Warnings: Eventual character death, crossover, het, religious themes. The Religious themes do NOT reflect the beliefs of the author. Keep in mind that those expressed in this chapter in relation to the Christian faith are Harry's interpretations of Petunia's warped interpretations. I am not making any commentary on Christianity. I am simply portraying the warped view of Anglicanism that I believe Petunia would pass on to Harry to make him feel even more freakish.

Disclaimers: Harry Potter belongs to Joanne Kathleen Rowling and associates, of whom I am not one. Final Fantasy X belongs to SquareEnix and associates, of whom I am not one.

Part I: The Pilgrim

Chapter 1: Borne of Thunder

Harry James Potter of Number 4, Private Drive, was a fairly normal boy. He was a bit skinny, and perhaps his eyes were a bit too bright and his hair more than a bit too messy, but he was normal as far as most people could tell. He looked like a street urchin with his oversized hand-me-down clothes, but anyone could blame that on his overweight, well-clothed relatives, the Dursleys, who had raised him. Anyone who met the boy would wonder at how his aunt and uncle always apologized for his oddity, when he wasn't the least bit strange to them, or how his cousin was quite well assured that the boy was nothing shy of freakish. Truly, to most it was astounding.

Harry found it rather astounding too, since he didn't see any difference between himself and most people that wasn't caused by his relatives' treatment of him. Well, assuming one discounted the way his hair always grew back to the same length and style over the course of hours, and never exceeded that point, or how he managed to get on top of the school without realizing it, or any other number of strange things that happened around him.

Like snakes somehow escaping their cages at the zoo.

But, really, Harry could hardly be held accountable for those things. Except, of course, by his family. He figured that the occasional strange occurrence was what led to these situations.

"But I don't want to get the post! Make Harry get it!" Dudley, Harry's cousin who probably contained more fat in his body than there was in a butcher's shop, whined pathetically to his parents before taking a large bite out of a strip of bacon.

"Boy, get the post," Harry's uncle, Vernon, wasn't really paying much attention. Harry thought, momentarily, to turn that to his advantage and maybe get his uncle to rescind the order – he'd actually told Dudley of all people to grab the post, after all! – but thought better of it. Dudley would make a stink about it, or worse, Vernon would catch on to what Harry was doing and punish him for it.

The ten year old slunk away from the table, ducking a well aimed jab of Dudley's smelting-stick as he made his way to the hallway. He grabbed the mail swiftly, wanting to get back to his breakfast before Dudley started nicking it, and passed it off to his uncle as quickly as he could before tucking in again.

"Bill… Bill… Highway robbery, that is!" Vernon's grumbling over the mail was quickly ignored by the lad in favor of defending his bacon from Dudley's greasy mitts. He was so distracted with his strategic blocks – directing Dudley's hands to the crispier pieces Harry didn't want as badly, or to the fried potatoes – that Harry was completely floored when his uncle's fist slammed on the table.

He was so floored, in fact, that he fell out of his chair and hit his head on the way down.

"Out! GET OUT!" Vernon's roar echoed like thunder in the large kitchen, and Harry knew better than to do anything but hightail it. That Dudley followed him out soon after a resounding slap of flesh was heard, left cheek reddening from the impact, set the boy more on edge. What could have caused Vernon to lash out at Dudley? Not the fight over the food – Vernon would have hit Harry over that and wouldn't have banished his son from the kitchen – but…

"How could they know where he sleeps?" Petunia's harsh whisper could be made out from the hallway. Harry was tempted to go to his cupboard, the extra layer of wood protecting him from the harsh tones in the kitchen, but something told him to listen.

"How the blazes would I know? They've probably been watching the house since they forced us to take in his ungrateful hide!" Vernon's low grumble was a bit harder to pick out than Petunia's, but Harry figured it out quick enough. They were talking about something to do with him. "It's clear as day they don't care where he sleeps or what we do with him. They send this letter about that ruddy school, knowing how we keep him? I might as well get rid of the boy now; they wouldn't notice!"

"Vernon, you remember the note! We can't-"

"I can do whatever I want! We've lived in fear of those blasted freaks for ten years, Pet! Ten years!" The last words were shouted, and Harry flinched away from the kitchen door. Vernon's temper was frayed at best, and Harry did what he always did when it got this bad – he hid in his cupboard. There was no inside lock, but he hid in his cupboard, trying to block out the sounds of his Uncle's anger.

What had he ever done to deserve this? Was being born enough, as the family always said? He doubted it. Then again, with a drunk and a whore for parents, it could be like the sin of the parents being stuck with the child. Or something. Was there something he could do to repent for that, he wondered? Not that he was religious or anything; although the Dursleys went to church on Sundays like the "good Anglican family" they were, he'd never been allowed within half a mile of the place since he was such a no-good freak. But there had to be something… something he could do to abolish whatever "sin" there was that made him this way.

Though he knew nothing of religion, Harry was a firm believer in karma. So, when the cupboard door was opened viciously enough for it to smack against the wall, Harry knew there must be some reason why he was victim to so much misfortune.

He also knew that he wanted desperately to be away from there.

His head smacked against the small doorway as Vernon yanked him forward by his shirt collar, and Harry knew no more.

The crackle of lightning was the first sign that the Monks of Djose Temple received that something was happening. The Head Monk was on the temple grounds feeding monkeys with some of the disciples, those who showed no proficiency in the art of summoning, which happened to be all of them, as he had been intimating at the time. The first crack of thunder nearly sent him to his knees.

Two disciples, Adal and Zett, were quick to catch the Head Monk while the rest spun around in awe. Great stones burst from the walls of the temple, held aloft by lightning currents, the occasional thunderous boom lending to their reality.

"There is a summoner in the Fayth!" The cry could be heard rising up all across the grounds. It was not so strange an event – Djose Temple was a regular stop for summoners on their pilgrimages - but with the Calm still going they hadn't seen any new summoners since High Summoner Braska. Moreover, no one had seen a summoner enter the grounds. The Head Monk would have sensed any aeons' connection approaching the temple, the blessing of Ixion granting him the ability he'd honed for decades in his service at the temple.

Actually, no one at all had entered the temple grounds in the past week, since the blitzball tournament had ended, with both the Ronso and Guado teams praying for a safe journey home.

Freeing himself from the grasps of the children, the Head Monk made his way to the temple, the doors of which were swiftly opened to grant him the swiftest access. Lightning arced between the rods set in the entrance hall, and the monks scattered within, including the guard at the door to the Cloister, were just as perplexed as those outside had been.

"Summoners, with me," he growled low, his aged voice too weak to carry far. The three temple summoners, all sprier than he, would aid his progression through the Trials to discover what precisely was going on. How could a summoner have gotten down there? "Are all the Trainees accounted for?"

"Aye, sir," Elln, the eldest at 53, who was in charge of the trainees at this hour, stated quickly, brows furrowed. "They wait with the priestesses in the North Hall." A stiff nod came from each of the other temple summoners. As tradition dictated, each temple summoner was gifted in a different technique of combat – Elln used black magic, Tal, only 17 years old, was a swordsman, and Jona a spearman – while the Head Monk could, in his old age, use only white magic. He lacked the strength even to summon his patron aeon at this point.

Once assured that they were prepared for the invading party, the monks made their way into the Cloister. All the traps were already set off, leaving the path clear to the Fayth; there was no sign of the Trials being cleared by human (or guado or ronso or any other) hands, as if Ixion himself wanted them to make their way to the bowels of temple in all haste.

Spurred on by the electricity in the air, Jona took point as they entered the atrium before the Fayth. No guardians stood watch, indeed, no person nor signs of persons were present. Without bidding, the door to the Fayth slid open and the summoners waited for what would emerge.

A full minute had passed before the Head Monk placed his hand on Jona's arm, causing the spearman to step aside that his superior might pass him by. The stairs were a battle quickly defeated, even with old age long since set in, and the Head Monk entered the Chamber of the Fayth. It was better that he, old and decrepit as he was, should face the potential danger within the room rather than the younger summoners.

Old eyes squinted in the dim light emanating from the stone dome on the floor that contained the Fayth. No person kneeled before it to beg Ixion's favor, yet the Fayth's spirit hovered over the stone, a mere shade of a man who smiled wanly at the elderly monk before nodding. "Do not let him sleep," he half-whispered before the light dimmed further and the shade faded.

It was at that moment that the Head Monk saw the figure curled on its side like a slumbering babe lay atop the Fayth.

The figure was small, only a child of perhaps 9 years, possibly as many as twelve if he was from one of the poorer families. Lit only by the glow of the Fayth he lay upon, he looked deathly pale, his eyes dark and only half open. A nest of dark hair cast strange shadows about him, like Ixion's own mane and, as the Head Monk stepped further forward, allowing his subordinates access to the Chamber of the Fayth, he saw a small abnormality upon the child's brow, though what could not be said. A scar of some sort, perhaps.

Dressed in strange garments many times too large for his small frame, the boy looked fragile. How could he have made it into the very heart of the temple, unaided as he was? Undetected and obviously hurting.

"Tal, Jona, I require assistance," the Head Monk bit out, voice uncertain. Perhaps out of the sickly green glow of Ixion's crystal he would better see the child. To make sure that what ailed him – something in his head, perhaps, given Ixion's warning about sleep – could be fixed with white magic.

The warrior monks rushed in, Elln bringing up the rear, all ready for a fight, but stopped when they saw their leader, unharmed, with a child at his feet.

"Let us be quick. Lord Ixion has spoken, this child is in our charge. Come."

"I don't understand," Harry sighed. He had been in the strange circular room for nearly a week now, healing. His birthday would be tomorrow, if he recalled right. He remembered giving his uncle the post, hiding in his cupboard, his uncle finally deciding to give him the beating that was always threatened… and nothing.

It was like the incident with the school roof. One minute he was going to be squashed like an ant, the next he was somewhere else. Only this time instead of ending up 15 feet higher up than he should have been, Harry had found himself with an aching head, unable to focus even with his glasses, in a dark room. The floor had lit up suddenly green below him, and a man in a sort of old fashioned sailor's costume was standing above him. Whatever happened after was a blur, though he recalled the four men who took him to what he was later told were the Halls of Healing in "Djose Temple".

And now they were both trying to explain things to him, but also wrest an explanation from him. He did his best, but it seemed like half the things he said they didn't understand, and there were so many things they said, as if he should know, that he just didn't.

"Sir, maybe I could try?" Of the four men Harry had met, it was the youngest who spoke. He wore a sword at his side – and wasn't that odd, though not so much as the man who carried a spear, or the old man in green and gold robes – and of the four wore clothes the least odd to Harry, though the clothes were still alien. "I mean, not to undermine you or anything," the swordsman, Tal, hastened to add, "but I don't think he knows much of anything, and maybe I could try? Just teach him from scratch?"

"How would you even know where 'scratch' begins, Tal? Born with a silver spoon in your mouth, it's amazing you managed to make Temple Summoner at all," the second to oldest looking man said. His hair was peppered with gray and thin, and his clothing was extremely loose about him.

Tal didn't rise to tat bait. "I don't know, but I'd still try. You and the Head Monk can't even seem to get past the fact the kid said magic doesn't exist. Maybe someone who doesn't use it would be better off is all."

The eldest released a breath of air. "Tal is correct, Elln. Take your chance, Tal, and if there is no progress by the morrow, we shall resume our own attempts. Be kind to the child; he bears Ixion's own mark."

The three elders left, leaving Harry with only the swordsman, who couldn't have been out of college yet, if he had gone.

"Well, um," Tal scratched the back of his head. "I guess we start from scratch. You speak common, so there's a start. You aren't Al Bhed. Unless you were made by the fayth, you must be a hume summoned by the fayth, so…" he paused. "Right. Scratch. I guess… what's your name? I mean, if you've got one. By Yevon I can't believe we didn't ask you yet. And, uh, anything else I should know?"

"Harry Potter," Harry answered. They said that word a lot, "fayth". But they said it with a reverence that made Harry think that perhaps they were not merely talking of having faith in God or whatever it was Christianity was based on. They said "Yevon" a lot too. "I'm ten, but I'm going to be eleven soon. Tomorrow I think but I'm not sure. I don't really know how long it's been since I… got here."

"Five days," Tal answered, waiting for Harry to go on.

"Um… well, I live with my aunt and uncle, and my cousin Dudley," Harry paused and added uncertainly, "in Surrey?" When Tal's face didn't show any sign of recognition, he added, "England?" And, finally, "surely you've heard of Europe?"

"Can't say I have," Tal's eyes sparked with a something Harry couldn't name. "And I guess… Does Spira mean anything to you? Zanarkand? Yevon?" Harry shook his head to all of the above. "Sin?"

"Well my aunt and uncle said that sin is a thing that people who don't believe in God have, or who don't go to church, or believe in witch craft, or do bad things," Harry paused. "Sin is why bad things happen to people. If something bad happens to you it means you must be a sinner, even if you don't know it, it means you did something God told you not to do."

"That's…" Tal tilted his head, short hair flopping slightly as he did. "Huh. Yeah, I guess starting from scratch means 'from scratch'. I'll try to explain as I go along, but if you need extra explanation just tell me. Everyone knows these things, so I don't know how to start from nothing, but I'll try. It started more than a thousand years ago…"

And Harry listened. He listened as Tal explained the war between the Machina city of Zanarkand, now a holy land, and the people of Bevelle. He told of how the use of powerful machina, machines, weapons that could wipe out dozens of people all at once, and the useless bloodshed and lack of sendings – the way people got to heaven – created a monster. The monster was called Sin, because it was born from the sins of humes, humans, from their desire for war. It crushed the entire city of Zanarkand in one night, unhindered by the powerful machina at the peoples' disposal.

He told of the teachings of Yevon, which told how to live a good life, and how once all the people of Spira lived by those teachings – Hume, Guado, Ronso, and even Al Bhed (though he did not explain what any of these meant) – only then could Sin be vanquished. Until then it was the job of summoners to temporarily defeat Sin, to bring the Calm.

"But it doesn't last long, usually," Tal explained. "Sometimes Sin is only gone for a few weeks, more often a few months. And even when it comes back, it takes a while to really get strong enough to start attacking. If we're lucky, Sin is 'gone' for years at a time. We've been… very lucky, this time. High Summoner Braska, with the aid of Sir Auron, Sir Jecht, and the Final Aeon, defeated Sin going on six years ago, and the only reports of Sin are far to the North, not attacking anything more than passing boats, should they wander too near. This is the longest Calm we've had, on record. But Sin will be back to its old ways any day now, so we still need to train summoners. Hopefully Sin's rampage will end quickly, and we can keep the death toll down."

Then Tal explained the basic concept of what summoning was, what a fayth was, though the technique to create them had been lost in the past few centuries and none of the aeons were talking. He told Harry about the basics of various magics in Spira, and explained how, through the use of the Sphere Grid and the spheres that were knowledge of the dead solidified when a fiend was defeated, one could learn magic and further their own mastery of techniques.

"Not that the Grid is a physical thing. I mean it sort of is but… well, let me show you," Tal withdrew a small bag from his side, filled with tiny crystal orbs. "These are the spheres. I can't actually use all of them, you need a certain amount of real world experience for things to really click. But I found a good one recently, clearing the courtyard of fiends, and even a beginner can use it. Take it."

The moment the orb sat in Harry's hand, he knew exactly what it did, what it could do, and how to use it. In his head he could see an endless field of knowledge, even though he couldn't understand any of it. But with the tiny sphere in his hand, he could feel a handful of knowledge waiting for him to grasp and take as his own. It wasn't very much, but he could reach out, and without realizing he was doing it, he moved his hand to where his mind knew the knowledge rested, and his eyes could not see.

Then the sphere was gone. The endless knowledge had vanished. And in its place was the tiniest flicker of information, at least by comparison. He could taste the word on his tongue, and all he had to do was let it take the power it wanted –

"Don't do it, Harry, not in here," Tal's voice brought him back to reality. "I'll take you out into the courtyard when we're done talking. But for now, what spell did you learn?"

"A flash of death, sky's flame and agony; energy and power," Harry whispered the words the sphere had told him. "I can summon lightning?"

Tal smiled. And the lesson continued.

There were many more lessons after that, though rarely with Tal. The elder monks, though they appreciated Tal's effort in laying the groundwork, did not rely on him to teach Harry everything they wanted him to know. They didn't trust Tal to tell Harry about what they believed the lightning mark on his brow meant, that he was chosen by Ixion.

Of course, Harry tried explaining that he had had the scar since he was a baby, when his parents died, but they were adamant that the aeons often chose favorites, and marked them such from a young age. That Harry's scar was so obviously a bolt of lightning and his eyes almost the precise color of the fayth below them made it obvious that he was destined to be a High Summoner in his lifetime, perhaps even at a very young age. He had been dropped on their very doorstep within days of when he became old enough to begin training as a disciple of Yevon, after all.

Harry almost liked the idea of having some sort of epic destiny. The idea that he, Harry the Fairy, the freak, the boy, could grow up and harness power the likes of which the Dursleys couldn't imagine, and destroy Sin itself… It was a pipe dream, he thought, but it was better than going back to the Dursleys. Not that he was even sure such a thing would be possible. He still didn't know how he got to "Spira", which was not even on Earth, even if the monks said that Ixion and Yevon brought him to them. And going back…

Uncle Vernon said he was going to kill him. Not lock him in the cupboard for a week. Not starve him. Not cuff him around the ears. Kill him.

If I have to die, I think saving the world is a good way to go, Harry thought to himself. That was why he accepted the training. Why he took with such fervor to the lessons for black magic and fighting with an ornate, yet sturdy, staff longer than he was tall. Why he drank in every word in the lessons given to the desciples. Why he gave his all in the tests that were meant to help train them to be capable of housing the connection to fayth.

If Harry was honest with himself, he had never once considered the idea that he would grow old. He had believed the words that his aunt and uncle told him day in and day out. That he was like his parents, doomed to be worth nothing no matter how hard his good, loving family tried to turn him into a good, loving person. He was inherently bad, he was a sinner from birth, and neither the grace of God nor the love of his blood family could redeem him.

Only, here he could defeat sin. He could defeat the literally embodiment of sinfulness, even if the concept of sinning was different in Spira than in England. Some things were the same of course, that stealing and cheating and killing were wrong. But whereas on Spira no one used machina and everyone was charitable who could afford to be, the many religions of earth all had different silly rules for things not to use or eat, and where the Dursleys could certainly afford to be charitable, they were far from it.

"If I give my life to save Spira, I'll have done something," he told himself late at night in his bunk. "I want to. I want to be better than my parents were. I won't let them hold me back." Harry tried to sound resolute, but there was no one to hear him but the pile of sleeping monkeys in the corner. He rolled over to sleep, and to think on that day's lessons.

He was nearly fourteen by the time he made the first true step toward his dream.

"Hello?" Harry called into the dark room. It was barely illuminated by the glowing green floor, though not much less than the Cloister had been. It was silly, he thought, that the cloister and fayth of the Aeon of Thunder would be so dark. Would it be like this when he went to Kilika for Ifrit, too?

"Young summoner, it has been almost three years, hasn't it?" The ghostly form that rose from the crystal, increasing the light in the room, was the same as when Harry had been concussed and fuzzy-headed on his arrival to Spira.

"It has," Harry answered, making the customary bow to the fayth. It was an odd, ceremonial sort of thing, but he flowed through the motions of the Prayer of Yevon with practiced ease. One of his first lessons was to perform the prayer for days until he could do it flawlessly, fluidly, even when so exhausted he wanted nothing more than to collapse. It was only then that he was taught basic staff techniques.

"You have grown," the ghost again stated the obvious. At thirteen, Harry was finally at a normal height and size for his age, having been well fed and trained in his time at Djose Temple. His hair was the same length as ever, but held up and away from his face by a bandana as was common among Spirans from the islands. He wore the traditional robes of a Black Mage of Djose, though under his garb was much less ceremonial.

After all, if Ixion agreed to take him, Harry's pilgrimage would begin that very same day.

"Lord Ixion, Stallion of the Storms, I come to seek your aid and begin my pilgrimage, in Yevon's name," Harry stated, maintaining his bowed state. He watched the spirit slowly walk toward him, circling him without feet touching the ground.

"You do not truly believe in Yevon's teachings, Harry Potter, it is useless for you to invoke his name here," the fayth intoned. The hairs along Harry's spine stood on end, hearing the truth so close, and from a being that, he felt suddenly, perhaps should not be.

"A summoner not of Yevon would be sacrilege," Harry said. His voice did not show his lack of conviction, but the fayth would know, either way.

"I think a summoner not of Yevon is what we need, in these times," the fayth's tone was lighter. Not the least reprimanding, nor joking. Harry rose from his bow. "The Sin that is is stronger than any before, and we fayth fear that is our fault. We thought that we dreamed an end to Sin. Even now there are those who believe our new dream will end it."

"But not you?" This was not how communion with the fayth was meant to go. He was supposed to pray, perhaps for hours, and convince the fayth that he was true to Yevon, that he would be deserving of power.

"It does not do to dwell in dreams, even as a dreamer myself," Ixion sighed. He removed his tri-corner hat, and ran a hand through his tied hair. "I will dream with the others, but I fear that this dream will not be strong enough, and if it is, that we may face only the same as we are now. No. I will look to Humes this day. Harry Potter, I grant you my power, that of Ixion, Lord of Storms, who 1200 years ago was a pirate and sacrificed to create this fayth. Wield my might, as my chosen. Be on your pilgrimage, Summoner."

There was no jolt of energy, nor draining of it as the Temple Summoners had warned. Only the sudden feeling of connection, the knowledge of the precise dance and words that would bring forth Ixion, and how to wield his power.

Harry left the cloister, deep in thought, and barely noticed the celebration in the courtyard for his success as he readied himself to leave.

Author's Note: This is a story in 3 parts, each part consisting of several chapters. Part I is The Pilgrim. Part II is The Wizard. Part III is The Chosen One.

Pairings in the story are as follows: Chappu/Lulu. That's it. Harry will NOT be paired (I had considered Harry/Rikku, but decided against it). And Harry and Chappu will be the main characters so any side pairings (of which there will be only one – Tidus/Yuna) don't really get any/much attention. Sorry to burst any bubbles. Not sorry about the little information dump of my headcanon on how Sphere Grids work in reality (I love translating game mechanics into reality).

I wanted to get Never Sleep, Broken Past, The Green Word, and Founding Father all done before posting anything new but that didn't happen. I hope to get to work on any of those at some point though. As is I had 4 chapters of this complete and thought it time to present.

So… I started this in, like, 2010. Seriously, the first half of this chapter is from 2010, as is the whole concept. I should be working on Never Sleep. And my nuzlocke comic. And character designs. And studying for midterms and writing essays and a host of other things. Instead I'm writing fanfiction about a game I haven't played in years (I let a friend borrow it, got it back midway through chapter 3).

I started a tumblr for fanfiction things. I will use it to post snippets of future chapters, character art (not top quality but decent) as well as chapters of things I will likely never finish. I WILL finish this, I have it plotted from start to finish, it just has to actually happen is all.