One For All

Seiryuu

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance, Action & Adventure
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 31/12/2008
Last Updated: 31/12/2008
Status: in_progress

In 1766, the known world is threatened by the tremendous force of the Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort. Follow Harry Potter's quest to defeat Lord Voldemort, to create new friends, and to follow his father's legacy, and become a Gryffindor Musketeer. A story in the Dumas style, featuring swordfights and duels, noble quests and dastardly plots, friendship and love. Please read the note at the end and help me solve a dilemma!

Chapters

1. Preface/Prologue

1. Preface/Prologue

Title: One For All (Prologue/?)

Author's Name: Seiryuu

Author e-mail: kaneka@gmail.com

Category: Action/Adventure, Romance

Keywords: Alternate Universe, Musketeers, H/H, Action

Rating: R for violence and some language

Spoilers: None

Summary: In 1766, the known world is threatened by the tremendous force of the Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort. Follow Harry Potter's quest to defeat Lord Voldemort, to create new friends, and to follow his father's legacy, and become a Gryffindor Musketeer. A story in the Dumas style, featuring swordfights and duels, noble quests and dastardly plots, friendship and love.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situation created and owned by JK Rowling and Alexandre Dumas pére, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Preface
Editor’s Note

The tale of Harry James Potter and his two best friends, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, has now been spread all around the world. Children, adults, and even grandparents open the adventures transcribed by Mrs. Rowling. Harry Potter has cast a spell over the world. But—I digress.

I am a university student that majors in English history. Just a few years ago (I can remember the exact date: March 11, 1999), I left the University of California San Diego for a sabbatical research project. I was very eager to start my work in the real world. I started working at the British Museum (for those who are not thus informed, the British Museum has one of the largest collection of books to be found in the world. Only the American Library of Congress and the Bibliotheque Nationale de France rivals its completeness) on a literary project my employer had assigned to me. While searching for a book on the military tactics and units utilized by King George III of England, I happened upon an oddly bound book stuck between two huge encyclopedias. My curiosity piqued, I pulled it out gently to avoid harming the old piece of work any further.

At first it seemed to be a normal book. It was bound in leather and the cover was embossed with elaborate gold letterings. It seemed characteristic of any 18th century work. I was in the middle of putting it back onto the shelf when the title finally leaped out at me. The title was “The Memoirs of Chevalier Potter, Gryffindor Musketeer.”

Both the name of the illustrious man and the title Gryffindor Musketeer (which I must confess, I had never heard of in my previous forays into 18th century literature) seemed to me an anachronism. However, having read the wonderful fictional series written by Mrs. Rowling, I opened the book against my strong convictions.

There was enough evidence to suggest that this book was not a forgery, even though the pages seemed to be remarkably well preserved. I took the book to the head Librarian, who checked in the index and found that this particular work had been considered to be lost nearly a hundred years ago. I signed it out, and took it to the humble flat I then called home.

Upon closing the door, I threw the backpack onto the couch and ran to the kitchen table to peruse this interesting work. I touched the covers of the memoirs, and I could have sworn a twinkling flash of gold flew around the room. I stopped then (I admit letting my imagination get the best of me – childishly fearing curses or witchery), but the book, as if moved by an invisible power, opened of its own account.

Immediately I was thrown out of our time. I traveled to a scene that I now describe in the Prologue of this book. I was not there physically, but everything I had been carrying seemed to appear with me. I watched with horror as the poor protagonist was subject to the harshest of treatments over and over again. I wept as he wept. I smiled as he laughed. I watched as he met some of the finest friends in the world and proved his heroism through some of the greatest actions in the world.

Then it ended and I was back in my apartment.

Later, after much reflection, I came to the startling conclusion that this book had never been intended for a Muggle library (For, during those adventures that I experienced with the Chevalier Harry Potter, I came across wonderful feats of magic that could not be explained in any other way. Hence, I began to use their terminology for the magical world); instead, these memoirs must have been intended for the witches and wizards of this era. It came as somewhat of a shock to realize that the magical world may actually exist, believe me. For this could be no mere work of fiction, but a true-life account. I came to the wholly incredible conclusion that Mrs. Rowling had read the same book that I had, and created a more feasible tale out of it. My only conclusion was that this original masterpiece had been intended for the eyes of a powerful wizard.

Yet I had been blessed with the book.

I opened it over and over again, reviewing those events to as great detail as was possible. I used notepads, laptops, and even camcorders to help me faithfully record everything that occurred in that time period.

I have attempted in the chapters to follow to transcribe the same emotions that the book inspired in me. I have followed the events precisely; nothing happens in this book that did not occur in the Memoirs. Yet the words are all mine.

If this first book of the series does not capture your attention, do not blame the Chevalier Harry James Potter of the Gryffindor Musketeers. Blame me, your guide, for not being able to make you see the same vision that I did. But if these words do inspire you, remember that I have only transferred the emotions that the original work created. Just relax and allow me to lead you through a simple story of loyalty, friendship, mankind, and love.

Your Editor,

Brian J. Yoon

Prologue

Little Whinging, Surrey
July 1, 1766

Mr. And Mrs. Dursley of Little Whinging, Surrey, were perfectly normal subjects of the King, thank you very much. They lived in a small but comfortable house, and more importantly, they happily abided by the King’s laws. Most importantly (to them), they raised their only son Dudley to survive in the merchant world of England. He was to take over his father’s business, and even though he was just six years old, he had begun to follow his dear father to his work.

Mr. Vernon Dursley was a Muggle—something wizards called the non-magical folk—who believed in the righteousness of the United Kingdom, blessed be the King in all men’s eyes. He was a simple merchant, a seller of necessary household items; he owned a blooming business that he called Grunnings. The fact that he was not usually allowed into Camelot, the wizard capitol of England, hardly bothered him. It was an extraordinary castle, true, and not many normal people (in his opinion) knew of it. Still, Mr. Dursley tried to avoid going there as much as possible. Wizards (he grimaced to even think that word) had never been part of the world’s original plan of things, and thus could not be trusted.

On July 1, 1766, nothing out of ordinary happened in his wake-up schedule. His wife, Petunia, woke up earlier than he did to get his breakfast ready. Once his bacon and toasted bread were ready, she came back into their bedroom and prodded him awake (it only took a few gentle pokes to stir him out of his slumber). He walked to the town well slowly, still dazed by sleep, and drew two buckets of water before returning to his home on Privet Drive. He entered his house and left a bucket in the kitchen for Petunia to use. He entered his own room once more, and performed his morning toilet.

Soon, the town slowly started becoming active once more and the shouts of the passersby were enough to wake up their precious, darling son. At one glance, anyone could see that Vernon and Dudley were blood related; both shared the same pudgy body, with beady little eyes and small, fat fingers. Though he was only six, Dudley already outweighed most of the women of the town.

Dudley dispensed with the same morning rituals his father had performed and immediately joined him in eating the breakfast. They ate quickly, finishing the meal in mere moments; and just as quickly they were out the door, father and son, to sell their wares. Petunia stood in front of the door, waving cheerfully as her men drove the family wagon towards Greater London. She went back inside only when the wagon was no longer visible, lost in the twists and turns of the city street.

Even at his young age, Dudley was used to working with his father. While the elder Dursley sat next to his wares, Dudley would walk comically in the street in front of the wagon. His ‘cute’ face would draw the housewives to the stall, and they’d buy the cutlery, the dishes, and trinkets.

Mr. Dursley had long since grown accustomed to the busy hustle of the London streets and thus didn’t notice anything out of ordinary well until mid-afternoon. His wagon had been set up in the market district, and thus a considerable distance from the Royal Palace of London, but he suddenly realized that on that quiet day he had seen quite a large number of armed men pass by. Being a sensible yet curious man, he decided to pay a lot more attention next time such a group passed by.

He didn’t have to wait long. Not twenty minutes later, a group of the King’s musketeers stalked up the street, animatedly talking to each other. Dudley ran to Mr. Dursley’s arms, smiling and giggling.

“Daddy,” Dudley said in a loud, bossy voice, “who’re those people?”

Mr. Dursley shushed him. Then in a whisper he said to his son, “Those are the Gryffindor musketeers, son. Don’t go near them; they can be dangerous.”

Dudley eyed the “dangerous” musketeers with interest. There were four walking down the street together and they painted quite an impressive picture. They wore shining gold breastplates with a multicolored crest painted over the middle, red pants, and black boots polished to shine in the sun. Three wore leather hats with white feathers in them tipped in a haphazard manner. Their white cloaks swirled around them as they walked, and those behind them saw the illustrious golden lion embroidered on the cloaks. The cloaks shifted occasionally, letting Dudley see their deadly rapiers by their side and the muskets slung over their shoulders. They moved quickly, giving off a dangerous air of readiness; they did not look arrogant, but their stride definitely looked… confident.

Dudley sniffed, and pointed at the closest musketeer. “Daddy, I want one of those uniforms!” Mr. Dursley stared at his son, shocked. Oh no, he thought, dread growing in his thoughts, they heard! They’re going to punish my darling son!

The musketeers stopped walking and tossed amused grins at each other. The one he had pointed at stepped closer towards the wagon. He was tall and young, though it was evident he was no stranger to battle. Mr. Dursley could see the battle slashes on his gloveless hands. He feared for his son.

“Well, son,” he drawled in a foreign accent, “you’ll have to work a bit more if you want to join up with us, the Gryffindor musketeers!” He winked at Dudley. Dudley stared at the scars on the musketeer’s hands with fascination in his eyes.

Mr. Dursley drew Dudley closer to him. “He’s not one of you!” He hissed softly, trying to keep his neighbors from hearing. “He’s a normal human!”

The musketeer in front of them raised an eyebrow and Dursley began to rue his impatient behavior. The soldier shook his head and stepped forward. Dursley drew back involuntarily. The musketeer grinned but Dursley could see the dangerous glint in his eye. “So you’re one of the few Muggles that know of the… of our world. Just to let you know, bigot, we’re just like you Muggles. And the Gryffindor musketeers don’t discriminate; women and Muggles can join, if they show the skill.”

Another musketeer laughed from behind him, and the one who had approached Dudley turned his head. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Imran,” the older man said, “let’s get going. Enough of your propaganda, we’ve got more important things to do.”

Imran nodded and tipped his hat at the little boy before he stepped back to join his comrades. They started walking again unconcernedly, and Dursley heard a snippet of their conversation:

“… yes, the ingenious captain… They found…”
“Death Eaters? Are you sure? He can’t have…”
“… his son! Oh, God, Harry… only six years old…”

Dursley drew back. A six year old son named Harry? While Dudley walked into the street once more, unaffected by the small conversation, his father could not concentrate on his trade. His usually sluggish mind tried to churn thoughts out at full speed. (At least he managed to reach three quarters speed.)

What Mr. Dursley could only think about at that moment was his sister-in-law’s family. Although Petunia, bless her heart, was perfectly normal, her sister Lily was another matter. She had been… a witch… (even in his thoughts, Mr. Dursley tried to skip over that word very quickly), and had married another famous wizard. He couldn’t remember the silly chap’s name really, but he was sure that he had become a Gryffindor musketeer. And something told him that they had a son who was the same age as his own.

“What was his name?” he mumbled to himself. “James, Christopher, or some such. Beastly common name, whatever it was.” It couldn’t have been Harry, could it?

And the Death Eaters that they had been talking about. Dursley was horribly afraid of those mysterious rebels, those who killed and pillaged without restraint. The good King Fudge had attempted many times to crush their forces, but every time the army marched to the supposed meeting place, only a trap waited to spring in their faces. Dursley could still remember, with horror, the night the reblels ran through the streets of Little Whinging, screaming with hysterical laughter and firing off those evil signs into the air…

The Dursley men returned to their humble abode an hour before sunset, where they cleaned up and ate their dinner. Through it all, Vernon stayed quiet, keeping his fears to himself. Dudley, of course, was oblivious to it all and threw a tantrum over having to eat leftover pork. It took Mrs. Dursley almost a full twenty minutes to calm down her “Dinky Duddlidums.”

Finally, once Dudley had been put to bed, Mrs. Dursley came down to rest in the glow of the fireplace. Mr. Dursley stared at his wife for a full minute before deciding to ask her. “Er—Petunia, dear—you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?”

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn’t have a sister.

“No,” she said sharply. “Why?”

“Funny stuff I’ve heard in London today,” Mr. Dursley mumbled. “The Gryffindor musketeers were scouring the streets, all in an uproar over something or other. Something about a famous musketeer of theirs finally falling to those damned Death Eaters of You-Know-Who.”

“So?” snapped Mrs. Dursley.

“Well, I just thought… maybe… it was something to do with… you know… that husband of hers.”

Mrs. Dursley stared out of her window for a moment, looking at the setting sun. She didn’t reply to her husband’s comment.

Mr. Dursley hated to rouse up any foul memories but he felt curious and bound to try to find out the truth. “They have a son same age as Dudley, don’t they?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Dursley snapped. “Though I have no idea why you’re asking me this. Harry Potter and his father are well away from here, and there’s hundreds of famous Gryffindor musketeers. No need to air dirty laundry over some silly gossip, is there?”

Mr. Dursley didn’t think that military talk from musketeers was gossip at all, especially when they were talking of people dying. But Mr. Dursley was a man who didn’t want trouble within the family. “Yes, dear,” he said meekly and turned to blow out the candle. Of course, as coincidence would have it, he didn’t notice the small gathering pulling up in front of his door.

Unlike what Mr. Dursley probably would have thought at first glance, this band of troops was hardly made of thieves or vagabonds. Though they all wore gray, nondescript cloaks over their bodies, they had no items to use to break into the apartment. One of the figures carried a gray lump in his arms. The other three cloaked figures were of average build and height.

The tallest, obviously a leader, leaned on a staff and whispered a few words. Slowly but surely, all the candles on the street slowly clicked off, as if doused with a bucket of water. Now in complete darkness, the tall man nodded satisfactorily, and grabbed his staff once more. “Lumos Personae,” he said, and a small glow of light surrounded the party. To anyone else trying to look outside their windows, they would have still seen only complete darkness.

One of the hooded figures impatiently threw back his hood. “Damn it, Albus,” he said, pushing black hair out of his face, “are you sure we need to do this? We can guard him at Moonie’s place, if needs to be.”

The aforementioned man nodded, and pulled his hood back also. “Padfoot is right, Albus,” Remus Lupin said, a solemn look on his face. “Harry’s just been through a horrible, horrible ordeal. I don’t want him to suffer with these… Muggles… who might not understand how to take care of him. At my place, at least, the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws could help him deal with his pain and anger.”

The third, a woman this time, looked down at the bundle in the leader’s arms. When she moved her head back the light fell on the bundle and showed a tired and sleeping face of a boy. She stared disapprovingly at Remus, and then turned to look at the aged leader. “Sir Dumbledore, I hope you’re right about this. This boy’s future may be in the balance here.”

Albus Dumbledore chuckled, a warm and (somehow) wise sound. “Minerva, after forty years of helping to guide the brash King’s actions, you still refuse to call me by my first name. These young Captains of the Order don’t seem to have the same problem you do.” Sirius Black and Remus Lupin flushed slightly and shifted uncomfortably.

Dumbledore shook his head. “What you two do not realize, my young soldiers, is that Harry Potter cannot be raised by the musketeers. What do you think will happen to him when surrounded by so much tradition, so much pampering?”

Thoughtful nods came from all three. Both Sirius and Remus thumped their chest with their right fist simultaneously and murmured the words, “Honor before Fame, Love before Hate, and Justice before Revenge.” But the mantra was spoiled in part when Sirius growled, “but I swear to God that I will find the bastards who did this deed and shove my sword through their throats.”

Dumbledore looked solemnly at the brash musketeer. “Sirius Black, I realize James Potter’s death has hit you hard, and you too, Remus Lupin. But something far graver is at stake. Voldemort—” (all three flinched at that word; Dumbledore continued speaking, as if nothing had happened) “—has struck once again, diminishing our numbers. If it helps ease your mind, my young friends, James Potter died with his sword in his hand, defending his family. That is all a man can ask for.”

They stood silently for a moment, letting that speech settle in their minds. Dumbledore coughed slightly. Minerva McGonagall started then nodded. “All right, then,” she said, sighing, “I guess it’s time for young Harry Potter to meet his new family.” She pulled out a wand from her cloak and pointed it at the young boy, but Dumbledore stopped the movement.

“No, Minerva,” he said, “let the boy rest. He’s had quite a night.”

She nodded and replaced her wand to its original position. She sighed sadly. “We lost a great man tonight,” she said, “I just hope young Potter can live up to his father’s legacy.”

Minerva reached forward and knocked loudly on the wooden door in front of her, and waited for the inhabitants to answer. When Vernon Dursley finally did open the door, he let out a loud gasp at what lay waiting for him. Introductions were made and explanations given, but it was almost morning before the guests left, this time without their six-year-old charge.

And through it all, Harry Potter slept, for a moment oblivious to the pain. A bright red scar, exactly in the shape of a lightning bolt, was seared into his forehead, but it did not matter for now. For now, Harry Potter was at peace. For now, everything was all right in the world for him.

-End of Prologue

A\N: I found this in my old files, and I was wondering if others would find it intriguing enough for me to pursue the entire thing. I’m not sure if I should work on this or Memories (which I believe can be found on this site). Please let me know via e-mail or review which you would find more interesting!