I don't own anything you recognize. Remember to sleep. Some elements borrowed from Karldin's Kaliedoscope of magic. A good, but abandoned Sharingan Harry fic.
He woke up quietly, breathing in the rancid air around him. He heard footsteps nearing his door, interrupting him as he dreamt. It was quite dark. The pitch black night oozing in from his window made him question the normality of the footsteps. Could be someone headed to the bathroom. He felt satisfied with that assumption and rolled over further into his bed, having difficulty managing his pudge— no, his muscle! As father and mother had told him. He listened contently to the slow, approaching footsteps. That door handle seemed a little less like the handle for the loo, and more so like his own door's handle. Concerned, he rolled back over, only to come face to face with a tall, pale creature in a horrifying mask. He made to scream but no sound was produced; tears sprang from his eyes and he didn't want to believe he had wet himself. The figure moved closer matching an image to the previously anonymous footsteps. After muttering words the boy could not make out, he passed out, back into the sleep he had originally consented to.
Another boy woke up in a different state. His dreams had ended, springing him into consciousness in the only escape method he had to hide from his fears. Fears that were wielded fiercely by said dreams; fears sharp as a knife, and that knife hurt. He resigned himself to his typical nightmare-induced schedule; lying awake until the stomping on the stairs attempted to wake him. The stomper had yet to figure out that he was already awake most mornings. Not that it mattered to said stomper. He was very surprised when instead of Dudley's stair stomping, he heard heavy footfalls trudging toward his door. He quickly began to shuffle into as much of a crouch as he could manage and the second his legs cemented his balance, the door burst open. He closed his eyes expecting a blinding flash of light, but only darkness fell upon his eyes. His uncle Vernon leaned toward him, clouded in the pitch blackness of the current night. He felt afraid once again; unable to escape the fear attacking him in his dreams. Roughly pulled into the hall, he was quickly, and roughly manhandled out the front door. He tried his best to focus on the figures he was sure he was seeing but quickly regretted his intentness when a blinding white flash lit up the yard. Leaned against his uncle's car, sat his aunt Petunia, and his cousin Dudley, bound into stillness by tight looking rope. In an odd moment of observation, he noticed that the ropes seemed to be fit onto them, lacking any sign of a knot or connection between loops. His uncle, whose previously shrouded visage lay bare staring at two strangers, he would have imagined to be very angry in this situation. Instead, Vernon appeared remarkably blank and calm, as if he were at peace with himself. The two figures waved, and in an instant his uncle returned to reality, confused and frightened. Ropes sprang forth snapping his limbs against him and pulling him towards the car. He focused his attention on the two figures, who bore remarkably similar looks. Pale, grim features, bodies covered with black shawls, both seeming so frail they could wither away with the breeze. These two people- if they were indeed human - were so obviously weak, yet obviously the reverse. They had subdued his entire household with little effort and drew little outside attention.
One figure stepped forward, in an ungraceful limping fashion, and peered at the boy, gasping out in a hoarse voice, "I've got you Harry Potter. It's time to leave." As Harry found himself slipping into unconsciousness, the figure appeared to dart forward, catching him and giving him a glimpse of piercing red eyes.
