Well, there are many a universes out there where Harry is either summoned to, away, in, out, and a whole bunch of stuff happens to him!

This story happens to be one about Harry(s) being summoned back after being summoned out.

I hope you enjoy this story.

Of Summoning Harry(s)

Chapter 1:
What Beast Needs Hunting?

Dumbledore and his Order of Phoenix were tired.

But they were not defeated.

It had been five years since the Dark Lord resurrected from his defeat against the Boy-Who-Lived...

Who was also the Boy-Who-Disappeared.

Around a dozen years ago or so, young Harry Potter disappeared from on the way from his school to his relative's home. There have been searches for the young boy, but no one even came up with a reliable lead.

Eventually, the Boy-Who-Lived(Disappeared) was branded a missing child.

Tonight, though, the Order of Phoenix had other plans.

A year into the war, Dumbledore confessed that there had been a prophecy regarding Harry and Voldemort. That only Harry could defeat the Dark Lord.

Then he brought out the ritual to summon Harry from wherever he may be.

Thankfully, the ritual had a "pre-determination" part to it so that there wouldn't be miscalculations.

A single piece of Harry's hair was used to determine how much power would be needed.

Dumbledore fainted when it was discovered that Harry wasn't even on the planet anymore.

To bring Harry back, they needed Hogsmead's worth of magic... multiplied by a hundred, and that was a lot. To that end, the Order of Phoenix had been gathering materials for years on end. They gathered the most magic-saturationed reagents and resources, squeezing the magic out of them, and turning them into liquid magic.

It was magic in its most dense and purest form. It was, however, also very, very volatile. It was, as Arthur Weasley put it, magical equivalent of a mundane nuclear plant.

Most of the order members didn't quite understand the reference, but the muggleborns were horrified.

This then led to the horrific retelling of what exactly the mundanes have been doing during and after World War II.

Needless to say, every order member had a new reason to keep magicals away from mundanes, not the other way around.

After four years of desperate and hard work, they had done it.

In the Black Family Ritual Room within Grimmauld Place, the most proficient of ritualists of the Order of Phoenix stood around in a circle with a liter cup in the center of an elaborate and frankly gibberish ritual circle.

The liter cup held a quarter of a liter of liquid magic. This was the effort of blood and sweat of nearly two dozen wizards and witches.

Last time such a quantity of liquid magic was seen was in the construction of Azkaban.

"To the magic of Gaia," Dumbledore began the incantations of the ritual. "We desire the return of one of our own," he said as he held his hand up and then turned it down, allowing a single hair to fall down.

Everyone in the ritual room watched in anticipation as the hair slowly fell down.

Time slowed down for everyone.

In Dumbledore's mind, he was desperately hoping for a warrior-wizard, Merlin Reborn, to come and save them. Perhaps in his prime, Dumbledore would have faced off Riddle like he had done so with Grindlewald, but he was no longer that fiesty, women-orgy-bedding, and nearly sadistic man. He had grown weary, tired, weak, and limp.

Oh, how he hated having to rely on others for what was his job to defend Magical Britain...!

McGonagall was the only other Hogwarts (current) staff within the ritual room. She too was thinking along similar lines. After all, was Riddle not the product and folly of her generation? WAs it not her generation's duty to put a stop to this either? It left her mouth a bitter taste to rely on summoning who could be a very happy to a war torn nation.

Snape didn't really care for Potter. Snape had been a bitter man for a long time, and orders from either side of the war -for he was spying for both- was not going to change his bitterness. Perhaps seeing the next generation of Potter suffer a little for his father's sin would be cathartic.

Slughorn was the most depressed of the lot. He may as well been the cause of latest war. After all, had he not spoken, would Riddle have lived through his first war?

Amelia Bones had survived Voldemort's attempt to assassinate her and her nephew, but she had found no allies in the Ministry or the DMLE. So, she left. And here she stood among other "Greats."

The Great was a title given to those exemplary of their generation for whatever reason.

Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard seen since Merlin.

McGonagall was the closest thing the entire wizarding world had to Dumbledore in Transfiguration and Battle Transfiguration.

Snape was the "King" of the potion communities; his word held more sway than Dumbledore among the reclusive masters of the aqueous magic.

And Slughorn? He was the one who showed the world these Greats. He shined them for the world to see and awe. A master of societal partnership.

And herself? A prodigy of the Defense Magics, whether they be Battle Transfiguration, potions, Dark Arts, or Body Reinforcement.

She felt small here. Her achievement was small compared to others in this ritual room.

But even so, her thoughts were also on Harry Potter.

James Potter had been one her junior partners and an acquaintance, so she wondered how this new Lord Potter would compare to the previous generations.

The ritual room lit up as the ritual circle lit up.

To everyone's surprise, the words and gibberish of the ritual circle ... began to move.

The light shown at first in blue, then it changed to gold.

Everyone's thoughts turned optimistic.

Gold was the color of majesty. Of purity.



Everything in the room turned red. The stones of the room quivered in place. Thick, oozing, and metallic liquid seemed out from the cracks of ceiling, floor, and walls.

Everyone panicked.

The red ooze, which may have been blood from the smell and stickiness, pooled at the center of the room even as the ritualists tried to stop it.

All of the ritualists knew... They Fucked Up. Capital "They Fucked Up."

Red was the color of pain, of darkness given form. It was life, but it was the worst aspect of life; pain, fragility, and unconsciousness were the domains of the red.

There was a sudden boom within the room as everyone was tossed to the walls, stuck to the granite the walls were made up of by the pressure being exuded from the center of the ritual.

And a hand shot out.

Amelia couldn't help the scream.

The hand was not of the living nor of the dead. It was gruesome and its seven fingers were not of human origin.

The forearm that followed was no better. Skeletal yet not. Fleshy yet hard. Thin yet pulsing.

Then the tentacles followed.

And soon, without their word or command, the room enlarged.

And the being that they summoned dragged itself out of the puddle of red liquid -blood- and they stared in horror.

They didn't summon Harry. There must've been some kind of error with the ritual circle.

The nine meter towering creature before them made out of tentacles, bones, blood, eyes, and hands was not a human.

"Merlin have mercy on our souls," Dumbledore muttered.

He had finally done it.

He had done something that not even Grindlewald and Riddle dared to do.

Summoning an eldritch being.

As the pressure left them all and they fell down to the floor, Dumbledore whipped out his Elder Wand, intending to drag this beast down to the depths of hell even if it took him his life. "Ru-!"

You've called.

Everyone froze.

It looked around when no one answered.

Speak. You've called me. I do not wait for long.

"W-" Slughorn, the most guilt-tripped of them all, was the courageous first to speak. "W-We've summoned a Harry Potter!"

The being's eyes, nearly a hundred of them adorned throughout its body, shifted and stared at Slughorn.

And I've come.

"Y-You're Harry?!"

The eyes shifted to Dumbledore, whose pale shocked face was a sight to behold had everyone else not been wearing similar expressions.

Perhaps when I was a little mortal. As of recent times, I am called by the mortals as Yomshara, the Merciful Hunter.

In Dumbledore's mind, the title was calming ... to a degree.

"We need your help!"

There was a pause before the being before them froze, shifted, and evaporated. As it evaporated, it left behind a thick smoke that dispersed on its own as if the ritual room was heavily vented.

And when the smoke was gone, a triconed man was all that was left of the eldritch being.

He tipped his hat so that his bright green eyes were showing, and through his face mask, he asked a question.

"What beast needs hunting? For Harry has joined the Hunt."

What do you all think about this one? Review, pm, tell others. Give me a response.