Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Tokyo Ghoul, I am simply playing with the ideas and characters within those universes. Ishida Sui and J.K. Rowling own the ideas and characters associated with their stories.
You do not need to have read Tokyo Ghoul to understand this story, the crossover is loose in the sense that it is only the creatures that are brought into the Harry Potter universe, and none of the plot or characters. I would also like to put out a warning, as this story will be quite macabre, particularly this first chapter. It comes with the territory of having a man-eater for a protagonist.
Chapter One | Becoming a Monster
The ghoul is a rare creature within the European magical world, as most of them are found in East Asia. It is a XXXXX (known wizard killer, impossible to domesticate or train) classified apex predator with the mind of a human. This keen mental ability makes it one of the most feared monsters one may have the misfortune of encountering in their travels.
The average ghoul resembles a regular muggle in appearance, yet hidden beneath their relatively unimposing exterior is unbridled power. Ghouls have strength above and beyond that of a human, be they magical or mundane. On average, a ghoul's strength is five times and upwards of a humans. Additionally, a ghouls skin is quite hardy, being spell resistant and largely unaffected by physical attacks.
Ghouls subsist solely on human flesh due to a differing digestive system and a dependency on a specific nutrient found in human flesh. They are incapable of eating the food a human would regularly eat, as well as finding regular food to taste foul and inedible. This revulsion towards regular food is due in part to tongue structure. In the case that a ghoul does eat something other than human flesh they will become violently ill, regurgitating the food shortly after consumption.
The identifying visual attributes of a ghoul are their kagune and kakugan, gaining their names from Mōri Washuu, a Japanese traveler who came across the creatures in the fifteenth century.
The kagune is a ghouls primary weapon, an appendage they can grow and form at will which takes on different attributes depending on where it grows from the ghouls body (see pp. 548 for details on the different types of Kagune). The most versatile kagune is that of the rinkaku, which is produced from the small of the back. The rinkaku is capable of being manipulated into different shapes by a sufficiently skilled and imaginative ghoul, making them quite the formidable predator.
A kakugan is the result of the ghouls eyes changing when excited, hungry, or when their kagune is activated. The ghouls iris's turn red in these instances, the sclera and surrounding tissue turning a deep black that may be broken up by a smattering of iridescent red veins throughout the sclera, as well as markings on the eyelid.
The rarest of ghouls is one that bears a single kakugan. These are mentioned throughout history and are regarded as something close to a myth due to their incredible rarity.
If one encounters a ghoul it is highly recommended to flee, as the creatures are considered to be nearly as dangerous as a nesting dragon or nundu when they are hunting or angered.
Thankfully, ghouls are incapable of wielding wands, staves, foci, and producing spell magics in any shape or form.
- Newt Scamander: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them; Beings and Other Sentient Magical Creatures
-::-
Life is fucking weird. Well, my life is weird, although that's probably the understatement of the century. I'm a witch for one, not exactly a common talent to be found. I did the math; a fraction of one percent at the most of the British populace is born with the ability to use magic. Fifty-seven million people living in Britain, and the wizarding population is a whopping forty five thousand. It's a bit of an exclusive club.
So, why is my life so fucking weird? Well, I'm hunted by one of the most feared psychopaths in the last century for some unknown reason, I'm nearly killed every goddamn year at 'the safest school in the world,' and I'm blessed with the most ungodly, unfair, and absolutely utterly ridiculous (bad) luck.
This luck, means that I get hit by a car walking across the street in a bloody school zone. A goddamn car.
I'm currently sitting here staring at the wall, waiting to get on with my day and get out of this hospital. No matter what, I really don't like hospitals. Muggle or magical, doesn't make a difference. I think it's the smell of antiseptic, that stuff stings the nostrils.
The nurse walks in carrying a tray of food, smiling at me as she lays it upon the little table on wheels they have set up next to my bed. You know, they really should have one of these at Hogwarts so that I don't have to balance a plate in my lap.
"Thanks," I rasp, my throat slightly dry from disuse and a lack of water. Ice chips can only do so much.
She smiles at me again, setting down a fork on the table. "Take it slow, alright love?" she says. "It's your first meal in a little while and you don't want to get sick."
I purse my lips slightly and nod at her, pinching a grape between my fingers and tossing it into my mouth as she leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.
I nearly retch at the taste, the juice of the grape bursting from it's crushed container isn't sweet and tart. It tastes burnt, like rotten meat. I grab a napkin and scrape the filth off my tongue, taking a deep drink of water to cleanse the taint from my mouth. I open up the napkin and look at the half-chewed fruit, expecting to see a puddle of decomposed gunk. To my surprise and confusion, the grape looks completely and utterly normal.
I look at it out of the corner of my eye as I grab a piece of lightly buttered toast and start to munch on that instead. Grimacing, I nearly spit out the toast as well. What the hell is going on? What appears to be a perfectly normal grape doesn't taste like a perfectly normal grape, instead feeling absolutely poisonous. The toast I'm attempting to force down my throat has the flavour and texture of ashes and cardboard. Is this some sort of test? Am I on TV?
Whatever, it's not like I haven't subsisted off of scraps before. I grit my teeth and throw back the 'food' as quickly as I can, washing the small yet vile meal back with sips of water. At least the water tastes like… well, water.
Halfway through the meal and I can feel my stomach churning, the disgusting hospital food apparently eager to leave my body. I stumble out of the bed on unsteady legs, nearly tripping as I awkwardly shamble to the en suite bathroom to empty my stomach. Retching, I paint the inside of the bowl with my meal, wiping the acrid gunk away from my lips before rinsing my mouth out in the sink. Even subsisting off of scraps can only go so far it seems.
Exhausted, I climb back into bed and stare at the ceiling, apparently still weak from the surgery.
I wonder if Dumbledore knows I'm in the hospital. Whether Ron or Hermione have gotten news that I nearly died. I just know I'm going to be interrogated by the two of them when I get out of here.
How ironic would that be? I can go up against dark wizards and demons, but a distracted driver was the one to do me in. I'm sure Voldemort would find that absolutely hilarious, although I think he'd be a bit frustrated to not have been the one who puts me six feet under.
Sirius! What if Sirius finds out I'm here? He wouldn't risk getting caught just to visit me, would he? Shit! I cross my fingers and hope that he doesn't do anything rash. I just got him into my life, I couldn't possibly lose him so soon.
The nurse walks back into the room to collect my dishes, frowning slightly as she notices most of the meal is uneaten.
"Are you able to eat any more love?" she asks, tutting quietly under her breath. "You're thin as a rail!"
I chuckle lightly, tensing at the pain in my chest. That car really did a number on me. "I haven't got much of an appetite right now, but thanks for the concern," I mumble.
"Well, just sit tight for a few minutes. The doctor will be in soon to see you," she comments, picking up the half empty tray and cleaning up quickly before leaving.
A couple monotonous minutes go by before the doctor enters the room with a slight smile on his lips, nodding at me as he shuts the door, clip board in hand and a few pens hastily tucked into his pocket. I study him quietly as he fusses over his notes, jotting down a few things here and there while murmuring quietly.
He's a tall man, who looks to be middle aged, sporting a kind, broad face and neatly trimmed blond hair, a bit of white coming in at the fringe. He taps his notes absentmindedly with his pen before smiling at me again and clearing his throat.
"It's good to see you healthy and well Miss Potter, you had us worried for a couple of days there," he says, reaching over to shake my hand. "My name is Dr. Kanou, and I was your primary surgeon. A quick rundown on the damage…" he mutters, skimming over my file.
"Ah! There we go. We had to perform an organ transplant on you, replacing both of your kidneys and your liver due to injuries sustained from the crash. Apart from the internal damage, you had a few minor fractures in your legs and hips," he continues, turning the clipboard to me to display my x-rays. He points his pen at different points along my legs, explaining the breaks on my femur, fibula and a crack along my upper right pelvis.
"Thankfully, you seem to be quite the hardy kid," he chuckles. "Most people would have been hard pressed to come out of a crash like that in one piece. Surprisingly, your bones seem to be all but healed already. Never seen anything quite like it, and if you don't particularly mind I'd love to use this as part of a study I'll be conducting on healing bones. You seem to have a very rare physiology that promotes quick healing and regenerative functions."
"I'd be happy to help in any way I can," I answer, hoping that whatever weirdness I exhibit can be used to help other people. I hope it's not a witch thing and I've inadvertently broken the statute of secrecy.
"That's fantastic!" he claps. "I can leave your name out of the papers and simply refer to you by a pseudonym if you'd prefer."
"That sounds fine to me," I reply. "I'm not too keen to have my name plastered all over something, especially in a medical journal."
"I can imagine. Now, you seem to be right as rain and we're going to be getting you out of here soon. I bet you're getting cabin fever as we speak," Kanou smirks. "I'm just going to need you to sign a couple of forms, so I can hand them off to triage. Also, we don't have an emergency contact on file for you, so if you need a taxi home we can call one to pick you up."
I nod and thank him for the courtesy, declining the taxi as I quickly dash my signature off on the forms, happily stumbling out of bed and preparing to leave as soon as he exits the room. I grab my old clothes and a towel that was left for me off the bedside table and walk over to the one shower in the ward. I spend as much time as I can under the warm water, relishing in the heat of the spray as it washes down my back.
Feeling truly clean, I step out and dry off, tucking my hair behind my ear as I throw my clothes on, rolling up the sleeves on Dudley's old hand-me-down shirt and grumbling as I cinch the belt tight on the oversized jeans. You'd think the Dursleys would at least make an attempt to buy me proper clothes. Even one skirt would be nice. Instead I look practically homeless tucked into the small tent that is Dudley's shirt. I really do hate those three. I think Petunia hates me the most because I remind her of my mother. Red hair, heart shaped face, full lips, everything the anorexic bitch herself never had. Spiteful bint.
I take my sweet time getting home, taking a short walk after I leave the hospital before deftly sneaking onto a bus headed to Little Whinging. I hop off at my destination, ignoring the drivers angry look at my fare dodging self in his rear-view mirror as he notices me leaving. I meander through the neighbourhood, eventually making my way back to Number 4, quietly opening the door as I sneak into the house. The bastards probably didn't even know I was in the hospital.
I tip toe up the stairs to my 'room,' fingers crossed that they don't hear me.
Of course, good things never happen to Zoe Potter.
"Girl? Is that you? Where the ruddy hell have you been?" Vernon bellows, the floorboards creaking under his enormous weight as he stomps into the foyer.
I sigh quietly, blinking slowly as I turn to look at him. Huh, mauve. That's a new colour for him.
"I was in the hospital Uncle Vernon," I explain, eye twitching slightly at the look of glee on his face when he hears the word 'hospital.' "I was hit by a car two weeks ago, I guess you didn't get the news?"
"No, I didn't hear," he comments, before his faces twists up in his usual furious expression. "But! Don't think you can get out of your chores, girl! The kitchen needs a waxing and the weeds are growing out of control!" he exclaims, wagging his chubby finger at me. "Well? Get to it!" he growls, stomping off to go eat second breakfast, or is it elevensies? If Vernon was half his height he'd be the most hateful, mustachioed hobbit to ever exist.
I grumble as I stomp into the shed, grabbing a pair of gloves and trowel as I set out to cleanse the garden of its dandelion invaders.
-::-
The day goes by surprisingly quickly. I guess it helps that I'm being kept busy with menial labour. Honestly, could they not do the chores for one goddamn week? The Dursleys have to be the laziest sadists in the entire world. Hedonistic pricks.
I find myself ignoring the table scraps that I receive for dinner, as they taste just as horrid as the hospital food. Either there's a conspiracy to make me hate all kinds of food, or my taste buds are on the fritz.
I pen two quick letters to Ron and Hermione explaining why they haven't heard from me in a while, detailing my trip to the hospital and that I'm perfectly fine apart from a frustrating sense of taste. I send off the letters with Hedwig after I cuddle with the snowy owl for a short while, having missed her in my time at the hospital. That bird has got to be one of the best things to have ever happened to me.
Bored, I lay back in bed and pull out a book, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, the second edition on sentient magical creatures, opening it to the dog-eared page I left it on. Hermione would have an absolute fit if she saw how I mark my pages.
I fall asleep with the book in my lap, drool slowly seeping out of the corner of my mouth.
-::-
I wake up to the most delectable smell in the world. It's sweet yet rich, tantalizing as it drifts across my senses. It's not something I've ever smelled before, but it's just so… familiar? I sniff at the air as I climb out of bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as my book clatters to the floor. I wince at the sharp noise, my ears stinging from the books crash.
Fully awoken by being startled, I trudge downstairs praying that I can get a bit of whatever smells so bloody good. I look around the kitchen, expecting to see pans filled with sizzling bacon on top of the stove, toast lathered in butter and golden, crisp hash browns pulled from the oven. Instead I see Petunia cradling her hand in a white cloth, red stains spreading across the fabric and a sharp knife lying on the floor.
I quickly walk up to help stem the wound, stopping sharply as I sniff again. The smell is so close, something delicious... something delectable. I shake my head, clearing it of my thoughts as I pick up the knife and place it into the sink, jogging upstairs to the bathroom to grab a tube of antibiotic cream and gauze.
Quickly making my way back into the kitchen I silently help Petunia clean and dress the wound, wrapping it snug with the gauze. She looks confused, bewildered the whole time as I help her. I don't notice until I'm done fixing her up, instead focusing on the burgeoning sense of hunger that threatens to take over my mind. I'm no stranger to hunger, but I've never felt such a need, a lust for food before. I'm still trying to find out where the food that I smell is.
"Th- thank you," Petunia croaks, the words awkward as they tumble out of her mouth.
I look up at her to reply, to tell her it wasn't a problem, that I'd help anyone if they were hurt. As soon as I make eye contact with her she stumbles backwards, her uninjured hand holding tight to the kitchen countertop, knuckles white and a look of pure fear contorting her already unflattering features.
"Wh- what the hell happened to your eye?" she gasps shakily.
"What are you talking about? My eye?" I ask, confused.
She points unsteadily to the left of my head, fingers flexing nervously. "Your. Eye. Is. Red," she states, each word enunciated clearly. "Your left eye is… it's black and red. What did you do, girl? What did you do?" She glances towards the sink, contemplating reaching in and grabbing the knife.
She forgoes this train of thought, obviously not intent in stabbing me to death for a simple gesture of good will. "I won't have this- this… freakishness in my house, you hear me? You'll stay in your room so that the neighbours can't see what you've done to yourself! Out! Out!" she cries, waving her injured hand towards the stairs.
I frown, raising my hands in surrender as I leave to go to the loo. Of course I can't do something nice for the bitch, she'll still turn it around on me. Find a way to let the freak know that she's not normal. Find a way to stamp it out. I didn't even get a chance to have breakfast for Merlin's sake!
I turn the tap on cold and rinse my face, blinking heavily as I wipe the water away from my eyes and-
"Holy shit!" I croak, staring at my reflection.
My fucking eye is red! What!? Why is my eye red? No wonder Petunia was having a fit, that looks downright terrifying! I mean, it doesn't excuse her being a complete and utter cow, but my eye does look grotesque.
I trace a vein from down my eyelid, one of three sharp staggered lines lancing down my face towards my cheek. Why is all this so familiar?
I groan and finish washing my face after staring at it for another few minutes, walking into my room and throwing myself unceremoniously onto my bed. I really hate the summers. Why is my life so fucking weird?
-::-
I'm locked into my room yet again, a sense of disgusted nostalgia running through me as I remember my time trapped here after first year and how Ron and the Twins rescued me. Really, it was quite idiotic of them to fly a bloody car out to Little Whinging and tear the bars off my window. Idiotic, but the nicest gesture anyone has ever made for me.
I stew in the heat, the sun bearing down on my room most of the day since it faces west, the temperature oppressive, muggy, and stifling. I lie in bed drenched in sweat for most of the week, too exhausted to move around except for the daily blessing of a cold shower, the frigid water running down my body like a balm.
The small plates of stale bread and cheese that I'm given for meals are foul, like chewing rotten eggs. Thick, congealed filth that I attempt to cram down my throat lest I waste away. I always end up ill, violently sick and sobbing quietly as I try to keep the food down. Always. It doesn't matter how much or little I eat. I can't make it to the toilet due to being locked in, the acrid smell of stomach acid festering in the sun-baked room.
One day I smell it, that same fascinating scent. Something delicious wafting through the air, a home cooked meal that I'm not allowed to enjoy. Never allowed to enjoy. I quiver and shake as I try to hold down the sense of hunger, the burning terrible need for food. I press my hand tightly against my empty stomach, feeling it rumble and growl underneath my trembling fingers.
I need to eat.
I climb out of bed, sweat drenched hair clinging to my face. I careen into the wall, my legs weak beneath me. Steadying myself, I shuffle to the door and tentatively turn the knob, almost crying in relief when it opens, the hinges whistling and creaking as the door glides over the floor. It seems the Dursleys forgot to lock me in.
Shambling like a zombie I stumble down the stairs, following the sweet smell like a lifeline with my nose raised high in the air. I walk along its trail, my bare feet sticky on the hardwood floor. I almost groan aloud as the scent grows stronger. I'm getting closer, closer to something so very tantalizing.
The sight confuses me. Petunia is yet again standing alone in the kitchen, her hand pinching tight the same wound that damned me a week ago. She shrieks when she sees me standing there looking like death warmed over, raggedy clothes draped over sharp, angular bones. Skin stretched impossibly tight against empty limbs.
I lick my lips, tasting the air, zeroing in on the source of what has tempted me out of my prison.
I lock eyes with Petunia, lying awkwardly on the floor as she holds her reopened cut, apparently in need of stitches instead of a quick dressing. Blood dribbles between her fingers, a small drop falling towards the floor, the patter of it striking the linoleum almost deafening.
I stumble forward, hand awkwardly held out toward Petunia's injured one, my wrist shaking as I reach to her. I lightly grab a hold of her hand, drawing it up in front of me as I stare at the unhealed wound. Blood glistens, fresh bright red against the unearthly pale of her skin, globules welling up against the ragged, scarred slice in her palm.
Before I know it, I lunge.
I bite deeply into her hand, tearing flesh from bone, the rich sweet taste flooding my mouth as I rapidly, desperately chew, Petunias screams falling on deaf ears. I lose my mind, ripping into the anthropomorphic meal in front of me, my whole mind dedicated to the action of feeding, completely and utterly animal as I'm lost to baser instincts.
I come to an hour later, soaked in blood and lying next to a horribly disfigured lump of flesh, Petunia long since dead.
Confused and hysterical I stand up and take witness to my frenzy. The walls are spattered in crimson, resembling an organic work of Pollock, bits of viscera strewn about the kitchen floor. In a state of shock, I run upstairs and throw myself into the shower, not even bothering to remove my clothes.
I let the scalding water beat against my skin, washing the filth and gore from my hair, a sickly pink puddle slowly collecting in the tub as it begins to clog with chunks and bits of what was once a woman. I nearly collapse against the floor, yet I feel so alive. I feel satiated, truly and completely full for once in my life.
It sickens me.
Trembling, I turn off the shower, my mind slowly coming back to life as I realize that I need to leave. Now. I change into dry clothes, stealing a blouse and trousers from Petunias dresser, throwing my things into my trunk in a mad rush. I rush downstairs and reach out to the door knob, about to leave when I start to truly panic.
What do I do about the corpse in the kitchen?
Functioning on autopilot, I turn the dials on the stove, natural gas slowly flooding the kitchen, the sting of rotten eggs assaulting my sensitive nose. I wander for a few minutes, looking about the house as the gas ebbs out of the stove. The shelves that are tidy to the point of obsession, not a speck of dust nor a stain in sight. Porcelain knick-knacks lining the walls, uniform and perfect in their military straight lineup. Pictures of the family standing still above the fireplace, a picture from Christmas set dead centre. It was taken in the living room. If you look close enough you can see a flash of red hair in the corner of the frame. It's the only picture of me in the entire house.
I grab one of Vernon's old lighters off the kitchen counter and walk back to the front door. I exit the house, leaving the door open and looking back on the prison of my childhood.
Funny, they always said I was a monster. I guess it was true.
I flick the lighter open, rolling the flint wheel underneath my thumb and watching as a light orange flame bursts out the top. I stare at the flame for a while not really thinking of anything. Just staring.
I toss it through the open front door.
The explosion tears through the house, fireballs bursting from the windows and sending glass shrapnel flying in every direction. I don't notice as it bounces off my skin making nary a mark or cut. I do notice as the roof shudders and creaks under the force of the explosion, flames angrily licking out of the now empty windows.
As I walk away from Privet Drive I hear the roof forsake its efforts, collapsing under its own weight.
I think I have a thing for blowing up Number 4.