All credit to JK Rowling for her wonderful Universe. Similar credit to ‘Wizards of the Coast’ for the Forgotten Realms (FR) Universes

I’ve always wanted to see a proper crossover between FR and HP. Fanfic Author Dragonbard does it but its fantasy within fantasy not a unified Universe. Anyway, here goes, tell me what you think.(Yes, yes, I know I do some direct quotes, but its just to spring things off.)

The sight of a tabby cat sitting on a garden wall in the neighborhood of Little Whinging, Surrey; where the houses all looked the same with immaculately maintained gardens, cars in the driveways, and residents going about the daily chores of living in a suburban area, was as normal a sight as one could ever hope to see. It was a sight that Mr and Mrs Dursley of number four Privet Drive, cherished dearly. The tabby cat in question was in fact seated on their house’s garden wall. If anyone had observed the cat for the day since it had arrived in the morning at the Dursley’s residence, they would have commented on how odd it was that a cat would sit perfectly still on a single spot for so long and how it seemed to be observing the inhabitants of the house in front of it.

When night had fallen and the Dursley’s fast asleep, the cat could still be seen but its gaze was now focused on a far corner of Privet Drive. Yet the cat remained motionless even when a car door slammed in the next street, and when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. The cats tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen in Privet Drive. He was tall, thin and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man’s name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to realise that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him.

He chuckled and muttered, ‘I should have known.’

He had found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again – the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left in the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him.

If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs Dursley, they wouldn’t be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street towards number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

‘Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.’

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

‘How did you know it was me?’ she asked.

‘My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.’

‘You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,’ said Professor McGonagall.

‘All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.’

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

‘Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,’ she said impatiently. ‘You’d think they’d be a bit more careful, but no – even the Muggles have noticed something’s going on. It was on their news.’ She jerked her head back at the Dursleys’ dark living-room window. ‘I heard it. Flocks of owls … shooting stars … Well, they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent – I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense.’

‘You can’t blame them,’ said Dumbledore gently. ‘We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.’

‘I know that,’ said Professor McGonagall irritably. ‘But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumours.’ She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn’t, so she went on: ‘A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?’

‘It certainly seems so,’ said Dumbledore. ‘We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a sherbet lemon?’

‘A what?’

‘A sherbet lemon. They’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m rather fond of.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn’t think this was the moment for sherbet lemons. ‘As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone –’

‘My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense – for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.’ Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two sherbet lemons, seemed not to notice. ‘It all gets so confusing if we keep saying ‘You-Know-Who’. I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort’s name.’

‘I know you haven’t,’ said Professor McGonagall, sounding half-exasperated, half-admiring. ‘But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the only one You-Know – oh, all right, Voldemort – was frightened of.’

‘You flatter me,’ said Dumbledore calmly. ‘Voldemort had powers I will never have.’

‘Only because you’re too – well – noble to use them.’

‘It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs.’

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, ‘The owls are nothing to the rumours that are flying around. You know what everyone’s saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?’

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever ‘everyone’ was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another sherbet lemon and did not answer.

‘What they’re saying,’ she pressed on, ‘is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumour is that Lily and James Potter are – are – that they’re – dead.’

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

‘Lily and James … I can’t believe it … I didn’t want to believe it … Oh, Albus …’

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. ‘I know … I know …’ he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went on. ‘That’s not all. They’re saying he tried to kill the Potters’ son, Harry. But – he couldn’t. He couldn’t kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they’re saying that when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter, Voldemort’s power somehow broke – and that’s why he’s gone.’

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

‘It’s – it’s true?’ faltered Professor McGonagall. ‘After all he’s done … all the people he’s killed … he couldn’t kill a little boy? It’s just astounding … of all the things to stop him … but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?’

‘We can only guess,’ said Dumbledore. ‘We may never know.’

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, ‘Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be here, by the way?’

‘Yes,’ said Professor McGonagall. ‘And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all places?’

‘I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They’re the only family he has left now.’

‘You don’t mean – you can’t mean the people who live here?’ cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. ‘Dumbledore – you can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got this son – I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!’

‘It’s the best place for him,’ said Dumbledore firmly. ‘His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he’s older. I’ve written them a letter.’

‘A letter?’ repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. ‘Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He’ll be famous – a legend – I wouldn’t be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter Day in future – there will be books written about Harry – every child in our world will know his name!’

‘Exactly,’ said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. ‘It would be enough to turn any boy’s head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won’t even remember! Can’t you see how much better off he’ll be, growing up away from all that until he’s ready to take it?’

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed and then said, ‘Yes – yes, you’re right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?’ She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

‘Hagrid’s bringing him.’

‘You think it – wise – to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?’

‘I would trust Hagrid with my life,’ said Dumbledore.

‘I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,’ said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, ‘but you can’t pretend he’s not careless. He does tend to – what was that?’

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky – and a huge motorbike fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorbike was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild – long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of dustbin lids and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

‘Hagrid,’ said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. ‘At last. And where did you get that motorbike?’

‘Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,’ said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorbike as he spoke. ‘Young Sirius Black lent it me. I’ve got him, sir.’

‘No problems, were there?’

‘No, sir – house was almost destroyed but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’ around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.’

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

‘Is that where –?’ whispered Professor McGonagall.

‘Yes,’ said Dumbledore. ‘He’ll have that scar for ever.’

‘Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?’

‘Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in useful. I have one myself above my left knee, which is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well – give him here, Hagrid – we’d better get this over with.’

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned towards the Dursleys’ house.

‘Could I – could I say goodbye to him, sir?’ asked Hagrid.

He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

‘Shhh!’ hissed Professor McGonagall. ‘You’ll wake the Muggles!’

‘S-s-sorry’ sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. ‘But I c-c-can’t stand it – Lily an’ James dead – an’ poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles –’

‘Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we’ll be found,’ Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry’s blankets and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out.

‘Well,’ said Dumbledore finally, ‘that’s that. We’ve no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.’

‘Yeah,’ said Hagrid in a very muffled voice. ‘I’d best get this bike away. G’night, Professor McGonagall – Professor Dumbledore, sir.’

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself on to the motorbike and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

‘I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,’ said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

‘Good luck, Harry’ he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. But something even more astonishing was about to unfold.

Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall and Hagrid however, did not know that their conversation had in fact been witnessed. But not by a Muggle, as they had feared, but by a person far older than the nation of Great Britian, he was in fact, so old that he considered the Roman Empire a somewhat recent event. He emerged from the shadows that the electric lights cast as if they had spawned him. He was relatively short compared to anyone you would meet, standing at a mere one point six meters with a lithe frame. His browned skin was stretched over a high cheekboned face with hazel eyes that held the experiences of countless years in them. His most curious feature was the overly pointed ears that jutted upwards from the sides of his head.

His clothes were a mixture of earthy colored leathers and fabric that clung to his frame and he carried a light bundle on his back out of which was a distinctive shape of a longbow and stored quiver of arrows. His face was a mask of stoicism that faded into a scowl when he saw the bundle of blankets within which Harry Potter lay on the front doorstep of Number Four.

“Wizards,” said the Wood Elf with a sigh shaking his head in disbelief. He spoke as if aggrieved by them or exasperated.

This particular Wood Elf, was named Daeghun Farlong. His was a people that had long ago forsaken the Forests of the realm of Earth, when it became all too apparent of what the so-called ‘normal’ humans had planned for their ‘magical’ brethren. And unlike the Wizards of this realm, who had merely gone into hiding, the Elves had long had the Art of walking amongst various Planes of Existence, and as such, using the Song Portals, they merely evacuated to the native plane of all Elves…Faerun and Evermeet.

Daeghun however, could not escape his fascination with Earth and its majestic Forests… most of which made those on Faerun seem rather small in comparison. As such once every Faerunian year he would cast a Song Portal back to Earth and travel its many forests and gather news of events on it. In his journeys he discovered that Time behaved rather differently between the Planes, but to him it was a fact of merely passing curiosity, as he was immune to the ravages of Time and Mortality.

It was but chance that had led him to the Forest of Avon around a town called Bristol, ten years ago, where he was discovered by a young witch of a mere twelve summers. It amazed him that she had the arcane senses to such a degree already that she could spot him even when he was making every effort to conceal himself, which was no small feat, since Deaghun had eluded and battled many Rogues, Assassins and even the famed Shadow Thieves of Amn, who made stealth into an art form.

Since then he had made a point to come back every Summer, and so, a secret friendship grew between him and Lily Evans; who prospered and flourished into a formidable but kind witch, despite the darkness and prejudice that stood in her way. She would come back every year from Hogwarts, the local School of the Arcane Arts, and share her trials and triumphs with him, and he in turn taught her of the Arcane as his people knew them and the different Planes he held knowledge of and their histories…which she soaked up like a dry sponge.

“Oh, Lily,” he sighed, feeling the deep hurt of loss anew at her death. His mind returned to the present and his eyes found the bundle, which held her son. Harry’s survival spoke of an Ancient Arcane act of Magic, something which Lily herself must have invoked…at the cost of her own life. Such magics were reminiscent of the ancient Illefarn…a historic and unprecedented union of human, elf and dwarf into a single nation combining all their knowledge.

But it was time for action.

He sprinted across the street and gently picked Harry up and cradled him in his arms. It seemed though that he was not as gentle as he could have been, because baby Harry opened his huge bright green emerald eyes and appraised who was holding him.

“Dagga,” gurgled the infant happily in recognition. Daeghun groaned inwardly at the baby’s nickname for him, a name which had amused Lily and James to no end.

“Yes, it’s me, Harry,” spoke Daeghun softly his voice lilting with magic to aid the infant in understanding him…at least in basic terms. “Let’s get you out of here, your mother would never forgive me if I left you with her relatives.” The infant frowned quizzically for a moment and amazingly nodded and promptly fell asleep again. “Hard to believe I was ever that young,” the elf mumbled to himself.

He now walked away from Number Four Privet Drive with a determined stride. He turned down Wisteria Road, and eventually walked into a large storm drain that headed underneath the main Highway. The low light vision that came naturally to his race enabled him to avoid the attentions of the few local homeless that made their home around the drain. Finally he was in the large open play park with vast fields for the local children to play in.

He found a large open spot, free from too much grass and far enough away from any of the play equipment so as to not overly disturb the area where the Song Portal would form. He raised a hand into the air as if signaling for somebody to stop and closed his eyes appealing to the Weave of Magic on this Plane to hear his call. It responded readily and happily to his presence and he amazingly even felt a strong note of approval from the Weave at his actions. He allowed a smile to form on his face and began to sing.

Such Song was impossible to produce for any on this Plane. It was Song that lifted the heart, inspired, invigorated and even empowered those of the Light who heard it. And made the Shadow retreat as if it was a scolded moaning dog.

Blue light began to appear around Daeghun and Harry as if they were caged within it. The Song continued and soon the cage was a full dome of blue light that now had violet clouds swirling within it.

And abruptly the dome of light vanished…leaving nothing but empty air and darkness of night, where once an elf and infant had been.

A few days later found Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in his office in Hogwarts Castle, located somewhere Unplottable in North Scotland. Many other countless magical enchantments and defenses lay on the Castle, making it all very difficult for anyone to find…let alone attack.

His Office was a large beautiful and circular room, full of funny little noises. A number of curious silver instruments stood on spindlelegged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were animated and snoozing gently in their frames…apparently asleep. He was seated behind an enormous claw-footed desk, and, sitting on shelf behind it, amongst numerous other books, was patched and frayed wizard’s hat, that strangely had a snoring sound coming from it as well.

Standing next to the door was a golden perch and beautiful looking bird the size of swan with red and gold plumage and sharp glistening golden beak stood preening itself. Albus Dumbledore looked up from his paperwork for next year’s school budget and his mouth twitched in amusement at the bird.

“Fawkes,” called the old wizard, “your phoenix feathers are preened enough, and you look splendid…enough.” Fawkes, stopped his preening and gazed with ageless beady black eyes at the Headmaster. The phoenix then ruffled its feathers and trilled, it promptly hopped around on its perch, turning its figurative back on the old wizard and resumed preening.

Albus sighed; it would be at least a day before his phoenix companion would listen to him again. The entrance of an unfamiliar owl interrupted any further musings, and it was carrying a letter between its talons, which it promptly dropped on his desk and without waiting for a potential reply flew back out of the crystal clear windows. He stared at the letter for a long moment, the only thing on it was his name, written in elegant curving script.

He had not made it to over one hundred and fifty years of age by being careless…so he gently caressed his hand over the envelope and opened his senses to it…there was a slight trace of magic on it…mostly from whoever had handled the paper, but it completely benign.

Satisfied he broke the wax seal and pulled the parchment and began to read.

Albus Dumbledore,

We’ve only met in passing at the last few meetings the Old Crowd had; Lily recruited me into the fold. Perhaps you remember me as Daeghun Farlong.

The Headmaster frowned, trying to recall such an individual in the meetings of the secret society, whose job it had been to oppose Voldemort through covert means using any and all means necessary only as dictated by each member’s conscience. Ah! Now he remembered, the strange man who wore an elegant gold circlet around his head…with brown earthy robes.

She and I met at the end of her first year. A rather fortunate meeting it was, something you will begin to appreciate as I continue this letter. Know that I am not of the race of Men, but are of Elf-kind. And not of the House Elves, I am a Wood Elf…

Dumbledore had to mentally do a double-take. If his Lore was accurate…Wood Elves were of the High Elves species that had ages past vanished from Earth a few hundred years before Hogwarts was Founded over a thousand years ago. If this letter was true…and not a hoax…but the residual magic he felt on the letter left him with a deep impression of ageless…wisdom, immortality, of truth. He marveled…he had been numerous times in the presence of legend and did not know it.

…of the Realm of Faerun. Long ago, my people left the Realm of Earth through Transplanar Portals; the use and construction of which, have long since passed from your knowledge.

How very true and unfortunate, thought Albus.

My fascination with your Realm did not leave me however. And so I would return from Faerun on occasions. When I met and befriended Lily I would return to her during the Summers where I would teach her of the Arcane in the manner of my people. I wish to remain modest, but I will say that some of her prodigious skill in matters of the Arcane can be laid squarely on my doorstep. What was that wonderful expression I heard: ‘A Teacher shows his student the right door, but it is the student who has to go through.’.

She was such. And it is most likely thanks to her further experimentation with the Arcane, building from the little of what I taught her, that she invoked the ancient magicks that I had not seen since the days of the first rise of the Illefarn Empire, roughly ten thousand years ago, by timekeeping on Earth. It was this, which caused the Death Curse to rebound on its caster…

Albus shook his head in amazement. There was always deep debate among academic circles over the possibility of some sort of vast magical empire existing all around Earth. The evidence in certain magical ruins was there of common influences of architecture and styles, but it had never been proven conclusively. Here was an individual, casually describing that Empire, who had perhaps even witnessed its rise and fall. His academic nature feasted on the possibilities. The letter continued to explain in slightly more detail the magicks Daeghun believed involved, but then things took a decidedly unpleasant turn.

Furthermore, I wish to bring a matter to your attention. The fate of the last Potter. I have walked the Realms of Earth, Faerun and Evermeet for more years than I can count and have seen much, braved many dangers and perils. Therefore, when I find it hard to contemplate that one can simply leave an infant on the front porch of a household whose occupants have not been personally consulted with on the baby’s care or whether he’s even welcome …and in the middle of the night, no less…then that action is grossly cruel, not to mention unfair on the family whose responsibility it would be to care for the child.

Yes, it would isolate Harry Potter from his fame, yes, it would keep him from getting a big head, and yes, I was there that night three days ago when you left him on the front door of Number Four Privet Drive.

If there were anything to relate in words as to how Albus felt at that moment, it would be as if someone had slapped him.

I know it was a difficult decision, made because of the Death Eaters still at large, and the apparent betrayal of the Potters. But despite all that, I know Lily enough and by extension, Petunia Dursley, enough, that Harry would be condemned to ten dark if not abusive years under their care…or rather lack thereof. Lily would not want her child raised by her sister…who despises the Arcane in all its forms. (and would see Harry as a living embodiment of it) Therefore, I have taken the burden off you Albus Dumbledore.

The Headmaster did not know when he had risen too his feet…one part of his mind screaming to run and Apparate directly to Privet Drive and see if Harry was in the Dursley’s home, while the other screamed to finish the letter and glean all pertinent facts before rushing headlong into action. He wisely chose the latter option.

I have taken Harry with me through a Transplanar Portal to Faerun; where he is beyond the reach of anyone wishing to do him good or ill from Earth. Here I will raise him in as safe and yet rugged environment as I can find. Where he can grow normally and blossom into the future mage he is destined to be. He will return when he is needed.

You can try to find him, but I would not bother. If you raise the Old Crowd in an attempt, it would merely leak out to your population in general…and then where would you be?

Yours Sincerely,

Daeghun Farlong.

A/N: What do you think? Go on? Or not?