Disclaimer: I do not own any of the fandoms I write in. Whilst this is a multi-verse fanfiction, I got inspired by Pacific Rim and Kingdom Hearts (thus they will not be present in this fanfiction). I am an American writer thus there will be Americanisms. I thought I would try to write one of those "Gary-Stu" fanfictions that either everyone hates or loves. Along with an obvious HarryXMulti pairing as you know those tropes go together so brilliantly. I will try my best not to make it too terrible, however.
Warnings: This fanfiction will feature graphic content of violent, sexual, and twisted natures.
Shattered World, Book 1: Cracked
Chapter 1: The Great Quake of Surrey
Little Whinging would be described by most as well-off, filled with high-middle class families who liked to think themselves better than everyone; Even those who clearly made more than they. To the residents in Little Whinging: The poor were too poor and the rich were too rich. It was an odd way of thinking and living but its what made their whole worlds go round. They were very much content in making the shape of their shrubs the most important aspect of their existence. That was the only unique thing about each house. The gardens; Oh how beautiful they could get! It just so happened that there were contests on a yearly basis for the best gardens in Little Whinging.
Despite having only lived in Little Whinging for little more than a year; she had one consecutively for three years in-a-row now and if it had not had been for future events, she would have gone on to win a few more years. What might think, had they not known the Dursleys, that they were hard-working people who were very much classy and good influences on the whole village. But those people would be naive. It was very well known that for some reason the Dursley's nephew worked daily on their garden and was somehow able to surpass the work of the self-proclaimed gardening experts that neighbored the Dursleys.
Petunia Dursley lifted not a finger to help her nephew. She didn't need to. He was able to do it on his own. Her nephew, Harry, had often won her sympathy points and even one of their village's "Mother of Little Whinging" award which was hardly an award as much as it was a gloat. According to her, she had dutifully taken in her beloved nephew and he had found a love of gardening and their lives had never been better. This couldn't be farther from accuracy. Not only did Petunia wish to be rid of her nephew, she forced him to garden. And if she had even a little less sense than she already did, she would have allowed her neighbors to use her nephew for their own gardens (which they had begged for).
But it just so happened, Petunia had enough wit about her to know that if she gave over her secret ingredient, bye-bye titles and awards. Petunia was a woman of thirty-six years and she looked much older than that despite her attempts of re:dyeing her hair a wheat-colored blonde and caking loads of foundation onto her face as if that could really hide the wrinkles beginning to form. Her lips were usually painted in a shade of light orange-red or, sometimes, just red. Never anything darker for that was not the style. It had to be bold, it had to be vibrant. Now, Petunia was a rather traditional woman. She stayed home and took care of her son, she listened to her husband, and she went to church every Wednesday and Sunday, but even she liked to dabble in the modern fashion styles. Her dresses had a habit of being shoulder-padded and covered in floral design and her heels never went above three inches. It wasn't her fault that almost everything seemed to extend her neck, making her look like a much shorter giraffe or that her lips were often flat, not due to her irritation, but due to genetics. Her face was fish-like.
One would have never guessed that she was related to a pretty thing such as her sister, Lily. Now Lily was dead and she was the only sister remaining so it was unlikely anyone from Little Whinging would be able to guess what Lily looked like. And had it not been for Harry, Petunia would have been very comfortable not telling anyone she had a sister at all. Unfortunately, she had Harry.
Now Harry had come to her in a basket on the eve of Halloween, October 31st (just in case you didn't know). She hadn't discovered him until early November morning, when she went outside to collect the milk. She had yelped of course at the sight of the baby and had, for a tad moment, been rather sad and pitied the poor thing. However, it didn't take long for Harry to open his eyes and reveal to her a beautiful emerald shade of green. A familiar shade of green that Petunia knew all too well. It had been her sister's eye color. And Petunia had spent far too long of her teenage years envying her sister's eye color for Petunia hated her dreaded hazel. She had made sure to marry a man with light blue eyes (and to her greatest wishes and dreams she had borne a son with the same color of eyes as her husband's).
She had reluctantly brought him, having been worried about him being seen by anyone. And perhaps she could have conjured up a rather sad tale that made her seem the hero. And she had. She was able to. It wasn't difficult. She had found all she needed in the letter that had been sent with him. She would take care of him, not that she wanted to, no, this was an order. And when Vernon had asked if they could drop him off at an orphanage all those years ago (specifically ten), she had broken down and confessed her sister's freakishness and how her nephew would be the same as she too had been.
Of course, he hadn't understood at first and thought his wife near crazy until she had demanded that whoever was watching them, show themselves, and explain to her husband what they were. Oh, she had known they had been watching. The letter had said so. And they had, a man had popped out of the shadows, and once all was said and done, he had been ordered to leave the house. Oh, it had been terrible. Petunia had cried and told Vernon that she knew he would leave her, she just wished for some supplies is all. He had taken her from the ground, because she had dropped to her knees and begged for forgiveness, and had held her and said everything would be alright. And if she hadn't loved him before, she had certainly decided to love him then.
The boy, Harry Potter, was magic. It was how he was able to grow such beautifully smelling flowers and cut the shrubs at just the right length, though he didn't know it. Petunia had never told her nephew of his heritage and perhaps that would become her downfall. He just had some sort of influence that Petunia knew she would never have and no matter how much she degraded his magic into nothing but a freakish ability; Her heart still yearned for just a taste of that delicious power. She could see him now, in the present, just by looking out the kitchen window. She could see the way the sweat rolled down his tanned face, how his glasses would slip down his nose, and how he trimmed. Clip. Clip. Clip.
He would be forced to do this for hour upon hour. Often, he was unable to finish his homework. Despite this, he held, near perfect grades in all of his classes. It was infuriating. Petunia would have killed for those types of grades. She wasn't terrible at school; Oh goodness no, her parents would have punished her severely if she made anything below a C. But he was like his mother, he took to the academia like a fish to water. He loved to learn. One half of Petunia hated herself for doing this to him. She knew it was petty. She was knew wasn't really a freak and that he could do wonderful things. She knew she was a villain. It just so happened that that side of her was far from being dominant. She often squashed those thoughts back, deep into her mind where she liked to pretend to forget about them.
Eventually after two hours of work and after two hours of pitying herself. She found herself at her door, looking at him. "Boy!" She called sharply. He looked up, his cheeks burned and sweaty. "You've done enough! I need you to start preparing dinner!" It was near 4 o'clock and soon she would have to call the Polkis Residence and inform Amanda that it was time for Dudley to come home. "I want you to make spaghetti!"
Harry gathered his tools and placed them inside the small shed out back. He then made his way inside. He sniffed at himself and looked at his Aunt Petunia who had seated herself on the sofa and had picked up her knitting. "Aunt Petunia, would you like me to shower first?"
She frowned and then nodded curtly. She said no words. He knew her thoughts.
If anyone asked Harry if he thought he was a freak. He would reply that yes, he was. Strange things happened around him and Harry had come to associate this with just being him. And it wouldn't be wrong. Once, when a kid that wasn't Dudley, had tried to push him around. It was on one of those days when Dudley had been sick and they had been younger, around seven, and kids had yet to really place Dudley and Harry's name together for the two boys didn't look alike, they didn't hang out together, and when they were found together, Harry was being bullied by Dudley. It just so happened a nine-year-old bully by the name of Davey had caught onto that and had decided he would be needing a new victim. This had been the only incident that had turned out well.
He was a scrawny kid who probably wouldn't grow higher than 5'8 (and that was an at most, by the way) and his metabolism was rapid, making him seem much more malnourished than he already was. His hair was black. Not like brown-black, but black-black as in ink-colored black. And due to the bullying from one other candidate, he wore glasses that had suffered a long life. Tape covered both the center and the two ends. Yet, his prescription still worked. Or at least, Harry thought it did. He couldn't really tell to-be-honest.
And although this had made him out to be a good target for all bullies, he had mostly had the one, his cousin, Dudley. It had only taken Davey one time to know that Harry was not to be messed with by anyone else other than his cousin. It was odd, yes, to put up with it, especially since Harry had realized that life was seemingly out to get him. He was an orphan, he had a terribly mean aunt and uncle, he had just as awful eyesight, and he was bullied! Like seriously, it was like Harry was made to be the butt of the world's joke.
But not that time.
No, when Davey had come up to him at recess, demanding that Harry give him his book. Harry was quite the avid reader and was particularly fond of Roald Dahl. It just so happened the book in his hands had been "Matilda". Davey was a short kid, like Harry, but he had been short for a nine-year-old which meant he had been a beast compared to Harry but he was stupid. A stupid kid. So stupid he hadn't realized how ironic the situation had been. It was a library book and Harry knew that if Davey could get away with it, he would tear up the book and blame it on Harry. Davey could absolutely get away with it: that was the issue. There were few teachers who cared enough to look up from their own books to help out the tiny kids.
When Harry had, of course, denied him; Davey had taken the book from his hands. Or rather, he tried to. It just so happened Harry had felt the tingling sensation spread through his fingers and Davey was suddenly pushed roughly to the ground, seemingly out of nowhere. And of course, Harry had been spotted by one of the few teachers.
"Hey!" She had cried, roughly placing down her book. "You over there! Come here!"
Davey had started crying, having hit his head roughly on the ground. Harry made sure to grasp the book tightly before walking over towards the teacher. He had known his uncle would punish him severely for this. Or so he had thought. It just so happened that when parents were called Aunt Petunia had screamed and raged, but Uncle Vernon had been rather proud. But only because it just so happened to be Mr. James Newport's child, one of Uncle Vernon's most ranted-about, hated co-workers who lived a few streets down from Privet Drive. Harry had been given just a little more food that night. That was the only time Uncle Vernon had shown an ounce of affection for Harry but being the desperate boy he was, Harry gladly took that affection up. It was more than he had ever gotten in that seven years of life.
That was the most violent his freakishness had ever gotten. The other things were small, almost undetectable things. One time, he had made his teacher's chair fall apart. He didn't know he had done it. But Harry knew it had been himself. He had been rather angry at her for praising Dudley when she should have been praising him. She had forced them to team up together to work on a book project which of course meant that only Harry had to work on it. She knew that. But she had been bribed by Aunt Petunia to push him down as much as possible. They were knitting buddies, the two of them were.
As he was walking up the stairs, headed for the bathroom. He felt it. They all did. It started out as a light tremble but then it began to really shake. The walls rumbled and Harry could feel himself slip down the stairs, his feet being shaken out from under him. He could hear the sound of crashing of objects as he fell back. His arms spread as he forced himself to twist around. The ground came at a fast rate and it was shaking constantly. He wasn't just having some sort of seizure. He hit the ground, his hands spread out before him, trying to guard his face. He landed roughly. But as his arms went slightly numb, he didn't think he broke anything.
He heard Aunt Petunia scream. Things were falling. Plates were crashing to the ground. An Earthquake? Harry had never experienced an earthquake before. Well, he now had and it was awful. Harry would never be able to properly explain to you what it felt like. It was as if the Earth was ripping itself apart. Something crashed. Something heavy. His head was just out enough to see his Aunt's whimpering form. The fire-place. The bricks had cracked all the way through. The windows were breaking. He didn't even know that could happen. The foundation itself was literally falling apart.
Then it stopped. And they were surrounded in destruction. Cracks lined the house and they could only imagine what it looked like outside. "Aunt Petunia!" He cried out weakly as he shakily pulled himself to his knees and then his feet. Oh God, he could barely walk. He felt so light-headed. "Are you...alright?" He heaved and shut his eyes and then opened them, blinking heavily.
His arms still felt numb.
She looked up and then gasped. "Boy. What happened to your arms!"
He looked down and then gulped. They were all crooked and he knew it should have been hurting but he felt next to nothing. "I-I I fell down the stairs. I didn't- What was that, Aunt Petunia?"
"An-An Earthquake, I believe." She looked around their house, her eyes were watering up as she looked at the destruction of her home. She pushed herself off the sofa. She motioned to him. "We have to get you to the hospital. I can't have your arms looking like that." He followed her. He knew her reasons for bringing him to the hospital. It was because she had to, not because she wanted to.
She let out a pained shudder. She had been physically uninjured but she had lived in this house for over a decade of her life and her heart was quite badly ripped in two. When they had stepped outside the door, which had been lifted off its hinges and they only had to pull on it for it to begin to fall backwards had it not been for Petunia's quick shove. It fell outwardly. She paused and then turned her head. "Did you do it?" She demanded.
"What?" Harry narrowed his eyes. "How could I do this?"
She bit her lip and then turned her head. "Never mind. Get in the ca-"
It had rolled out into the street and into another car. She looked around for the nearest car, for the nearest house with someone that could help.
Harry twitched. The back of his neck seemed to tickle as he walked behind Aunt Petunia who was borderline having a panic attack. This was the worst she had ever seen her village. And she knew that there was no way Vernon would allow them to stay there. Cracks formed on their driveway and through their road, not-so-deep cracks but it showed how strong it was.
They would later learn that it would scale 7.3 on the Ritchter Scale. The largest ever recorded in the British Isles. Other houses seemed to have suffered more damage than the Dursley's house did. Someone's house had completely caved in. They would also learn later that they weren't excluded. The part of the roof in the attic had caved in and so did some of the Dudley's room.
Harry couldn't even move his arms. He had no idea how he was able to push himself up but now that he looked at them, at how malformed they were. He cringed. There was no bone exposure, luckily, or else he knew he would have puked. But they were both twisted at odd angles. He could only imagine how harsh the mockery would become after placing the both of his arms in casts.
He looked around, almost as if expecting something to pop out.
He found himself drawn to the back of the house; to assess the damage there. The tingling got even greater. He wanted to rub the back of his neck but he could do nothing. He inhaled sharply at the damage. The few trees that had been back here had all fallen over each other, but that wasn't the surprising part. It was the absolutely massive crack that was at the back of the house. It exposed even greater damage. Their house had begun to fall apart from the sides. Bricks had fallen over, revealing the kitchen and the second bathroom and even a little bit of his cupboard.
But the ridge exposed was black and Harry found himself daring to look into it. There didn't seem to be an end. He looked around. They would have to move. He felt the tickling in his neck become stronger before he turned and he froze. Standing in the shadows of the broken and bent trees was a large, black monstrous looking thing. Tentacles seemed to swirl out, the darkness grasping at the air, but it wasn't invisible or gas or anything like that. It was a physical thing. The scales seemed to line its skin and it would have looked face less had it not opened its mouth and a dark purple tongue came swirling out, almost sniffing at the air. It couldn't have been any taller than Harry but then he saw its hands and he knew that it wasn't height that mattered. It was the sharp, black claws at the end of its hands. He took a step back, away from the thing and away from the hole. It turned its head sharply.
And then it took a dash and Harry let out a yell as he stumbled back, closing his eyes off.
"STUPEFY!" Came a loud voice from the side of Harry. A red beam came from that area and it rammed straight into the chest of the running beast. It fell to the ground, growling. It was only a few feet in front of Harry. "Come over here, boy! Behind me!" Harry found himself looking at a tall black man wearing some weird dress. A robe, maybe? He was holding a stick firmly in his hand and he was breathing heavily. When had he got there? Harry had never seen this man in Little Whinging before. It wasn't like he wouldn't stand out. He certainly looked a character.
Harry took off and found himself behind a rather tall mountain of a man. He trusted him. Harry knew he had saved his life. That was more than what most people had done for Harry and for as far as he could remember, that was the most anyone had ever done for Harry. The thing in front of them slowly got up, shaking off whatever had been placed over it. It was as if it had been momentarily stunned.
The man cursed. "That should have lasted longer." He muttered. "Stupefy!" He said it again and another red beam flashed. He looked at Harry. "We have little time. Grab onto me!"
"I- I can't! My arms- I fell down the stairs! And my aunt-"
The man looked down and his eyes dramatically widened. But he grasped onto Harry's shoulder as lightly as possible and Harry looked at the man and then at the thing behind him. It was still but Harry knew it would move soon. And he cared not for Aunt Petunia. Then he felt something heavy press into him. Like a punch in the stomach and he only had to blink and then he felt the air get sucked out of his lungs.
He opened his eyes. The man's hand was still on his shoulder but they were nowhere near where they had been. Or at least, Harry thought that. They were certainly in a different room. They were in an office. He looked up at the man, questions pouring out his mouth: "Who are you? What was that? Where are we?" The very standard ones.
The man sighed and knelt down. His eyes growing kinder with each foot he knelt. His hand didn't move. "Mr. Potter, my name is Kingsley Shacklebot and I am here to protect you. What that was? I have no idea. But that is a second concern compared to your poor arms. You fell down the stairs, you said?"
"Yes sir, during the Earthquake."
"Lucky for you, we're in a good place that can help fix you up. Hogwarts, School for Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Harry opened his mouth to speak but found he didn't have anything to say. Wizardry? He had always been rather weird and he did weird things. His aunt and uncle hated the word magic. If they had actually read "Matilda", they would have let him within a mile of it. He looked around the room they were in. There was a big desk in front of it and then his eyes widened as he saw a large orange-red bird (the same shade as his aunt's lipstick) perched on a perch, sleeping, its beak nuzzled underneath its wing.
The door seemed to boom open.
"Do you have him, Kingsley?" Came a stern, old sounding voice. It belonged to a man that certainly looked that way. He looked as all grandfathers shoulder and he wore a set of blue robes. His beard seemed to drift down to his thighs and his hair just under his shoulders. He wore a pair of glasses and he had the bluest eyes Harry had ever seen. He took one look at Harry. "Oh dear." He mentioned softly. "Come now, we have to take you to the healing ward. Madam Pomfrey can fix your arms."
"Fix my arms? But with what? I have to go to a hospital?"
"Hmm...Magic, I suppose." The man mentioned almost funnily but he shared at look with Kingsley and Harry knew that there was something darker going on.