Disclaimer: Multiverse Theory states that for each and every choice that is made, an alternate reality is formed. In one such universe, I do, in fact, own Naruto. In another, the Mice have long since subjugated Earth's third most intelligent species, the Humans. Unfortunately (or, rather, fortunately), this is not that universe.

Warnings: This story contains depictions of several types of mature content, ranging from abuse to language to murder to terrorism, blah blah blah. I do not condone the actions seen in this fic; awful things will happen and those responsible will oftentimes get away with it. The opinions of the characters in this fic do not reflect the opinions of the authoress. Remember, it is rated M for a reason. Flames will be posted on my Twitter and thoroughly mocked.

Preface: Welcome one and welcome all, greetings and such. Anyways, I recently fell in love with the Elemental Nations and all the side characters suffering therein, although I'm bored to tears of Uchiha Madara and his merry band of ragtag walking corpses. Thing is, I'm an exceedingly quiet person and Naruto's canon personality pre-Shippuden gives me a migraine. So I needed a villain to slay, and an (anti)hero to slay him. And Potter certainly will, even if she has to burn down Konoha to do it.

Whispers In The Dark

~ And Other Morally Reprehensible Things ~

by Rozen Krone

Introduction: Welcome To The Leaf

I startle awake and realize the fucking Veil worked as advertised.

My unconscious shifting digs the wooden splinters further into my back. A slow fluttering of my eyelids is my only show of surprise as the flesh flickers with... something... and knits itself back together around the intrusions. A sense of foreboding emanates from my heart and coils itself into a tight ball, taking my breath away.

A wave of a hand, a Conjuring of light, and - Yep.

Fuck.

I'm in another bleeding closet.

Above me lies a black stone ceiling that hangs at Crabbe or Goyle's waist-height 'round Seventh Year. Beneath me rests a jagged wooden pallet that was somehow more cruel than sleeping on the freezing floors. All around me, walls enclosed me entirely too tightly – shuddering, I jerk away and tumble through the wooden door that was my only protection from this new and unimproved world beyond the Veil.

A long, dark, and breezy hallway stretches away from me. The cold bites me without mercy, fogging my breath and chilling my flesh. Twitching, I realize that whatever unlucky kid who's body I'm possessing like fucking Voldemort is wearing only a ragged tunic.

Shivering in apprehension, my hand slices through the frigid air. The onyx wall of rock in front of me shimmers silver before the very edge Transfigures into a suitable mirror.

I see scruffy blond hair, bright cerulean eyes, and childlike features that are lacking the pudgy pallor I'm accustomed to catching on children this age. The body is entirely too short for my comfort, but not malnourished; my mind spins for a moment before angling metaphorical fingers at that regenerative effect I noticed earlier.

Then, I see it: two, triangular protrusions atop my head, that I had oh-so-foolishly believed to be tufts of my hair. A weight on my tailbone, and-

Christ.

I had planned for everything: contingencies within contingencies, fully developed and realized plans from a to triple-z. I thought I had embraced my Slytherin side.

Nope. A Potter's life can never be simple.

I nibble at my lip with incisors that are surprisingly sharp. I wonder...

A diagnostic spell I picked up from far too many trips to the Hogwarts School's Infirmary bleeds from my fingertips. Mundane, mundane, mundane, there: an entire network pulsing with an energy I do not understand, like a magical parody of a circulatory system. Falling into a meditative state, I sense black coming from my mind and white from my vessel, mixing and forming blue of all things. And, threading through it like blood in water, something red.

I follow its connection down, and...

A demon, of sorts. Bloody wonderful. And I thought having a piece of Dark Lord in your skull was bad. This unlucky kid takes the cake. At least I know where the ears and... and tail, comes from now. Then again, perhaps such a thing is normal for this dimension. I cannot dare to hazard a guess.

I stare into my reflection with a narrowed gaze. My eyes catch themselves and I incant a single word. I Legilimize myself, shifting through a horrible parody of a cinematic reel.

I understand, now. The Veil shreds the body in the Void between worlds, but the Soul is ethereal, incorporeal. It bleeds through the rift, mindlessly seeking something that can relate to it. This kid, this... Naruto, his five years of life is like a cruel mockery of my own. Somehow, actually, it's worse.

Oh, the home life is similar enough. But whereas I could delude myself into thinking every kid has to go through... this, Naruto could see every day that he's the only one of his neighbors going through hell. On top of that, rather than being the "good" kind of famous like me (though I've never claimed my fame was in any way, shape, or form "good") he is apparently the "bad" kind of famous. Infamous. Probably to do with the energy monster in his- mine- our gut.

Luckily, years of storing magic in my soul has granted it interesting side effects. My mind has left an imprint on it, from years of sending commands to it like it would any other organ. Upon merging and melding with Naruto's, this imprint pressed itself against the mind once more. But unless I make... changes, such a surge of control would only be temporary.

Sorry, kid.

Canceling the Legilimency, I flare magic into my very brain and begin the arduous process that is hardcore Occlumency. The brain shifts, reorienting itself, and bleeds as my Metamorphic talent mixes with the Mind Arts and young, five-year-old Uzumaki Naruto's mind transforms into weary, twenty-five-year-old Rose Potter-Black's mind.

I flush a steady flow of healing and regenerative magic into my brain and thank Nature for seeing fit to leave the mind itself blessedly, gloriously free of pain receptors and nerve endings. Had I not done this, the shock of finding itself with a magical soul tag-a-long would've worn away and the native essence would retake control. For all my experience, this is Naruto's body first and foremost. His mind, his command.

For a second I contemplate if this counts as murder or not. Shrugging, I absorb the remnants of his soul and decide he can live vicariously through me. His life was shitty enough anyway, I doubt he would complain.

Turning my attention back to the mirror, I begin pulsing my magic throughout my entire body, being careful to thoroughly ignore the faux-magic circulatory system.

My father had been the son of a Black, and Blacks are renowned for carrying the recessive Metamorph gene. (Not really, as it was a mutation in their magical core rather than actual genetics, but close enough.) My mother had been a muggleborn, meaning her soul was "fresh" and clean of the corrupting influence of centuries of pureblood inbreeding, father included. They combined to awaken my Metamorphic talent, which was only strengthened by the appearance of a Slytherin's soul, which has trace Black ancestry.

The same thing happened to Tonks; minus the fragment of Dark Lord, anyways.

Unlike popular belief, a Metamorph's bodily manipulations are permanent. There is no "base" or "real" form. What changes we make are there to stay (well, until we change them again).

Bones shift and grow, muscles contract and enlarge, features shift and traits recreate themselves. I silently thank Tonks' memory for shoving all those anatomy and biology books at me all those years ago. Otherwise I would have surely fucked this up. Magic and intuition can only take me so far.

Finishing after nearly an hour of non-stop work, I come to the realization that I should have fallen unconscious from magical exhaustion half an hour ago. Aging a hungry body from the age of five to a healthy, five foot nine seventeen year old takes a helluva lot of energy. Frowning, I once again cast my new favorite diagnostic spell to seek enlightenment.

I come to the rapid conclusion that the weird black energy surrounding my brain is an exact match for magic. Except, instead of pooling in a carefully sculpted void in the soul (the truth of a magical core) where ambient energy can utilize osmosis to gradually refill a witch's reserves, the energy attracts itself to or, perhaps, is generated by the mind and eventually melds with the white energy.

Humming, I run through dozens of various theories as to the nature of magic and cross each of them out. Eventually, only one explanation remains.

Like the Chinese believed, there are apparently two energies: physical and mental/spiritual, yang and yin. Back home, we wizards pool latent "magic" into our souls and harness it as spiritual energy. We then manipulate it with our minds, using a medium: usually a wand, a trinket, or a staff, which are conductors for physical energy. They combine, creating an effect. (I assume, in times of stress or through long practice and diligence, we can transform spiritual energy into physical and combine them inefficiently through sheer willpower. Hence, accidental and wandless magic. Or, you can be like me, and have the Elder Wand fused directly into your soul through being the Mistress of Death. The ultimate hack.)

Which means I apparently have a leg-up over the denizens of this realm, having not only this body's natural network but a witch's core. Plus, the... thing... in my gut. Here's to hoping it will keep me from yet another early grave.

My new superhuman senses catch an echo in the dark. I shift through my mind, rapidly threading through the knowledge of this world I assimilated during my self Legilimizing. Five years of exposure to the local language centers itself in the forefront of my mind.

Still, memorizing verbs and nouns and transitive clauses will do me nothing without practice. So when the elderly orphanage matron with a scowl on her face and a lantern in her hands approaches me, I Conjure a flowing, traditional set of dark witch's robes around my seventeen year old and slender form. Thick raven hair cascades down my waist in lazy waves. Shining Killing Curse eyes twinkle at the shocked and backpedaling crone. The silver-tipped, vulpine raven ears and tail let her know exactly how fucked she is.

It wasn't difficult to fall back into my ruthless, kill-or-be-killed mindset from the days of the Second Blood War. Smirking, I raised a single hand.

"I... hate..." I spoke slowly, whispering this Elemental language. "... scum like you."

With a flick of my wrist, a wandless Banishment twists and breaks her neck, and she falls to the floor already a lifeless corpse.

A ruthlessness born through years of starvation and honed on the bloody battlefield is my most terrifying trait. At least, so says the Light and Dark fools who dare stand in my way on my path to murdering the Dark Lord. I adhere to neither of these confining and petty philosophies.

Salazar said it best: "there is no good nor evil, only power and those too weak to seek it." And while I was no Slytherin, lacking the required ambition, this 'Claw had the cunning in spades. My mind was the quickest in the School, sharpened through necessity.

And I've always possessed a... flexible moral code. It is one of my better qualities.

As such, I held no qualms stepping smoothly over the matron's corpse and Legilimizing her brutally. The mind had yet to degenerate, so it was laughably easy.

I ignored the countless memories of her physically, mentally, and emotionally abusing the "demon brat" and instead assimilated her decades of knowledge on the workings of this world. Humming a song from the Weird Sisters, I began to skip down the passageway.

I had a godfather to find.

A/N: Well. That was a thing. I'm going to hide, now.