To the Masses: Gosh, another day another story. I just had to though, because the idea has been plaguing me for a while. I had a little breakthrough yesterday, devoured a couple of Harry/Dean stories, and then got to writing my own….Yay?

Warnings: OOC, AU, Slash (Harry/Dean, duh), bad grammar, choppy concepts, leaves more questions than answers, so on and so forth.

Disclaimer: I don't own it. Alright?

Chapter One

"Ideas pull the trigger, but instinct load the gun," said Don Marquis

He wasn't raised surrounded by the warmth of magic, he would even admit to knowing very little about the world he had jumped into when he was eleven. He cursed himself for not learning about his surroundings, about the transportation, the fashions, the laws. Hell, he didn't even know where he would begin to search for something like a grocery store for witches and wizards. It was as if all of that extra studying at night, behind the red drapes on his bed, while everyone else was asleep -it just felt all useless. He felt useless.

It was hard not to feel so utterly ineffective when he was being pinned to a headstone in the middle of a graveyard. He could barely turn his head, and even when he did his neck and back would radiate such an intense pain that he didn't want to anyways. His arms were held in place by a stone scythe, and his legs were numb as they just dangled there. His scar even burned, more than it every had before. The pain radiated through his head and spread throughout his body, so intensely that had begun to blur.

None of that compared to the emotional pain he was feeling. Passed his adrenaline and his fear he felt such a sadness and hopelessness as he replayed the moment of Cedric's death over and over in fast forward, the green light that flew towards him and the way his body crumpled to the ground. The warmth that was leaving his body as his blood stopped flowing as his body began to loose color.

Harry should have known it was a bloody port-key. At the very least he should have realized the final task would have some sort of trap waiting for him. All of the signs pointed towards a final and dramatic act that would end in his death. His name in the goblet, all of the little clues that were being left around, Snape's stolen ingredients, and especially Moody. Harry knew he was a fake the moment he made of spectacle out of himself and his first entrance as a Professor. If that hadn't tipped him off, then he should have known by the man's complete obsession with the Unforgivables.

He knew because he did his own research, while the others weren't looking. The Ministry kept public records on several things -including Dueling Tournaments that they host. He'd found them the very day that someone had mentioned their Charms Professor being a Master Duelist, and Moody has also struck him as someone to keep an eye on. Through all of those records he learned several new spells, and the one spell that was used more often than not was one that sent a stinging sensation through a persons body. Usually the opponent would drop their wand in shock and then be knocked out by a quick stunner or sleeping curse. It was Alastor Moody's favorite technique, and the Unforgivable Obsessed Fake obviously hadn't done his homework.

He'd told Dumbledore his suspicions, but before he could explain his evidence he was brushed off. The Headmaster insisted that Moody was actually the one and only. Harry couldn't do very much after that, or so he was told. Instead he focused on keeping away from the man and pulling his friends along with him. He should have known the Fake was up to something -Well, he did. He thought the Fake had something to do with an insurance scandal that the Carrow Family had been concocting, it was all over the papers. Harry wasn't sure what it was all about, but the appearance of a spy at the school sounded like something the stupid Ministry would try.

He was pulled out of his self-loathing rants as Wormtail approached him. He was saying something, as Harry could see his lips moving, but he couldn't her a damned thing. Blood was pounding in his ears in the combination of his migraine, the undoubtedly bruising along his spine, and the adrenaline coursing through his blood.

His blood -he suddenly realized, as Wormtail held a silver knife against his skin. Silver for the Moon Goddess and cleansing. His blood had to be pure when it went in, that's what it meant. The Moon was also full that night, he thought softly as he tried to kick the little traitor. His numb legs missed and Wormtail let out a high pitched squeal of laughter.

The rat faced man carefully walked back to the cauldron; black, size twenty or twenty two, burning over a large fire. The potion inside needed plenty of heat, and the bastard and his demon-slash-Voldemort baby needed it in large quantities. Harry watched as the knife was tipped sideways and his blood hit the surface of the bubbling concoction. It was tan and turned into a dark shade, he couldn't tell what color in the dark even if the moonlight was shining so brightly.

He paid no attention as the fool cut off his own hand without hesitation. He had an idea, and a bloody awful one as far as sudden idea's went. He didn't want to, but he had no choice. It would hurt like hell when he was doen and leave him as vulnerable as a goldfish outside of it's bowl, but it was the only idea he'd had so far.

He bent his head back and let his green eyes take in the pregnant girth of the moon, delving deep into himself and used the agony and the guilt to push his magic out of his body. The magic stayed connected to him and his core by a thread, and felt strained as well as exhilarating. Without that thread his whole body would probably be drained and he would die.

The power he felt dove into the stone that held him, the earth, the graves, and the bodies of the dead. The earth gave way to his magic and joyfully toyed with the power. He wove it into every precious stone an natural proxy within miles, he flexed his magical muscles and the power kept multiplying. Soon enough the stone around him broke under the strain and he tumbled to the ground.

His bright green eyes gleamed silver for seconds after they left the sight of the orb of night, but the connection had still been broken. He could no longer see or hear, but he could still feel. The magic that he'd sent out was still rampaging free and was tearing or healing everything it could. He tried his hardest to pull it away from the dead, he wasn't quite ready to commit necromancy. It continued to delve deeper into the earth than it every had when he'd practiced alone, and it reached minerals that he wasn't familiar with.

There was one that was comforting, that his magic clung to even while he was on the verge of passing out. His magic wrapped around the salt of the earth, keeping him alive from a distance as he lost the rest of his senses. In the part of his mind that was still aware he knew that it wasn't supposed to happen that way, his connection was never supposed to break.

The only comfort he still had was his faith in the earth and the moon and that they would take him home. They would take them both home and the Traitor and his Lord would pay. Fate was a bitch, was something he'd heard often enough in his mind, but at least this time she would be directing her sick sense of humor at someone else.

To Those Who Just Read:

Well that's the shittiest first chapter I think I've ever written. Wait, no it's not…but it's pretty close.

I posted the second chapter along with this one to avoid confusion and to make up for this one.


Asmodeus by She Who Cannot Be Turned

You Leave the World Behind by Moriarty's Minion

They're both awesome as…as *thinks* Homemade Apple Pie, you know -with a little vanilla ice cream on the side.

I like reviews and quotes,