A/N: Okay, folks, yet another answer to a Wizardsgirl challenge! Bear with me and my nonsense. Canon except for the deaths in OotP and DH (notice I don't say HBP; I have no Dumbledore Muse as of yet). Enjoy the voyage, ladies and gents!
DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Ninth Legion (That dubious honor belongs to the now defunct Roman Empire), The Eagle, or the awesomesause that is Harry Potter. All I own... Wait, I own my Muses! Ha!
WARNING: There is yaoi (boyXboy), so if you DO NOT LIKE, then DO NOT READ!
P.S. READ ME FIRST! Harry will be refered to as Cian (dark one in Gaelic) in later chapters. Harry is too casual and Hadrian (of which Harry could be a possible nickname) is far too Roman for the part he plays.
Marcus limped slowly to the entrance of the terrace that showed the wild grey sea and the pouring rain that made his knee ache fiercely. The pain was something he could handle; being discharged from the Legions was not. He stared moodily at his bracelet of valor. Such promise... And now he was a relic, discarded because he could no longer fight. His knee throbbed in time with the rain, making him wish for a miracle. Something, anything to drive away his pain and shame.
-Modern Day Britain; Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry-
Harry, or as he was now labelled by the tabloids "the Man Who Slayed the Dark Lord", was deeply concentrating on the Romulus Potion; a potential cure for the man he thought of as a second godfather. Snape, after being saved by Fawkes, was quieter than ever and, surprisingly, did not resent Harry any longer. When pressed for an explanation, the man answered consicely in his usual cool, silky voice, "You are more like your mother than you will ever know, Potter. At least your father did not taint her brightness too much." So, with much wrestling and verbal spats, Harry was now skimming through the copious amounts of Salazar Slytherin's Parseltongue Potions notes. Snape owned several such books, though how the man got them? He was going to leave that dog lying, thank you very much. He just translated what he read, using a very expensive Dicta-Quill. Of course, he'd had Snape check it over so that he didn't accidentally just rewrite the original Parseltongue. He was finished with that massive project... Finally. Salazar had invented a Potion to cure lycanthropy, several of which were very gruesome. He'd found the least bloody (as well as slightly sane) recipe and had looked far and wide for the ingredients. Brewing in the still-intact Potions classroom was easier than it had been in six years. Now in it's final stages, the potion was a beautiful mother-of-pearl, shimmering as it simmered.
"The last ingredient is- Some of the werewolf's hair? Human or wolf? Hmm... Professor?" He raised his voice only a little bit and felt, rather than heard, the man's silent presence now in the room.
"Yes, Potter? What on earth are you brewing?"
"The Romulus Potion, Professor. It says to use some of the werewolf's hair, but the-Wait, I was reading my translated version. Original says 'a hair from the wolf during the hieght of transformation. Let simmer until night of full moon, pluck hair, and then feed to wolf. Animagus is recommended with canine form.' Wow, Salazar was really detailed... Like he'd used this one before."
"I suppose so, Potter. We have your dogfather and his wolf is only crazy half the time."
"There's more, sir. 'No other suppressants may be used during this particular full moon. Could cause corruption of potion's integrity. I repeat, do not use other suppressants.' He must've run into a complication with them."
"Obviously, Potter, otherwise a Potions Master such as he would not document it otherwise." Harry chuckled dryly and took a casual step forward, the sleeve of his robe catching on the stirring rod, spilling the potion all over him. He gasped as everything went black.
Severus watched, horrified, as the potion spilled all over Lily's boy. Potter gasped and the area around the teen turned a frigtening shade of black. There was a popping noise and Lily's child was gone. Severus stepped carefully around the puddle of potion that was left and picked up a note in Potter's nearly illegible writing:
Parseltongue is an ingrained ability. If you've spoken it before, you can understand it, read it, and best of all, speak it. If I die (or do somthing equally weird) against ol' Moldycrotch, ask Ginny or Ron to translate these notes.
He pocketed the note and silently cast an Evanesco. That was the last he saw of Harry for the next three years...
-Roman-ruled Britannia; circa 140 A.D.-
Harry awoke slowly, every bone aching in his sore body.
"Urgh... What the hell was-Eep!" A spear slammed down into the ground in front of his face. "Whoa! Take it... Easy?" A Roman Legionnare's brown eyes bored into his own (apparently glasses free and his vision was 20/20) green. He switched languages real quick, since he and Hermione had been chatting casually in Latin for nearly a year now, scrambling upright in the process. "Ah, sorry about that."
"You've an accent." The monotone was a bit creepy.
"I'm a native, of course. My mothertongue is different."
"Ugh, a Britain."
"And a wizard, so be wary."
"Prove it." The man was severe, features harsh and craggy. Harry frowned as he checked (he was paranoid past caring whether or not he looked weird) for his survival kit. Whew, still there along with all his potions. He waved his hand and the Legionnare's spear hovered about two feet off the ground. With another, seemingly careless, wave, the spear landed in the man's hand. "Not enough."
"Do not mess in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger." Harry snarled, fed up with the man. "I shall prove such to you if you do not let me pass." The Legionnare's guard partner sized him up, apparently taking in his robes, the Gryffindor crest, the dirk strapped to his side and Gryffidor's sword.
"Better listen; he is being truthful."
"Lies. He is a native, and as such, a natural liar." Harry silently used the Levicorpus spell on the man and shook him soundly before throwing the man down from six feet in the air. "Monster."
Marcus gritted his teeth as the triumverate's son mocked his family name. His wounded knee was throbbing again, predicting more rain in a few hours. He sourly wished that the bastard sitting two seats in front and to the right of him would drown; but no such luck for him.
"What a shame, to lose the Eagle like that."
"You would mock my father's legacy?"
"What is there to mock, my dear boy? You obviously represent it." A crack sounded in the sudden silence, his fist through the solid oak table.
"Never mock my family. I will return with the Eagle. I will restore my family's honor." Marcus hissed, his voice deadly soft.
"And that of Rome, I think."
"Silence. I did not ask for your words."
Ending A/N: The adventure has started for our heroes! Wizardsgirl, your opinion matters greatly. R & R, folks!