What Came On Cat Paws
Disclaimer; I do not own Harry Potter or Eragon.
Pairing; Murtagh / Harry (Solembum). This will have real, hard-core, SLASH. You've been warned.
Notes; this, actually, I've been playing with for a while. In it, Harry is found to be Solembum. Murtagh and Eragon have got something to worry about now, no? This takes place at the end of Eldest, though this event never actually happens.
Beta; the lovely vairetwilight, without whom this story would be lacking.
Magic Unlike What You Know
Her blood stained his fingers. His hands dripped with it. He felt his self disgust well up within him, felt it cling to his heart, searing it with his failed attempts. He had, at least, not killed her with his own hands.
No, the Twins had done that, while he had been helpless to do anything save watch. In the end, he had only killed them, repaying a debt of life owed to life. Was it fair that she was worth more then merely the two Twins to him? His only living descendent, now dead – she would be buried with the rest of the dead from the battle come the 'morrow.
He wanted to howl his sorrow, his pain. It seemed too much though, so he sealed his lips. He could not have explained how it was that he was not killed while he mourned her on a battlefield still fresh with bodies. The enemy was still about; he was not yet out of danger. It was then that he smelt something other then blood, he smelt smoke – was the battlefield burning? He did not know, neither did he particularly care. Angela was dead.
He looked for the source of the smell all the same, for it was a survival instinct that demanded he do so. He found it, two dragons fought, airborne – their Riders clinging to their backs, like little toys. He was angry then, for they fought above where she had died, like little god-lings. He would bring them down then, he would see them put in their place.
He reached for his magic, which had always swelled and bubbled up whenever he might be tempted – which he had left alone save only for when he changed forms smoothly from cat into boy-shape. He had not used his magic since he found that he would remain forever while others wilted and died.
He was called Solembum now – it was the joke name Angela had given him – but he had not lied to the Rider called Eragon when he said he had many names. His oldest one was one he had almost forgot – for he had been as intent to bury it as he had the Ring of Resurrection in the roots of the roots of the Menoa Tree.
It had been Harry Potter. If he had to become what he had been, once; so long ago this world had all but forgotten his like, well then, he would gladly go about unraveling it to see that Angela's death did not pass without notice. That would be a crime he could not see committed…
Harry knew the moment the magic responded to him that it had changed – perhaps something like he had – it was rebellious, though it would obey, to make it do so was tiring. Yet it would be done. He would see it made so. He had no wand; he needed none, merely a word.
"Accio…" With his hand outstretched and his mind focused on bringing the two dragons and their Riders to the ground, he knew the magic would not misunderstand his meaning. It would not dare to. Sure enough, it obeyed, the effects were not swift, but they were inescapable, even for a dragon – a creature of magic that obeyed the laws of magic.
Even so, laws could be changed if one knew the right words, but it was unlikely - Harry knew his spell was so old it was hardly considered something that would be remembered and changed; his people, which were wizards and witches along with the other magical beings that had survived the war, had made the laws, forged them when all were agreed, they had bled for those laws, some had died in the making of them.
Harry was the last of the ancient beings known as Grey Ones; those that came before the laws of magic were written and words were changed so the whole of what was, and what would be, would not be threatened again by magic unraveling life as it nearly had. Their continued existence was a horded secret, one which Harry had sworn to guard till his death. He intended to do so. If that vow was broken, well, it would not go unnoticed.
There were still things he could do.
This was one of them.
Eragon saw him first, and that Angela lay dead beside him, Harry saw it the moment the Riders expression went from fury to sadness. Angela had meant something to Eragon, even for all her oddities. That was something, at least – Angela would not be mourned by him alone. Saphira lowered her head to him, as if in a bow, knowing without knowing that his magic had been what had taken her from the skies.
With red scales that reminded Harry of blood, the bulkier dragon shied away from him, its wide eyes making it plain what it knew and felt about such strange powers. Its Rider was likely not in a much better state, though Harry could not see behind the mask he wore. Harry could fell the spells that tangled around that man – for it was a man, magic told Harry that much – were of all sorts. If his people had thought those little words that had been left could do such a thing, well, it was likely they would have let magic bring about the ruin of their world.
There was a way to fix that.
"Have you no respect for the dead?" Harry hissed the words at both of them, having not noticed in his need to lash out and bring those who had flown above to heel, that the battle had ceased; their allies had gathered to watch this strange sight. It was not often someone dared to think to question a Rider, let alone use magic to snatch dragons from the sky.
It was an interesting – if intimidating – sight.
"The battle…." Eragon rasped, his lungs stung by smoke and 'poisons' that wafted up from the very land. Harry shifted his balance, glancing only once to Angela, laid out prone and bloody. He felt anew the weight of his sorrow, though now it seemed silly that he had let his anger get the better of him. He did not notice the two Riders glance between each other. He spoke, though he looked to no one but the dead.
"Is done; I will finish it." It was a promise to the dead, of the sort that had a weight and power with magic all its own kind. The closest to the old sort of magic Harry had grown up using. It was almost as familiar as it was terrifying. It might be that the laws of magic would be changed – were changing – even now. Magic had done stranger things on its own whims.
He raised his arm, tilting his wrist toward the red dragon and its Rider with his palm exposed. Both tensed, even Eragon and Saphira seemed to shudder. They knew he could use the power, though he had not sought to do so until now. With her death, it seemed he was free to do as he willed without direction. That wasn't natural, it was in the laws that those that remained of the Grey Ones would be tied to those who could change things, for better or worse. Even with the supposed death of their people, and the listless existence of those that remained, they could not help but meddle.
But to do so without being tied to someone, that would lead to death, a death that would last weeks, but come all the same in the end. Harry knew the sort of painful end he would face, but he dreaded the thought of bonding himself to someone. Anyone that was a stranger, always before it had been his descendents, he had none left now. He was…alone.
"Wait – you don't want to do that, Solembum!" Eragon cried out, unable to watch without a word what he perceived to be the slaughter of another human being, no matter that only a moment above in the sky he had been the enemy – he might now be the victim.
"Finite Incantatem." He lifted his fingers, as if they were claws, and tore the spells about the boy. Tore was the wrong word though, no – he ripped them to pieces – shredded them like a bit of paper. It felt good.
"That I do not want to free him of the hold of our most hated enemy, Eragon? Well, I have. No friend should be masked; do you not agree, Rider?" Harry did not give the Rider the time to disagree, for he moved his fingers then as if lifting something, finding the imagery comforting, to make his intent clear where he did not have a wand.
"Accio helmet..." It was flung off, dark hair falling to shoulders where it had been tied in the helmet; slightly slanted dark eyes were wide, his mouth open, inviting flies. Harry supposed he would feel the same way, confronted with someone who might free him of his self inflicted bonds and then make his identity plain to see.
"…Murtagh!" Eragon cried out, after seeing the young Rider, he looked, Harry mused, as if he'd seen a ghost. Harry wondered why, though he would not use his power to find out – not just yet.
"He will know." For the moment, Murtagh ignored Eragon (though he was clearly reluctant to do so) in favor of addressing Harry.
"Solembum…" Eragon murmured, only now realizing what danger Harry had likely put himself in. Though Harry seemed not to care, this clearly wasn't the case for the young Rider or his dragon. There would be no helping their fears, Harry knew that he would die for certain soon, without a bonded. He had no intention of dying without seeing that Galbatorix – the reason his own Angela had died – was dead as well.
"Harry, I'd prefer." Harry corrected, not wanting to be reminded of Angela, for that name was tied to her forever more. It hurt to be reminded so. As if it was a fresh wound being infected, bit by bit. Eragon was none the less surprised at his interruption, looking now to Murtagh for guidance.
How easy it was to fall into old habits.
"He will come for you. What will you do?" Murtagh asked his voice soft with a wary sort of tiredness, though both Eragon and Harry could hear it easily. Harry wondered what good it was for the Rider to ask this of him. He had not had time to think, he was reacting, it was rash and unpredictable and wont to land him in a situation he would not be able to dig out of before he died.
Harry could not help the giggle that tickled his throat. If the allies and the enemies did not think him mad now, Harry did not know what would convince them. He met the Riders eyes, both were alike, both dark eyes and with the sort of earnest heroism Harry recognized from in his earlier days. He thought it might have grown worse now…
Something reckless, though perhaps more controlled, had made itself felt. He met their eyes all the same, a little grin curling his lips, showing the catlike teeth that remained. They did not flinch from what he had become, even Angela had occasionally adverted her eyes from him. His sorrow faded, leaving him a bit bitter, a bit more sad that he would think ill of his dead descendent.
"Let him come…I will bring about his death." Harry turned away, pausing only long enough to gather up the dead body of Angela before he started toward their camp. He still remembered where their tent was, though that was almost funny to him, for it seemed a lifetime ago.
He did not look back. Did not notice the silence that lay behind him on a battlefield that had been filled with the sounds of death and dying, it seemed even the ghosts dared not to stir in his presence, they mourned along with him, though they did not know why.
Note; so, another Harry/Eragon fic; this one likely makes as much sense as the last one. Or less. At least with this one I'll have real SLASH and not just impressions and hints, so if you have not read "Unfurling Black Wings" go check it out! In it, Harry is a certain black dragon we all know…-snickers-…