A/N: So, to start, I don't own Harry Potter or Kingdom Hearts. Now that that's out of the way, constructive criticism is appreciated, as this is my first fanfic that I've posted.
He couldn't take being nothing more than a scapegoat or celebrity anymore, yet the hope of having something that would let him leave it all behind was too great. All he had to do was grasp it. Pale hands shook as their owner ran them through messy black hair, a pair of bright viridian eyes staring blankly at the stone wall across the room. The window beside him, the red and gold sheets, even his loudly snoring dorm mates (more specifically, a single dorm mate) were ignored as he tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. He held out one of his shaking hands desperately before him, fingers outstretched as though to grasp something. "Come on, dammit, work," he thought to himself, his despondency becoming more and more burdensome with each heartbeat. "Come to me, please, just do SOMETHING!" The sound of one of his dorm mates shifting in their sleep had him jumping, wrapping his arms around himself before he grew still as a statue. A few moments later, with no other movement occurring, he let out a near silent sigh of relief. The memory of It swept through his mind. A blade shaped like a key that was at least a yard long from base to tip of the blade itself alone. The "teeth" shaped like a star, an arrow head like shape on the other side, and the handle a dark cylinder.
The hand guard had been square shaped, with the handle having been cutting it in half. And at the end of a chain connected to its pommel, a simple star shape like the teeth. He couldn't remember anything else of it, not it's color, or how he'd gained it, not even how he lost it. Tears pricked at his eyes and, with a flick of the length of wood in his opposite hand, the red and gold curtains around his bed closed and charms that silenced all sounds within activated. With that it was as if a dam broke, and the boy known as Harry James Potter began to quietly cry. A thought occurred to him as he stared at the curtains around him. You cannot truly gain one without giving up the other. He should've known, should've thought things through, should have-
"Are you willing to do it?" He was sitting up in a heartbeat, trying to identify the source of the voice that seemed to reverberate around him, both from everywhere, yet no where. He swallowed thickly in an effort to get rid of the ache in his chest, as if something was trying to bash its way out.
"Are you willing to give up the keyblade?" His brows furrowed slightly as he thought. "'Keyblade'? Is that what that sword was?" Something about the name the voice called the sword felt right somehow, and his thoughts soon turned to what it actually asked. He'd never be able to, he knew that. Fear held him in its icy grip at the mere thought. Give up the blade? Never! He shook his head, a nearly silent croak that sounded suspiciously like "No, I'm not," escaping his lips. He shook his head to clear it of the mind-numbing fear as the voice continued.
"Are you willing to give up your magic?" at that he truly stilled for a moment, stifling his instinctive answer against such a question as his thoughts swirled, a single question burning at the forefront. "What good has magic done for me…?" he thought. Memories flashed before his mind's eye, of the troll and the basilisk, of how weak it seemed, of just how much magic hurt him. He never knew he nodded to himself, or of how his dorm-mates awoke one by one, each instinctively aware of the choice before him. One stood from his bed, glancing back at the others as he locked the door to the dorm, the others on high alert, yet none of this mattered to him. What mattered to the raven-haired boy, was that magic had hurt him, and it was unforgivable. Every burst of accidental magic he'd had had always resulted in a beating, and each beating was worse than the last. Even after the worst, when he had been lying in his cupboard, bleeding and broken and dying, begging for death, his magic had healed him. And each time it healed him, it was agonizing. One did not know pain until they felt the burning, suffocating agony of one's core attempting to tear their own body apart, and thirteen-year-old Harry Potter knew it like the back of his hand. A shaky sigh escaped him as the ache grew progressively worse, and he was never aware of how the silencing charms attached to his bed curtains were quickly unraveling, how a red head ripped open the curtains with concern written on his freckled face, not even how his wand fell uselessly from his hand. Awareness had long since left him, something that was made evident by his lack of reaction to both a fiery bird and a old man entering the room in a burst of flame, eliciting wands to be drawn by the room's other occupants. No, all that he was aware of was the answer that thrummed in time with his heartbeat.
"Yes…" The simple answer was given before anyone could so much as blink and, as darkness became all that he could see, Harry opened his mouth and screamed.
Albus Dumbledore had seen many things in his century and a half on this planet. He'd seen two Dark Lords rise to power, making the youthful mistake of helping the first and wrongfully ignoring the fears of the second; he'd seen many a student walk through the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, he'd even gained an apprenticeship under the man who'd made the Philosopher's Stone. However, he'd made many mistakes in his long life, and now feared he'd made the worst in leaving young Harry with his muggle relatives. Yet, in the end, he had never seen one's magic attempt to tear its host apart like it had tried to do so to the boy before him. Harry laid on the hospital bed before him, the far too oversized state of his pajamas far more obvious than it had ever been. His skin was so pale that it was almost translucent, creating a stark contrast with his black locks. The boy's face was pinched with the look of pain it carried, even with how he was unconscious. Albus sighed and rested his head in his hands as he vowed to never fail his students again. As plans for how to achieve this ran through his mind, in a completely different world a spiky haired, blue eyed brunette awoke with a gasp and, fear stricken by the pain in his chest, screamed the one thing that came to mind. A name from his worst memory.
"HOSHI!"