A Hero's Journey (SW/HP)

[Eternal_Freedom]

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.

[Borgholio]

Qui-Gon = Merlin. I love it.

Oh yes, btw I'm still alive. Just been lurking for awhile.

[Eternal_Freedom]

I dunno how you got the idea that Qui-Gon will be Merlin...

[Borgholio]

I can't tell if that's snark or not...

[Eternal_Freedom]

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.

[Borgholio]

Gotcha. Just seemed to be a natural fit, that's all.

[fnord]

<Attenborough Parody> And here we see, yet another specimen of Magicus Beardicus, possibly mixed with a side order of condescending old bugger</Attenborough Parody>

[The Romulan Republic]

<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.

[Eternal_Freedom]

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.”

[fnord]

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.

[U.P. Cinnabar]

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

Before the dark times.

Before the sequel and prequel hating permavirgin fanboys.

[Eternal_Freedom]

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.

[Eternal_Freedom]

Part Three
Hogwarts Great Hall
October 31st, 1994

It seemed the Force was still with Qui-Gon, his appeal that he meant no harm seemed to have registered. The fierce-looking old man lowered his stick so that it was no longer aimed directly at the Jedi’s chest but was aimed to the floor. That movement prompted Qui-Gon to remember what had happened just before he was sent here. His left hand frantically moved to his chest where that terrible wound had been.

His eyes never stopped scanning the room he found himself in, even as his hand confirmed that there was a hole in his robe and a major burn on his chest. The Force told him that the wound had been healed enough to not be mortal but still serious; he needed to find a medic and a bacta tank as soon as possible. He also needed to work out where he was – and what this “task” was that the Force had given him.

Dumbledore could see from the stranger’s frantic movements that he was clearly injured. But more than that, his sense told him that this man, tall, broad-shouldered, with intense grey eyes, a neat beard and long hair, simply radiated power. He was clearly a Mage who had few equals. Offhand, Albus could think of only five wizards besides himself who could project such power – Riddle, Grindelwald, Alastor Moody, Nicholas Flamel and Harry Potter when he was really pushed. Magic seemed to flow in and around this stranger in a way Albus had never seen before, warping and twisting in indescribable ways. But even stranger, Albus could almost hear the magic, it was practically singing.

And then there was his manner of arrival and the feelings that occurred just before, the feeling that the Prophecy had broken, that something else had supplanted it. The sensation had almost brought Albus to his knees, no wonder Harry had been thrown to the floor. At that thought, Albus turned – keeping one eye on the new arrival – and shouted for Poppy and Minerva to check on young Harry.

Albus briefly pondered what this man had said, that he was a Jedi Master. Master certainly implied great skill with magic, a supposition backed up by the swirling magical vortex that surrounded him. Perhaps Jedi was what they called mages where this fellow was from?

“I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts. If you truly mean no harm then you are welcome here. I must take care of my students and then I think we should sit and talk, Master Jinn.” His tone was courteous, respectful even, but still contained enough steel that Qui-Gon knew that if he did intend harm to anyone here this “Headmaster” would stop him. The Jedi nodded agreeably and returned the lightsaber to his belt.

Now that he was in no immediate danger and had satisfied himself that his wound was serious but not life-threatening, Qui-Gon took a moment to look around. The assembled children – students – were staring at him in astonishment, fear or admiration. The staff, for they had to be staff, showed similar reactions though fear was replaced by curiosity. The Jedi reached out with the Force, and was amazed to feel a Force presence from everyone in the room.

It seemed everyone here could use the Force to some degree. What surprised him was the variation – the Headmaster and one of the students, the seemingly unconscious one shone brilliantly in the Force, brighter than any of the Masters on the High Council apart from Yoda and Master Windu. Several of the staff and some of the students were seemingly very powerful as well and most of the rest fell right across the spectrum, from powerful Master down to moderately-skilled Padawn.

Some in the hall, while clearly having some Force abilities, appeared to Qui-Gon to be even weaker than a youngling in the Jedi Temple would be. There was one at the staff table, a wizened and grumpy looking man and a number more at the table whose students wore green-trimmed robes. It was all very strange.

By now, Madam Promfrey had reached Harry and could see that the green and golden aura had faded away. She ran a few preliminary scans and she was astonished by the results. Not only was Harry not injured at all, but he appeared to be in perfect health – something that had never been the case in all the years she had been tending to him. And then his eyes snapped open.

Even behind his glasses, those green eyes blazed with barely contained power. Whereas the Headmaster’s eyes would twinkle merrily at you, Harry’s eyes appeared to be whirlpools of green flame, raging and burning and just waiting to be released. His gaze flickered away from Pomfrey, passed over McGonnagall and the other students (who, amazingly, were not gawking at him) before settling on Hermione. His first words were, quite naturally, a question.

“Hermione…please tell me my name didn’t come out of that bloody goblet.”

Normally his Head of House would have chastised him about the language but decided to let it slide this once as it was clearly an extraordinary situation. Before Hermione could speak, she did.

“No Mister Potter, your name did not emerge from the Goblet. Instead we have a…visitor, but before that something happened that affected everyone to some degree. You, the Headmaster and Professor Snape were the worst affected.”

Harry blinked in surprise at that before looking over at the Headmaster. He blinked again, for this was an aspect of the Headmaster that he had never seen before. Suddenly, Harry knew why Dumbledore had been the only wizard that Voldemort feared. That was not the only shock though. He looked over at Professor Snape, mainly because he was sure the vile Potions Master would find a way to blame Harry for whatever had happened. Their eyes met across the hall. Harry was stunned by what he could see – and feel in that look from the greasy haired man.

For the first time there was not hatred or loathing. There was an unspeakable pain, a soul-deep sorrow and a desperate apology in those dark eyes. Harry’s own gaze widened in shock, not just because the Potions Master seemed to have changed so drastically, but also because Harry knew what the other man was feeling. He’d never been that perceptive before, something within him had changed but he didn’t know what.

As he appeared to be in fine health, Madam Pomfrey and Hermione helped him to his feet. Harry mumbled his thanks before looking back at the Headmaster, completely ignoring the new arrival for a moment. In Dumbledore’s eyes Harry saw pure, unadulterated joy and relief. Something very strange was going on and Harry thought it was past time for some answers.

It was then that he looked at this strange arrival. He looked like any other wizard but Harry could see the magic flowing around him. And that was another massive change that the teenager wanted explaining. Then the new arrival looked at Harry. And both felt something inside them shift as, without any prompting, a connection formed between them. Neither realised what it was at that moment, for both were distracted by yet another new arrival.

Sybil Trelawney raced into the Great Hall at a flat out run. She saw Qui-Gon standing there and skidded to a halt, knowing that he was responsible for shattering her prophecy. She smiled at him, happy with the situation and then …

Then her Inner Eye took over and she spoke in a harsh, echoing voice that magically compelled everyone present to listen and remember it.

”One destiny dies even as a new one is forged….The Fire-Born Master is here, wrapped in flames he arrived and wrapped in flames he will depart…He will remake the world, tearing down those who stand opposed to the Light…the shadows will flee before him, the Darkness will recede….But pain and suffering line the path he treads…Fire-Born, look to your companions to guide you….One destiny dies even as a new one is forged…” the harsh voice ended in a wracking cough.

Everyone stood or sat in complete silence and stillness for a moment. This was the power of Prophecy, something barely anyone understood. Seers did not predict the future so much as view shifting possible timelines, which is why their predictions were not always accurate. A true Prophecy, however, was the result of a chance magical interaction between the potential future timeline they witnessed and their own magical core. The Seer would observe one possible timeline out of the thousands of possibilities and their magic would lock that timeline into place, compelling anyone involved to play their parts. Until the Prophecy was fulfilled, everyone involved lost their free will, becoming mere players on a stage.

It was not impossible to break a true Prophecy however, a sufficiently powerful wizard or group of wizards could defy the Prophecy and forge their own futures. Sometimes a new Prophecy would supplant an old one, or on very rare occasions a chance combination of events could break it.

There was a problem however. Whilst Prophecies were almost infallible, the Seer who made them had only a few seconds to see and describe the entire future timeline. This was why Prophecies were rarely completely specific or named individuals, the Seer could not necessarily identify individuals involved, especially if the Prophecy regarded individuals who had yet to be born.

The observers blinked in surprise as the arcane magic involved in Prophecies forced the memory to be held deep within their minds. Students who would struggle to remember what had just happened in class that day would remember this with perfect clarity for their whole lives. Dumbledore, McGonnagall and the rest of the staff felt the Prophecy’s magic tighten around them, a feeling Albus and Severus had felt once before. This was different though, this Prophecy did not seem to need to push either of them down a dark or futile road.

Qui-Gon was completely baffled. The Force whispered that he was the one this…Prophecy referred to. Was this his task? To banish the Darkness in this entire world? It was certainly an ambitious goal, but one he felt up to. He looked around once again, reaching out with his Force sense, but this time trying to feel any sense of the Dark Side.

What he felt almost stilled his heart. These Force-users clearly did not practice meditation and emotional control as the Jedi did and the students were a maelstrom of emotions. That shouldn’t have surprised the Jedi, for their were children and teenagers who had not been raised by the Jedi Order. He ignored most of the troubling emotions he could feel as teenage angst, anger, fear, jealousy, spite and lust would be commonplace in any school.

There were some presences that were more troubling to him however. The Headmaster in particular. His force aura was not tainted with the Dark Side but nor was it light and pure either. It was an almost perfect grey, something Qui-Gon had never seen before and had not believed possible. The young man he had felt a connection to had a similar aura, though it was a lighter shade.

One of the adults at the staff table had an aura that was changing before Qui-Gon’s eyes. The dark grey aura was rapidly shifting to lighter shades, the sign that someone had stepped back from the Darkness, though the Jedi Master got the distinct impression it was not by choice.

There were two presences, however, that reeked of the Dark Side. One was the man who had been standing by the Goblet with the Headmaster, a strong presence of Darkness but one that appeared faded, aged even. As if the man had served the Dark Side years ago but had given up. Very unusual.

The other presence came from the battle-scarred man with the fake eye that rolled and shifted in its socket. He was clearly not who he appeared to be, Qui-Gon could sense the deception on him like a cloak across his shoulders. And his aura was black as night, roiling and swirling like a boiling ocean. Qui-Gon instinctively shifted into a combat stance, his hand falling to grasp his lightsaber.

At the staff table, Barty Crouch Junior knew that his time masquerading as the old Auror was at an end. His plan lay in tatters, the insufferable boy had not been drawn as a competitor, and then this…thing appeared from nowhere. Then the Trelawney bitch had made a Prophecy saying this man would banish the Darkness. Crouch could not allow that, it was a threat to his Master. Crouch’s loyalty to his Master would have put any Hufflepuff to shame, even if they found his cause repulsive.

Crouch had to act. His quick plan would potentially eliminate two threats to his Master at once and that was the best he could hope for. In a flash, his wand was raised and the Killing Curse was on his lips. The first green bolt sped towards Harry Potter, this time with no mudblood mother to save him. The second flew at Dumbledore’s back and the third was aimed directly at this “Jedi.”

The entire sequence of events played out in the span of just four seconds, but those four seconds would change more than just the lives in the Great Hall.

The first curse was a third of the way towards Harry when he reacted. He didn’t use his wand, nor an incantation nor was he thinking of a specific spell. He simply acted, and his magic obeyed. A sheet of tiles ripped itself free from the floor and flew up into the path of the curse, which hit the impromptu barrier at an angle and was reflected up into the ceiling.

The second curse likewise never reached Dumbledore, but this time because Igor Karkarroff got in the way. It was not intentional, he had no desire to sacrifice himself for the old man, but as soon as the first curse had been cast at Potter, Igor had started to move to cover his students. The Durmstrang Headmaster was vain, arrogant and bigoted in the extreme, but he did take his duty of care to his students seriously. He did not see the second curse approach him, nor did he feel it as the dark magic killed him.

The third curse reached its target without any magical barriers or sacrifices to oppose it. Qui-Gon had felt the warning from the Force and acted on instinct, drawing his lightsaber and activating it with the distinctive snap-hiss sound reverberating around a Hall that was only just beginning to react to the deadly curses flying.

Acting as if it were a blaster bolt he faced, Qui-Gon swung his green blade around to deflect the curse aimed at him safely up into the ceiling. Instead the curse wrapped around his lightsaber blade in the same way he had seen Force lightning do in the Jedi Archives. He grimaced as he felt the deadly pull of the Dark spell on the edge of his senses, the spell trying to make him give up and die, to make his organs cease functioning and his soul release itself from his body.

With the spell arcing around his lightsaber Qui-Gon only felt the secondary effects but there were quite severe. He felt his kidneys and his liver fail as they succumbed to the spell’s effects, the specialist cells beginning to die in rapid succession. His lungs tightened and his heart raced as he called on the Force to sustain him. The entire process took just a second but it was the longest second the Jedi had ever felt.

The final act of this short drama came from Harry. He was incensed that the Killing Curse had been thrown around so freely, not just at him but at his Headmaster’s exposed back as well. Once again he acted without any structured magic spell – he simply held up a hand and pushed.

Barty Crouch Junior had perhaps half a second to realise that none of his curses had found their intended target – though the new arrival did look drained and fell to his knees. Another half second was spend wondering at just what that green blade was, that could appear from nowhere and block the Killing Curse, something widely believed to be impossible.

It was at that moment that Crouch was hit by a mass of nearly-solid air weighing half a tonne and moving at almost a hundred miles an hour. The disguised Death Eater was flung backwards, the chair he had been sat on shattering under the strain. Crouch’s unexpected flight was interrupted by the solid stone wall, an impact that left him unconscious and broke his arms, his legs, five of his ribs, his pelvis and his lower spine.

Dumbledore had spun around, realising that Igor was dead the moment his body hit the floor. His peripheral vision had seen Harry deflect a Killing Curse and this Jedi catch another curse on his mysterious green blade. Then he saw his Defence Professor slammed into a wall and the Jedi fall to his knees.

Finally, the events of the past few seconds caught up with the student body who as one began screaming in terror at the deadly battle that had erupted in their midst.

============

So, part 3, and things are moving forwards. To explain a few things, in this interpretation Harry is a powerful wizard that was suppressed by the previous Prophecy. We also see my interpretation of Prophecies and how they work. Now, Harry is a powerful wizard, but the canon prophecy said he had to face Voldemort "as an equal," and at this point in canon Voldie is a barely-alive psuedo-baby, but still reasonably magical. But the prophecy is broken, so Harry's power is unleashed.

I'm also going with the interpretation of Dumbledore as "he really does mean well but fucked up a few things" rather than the manipulative and/or outright evil version often seen in fanfics.

I also plan to change Snape somewhat, since in my version of "Prophecy" he was being pushed to play a role he didn't want to. Now he gets to play atoner.

[LadyTevar]

I like the way you're going with this.
But remember that the Jedi way of totally suppressing feelings was unBalanced. If Master Jinn means to help, he needs to find a way to get the kids leaning more Grey, like Dumbledore.

[Eternal_Freedom]

Thanks! I should stress I have precisely no idea what the long-term plan is for this, despite the prophecy I included. It all started from "What if Qui-Gon came flying out of the Goblet instead of Harry's name?"

As for the emotional suppression, well Qui-Gon did remark that they didn't practice emotional control, which is a different thing from suppression. I'm borrowing a concept I liked from another HP/SW fic where Harry speculates that the Jedi teach magic by starting with Occlumency at a basic level, clearing the mind, centering yourself and so on, and then build on that rather than starting with charms, transfiguration etc.

[RedLocque]

Damn! This, is awesome. Please, please continue.

[Eternal_Freedom]

I'm going to try, but real life has been a combination of unmitigated shitstorm and surprisingly painful for the last few months.

[The Romulan Republic]

So, part 3, and things are moving forwards. To explain a few things, in this interpretation Harry is a powerful wizard that was suppressed by the previous Prophecy. We also see my interpretation of Prophecies and how they work. Now, Harry is a powerful wizard, but the canon prophecy said he had to face Voldemort "as an equal," and at this point in canon Voldie is a barely-alive psuedo-baby, but still reasonably magical. But the prophecy is broken, so Harry's power is unleashed.

I'm also going with the interpretation of Dumbledore as "he really does mean well but fucked up a few things" rather than the manipulative and/or outright evil version often seen in fanfics.

I also plan to change Snape somewhat, since in my version of "Prophecy" he was being pushed to play a role he didn't want to. Now he gets to play atoner.

Just remembered this, so a few comments:

Reg. Dumbledore- good. There are far too many evil Dumbledore fics which completely destroy one of the most nuanced characters in canon in order to justify their shipping, their self-indulgent angst, or their revenge/power fantasy. That said, I do think Dumbledore is somewhat manipulative at times- just that he generally had good reason to be. I actually think that a good argument can be made for Dumbledore filling the "magnificent bastard" trope.

Snape- huh. Sounds like some of the alternate interpretations of Judas I've seen, where he wasn't a traitor so much as just fulfilling Christ's/God's plan. Not sure that's where you're going with this, but yeah.

Potter- Well, I confess I have developed a reflexive dislike of Powerful!Harry fics, because in my experience they're usually puerile male power fantasies where "Harry" is reduced to a thinly-veiled vehicle for authorial wish-fulfilment.

I also think that Potter verse magic is less about how "powerful" you are in the sense of power levels or how much mana you have or whatever, and more a combination of reflexes (especially in duelling) and emotional/mental state of the user. Very rarely is a spell referred to as requiring a lot of raw power (the only example that I can think of is Moody discussing the Killing Curse in book four), but most of the high-end spells requires powerful emotion and/or a particular mental state to use. Unforgiveables, Patronusses, Occlumency, and resisting Imperius curses all fall into this category, as does non-verbal (and possibly wandless?) casting. Thus, Harry is a natural at magical combat because he has excellent reflexes (see Quidditch, also probably honed by a lifetime of dodging punches from school bullies and his cousin/possibly his aunt and uncle), and because he has a strong will and powerful emotions to call on to fuel his spells. And where he fails its because he lacks the mental discipline to be calm and focussed when necessary (hence his twin failures at Occlumency and wandless magic in books five and six). But to some extent that's just my interpretation, so I'll keep an open mind.