Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Bleach. At all. Honestly.
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Albus Dumbledore and the City of Wandering Souls
Chapter 1
Albus Dumbledore sat on the bench of King's Cross Station and waited. It wasn't out of any desire to stay and he had to confess that he wasn't quite sure why he was waiting in the first place. He had initially decided to forgo stepping on one of the trains (which was, insofar as he was aware, was actually more of a projection of his mind onto the true purpose of this place) and happily shambling on to the afterlife so he could wait for Harry.
The boy was very dear to him, but Lord Voldemort was significantly more skilled, so he rather considered Harry dying fairly inevitable unless the lad displayed hitherto never before seen skills and powers to match the dark lord. He fully expected Harry to figure out the clues which would help that lamentable state of affairs turn from permanent to merely temporary, especially with the help of his friends.
Absentmindedly, Dumbledore pulled out a golden watch and eyed it critically. It wasn't the normal sort of pocketwatch any average wizard would use, namely due to the softly ticking clockwork that matched the sun's rotations and all the planets that spun around it.
But here, none of the planets moved and the only function it could give was the time. Several more hours had apparently passed and Dumbledore put it away with a soft sigh.
So he had waited, and Harry had duly appeared, had a peptalk to dissuade him from travelling on (which Dumbledore considered a possibility so remote it was barely worth considering) and promptly went back to save the day, be the hero, and get the girl. All was well. So Albus Dumbledore should have stepped on the train some hours ago and gone on to the afterlife or whatever the train would take him to. Instead, he stayed.
It wasn't due to any particular thought or urge, which did not escape him. He was a master Legilimens and Occulomens, which while not granting the fantastical order of the mind which the untrained seemed to believe it did, the magical art did allow him to rather neatly dissect his own motivations and defeat external compulsions far more easily than a non-practitioner would. So being unable to identify the source of his desire to stay was mildly confusing.
Reaching into the pocket of his robes he removed a brown paper bag and meticulously unrolled the top with a loud crackling noise, reaching in and retrieving one of the many (technically infinite – the bag had been enchanted in life to be Ever-Full by his own wand) lemon drops contained within. The sour confection at least somewhat distracted him and he rolled it about with his tongue while he considered the conundrum. He wasn't quite sure why he was even able to remain in the first place, though Harry's appearance and subsequent disappearance suggested it had something to do with the Hallows.
He waited several more hours without complaint or any outward indication of unease. In truth, this place had a kind of peacefulness about it, and it allowed him time with his own thoughts. He had long since mentally classified the Train Station itself and himself. His hand was whole, his wand of elder wood. He had his bag of sweets (which he knew he had left in his office) and most interestingly of all the pleasant green meadow in which he had initially found himself had refused to change back even after Harry had left. Perhaps it was a side effect of Harry being Master of Death?
"Well," he said aloud, feeling a sort of resolute courage firm up inside him and the urge keeping him there begin to fade away. "It's about time."
Carefully rolling the top of his sweet bag closed he slipped it into his robe pocket and stood up. As if on cue a train loudly rolled into the station, coming to a stop with a loud brake squeal which Dumbledore was privately convinced no longer actually happened on normal trains. Still, he stepped up to the doors and took a deep breath, smiling faintly.
There was no ticket inspector to inspect his nonexistent ticket, so he simply opened the doors himself. They were unlocked, and allowed him passage without difficulty. The inside of the train showed no sign of life, if there was anyone at all. Dumbledore passed several seats before taking one he felt he should sit upon. For a moment, it seemed as if he were to wait several hours before anything happened, but a shrill whistle of the locomotive's front and the chugging of the engines told him his adventure was about to begin. With a faint smile, Albus Dumbledore pulled out his bag of lemon drops as the train began to move.
Almost instantly, the old wizard found that gazing out the window was much more interesting than usual. For the life of him he couldn't remember exactly how much time had actually passed (no mean feat by any means, but he wasn't quite that old!) after leaving the station and running into a great mass of mist.
After some unfathomable period of time, the train burst through the mist, leaving behind wisps of white fluff within a great plane of only darkness. Save for the lights within his carriage, as far as his old eyes could see, there was only pitch black nothing outside.
Occasionally, Dumbledore thought he may have seen something a figure or shadow that was slightly lighter in shade than the rest of the pitch black. But almost instantly, it would disappear, leaving him to wonder if what he saw was merely a trick of his eyes or something else entirely.
Then the darkness gave way to night.
A plane made up of nothing but endless dunes of sand blanketed by a chilly night-time sky. The occasional tree made of glass would pass by, light from the stark white moon glimmering. Gazing up at it, Albus shivered, drawing his cloak closer to himself.
Though he hated to admit it, gazing out of the window nonstop tired his eyes and so he closed them, convincing himself that a short nap would be enough to rejuvenate him before the ride was over and allow him to see more of the journey to the next great adventure before it ended.
He didn't know how long he slept, but the distinct feeling of the urge to wake soon became very strong after some time. Opening an eye, he winced for a moment against the bright spots of sunlight flashing by. The wizard glanced out of the window and saw that the train was passing quickly through a forest, with flashes of sunlight shining through the leaves of the branches of trees whipping past his car.
The train began to slow considerably, its brakes squealing in protest and the sharp shudder that went through the car. A quick glance out of the window told him of that the train was still within a massive forest. With a final wheeze, the train halted and Albus was quite sure this was his destination.
"Thank you for the ride," he said, to no one in particular. As he exited the train, though, Dumbledore was quite sure the sentiment was appreciated.
The train began to move again as soon as both feet met the ground, moving onwards into the unknown, leaving Dumbledore in it's wake of smoke and steam. As it cleared, he found that the train had disappeared completely, leaving no trace of itself or the tracks it should have been running on.
Shaking his head ruefully and turning to look at his surroundings, Dumbledore quickly surmised he had no idea where he was. Fortunately, he had something to alleviate that problem. Withdrawing his wand he laid it across his palm and sub-vocalized a Point Me spell, which obligingly spun around and pointed down to his left.
"Ah," murmured Albus with a smile as he set off with a trot, "To civilization!"
The walk towards civilization took a great many hours. Judging by the path of the sun beaming in the cloudless sky, it was perhaps noon before he found himself on an unused beaten pathway that led down a hill towards the edge of a massive city surrounding a great walled fortress.
Nodding to himself, Dumbledore continued on. It was most certainly the afternoon by the time he found himself at the edge of the city. Unfortunately the afterlife wasn't very much like he expected, in fact it had a very poor surprise waiting for him.
A horde of downcast men, women, and children walking about barefoot and in rags, living in shacks and huts, lining the worn dirt streets like so many beggars was not exactly the most pleasing of sights.
Mechanically, Albus pulled a lemon drop out of his pocket and put it in his mouth. As his eyes took in every little detail before him, the sourness of the sweet became almost unpleasant.
Walking forward, he paid careful attention to the way the various men and women reacted to him. Most cast him fearful looks before scattering or moving sedately to avoid him. Others watched him, most notably eying his cloak, boots, and, curiously, his glasses. They murmured to themselves in a language he vaguely recognized as japanese. Fortunately he was relatively fluent in it, namely due to judicious use of a translation charm.
Walking up to a group of indifferent-looking people, Dumbledore tried not to think of them as homeless beggars, the wizard politely bowed his head slightly, "May I ask what this place is?"
Many of them exchanged glances, but a worn-looking old man croaked in reply, "This is district eighty of Rukongai."
"I assume this is the afterlife then?"
The old man chuckled humorlessly and spat on the ground. "Sure it is. Word of advice, stranger, life here isn't as cracked up to be. This is no paradise or nirvana. You can still die a second time."
A shiver seemed to run through the group before they began to depart, regarding the wizard as nothing more than a new curiosity.
Dumbledore filed the reactions away into his mind before inclining his head, politely. "Thank you for the advice. May I ask your name?"
"No," grunted the old man with a toothless leer, "And don't thank me yet, stranger. Chances are we won't meet again. Life is hell in Rukongai."
With that ominous statement said, the man departed, leaving him standing alone with shuffling villagers. Face expressionless, Dumbledore turned his eyes upon the spires and the massive wall in the distance. He plucked yet another lemon drop from his pocket and put it in his mouth before setting off yet again.
As he walked inwards, towards the wall in the distance, Albus noticed a gradual increase in the quality of the housing, clothes, and hygiene of the people of each district. As each district passed, he found himself walking from dirt roads to cobble streets. Rukongai, he noted, was strictly japanese and both style and thnicity, though ethnicities from different parts of the world could be seen here and there. This brought more questions than answers as he saw more and more.
Rukonga resembled the ancient equivalent of their medieval era of the japanese civilization during the ages of the sixteenth or seventeenth century. Carts dragged by horses filled with goods, vendors with steaming rice-buns and cuts of meat for sale. Men and women of all dress and standard were everywhere. Ah, and then there were the children. Pickpockets and troublemakers, it was good to see that despite the changes in his environment, there were still constants even here.
Casually, he caught the eye of a street urchin and his friends sizing him up. The poor lad blanched, but fortunately, the old wizard was feeling generous. He pointed at a vendor yelling about the deliciousness of his sweet buns and winked. Half a dozen children watched, astounded, as six steaming hot buns, filled what he assumed was sweet paste, floated up into the air and zoomed into their hands. They scampered away, eyes wide and mouths bulging.
Chuckling, he walked up to the vendor in question and selected a bun. Pulling out a money bag, he spoke politely, "I'm new to these parts, so I have no local currency. Will silver do?"
The vendor, a portly man in a red cap eyed the sickle, took the coin and weighed it in his hand before nodding, "More than enough. Here is your change."
A number of unfamiliar copper coins with a square hole in the middle were dropped into his hand. Dumbledore, however, did not miss the way the vendor carefully tucked the silver coin into his pocket. He caught the eye of the street urchin again and looked towards an inconspicuous spot in an alleyway.
The lad took the hint immediately and he and his fellows were waiting for him as he made his way towards them.
"That was a cool trick, mister!" said a bright-eyed boy immediately, his face smeared with bean paste. Around him, several other boys nodded and pelted him with questions and demands to teach them.
Their leader, a rough looking ten year old with wild brown hair, glared at him before turning to the old man, "Not that I don't mind the free meal, but what do you want?"
"I am new to this place," said Dumbledore simply. "Tell me everything you know about Rukongai and the people who live here."
Despite his rather simple request, the boy hesitated. He peered into Dumbledore's eyes, as though he were looking for honesty. All he found were kind blue eyes reflecting his own. The hesitation ebbed away slowly and the boy sat down to begin speaking.
Several hours later, Dumbledore sat alone, his cloak dusty, his beard unkempt, and his eyes slightly bloodshot. The young street urchins of the city Rukongai were long gone, having told him exactly what he needed to know.
Yes, this was the afterlife. Yes, they were all dead. Yes, as far as they knew, all souls came here.
He had so many questions, but they were merely children. They didn't know much.
After they told him all they could, they left, leaving him to ponder his situation in the grimy alleyway.
After three hours of quiet meditation, Dumbledore had come to the conclusion that something was not quite right. What was he, a strictly european soul, doing in what he believed was a fifteenth to sixteenth century feudal japanese city full of strictly japanese souls from all eras? He did not belong here, this was not his afterlife.
This, of course, begged the question of how he got here.
The train certainly wasn't the usual way of going to the afterlife, judging from what the lad had told him. Souls from the mortal world often made their way to Rukongai without trouble, passing from their mortal shells and emerging into this city of souls. Others, however, were chained to the mortal realm for many reasons; those souls were then sent here by a ritual under a shinigami.
What a curious concept, that the entity known as Death was not the Grim Reaper, but rather spirits themselves.
Shinigami were soldiers who protected the balance of souls in the world. Their name translated into 'Death God', an aptly put title, but the old wizard had seen and heard many boast about such a status long ago, none of the supposed 'gods' ever lasted for more than a century before another took the title for themselves.
The death gods also slew beasts, dreadful monsters that hungered for the souls of the living and the dead. These...Hollows occasionally appeared in Rukongai, often devouring dozens before the death gods either killed or drove it away.
When he asked the children of their opinions of the shinigami, much of it was outright hero-worship. He peered into their minds, searching their surface thoughts as the word shinigami brought out their immediate thoughts. To them, the word shinigami meant power, respect, and greater living standards. Also because it would be 'cool'.
Hidden behind the desires, however, were slightly more negative thoughts. Of how the shinigami treated them unfairly and often looking down on them. Indistinct faces drifted about, all wearing asian robes and sandals, sporting long curved blades.
They ran atop the rooftops at speeds that he thought were impossible without the magical aid of potions or artifacts. The shinigami in their memories fought horrors made of darkness, monsters that wore masks of white bone and bled black ichor.
So immersed in his analytical thoughts, it was only the sudden loss of light did Dumbledore realize he was not alone anymore. He looked up and saw three greasy-looking men, wearing loose shirts and worn pants. One of them held a knife in his left hand, the others merely smiling widely with yellow teeth. They all smelled of liquor.
"Would you care for a lemon drop?" He asked, hopefully, holding out his small paper bag. One of the men knocked it out of his hand, scattering the sour confectionery all over the grimy ground.
Albus' genial expression didn't fade, but he slowly stood up, backing away, further into the dark alleyway.
"Give us your money old geezer," said the leader, brandishing his knife at him as they followed. "And we won't hurt you. Give us a hard time and you'll regret it."
"...I haven't any money," he lied, stooping slightly to pick up the crumpled paper bag.
"Bullshit!" The leader jerked his head at Dumbledore, "Don't say I didn't warn you, old man."
His hand found the bag, gripping it tightly, "Please, sir, I don't want any trouble. Leave and I won't have to-"
"Shut up!" Growled one of them as the three of them stepped forwards. Dumbledore sighed and waved his hand. All three men halted in mid-step, suddenly frozen. Though their harsh expressions didn't change, but the sudden fear in their eyes was impossible to miss.
That fear only increased as he walked towards them.
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Shinigami!
Kenji tried to scream for help, but his jaw wouldn't heed his commands. No matter how hard he tried to run away, he could not. He was frozen in place, and the old man stepped closer.
He couldn't even blink!
The old man was obviously a shinigami, though not one he ever saw wearing anything like those robes. No matter how hard Kenji struggled, he could not break free of whatever magic the shinigami cast upon him.
To his horror, the old man drew closer, his expression disapproving.
He wanted to close his eyes and will it all away, but the elderly shinigami peered at him closely, as though judging him.
Please don't kill me! Please don't kill me! I didn't know you were a shinigami! I swear I-!
Unbidden, his thoughts turned to his fellow robbers and their friends. Why those thoughts came up suddenly was beyond him, but they quickly faded as soon as they had come. Other flashes of memory sped by, the price of ryo and the inns he had stayed in. The memory of shinigami and poor districts.
Kenji didn't know why he was remembering all this without knowing why, but to his everlasting relief, the old shinigami looked away and raised his hand once more.
Kenji barely had a moment to wonder what the shinigami intended to do when a soft red flash struck him in the chest, sending him into sweet oblivion.
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Like a puppet with their strings cut, the stunning spell knocked each of the thugs unconscious as he canceled the body-bind. A quick memory charm ensured they would not remember him or their ordeal.
He decided proper lodgings were needed. Opening the paper bag, Dumbledore slipped a lemon drop into his mouth and left three unconscious men slumped on the ground. Several children had already run over and begun prodding their bodies with a stick, much to his amusement.
Chuckling lightly to himself, the old wizard went off to look for lodgings for the night.
