Hello Lovelies; this is Rose Basilisk007, and... My dear friend; KaruKageXP. I'm going to tell you a story before you read the actual one. So, Karu and I go to the same Uni, we tend to allow our plot animals-because they aren't always bunnies- to frolic in the mental fields together whilst we have tea. One day one of my plot otters lost his blue scarf, he went in search for it but couldn't find it. Eventually, he came upon a plot hedgehog that belonged to Karu. The hedgehog went up to the otter and gave him his scarf; as he'd heard the otter had been looking for it. As it so happened, they found themselves inexplicably drawn to each other... And then things happened. Karu and I came upon the couple not long after their hodder was born-and it was EPIC! So we visited the little family often, and as the hodder grew, it told us an epic plot. This is that plot

So Karu and I are co-authoring this story. It will also be on her page, you should all go there, simply because it is polite... wait a wee bit, though, she needs to do some cleaning on it. You can all read now. Ta

Prologue- Trouble usually finds me

A cave— turn of the twentieth century

Merlin sat on the stone; his glamour had been dropped once he'd entered. The last Great Dragon sat in the depths of the cave below. The Cave reminded Merlin of the original cave he'd met the Dragon in. At least his old friend was no longer physically imprisoned; still, once the sanctuaries had been established the last true Dragon had gone underground again. He preferred it to the idiots who "ran" the reserves. Merlin didn't blame the ancient being.

He had long ago dropped out of the magical community, solely watching from afar, he'd felt no reason to truly be a part of either community since… Well, since his other half had passed.

"You've dropped the glamour, ancient warlock," greeted the Dragon. Merlin gave his lopsided grin to his old friend. The great wings beat a furious wind that brought the gigantic being to the upper level where Merlin sat. The Dragon, once settled, gave an amused yet curious look at the Warlock.

"You've come for a reason," he said. Merlin knew it wasn't a question.

"I've been watching the work that… Arthur and I did. I know you feel the magic, or rather the lack there of, as I have. Most of the other magical beings have—I'd ask the druids but they've all gone. Something went wrong, back then, in Camelot," Merlin said.

"What do you plan to do about it, dear warlock. Camelot is centuries past, and even you and I cannot manipulate time to that degree," said the Dragon.

"I have concluded that we didn't create Albion. You know, don't you, that he died too soon. We didn't actually complete our destiny—if we had he wouldn't be dead or I wouldn't be breathing. So Albion was not truly created," Merlin said. He was proud that he'd kept himself from choking; even after centuries he still felt his heart crack at the mention of Arthur or his death. His missed his other half more than any could understand, and the pain had only mounted as the eon had passed by.

"I know, he is the 'Once and Future King' after all. However, you did not answer as to why you are here. Do you have a plan to rectify this…predicament. Merlin gave another cracked smile. He rarely smiled at all since Arthur's death, and even then they were broken and shoddy imitations.

"I do have a plan. A way to fix things, to set them right. I require your assistance, however. This will take a lot of magic," said the immortal wizard.

"May I ask what this magic will be used for?"

"My 'death'."

Modern Day—St. Bart's hospital, London

John Watson sat by a bed in the critical care unit of the hospital. The patient was stable, which was why he was allowed to sit in the room. Sherlock lay in the hospital bed, dressed in the white patient's clothing and tucked under the linen. His arms connected to multiple medical monitors and devices to assist in his healing.

John wasn't actually worried about his…Friend's physical injuries. Well, he was actually quite worried about them, but they weren't his priority. Sherlock was also injured in a mental sense; and that scared John shitless. More than anything else in his life ever had; even when he'd nearly lost his life under that hot desert sun.

They'd been on the trial of a serial killer; one who tortured and murdered attractive gay men. Sherlock had been in the flat, physically, as he had retreated to his mind palace that day, and John had gotten called to the surgery. When John had returned it was to an unconscious Mrs Hudson and an empty flat. The sheet Sherlock had draped himself in strewn on the floor.

They'd found Sherlock near twelve hours later in the cellar of the mad man's house. In truth, John had found it first, mostly because he was the only one who understood Sherlock's vague clues, and had subdued the killer—Mycroft would most likely be getting involved to keep John out of the courts for it. Lestrade and his men had shown up when John called for emergency medical assistance.

Sherlock had been tortured with a lot of zeal; if the extent of his injuries was anything to go by, John had never seen anything like it. Sherlock had shown a slight response at John's voice but had lost consciousness after that. John had done his best to stem the flow of dark blood that had flooded out of the consulting detective.

Mike Stamford had told John three hours ago, when he'd been allowed into Sherlock's room, that there was no permanent damage; some scaring was very possible, but nothing debilitating. The pain, though, that Sherlock had experienced in those twelve hours of hell on earth was a different matter. The pain had been so great, they theorised, that Sherlock's mind couldn't handle the sensory intake and had induced a coma to stop the pain; that's where most of the serious damage laid. In the detective's most valued organ.

So here John sat, three hours later, at Sherlock's side; watching his dear friend lay still for the first time since John met him. Well, there had been Sherlock's "death" three and a half years ago; but that didn't count because Sherlock had had a hand in that. This was real; his friend was lying there, he may never wake, and John was helpless.

Ministry of Magic, London-same day as Sherlock's torture

It wasn't that Harry was purposefully terrible at occlumency; it was just that his mindscape was organised as a mind-castle. Harry, for his part, blamed it on his childhood obsession with King Arthur and Camelot. It would have been perfect for protecting his-self, if he hadn't ended up modelling it on Hogwarts. He hadn't meant to, it had just sort of happened.

So now here he was, in his mind castle trying to find the invader; one Dark Lord Voldemort. The ministry had transfigured itself into a major cluster fuck when the snake faced bastard arrived. Now Harry was, technically, possessed and Harry just knew Voldemort was doing something very naughty with his body—he was sure of it.

What made it worse was that there was something else in his mind; he'd been aware of it ever since he'd created his mind castle to escape to from the severe beatings Vernon had given him. Originally it had just hidden beneath the castle, but after second year the hidden room had turned into the Chamber of Secrets; and Harry flat out refused to go through something like that again. Yet once Voldemort invaded his mind, he'd felt the Chamber door open, so he technically had two enemies to deal with.

I'm starting to think I should have just tried to get rid of it, when I realised I could get in, Harry thought bitterly as he crept through the shadows of the corridor towards the Great Hall. He felt Voldemort's presence there and was approaching with great caution. Suddenly there was a large hiss from behind and Harry dived out into the light just in time to escape the strike of a mind basilisk. He ended up landing in front of the grand staircase.

"Harry Potter," came a hissy voice from the doorway to the Great Hall. There stood the Darkest Lord since, perhaps, Morgana herself. The snake like warlock eyed the basilisk with curiosity before realisation dawned upon his features.

"I see, I must have made an unintentional Horcrux that night. Interesting, Kill him," Voldemort hissed. Harry didn't know what a Horcrux was, but he figured it had something to do with the night his parents died and why he seemed to be connected to the evil bastard.

Harry rolled as the snake struck and got to his feet. The younger warlock ran up the stairs. The snake striking out, taking chunks of ancient stone and marble with its actions. Harry didn't have his wand, he'd never needed it in his mind castle—so it was somewhere in the physical world. To be honest, Harry only needed the wand to help channel his power; otherwise his magic was just too much for him to control. It was too strong and to wild for him to use by himself—which was why he was in this predicament to begin with. He'd been too busy watching the amazing control the Light and Dark lords held over their magic.

I don't really have a choice, though. Not if I want to survive, Harry told himself as he ran through the halls of the castle. Harry didn't know what spell to use. The fangs of the serpent snagged upon his robe, because whilst in the castle he tended to wear a non-descript uniform. Harry felt himself being yanked back towards death, but he just barely escaped by sliding out of his robe. He ducked and rolled to a stop; allowing momentum to carry the gigantic serpent further down the corridor before it turned. Yet Harry was moving as soon as it passed him; getting to his feet and running in the direction he'd come.

Harry ran down the stairs and along the second floor corridor; maybe if he got to the headmaster's office, the central control to his mind, he'd be able to gain back control. He never found out if that theory was correct, however, as Voldemort stood in front of the gargoyle. Harry skidded to a stop, his heart thumping faster than a sentry jackrabbit.

Harry could feel the fiend fyre Voldemort had set below; leaving ruins in its wake as it spread through out his lower levels and the courtyards. Voldemort gave a soft, and vicious smile at the young warlock as they heard the basilisk Horcurx slither closer to them. Harry was now trapped, nowhere to go without death reaching him.

Harry's only thought was to purge his mind of the fyre, the Horcrux and the dark bastard before him.

I just want them gone, I want them purged from my castle! Harry screamed to himself. His magic ran rampant at the thought; killing curse green flames tinged with gold sprung forth from Harry's centre. He heard a loud hiss and a high-pitched wail of pain as the flames engulfed the dark pair. The incandescent flames didn't stop, however, running on the pure emotion of Harry they swept through the castle; wiping out the fyre below but destroying much itself. Harry slipped into darkness from the sheer force of his magic.

When the fifteen year old awoke, he noticed scorch marks everywhere, realising he'd released pure magic in an effort to be rid of his invaders. He turned his head to the left, to see the entryway to the headmaster's office.

That… is just typical. Just bloody typical, he thought when he looked.

His purging flames had destroyed the staircase to office. He was now stuck in his mind castle, with no way out.

The Ministry of Magic entryway, London- after the purging

Everyone was gathered in the entryway; the battle in the execution chamber having ended and ministry officials having arrived just moments before. Harry had been twisting and writhing on the floor in agony for near three hours; being possessed by Voldemort was legendary for the brutal pain the evil man put his victims through. None could get near him to help as it was dangerous to the boy. Suddenly Voldemort ripped himself from the child; an agonising screaming ripping from both their throats.

The journalists present snapped pictures of the returned Dark Lord as everyone else gasped. All too frozen with terror to do anything. Before even Albus could react a bright, gold tinged incandescent green light of pure magic rippled from Harry Potter's arching body. Voldemort let out another scream as the magic surrounded him and ripped his body apart.

When the magic dissipated there was no Dark Lord anywhere, only shredded, smouldering robes where he had once stood. Harry Potter, the boy-who'd-slayed-the-Dark-Lord was still and prone on the floor. No tension, no movement; they would have all thought him dead except for the shallow rising and falling of his chest.

A/N: the chapters will be published in groups of three so updates will be longer than my norm. Ta