*The Great Escape*

The Great Escape by Pseudonymous Entity

Summary: Events at the ministry go differently than fate intended. Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort fall through the veil...and come out the other side. A secret muggle organization captures them. Nothing is ever the same.

Characters: Harry Potter, Lord Voldemort and **** *****

Warnings: (Suggestions for warnings will be taken into consideration)

AN: As always I welcome thoughts, questions, guesses, theories and limericks. In whichever order of importance you feel inclined to give.

ANx2: Yet another idea I've had floating in the wings. Very rough idea.


Ever Yours, Pseu [The clever, magnificent and ridiculously good looking]

"Ten simple reasons we're keeping you breathing, nine millimeter rounds and shells on the floor

Eight, seven, six you've cut your hands on your crucifix, they've got your scent and they're approaching the door now

This is about survival, these are high powered rifles and they go - BOOM!"

-Victim Effect

There was no warning of what was to come. Like many things in Harry Potter's young life, it happened almost spontaneously.

The Gryffindor ran through the now nameless, now superfluous faces of the dueling magic users around him. He darted through and around, avoiding hexes and curses alike with reflexes usually reserved for chasing snitches or fleeing from cousins. A single minded laser-like focus pulled him ever nearer to his target. Long ringlets of dark hair so like his danced in the air just out of his reach. Stinging taunts spoken in a sing-song voice floated back to him from the lips of his target.

He did not know when they became alone nor quite where they were. In fact, he would not realize either of things for several moments longer. In this moment Harry Potter brought forward his phoenix feather wand, aimed it at the fleeing witch and shouted.


She stumbled, startled. Laughter bubbled from her and filtered through the air in the empty atrium. "You've got to mean it, Potter." She educated.

And something about her standing there and looking so like him and laughing so like him and being so alive while he was not lit a tattered, long forgotten fuse within the fifteen-year-old wizard. His feet stilled at once, ceasing their previous motions. He brought his arms down and closed his eyes. Just as quickly his eyes opened to find his prey watching him, her own movements paused, gray eyes shining in curiosity. Amusement. Three more feet and she'd have reached the floo. Three more feet and this may never have happened.

But it did.

Harry's wand slipped from his fingers into his pocket without much conscious recognition of the event on his part. It wasn't important now. A power he'd seldom used and never thought to harness rose to answer the empty call his phoenix feather focus left behind. The same power which locked his bully of a cousin within the very enclosure of the serpent he'd taunted. The same power which had blown up his aunt to suit the hot air and vile hatred she spewed. Indeed it was nothing unnamed or unknown. It was his magic answering his call as it was meant to do, as the sorcerers of old had once used it. Fulfilling its duty to its master.

In a third of a second's time of green eyes meeting gray Harry raised his hand palm out in the witch's direction, whispering, "Crucio."

A calm fell over the boy. A stillness. No longer was he plagued by the sight of his beloved godfather falling through the veil, his only hope of a real family slipping away with him. No longer did the guilt and shame of the danger he'd put his friends into unnecessarily feed upon him. No fear nor regret nor pain nor fatigue tainted his calm. Beyond such things was the-boy-who-lived, in the center of his magic's storm.

It was this scene Lord Voldemort would happen upon. Harry's field of reality would broaden to include the dark lord at the icy touch that flickered along his wrist. He turned his head to meet the curious, calculating eyes of Voldemort. His spell ended, his hand went limp though Voldemort continued to hold it in his cold grip. He would come to learn it was, in fact, his own coolness he felt rising to fend off the foreign touch. But that wasn't now. Right now they stood together and considered one another.

"She isn't laughing anymore." Harry found himself saying.

Simultaneously, on a signal known only to them, they set their magic against each other. Bellatrix was forgotten. Order of the Phoenix forgotten. The prophecy which brought them here...forgotten.

Spiraling around one another they eventually found themselves back in the room which started it all. The room in which he lost his godfather. Red and blue and gold streaks of light flashed. Hexes whistled through the air. They were bleeding. There would be bruises. It mattered little. Harry needed this, needed to pour out the emotions he held within him and Voldemort provided an outlet more enticing than Bellatrix had ever been. A curiosity to the unattached observer, should any of their comrades had been left in the room to witness the arrangement, might have been the length of the fight. The lack of lethal spellwork. While each did in their fashion aim to hurt, to wound the other, to sever and to tear and to brutalize, neither one did attempt to end the fight. It would occur to the observer that the end result of the both was not to kill the other -as it ought to be- but to make the other hurt. Curious indeed.

And it was here that it happened. Harry Potter the-boy-who-lived and Lord Voldemort the Dark Lord, fell through the veil...

...and came out the other side.

Harry's shoes squeaked on the slick concrete, sliding out from underneath him. His back met the ground with a solid, semi-ominous thwack. Almost immediately the breath fled from his lungs in an agonizing whoosh, Lord Voldemort's far larger body having fallen out of thin air just as Harry's had moments before. Onto the boy himself below.

Gasping for breath, torn between shoving the dark wizard off of him and just laying there until the world reoriented its self, Harry noticed several things that were out of place. The wet concrete really should have been his first clue that something was very wrong indeed. What Harry Potter did notice was that he was wet. Because it was raining. Next, he noticed he could see the stars which was usually unlikely when one was inside a building. Having lived in the wizarding world however he'd known at least one building with a sky for a ceiling so who was he to say the Ministry didn't employ a similar illusion? He had a harder time convincing himself the sound of auto's motors and voices speaking an unknown language were also the work of spellcraft.

Untangling themselves, unspoken ceasefire in place, the two had time enough to see they were in the middle of some muggle compound at night. Boots thudded on the wet pavement. Muggles in strange uniforms carrying firearms soon surrounded them on all sides. Harry glanced at Voldemort.

The snake-faced man reacted. He blasted a group of the muggles to their right. A man with a large, bulky gun received a deadly shot of green light. Survival instincts kicking in, the Gryffindor followed suit. A flipendo here. A bombarda here. He aimed around the muggles choosing to send their trucks careening across the lot or blow up sections of the ground at their feet when they came too close. Being the Gryffindor he was he didn't want to hurt them...but he was Slytherin enough to acknowledge the bad feeling creeping into the corners of his mind warning him to get the Hell out of there.

Neither of them was prepared for the lone shooter with a very special sort of gun. Two darts hit their marks.

The wizards went down.


Brief moments of clarity. A shower in a plastic tube. Unknown powder sprayed on them. New clothes. Arms twisted behind their backs while muggle men in uniforms pulled them around with unforgiving grips. Harry thought he tried to do something. He knew Voldemort did. Even in the haze that particular shade of green was hard to miss. He didn't know what happened to the dark lord after that, he was pulled the other way down a hallway of some kind. Just as his mind clicked on, whatever they'd shot him with finally out of his system, a metal door slid open and blinding lights shined right in his face.

Harry stumbled forward into a waiting cell. He reached out both hands and caught himself against the fiberglass window to his left. It started halfway along the wall and hit the roof. Through it, he could see Voldemort thrown into the cell beside him moments later. Unlike Harry, he was soon chained to the wall. For the best really, Harry thought dryly. He'd have done the same if he thought he could get away with it.

Harry's legs shook. With a violent exhale Harry let his back fall against the window-wall and slide down to the floor. There he tried to collect his senses.

What would happen? He wondered. Would they get a hold of the Dursleys to come and fetch him? Would they take him to an orphanage? What country were they in? How did this even happen? Harry bit his lip. How could he tell them anything if he couldn't understand them? He hadn't heard anyone speaking English! Being caught with Voldemort wasn't going to go far to make him seem trustworthy even if he could speak to them. And what would he say? "Sorry we crashed your secret compound and fell out of thin air -I can see how that might be alarming- but we're just wizards in the middle of a duel so if you could kindly inform us what country we're in and set us free so we can get back to trying to kill one another, that'd be great." How did stuff like this keep happening to him?

He was not given long to wonder.

Two muggles in uniforms came in through the single door to the room in which they were kept. Entering behind them were more muggles in long white jackets. Doctors? The muggles in white said something to the muggles in uniform. Harry wished he knew the language they were speaking, but the only ones he'd even recognize were English, French and Bulgarian. Apparently, they were in none of those countries. How had they managed to fall through into another country? What the veil a portkey?

Jolted from his thoughts Harry found himself being seized by the arms, pulled to his feet and dragged from his cell. He glanced back over his shoulder. Voldemort was busy with his own muggles. He saw two of them drop to the floor in flashes of red light. In this moment Harry found himself cheering the dark lord on, which was surreal. But honestly, did these muggles think chains would keep Voldemort from hurting them?

Harry's muggles brought dragged him out the door, and down the hallway. The lights were on every few feet here. The hall on cement or concrete. Shades of gray. Someone let out a shriek from one of the doors they passed. Harry's heart twisted in his chest. This was bad. Very, very bad.

"Wait. Wait, what's happening?" Harry asked, digging his feet into the ground. One of the muggles holding him jumped and swore in whatever language that was.

He was brought to a sterile metallic room he would come to loathe. Harry had never been to the doctor or to a scientist's lab, but even with his limited experience with Muggles outside of his relatives, Harry knew this wasn't where he wanted to be. Televisions were a thing and he'd seen glimpses of programs in his life. He knew you never wanted to be the guy strapped to the table. Some part of him came to life. A part determined to survive. Harry's body flung its self backward. His hands grasped the exposed wrists of his captors. The Gryffindor turned and rolled, he brought up his knee and kicked out. Shiny metal objected hummed and vibrated in their places along the counters of the room, some of them rising into the air and point toward the muggles.

Later he would ponder the excited looks on the muggles in lab coats faces. How the watched their uniformed comrades dissolved into dust in Harry's hands. No screaming came from them, oh know. They merely chatted with one another in their language, scribbling on their clipboards. Like they were robots.

Harry turned as soon as the last uniformed muggle fell away from him, clutching the arm that was quickly turning to ash. The door was only three meters behind him. He almost made it too. Metal doors slid shut inches from his fingertips. His body fell against it with a solid thump. Cursing, Harry whirled back around. Cornered. Caged in. The doctor muggles weren't like the uniformed ones though. They were ready for him. The one closest to Harry, a muggle with copper hair, stabbed his left arm with a large needle. Almost immediately Harry's legs turned to jelly and his head swam.

When he could focus again he was already strapped down to the table.

How long were they there? Harry couldn't have told anyone. Sometimes time dragged on for an eternity and others it passed so quickly. In between the moments where nothing at all happened -and those were few- his life was filled with moments of uncontrollable convulsing as men in lab coats turned dials on a machine connected to the wires on his head. Moments where they pried his mouth open; using thick gloves he couldn't get his power through, to shove a plastic tube down his throat. They poked and they prodded, reading information off of computer screens. When his magic flared up they got especially excited, talking to one another with big hand gestures. Then they'd do whatever they'd done again and again.

And again.

Then there was the darkness. Harry wasn't afraid of the dark. He grew up in the cupboard under the stairs, shoved away in a small dark place where no one would have to look at him. He wasn't afraid of the dark. The muggles liked that. He would be pulled into a cell in a room away from the one he normally shared with Voldemort. He still hadn't managed to escape, not that it would do Harry much good. The wizard would leave him here. This room had nothing in it. He was shoved into it, the door sliding closed behind him. Then the lights would go off. The first time they did it he found himself laughing incredulously. Time went by. A week in the dark maybe? This perhaps was their cue to up their game. The following day came with something new in the darkness. Every twenty minutes a bell sounded. It wasn't until the next day Harry realized they were keeping him awake. Well, he'd gone days without sleep before. He could do it again.

Then they stopped feeding him.

After these tests, he was brought to a new lab room. It was no longer the one with the strap down table. Harry had felt the fluttering of hope, at first. They'd grown bored of torturing him maybe.

He was very wrong. They were testing his healing abilities. Impressed by his lack of dying it seemed. Two hours later Harry would have given anything to go back to the electric shock room. Anything. The day ended. Then a prick to his neck and a return to his cell. This time the one with Voldemort. The small wizard sat in his cell ignoring the uniformed muggles now stationed in the cell at all times. Voldemort killed too many and Harry turned too many to ash. They were wary of them. Good, thought Harry. They ought to be. Stupid, stupid muggles.

Harry knew what was happening. It was the sort of horror story he'd heard a specific irritating Slytherin tell to his friends to keep them entertained -and frightened- when they were all forced to sleep in the great hall during his third year. Huddled in the plush purple sleeping bags in the dim candlelight there was little else to keep their minds off the mass murderer loose in their school. It had only been a story, one he thought certainly made up and bias, focusing on muggles as the villains, whom Malfoy was known for disliking, Yet here they were. Voldemort and he. Stolen away to a muggle lab Merlin knew where. Poked and prodded and injected with something only to wake up back in their cells.

He shouldn't have been surprised. Who better than he knew that sometimes nightmares weren't as much a fiction as you wished them to be?

Time went on. They fell into a routine. A routine of torture and darkness and testing and darkness. The men in uniforms had learned quickly to always keep them a bit tranquilized when moving them about. One thing the wizards in question could agree on was their shared ability to think on their feet. Any opening. Any opportunity. They seized it. Muggles lost limbs, sight, even memories. They took a special interesting in Harry after that particular incident. Or even more of one. His healing was still a topic of interest.

On a day where nothing happened for him, Harry sat in his cell staring up at the ceiling. Voldemort lay against the wall separating them, breathing heavily. He'd just finished whatever it was they did with him. They were the only ones in this room, a room they thought of as theirs. Harry didn't know if there were other magicals here or if those shrieks were from their own kind. These muggles were definitely insane.

"Potter," Voldemort whispered hoarsely.

Harry turned his green eyes lazily toward the window. "Riddle." They had yet to be caught while speaking Parseltongue. The muggles didn't even seem to realize they were communicating.

"Do you know how to shut it down? The machine that keeps the doors locked." Voldemort continued. "Do you think you could do it?"

Harry closed his eyes. He had thought of it of course. Leaning back against the wall, more for the support to stay upright than an effort to hear his only companion better, he replied, "I was never allowed around the computers. I don't know much about them. I think there should be an on and off switch though. If we could find it. If we could buy ourselves enough time to get out."

A plan. A flimsy one. One crafted more for the sake of keeping their hopes up than any real motivation to escape. They could not. They'd tried. And even if they did neither of them knew enough of machines and technology to do anything other than waste time while the muggles found them. Neither had come up with a way to get anywhere near where the computer or control room might be. They were never alone.

Harry found himself talking to Voldemort. Randomly almost. He'd mention something. He felt a need to, almost. To give the man an explanation why he was useless. "I hardly left the house." He would say, out of nowhere. "But to work the garden really. Even inside if I wasn't attending to my chores I was in my cupboard." Another day, who knew how long later, he would add, "I never received anything from them. I watched though. I watched my cousin on his gaming station and on his computer. I know the idea of it. If I could see a muggle doing it I think I could copy it."

Voldemort remained silent, usually, unless he had a question about the muggle technology. Rarely was Harry able to answer those questions to his satisfaction. Sometimes though, Riddle slipped through the veneer of Voldemort and offered vague remarks. Time passed. Time. Harry didn't know why he felt so guilty. So useless. He'd lived with muggles his whole life and here he was, held captive by them in a completely muggle facility and he didn't have a clue what more than half the gadgets and machines they saw were even called. They could have been on an alien spaceship for all the good his knowledge would do them.

One day Harry woke from a session to find himself in Voldemort's cell. They did this rarely. Usually when they wanted the dark lord to fix something rather than wait for Harry's magic to heal him. They'd become impatiently recently, Harry had noticed. His mind flittered with glimmerings of images and feelings from Voldemort. Their connection they had not utilized since their coming here. During the healing, the emotions changed abruptly from a solid, clear calm to one of confusion. Confusion to surprise to anger.

Harry was certain he heard Riddle calling Dumbledore a conniving bastard at one point. But really, who was he to talk? Dark Lords were as conniving as they came...

How odd.

This was the day it finally happened. The lights turned out all at once. Two minutes later a low humming sound came into being and dim lights came on. Alarms sounded through the compound. A raid, Harry's mind supplied. They listened to the sounds of gunfire. Of yells and shrieks. Would the attackers kill them as well? Did it matter? The door to their room unlocked and slid open with a hiss. Voldemort stood from where he'd been crouching over Harry. Harry couldn't see what was happening from his angle on the floor but he could guess what the muggles reaction to someone who looked like Voldemort might be. A saving people complex was more than useless when it compelled you to aid the very person who wanted to kill you. Complaining to himself mentally Harry struggled to his feet. Perhaps these muggles would stop if they saw Harry. For all intents and purposes, he looked normal. Maybe they would stop. Maybe they weren't like the others.

A gunshot. A murmured spell. A flash of light. Something hit him square in the chest.

The world went dark.

Pseudonymous Entity


Notes: Thoughts? Guesses? Questions? Theories? Limericks?

Post Script: I'm a bit excited to work on my first crossover. I read them often enough, I simply haven't posted one of my own before.

-Ever Yours. Pseu