, more riddles from his past he was unable to decipher.

"Inside the house!" The father insisted as the cart turned blocking the family and houses from view. "Now."

At least not everyone appreciated an execution.

"Yes, papa," The boy grumbled reluctantly.

But once again, Harry had other things to worry about for the cart seemed to reach its end at what looked like the entranceway to the courtyard of the ruined fort. The front wall was still intact, if not rather dilapidated, and the sturdy round tower adjacent to it looked like in good condition. Yet even more worrisome was the number of soldiers, and a few elves if he saw correctly, gathered around the chopping block.

"Get these prisoners out of the carts!" Barked a female voice. "Move it!"

Harry felt impressed.

From what little he recalled he knew next to nothing about modern, Muggle military but he knew full well that it took decades for women to become a part of the army. Even in his world's modern era, there were very few women soldier's despite what action movies made you believe. And yet here was a female soldier obviously used to a position in command and this strange new world was very not modern. In fact, it was like stepping back in time which was more than strange. Perhaps this new realm was more advanced than a first glance suggested?

"Why are we stopping?" The thief squeaked making Harry want to face-palm.

The talkative blond didn't seem to mind though, but the answer came out in a more deadpanned voice than he previously uttered.

"Why do you think?" The man quipped rhetorically. "End of the line."

As if to prove his point, the soldier in the saddle pulled the reigns and the horse stopped with a snort in front of a wall. Probably grateful to be off the saddle and stretch his legs after a long ride with depressed, angry prisoners, the guard hopped off the horse nimbly.

"Let's go," The blond man said with a wry smile. "Let's not keep the gods waiting."

So this dude was suicidal as well as a rebel?

"No! Wait we're not rebels!" The thief protests as they all climbed wearily off the cart and were herded to the chopping block.

Harry rolled his eyes and struggled to walk on numb legs. Like the guards would even care what a thief said.

"Face your death with some courage, thief," The blond growled.

"You've got to tell them!" The thief rambled on obliviously, panic rising in his voice. "We weren't with you. This is a mistake."

Harry winced as his feet aching feet touched solid ground. The cold stones beneath his feet made him feel all the more awkward and uneasy.

"Step forward when we call you," The female soldier ordered. "One at a time."

Harry sighed but did as was told. There were too many soldiers around to put up a fight and he didn't even have his wand. Not to mention that he was in a new land and did not remember a single thing about his past. How could he even hope to break free with all that bogging him down?

"Empire loves their damn lists," The blond snorted as he joined Harry and the other too, earning a dry smirk from him.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," A muscular soldier reading from a scroll called out eagerly. "Jarl of Windhelm."

"It has been an honour," The talkative blond said respectfully, his back partially turned to them, as Ulfric Stormcloak strode confidently forward.

Finally, the blond soldier's name was introduced.

"Rolaf of Riverwood," The scroll-reading guard announced.

Hands tied but head held high, the captured rebel joined his leader with the same steady stride.

"Lokir of Rorikstead," The guard announced sounding bored now that the two wanted rebels were on their way to death.

Harry squirmed as he suppressed a sudden feeling in the pit of his stomach that something bad was about to happen. As if on cue, the thief began rambling again frantically as if he had lost all his senses.

"No! I'm not a rebel," The thief tried one last time. "You can't do this!"

Idiot! Harry screamed inwardly. Just buckle up and accept your fate.

But it was no good.

The thief, driven mad by fear, darted away from the guards even though his hands were tied and the fort was practically crawling with Imperial soldiers.

"Halt!" The female officer barked, but the thief didn't listen.

He was too far gone in madness.

"You're going to kill me!" The thief shrieked sounding like a deranged madman.

"Archers!" The woman commanded.

Harry watched helplessly, fighting off that sinking feeling of dread, as arrows were notched in bows and an almost eerie, gloomy soundtrack seemed to play in his head. In a matter of seconds, bows snapped into action and arrows sang into the air plunging into the thief's back before he had made it even a few meters away. Harry struggled to subdue the bile that threatened to dislodge itself from his stomach and he struggled to stand upright as he felt suddenly dizzy and hot.

"Anyone else feel like running?" The female officer growled.

Harry shook his head although the officer already seemed to know the answer.

"Wait, you, you there," The guard with the scroll said. "Step forward."

Harry took a deep breath and forced himself to trudge forward through the frigid wind. He choked in surprise as a tendril of smoke assaulted his nostrils.

"Who are you?" The man asked in obvious confusion.

The others seemed at an equal loss for the female officer did not try to correct the man. Harry hesitated. He knew he was not from here but if he said that would they believe him? Or would they think he was just trying to make up pitiful excuses to avoid his fate? On the other hand, if they did believe him what would they do with an alien from another world? Would they do strange experiments on him or throw him in the dungeons until they could decide his destiny? What should he say? His name was rather unlike the others' around here.

"Hurry up!" The man barked.

"Harry James Potter," The teenager said at last. "I'm eighteen years old and a wizard from another world. Not that you're likely to believe my story but it's the truth, I swear it."

The man paused and scratched his head. He turned around questioningly to his superior officer.

"Captain, what should we do?" The soldier asked. "He's not on the list."

The woman shrugged nonchalantly, obviously not believing Harry's story for a second.

"I've heard more far-fetched excuses in my time," The female officer grunted. "You could be a mage but if so, you're probably a rogue mage cast out of the guild or you're a necromancer. Either way, I don't care. Can't be seen to show favourites when people distrust mages as much as they do here in Skyrim, now can I?"

"The chopping block then?" The guard guessed.

The officer shrugged and nodded. "Forget the list, he goes with the others."

"By your orders, Captain," The man said, sounding glad the legalities were over with.

"I'm sorry," The man said genuinely, surprising Harry. "I'll make sure your remains go to the guild. They will give you the proper burials as your kind does. Now follow the Captain, prisoner."

Without another word, the Captain sauntered off to join the man called General Tulius who stood with the other guards before the chopping block in front of the fur-robed man, who Harry now saw had a gag tied around his mouth. That was odd.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," The general said. "Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

Harry arched an eyebrow. That definitely altered his perception of the previously calm and subdued prisoner. The gagged man didn't look like the evil type but traitors usually hid their true colours. Then again, were the authorities in charge of this execution any better?

They were killing Harry and he knew he was innocent of whatever crime they thought he had committed. What was it? Crossing the border or something? He had heard the guards mutter that suspiciously to themselves as the cart pulled into the town square.

The gagged rebel grunted something but it was muffled against the gag.

"You started this war," The general continued. "Plunged Skyrim into chaos and now the Empire is going to put you down and return Skyrim to peace."

Harry frowned thoughtfully. He couldn't quite make up his mind. War always had two sides to a story and it was always the victor's side that was the "right" one. Something told him he had just come from a war but that was a different case where the traitors were truly evil. The "good" side wasn't much better but at least they weren't like the opposing side. This was different though and Harry didn't know what to think.

All of a sudden, the general's speech was interrupted by an all too familiar shriek-like roar that echoed in the sky. Everyone looked up to the sky and even the general and his nonchalant female officer seemed caught off-guard. Harry joined their gaze but white clouds blocked his view. Even so, sweat beaded his forehead and the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up like hackles as his sixth sense alerted him to danger. He didn't know what it was but something told him he had faced the creator of the sound before, twice.

"What was that?" Someone asked with the hint of fear.

"It's nothing," The general barked. "Carry on."

Nonetheless, Harry's heart pounded faster and faster and goose-bumps prickled his arms and neck. He felt dizzy as a strong sense of déjà vu washed over him. He knew that scream was just the vanguard of what was about to come and a thrill of excitement, coupled with fear, shot through his being.

"Yes, General Tulius!" The captain agreed loudly, then turning to a lady dressed in an orange-gold robe with a hood pulled over face, she said. "Give them their last rites."

The priestess raised her arms in the air and began rambling on about some nine Divines and whatnot.

"For the love of Talos!" Another random captured Stormcloak soldier barked in frustration. "Just get on with it."

Harry smirked at the aggravated look that flashed across the priestess's face. He wasn't one to mock religion but he hated stuffy and arrogant people who thought they were better than others. He marvelled as said soldier stomped forward and stood before the chopping block.

"As you wish," The priestess grumbled.

"Come on!" The Stormcloak groused. "I haven't got all morning."

Instantly, Harry's smirk grew to a grin and he knew he liked the man. He would have made a loyal fun friend in another life. A shame he was about to die. Pouting like a child, the priestess sauntered off into the fort courtyard and the female officer stood next to the Stormcloak. Not bothering with any formalities, she pushed him down to his knees and the man went down willingly, resting his chin on the block. As if to infuriate them all the more, the Stormcloak wasn't finished.

"My ancestors are smiling on me, Imperial," The man quipped proudly. "Can you say the same?"

Harry felt a pang of remorse as the captain walked away leaving the soldier to his fate. That man did not seem to deserve death. This was just wrong.

Silently but surely, the headsman raised his large curved axe and Harry glared at the black cowl he wore over his face that only revealed his cold eyes through two holes in the hood. With practiced efficiency, the man raised the axe into the air and Harry watched numbly as he brought it down with a dull thud. The axe made a squelching sound as it sliced through flesh and bones and Harry winced as the brave rebel's now-severed head rolled onto the floor. The captain placed her foot on the corpse's back and shoved the lifeless body away making Harry's blood boil.

"You Imperial bastards!" A female cried from the crowd of villagers who stood a far, while some screamed curses at the dead body.

Cowards.

"As fearless in death as he was in life," The talkative blond murmured respectfully.

And for once, Harry didn't mind his rambles. In fact, he wholeheartedly agreed. But the merciless female Captain didn't give Harry time to mourn for long.

"Next!" She cried. "The self-professed mage."

Harry shook his head.

He was about to die. Why couldn't these people just give him the respect he deserved? He didn't remember much about his past but he knew he was a wizard. Not that it mattered anyway. Perhaps he would return to the world of his past upon death. In any case, whatever life next awaited him it would be a better world than this bleak existence.

Heaving a last resigned sigh, Harry started forward only to free, startled, as that familiar eerie shriek sounded in the sky once more.

"Wait!" Someone breathed. "There it is again! Did you hear that?"

The captain didn't seem impressed. She just wanted to get on with the show.

"I said, next prisoner," The officer growled.

"Move along prisoner," The same soldier said cautiously. "Nice and easy."

Harry rolled his eyes and trudged forward struggling against the bile that rose in his throat as the stench of blood and death and smoke assaulted his nostrils. All eyes were fixed on him as he sauntered towards the block and knelt before the blood-stained wood. The lifeless eyes of the deceased Stormcloak's severed head stared back at him accusingly.

Closing his eyes and fighting to remain calm, he leaned his chin on the rough surface and waited for death. But as was wont to happen around Harry James Potter, it didn't seem like he could catch a break. For once again, that roar sounded although it was closer this time and Harry cracked an eye open to stare in awe and wonder at the creature that launched into the air towards them: It was a dragon!

TO BE CONTINUED...

A/N: So...how did I do? Okay? Good? Bad? Terrible? Don't be afraid to say and I'm sorry that Harry didn't have much dialogue but he's pretty tired from the accident that brought him here. As for his memory loss, he'll get some things back eventually but not right away since that's the main plot of the story... If he'll survive! And don't forget to review, otherwise the dragon might decide to have a tasty snack after laying waste to Fort Helgen and Harry won't get his memory back! *evil smirk* Well, that's all for now and see you guys next chapter!