A Hero's Journey (SW/HP)

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Eternal_Freedom
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A Hero's Journey (SW/HP)

Post by Eternal_Freedom » 2018-06-02 09:09am

So I've had this plot bunny stuck in my head for about a month, and since I've hit a stumbling block with The 13th Tribe I decided to write this out and get rid of it. I don't envision it begin a long story and I honestly don't know if I'll finish it but I thought I'd share it with you all anyway:

A Hero’s Journey

Deep within the power generator complex underneath the Naboo Royal Palace a fierce battle was raging. Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn and his apprentice Obi-Wan Kenobi were locked in combat with the mysterious Sith Lord that had attacked them on Tatooine. Both Jedi were giving their all, as was their opponent. The battle flowed back and forth, both sides having periods in the ascendancy before an unexpected move would force them back onto the defensive.

Qui-Gon was fighting harder and better than he ever had before. He could feel the Force flowing through him like a raging torrent, its strength, power and foresight allowing him to keep up with their younger nemesis, one fuelled by the furious anger of the Dark Side. Qui-Gon knew of the Darkness, of the power it could wield. His own former apprentice had fallen to it before his defeat at Qui-Gon’s hands and he could admit that, for a moment, the temptation had been there for him to use it as well.

The Dark Side was the easy path, the path driven by fear, anger and hatred: powerful emotions but dangerous and destructive as well. But most difficult of all was that the Dark Side was seductive, relatable in a way the serenity of the Light wasn’t. After all, almost every living being could admit to at least one thing they feared or at least one thing or being that they hated or harboured anger towards.

But that easiness, that seductive quality hid the true horrors within. Once you feared one thing, it became easier to fear others. One you hated one being, it became easier to hate others, or whole groups or even entire species for the actions of an individual. And then would come the natural impulse, honed over millions of years as the sentient species of the galaxy evolved from their primordial ancestors:

The impulse to destroy that which you hated or feared: to eliminate a threat before they harmed you.

Even then the Dark Side was still seductive. Removing threats before they hurt you or others was, to many beings and organisations an eminently reasonable act, a pre-emptive strike to stop greater suffering. Stopping yet ore suffering by destroying something that others feared was also seen as reasonable, even heroic by many – the HoloNet was full of dramatic tales of beings facing their fears and destroying some great evil.

But if you used the Dark Side to do it, if you gave in to that temptation and used the Force to destroy or to kill, it left a mark on your spirit that could not be expunged. And each kill became that little bit easier, each fearful foe vanquished became a little more trivial to the actual population until eventually you would descend to nothing more than a sociopath, justifying your actions as best you could while the blood kept flowing.

It was something Qui-Gon had made a study of after his former apprentice had been struck down. It transpired that very few Dark Jedi (as opposed to actual Sith) started on their dark path with evil in their hearts – most of them wanted to help others, to save lives, to stop villains. But as time passed their definition of “villain” shifted from “those harming others” to “those opposing me” and saving lives became more saving lives that would be useful to the Dark Jedi. Then their journey to the Dark Side was complete and they were nothing more than a vassal for the Darkness that needed to be put down.

Ironically, these Dark Jedi that occurred once or twice a generation often led to yet more Jedi falling into Darkness as they struggled to defeat them. It appeared to be an endless cycle. Qui-Gon knew of a saying that was popular among the humans in the galaxy, believed to originate on Corellia but possibly far older:

“The road to the Nine Hells is paved with good intentions.”

Philosophy aside, the battle continued. They had driven this Sith back and back, further away from the Naboo strike team higher in the Palace that was pursuing the Viceroy, buying time. Now, however, they were approaching the main power generators and he and Oni-Wan had been separated briefly, leaving the Master to continue driving the Sith back alone as they passed through a series of laser walls that acted as a security barrier.

Obi-Wan was running to catch up when the laser walls activated unexpectedly, dividing the duellers. Qui-Gon and the Sith were separated by just one barrier while Obi-Wan was trapped outside. The Jedi Master knew they could do nothing but wait so deactivated his lightsaber and knelt in meditation, calming and focussing himself, allowing the rushing river of the Force to ease his strained muscles and tendons, refreshing himself for what must surely be the climax. He could feel Obi-Wan’s emotions over their apprentice bond, the surging adrenaline, the determination to once more return to his Master’s side, the stabbing chill of fear that he might fail, that Qui-Gon might be struck down.

He sent the younger man a powerful mental command to calm himself, reminding him that this was the will of the Force, that fear and anger led to darkness, that-
The barriers opened again and Qui-Gon leaped into the attack, pushing himself even harder as the Force sang in his veins. He could see a momentary flicker of surprise, of fear, in the eyes of the Sith as he drove him back, hammered at his defences, inflicted a glancing hit on his arm that would slow him down. Both knew the fight was at its end.

The Sith knew that the wound he had taken would weaken him enough that further wounds would be inevitable, beginning an ever-increasing spiral that would lead to his defeat. It was a battle of attrition and the Sith decided to take a chance, a brash, dangerous and probably stupid move to end the fight now. His double-bladed lightsaber rose and struck.

Qui-Gon allowed himself to feel a moment of triumph at that glancing hit, it was just a matter of time now. Then the hilt of his opponent’s lightsaber caught him squarely on the chin, enough to stun him for a crucial second and then…

Then came pain such as he had never felt or imagined as one of the Sith’s red blades plunged into his chest. Before the blade had even passed all the way through his torso Qui-Gon knew the blow was a mortal one. The red blade was pulled free and Qui-Gon’s own lightsaber fell to the floor from his suddenly-limp hands. He collapsed to the cold metal ground, his body unable to move.

His mind raced, analysing the devastating damage. His heart was partially cut away, functioning but only weakly. His left lung was pierced clean through, burned, and cauterised; no longer able to provide vital oxygen. Several major arteries and veins connecting his heart to his lower body were likewise burned away, meaning those organs would quickly begin to die. And lastly his spine was severed, he couldn’t move or even feel anything below his chest.

He heard Obi-Wan’s scream of rage, denial, grief, the young man having raced to catch up only for the barriers to close again, trapping him exactly where Qui-Gon had been only minutes ago. He heard the victorious snarl from his killer and knew that his apprentice could not possibly survive facing the Sith, even with that wound his killer had suffered.

As his body began shutting down his mind desperately sought a solution, a way to save his apprentice. He created and then dismissed a dozen ideas, each more insane than the rest and he began to sink into delirium. Then an epiphany came: he could still feel the Force.

He rebelled at the idea of using the Force to kill the Sith, knowing that was the start of the Dark Side…but he was dying anyway, he had only minutes to live, so what did it matter? And he knew exactly how to do it.

As a youngling, Qui-Gon had shown an early affinity for the Force, in particular a rare and little-known talent called Pyrokinesis. He could, with considerable effort, manifest the Force as a wall of fire that he could then control. After a late-night incident when he had subconsciously used this ability in response to a nightmare, leading to his entre room being destroyed and part of the Temple being evacuated, he had been called before the High Council.

They had been remarkably understanding in hindsight. They advised him to forget this power, to focus on his meditation to keep himself calm and focussed, and to take medication from the medics to keep any nightmares away. It had helped, and no more nocturnal infernos happened and the other younglings, and most of the Masters, had forgotten about it as a chance event, not a controlled ability.

One Master had not forgotten though. Dooku had watched, observed and quietly studied everything in the Archives about Pyrokinesis, a study that eventually led the refined Master to take Qui-Gon as his apprentice. Despite the admonishment from the Council not to explore his power, Dooku had secretly worked with Qui-Gon to develop his control. The Master had explained that the power was rare and frowned upon due to how easily it could be used to kill, pushing one easily into the Dark Side and so it must be kept secret.

But Dooku had maintained that Force abilities were not inherently good or evil, Light or Dark, but that it was how you used them that mattered. He had shown the apprentice that his fire abilities could be used to create a shield, to provide warmth in a cold environment, to clear parts of a jungle so that crops could be planted. There were many uses, and Dooku and Qui-Gon had experimented with many of them.

But since becoming a Knight and then a Master, since Dooku had left the Order to return to Serreno to take up his hereditary position as Count (believing it was a duty he owed his people and he could do more good there), Qui-Gon had let those experiments fall by the wayside. He knew many of the other Masters questioned him as it was, knowing that he was experimenting with borderline forbidden abilities would have just added fuel to the speculation that he was turning away from the Order as his Master had done.

But here, now, lying mortally wounded on the metal floor, Qui-Gon was beyond caring. He called on the Force, opened himself up to it as never before, and willed the air around him to ignite. He saw the look of astonishment on Obi-Wan’s face as his Master burst into flames. The Sith, who had been standing before the barrier snarling at the young Jedi, turned in shock.

The raging torrent of the Force lifted Qui-Gon back to his feet. Without him being aware of it the Force was healing some of the damage done by the lightsaber, allowing him to survive and stand against his enemy. Flames licked all around the Jedi Master but did not consume him. He raised his left hand towards the Sith even as his right called his lightsaber back to him.

Fire streamed from his outstretched palm towards the Sith, a blazing inferno that the Dark Side was powerless to prevent. Qui-Gon thought it was poetic justice, an ability frowned upon by the Jedi was the ultimate weapon against the Dark Side, light and heat burning away the shadows, leaving the evil with nowhere to hide.

The Sith did try. He threw up his own hand, pushing outwards with his own prodigious power to try and repel the onrushing flames, or deflect them, or mitigate them or something…anything. It had no effect.

The flames reached the Sith and he screamed in agony as the inferno tore into him, burning away his arm, melting his lightsaber, consuming his robes. He screamed and screamed until the fires burned away his vocal chords even as his skin turned to ashes and his eyes and blood boiled. Finally the body collapsed to the floor, more a collection of ashes and fragments than a recognisable being.

Obi-Wan was stunned. Even on the other side of the laser barrier he could feel the incredible heat, had flinched away from it. Now it was over, he looked back at his Master who miraculously still stood even while flames continued to swirl around him.

Qui-Gon knew that what he had just down should have killed him and yet he was still here and somehow feeling better than he had in years. And then he felt something impossible. The Force that was still singing within him spoke to him, a caring whisper inside his head, saying that he was needed elsewhere, that he had a task to complete and if he succeeded he would be returned.

Qui-Gon smiled beatifically at his apprentice.

“Obi-Wan, I must leave now, but I will return if all goes well. Promise me that if I don’t come back you will train the boy, he more than any other needs it.”

The Apprentice opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. This repeated itself several times, giving the impression of a deep-water fish.

“Master…I…”

“Promise me Obi-Wan.” The tone was firm but comforting at the same time.

“I…I promise you I will train him Master. I swear it.”

Qui-Gon smiled. “Then farewell Obi-Wan. Until we meet again…one way or the other.”
The Apprentice nodded tearfully as the flames burned brighter and brighter until Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn was gone.

Elsewhere

It had many names throughout the universe. Some called it the Force, others the Great River, the Flow of Life, the Way, so many names. More were invented even as old ones were forgotten. What none of the various philosophies and religions realised was just how self-aware this cosmic entity was. It saw and knew everything its users did and in return for this knowledge it sometimes followed their commands, evil as well as good for all things needed balance and harmony. Good could not exist without evil just as light cannot exist without darkness to shine in.

Despite this apparent indifference to good and evil, the cosmic entity did try to prevent unneeded suffering. Now, with Qui-Gon’s decision to sacrifice himself to destroy that Sith, the cosmic entity seized its chance to send him somewhere he could be saved from his wounds, somewhere he could stop a dreadful and destructive war. And if he succeeded there, he could return to this galaxy to stop the war the entity knew was coming.

One chance action, one fateful decision at the right place and time, and the destinies of two civilisations changed forever.

Qui-Gon was sent hurtling through a plane of existence undreamt of by anyone in his galaxy, hurtling towards a place and a time far across the universe. To a castle in the far north of a small island on an insignificant blue-green world around an insignificant yellow star. A world that called the entity Magic…

---------

More to follow. To those awaiting more of 13th Tribe, I'm still working on that, I just now have this one as well so I can switch to this one if I hit a block with the heavy story. Plus this is fun to write and like I said, it's been stuck in my head for a while.
"I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams" - Hamlet

“I’ve always thought the Yankees had something to do with it.” - Confederate General George Pickett, on being asked why his charge at Ghettysburg failed

Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.

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Re: A Hero's Journey (SW/HP)

Post by Borgholio » 2018-06-02 11:03am

Qui-Gon = Merlin. I love it.

Oh yes, btw I'm still alive. Just been lurking for awhile. :)
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Eternal_Freedom
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Re: A Hero's Journey (SW/HP)

Post by Eternal_Freedom » 2018-06-02 11:15am

I dunno how you got the idea that Qui-Gon will be Merlin...
"I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams" - Hamlet

“I’ve always thought the Yankees had something to do with it.” - Confederate General George Pickett, on being asked why his charge at Ghettysburg failed

Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.

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Re: A Hero's Journey (SW/HP)

Post by Borgholio » 2018-06-02 11:16am

I can't tell if that's snark or not...
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Re: A Hero's Journey (SW/HP)

Post by Eternal_Freedom » 2018-06-02 12:00pm

Definitely not snark. Qui-Gon will not be Merlin, or one of the Founders or anyone like that. He will be...himself. A Jedi Master in Magical Britain.
"I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams" - Hamlet

“I’ve always thought the Yankees had something to do with it.” - Confederate General George Pickett, on being asked why his charge at Ghettysburg failed

Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.

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Re: A Hero's Journey (SW/HP)

Post by Borgholio » 2018-06-02 12:02pm

Gotcha. Just seemed to be a natural fit, that's all. :-)
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Re: A Hero's Journey (SW/HP)

Post by fnord » 2018-06-02 12:11pm

<Attenborough Parody> And here we see, yet another specimen of Magicus Beardicus, possibly mixed with a side order of condescending old bugger</Attenborough Parody>
A mad person thinks there's a gateway to hell in his basement. A mad genius builds one and turns it on. - CaptainChewbacca

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Re: A Hero's Journey (SW/HP)

Post by The Romulan Republic » 2018-06-17 10:19pm

fnord wrote:
2018-06-02 12:11pm
<Attenborough Parody> And here we see, yet another specimen of Magicus Beardicus, possibly mixed with a side order of condescending old bugger</Attenborough Parody>
I am curious as to how Qui-Gon would get on with old Albus.
"Our progress in degeneracy appears to me to be pretty rapid. As a nation, we began by declaring that "all men are created equal." We now practically read it "all men are created equal, except negroes" When the Know-Nothings get control, it will read "all men are created equal, except negroes, and foreigners, and Catholics." When it comes to this I should prefer emigrating to some country where they make no pretence of loving liberty -- to Russia, for instance, where despotism can be taken pure, and without the base alloy of hypocracy." - Lincoln.

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Re: A Hero's Journey (SW/HP)

Post by Eternal_Freedom » 2018-07-05 02:06pm

Part Two:

Hogwarts’ Great Hall, Scotland, Earth
October 31st, 1994


The hall was huge, cavernous, dramatic and truly magical. For a thousand years it had seen generation after generation of young wizards and witches complete the difficult journey from novice to fully-trained mage. Many great and terrible men and women had taken that journey, starting at those tables like any other child.

Five tables filled much of the space, four of them running parallel to each other and running the length of the hall. The fifth was shorter and perpendicular to the four others and at the centre was a carved wooden throne-like chair for the Headmaster who sat flanked by his staff.

At the four longer tables were the students, divided into their Houses by the colours on their robes and the qualities the Sorting Hat had identified in them: cunning and ambition for Slytherin, intellect and a thirst for knowledge for Ravenclaw, loyalty and diligence for Hufflepuff and courage and honour for Gryffindor. There were joined by the dark robes of the Durmstrang contingent and the pale blue robes of the Beauxbatons students at the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables respectively.

These foreign students were here in the hopes of being chosen to compete in the Triwizard Tournament, a legendary competition between the three schools that pitted a single champion from each against each other in three difficult and dangerous tasks. The prize at stake was the honour of their school, eternal glory for themselves and a thousand galleons prize money, a small fortune to any seventeen year old wizard or witch.

That was the official prize on offer of course. Many at Hogwarts knew that the “eternal glory” line was patently false, since only the most obsessive Ravenclaws even knew when the last Tournament was held, never mind who won. Those who were scions of Ancient and Noble Houses, with vast fortunes awaiting them in the future, thought that a thousand galleons was really not that impressive – and as proper purebloods with the “right” breeding, they would have no trouble finding a comfortable and undemanding job after graduation.

In simple terms, the Tournament was only really attractive to the poor, the naïve and the desperate, those who were willing to risk their very lives for recognition and a monetary reward that was about what a mid-level Ministry employee earned in six months.

Despite that reality, that the Ministry and the Hogwarts staff assiduously denied, there were plenty of volunteers. There were a few who entered because their families expected them to, some more who wanted the money to break away from their family traditions and stand alone, several more who simply wanted to stand out from their peers. There were three who entered their names because they had nothing to lose and one sad case of a student who entered hoping the Tournament would kill him.

One name, known throughout the school and the wizarding world that had most definitely not entered his name was Harry Potter. He had been delighted to learn the Tournament was restricted to those of age; he had had three hectic, dangerous and exhilarating years where he was relentlessly in the spotlight. A year where he could fade into the background and cheer on the Hogwarts Champion suited him perfectly. It would also let him quietly work on a way to get his godfather exonerated with his close friends.

His hopes were in direct contrast to one other wizard in the room. At the staff table, one of those present was waiting with baited breath for the selection. If all had gone as planned the Potter boy would soon be chosen as a fourth champion, and he would be set on course for an eventual meeting with Voldemort and the planned resurrection.

Now the time had come. The three Heads of the schools, Dumbledore, Karkarroff and Maxime moved around to stand before the Goblet of Fire. To add to the mood, the candles in the hall were snuffed out, leaving the blue flames as the only illumination. A sense of expectation was building as the talking and the whispering subsided.

Dumbledore was passively monitoring the Goblet, allowing him to carefully time his dramatic pronouncement. In his mind he was desperately hoping that his precautions had worked, that young Harry would be spared this Tournament. He had failed the child badly in recent years with some staggeringly poor decisions but had resolved to make amends. His passive monitoring told him the time had come.

“I believe we are about to get our first result. Once the Champions are selected, please make your way into the antechamber through the door behind the staff table.” A moment later, the flames turned red and spat out a piece of parchment that fluttered down into Dumbledore’s hand.

“The Champion for the Durmstrang Institute is…Viktor Krum!”

The room erupted into cheering and applause for the world-famous Quidditch player, along with supportive banging of the table from the other Durmstrang students, who had known from the beginning that Viktor would be the Champion, they were there as support and intimidation.

Viktor himself stood and bowed with stiff formality to the cheering Hogwarts population before making his way to the indicated antechamber. He had had little choice in competing, his Headmaster had made it a direct order, saying that if he didn’t compete Karkarroff would prevent him leaving for Quidditch practice with the national team, effectively ending his playing career.

The hall subsided once more into expectant waiting. Then the Goblet flashed red a second time and another piece of parchment landed in Dumbledore’s hand.

“The Champion for the Beauxbatons Academy is…Fleur Delacour!”

The beautiful blonde stood and curtsied elegantly. The Hogwarts and Durmstrang males were cheering wildly for the stunning young woman. The females from those schools were divided between polite applause and quiet scolding of their boyfriends or betrothed for paying such attention to Fleur. The Beauxbatons delegation was a lot more mixed. Some applauded politely, some glared in anger, several were in tears.

Fleur, unlike Viktor, had chosen to compete. With her Veela heritage, making genuine friends was difficult and there was the underlying, and in many cases obvious prejudice that any award, accolade or achievement she gained was simply because easily-affected males wanted to please the gorgeous Veela. Beyond that, there was the common “dumb blonde” stereotype to challenge.

She had made herself the best of the best and an outstanding student, refusing any and all extra help from her Professors to show that it was her skills and talents, not any favours she might get for her looks or heritage. One of her great, secret dreams was to win this Tournament on her own merits and confront one of her father’s business contacts, a British man named Malfoy and show him that he had been wrong to dismiss her so out of hand as a child.

With the distracting Veela now safely in the antechamber, the hall subsided yet again. This was the moment most of them were waiting for. Who among the eligible Hogwarts students would be chosen. It had already been largely and discreetly agreed that whoever the Hogwarts student was they would be supported in the tasks – even if they were from a different House, they were still a Hogwarts student and therefore better than the foreign groups.

The Goblet finally spat out the third parchment and Dumbledore caught it. He read the name, taking a moment to breathe a sigh of relief that it didn’t say “Harry Potter.”

“The Champion for Hogwarts School is Cedric Diggory!”

Much cheering erupted. Cedric was a popular figure in the castle, a talented student and Quidditch player, likeable, honourable and loyal. Even the most rabid pureblood supremacist in Slytherin couldn’t really find any fault with him, for he was a Pureblood and a capable one at that.

Cedric had been in two minds about competing. On the one hand, his father had been keen for him to enter, partly so Cedric would have the glory and partly so Amos could brag about it. As a teenage boy, he had been tempted not to enter purely as an act of rebellion. But on the other hand, his father was trying to guide him into a Ministry career and away from his Quidditch dreams. Being a Triwizard Champion, never mind winning, would give him the ability to break away from his father’s restrictive plans.

So he had entered. His intention was not to win, but to put on a good show and if possible utilise his flying skills in the tasks, knowing that they would be more visible there than in a school game since the press would inevitably attend the tasks. With that would come talk and the prospect of scouts from the professional teams. If they made him an offer, he’d be able to escape the dull life of a Ministry employee and live his dreams.

The tall, handsome Hufflepuff bowed gratefully to the hall and was making his way towards the antechamber and the other Champions when Dumbledore began speaking again.

“We now have our Champions, and I’m sure you will all wish them the best of luck for the First Task which will…”

Dumbledore trailed off, prompting Cedric to stop at the open antechamber door. Within, Viktor and Fleur realised something must be off and moved to see what was going on. The room was completely silent, for the Goblet had flared red for a fourth time. At the staff table, the wizard pretending to be Alastor Moody was mentally screaming in triumph, his plan had worked!

At the Gryffindor table, Harry Potter felt a strong sense of foreboding. He knew, deep within himself that this unexpected flare could mean only one thing: that his name was about to come hurtling out of the Goblet. This was not arrogance speaking, merely a resigned acceptance of the truly appalling luck he suffered from. His dreams of a quiet year, and perhaps finding a girlfriend to spend some time with, died right in front of him as so many other dreams had done since that Halloween night, thirteen years prior when his parents were taken from him.

Dumbledore was likewise dreading what would come next. All his efforts, all his schemes and subtle acts to prevent Harry’s name being entered seemed to be for nought. For he knew that it would be Harry’s name, the child of Prophecy seemed to draw the worst cards imaginable at every turn. Albus could only hope that this time Harry would be able to triumph despite the poor starting hand as he had done so before. The red flames surged higher, signalling a name was about to be emitted and then…

And then everything shifted. Every single magical being in the entire country felt it. A sudden lurch sideways, a twisting feeling as old and immeasurably powerful magic was rendered obsolete by an even more ancient force.

Deep within the Ministry of Magic, in the Hall of Prophecies, one particular blue glass sphere pulsated with light and then shattered into a million tiny fragments, setting off alarms throughout the Department of Mysteries that would leave the Unspeakables scrambling for days to find out just what had happened.

High in the Divination Tower, Sybil Trelawney fall back into her chair as she felt one of her prophecies break under immense and previously unknown strength. Her Inner Eye was filled with new possible futures, countless dozens rather than the one dark and terrible but ultimately triumphant one she had Seen all those years ago. The as-yet unopened bottle of sherry fell to the floor with a clatter as she suddenly knew she had somewhere else to be. Without even pausing to grab her wand she raced out of her quarters, heading for the Great Hall as fast as her legs would carry her.

In a plush office under Gringotts, a siren sounded that brought the Senior Accounts Manager racing away from the fireplace where he had been speaking with his colleagues on the Board of Directors. The siren informed him that the security barriers around Vault Number One, the only Vault that had never been opened in living memory, were shutting down. The Vault would soon be accessible to the rightful owner – only no one at Gringotts knew who that was.

In a mostly empty room in a dilapidated country manor in Herefordshire, the small frail creature that was once Tom Riddle screamed in pain as something within him shifted and warped. The pain became too much and the creature passed out; it would be a week before he woke again, to the terror of his one faithful servant.

In the Hogwarts Great Hall, pandemonium reigned. Dumbledore, Snape and Harry all felt the prophecy break. Harry, whom the Prophecy concerned, was thrown back onto the stone floor by a spasm of magic that left him feeling electrified. Dumbledore, who had heard the full prophecy staggered drunkenly to the staff table, leaning on it heavily as he desperately tried to gain some control over the raging storm within him as magic battled magic and destiny was torn asunder.

Snape, who had heard only part of the prophecy felt as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from his shoulders, a subtle nudging from his magic that had been pushing him further and further down a dark road was suddenly silenced.

All of this passed while the rest of the students and staff shook their heads to eliminate the sudden feeling of vertigo that had washed over them, with varying degrees of success. Tiny Professor Flitwick had fallen from his chair, while the massive Hagrid merely looked slightly stunned. Among the students, some succumbed to the nausea and began retching, only for nothing to come up. Otherwise were able to fight off the feeling purely by grabbing on to something, whether that was the table or another student made no difference.

Sat next to Harry, Hermione Granger was able to completely ignore the feeling as she was completely focused on what was happening to her best friend Harry, who was still twitching and groaning, his body lined with faint hues of green and gold as some unknown force battled another unknown force.

The moment passed and everyone regained their composure. Dumbledore saw Harry lying on the floor and was about to move to assist him along with McGonagall and Pomfrey when several of the students screamed in terror.

The Goblet was still filled with red flames as if a name was about to emerge, when suddenly the flames roared even higher and a shape, a man emerged from the flames, leaping clear to land between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables.

The man, who was still aflame, hit the ground and automatically rolled to absorb the momentum before leaping to his feet, keen grey eyes sweeping the room even as the flames lining his body dissipated rapidly. He was left standing in his plain beige robes, a short metal tube clasped in his right hand. The man could feel the power storming around him and felt a sense of wonder at such a sensation, something he had never felt before.

He turned to find an old man with a long white beard aiming a stick at him with a fierce look upon his face. The man from the Goblet carefully raised his hands, the universal (or so he hoped) sign that he meant no harm. He introduced himself, hoping against hope that whoever these humans were they understood Basic.

“I mean you no harm. I am Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn.”
"I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams" - Hamlet

“I’ve always thought the Yankees had something to do with it.” - Confederate General George Pickett, on being asked why his charge at Ghettysburg failed

Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.

fnord
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Re: A Hero's Journey (SW/HP)

Post by fnord » 2018-07-06 11:56am

It's what, 1994/5(?) in the HP-verse, so there won't be too many Muggleborn students helping Qui-Gon bring the WTF needle down to the vinyl (such as knowing him by name and asking "WHY YOU NOT DEAD?"). Should be a couple who've seen the OT and make the connection.
A mad person thinks there's a gateway to hell in his basement. A mad genius builds one and turns it on. - CaptainChewbacca

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U.P. Cinnabar
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Re: A Hero's Journey (SW/HP)

Post by U.P. Cinnabar » 2018-07-06 12:11pm

Also, it's four or five years before TPM is even released.

Before the dark times.

Before the sequel and prequel hating permavirgin fanboys.
"Beware the Beast, Man, for he is the Devil's pawn. Alone amongst God's primates, he kills for sport, for lust, for greed. Yea, he will murder his brother to possess his brother's land. Let him not breed in great numbers, for he will make a desert of his home and yours. Shun him, drive him back into his jungle lair, for he is the harbinger of Death.."
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Eternal_Freedom
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Re: A Hero's Journey (SW/HP)

Post by Eternal_Freedom » 2018-07-06 12:26pm

As it states at the top, it's Hallowwen 1994. I'm going to go with "SW doesn't exist in Harry Potter" because I can't recall any HP character ever making a reference to it, even the muggle born/raised.

Incidentally, that scene at the very end, with Qui-Gon leaping out of the Goblet rather than Harry's name, was the scene that started this rabid plot bunny. I literally have no idea yet where it's going but I have some ideas to keep me going short-term. I also have no idea when I'll be updating this, 13th Tribe is my primary focus at the moment.
"I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams" - Hamlet

“I’ve always thought the Yankees had something to do with it.” - Confederate General George Pickett, on being asked why his charge at Ghettysburg failed

Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.

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