AN: I don't own Merlin or Harry Potter, they belong to their respective owners and I am not making any money off of this.

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Time was a curious thing. Fate even more so. You could go back over a thousand years, yet destiny must be heeded, it will follow you into the deepest of hells and warmest of heavens. It did not stalk like a hunter might, no, it was ever present, a force of nature as sure as the cool streams of water and the rich soil of the earth. One could flee from it, fight it, curse it, but in the end it will collect it's due. He knew that better than most. Fortunately, avoiding fate was not something that he intended to do. He only wished to buy precious time for himself, time to grow strong and powerful enough to meet his destiny head on then come out victorious. His enemy had been given the time to become great, now it was his turn to rise.

For the longest time, Harry had thought that Voldemort was his destiny, but the battle at the Department of Mysteries had changed a great many things and forced him to ask questions without an answer. The Prophecy had revealed a cold truth about himself, one he had avoided thinking about for five long years: he was born to be a killer, it was quite literally the sole reason of his birth to be a murderer. Killing was the point of his existence, the reason behind it all: his parents, Voldemort, the Dursleys, his estrangement from his Housemates. All of it was training, lessons to mold him into a murderer to rival his enemy. The lessons were taught to him, hammered into his very soul as it forged the softness into hardness and strength while his mind grew ever more suspicious of those around him, even those whom he trusted above all else.

When the curse in the Time Room sent him flying back through time, he had thought that fate had given him the opportunity to grow more powerful. Here, he had the precious time to build up his magic and learn the valuable skills that he would need to command the war effort. Ironically, in order to become more powerful he had been forced to unlearn five years of Hogwarts' education. All of the spells, all of the magical theory, all of it had to go in order to make room for knowledge forgotten by the Wizarding World in their complacency and de-evolution. The Druids taught him true magic, the magic of the Earth and how to mix it with the magic within himself to create effects far more powerful than any wanded wizards. How foolish the wizards had been, relying whole upon themselves, their sticks, and their own weak magic.

The second thing he had learned was that History of Magic was nothing but lies. Perhaps he should have expected that, it was part of the Ministry doctrine after all. Flame Freezing Charms, indeed. There was no such spell, not when it was needed most. Harry had seen magical people, his own kin, the elderly and the very young burned alive at the stake. After the first execution, Harry began to see things from Voldemort point of view as much as he detested it. Voldemort may have been evil, but he was correct in one thing: muggles were monsters. He had thought the Dursleys to be the exception, not the rule, yet he was proven wrong again as he had watched the cheering of children as they watched his people burn and scream and writhe in agony. It was horrific, a terrible wake up call on the ugliness that lately in everyone. Not merely those whom he had called evil, but even the common people with their children and hovels.

Harry had known hatred then, he had known vengeance in his heart, and, worst of all, he knew it was wrong yet he couldn't stop it. Here magic was outlawed and punishable by death, from the youngest babe to the eldest man. History of Magic never mentioned that part. It never told of how they screamed, of how their peaceful ancestors were hunted down like Jews in Nazi Germany with informants and rewards offered. He tried not to let the hate get to him, but it proved to be an impossible task and a new found coldness for the masses crept into his young heart as he tearfully watched the executions. There was nothing that he could do. If he was to try and rescue them as he wanted then he would lose and be bound to a stake alongside of him. The rank smell of burning flesh was as unforgettable as the screams and become intertwined within his mind, his memories that haunted him whenever he slept.

Luckily for Harry, he was an educated man and an able conjurer so just about everyone who met was convinced he was nobility. The excellent manners which he had mastered at the Dursleys from when he was young served him well and allowed him to dine at fine tables while blending with the aristocracy. The Druid Alvarr helped him to forge false documents of nobility and family lines, using his actual history and names as a base to weave a lie so well crafted that even he partially believed it. It helped that it was partially true. The Potters were nobles, after all, even if they were of a lower standing than say the Blacks or the Longbottoms. In honor of his godfather whom had perished at the battle for the Prophecy, Harry took on the alias Hadrian Black of the Welsh Blacks and used a white Hungarian Horntail as his sigil to remind himself to be as fierce as the beast he had fought yet pure of intention like the snow.

On Alvarr's advice, Harry had traveled to the Isle of the Blessed to learn under the High Priestess Nimmue. It had been difficult to gain an audience with her and had required exhausting tasks from him, but in the end she had taught him powerful magic as ancient as Albion itself and just as untamable. She had even asked that he remain on the Isle with her, safe and hidden from the cruel eyes of those like Uther Pendragon. He had been tempted, oh so very tempted by her knowledge and beauty and the offer of human warmth at night, but his destiny lay elsewhere, not in hiding on the Isle with a beautiful woman and forgetting the world outside. Nimmue had understood, but had wept as he left and watched him go with pitying eyes, knowing the path that lay before him and mourning for him. Leaving her was the most difficult and painful experience of his young life, but he had to press onward, to what he did not know.

Twas not long before he found another teacher in the form of a traveling rogue by the name of Gwaine, a friendly and fun loving swordsman who taught Harry to smile again, to take some pleasure in the little things which life provides. He had reminded Harry strongly of Sirius, down to the careless elegance and roguish grin that charmed the maidens. They became fast friends and traveled together for half a year, Gwaine teaching him how to hold and use a sword properly so that he didn't embarrass himself if he had to fight. Though Gwaine had never said a word on the subject, Harry had the distinct feeling his friend had known about his magic but had proved his gallantry in remaining safely silent. They had shared jugs of wine, bar wenches, and trained together in the days leading up to the tavern nights. Gwaine had become the brother he had always wanted, they had both despised Uther and his laws yet admirably his friend had never let the King get to him. 'I will not compromise my honor for a man bereft of it' were his words.

Eventually, Harry had to leave Gwaine, too. His friend had understood, smiling in that way of his and wishing him the best of luck in life. The two had promised to remain friends, then had gone their separate ways, sad but comforted by the thought that whatever else may happen they had a friend in the world. Harry had once again dressed in the chain mail and black tunic of Sir Hadrian, wearing it like a mask as he neared the land of his hated enemy: Camelot. Something drew him there against his will and desire to remain far away. It called to him during his sleep, waking him and keeping him awake to the point of madness where he no longer could tell what was real and what were tricks of the mind. It was only when he rode into town on his black war horse and booked a room at the local tavern that he was allowed rest.

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"Milord?" A rapping came at the door, dragging Harry from his deep sleep. He groaned loudly, turning over in the lumpy bed and throwing the feathered pillow over his head so as to better block out the unholy sound that drew him from his lovely sleep. The knocking came again, louder than before. A flash of annoyance shot through him and he growled lowly to himself in frustration, vainly trying to sleep through the racket. "Milord?"

"Come in." He managed to say without too much anger, dragging himself up and propping his back against the pillow. His thin body had filled out the promise of his broad shoulders with whipcord muscle covering his frame with a wide chest that came from long hours of training with Gwaine. A pretty bar maid hesitantly entered the room, blushing and ducking her head at the sight of his half naked body. Yawning, Harry ran his hands through his thick black hair. It was the first time in weeks that his long hair was out of it's typical braids that kept it out of his eyes, but then it was also the first chance he had to wash it in weeks, too. "Yes?"

"Milord, the King wishes for me to give you this." She said timidly, handing him a scroll with the waxen royal seal binding it. He nodded absently as he took it, laying it on the rickety table beside his bed. "Shall I run a bath for you, milord?"

"Yes, please." He smiled thankfully, all too eager to enjoy another hot bath. Weeks and months on the road gathering rank rilth and travel dust had taught him the true value of a good bath, especially one with pine scented water as the ones offered at the tavern inn. He bent over the side of the bed and grabbed his purse then withdrew two copper pieces that he tossed to the maid. She caught them dextrously, surprising him for a moment. She would have been an excellent seeker had she been born a witch in his time. "Thank you."

"No trouble at all." She smiled at him, her hand waving for a moment before she turned red then left to fetch the water. Strange girl, that one. What was her name? Betty, Berry? Blast, he was terrible with names.

He broke the seal and unraveled the scroll, reading it idly. Harry was still tired so it took a moment for the words to register. Apparently, the King had learned of an unknown knight's arrival in Camelot and invited him to join in the tournament. It was a mix of challenges: jousting, melee, and archery, the usual tournament games with feasting and entertainment for the ever interested masses. Tiredly, he tossed it back down and leaned back against his pillow. As much as he detested Uther, the prize money was tempting to him. Before his arrival, he had little use or desire to use money. He always had enough for what he desired so it gold had never seemed that important to him, but in this time, he had learned the value of the mighty coin and how one could starve to death without it's aid.

Not only that, but after spending over a year wandering and learning with Gwaine, Harry was tired of moving around. He wanted to settle somewhere and for that he required money to purchase land, a house, and some sort of business to keep it all going. A noble he might be in the mind of the people, but he had no land and no taxes to collect for his coffers, so he was one in name only if not in deed. Still, he also wanted to be as far away from Uther Pendragon as he could possibly be. Just the thought of that monster made him murderous and he seriously doubted that he could keep his hate off of his face should they meet. He was no Slytherin, he had no mind for mind games and Machiavellian schemes. All he wanted was a good place to sleep that was warm until he found a way to return home, yet he had the nagging feeling that he should attend this tournament, even if it meant coming face to face with the one person that he hated more than Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Milord?" The maid's soft voice questioned, causing Harry to snap his head toward her with alarm. He must be tired if he didn't hear her entering. The girl stood there awkwardly, a pitcher of some sort of drink in her hand. "Would you care for tea before your bath?"

"I'd be delighted. Thank you." He smiled at her, trying to emulate Gwaine's infamous smile that had charmed the skirts off of more than one so-called maiden. It must have worked because the girl turned beet red and shuffled over, setting down a rough wooden goblet before filling it with a strong smelling tea. Nearly as soon as she pulled the pitcher away, he grabbed the goblet and gulped it down ignoring the searing heat. He finished it and held it out, keeping a polite smile on his face. If there was one thing he had learned from Dobby, then it was to treat all servants politely and with respect. They are the ones you relied on, after all. She poured him another goblet full of tea and he drank it down just as quickly, giving a satisfied sigh and a quick thankful smile to the girl who left quickly with an odd embarrassed rush. Idly, he wondered where that reaction was when he needed a date for the Yule Ball back in Fourth Year. It would have been so very helpful.

He made his way to the washing room and took a long bath, taking the time to thoroughly enjoy the scrubbing and warm water. The night before he had merely focused on getting clean and somewhat good smelling, but now he leisurely cleaned himself. When he returned to his room, he discovered much to his surprise that his black tunic and cape was clean with the smell of a fresh washing while his chain mail and the bit of place armor for the chest, shoulders, and arms were shining brightly with a fresh polishing. He searched his purse and pulled out four coppers which he placed on the bedside table for the serving girl. She was an excellent maid, he did have to admit. He dressed quickly, having grown used to dressing himself in armor without the aid of another though it was not as neat as if it were done by a servant.

Harry checked out with the inn keeper and a serving boy fetched his massive black horse, it was a parting gift from Nimmue not unlike the Druid tattoos that his armor hid. He had named the stallion Hermes after his friend Hermione since his horse was entirely too clever and seemed to enjoy making a fool out of him at times, particularly around pretty girls. He had wondered whether that was Nimmue's doing or just a quirk of the horse itself. He had no idea where to go for the tournament sign up, but luckily Hermes seemed to know the way as he pranced along with his tail up, showing off to all of the mares on the way. Less than half an hour later, Harry found the arena and the waiting line. Within ten minutes, he was at the front of the line looking down on a singularly bored old man.

"Name, family, title?" The man 'requested' with the most drolling tone, reminding Harry strongly of Professor Binns. Harry wetted his lips and pulled to mind the false history he had made. "And proof of nobility."

"Hadrian of the Blacks, Lord of Blackwood, bannerman to the late Duke Gorlois of Cornwall." He stated with all the regality that he could summon, mentally thanking Gwaine for helping him iron out the details. Gwaine was a noble himself though he hid it and his father Lot had served the late Duke Cornwall and rode with him into battle, regretfully he had also followed the man into his final battle where both had perished. Gwaine had been certain that none would catch the deception since most of those lands were overrun by bandits, raiders, and slavers. No thanks to Uther. He reached into his saddlebag and withdrew the enchanted ring Nimmue had crafted for him that displayed a white dragon in an infinity circle on a black background. "My signet."

"Welcome to Camelot, Sir Hadrian." The elderly man said finally, after carefully inspecting the silver ring. He noted that he wasn't called 'lord' due to the fact that 'his lands' were overrun and had forfeited their fiefdom. "What event or events will you be competing in?"

"Jousting and the melee." Harry replied shortly, his silver visored helm with the long black plume held under his left arm. His armor was enchanted to be stronger and magic protected the places vulnerable to splintered lances while his sword was bespelled to always keep it's edge. The old man nodded, jotting down the necessary information on the parchment with his quill.

"Very good, then. The tournament begins two hours after dawn. If you are not present, you will forfeit your right to compete. The rules are the standard tournament rules: the intentional harming of a horse is punishable by immediate dishonorable disqualification, should His Royal Highness decree for the fighting to stop then you shall immediately stand down, all daggers or hidden knives are forbid, and attacking the competition before tournament begins is also punishable by immediate disqualification." The man recited and Harry couldn't imagine a man who sounded more bored than the one before him. "Do you understand these rules and accept the consequences for breaking them?"

"I do." Harry nodded.

"Then may God be with you, Sir Knight." The old man said, waving him off and gesturing for the next contestant to come forward.

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Harry was not nervous. Not in the slightest. And no, his heart was no beating so quickly it seemed as though it would break his chest open and dance in front of his body. Not at all. No, it was the anticipation of battle that gripped him. Not fear. Or so he tried to convinced himself. In truth, he was terrified. He was going into battle, even if it were a tournament, in front of Uther Pendragon and the Knights of Camelot. One slip up and he would be roasting on an open fire like chestnuts at Christmas. Where was a Horntail when you needed one?

"Next match: Sir Hadrian of the Blacks vs. Sir Gregor of Falmouth!" The Announcer called, causing Harry to gulp as he placed his plumed helmet upon his head and fiddled with the chin strap until it was secure. He took a deep breath, adjusted his cloak, then strode out onto the field with far more confidence than he felt. Training with Gwaine was one thing, actual battle was another thing entirely. He wouldn't be aiming to kill, but he couldn't say the same for any of his opponents.

As he stepped out onto the field, cheers rose up around him from the masses but they brought no confidence to his heart. Most of these people would cheer just as loudly should he be burned at the stake for sorcery. His emerald eyes gazed about, drawn to the throne where Uther Pendragon sat observing the tournament grounds imperiously with a pleasant little half smile as though he wasn't a mass murderer. When his eyes moved a bit to the left, they froze as they landed on the most beautiful girl that he had ever seen. His breath caught in his throat and his heart thumped with an emotion much different than fear. She was stunning with alabaster skin and glossy black hair, her dress revealed just a bit of tantalizing cleavage that made his blood heat up in his veins. She was, dare he say, far more attractive than any Veela and carried a dark tone that made his pulse quicken.

Her face may as well have been chiseled from marble and loving crafted by the hand of a master sculptor as his life's work, a masterpiece of women. He could barely make out her eyes, a flashing combination of green and gray that seemed wintery yet burning. Harry had never felt lust so strongly for a woman before, not even Fleur or the Veela at the World Cup had elicited a response even half of what he currently felt. It was more than wanting her, it was like he needed her and ached for her from nothing but a glance. He could swear there was dragon within his chest, writhing and roaring for her as though she was the greatest prize in all the lands. Harry wanted to be possess her, to keep her for his own and his alone. She turned those eyes on him, then cocked her head slightly to the side as a slight frown creased her pale brow.

"Eyes on your opponent, boy!" Sir Gregor roared, swinging a truly massive sword at Harry's head that the distracted boy barely ducked and felt the blade touch the black plume of his helmet as he unsheathed his word, tossing away the scabbard. Gwaine's training took over, thinking for Harry as the boy tried to get his mind off of the enchanting woman. Sir Gregor was a giant, easily two heads higher than Harry and three times as wide. He felt like he was fighting the muggle equivalent of Hagrid, each parry caused his bones to ring like his sword from the force of the blows delivered.

Harry remained quiet, dodging the next strike clumsily as he wasn't used to fighting in full armor since he and Gwaine trained without them. He slashed wildly at Sir Gregor and took the offensive, swinging his sword haphazardly as he began to deceive his opponent. Gwaine had taught him that it was best to let one enemy's underestimate him, so that was what he was doing, acting far more inexperienced and unskilled than he was. Sir Gregor took the bait, going on the defense for a while before shifting into a beserker-like offense comprised of bone shattering blows of immense strength. Harry ducked and pivoted, dancing around the blade as much as he was able in the heavy armor. Soon, he saw his opening. Sir Gregor expected him to keep ducking, so he was thrown off balance by the sudden clang of Harry's sword blocking his own then Harry took advantage of the shock to twist around, landing a blow on his opponent's exposed back followed by a shoulder shove to knock him down.

"Yield." Sir Hadrian ordered, the tip of his sword aim at the base of Sir Gregor's skull. The large man stopped moving for a moment, no doubt thinking about whether escape was possible then dropped his sword, acknowledging defeat. Harry sighed in relief and removed his helmet, shaking his head to free up his hair. Sweat was pouring down his face and he was breathing heavily, yet he offered a hand to the downed Sir Gregor. "My compliments to your strength, friend."

Sir Gregor said nothing and refused his hand, then stomped off the field like spoiled brat. Harry watched him go with narrowed eyes, then he became aware of the loud cheering surrounding him as the audience sheered loudly. He smiled weakly and waved a hand halfheartedly at the masses as he made his way to where the refreshment tent was at, determined to enjoy a long drink of wine. He would have preferred fresh water, but alas most of the water considered fit to drink was not even clear in this day and age.

SCENE BREAK

Harry leaned against the corridor wall, letting the cool stone soothe him as he tried his best to get his thoughts straight. He was about to walk straight into the lion's den. After his show earlier in the day, he had been 'cordially invited' to attend the feast. As much as he would love to decline the invitation, he knew it would look suspicious and that Uther would take it as a personal affront which was why Harry was in the corridor stalling for all that he was worth. How could he walk up to the man he so hated and smile at him? It would be like hugging Voldemort, completely awkward and really, really weird. Besides, he was certain that Uther would know his feelings as soon as they came face to face. One does not miss abject loathing.

On the other hand, it was a chance to meet the girl he saw at the tournament. As much as he would like to play to gallant knight and sweep her off of her feet, the reality was that he was more likely to make a fool of himself than win any hearts. He wasn't Gwaine. It was times like these that he wished he had paid more attention to Arthurian Legend, but as it was, all he knew was that there was a great king named Arthur who had a very powerful wizard named Merlin to help him out. That was the extent of his knowledge. He was really wishing that he hadn't been content to let Hermione be the smart one and had studied a bit on his own.

"Are you alright, Sir Knight?" A girl's gentle voice pierced his brooding thoughts, causing him to open his startling green eyes. There was a pretty dark skinned girl who seemed to exude kindness and sweetness. She had an aura to her that made him smile. Judging by her dress, he guessed that she was one of the royal servants which spoke well of her competence. "Milord?"

"Oh, oh I'm fine. Just a bit...terrified." He admitted with tight smile, running his hand through his hair then frowning as his hand got stuck in his Celtic braids. Harry tried to play it off as coolly as he could, but judging by her hidden smile, he guessed that it wasn't as cool as he wanted. "I'm not very good at parties. I get nervous and sweaty, then bad stuff happens and I step on toes."

"Come now, it can't be that bad?" She asked, a bit of a giggle in her voice that said she didn't even believe her own words. He blushed in embarrassment. "Even if you are a bit, well, awkward you are still dashing enough to get by."

"Are you joking? I stutter, I shake, it's not a pretty sight. I'd rather have your job than have to go socialize with those vultures and make a fool of myself." Harry told her, once again smiling when she laughed at him. There was something very warm about the girl that put him at ease, kind of like Hermione just not as bossy or judging.

"You just need a bit of coaching, that's all." She told him kindly, adjusting his clasp and straightening his black cape with the dragon stitched on the breast. Thankfully, he didn't have to wear the plate armor but he was still stuck wearing the pinching chain mail. "Here, stand up straight, yes that's it, shoulders back now, and chin up. You fought well today, be proud of yourself and show it to everyone. In my experience, nobles are like wolves: one sign of weakness and they'll tear you apart."

"Thanks, um..." Harry trailed, realizing that he didn't know her name.

"Gwen, I'm the Lady Morgana's maid." She informed him, bowing a bit. Gwen rather liked the newcomer, he didn't act arrogant like most of the nobles and he seemed a good sort if a bit on the timid side.

"Sir Hadrian at your service, my lady, but my friends just call me Harry." He grinned warmly in greeting, surprised to find to himself genuinely liking the maid.

"Well, 'Harry', you had best go inside. You don't want to offend the King with tardiness, trust me on this." Gwen advised, shooing him off. He nodded and began to walk back down the corridor then stopped and turned to face her again.

"Thank you, Gwen. It was nice meeting you." He said, shocking her since so few nobles ever thank servants. With that he headed toward the Great Hall, practicing a proud stride as he did so in order to get in character. He tried to get in acting an unobtrusively as possible, but did not know that they announce every newcomer...loudly.

"Announcing Sir Hadrian of the Blacks, Lord of Blackwood, Son of James, Bannerman to Cornwall." The steward stated in such a loud tone that Harry wanted to wince, particularly when every face in the hall turned toward him. He felt like a deer caught in headlights and knew he must have looked similar, but he quickly tried to put an emotionless mask on his face, though whether he suceeded or not was something he was ignorant of. He strode forward, hoping it looked confident and powerful as opposed to nervous shuffling. The faces of hundreds seemed to blend into one mass of arrogance, pride, and greed, but he ignored all of that as best he could and faced forward, looking straight at the smug face of Uther Pendragon. Just when Harry was afraid his mask would let slip his hate, he turned his eyes to the next person.

It was her, the beautiful girl from area clothed in a scandalous red dress that bordered on the indecent for the times. His breath caught in his throat as he saw her. She was eating a strawberry and Harry had never wanted to be a fruit so much in his life from the way she suckled it, pale pink lips wrapping around it's red flesh then a flash of healthy sharp teeth as she bit into it with an almost sadistic pleasure. She was watching him with those mysterious eyes, an odd look in them as though she was both pleased to see him and trying to figure out a puzzle. It sent shivers running down his spine in such a way that he couldn't figure out whether it was bad or very good. Either way, it inflamed him and he could feel the blood rushing to his face turning it warm and hot.

"M-my lady." He stuttered a bit, mentally calling himself an idiot as he bowed to her. She returned it with a slight curtsey, holding out her hand. He stared at the back of her lily white hand for a moment then remembered the custom, so he leaned forward and pecked the back of it. Her eyes gleamed curiously. "It is a pleasure to meet you at last."

"Thank you, Sir Hadrian. Did I hear correctly that your family owed allegiance to Cornwall?" She asked, her voice as sinful as it was smooth. He swallowed, but nodded dutifully. "Then your father...James must have served my father Gorlois?"

"Yes, my lady. Served him, fought for him, and lay beside him at the end." He answered as calmly as was possible for a blushing young lad in the presence of a beautiful girl. His mind raced with the back story he had created for himself. "Gorlois saved my father's life a dozen times over. I'm not the knight my father was, but I hope to return the favor to you, Lady Morgana."

"Interesting." She smiled, plucking another strawberry and bringing it up to her well shaped mouth that seemed designed for sensuality. Her eyes were not as coy as her behavior, no, they were cold and curious and a dozen other dangerous things yet there was an odd desperation there that he scarcely recognized. Those eyes flashed at him as they bit down viciously on the strawberry in a way that nearly made him wince, but his shudder was not so well concealed and her eyes gleamed again. A delicate hand reached into the few folds of her red dress, moving slowly in such a way that his eyes followed it's path down her breasts to her stomach then to her full hips before she withdrew a red handkerchief. After a moment, she offered it to him, "Win this tournament for me and we will see what use I may have for you."

"I will do my best, my lady." He managed to say, grateful that it sounded sure. He took her handkerchief and tied it to his bicep as tradition dictated. Harry had no idea of the significance of the action, but Morgana did and her eyes flashed once more. They followed the strange knight for the rest of the evening.