It occurred to me that there were a few things I should clear up. Here, Harry Potter is canon up until he is 17, or right before he is seventeen. In Kuroshitsuji, everything is canon up until season 2. I did not like season 2, and it does not fit my story at all, so I will stick with season 1. Ciel had his soul eaten by Sebastian in this story, or at least he will. That is another thing. Kuroshitsuji hasn't happened yet here. This is 1865 Victorian London. Ciel was born in 1875, if what I looked up is right. Harry will not meet Sebastian until Ciel has had his soul eaten. Ciel is 13 in Kuro, and the story takes place spaced out over a year. Which means it will be at least 24 years before Harry meets Seb. There will be a significant timeskip.
I'll only do this once: I don't own or claim to own Kuroshitsuji or Harry Potter.
His head was killing him. His entire body felt as if it had been hit by a sledgehammer. Every muscle ached. He found himself wishing for unconsciousness again, if only to sleep the ache away. Sadly, he was completely awake now, and with that came awareness that he was sitting in a dirty alley, and a puddle of urine was right next to him. Joy.
He also quickly noticed that it was night time now. He had arrived here while it was still daylight, so he must've been unconscious until night time. His inheritance had come. He could feel it in his bones. He felt more at home in his body, which was slightly ridiculous. This one was changed. It was new. He had only had it for one night, why would he feel more comfortable in it?
His wand was lying on the ground, dangerously close to the puddle of piss. Thank Merlin for small mercies. He picked it up, and conjured a mirror. He might as well face the music.
The difference was startling. His hair, where it had been a kind of light black before, or at least light black compared to this black, was now black as pitch. It fell in almost feathery tufts around his face, framing it. His skin was pale as snow. His lips were red as blood. His eyes were still green. They had been extraordinarily green before, but now they paled in comparison. His eyes were a vivid green, which almost seemed to glow. His overall face structure had changed drastically. His face had become slightly narrower, and this combined with the shape of his nose and jaw made him look much more aristocratic.
Overall he had changed drastically. He doubted that if Ron or Hermione showed up right now they would even recognize him. He didn't even look human anymore. No human possessed features such as this. What was he? He had no idea. He had asked Dumbledore what inheritance he might get, and the man had had no idea. The Potters were not known for their creature inheritances. It had been dubious whether or not he would even get one. Well, he had certainly gotten one, and now he had no one to ask what he even was, and no way of researching it. Not that he would know what to research. Glowing, intense eyes? Pale skin? Blood red lips? Those weren't exactly specific of any one creature.
Regardless, he had no way of finding out, so he saw no point to focusing on it. He needed to find out where he was, find clean clothes, and then see if he could get a place to stay other than a dirty alley. He also needed food. He realized at that moment he was hungry. He would go so far as to describe himself as ravenous. The ache he felt was not from the change, it was an ache for food. His body was practically crying for it, and now that he realized it, he could not focus on anything else.
He shakily got to his feet, his hunger his only focus. He slipped out of the alley and started walking in one direction on the street. The street was empty of carriages and people now. He felt strangely disappointed of that fact, when he should be thankful. At this point people would be shooting him disgusted, wary, awed or fearful glances. He would look like a filthy ragamuffin if it weren't for this new face.
Then he smelt something. It wasn't heavenly, or even particularly appetizing smelling, but it sang to the hunger in him, and he followed it with single minded intensity. He reached it quickly, and grew slightly puzzled when he realized the smell came from a man. He was filthy, sleeping, sitting down and leaning against the wall in an alley. He was very obviously homeless. His puzzlement didn't last long, and he kneeled down next to the man, towards where he instinctively felt he could get to that tantalizing scent.
He leaned close to the man, his face only a foot away, and his mind blanked. He could only lean forward yet more, and cover the man's lips with his own. He felt it, then, a connection, like a thread, that led from his mouth to within. He pulled, and felt the thread start to pull toward him. It was not fast enough. He growled lowly and yanked as hard as he could. The thing at the end of the thread shot forward. It tasted of loneliness, hunger, and filth. There was no other way to describe it. It had no taste similar to what he had known before, and he found the food of before did not compare. This was rather foul, but the complexity more than made up for it.
His hunger sated, he leaned back, and gazing at the now dead man he had unthinkingly straddled. He was sitting in the man's lap, he realized. When had that happened? It occurred to him that he was not reacting normally to this. He was pretty sure he had just eaten a man's soul, yet he did not care. He did not even care that he didn't care. A man sat before him, dead, by his hand. Or, he supposed, his mouth. His lips curled up in amusement. That was not what he expected he'd use as a weapon if he killed a person. He had also expected to care. To have nightmares about it. To be human about it. He was not human. It was very simple, he supposed.
He stood up and left the body, his own no longer aching. His hunger had not centered at his stomach. That was new. His hunger was felt throughout his body now.
His emotions were dulled. He had not felt anything especially sharply since he woke up. He was oddly detached. He shouldn't be this calm or composed. He should be panicking, worrying, but his capacity to feel emotions was much less than that of a human.
As he walked, toward nothing in particular, he idly wondered what he was. He fed on souls, his emotions were dulled to the point where he could hardly feel them, and he was beautiful in a rather terrifying way. He had never heard of a creature like this, and he knew for a fact that his parents had not gone through this. There was no way. Someone would have noticed, as this was a very noticeable change. It did not really matter, though. Knowing the name of what he was would not change what he was.
He kept walking, putting it out of his mind for now. Looking down at his clothes, he sneered in distaste. They were filthy. With every step they chafed against his skin, which felt oddly tender. He needed clean clothes, he decided. Not just clean, but clothes that fit in. He would get dirty looks wearing this if it were clean or not. Ah, yes, and location. He still hadn't figured out where he was.
He would not find clean clothing on the street. He would also like to bathe. He would not be able to do this the normal way, due to no money or house, so he used his wand. "Scourgify." He waved his wand over his body. The dirt and grime disappeared, although he still felt rather grubby.
He could transfigure his clothing into something more suitable, but that would be impossible at this point. He would have to know what he was transfiguring them into in and out to make the change believable and permanent, and these clothes were too alien to him to be able to do that. He would have to steal clothes, he decided.
He could steal them from a tailor or a house. A tailor could have premade clothing, depending on if they waited on the rich or the poor. A house would have clothing, for sure, but it could or could not fit. He could always use a resizing charm, though. A house it was.
He eyed the houses along the street he was walking. They were not particularly nice, or disgusting, so he supposed this was as middle class as it would get. Which suited his needs perfectly. Nice enough clothes, not very good locks.
He noticed an open window on the second floor of the house on the corner. Convenient. They probably thought since it was on the second floor it did not matter if it were open or not. That would be true for most people, but he knew he could easily climb up to the window. He walked up to the wall and started climbing, applying a disillusionment charm on himself as he went. It felt like an egg cracked over his head, and his skin tingled slightly.
Reaching the window, he peered inside, his eyes cutting through the darkness with ease. They gleamed slightly as his eyes fell on a girl sleeping within the room. She looked about ten or eleven. Her soul smelled new. Purity fell off her in waves. There was nothing even remotely appetizing about it. He swung a leg over the sill and pulled himself inside silently, wondering if he even needed to bother with the disillusionment charm. It seemed rather pointless when he was sure everyone here was asleep, and he could easily move silently enough through the house to not wake anyone.
There was no chance there would be clothes in here to fit him or even suit him, as he was certainly not a girl, and so he walked on. A hallway stretched outside the door. Another door sat across from the girl's room, and he opened it. Inside was an office. He closed the door and moved on.
Down the hall and to the left was another door. He opened it. Jackpot. A man and a woman slept on the bed inside. These were definitely the girl's parents. The woman smelled of sickness and desperation. It was the first scent of a soul that had truly attracted him. The man smelled of greed, lust, and gluttony. He smelled even better. He allowed his eyes to drift closed, and savored the smells for a moment. They were like a buffet, laid out before him.
He drifted closer purposefully, leaning over the man and breathing in. Mmmmm. He was delicious smelling. It was truly hard to resist. It occurred to him, then, that perhaps he shouldn't resist. The police here could not catch him. They were jokes without DNA and blood typing at the least. His face drifted closer, his lips opening slightly to breathe deeper. The last of his conscious mind left and he sealed his lips over the man's, impatiently tugging hard. He wanted this soul more than he had wanted any other so far. Once the taste hit his tongue, he almost moaned. It was better than a seasoned steak. What, then, must a truly depraved soul taste of? He salivated just thinking about it.
The soul ended too soon. He wanted more. He walked to the other side of the bed and leaned over the woman, lips open in anticipation of her soul. An image, then, flashed in his mind of the little girl over in the other room. If he killed this woman, the girl would be parentless. With difficulty, he pulled back, slightly confused. Why should he care if the girl's parents were dead? No doubt she would be taken in by some family member or other.
He supposed this was what was left of his emotions telling him to care. It was strange how he had been changed for not even a day and already he felt so far from who he had been before. He just didn't care anymore. Or so he had thought. The image of the girl flashed through his mind again, along with the scent of her purity. If he were to kill the woman, the purity would be gone, covered completely in sadness and suffering.
He pulled back all the way, and went to the drawers of the dresser on the other side of the room. Inside were clothes about his size. His lip curled slightly at the sight of them. So many buckles and buttons, and so unsightly. He missed the simplicity of a button down shirt and slacks.
He puzzled through putting on the clothing, finally managing it after ten minutes. His clothing was simple, consisting of a black waistcoat, a white button down shirt underneath, with black trousers tucked into black boots. Perhaps not completely common but it was as far as he would go. He would not wear those ridiculous knee high socks with buckled flats. Besides, he truly doubted he could go incognito or be passed by with how he looked. No matter what he wore he would be memorable, so what was the point of dressing completely like them?
He walked out of the room and back down the hall, into the girl's room. The girl was still asleep. Her hair fanned out on the pillow behind her, her mouth opened in a pink 'o'. She was the picture of the innocent child. He felt a flash of guilt for the dead father in the other room, before it was gone as fast as it had come. He turned and jumped out the window, not looking back.