Disclaimers: This story is a Dungeons and Dragons/Harry Potter crossover, and
primarily aimed at readers who are fans of both. That said, people only vaguely familiar with either Harry Potter or D&D will still likely get most
of the enjoyment this story has to offer. For those who don't know much about either, reading a quick plot summary of Harry Potter and the
Philospher's Stone (say, on Wikipedia) and skimming the article on D&D will likely suffice. Anyone still confused can search d20srd (.org), a
wonderful website with the entirety of the D&D 3.5 rules available for free. Players of AD&D, D&D 3.0, 4th edition, Pathfinder, and probably
other RPGs will probably be just fine. You can check my Author's Page for a link to Milo's character sheet, more details, and a link to
Semiautomagic, an RPG I'm working on, currently available as a free beta.
For D&D buffs: this fic uses a few minor house rules which I've played with so long I didn't even realize they weren't canon. We're using 3.0's
XP system instead of 3.5's (XP divides a little differently) and Wizards are able to swap out their Scribe Scroll bonus feat at 1st level for
alternate class features (in this case, Spontaneous Divination) as if they were the 5th, 10th, 15th, or 20th-level bonus feats. Also, magic
items like Bags of Holding track only weight for carrying capacity, not volume. I rolled Milo's stats using the usual system (4d6, drop the
lowest) and roll his hit dice every level, as well as most of the other dice in combats and things.
Anyways, on with the story! If you like it, review it!
o—o—o—o
—Thud—
Milo hit the ground—hard. There was a brief moment of silence before he heard the sound of chairs being slid back on a stone floor and
people rising to their feet.
He wasn't alone.
Milo quickly glanced around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. He was in some sort of dining room, lying face-up on a hardwood table. The
room was richly appointed, and Milo was keenly aware of their solid brass candlesticks, as one was currently poking him most uncomfortably
in the lower back. Most notable, however, were the half-dozen figures sitting around him. They were evil—like, really, obviously evil. Black
robes. Masks. Hells, there was even a chandelier.
It didn't take Milo long to realize he should be putting his Improved Initiative to good use. As the cultist—these guys had to be in some sort
of cult—who was sitting at the head of the table reached up the sleeve of his robe for a wand, Milo unleashed sparkly arcane fury.
"Avada Kedavr—Aaaah!" the cultist was cu

"Mount," he said quietly after concentrating for a few seconds. Next to him appeared a grey pony, which, except for its eyes—which were
glassy and lifeless—appeared all but indistinguishable from a natural one. Unlike the mirror images, the mount was real—depending on your
definition of real, of course. It was real enough to get him the Hells out of here.
Milo awkwardly pulled himself into the saddle (he never was much of an equestrian, as Skill Points were few and far between for a Wizard)
and kicked the summoned pony's rump with his heels. As he was catching his breath, thinking of how close his run-in was (if that spell could
just kill a plant like that, imagine what it could do to him? Milo's Fortitude save was lower than a serf's daily wage) he heard a loud crack from
his left. One of the cultists suddenly appeared, wand brandished threateningly.
"Glitterdust!" Milo cast again, burning his last 2nd-level spell. As before, the burst of golden light blinded the dark wizard. If another one
shows up, I'll have to resort to harsh language...
"They can teleport?" Milo shrieked. "That's a 5th-level spell! This is way beyond my ECL! I call shenanigans. Shenanigans!" But nobody
responded. Who he was even talking to was unclear, as there wasn't another soul—except for the blinded Death Eater—in sight. After several
minutes of galloping, Milo decided to rein his pony in for a short break while he considered his options.
Now you may be wondering, "what the heck is going on?" And that's a perfectly valid question, but unfortunately, Milo is as confused as you
are. Perhaps a brief description of our perplexed hero is in order. As far as Milo is concerned, the information written on his character sheet
sufficed as description: True Neutral, Wizard 3, Human, Male, Age: 11, Weight: 71 lbs (his world runs on the imperial system, the poor
barbarians), Height: 4'9'', Hair: brown, Eyes: brown. And you may be thinking, "eleven years old? That seems a little young to be a Wizard."
And you're right. Most Wizards, from where Milo comes from (more on that later) are at least seventeen before they become even a level one
Wizard. Milo, however, managed to pull a fast one involving starting life as a Rogue and doing some retraining. "But wait," you protest. "That
jargon doesn't mean anything to me at all. And even if it did, the minimum starting age for a human Rogue is still 16." But unfortunately, you
don't have time to worry about problems like that, because Milo is, in fact, being attacked by a Death Eater on a broomstick. See what
happens when you nitpick?
"Avada Kedavra!" the evil flying cultist shouted, making weird gestures with his wand. Milo felt his pony suddenly go limp beneath him as its
heart stopped. Milo collided with the ground for most of his remaining Hit Points (Milo dumped Constitution during character creation, which
seemed like a really good idea at the time). Weakly, he staggered to his feet as the cultist came around for another pass.
"You know, there's a reason most Wizards prefer to use a Phantom Steed to a Broom of Flying," Milo muttered. "That reason is Grease!" he
said, with a complicated hand gesture to accompany the last word. He cast the spell, not targeting the cultist but his broomstick, which
became nearly frictionless. Without any sort of safety strap or foot petals, the broomstick continued accelerating while the cultist,
unfortunately, did not. Before meeting the ground, the cultist vanished with another distinctive popping sound. Milo frowned. What kind of
cultist can cast save-or-die spells multiple times, teleport, afford a Broom of Flying, and yet not manage a simple Feather Fall? Maybe
they're some obscure non-core class? Milo thought. Well, time to loot the corpse. A Broom of Flying would make an excellent replacement
for his ex-pony, which was already starting to fade out of existence now that the magic keeping its form together was gone.
As Milo searched for the broomstick, he let his mind wander again. The last thing he'd done before slamming into that table in the manor
house was confront the Supremely Evil Fell Lord Thamior the Thaumaturge (try putting that on a business card) with his companions.
Everything was going according to plan, then suddenly... table. Milo was sure Thamior hadn't had a chance to get a spell off, especially not
one of this magnitude. Maybe something over here pulled him across? Why in the Prime Material would anyone want to summon Milo, of all
things? Milo shuddered to think of what Thamior was doing to his party without his arcane support. It was probably going to be his job upon
returning to raise funds for three Raise Deads, because a thief, a meatshield, and a glorified box of band-aids against Thamior's power spelled
T-P-K.
Milo stumbled across the broomstick, which had flown into the ground, point-first. He confidently pulled the stick out of the dirt, straddled it,
and leapt into the air. Nothing happened except that Milo looked rather foolish.
"Hmm, must be command-word activated, I suppose? Swordfish!" Nothing happened. "Melon! Rise! Up! Activate! Flight! Abra Kadabra!" Ten
minutes later, with all the usual suspects attempted to no avail, Milo gave up.
"Detect Magic." Nothing. The broomstick, as far as Milo could determine, didn't have enough magic to power a Bard's cantrip. It was an
ordinary, mundane broom. For sweeping things.
"Wha... what? Then how... Agh, my poor head." Nothing happening was making any sense here. Maybe if he found some non-cultist residents
of this strange world, they'd be able to explain things to him. Shouldering the broom, he chose a direction completely at random and started
walking.

o—o—o—o
Some time after 3 AM, the villagers of Hogsmeade were surprised to find a dirty, bloodied, half-dead (or rather, five-sixths, to be precise,
since you asked) young boy stumble into their village before collapsing of exhaustion. He was clutching in his hands a Nimbus Two Thousand.
"Who is he?"
"Is he a Muggle? How did he get through the wards?"
"Is he a student?"
"Blimey! Is that a Nimbus?"
"If he had a broomstick, why was he walking?"
"Someone send for Dumbledore, this kid needs help."
"I'm right here in front of you."
"No, not you, the other Dumbledore."
"Oh," said Aberforth, slightly disappointed. "Nobody ever wants to send for me."As the nearest medical facility was the hospital wing of Hogwarts, and, as the villagers reasoned, this boy was more likely than not some
student from the castle caught up in one of their fool adventures, he was rushed with all possible haste to the care of Madam Pomfrey, and,
more than likely, detention. It was a very surprised, and somewhat sleepy, Professor McGonagall who answered the door. She immediately
sent a Patronus to wake the school's Headmaster before carrying the boy to the hospital wing.
"Minerva! What's happening?" Dumbledore (the right one, this time) said as he entered the wing. The Deputy Headmistress quickly filled him in
about what the villagers at Hogsmeade had discovered.
Dumbledore frowned. "I don't recognize him, do you?" McGonagall shook her head.
"This is most unusual. He's clearly of an age that he should be just starting in Hogwarts, so if he's a wizard of magical Britain..." McGonagall
said, trailing off in thought.
"Why don't we wake him and ask?" Dumbledore suggested.
"Poppy believes it best that we let him recover. He's suffered some fairly serious injuries—it looks like a particularly nasty fall, perhaps."
"Could he be a student of Beauxbatons—or Durmstrang? I'll owl Madame Maxime and Professor Karkaroff. In the meantime, keep me updated."
McGonagall sighed. She wouldn't give up being Deputy Headmistress for all the gold in Gringotts, but it did involve rather a lot more sleepless
nights than she would have preferred.
o—o—o—o