Chapter 1: Stretching

A/N: I read so much Harry Potter crossovers, I decided to write my own. I will warn you that I'll not be uploading on regular intervals and there could be long periods of time between chapters. I will also be adding warnings as I go on.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or X-Men, I am just borrowing them and will probably give them back.

Edit: I have rewritten this chapter as of 14/02/2016 and I'll also rewrite chapter 2 as quickly as possible. If that takes longer than a week I'm also here to say sorry in advance.

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Harry Potter was used to strange things happening around him; from the occasional return of a mass murderer out for his life, to dementors having an unhealthy desire to suck out his soul. Things like this happened so often that he was hardly ever surprised anymore. He turned out to be a very potent danger magnet. That being said, it didn't mean he wasn't concerned when he woke up to the skin of his face feeling like it had suddenly shrunk three sizes.

Harry had immediately rushed to the bathroom and right now, looking into the mirror above the bathroom sink, he couldn't put his finger on it but something was off about his face.

Harry turns his head, examining his features. He still looks like himself; his green eyes had not changed color overnight, his jaw line and cheekbones were not suddenly unnaturally sharp or angled, and his nose had fortunately not been replaced with a copy of that of his nemesis. Nothing seemed to have changed at all. But he just can't shake the feeling something has. It feels like his skin is being pulled back to the sides of his head, as if something has been pushed underneath and his skin is being stretched to make it fit.

Harry trails his fingers over his face, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. He softly moves his fingers over his lips, upwards along the bridge of his nose, to the rounding of his forehead and down along the shell of his ear, to the side of his cheeks before trailing along the hairless of his jaw.

Having checked everything, Harry softly scratches his forehead in thought and tries to concentrate on where exactly his skin is being pulled towards. Maybe whatever it is isn't something you can feel on the surface but it's deeper below the skin.

Harry almost jumps out of his skin when the feeling suddenly disappears. Harry concentrates again but there's nothing, not even a trace, as if it never even existed. Frowning, Harry pats and pinches the places he has already checked to prove himself wrong. But the feeling doesn't come back.

Letting out a big breath of air, Harry drops his hands and closes his eyes. He's probably just seeing, or in this case feeling, things from a lack of sleep. He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out another huff. And he takes one last look in the mirror, before walking out of the bathroom.

The short walk of eight feet back to his bedroom seems to last forever and Harry stands in front of the door, just staring ahead in thought, for a few minutes before he notices. After another minute of staring at his bed accusingly, as if it holds all the answers to the universe, Harry finally snaps out of his daze enough to start preparing for the day.

Somehow Harry manages to find his clothing fairly quickly, for them being scattered around the room. Not to mention his problematic attention span as he keeps drifting away in thought. He finds his socks hanging from the ceiling light, trousers crumpled underneath the bed and his shirt hanging halfway out of the upper drawer of his desk. As he pulls his trousers on, awkwardly kicking his feet through the hole filled legs, Harry quickly steals another glance at his reflection in the window. After a few seconds, Harry glares at his own reflection and turns away. There still is nothing that would suggest that he hadn't imagined the feeling he had when he woke up. If his insomnia had gotten bad enough to evoke hallucinations he really needed to catch up on some sleep —hopefully his aunt and uncle would be in a forgiving mood.

With the thought of his aunt and uncle, Harry quickly returns to the task of putting on his clothes and silently cheers when he doesn't trip over his own feet as he pulls on his socks whilst walking —or more like hopping— out of his room.

On the stairs, Harry skips the few steps he knows that love to creak and completely ignores the last six or so by jumping over the railing. He lands silently in a crouch, balancing on the balls of his feet, and in a fluid motion gets back up from the ground to break into a graceful sprint. Overall, the time spent getting from his room to the kitchen takes up only five seconds.

Harry is quite surprised when he looks at the clock and sees that he has somehow made it into the kitchen before any of his relatives, Petunia in particular. And on any other day he would've questioned it. Just like —had he been conscious of it— he probably also would've been a little worried about his different way of walking down the stairs this morning. But, as it was, Harry's too busy, trying to look like he has been busy, to notice.

Harry opens the fridge —later he will be very thankful for still having been coherent enough, in his haste, to not roughly yank it open and so not having risked the destruction of Dudley's "special" piece of cake, that stood balanced on the little left over space of the top shelf— to grab butter, eggs and bacon. Harry, having been told to make breakfast since the age of three and getting harsh beatings if he didn't, since the age of three and a half, had naturally become very good at making breakfast. And since the Dursleys almost always wanted the same thing for breakfast, he easily fell into the same routine he performed every morning.

After a few minutes, Harry's thoughts start to drift off as his hands move on autonomous over the marble counters; flipping the eggs and bacon with one hand while pouring milk and orange juice with the other.

Harry's just finishing Vernon's breakfast —which he always makes last because Vernon wants his eggs and bacon still hot and with extra fat— when the kitchen door opens. Harry is very distracted, trying to think up a plan on how to get his wand back —now that he has pushed the whole morning accident to the back of his mind— and thus doesn't hear it when his 'Oh, so kind and compassionate' aunt glides over the kitchen floor to stop behind him.

Only his sixteen years of firsthand experience, of what happened if he made sudden movements around the Dursleys, prevented him from flinching away as a bony hand with long knobby spider-like fingers suddenly clamps down on his shoulder.

Harry bites his lip, drawing blood, as one of the five nails on his shoulder —sharpened especially for these kind of occasions— changes location and digs into the side of his neck. Harry isn't afraid of getting seriously hurt by Petunia. Right now it hurt like a bitch but he knew she was a proud woman and wouldn't dare walk around with blood under her nails, wanting to maintain her 'elegant' appearance. And because, if the neighbors saw, she would surely be shunned. Or so she thought. She wouldn't leave anything but shallow bruises, it was Vernon he should be watching out for. The balloon of a man always liked to leave visible damage when he was done. However, he was still smart enough not to leave any marks on places that couldn't be covered up by a shirt or trousers. That said, sometimes getting seriously hurt by his uncle beats being forced to listen to his aunt's voice.

"Good, if you keep working like this maybe you'll get food. Tomorrow." The shrill, piercing sounds coming out of the hole she dared call her mouth could cut through glass and made Harry's ears ring. "Did you hear me? Freak!", she shrieked. Harry could swear he felt the moment his eardrums almost caved in and it reverberated throughout his whole body. Harry shivered at the feeling. But Harry quickly learns that this is a very dumb thing to do. However, still just a little too late, as a second pair of long knobby fingers close around his throat, tightening a little more every few seconds and in doing so slowly cutting off his air supply.

Harry gasps around the tight grip, taking a small but very much needed gulp of air. But he doesn't fight back. Instead, he bents his head back. And in doing so bares more of his neck, trying to make the pain in his lungs lessen slightly. Then, somehow having just enough air left, Harry manages an almost inaudible exclaim: "Yes, aunt Petunia."

Just as he's starting to become dizzy, from the limited amount of oxygen, the pressure on his shoulder and throat disappears. Harry takes deep breaths and feels almost like he's still being choked. But this time by a sudden, and far too big, supply of air.

As Harry's trying to catch his breath, he hears the sharp clacking of Petunia heels as she breaches the kitchen floor and stops at the door. But before Harry can brace himself, her shrieking starts again, "Good, now finish making breakfast and bring it over to the table. If I see you making eye contact with my little Duddykins there will be no food for another two days! You hear me?"

Harry's still facing the stove and thus incapable of seeing his aunt's face but he doesn't have to try and imagine what Petunia looks like, at that moment, as he can practically feel how she purses her lips in displeasure. She's probably disappointed that he didn't give a reply that she could easily twist into something to use against him.

Harry nods weakly in reply and hears a murmur of "filthy—" as she finally leaves, shutting the door behind her —albeit maybe a bit loud.

For about a minute Harry doesn't move and just listens to the muffled sounds drift through the kitchen door. When he can no longer hear the clacking, that accompanies Petunia's movements, he feels his tensed muscles slowly start to relax again —or as much as is possible when living under the same roof with his horse aunt, whale uncle and hippo nephew.

He should go bring them their breakfast.

Harry closes his eyes, his breath trembling as he exhales softly, and tries to compose himself. He has only been back at Little Whining for a day and he will eventually have to face the rest of his family, no matter how hard he tries to avoid it, and prolonging the inevitable is only going to make it worse.

Steeling his nerve, Harry picks up the three plates of breakfast and, balancing them on his arms, opens the kitchen door.

It all went downhill from there.

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"Didn't I tell you to stay inside your room? We don't need you to contaminate the rest of our house with your freakishness!" Vernon's voice is deafening so close to Harry's ears and Harry flinches as his uncle roughly yanks Harry up off of the ground, by the scruff of his neck. Harry only has just enough time to pull in his legs before he's hurled inside the cupboard.

Harry ignores the pain in his ribs as he scrambles into the familiar corner of the cupboard, pushing his back up against the rough wood. How could he have been so stupid! Months of being at Hogwarts had apparently dulled his senses. Harry couldn't think of another reason he wouldn't have noticed Dudley coming up behind him. Thanks to that, Dudley had slammed him into the wall using his full weight, which was a lot, and Harry had lost his grip on the three plates of breakfast.

The sudden force had squished him flat against the wall and he heard, as well as felt, how one of his ribs gave a sickening crack. Then, the plates had shattered to pieces —in quite a spectacular fashion, might he add— the moment they hit the floor. And the loud crash of porcelain, that came with it, drained Harry's face of all color.

The loud crash wasn't something easy to ignore and had Vernon out of his seat —in a time that was quite impressive for a man his size, Harry dimly noted. The giant man's eyes searched the room —of course, immediately setting on Harry, who else had the competency to lift a plate, not to mention drop it— and he approached Harry with an evil glint in his eye. Since then, only a minute had passed, Harry had already been thrown into a few walls and several decorative objects.

Harry pulls his legs up closer to his chest, as Vernon's mouth opens wide to show a bottomless pit. His uncle's mustache wiggles threateningly, on his unnaturally swollen purple face, as he boulders profanities, "Filthy unwanted freaks, like you, should be grateful they even get a roof above their head!" Harry inwardly makes a face of disgust, at the spittle that accompanies his uncles exclamations, but it doesn't show on his face. Instead he's using all his strength to try and keep his face blank. With all the pain that courses through his exhausted body, it probably isn't working.

Harry's legs tremble as he, biting through the pain, tries to move further into the cupboard, hoping his uncle won't be able to reach him there. Hesitantly, Harry steals a glance at Vernon but quickly pinches his eyes shut as a big fist with swollen fingers, suddenly, fills his view.

Harry holds his breath, bracing himself. But the hit he expects doesn't come. "You're staying in your old room from now on. If I hear even the slightest sound, you're dead. You'll get food in three days, if you behave."

Harry didn't dare move a muscle until he hears the cupboard door click shut, followed by its various locks. Even then, Harry waits a few minutes before opening his eyes. And, when he does, everything is pitch black. He probably won't be able to see his hands even if he holds them an inch from his face.

Blindly, Harry reaches out his hands until he's touching the rough splintered wood surface of the cupboard door. From there he trails his hands along it's wood, over to the wall and down to the crates, in the corner of the small room.

Harry fingers the thin blanket, covering them, with a rueful smile. No matter how he got back here, he's home. He actually missed his cupboard. Harry doesn't know if he should worry about that but to be honest he doesn't really care. He feels safe here, that's what matters. And, now that he thinks about it, he doesn't really have another place that gives him the same feeling of comfort. Or just not like this. He does have Hogwarts, a place he considers a home, that gave him the freedom to be himself and is also the place where he made his first friend but even there danger finds him. Then there's Gri— Harry stops that train of thought, it's still too fresh, he doesn't want to think about that now. Anyhow, the thing was that he did indeed have other places to call home but none of them really gave that feeling of being safe. Just looking at Hogwarts alone; he had been attacked or under some kind of threat while there more times than he cared to count. The only place where he's always been safe is his cupboard. No one that wants to hurt him can get to him when he's there and even if they could for some reason they never tried. Not even once.

A loud bang suddenly comes from outside his cupboard and Harry's first thought is that Vernon is going to get him for another round but then he hears the clinking of glass. Whoever it is just opened the fridge. No second beating.

Harry lets out a relieved breath that turns in a unexpected yawn, at the end. He didn't notice until now just how tired he was. Harry smiles softly, he really is back. Back home. Man, he really shouldn't be smiling at that, should he? Well, he does have an excuse. A few fists to the head. Plus, living in a cupboard for over thirteen is bound to have messed something up.

Harry looks around his cupboard. He thought he still had that stick laying around here somewher— Aha! Harry pushes himself up out of the corner, keeping one hand on the make shift bed, and slowly shuffles towards it. Harry's chest brushes against the wall while he moves and the pain that it erupts makes his chest heave in pain. Harry tries to keep the sounds of his pain silent but he can only keep them down to loud exhales.

Eventually Harry's close enough and searchingly reaches underneath the cot, with his hand, until he touches a cold metal. Ha! Found it! Harry physically forces down all the pain filled sounds that bubble up his throat and he lifts himself up from the ground to sit down on the bed.

It hurt a lot. Like A LOT. And even with Harry being as careful as he can be —which is a lot harder than normal because of his situation, not to mention his trembling fingers— when he pulls up his oversized shirt, Harry's still softly whimpering throughout the whole process. Only stopping to gasp for air when he uncovers the damage done to his body.

He hasn't been hurt this badly since he tried to out fly that dragon in fourth year. But at that time he had slammed into one of Hogwarts' towers. Now, after only a few minutes with Vernon, almost every inch of his chest was covered in dark purple bruises and shallow cuts. His back was probably covered in them as well but Harry couldn't really see. Although he thought the burning pain of his back said enough. What he could see was one big ugly, black and blue, bruise on the right under side of his chest, that especially demanded his attention. However, Harry was always one to do first and ask questions later. So it wasn't as big a surprise when he was already poking the center of the bruise —and maybe a bit too hard— before he thought about the possibly broken set of ribs underneath. Naturally, Harry let out a shrill scream.

The heavy footsteps, that thundered closer, killed off any curses Harry had at the ready. And the skin on his back suddenly started to itch, on top of the burning pain, and his body tensed in anticipation. Just a second before the door was yanked open, Harry felt a hysterical panic bubble up from his stomach and set in his throat.

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I hope you liked this first chapter and that you will like the ones published in the future. Don't feel scared to leave a review; this does not include flames, which I will politely ignore.

If you have suggestions on where to take the story or who you want Harry to end up with (but it has to be a male, because this will be a Slash story) feel free to leave a review as well or a PM if you like. I myself am leaning towards Logan, John, Kurt or maybe Scott?

Again thank you for reading.