Disclaimer: I own neither Charmed nor Harry Potter!

Hey all! This is my first attempt at a Fanfiction in the Charmed/Harry Potter world. I'm trying to get a change from writing the usual Jess and Luke stories, (not that I don't love writing those:D) and have gone to one of my second favorite shows.

Well, hopefully you guys like it.

Please review!

:)

The grimy dungeon was dimly lit by a small swinging bulb, light moving back and forth, flashing across a young teenagers face. He was held to the wall by chains, shackles wrapped around his wrists, leaving the skin on his wrist's raw and red. The boy hung loosely from the wall, his head drooped low. His brown shaggy hair fell into his face, stained with the murky color of crimson red. He was covered in sweat, perspiration slowly dripping down his clammy skin. Chris was fighting to keep himself from breaking. He would not give in to his brother's wishes. He would not turn into a killer again. He had run from Wyatt's rule, had run from his position ruling alongside the tyrant his brother had become. He realized that he didn't want that life. The only reason he had decided to stay with Wyatt was because he was the only thing the boy had left. His family was gone, their family was gone. Wyatt had killed them, one by one, right in front of Chris' eyes. The boy felt so weak. He couldn't stop his brother, and his many calls to his father seemed to go on deaf ears. He was disgusted with his so called father. The man hadn't come till it was too late, till they were all dead. Leo had let them die, had yet again chosen his role as an Elder over his role as a father.

Chris heard the pacing steps of his brother's heavy boots stomping on the concrete floor. The man took steady steps and walked back and forth, hands folded behind his back. Chris stared at his brother's dirty boots and watched them stride back and forth. There were specks of red staining the leather. Blood. His blood. He didn't know if it was fresh or from their last little 'chat.' That was what Wyatt was calling these torture sessions now, 'chats.' Civilized conversations carried out in the form of agonizing screams and warnings from his older brother. His brother had used every tactic he could think of. Physical pain; branding, energy balls, telekinesis, the tyrant had even brought in Wizards to cast curses upon the boy and even chanted the foreign curses himself. Nothing worked though, he would face the physical torture with his usual martyr attitude. The boy seemed completely unfazed. Wyatt had then decided to go on to a more serious method; psychological torture. His brother would tear apart at the sections of his brain, pulling out memories that the boy had forced back, messing with his psyche. Wyatt tore apart at his organized mind, turning it into a bedlam. His mind was forever fractured from his brother's vicious meddling.

Wyatt clicked his tongue and paced up to his younger brother's weak form. He leaned down in front of the boy and lifted his head, "Oh Christopher," he stared into his brother's haunted, glazed emerald eyes and brushed a strand of hair out of his face, "why do you let this continue?" he studied his brother's gaunt form, taking in the dried blood and specks of bile that stuck near the side of his mouth, "Just join me again, brother. We can rule this world together, the Halliwell brothers, the prophesied twice-blessed and his half Elder brother. We'd be unstoppable."

Chris' lips curled into a devilish grin and he looked his brother square in the eye. A small scoff escaped his lips, "I'd rather die than rule beside you, Lord Wyatt," he spat the title with venom.

Wyatt let out a sigh and shook his head, disapprovingly, "Oh, little brother," he placed his finger's gently onto the boy's forehead, clicking his tongue once again, "wrong answer," he pressed his finger harder against the boy's forehead, "effrego mens!"

The young teenager let out a sickening scream as Wyatt begin to meddle with his mind. Flashes of his dead mother, aunts, cousins, and uncles flashed before him. Images of their cold, white faces, stained with crimson blood; lifeless bodies laying motionless on the cold, cement ground, eyes opened wide, twisted expressions of pain permanently contorting their features. Flashes of the destruction of the war, the millions of murdered innocence, murdered because of him. Because of his plans, his strategies. The bleak, gray scenery of the once colorful and lively city they once lived in, the sky filled with smoke; no sun, no light. He wanted to cry for his brother to stop, wanted to plead for the painful images to disappear. It was all too much; all of the pain, all of the suffering. Things Wyatt had caused--no, things they had caused. He was as much to blame as his tyrannical brother. Though the younger Halliwell never killed an innocent with his on hand, the blood was still there. His hands were forever stained with the crimson red. It had been his battle plans that had killed these people, his ideas. Wyatt had never been strong when it came to strategics. He was the fighter, the figure head, the leader. Chris, on the other hand, was the brains. His mind conjured up the perfect battle plans. Send troops in from the West, he would point at a map, crowds of soldiers in front of him, attack, then when the enemy is worn, send in troops from all sides to finish the job. "Show no mercy. Kill all who oppose," Wyatt would add on as the battle plans were announced. Cheers would be heard from demons, witches, and even mortals. He was only sixteen years old and he was responsible for the deaths of millions. Even his own family's.

Chris suddenly felt so cold. Blotches of black tried to overcome him, take him away from the pain, begging him to sleep. His body was failing him. His breathing slowed and his eyes rolled back. This was it, he thought, this was the end. The death he'd been craving for days. The freedom from all the pain. It was coming, it was finally coming! He prayed this time there would be no resurrection. He couldn't finally get the supposed eternal rest to be woken up yet again in the same grimy cell.

"Lord Wyatt!" a minion's slimly voice hissed, "Lord Wyatt! You must stop, your highness, he can not take anymore! He will die, sire! He will die!"

Wyatt suddenly released his grip on Chris' mind, causing the boy to let out a sharp gasp. His heartbeat was now erratic, breathes coming out in quick pants. He had been so close, so close to escaping. Wyatt just wouldn't let him die. Even after his betrayal, his brother still seemed to want him alive. Maybe there was still a small bit of the old Wyatt in him, the Wyatt he grew up with. Maybe his brother wasn't all lost.

Wyatt took two steps back towards the door and grasped the handle. He turned his head slightly towards his minion and spoke, "Heal him," he ordered, his icy blue eyes traveling back towards the chained boy behind him, "I'll be back later."

"Yes, your highness," the minion gave a swift bow and Wyatt opened the cell door, letting in a small crack of natural light. The door closed with a heavy thud and the minion made his way over to the limping Halliwell's form.

He pulled a potion out from his black long coat and lifted the boy's head up, "Quite a stubborn one, aren't you, Lord Christopher," he opened the vial with a flick of his thumb, "but all Halliwell's are, no?"

He brought the vial up to the boy's mouth, "No. . ." Chris pleaded, voice low and raspy. He turned his head away, distancing his mouth from the vial containing the bluish colored potion, "please. . .let me die. . .please."

"Lord Wyatt wants you alive, my Lord," the minion retaliated, pulling the boy's face towards him. He poured the potion down the boy's throat, the boy gagging on it as it went down. Chris was too weak to fight off the demon's grip on his head, his body practically paralyzed from the torture. Once the teenager had downed the whole vial, the demon released his stern grip on the child's head, causing the weak boy's head to droop down to his chest.

"Lord Wyatt will return later," he informed the younger of his superiors. The demon stood there for a bit, contemplating whether or not to go on, "May I have permission to advise you, my Lord?" he asked shyly, sliding two steps closer to the boy.

"Stop calling me that," Chris hissed, his voice taking on a bitter tone, "I am no longer your superior. I am a traitor, I do not choose this side nor the other. Speak to me freely, you don't need permission." Chris spat out a clump of bile from his mouth and let his eyes linger shut.

"My Lord, I would take your brother's offer," the minion firmly suggested, "you won't last forever like this. He has torn down your mental barriers, my Lord, he is breaking apart your mind. . ." he paused, noting that his argument was not working. None the less, he continued on, hoping that he could somehow convince the boy with one last plea, "He has already fractured it as it is, sire, anymore damage could result in dire consequences."

Chris' eyelids dropped low as he fought to stay awake. He looked up at the demon from behind his shaggy hair and glared. He kept silent though, not mouthing his fear. He would never admit it aloud, but the demon was right. If Wyatt lingered anymore in his already fractured mind, he might go crazy. It was hard to heal the mind, special aiding from the Elders or a specially trained witch was required to fix a mind fractured by magic, and even with their help, it was dangerous. He would never go back to Wyatt though, he would rather go insane than kill anymore innocents.

The minion slowly slid out the door, leaving the weak witch to drone off into unconsciousness. The child wasn't aware when an old, friendly wizard, along with a stocky, bearded half-giant and a skinny, black haired teacher burst through the door.

The half-giant wiped his hands as he pushed the metal door that he had broken off it's hinges to the side, "Make things pretty easy ter break into 'round here, don' they?" Hagrid commented, receiving a grin from the old man.

"Thank you, Hagrid," the headmaster spoke with a chuckle, his eyes twinkling in the light.

"Yer welcome, Albus," the half-giant gave a friendly smile, and turned his eyes to the unconscious child chained in front of them, "this the boy, Albus?" Hagrid took a cautious step closer to the boy, preparing himself for the anything. Albus had warned him and Professor Snape that the boy may attack. "The child is living in a war zone," the half-giant remembered the old wizard explaining, "it is expected for a child like him to trust no one, attack without question."

"No need to be so cautious Hagird," Albus informed his dear friend, his eyes taking in the wounded form in front of him, "the boy is unconscious." His eyes travelled from the young child's form to Serevus Snape, who stood steps behind both he and Hagrid, arms crossed, "Free him, Serevus." The old man instructed.

Snape suddenly whipped out his wand, pointing it steadily in the direction of the chained captive, "Vacuus ligatio," he chanted as he waved his wand. The cuffs around the boy's bruised wrists suddenly broke apart, the metal falling to the floor with a loud clank. Hagrid quickly caught the limp child in his arms and lifted the boy up to chest, letting the injured child rest his head against his stocky form. Hagrid looked down at the frail, wounded child and noticed the blood that was seeping through his shirt.

"Albus," Hagrid called the attention of his friend. The old man turned swiftly to look at the giant, "I think he's real hurt," the man's brown eyes travelled to the red blood that was seeping through the boy's stained shirt, "he's bleedin' an awful lot." The old wizard's eyes darted down to the wound. He studied it for a moment, lifting up the shirt to expose the singed skin.

"Must be from an energy ball," the old headmaster mussed aloud, laying the grimy shirt back down over the wound, "we'll bring him straight to the hospital wing and have Madame Pomfrey take care of him." With that, the old man turned on his heels and looked towards his other black haired comrade.

"And why, exactly, should we care about the fate of this boy?" Serevus questioned, his eyes falling on the unconscious child, a distasteful look gracing his features. He had been dragged out in the middle of the night to go on this little trip to the war ridden Americas. Albus had barely briefed he and the burly gamekeeper on the situation. All that had been revealed was that the child was in dire need of help and was to soon become a student at the school.

"Because," Dumbledore started, his eyes traveling to the boy's form, a smile forming on his lips, "he is our only hope," he turned back to Serevus and continued, "this boy is the only one strong enough to defeat Lord Wyatt and Voldemort, and if the two have truly formed an alliance, then this boy can stop them. We must protect this child at all costs."

Dumbledore looked over towards the friendly gamekeeper and motioned his head towards the broken doorway, "Let us go," he instructed his friends, "we must get out of here before the cloaking potion wears off."

With that, the old man turned and strode towards the door, leading the way for his fellow companions.

Alright, well, there's chapter one! I'm working on chapter two, and I'll try and get it up as soon as I can.

In the meantime, please review! And I hope you enjoyed the fist chapter. Harry and the rest of Hogwarts will enter the picture next chapter. Also, the spells that I put in there were in Latin. They weren't from either Charmed or Harry Potter; I had to make them up on my own.

Thanks so much for reading and please, please, please review!

:)