Wizard Chakra

by Baron Black

The Hogwarts letter announces the existence of magic to muggleborns. It did so to Harry Potter. But what if he had already known and practiced a different form of magic? What if he had been training himself to be a shinobi?

1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own any previously existing characters, plots, or elements.
The story itself is partially based off of Womgi's Of Wands and Kunai.

The Dursleys had always treated Dudley better. They gave him toys and presents, hugs and kisses filed with affection and praise. When Dudley spoke his first word, when Dudley took his first balanced step-each of these times, Petunia had gone into raptures over her 'talented little darling' while Vernon had spoke prideful words of the manliness of his son and of how he was just like his father.

When these same words were spoken to Harry, they turned into an insult. Into a comparison between the useless nephew and the drunk father and the whore of a mother. Into painful punches and derogatory, biting words. Into being shut up into the cupboard under the stairs, equipped with only a bare mattress, a blanket, and spiders spinning in their silvery grey webs.

Harry loved the cupboard. It was always dark and quiet, a perfect little haven of solitude and freedom from the awfulness of daily life. He wasn't afraid of the spiders. They had always been there as silent, harmless, unresponsive companions. When he was younger, he used to play-act his dreams into the darkness, dreaming up a world where the Dursleys treated him just like they treated Dudley and spoke fondly of his parents, where he was given Dudley's other room to sleep in and where Vernon heaped bacon onto his plate in the mornings and told him that eating it would 'make that scrawny body more healthy.' Where he had piles of gifts on his birthday, clothes that weren't secondhand, and a nickname that wasn't freak. Where he wasn't the reminder of past hatred, but the only remaining memory of her beloved sister to Petunia, where he wasn't the scrounger of hard-earned savings to Vernon but a second son to be loved and treated just like Dudley.

He didn't know why, but one day he stopped dreaming. Maybe it was the fact that he was backhanded and taunted once too much, maybe it was that none of the neighbors seemed to notice the 'birthday tattoo' as the sign of abuse it was. Or maybe, just maybe, he had stopped deluding himself and accepted reality-that he wouldn't ever be loved or even accepted by the Dursleys and that the only one he could ever trust was himself.