A/N OK, basically, this story is just a rewrite of the first chapter of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, with my own characters, and a lot more killing. It is a one-shot, and if I want to continue it, then I will do so in another story.
Enjoy!
The Turners were a perfectly normal family. There was absolutely nothing strange about them. Absolutely nothing. A normal, standard family living in London – definitely no secrets or mysterious goings on in their household.
Mr Reginald Turner was a doctor; a private doctor (None of that NHS "nonsense", as he called it), the sort that only the rich visit- normally with very strange problems, which they wanted to be kept confidential; they were often very amusing (What kind of idiot swallows a light bulb?). Mrs Erica Turner was a housewife. She stayed at home and tidied the house; prepared the meals, read a book or two, and so on. Completely ordinary. Their son, Thomas, was at a university in Manchester, studying history, and they couldn't be prouder.
There was one family, however, that Mr Turner was certain were out of the ordinary: the Dursleys. Mr Turner and Mr Dursley often played golf together, so he knew that Mr Dursley was as normal as him, in many ways. However, in the past few years, he and his family had come to him with some very strange problems. The first was seven years ago. Mr Dursley had come in, looking very uncomfortable, and had asked him to take a look at his son. This wasn't to strange – Mr Turner had had to check up on his son numerous times in the past, on account of him being rather overweight ("It's a growth spurt!", Mrs Dursley kept insisting). So, he told the boy to sit down, but Mr Dursley had said no - and Mr Turner soon found out why. The boy had a ruddy pig's tail! Now, there was amusing, and then there was just plain weird. He could see why Mr Dursley had changed his mind on going to a hospital – he wouldn't want to risk too many people finding out if his son had a pig's tail.
It didn't stop there, either. Two years later, they had come in again, this time with Mr Dursley's sister. Despite the fact that the woman insisted that she was fine, he still insisted that he have a look. And as well as this, he kept asking Mr Turner very strange questions – the strangest being if it were biologically possible for a person to expand like a balloon! Another two years later, they brought there son in again, who was looking pale and shaken, and his wife asked if Mr Turner could check their son's soul. Almost immediately after asking this, she looked incredibly embarrassed and they left straight away. 'Weirdoes,' Mr Turner had said.
Mr Turner was woken up one morning when an arrow of sunlight penetrated through the gap between his curtains and shone straight into his sleepy eye, signalling the start of the new day. He got out of bed and went through his normal routine: Shower, brush teeth, get dressed, eat breakfast, read paper, kiss wife, leave.
He didn't notice the owl zipping past his window.
He did, however, notice something else strange on his way to work. A policeman, standing on the corner of the street, staring at the road. His gaze didn't even falter slightly, not even when a car honked its horn, very loudly. He just kept staring at the same spot on the road. He didn't even look like a policeman. Mr Turner didn't know what it was, but something about him was…off. He had shoulder length black hair that looked like black, greasy wires, cold grey eyes and Mr Turner swore he thought he saw an earring. That was surely against the dress code in the police force! He almost went up to question the policeman about his, just in case it was simply a person pretending, but decided against it. He was already late after all.
The rest of the journey to work wasn't long – he only lived ten minutes away – but it certainly was interesting. Firstly, there were the strange people in the street. People wearing cloaks. Mr Turner suddenly felt a sense of déjà vu. This was almost exactly the same as seventeen years ago – people in cloaks, whispering in groups about God knows what. They seemed very excited about something; one man, about his age, was actually jumping on the spot, giggling with glee. Mr Turner would have assumed he was seeing things, but other people were pointing and staring at these people.
He ducked his head and walked on, but not before he heard something else.
"It's him! Again!"
"Harry Potter!"
The name was familiar to Mr Turner. Yes…he had definitely heard that name somewhere…Then it hit him. The Dursleys. They had brought a small boy to him years before, about some infection he had. A boy called Harry Potter.
Mr Turner briefly considered calling the Dursleys, to ask them about the boy, but changed his mind. This was probably someone completely different. The name wasn't that unusual, anyway. There were probably lots of Harry Potters in England. No need to worry. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice the man in the cloak until he walked right into him and knocked him off his feet.
"Sorry," Mr Turner said, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. The other man, however, looked overcome with happiness, which made him even more uncomfortable. The man in the cloak leapt to his feet, and enveloped Mr Turner in a tight embrace.
"You-Know-Who has been vanquished at last! He is gone, and will never come back! Do not be sorry, rejoice!" And with that, the man ran off, leaving Mr Turner rooted to the spot. A complete stranger had just given him a hug. In the middle of the street. For no apparent reason, other than 'You-Know-Who' disappearing, whatever that meant.
This was far too strange. Mr Turner ran the rest of the way to work, taking one last look at the policeman, who was still staring at the same spot, hoping that the day would not get any worse.
Hoping in vain.
For exactly one hour later, when Mr Turner was enjoying a nice, relaxing cup of tea , a man appeared in the spot the 'policeman' was staring at, so quickly and silently that the majority of the people that were unfortunate enough to be in the street at the time didn't notice him. The policeman didn't even flinch.
The man who had just appeared was wearing a cloak like the others in the street, yet he was so completely different. His cloak was as black as night, and the way it swayed in the breeze gave off the impression of a bat. His rather messy hair was almost as white as snow, with a few streaks of grey, which didn't quite reach his gleaming, malicious red eyes, alight with madness and evil. His name was Princifin.
He surveyed the street, his eyes sweeping over each and every soul in his line of sight, finally coming to a rest on the policeman, who was now directing his attention at the mysterious figure, who smirked and muttered, "Glad you could make it,"
He then pulled something out of his cloak. A piece of metal which was supported by both of his hands, hanging off a strap around his shoulder, giving off an eerie blue light. It was an object that most of his kind wouldn't recognise, and the rest of them would describe it as 'a kind of muggle wand that kills lots of people'. He raised it, aimed it at nowhere in particular, and pulled the trigger.
The people in the street didn't stand a chance. As soon as a spray of bullets was let loose from the machine gun, anything and anyone in their way was torn to shreds, each bullet doing an impossible amount of damage. Entire buildings were torn apart like they were made of paper. Men, women and children were killed where they were standing. Craters were made in the street. Cars and buses disappeared in balls of fire which rose up into the sky and disappeared, as though blown out of the mouth of a dragon. Any screams and yells were immediately cut off as Princifin kept firing without hesitation or mercy. Even the men and women in robes, who all began to pull long pieces of wood out of their pockets, were cut down by the ruthless onslaught. He held the trigger down until he ran out of bullets, at which time he reloaded. He did this a total of twelve times, wanting to make sure that everything in the street, including the buildings, was completely obliterated. He stopped firing. A building collapsed with an enormous crash, pieces of rubble flying off in a hundred directions. And then, silence. No movement, except for the slowly spreading pools of blood and the dust settling to the ground, revealing the Princifin's calm face to the 'policeman', who had barely moved an inch during the brutal attack. Princifin, still looking at the carnage with a look of calm admiration, addressed the other man.
"Good to see you here, Seguidora, but you might want to make it a little less obvious that you're not a policeman. Not staring at the same spot helps."
He turned to the man, who was now taking off his hat, and shaking his hair, as though he were a dog drying itself. He then took off the policeman's clothes to reveal that he was also wearing black robes underneath. After brushing himself down as though he had been covered in the dust from the collapsing building, he looked at Princifin with a look of annoyance.
"It's 'Seguidor', and you know it," The man, Seguidor, replied. Princifin smiled.
"Yes, I am well aware. It's Spanish for 'follower', right?" Before Seguidor could reply, Princifin continued. "I'm surprised to find you here, Seguidor. When I invited you, I didn't actually believe you would make an appearance. Shouldn't you be savouring your last vestige of freedom by wreaking havoc, like the rest of the Death Eaters?"
"Those Death Eaters are all idiots," Seguidor replied. "They have no sense whatsoever – the aurors will have them rounded up in a week, and then they'll be in Azkaban in no time."
"Me included?" Princifin said in an amused voice, one eyebrow raised, gesturing at the destruction in front of him. Seguidor seemed to realise his mistake, and soon he was spluttering,
"No, no, not you – I mean – they couldn't – you're too – powerful –" Princifin chuckled.
"Seguidor, you're going to make me blush," Seguidor stopped speaking, his arms hanging limply by his sides. After several minutes, he spoke.
"Why is there nobody around?" He said, surveying the street.
"Probably because I've just killed everyone here," Princifin replied.
"You know what I mean."
"Simple concealment charm around the entire area. Don't worry, no-one will be disturbing us," Princifin said. He then looked at Seguidor in a way that suggested that he knew Seguidor wanted to say something else. The latter finally gave in.
"The Dark Lord hasn't gone, has he?" Seguidor's voice was laced with the hope that Princifin soon crushed.
"He's dead – this time, for good," Princifin was now disinterestedly checking the magically-enhanced gun he had used for the attack, "And you can stop calling him 'the Dark Lord' now – he can't punish you for calling him Voldemort, or even Tom Riddle,"
"Easy for you to say, you were never afraid of him," Seguidor muttered. Princifin looked up.
"I do not fear the dead, and neither should you. Nor should you worship them. It makes no sense whatsoever." He said in a tone that resembled a teacher scolding a pupil for using bad grammar. Seguidor, ignoring this, then started staring at Princifin, like he was hoping to read his mind and find the answer to the other question he was desperate to ask. He gave up.
"They're saying that it was Harry Potter. You know, the boy-who-lived. That he was the one to finish him off. Again."
"Are they now?" Princifin said, finally putting the gun away. "I wonder why." Seguidor looked incredulous.
"But Harry Potter must be – what, eighteen? How can he possibly have defeated the Dar – Voldemort?"
"He defeated Voldemort when he was a child – this is no more surprising." Princifin said, lifting his foot to prevent it from being surrounded by the blood of a nearby corpse that was lying a few feet away.
"But – But – That was just luck! And the Dark – Voldemort – survived that! How did Potter beat him in a duel?" Seguidor was almost pleading for an answer. Nevertheless, Princifin still took a few moments to give him one.
"We can only guess – if I had known there was a battle at Hogwarts, I would have listened in. It was probably because of Voldemort's stupidity – as was the case with most of his mistakes." Seguidor looked affronted at the obvious degradation of his former master, but chose not to say anything, lest his head be removed from his body by Princifin.
"So, why are we here?" Seguidor asked after a minute or so of silence. A person who the two thought to be dead, but was simply injured, moaned and rolled onto her back, blood pouring from a wound in her abdomen. Princifin murmured a few words, and the woman began convulsing wildly, as though she were having a spasm, until finally becoming deathly still and silent.
"I assume you're here because, as your name suggests, you are a pathetic loser who has no purpose in life other than to follow someone more powerful than you," Seguidor ducked his head a blushed furiously, while Princifin continued, "I, however, am waiting for someone." Seguidor looked curious.
"Who?" Princifin smiled, looking up at the sky,
"Harry." Seguidor looked confused.
"Harry who?" Realization then hit him. "Harry Potter? You're bringing Harry Potter here, now?" Seguidor was looking at Princifin as though he were insane.
"Yes," Princifin replied calmly, "I'm going to keep him here," He said, gesturing at the house directly behind him – the only house still standing. This did not appease Seguidor.
"You've just killed hundreds of people in broad daylight! How can you possibly think that keeping him here is a good idea?" Seguidor's exasperation was evident in his raised voice.
"If I can hide this entire street from the outside world, then I think hiding one boy shouldn't be too difficult," Princifin answered. His voice was calm, but Seguidor could see traces of anger in his red eyes. "If you doubt me, then maybe I should rethink having you in my service." Seguidor knew that Princifin was seriously considering carrying out his threat, so he bit back his scepticism, and instead asked,
"How are you bringing him here?"
"Argob's bringing him."
"Do you think it's a good idea to trust Argob with this?" Seguidor knew he was walking across a treacherous bridge here, but he couldn't help himself. Luckily, Princifin didn't seem too interested in killing him today.
"I would trust Argob with much more than I would trust you. He seems very capable at tasks such as these."
"Well, yes, but he is a half giant, and they do tend to be a bit – what the hell is that?"
There was a rather quiet buzzing noise which slowly and steadily climbed to a roar, getting louder and louder every second. Seguidor's eyes darted all around the area, cautiously searching for the source of the noise, pulling out a long, thin wand, holding it out in front of him, as though expecting an enemy to jump out of one of the craters.
Princifin simply looked up at the black shape that was becoming more defined in the morning sun as it approached the pair.
"It seems he has stolen a flying motorbike." Princifin turned to Seguidor, "Perhaps you're right." The enormous bike landed, the screeching of the tires ripping through the calm air and leaving ugly black skid marks on the road in front of them.
A huge man swung himself off the bike and thudded to the ground, drawing himself to his full height, and threw a body off his shoulder to the ground, putting his hands on his hips as though he had done something worthy of a standing ovation. Yet his audience, who were not even slightly impressed by his ridiculous size or his entrance, looked like the least likely people to give him applause.
"Finally, Argob, you decided to join us. Where did you get that bike?" Princifin asked.
"Nicked it, from tha' Arthur Weasley – yeh know, the muggle freak," Princifin nodded,
"Yes, I do know of him. There were no problems, I take it?"
"Nah. He gave me a bit o' trouble, but he was unconscious by the time we were flyin' over Bristol."
"That's quite surprising, considering you seem unable to understand the word 'subtlety'," Princifin said quietly, eyeing the bike with distaste. Argob didn't hear. "Still, I suppose I can't talk." Princifin waved his hand, and the body began to float, causing the head to fall back and reveal a scar in the shape of a lightening bolt. "Ah, the famous scar," He said, with an almost admiring tone, his head tilted in interest, like a dog, "This is where Voldemort failed…"
"Not so tough now, are yeh?" Argob yelled mockingly, "Now we got yeh righ' where we want yeh!" Argob began roaring with laughter.
"Shut up!" Seguidor shouted, "You've already risked exposing us with that motorcycle, don't make it worse, you colossal moron!" Argob would've retorted, but saw that Princifin was moving. He was about to follow, but Princifin, without looking back, waved his hand, saying,
"You two have no more business being here. I suggest you go into hiding until I call you." Argob turned to leave, but Seguidor had one more question;
"Why this house?" Princifin stopped, and turned around.
"This house belongs to the doctor of the muggle family who took care of Harry when he was younger," His mouth curved into a wicked smile, full of deranged mirth, "And I find the irony hilarious." And without warning, he clicked his fingers, and the door exploded outward, causing shards of wood to cascade around them, some bouncing off a shield created by Princifin, joining the debris that littered the street. "Sleep tight, Harry Potter. Tomorrow, you'll be in a brand new world."
Argob started the engine of his motorbike, which jumped into life with a roar like a lion, while Seguidor, with one last look at the ruins and death around him, apparated with a faint pop. A strong wind tore through the silent street as the concealment charm was lifted, and Princifin disappeared into the house. Harry Potter groaned in his unconscious state, not knowing he would be awoken by a cacophony of wails and screeches as the fire crews and police and the ambulances arrive and try to understand what or who had caused such devastation, not knowing that he would wake in the same room as the corpses of his old doctor and his wife, not knowing that the torture that he would endure in the next few weeks would be the worst of his life, not knowing that in every country, people would be meeting in total secret, murmuring and whispering, "Where is Harry Potter – the boy who lived?"
A/N Like it? Love it? Hate it? Do I need a beta? Tell me in a review, if you please
If it interests you, I got the name Princifin from the Spanish phrase, 'el principio del fin' literally, 'the beginning of the end'.