London Nights (Harry Potter/Fate-Stay Night)

I actually did post much of this in the Tribble Emporium. Part of what inspired me to write this was reading "Herwald von Einzbern and the Philosopher's Stone." I hate to be elitist, but after reading, I thought I could do better.

I'll admit that I'm bending some of the Nasuverse rules, but please tell me if I horrifically mess things up. So, enjoy.

Index of Chapters

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11 (1 of 2)

Chapter 11 (2 of 2)

Chapter 12

Chapter 1

They'd cut him off from his friends. He ran, pursued by the huntress. Without a master to hold her leash, there was nothing to prevent her excesses. She smelled of blood and death. Glittering trails of spells passed through the air around him. Aiming a wand was difficult enough already while standing, to say nothing of running. However, he was younger and in much better physical condition than his pursuer.

He jumped over a desk, barely breaking stride as he ran. There she was, relentless like a juggernaut. He swung his wand around and cried out a spell name, sending a bolt of magic that crossed the distance in an instant. Nonetheless, the witch was able to twist around to avoid it. A manic grin crossed her face as she cast her own spell while pushing off from the desk. He motioned once more with his wand. The bolt diffused against the barrier. This was but a part of her plan. In a fight between youth and strength and age and treachery, the age and treachery tended to win.

The feet planted themselves in his chest, bringing him to the ground. Agony surged through his spine as he crashed to the hard tiles. The fist broke his nose with an ugly snap. His vision temporarily turned white. Bellatrix dipped her fingers into the blood with the gentleness of a lover's caress. She tasted the life-giving fluid with a predatory glee. A mean-spirited smile threatened to split her face.

“Problem, Ickle Harry?”

“Yeah, your face.”

The bony plate of his skull smashed into her nose. There was the same ugly snap of broken bone. It dazed her for an instant, but for the desperate, an instant could seem like an eternity. The brain delivered the impulse. The nerves directed the impulse. The muscles carried out the impulse. His knuckles smashed into her cheek in blistering left hook. Her head whipped about. The brain again delivered the impulse. Harry slipped out from under her weight and began to run again. The hot trail of spell scorched the side of his face as he ran. It was the right choice to run. Soon enough, another pair of feet began to pound against cool tile.

He ducked behind a large shelf of books. The tomes were musty and old. Each was undoubtedly worth a fortune both for their knowledge and value. With a single spell, knowledge collected by wizards for centuries turned into so much shredded, flying paper. The shelf began to topple. The old wood creaked and groaned under unforeseen stresses. Gravity took hold, and the shelf slammed into another with the snapping sound of splintering wood. Books tumbled in a tidal wave of paper, parchment, leather, and glue.

The huntress was faster, sliding to halt just outside the dominoes of falling shelves. The insane grin was still on her face. He ran, dodging spellfire and slinging back his own curses and hexes. There was a decided contrast in the strings of spells cast by the two. He cast his spells in a disorganized fashion, casting the first useful ones that came to mind. He would cast a stunning spell, then a blasting spell, and then a disarming spell. She, on the other hand, cast her spells in a manner designed to punch through his meager defensive abilities. She would, in contrast, cast a blasting spell, then a disarming spell, and then a stunning spell. Her master did want the boy alive, at least for the moment.

Nonetheless, the boy could not help but enjoy himself. Yes, it was a life-or-death situation. Yes, he was exhausted. Yes, his friends were fighting on their own. A surge of primal power swelled through his veins. In all humans, there was an instinct to kill or be killed, to choose fleeing or fighting. Even when running, he still chose to fight. For the boy, it made perfect tactical sense to fight a running battle. He was an athlete in excellent condition, particularly with regards to endurance and cardio. Mrs. Lestrange was middle-aged and had only recently come out from one of the most brutal prisons envisioned by the human eye. Provided that the fight was purely a contests of physical strength, he had the advantage.

The boy ducked into another row of shelves. For this occasion, he did not intend to topple the tomes. He paused to catch his breath. His legs ached, and all his muscles began to quiver and tremble. Still, he had gained at least a temporary respite. He looked down the rows of untoppled bookshelves and saw a door. The portal could bring him to return and fight alongside his comrades. At the very least, he would put more space between him and the huntress.

The lightning flash of a revolving blade barely had time to register before a sharp pain occupied his thigh. The cold steel slid between muscle with ease. Red blood oozed out to stain the leg of his trousers.

There was one fundamental flaw in his choice of tactics to deal with her. He forgot the terrain in which he was fighting. The tight and cramped quarters favored light and handy things like wands, and the obstructed visibility reduced ranges to those where wands were most effective. Ordinarily, this should not have been an issue, with both sides being at an equal advantage. Indeed, there was some advantage to the boy with razor sharp reflexes in a close-quarters duel. However, there was a vast power gap between them. At a range where magic was extremely effective, the advantage lay with the huntress. Moreover, these same close quarters also served to slow down his running, closing the physical gap. The greatest advantage for the older witch was the twisting and confusing and poorly lit nature of the battleground. For her, one of greater experience and treachery, it allowed her many options for nasty ambushes and trickery.

The knife which had buried its blade in his leg was a result of the environmental trickery. She had stealthily climbed all the way to the top of a bookshelf, being very careful not to tip it over. From there she was able to spot him. Knowing that a spell would give her away, she decided to make usage of the knife that she habitually carried with her. She had then thrown the knife. Knife-throwing was always somewhat of a gamble as to whether or not the knife would land with the blade in target, but the huntress was more than experienced in the ways of the knife. This expertise greatly reduced the margin of error. Additionally, the wild gamble of knife-throwing suited her personality quite well.

He limped toward the door. Blood trickled down his leg and onto the floor, leaving an obvious trail. The huntress smiled, leaping from bookshelf to bookshelf with the grace of a panther. She climbed down quite near to the boy and rushed out, wand at the ready as he made his appearance. He too had his wand at the ready. It was a battle of two lightning quick reflexes. The brain delivered the impulse. The nerves directed the impulse. The muscles carried out the impulse.

The boy was faster and managed to cast a stunning spell in the middle of her spell.

She finished her own spell before the stunner hit. It was a cutting spell aimed toward the tendons in his wand arm. Air distorted as the spell made its path. Green eyes widened in recognition. He began to sidestep to avoid the spell, but his leg gave out on him. Nonetheless, this sudden motion was enough to avoid the distorted air of the cutting spell. It was a close call, though. It shredded the sleeve of his robe. The dark fabric floated in the air like a vulture circling a meal.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he crawled. Blood dripped from the knife wound, but he didn't dare to remove it. To do so would likely increase the bleeding, and he'd end up bleeding out on the floor within minutes. He was already starting to feel lightheaded. Muscles and sinews strained as he righted himself. He continued his march, moving past the door. With a quick spell, the doors slammed shut.

Drip. Drip. Drip. More crimson left behind a trail for the huntress.

Pain was a constant. From his broken nose to the knife lodged in his thigh, there was only an agony. So great a pain brought a mist over his senses. There was no sense of real direction, merely a sensation forward. Perhaps forward would bring an end to his pain.

Step. Step. Step. Striving forward to success, that was his way.

He rested a weary body against a wall. Already, a small puddle was forming. He pushed ever onwards. Not even the huntress could stop him. Not even the Dark Lord could stop him. Not even the very fires of hell would stop him. He would reach his goal. Nothing would stop him.

His vision began to grow grey. He had lost all too much blood.

“It can't end. Not like this.”

“I'm afraid it can, Ickle Harry.”

The twisted witch had returned. Step by elegant step, she approached. There was nothing to be done. A quick flick of her wand and an incantation forced his legs to lock up. That gaunt, insane visage taunted him every step of the way.

“My master wants you alive, at least for the moment.”

She cackled at her own joke.

“I've temporarily put your legs into stasis with that spell. No bleeding out for you, not until my master declares that you should. Now hand over the prophecy.”

With this question, a burning rage wormed its way through his heart and spread throughout his body. There was only one response to her.

“Over my dead body!”

“That can be arranged.”

All the while, he had been groping around for some method of escape. There was no door behind him, but one of the bricks had felt different. Thankfully, the gloom afforded him some secrecy during this action. The huntress would soon be upon him, and there would be no opportunity for this sort of subterfuge.

His hands felt a brick different from all the rest. There was nothing to do but go forward. He pushed against the brick, at his touch, it depressed. The wall behind him opened to form a door. It was a dark abyss behind him, but he would always go forward. He rocked back and fell.

Stygian darkness enveloped him. There was nothing to about it. He had made his choice. He had thrown himself into the depths of hell. He did not regret this choice. He would never regret any step he made forward. The only steps he would regret were the ones that went backwards. He hit stone steps. It was cold and old, bereft of human touch for uncounted years. He rolled and bounced against the hard stone. Feeling was beginning to return to his legs, and it was not a good feeling. The rent formed by the knife had opened further in his descent. Blood oozed out, as if from an oil well. There she was, at the top of the stairs. The shoes clicked against the hard stone.

One of the tenets of the Jewish religion is that the life is in the blood. This tenet provides a good deal of insight to some their food laws. For wizards, the same tenet was true. The most powerful magics required the transfer of life, a blood sacrifice. A great quantity of his blood had spilled out upon the floor. Were this an ordinary floor, nothing would have happened aside from the transfer of his life from the body. However, this floor was no ordinary one. This space was the secret workshop of a wizard. It was not a workshop for just any breed of wizard; it was the workshop for the old breed of wizard who worked in search of mysteries. The empty space was empty for the purpose of a magical circle. A hexagram made from gold leaf had been formed upon the floor. Mystical symbols lined the space between the inner and outer rings. It was prepared for a summoning. The former owner of the workshop likely died just before he would have begun his summoning.

Agony, a pain greater than all of his wounds, ripped through his body. It was as if his insides were going through a blender or crushed between millstones. Every last nerve was on fire. A foreign power ripped through his body. From an outside perspective, it was almost like the completion of a circuit. A mystery long since forgotten was reactivated this night. This magic was long forbidden by the Ministry, but they had lost sight of the essence of magic, the pursuit of mystical mysteries and things once forbidden. They had forgotten that death was the essence of magic. The blood provided a power. The gold drunk this power, communing with other worlds.

Magic gathered tonight to perform a mystery. There is a realm beyond death for those whose tales were sung long after they were gone. The brave men and women who had made their names in a world drenched in magic had gone to this place instead of joining back into the perpetual cycle of souls. It was a throne for heroes. It was a place for names such as King Arthur, Medea, Heracles, Lancelot, Alexander the Great, Gilgamesh, Cu Chulain, Hassan-i-Sabbah. They were legends, they were heroes. For this night, a spirit from the Far East was called into servitude. Magic crystallized spirit into a material form.

A hand was extended to boy. The magical furnace had staunched the bleeding.

“I ask of you, are you my Master?”

Standing in front of him was a girl. She was clad in armor of a Japanese design. Had he known more about Japanese armor, he would have recognized the suit as dating back to the Sengoku period of Japan. The iron and leather and bamboo suit was colored in scarlet and black. The thing, strangely enough, which drew the attention of the boy was the smooth, black cuirass of the armor. Had he known more about Japanese armor, he would have recognized it as being of the Hotoke-Do style, but alas. Her hair was tied back in a neat topknot. The other thing that struck him was her eyes, an unnatural golden shade. Twin swords, long and short were secured to her side. Secured behind her back were a pair of matchlock muskets with shortened barrels and pistol grips. The steel of the barrels was perfectly blued, and the image of a demon was etched with silver in the dark metal.

He took the offered hand, and she effortlessly pulled him up.

“I ask of you, are you my Master?” inquired the girl.

“I don't know.”

“Where are your command seals?”

“I don't know, but I did summon you or something like that.”

“Correct. There is a steady flow of prana from you to me. I am willing to temporarily make an alliance with you before ascertaining whether or not you are my Master.”

“Who are you?”

“You may call me Servant Archer. Before you ask, that is not my true name; however, I will not reveal my name in the presence of enemies.”

“Say, Archer,” he began, “Let's shake on it. I know it's probably a meaningless gesture, but let's shake on it.”

He extended his hand to the armor-clad girl. With a firm grasp, she shook it.

“That was touching, but I'm afraid that you've got to go, Archer. That boy is mine,” said the huntress.

“Stay back and allow me to handle this,” stated Archer

The twin muskets were already in Archer's hands. The wand was pointed at Archer. The boy simply stood back. Archer laughed; it was a haughty laugh, the laugh of a warrior told that his opponents would be old men and boys. She twirled the muskets before sliding them behind her back where they had previously been secured.

“I don't even need those to win. You aren't even worth my signature style.”

Archer grasped the hilt of her katana. Slowly, she drew the length of the sword. The blade was a gleaming river of silver with a wavelike pattern along the edge. Where the blade met the handguard was a single symbol: 天 or “ten”. This symbol was the kanji character for “heaven,” a character derived from the radical for outstretched limbs. The hilt was wrapped with a pure, white cloth.

The huntress cast a spell against the archer. There was no effect. Another spell was cast against the scarlet and black samurai. Archer laughed once more at her foe. The razor sharp blade of the katana sliced apart a spell in midair.

“Don't you know,” said Archer, “that I have magic resistance?”

In an instant, Archer crossed the space. Under the constraints of physics, such movement should have been impossible. However, she was not human. Magic reinforced her steps and magic made a form that did not yield to such trivialities. Steel, flawless and firm, flashed in the light.

The huntress was not there. In her place was a man. He was not a healthy man with his corpse-like pallor and sickly form. Nonetheless, he practically hummed with magical power. Archer halted.

“Bella, Bella, Bella. You simply play with your food too much. Potter, you continue to surprise me, still. Nonetheless, Avada Kedavra.”

There was a misconception on the part of the Dark Lord. With regards to Archer's magic resistance, he failed to grasp how it worked. There was a certain element of power connected with the length of the aria used for the spell. This relationship also explained why silent spells were not nearly as powerful as those with the full enchantment. For all its power, the Killing Curse was a mere one-verse spell. Archer's class ability of magic resistance canceled out any spell with a length below two verses. Therein, was perhaps the greatest weakness of modern witches and wizards. Almost all spells had their lengths confined to a single verse. Such a thing made them childishly easy to cast, but still childishly weak in comparison to the wizards willing to deal with death or permanent separation from magic when they attempted longer and more involved magical rituals.

Understanding this, Archer moved forward. The spell had been perfectly aimed, even accounting for her skills surpassing human limits. The Dark Lord had turned the Killing Curse into an art form. It struck Archer squarely in the center of her breastplate. Archer nearly collapsed as an agony surged briefly through her nerves, but Archer was strong and moved to separate the Dark Lord's head from his body with a single slash of her katana. The powerful thing, for it was not truly alive or dead, disappeared into so much smoke. The huntress, Bella, too disappeared in a likewise manner. Archer resheathed her sword.

“About the matter of command seals?”

“I understand, Archer. Check me over.”

Archer took a look at his leg. The knife was still lodged deep in his thigh. Blood trickled out, but not nearly as much as it had before/

“You're wounded.”

Archer grabbed at the dagger's hilt and yanked it out. He screamed bloody murder as she pulled the steel out. The dagger itself was plain to the layman's eye, but to Archer's eye and touch, it was masterfully balanced with a perfectly shaped blade for a throwing knife. Using the very same knife, Archer cut off part of the trousers leg and set about cutting off a strip to make an improvised bandage. Quickly, she finished with that business. Immediately, she began to look at his wrists before simply pulling off his robe and shirt.

“Ah, you are my Master. Your command seals are located on your back, just outside of where you could see them,” said Archer, “Now I don't have to kill you. What is your first official order?”

“First, my name is Harry Potter. Please call me Harry because it's just strange to be called 'Master.' Second, I'd like to meet back with my friends. Is there any way you could help me?”

“Yes, Harry. Allow me to explain a little. I am a Heroic Spirit who was summoned by you into the class of 'Archer.' One of the basic abilities of the Servant is, since I am a spirit, to dematerialize into a spiritual form. This would allow me to pass through walls and such, provided there are no spiritual barriers to search for your friends. However, I need to see these friends of yours. Furthermore, Harry, you would be at risk. Even if I can survive for some time without your prana, I would still disappear if you die. That is a gross oversimplification, but it will do for now.”

“Archer, please go into your spiritual form and search for my friends. As soon as possible, return and lead me to them. Chances are that they'll be fighting people in dark cloaks and skull masks.”

Archer nodded. Harry stood up.

“Acknowledged, Master. If you need me, call me.”

The samurai disappeared and Harry was left all alone. He decided to examine the workshop and perhaps glean some information with regards to Archer. There was a manilla envelope on the desk. Dust had collected for years on that ancient piece of paper. With a quick spell, he checked for magic countermeasure on the envelope. It was better safe than sorry. He opened up the folder. The information in the letter was useless. There was another paper on the desk. Though stained horrifically with dried blood, parts were still readable.

Holy Grail War. London. Servants. Heroic Spirits. The Holy Church. Seven Masters. Fight to the death. Wish machine. Saber. Archer. Lancer. Rider. Caster. Assassin. Berserker.

Reading through these notes, he felt even more confused than when he had began. His mind was simply unable to grasp the magnitude of thing into which he had entered.

“Master...”

There was no response from him.

“Harry!”

“Yes? What is it?”

The red and black knight sighed. Of all the people she could have ended up with for a master, it was this one.

“I've found your friends. Follow me.”

“Right!”

Harry began to run. Archer easily kept pace with him, leading him through the twisting corridors and confusing sets of rooms.

“This is taking too long. Allow me to hasten the process.”

“Whoa, Archer! What are you doing?!”

Archer had taken hold of Harry in her arms, carrying him bridal style. With the Master securely in her arms, Archer was able to move at a pace more fitting for one like her. Inhumanly strong, inhumanly fast. Legs cracked the ground as they rushed forward. Archer moved yet faster, leaving a trail of shattered tile in her wake. The sounds of battle drew near. Some of the sounds were different, the swish of a wand through the air and arcane incantations of spells. Others were in the universal language of curses and pained screams. Archer slide to halt. Friction should have torn her sandals apart, but even her garments had the same sort of existence as that of the spirit herself. Archer set him down.

Archer knelt in front of him. Nonetheless, he felt that Archer's display of respect was only mocking him. He'd seen her action, the breathtaking speed and power. There was a wry smile just for him on her countenance, proving his suspicions.

“Orders, Master?”

“You said you were a Heroic Spirit, right?”

“Correct.”

“That means that you were a hero during your lifetime, correct.”

“Indeed.”

“Surely, you were a king or warrior or knight or something?”

“Again, correct.”

“Then shouldn't I, the normal human, be bowing to you instead. Besides, it just doesn't look like subservience is something that comes naturally to you; you seem to be the commanding type.”

“I appreciate the sentiment. During my life, I was a warlord, a leader of armies. I was also a noble. I suppose that such things are more natural. However, you are Master and I am Servant. There is a difference, and I'll accept such a relationship to get what I want.”

“Archer, I'm not really interested in this Master and Servant thing. If anything, you're my superior. Let's be partners, equals.”

Archer smiled and laughed softly. He extended his hand to help her up. She took it.

“Shall we shake on it?” inquired Archer, “Since that seems to be your preferred method of sealing a deal.”

He smiled and they shook hands. Compared the formalities of the Master-Servant relationship, this was a mere gentleman's agreement, but it was an agreement undertaken out of free will rather than the necessity of the Master-Servant bond.

Archer laughed loudly.

“Well then, Master Harry Potter, you have now obtained the favor of a demon. The die has been cast. I hope you are enough of a man to live with the consequences.”

“I'll keep moving forward, Archer. That's my way.”

Archer laughed and clapped him on the back.

“Your orders?”

“Dispose of those fighting my friends.”

“What an interesting choice of phrasing! I'm liking you even more.”

Archer unsheathed the blade of heaven. She was off like a shot from a gun. Harry too was off. It was not the sort of thing he would do to give up on his friends, and furthermore, it would be a disappointment to not fight alongside his partner. Sitting back and letting someone else take care of his mess simply did not sit well with him. He saw one Death Eater pointing a wand at Ginny's head and cast a stunning spell. The dark wizard blocked his spell with a quick shield. A thunderous roar of noise echoed throughout the office-turned-battlefield. The enemy wizard's head practically exploded like an overripe watermelon hit with a sledgehammer. Blood and gore, a rather small amount considering that the Death Eater had been practically decapitated, splattered onto Ginny. There was Archer. The musket had been fired over her shoulder without so much as a glance at the foe.

“You fool! In a battle, you fight to kill!” shouted Archer as her lightning quick slashes cut another Death Eater into seven distinct pieces.

“W-Who is that?”

“Archer, she's a friend. Where are the others?”

“I don't know! I was separated from them!” said the near, hysterical girl.

“Hey, calm down. Wipe your face, dry your tears. It's no fault of your own. Hell, I was separated for a while.”

“Harry, someone approaches,” called Archer.

“Harry, is that you? Thank God that you're alive!” exclaimed a man. The man walking into the room had gaunt features and a rough stubble covering his jawline. It could only be one man, his godfather Sirius Black.

Archer flicked the blade of her katana, removing the blood from the gleaming surface of the supernatural blade. Such fluids made a mockery of the perfection of the blade. It was the very concept of “sword” ascended to a higher plane of existence. Nonetheless, there were greater legendary blades than Archer's own such as those possessed by King Arthur: Caliburn and Excalibur. However, neither of those blades fitted Archer; they only truly fit with King Arthur. In a split second, Archer's blade was at his throat.

“It's alright, Archer. That's just my godfather. He's on our side.”

“Of course.”

Archer quickly backed off, returning to Harry's side. Amazingly, not one drop of blood had so much has touched her armor. She sheathed the blade without any sounds aside from the click as the handguard met the sheath. Ginny could not help but gasp at the casual ease at which the foreign knight assumed the demeanor of an aristocrat. Such ease could only come from years on the battlefield or from a heart cold as ice; Ginny could not tell which one was the case.

“It's nice to see that my godson has become acquainted with the ladies, but what exactly happened? Why is she with you? Who the hell calls themselves 'Archer?'”

“I met your godson in this complex. Extenuating circumstances brought about an alliance. As for those men, I killed them. 'Archer' is more of a title than anything.”

“She helped me against the Dark Lord and Bellatrix,” said Harry, speaking up.

“I suppose you're alright, Archer,” said Sirius, “You should follow me. The Order arrived and is dealing with the Death Eaters. Let's rendezvous with them.”

They began to run through the twisting, turning, and confusing maze of corridors, rooms, and chambers of the Ministry. Aside from the din of their footsteps, there was but silence. Harry vaguely recalled the route; if he remembered correctly, it was the one which led to the large and empty gothic vault with the Roman arch and ragged, grey veil.

“Say Archer, how old are you?” asked Harry, “You don't look much older than your late teens or early twenties.”

“What year is it?” responded Archer with a query of her own.

“1996,” answered Ginny.

“Y'know, Harry,” began Archer, “There are two things you should never ask a girl, or so I've heard. These two things would be her age and weight.”

“Sorry Archer. Out of curiosity, do your weapons have names?”

“Yes,” said the scarlet knight as she drew close enough to whisper in his ear, “My blades and my guns both have names, but understand this, Master, we are but one of seven teams involved in a Holy Grail War. There will be six other legends like me...”

“... Holy Grail War,” whispered Harry, “I read a little about it. Whoever had been that place before I had stumbled upon it had evidently been preparing for one.”

“Now listen, every Servant like me has a legend that was passed down through the ages. To know the name is to know the legend, which can be used against the Servant. Similarly, there are items and skills of these Heroes which become a crystallized mystery known as a Noble Phantasm. My swords and guns are Noble Phantasms. They have names, names which relate back to the owner. To reveal the Noble Phantasm is to often reveal the identity of the Servant, something I wish to avoid unless absolutely necessary,” whispered Archer softly.

“I think I understand,” replied Harry, “but could you please reveal your identity to me privately.”

“I was planning on doing that, Master, but I don't particularly trust this company.”

The boy made as if to say something but thought better of it. He asked another question to her, inquiring, “How many do you have?”

“I have three Noble Phantasms, Harry,” said Archer so quietly that only Harry could hear her voice.

The four came down the end of the corridor. Their path was barred by a stout wooden door. A spell from Sirius opened the door. A soft laughter reached their ears alongside the pungent fragrance of wine which reached their noses. There sat the most dangerous man in magical Britain neither dead nor alive. The thing sat regally upon an opulent throne he had created via magic. At his side, the unstable huntress of Bellatrix shared in her lord's pleasure. The clinked crystal goblets of sweet, dark wine together for a toast.

“Good evening Harry Potter, Ginevra Weasley, Sirius Black, and you too, mysterious Archer,” began Voldemort with a voice as smooth as glass.


“What do you want!” shouted Harry.

“The prophecy, of course. The prophecy can only be heard by those to whom it pertains -ergo, you and I- and I wish to hear it with my own ears. Sadly, my men were too incompetent to obtain it from you. As the saying goes, if you want something done right, you must do it yourself.”

“On my signal, make a break for it,” whispered Sirius, ”I'll try and hold them off as long as I can. Harry, I'm sorry that I couldn't have been a better godfather.”

“You don't seem too willing to divulge the prophecy,” said Voldemort, “Potter, I have a question for you: why do you want to keep the prophecy from me? Is it for your own sake? Is it for another's? I'm honestly quite curious why you fight.”

“Partly, I'm doing it for Dumbledore. Honestly, Voldemort-”

“Hah! The boy uses my name. Only one other man would use my name like that. I must give you some grudging respect.”

“-I'm doing it out of revenge. To be honest with myself, I want to avenge my parents and the others that were killed in your reign of terror.”

“I see you can do what few can and admit the selfishness of their own existence. I like that. We're so close that we might as well be old friends. What say you, Harry?”

“I'm no friend of yours, Voldemort.”

“This is precisely why I like you, this fighting spirit; it reminds me of myself. However, I would like to clear up a misconception that you hold, one undoubtedly fed to you by Dumbledore like a fawning spaniel. My desire is not really pureblood supremacy. You see, I have a much greater goal in mind. I wish to reach Void and bring it into this world. This has become a stagnant age. In my world, such men would perish by the sword and fire. This world must be destroyed and new, more perfect form rise from the ashes. Do you now understand, Harry?”

“I think I do. It seems like an insane desire to me.”

“One who speaks his mind, I like that. None are nearly so blunt as you are.”

“Reducto!” shouted Sirius. The crystal goblet shattered. None of the shrapnel so much as grazed the dark lord. A shark-like grin threatened to split the thing's corpse-like face. Harry took Ginny and ran to leave. Archer followed.

“Bella, Bella, Bella, please stay your hand. I can deal with this trash. Avada...”

The incantation had begun. There would be no end until the magic released itself. For a spell of its nature, the Killing Curse was surprisingly effective. The greater raw power behind the very concept of the spell allowed it to rip through magical barriers and protections.

“... Kedavra.”

A flash of green and another demise. Harry turned around. Sirius collapsed upon the floor. He had died with a smile on his face. A simulacrum of the defining event of his life. The hammer was cocked. Something exploded inside him.

“Ginny,” he said coldly, “leave. Get some help if you can. I've got a job to do.”

Archer gave him a slow applause. Ginny gave him a strange look, but still left. He knew just how insane this course of action was. He was acting upon his passions, but he nonetheless felt empty on the inside. There was nothing.

“You're the sort of man I would have wanted in my army. Your plan?”

“We're going to go in and fight and we'll win. You'll deal with the Dark Lord; I'll deal with his henchman.”

“Yes, my Master.”

The two strode into the chamber. The twin muskets were in Archer's hand. The matches glowed a hellish orange. The wand was ready. This time, he had a plan on hand. Like cartridges in the chamber of a revolver, he had his next six spells sorted out and ready. Blasting. Piercing. Cutting. Fire. Cold. Shield. The chambers were loaded.

“So you've come back to face me and avenge your godfather. You've got a certain visceral fortitude I admire. I really could use someone like you on my side, Harry,” said the dark wizard.

A single twitch of a finger. A snapping of a spring. A strike of a match into a pan. An ignition of powder. An explosive impulse. A slug of lead hurtling out. Air compressed as it easily broke the sound barrier. A wall of stone rose up to block the musket ball. Had this been an ordinary stone, a projectile shot by a Noble Phantasm would have punched cleanly through; however, powerful magics bound the stone together. It was a base and ugly method, but it worked.

The first spell was already out of his mouth and moving at a fast rate toward the witch. The second was cast as the first was flying. The witch returned fire with a blasting spell of her own. Neither was casting protective magics, trusting in their skill and reflexes. His cutting spell was in the air as the blasting spell ripped apart stone with ease. The piercing spell left a long trench as thick as his thumb in one of the walls. Her blasting spell ripped made a crater four feet in diameter behind him. It was a raw power that he couldn't match. At his best, his blasting spells made perhaps a crater three feet in diameter, a size reduced in the heat of battle. It was a much better shot than he would have against Voldemort; that was why he had sent the Heroic Spirit against the Dark Lord. The incantation for the fire spell began. His intent shaped the magic coalescing into his wand. As a result, instead of a spark that would slowing cross the distance and ignite flammable objects, the spell acted like a flamethrower, spewing blue flames at the huntress.

It should have been impossible. A wizard of the modern era against the Knight of the Bow. Modern magic was simply not up to fighting a Heroic Spirit with magic resistance, but Voldemort was managing it anyway. With a mastery of apparation, she found herself unable to use her swords. With a mastery of transfiguration and a creative mind, he was able to defeat the musket fire. For Archer, there was but one final option, one which she was loath to use against a mere human. Noble Phantasm. Even if she trusted her Master, she did not like this plan one bit. If he were far away in a fortress, Archer might have been able to fight at her full power. However, the amount of concentration she had to spend on keeping track of her Master interfered with her fighting ability. If her Master were to die here, she would lose any and all chance of obtaining the Grail. Such was unacceptable.

The doors burst open. Air already overflowing with magical power received an additional booster shot as the most powerful wizard of the times entered into the chamber. All fighting temporarily ceased at his majesty. Behind half-moon spectacles were eyes as cold as ice.

“Harry, m'boy, you'd best leave. Tom, I'm afraid I'll have to stop you here.”

“You can try, Professor, but I don't think so. Bella, leave me. This fight will be one on one.”

Archer returned to Harry's side. Bellatrix apparated away. Archer grabbed her master with a knowing smile. Harry returned his Servant's smile.

“Yeah. Let's go Archer.”

Check out http://forums.spacebattles.com/showthread.php?t=181815 for some ideas on how to incorporate things. It's ok to bend rules, you just need to be internally consistent.

If people starts to complain just say it works that way in this specific interaction of the universe. If everything fails blame Zelretch for choosing a crappy world with weird rules to watch.

Make longer sentences, otherwise things become too hard to read and too strange. There isn't much fluidity and it feels like a car that keep stopping brutally every ten meters.

Still too attached to Canon, and the Holy Grail War that summons servants is the Heaven's Feel, but there are other kinds of Grail Wars too.

I was referring more to a gun-using Servant/Heroic Spirit. And my planned Berserker.

There isn't much problem with that unless it is a moderns gun. Muskets and such still can be Noble Phantasm since they are quite bad for start, being only better on 'easier to train' aspect compared to bows.

Is she Oda Nobunaga? Tokugawa Ieyasu? I'm not that sharp on japanese historical figures.

For those of us who arent into Nasu-Verse, what's wrong with modern guns, other than the total lack of people who have enough fame to become a Heroic Spirit and use them?

This is why.

Though Gun God would like to say something about it. Well, too bad there isn't an humanity by that point anyway.

Hm~m, Noble Phantasm-ed Black Barrel :drevil:

course there is always the Unknown Soldier

If anybody could become an Heroic Spirit on modern times while using gun, them it must be him. But who exactly would best take the mantle of the 'true' Unknown Soldier?

Well someone once started a story with him as archer but he had the collected memories of every soldier that ever lived in human history but he had limits as he was human.

here it is

http://z14.invisionfree.com/The_Fanfiction_Forum/index.php?showtopic=19527

don't you have something 'guest' friendly?

Interesting. Only one flaw though.

What the hell is the Nasu-verse?

That's silly though. I mean, I agree that circumstances have not yet been met for a Heroic Spirit to form, but there's no reason to assume they couldn't. One could logically argue that, at any time period, it would appear that modern weapons aren't capable of creating a Heroic Spirit. I can't think of any Mythic Figures who were famous when they were alive.

Edit: Actually, I lie. What about Ian Flemming, if you believe the (apparently accurate) Cracked Article on what a badass he was?

I remember that Sir (Dame?) Francis Drake was summoned as a Rider in Fate/Extra, and she fought with pistols. Of course, Francis Drake was around in the Elizabethan period, not the modern era.

Sorry man only place its located. If you want I can post his Stats

That would be nice, please.

For the OP, why is Harry this casual about the summoning?

here he is

Bravery EX? Won't that bring his STR/END/AGI or something else up a few ranks? Or is his original value E on them?

Independent Action EX too? He may as well kill Shirou and be done with it since I'm sure with that much he can use his noble phantasm with impunity.

Honestly, Harry was too caught up in all the shit of the ministry fight to think too hard about Archer. Once he gets some time to calm down and think (Ergo, next chapter), he's probably going to freak out.

A fictional universe created by someone named Nasu. This wiki will help you.

I imagine most of his base stats were E rank, considering he is pretty much just a conglomeration of many fairly ordinary humans. As I understand it, the Unknown Soldier is a heroic spirit that is defined by how humanity perceives it, since he has no single identity. Most people tend to think of unknown soldiers as unsung heroes, which has a very positive connotation to it. He is probably a very honor bound kind of hero as a result of the way the idea he embodies is perceived by society.

I don't see that as an issue, really. 90% of Nasu's writing take the form of "define a general rule, then make everyone a specific exception to it".

Like, for example, every rule given about the Grail War ended up being broken

To be fair, it was poorly made in the first place and they kept adding patches of correction at each iteration of it.

I guess that depends on how far back you consider modern.

I see no problem with Billy the Kid, Wyatt Earp or other folk heros of the American West becoming Heroic Spirits. You certainly never hear anybody say "Wow, Billy the Kid had an awesome gun!" His legend (and it is a legend) is much more about how he was deadly fast.

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Epsilon

Let's face it, Simo Hahya is an Archer. Seriously, if you can't come up with even 5 modern badasses, you aren't trying.