A/N: Hello everyone! Welcome to my first story! First off, just in case this chapter worries you, this story WILL be Harry!Centric; though, that's not to say there won't be other POVs in the story. I hope you all sit back, relax, and enjoy my attempt at fanfiction!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything relating to Harry Potter, merely my own concepts and characters that I use for this. No profit is generated from this.
PS. Reviews are a wonderful source of nutrients for budding authors, just so you know! Critiques are also appreciated, can never have too much advice! Oh, and Flames will be put to good use fueling my barbeque – have to love flame-grilled potatoes!
Warning: Oh, I suppose I should warn you, when you get to the bit that starts with "Fear" it gets a little dark… and messed up… I'm a horrible human being.
Light-Born, Shadow-Forged
Chapter I - Origins
Death.
It's a Universal Constant. It can be slowed, held back even, though it shall always have its way in the end.
Harry lay on the ground, contemplating this as he watched his end approaching; a particularly nasty curse that causes one's stomach acid to become more acidic, not to mention boil. Not a pleasant death.
Oh, and his two true friends are dead. Well, that was a bit presumptuous of Harry, he didn't exactly see them die. He only heard one's screams make way for silence…
Yea, they were most likely dead.
But hey, maybe they weren't, you never know!
Harry stared at the approaching curse, the world seemingly slowed to a snail's crawl, and wondered, 'How could the plan go so horribly wrong...'
Godric's Hollow, October 31st, 1981
The words of a woman, begging for her son's life, could be heard in the night; however, the night's quiet rhythm soon returned with a flash of blindingly green light.
Unfortunately, the silence was not to be.
BOOM!
The explosion tore through the peace, oddly not disturbing as many people as it should have, leaving most acting as if not a thing had occurred…
Bathilda Bagshot was not one of those lucky enough to miss the detonation.
The elderly woman had been sat on her chair, enjoying a nice cup of tea as she finished writing the latest edition of her book, when she felt it.
It wasn't a very large sensation – had she lived another street over, she would have missed it! – however, it wasn't the explosion itself that disturbed her, but the origin of such an occasion: the Potter's cottage.
It was an odd experience, remembering the location, an experience that she knew the implications of.
Albus had warned her of such an event, asking her to contact him should it occur, stating that it would signify the failure of the Fidelius charm, an interesting piece of magic that hides something from all but those told the secret the charm hides.
She sighed as she glanced towards the fireplace, a common method for magicals to communicate, "The poor dears, so young, barely beginning their lives, and their child!" Bathilda paused as she shed a stream of tears, "I better tell Albus of this mess…"
Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office, Same Time
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was slumped over his desk, silently mourning the necessary sacrifice of the Potters and Longbottoms. He regretted it, truly, but it was the only possible solution.
The Wizarding World had been in open war for the past few years, with oh so many of his past students spilling their lifeblood upon the ground for their cause, whichever cause it may be.
And the worst part was, his side, the side of the Light, had been losing!
They were a mere few weeks, days if the enemy decided to end their suffering, from the Ministry of Magic being captured, and if that happened…
Well, it wouldn't be good at any rate.
He hated himself for it, but he had needed a way to end this war, and in their favour. And when a solution had presented itself, he had leapt at the chance!
A prophecy.
A true, authentic, verified prophecy had been given, and to him as well!
The contents of it were rather straightforward in his opinion; which, given his age of an impressive century, was more than qualified to discern the riddle it presented.
The boy had to die. If Voldemort, the leader of the Dark, went after the Chosen One, two options would present themselves: either the boy or the Dark Lord would die.
Though, it was more likely that both would die, the boy by Voldemort's hand, and Voldemort by whatever, "The Power the Dark Lord knows not," was.
He had found only two boys eligible to be the prophetic Chosen One: Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom.
They had gone into hiding with their families recently, both under the Fidelius charm's, usually reliable, safety.
This time, however, the charm hadn't stood much of a chance to protect its inhabitants, with the Secret Keeper, the only one capable of sharing the secret, being chosen from some of the more… questionable members of his Order of the Phoenix.
Sirius Black, who came from a less-than-Light family, was the Secret Keeper of the Potters, while Mundungus Fletcher, a frequent member of shady establishments, was chosen for the Longbottoms.
Albus had no doubt that Voldemort would be able to attack either family at his leisure.
He resented himself for being the cause of either families' demise, but he had to do what is best for the Greater Good.
He couldn't allow himself to be selfish and not take this chance to end the war now before more of his students left this life.
Just as he reached for one of his many candies – so what if people told him sugar was unhealthy at his impressive age! – he saw his fireplace erupt into emerald flames and a familiar head poke out.
"Albus, you best come quick, it's just as you said! The house is visible, and the Potters-" Bathilda broke into sobs, rendering her explanation unneeded.
Albus sighed, "I see. I will send Rubeus as quick as he can to find the state of the Potters, though I fear it redundant.
Bathilda gave one last sniffle before replying, "Very well, Albus, I wish Rubeus luck." And with that said, she disappeared back into the fireplace, the flames resuming their normal pleasant orange colour.
Albus looked across Hogwarts' grounds, a miserable look on his face, "If only things could have gone differently."
Privet Drive, Surrey, November 1st, 1981
Albus was conflicted.
The previous night had gone both terribly bad and incredibly well. Rubeus had gone to the remains of the Potter's cottage, and had found, to Albus' initial amazement, but later pain, that young Harry Potter still lived, albeit with a curse scar.
Unfortunately, after visiting the site himself, he came across troubling news…
Voldemort lived.
Not only that, but young Harry had a piece of Voldemort's soul stuck inside his scar, meaning that for Voldemort to die, Harry would have to suffer the same fate.
Albus loathed that this had to happen, but he was out of options. In the meantime, however, he would let Harry enjoy the innocence of his childhood.
He had every confidence that Petunia Dursley née Evans, Harry's maternal aunt, would look past her petty hatred of magic in order to raise Harry; after all, they were family!
Now, leaving Harry with his aunt wasn't only due to her being family, he had to admit to having ulterior motives.
Harry's mother, Lily Potter née Evans, had always been the smartest witch of her generation. Just before her death, it seems she had managed to use her sacrifice to weave a protective barrier around her child, one that would reflect most anything aimed at her son.
Albus had, quite brilliantly he would say, modified this protection in order to turn it into a ward, a larger, more powerful barrier surrounding a location instead of a person.
This ward would feed off of the love between Harry and his aunt, using the powerful emotion of love to sustain itself. Or, should something occur that prevents this bond, the ward would simply feed off of Harry's magic, not a problem considering he wouldn't be using said magic until he went to Hogwarts!
Albus felt he truly had created a masterpiece.
However, he soon detected he wasn't as alone as he thought.
Amusingly, Minerva McGonagall, his friend and colleague, had spent the day watching the Dursley family and had suggested that perhaps Harry shouldn't be left here. He had, of course, disagreed and brought her opinion around.
Not long later, a strange sound could be heard when Rubeus Hagrid came in for a landing on the quiet street, riding a flying motorcycle of all things!
What followed was a very tearful farewell from all present, and it wasn't long before Albus was left alone, tucking a letter into the bundle of blankets Harry was wrapped in
"Farewell, Harry Potter, until we meet again." Albus sighed, before he too disappeared into the night.
The next morning, Harry was rudely woken by the screech of an unknown woman staring at him from inside the house, having just opened the door.
Unfortunately for Harry, that cold November night that had chilled the child to the bones would only be the first of many painful days for years to come.
Outside London, August 30th, 1985
Fear.
Pure, unadulterated Fear.
That's what Alexander "Alex" Murphy felt.
The five-year-old cowered beneath a desk, hiding from the monster.
It had been their usual day, wake up, enjoy a nice breakfast, spend time together as a family, the usual.
Then, it came. They had just gone to bed, when they heard it. The door being smashed in, along with someone entering. Alex's parents had gone to investigate, his dad grabbing his hunting rifle, "Just in case."
But it was faster.
Alex had already been aware magic was real, he was what people called a 'half-blood', someone with lineage both in the magical and non-magical worlds.
Due to this, he was well aware of what a werewolf was, though he had never expected this to happen.
The werewolf had struck before anything could be done, killing Alex's dad before he even hit the ground.
Alex had dived for cover behind a desk, in the hopes that it would miss him – a vain hope, but really, what else could he do? The werewolf was between him and the door!
His mother wasn't as lucky. Instead of instant death and lack of pain, she had instead received a claw to the chest, causing an eventually fatal and painful injury. Unfortunately, the sound of a snapping wand could clearly be heard, signaling just how helpless Alex was.
The werewolf wasn't done yet, however, it still smelt more prey in hiding, and so, it searched.
Unfortunately, werewolves have an extremely powerful sense of smell.
Alex never stood a chance
He watched helpless as the werewolf leaped at him, jaws ready to bite, when suddenly…
BANG!
His mum had managed to grab the rifle and fire it with her dying breath, somehow managing to land a fatal shot with her failing senses, killing the werewolf and saving her child from certain death.
However, Newton doesn't much like his Laws being ignored, and so the werewolf's momentum carried it forward, its jaws landing on Alex's leg with enough force to sink its teeth in as it died.
As the werewolf's saliva mixed with his blood, Alex only had time to think about his parents and the excruciating pain he was currently in, before the darkness claimed him.
Privet Drive, Surrey, July 31st, 1987
Harry had always known he was a freak.
That was a lesson the Dursleys had taught him from a young age, telling him he wasn't deserving of food or a proper room, that he should be happy they took him in when his parents went and got themselves killed, happy that they graciously grant him a single slice of toast a day, happy that he has the cupboard under the stairs to sleep in.
However, something had just happened that definitely proved he was a freak.
He'd always had strange things happening around him, but this was one he simply couldn't overlook.
He had just teleported.
It had happened when his cousin, Dudley, and his gang had been chasing him; wishing to beat him to a pulp, no doubt. He had run into an alleyway, hoping for a shortcut; instead, he got a dead end.
Wonderful.
Just as they had rounded the corner, Harry had hoped beyond hope that he could escape from them. And so, he did.
He appeared on the roof of the building he had been trapped by, looking down onto Dudley's gang.
After arriving back at the Dursley's house, he discovered in short order that his disappearing act had already been explained to his relatives by his oh-so-loving cousin. This resulted in the usual punishment for his freakishness: a hard slap across the face and the hated yell of, "And you better not be expecting any meals tonight, Freak!"
After this, he was, of course, shoved back into his cupboard to waste away in the darkness, all while smelling the tantalizing scent of the Dursley's supper being cooked (Read: essentially deep-fried, the unhealthy bunch they were).
As he lay on his threadbare mattress in pain, he began to think about his experiences and how they always caused him more grief than aid. He began to think about how this… curse made him different enough that the Dursleys hated him.
And so, he began to hate his ability, to wish it suppressed so that he could be normal.
What he didn't know was that his ability responded to that desire, and began fighting itself. A fight to control and suppress that which is meant to be free. A fight that is not an easy fight to win, especially against a force as powerful as magic.
He never noticed small flakes of skin freeing themselves from his body, changing into what could be easily mistaken as a black, wispy ash.
Now, normally, the ward cast upon the property would be considered extremely harmful to a young child's development of their magic; however, ironically enough, it was only this ward that saved young Harry's life, not to mention aid his magically growth of all things.
In normal circumstances, this ward would simply be stealing too much magic from the child, harming their connection to said magic, and making it more difficult to call upon it.
But this wasn't an ordinary situation.
With Harry's magic fighting against itself, the ward's draining effect eased the stress of the magic, making it semi-stable, opposed to the instability it should be experiencing.
This also had the effect of allowing the magic to grow, much like a muscle would when trained. Harry's magic drained itself during the day, before resting and refilling at night; though, had he gotten less sleep it would most likely be painful, what with the ward's constant theft of magic.
As his magic refilled at night, it also grew in capacity; however, the growth was rather miniscule. Had any other magical attempted this growth, they would see the cons before the pros and dismiss this method as viable.
Harry, however, had little choice in the matter, and so his magic grew ever-so-slightly over the years, all-the-while it lost stability, as his magic grew and the ward's vampiric effect was a fixed amount.
Had Harry not received a letter in the post inviting him to train his magic, even if he had to receive multiple due to his relatives destroying them, he most likely would have found himself at the epicenter of a rather frightening explosion upon his majority
However, it seemed Fate did not wish this on the young Potter, as he was set to walk another path, a happier path.
Ancient Ruined Castle, Scotland, March 23rd, 1991
Mirac Eldran was bored.
No, bored did not begin to describe his feelings right now.
He had spent all of his patience in the six hours since his parents had left him at their makeshift camp to go explore the old castle.
Normally, his parents wouldn't dare bring him on any of their expeditions into ancient constructions, "It's too risky," they'd say.
This time, however, they hadn't really had a choice in the matter.
This opportunity had come as a surprise, and they couldn't exactly turn it down with how important it was.
Due to this, they were unable to find anyone to watch Mirac in the short time before the journey, and had to bring him with them.
Just to leave him at the bloody campsite.
And really, they should be back by now! Normally they're only gone for three hours!
Sighing, Mirac decided enough was enough, his parents seemed to be having trouble coming back, so instead, he'd go to them.
His ten-year-old mind ('Nearly eleven!') never even considered that the ruins may be too dangerous for him.
Hiking the short distance between camp and the castle, Mirac wondered about what his parents must have found to not remember to come back on time.
His parents had mentioned earlier that they would be looking through the only tower standing in the ruin, and so Mirac had his destination.
Reaching the courtyard, he navigated his way through the crumbled sections of walls, before he reached the base of the tower, where he could see a rope ladder, no doubt installed by his parents for easy access.
Climbing said ladder was actually rather annoying, what with every movement shaking the bloody thing.
Eventually, after a long moment of suffering, Mirac reached the top of the ladder, coming to a medium-sized, crumbling room.
While the structure itself was falling apart, he could see what would interest his parents: the items in said room were practically pristine!
He stepped forwards, looking at the arranged items on a desk, and what he saw amazed him.
A book.
But not just any book, a book on magic.
Before he could do anything else, a frightened yell reached his ears, "Mirac! Get out of here! It's not safe!"
He spun around, looking for his mother, to whom the voice belonged, but finding no one…
"In the mirror, son!" He heard his father call out.
Looking towards the mirror, what he saw bewildered him: his parents were in the mirror!
"Mum, Dad?" Mirac managed to say, nervous of receiving an answer.
His parents looked at him sadly, "Son…"
"W- What happened?" Mirac stuttered out, confused by the situation.
"We were too excited upon finding the room in such a pristine condition, we forgot to be cautious of any traps; though, we would have expected less… magical traps," His father answered.
"Is there a way to get you out?" Mirac begged, desperate for a solution.
His parents looked at him sadly, "We wouldn't know, I certainly never believed this to be possible," His mother said softly.
"Maybe- Maybe there's something in that book!" Mirac exclaimed, already rushing back to the book resting on the desk.
"Careful Mirac! You don't want to rush into this just to entrap yourself," His mother scolded him.
Suitably rebuked, Mirac carefully opened the book, searching for anything relating to mirrors or traps, until he found a section that looked correct:
Of the many gifts an enterprising Thaumaturgist can leave for the unwary thief, none are more effective than the Mirror Snare, binding the souls of thieves to a gemstone. Rare is it that a thief can sneak their way past this brilliant defence. Though, one should take care to not set off their own trap, for once inside, there is no known escape…
The passage went on, detailing how to avoid triggering the trap, as well as construct the Mirror Snare, but Mirac no longer had his mind on the book.
He turned to his parents, tears brimming in his eyes, "It says there's no escape," he reported sadly.
They simply looked at him, sadness visible in their eyes, "Don't worry about us, Mirac. Worry about yourself right now, we can figure out how to escape later," His mother said, attempting to sooth Mirac's saddened heart
Mirac brightened, an idea springing to his mind, "If I can become a talented enough Thaumaturgist, maybe then I can get you out!" He exclaimed, enthused by the idea of success.
He went back to the book, looking around for anything of value, before finding a roughly sewn bag. He decided to gather as many materials as he could from the nearby workstation.
Dropping several small ingots of various metals, as well as multiple small gemstones, into the bag, Mirac turned to the extremely small shelf of books ("I thought wizards were supposed to hoard loads of knowledge?"), before adding them carefully into the sack, which was now reaching its limits; though, it probably should have reached them earlier, now that he thought about it.
Looking over the ransacked workspace, Mirac turned to the mirror, walking behind it to take the last item he wanted: the stone currently containing his parents' souls.
Embedded into the back of the mirror, he found an orange gem, roughly the size of his thumb.
Gently prying the crystal free from its socket, he wrapped it in some cloth and gently placed it into his bag, whispering to it, "I will get you out, I have to, I promise."
London, August 1st, 1991
A young adult walked out of the petrol station, locking the doors for the night, before heading home.
Arriving at their current residence, a rather shabby-looking flat that looked to be on its last legs, they set down their keys before sagging into an armchair with a sigh of relief.
If one were to walk in just now, they'd see the rather peculiar sight of the young adult's body flowing like a viscous liquid before returning to normal, with the exception of an 11-year-old version of the person in their place.
Alex Murphy gave an exhausted glance towards his bedroom, unsure if it was worth the effort to walk the short distance.
He'd had to work a double-shift today… again. He knew it was worth it to save up some quid, always nice to be able to pay the rent and buy items for his comfort.
Alex knew he was rather fortuitous to have life be anywhere near this comfortable, what with his monthly habit of turning into a mindless beast.
It'd been nearly six years now since he'd become an orphan, not to mention a werewolf, the same kind of monster that had killed his parents.
Had it not been for his shapeshifting abilities, he'd probably be dead of hypothermia and/or starvation.
No one in the Wizarding World had wanted to adopt a werewolf, and so, he'd been orphaned, degraded, and kicked out on the streets in a matter of hours at the tender age of five.
Not the least traumatic experience to go through.
For the first few months, he'd scavenged food from bins outside restaurants and fled to an old abandoned building to lock himself inside for when he became a mindless werewolf, but as the cold arrived…
Well, he had to find another way to survive.
Alex had always been able to change small things about himself at will, things like hair length or colour, but he would've never expected to be capable of what he did.
Driven by desperation and anger at his unfair treatment, he had wished that he could just look older, old enough to get a job and actually have some money.
Imagine his shock at feeling a sharp pain from his bones while watching the ground distance itself from his head.
He'd morphed into what appeared to be a 16-year-old version of himself! Mind you, his clothes had been rather tight, but that wasn't the first thought on his mind. No, that distinction belonged to his new ability to attain a job.
And so, Alex worked hard, gaining as much money as he could, until he was able to afford his current home.
Alex had also worked hard, training himself in his shapeshifting, until he could change anything about himself at will; though, he was still limited to human morphs, no turning into a bird for him!
As nice as it'd be to fly away from his problems, Alex couldn't even work up the energy to stand right now.
Instead, he decided now would be a good time for some sleep.
And sleep he did…
For all of five minutes.
An insistent tapping on the window woke him, demanding to be answered.
He stood, albeit grudgingly, and walked to the window, allowing a rather beautiful tawny owl to gain entry.
Tied to the owl's leg was a letter addressed to him, and didn't it have a creepily detailed address, mentioning what room he slept in.
Opening it and examining the contents, he nearly slapped himself. How could he forget about Hogwarts!? Sure, it had been six years since he lived among any magicals, but regardless!
Grabbing a sheet of paper and searching for a functional pen (which took far too long), he penned a short note of acceptance, before he slid it into an envelope and addressed it to this, "Minerva McGonagall."
He looked towards the owl – who was helping itself to his soda, he noted with a frown.
"So, am I to assume you're bringing my acceptance letter back?" Alex questioned, feeling a tad foolish for talking to a bird.
The owl looked up and hooted before, quite disturbingly, nodding.
Deciding to ignore the owl's high intellect, he tied the letter to its leg and requested it to return to the Deputy Headmistress.
The owl flew back out the window, leaving Alex to wonder, 'How was it I enter Diagon Alley again?'
A/N:
There's the prologue done! Hope you've enjoyed this first chapter, and don't worry, as I mentioned in the Author's Note at the start, this will be Harry!Centric, so don't worry about the constant switching of POVs. I hope to see you reading the next chapter!
Later!
–Occult Dragon
Beta'd By: Haru the Avali