It's alive!
If you've already guessed I won't be updating Cannibal's Guide and it is officially abandoned, as the plot points I'd mapped out bear far too many similarities to ones mapped out for this story, whilst being half-baked in comparison. I've also been much more eager to write this, and it's been simmering in the back of my head since I first made a vague attempt the crossover five years ago.
As was the case with Touched by the Arcane, you don't need any knowledge of Tokyo Ghoul to understand what's going on, as I won't be delving too heavily into that plot apart from using the concept of ghouls, and will explain how they work (along with my own changes) along the way.
Chapter One | Bloody Like the Day You Were Born
Two days after Voldemort had slumped over dead, naught but a doll of meat and bone, his strings cut by his own hubris, Harry Potter disappeared from Britain's stormy shores. He left with neither a letter nor a single spoken word, his friends as mystified by his disappearance as the rest of the war torn country. At first they assumed he'd sought a well-earned rest, hoping faintly that Harry would return within the week.
By the time a month had gone by the magical community was in a panic.
A ghost would leave more of a trace in their wake than Harry Potter did upon his escape, or cowardly flight as it was dubbed by the Daily Prophet, once rumours of his appearance in Leipzig were scattered about. Only a happenstance sighting, almost baseless, but one the paper ran with as though it were the story of the century. It was the first spot of any news in regards to the boy, now man, who was widely regarded as a hero twice over, and with it came a hailstorm of theories and wild conjecture as to his choice and fate.
Some called it a lie, though those voices were often quiet and could only be heard in shady alleys and pubs of ill repute, their patrons those who would wish Harry dead. The more fervent crowd, those obsessive beyond measure called it a conspiracy, something to cover up the boy's obvious suicide and therefore orchestrated by the Ministry to distract from how shattered their country had become.
The majority hoped there was some truth in Harry's rumoured appearances, stringing together sightings from Germany to France, Switzerland, Italy, even as far as Algeria. It wasn't until a photo was caught of him a year after his disappearance, one of Harry marching briskly through an alley in Egypt that the magical community of England had definitive proof that he yet lived. It was a brief thing for a magical photograph, Harry's head flicking towards the camera flash, his jaw clenching before he stormed off. Experts had been invited to the Ministry to verify whether the photo had been forged, and only after thorough investigation was it proudly announced upon the Prophet's front page: The Boy-Who-Lived, Lives!
Immediately the article was followed by requests from Harry's closest friends, Hermione most of all, to reply to the owls they'd sent him - hoping their public plea would reach him. Still, every letter their owls delivered received no reply. It wasn't until nearly another year had gone by and Hermione, desperate, sent a howler in hopes of garnering a reply. Any reply. The owl returned two weeks later with a little blue bag that looked remarkably like the one Hermione had carried through the war. A mundane thing made of cheap, synthetic suede that contained within it the remains of her howler, alongside a scrap of parchment with the single word 'sorry' written on it in Harry's raggedy scrawl.
When she showed it to Ron, he bit his lip and looked away, unable to muster up any words beyond a solemn, 'I miss him.' Ten years after Harry's disappearance, Ron and Hermione Weasley still kept it, the scrap preserved by charms and tucked behind a photo of the three of them by the lake.
-::-
It was in a dull, very nearly bored manner with which Harry Potter came to the realization that something was terribly wrong.
It wasn't the fact that he was sitting in a hospital bed, gummy eyed and delirious, a sensation that had become frighteningly familiar in his years at Hogwarts.
It wasn't the hazy memories of a red eyed woman, his date for the evening — hell, his first date in nearly a decade — grinning wildly as she lunged for his throat.
It wasn't even the sudden groan and crack as the construction equipment far above them gave way, steel beams rushing to the ground at a blistering pace only to crush both Harry and his very dangerous acquaintance. Something that by all means should have killed him yet, miraculously, here he was.
What tipped Harry off was inoffensive in its horror. Something he'd recognized with a detached fascination in the moment as the most frighteningly banal thing to ever occur in his very eventful life.
He'd woken up to find a tray next to his bed, breakfast (or lunch, judging by the sun shining into his little room). Harry assumed it was a simple array, his glasses evidently lost in the accident. A meal best meant for someone like him, an unfortunate soul crushed by an I-beam whilst fending off an impromptu ghoul attack.
I really do have the worst luck, he mused, reaching over to take a bite of the meager hospital breakfast with surprising grace. His nose twitched, just before retching on the spot, spitting his food across his lap. Wiping his face, Harry scowled at the spoon, hardly able to make out what it was without his glasses. Whatever it was, it had tasted more vile and putrescent than any rotten thing he'd encountered in his entire life.
He'd thought for a moment that he'd been given a slice of well-marinated inferi until, after lifting the spoon up to his face, it was revealed to be rice. Rice that tasted of death and disease and some ancient poison still etched into the collective memory of humanity.
His sleep-addled mind took all of three seconds to connect the dots, and it was only a tentative prodding at the small of his back that confirmed his suspicions.
Harry had been experimented on, and because of it his life had been irrevocably changed. To wake up in a starkly lit hospital room after having a run in with a ghoul, only to find that food, rice of all things, tasted of tar and rotten grain. To feel something new, something not of him pressing against his spine and tingling faintly with magic.
There was only one conclusion to be reached.
I'm a ghoul.
Somewhat stunned, somewhat furious, and mostly horrified, Harry sat in the little hospital cot stewing in his anger before the barest spark of sanity made itself known and he checked his wrist, sighing in relief to find his wand still there, invisible and untouchable to all but himself. It was also one of the only moments he'd ever find himself thankful for the unique qualities that Death's wand had bestowed upon his own, the holly of his first wand immaculate and unbreakable, forevermore.
A nurse walked into the room, something Harry noted in the back of his mind that he could hear far sooner than he should have, the click of her wooden soles far too loud. His face crumpled into something both quizzical and concerned, nose twitching once more as he picked up on the familiar, but no less obnoxious scent of starched hospital blankets, chemical cleaner, and something that reminded him of an uncanny approximation of a roast ham.
Putting on a straight face, he smiled thinly at the nurse.
"Hi, I… what hospital am I in?" Frowning, he rubbed his throat, voice raspy with sleep. "Sorry, I just woke up."
"No! It's fine, it's fine," the nurse hurriedly replied, bowing slightly. "You're in Kanou General, in the Twentieth Ward."
"Huh." Harry nodded, unsure of why he even asked. It wasn't as if he was any good at actually talking to people, not after so many years spent in what amounted to purposeful isolation. A decade of 'soul-searching' doesn't lend itself well to small talk, especially when you go out of your way to avoid it.
Smiling nervously, the nurse gestured to his meal, purposefully avoiding looking at the bits of rice scattered across Harry's lap. "Was the food not to your liking?"
"Ah, no." He waved her off, wincing. "I'm just a touch nauseous. It's fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine. The uh- the doctor - surgeon - whoever operated on me… are they here?"
"He should be on his way right now. Doctor Kanou is very busy, but he always checks in on his patients."
"Doctor Kanou- like the…?"
"Hospital? Yes. It's his, after all. Director, Doctor…" the nurse sighed, shaking her head. "Like I said, he's a very busy man."
"Very busy indeed, but I still have time to check in, don't I?"
"Ah! Doctor Kanou, I was just telling your patient about you."
The Doctor himself walked into the room, a broad grin on his face that left Harry ill at ease, blurry as it was. And even through that haze, Harry noticed something. It was the eyes, he realized, staring the man in the face, his unease growing with every step Kanou took. Dead things and black as sin, as if all the light had been drawn from them with the self-same syringe he used to poison those under his care. And poison them he did, Harry noted, rifling through the man's mind and growing more disgusted by the second.
Experiments that would have made Voldemort blush were his trade, a zealous obsession with human advancement far more akin to a eugenicist than any real doctor. Every corner of the man's conscience dripped with venom, sickly thoughts dancing here and there with not a single emotion behind them, only the calculated interest of a blooded killer.
Pulling away from the darkest depths of Kanou's mind, Harry focused on the man's current thoughts, namely how he was astonished to see Harry awake, let alone alive. The first survivor of a lifetime dedicated to horrors unimaginable.
"Would you prefer to speak in Japanese, or… what is your native language?" Kanou asked, interrupting Harry's perusal of his thoughts.
"English, and I'm fine with either," he uttered, stone faced. It was taking all of Harry's self control to not obliviate the man into a gibbering husk. If it wasn't for the fact that he was in a hospital, one that was no doubt covered from top to bottom with security cameras, he would have done so already.
"Well, I haven't had the pleasure of speaking to anyone in English for quite a while, so let's go with that. Now- oh, Takahashi, you may go now," he said, quickly shifting between English and Japanese. Kanou nodded towards the nurse before taking a chart out from under his arm. He flipped through it quickly, humming as he did. "You came to us in quite the state. Er- actually, I can't keep on calling you John Doe, can I? What was your name?"
"James Evans," was Harry's immediate reply, the pseudonym he'd gone by since leaving Britain.
"Well then, Mister Evans… you were found by a stranger not too far from here, crushed by-"
"A bunch of I-beams. It's… the last thing I remember before waking up here."
"Yes, yes. A terrible thing," Kanou noted, the sympathy in his voice well-practiced. "You were suffering from extensive trauma to the abdomen, a number of your organs having been crushed in the accident. Now, we were able to replace those organs, specifically one of your kidneys, and your spleen."
"That quickly?"
"Your life was in danger, and…" Sighing heavily, Kanou rubbed his brow. "The woman you were with, Kamishiro Rize, did not survive the accident. We had to act quickly, and decided it was best to use her undamaged organs in place of your own, saving your life." His lips pulled into a thin, not-quite-smile. "My condolences."
Swallowing heavily, Harry nodded. Another quick look through Kanou's mind answered his unspoken question. Stuck in the basement of your estate, you mean.
"Does her family know?"
"We weren't able to reach her next of kin. I believe she was an orphan."
Clicking his tongue and looking away, a shake of the head told Kanou all he wanted to hear. Taking a deep breath, Harry looked back up. "So what now?"
"You take those immunosuppressants next to you, and after some observation we'll see if you're clear to leave. We'll also need to sort out the details of your travel insurance once you're discharged."
Glancing to the right and snorting at the medication he had yet to notice, Harry then hummed quietly, scratching his face. He made a small noise of annoyance at how unkempt his beard had become, and how grimy he felt, running his fingers through his hair only to come away with grease.
"Thank you," he spoke, offering a half-hearted glance towards Kanou.
Tucking his chart away, Kanou bowed, before quickly turning about-face and leaving the room. Harry had already put him out of mind, or at the least, ignored him in favour of his present situation.
I'm a ghoul.
The thought of it alone was farcical. To be turned into a ghoul… it was impossible. Except, it very much wasn't, judging by the still fetid taste of rice lingering in Harry's mouth and that unfamiliar buzz that, if he focused on it, could be felt within the small of his back. Harry squirmed wordlessly, teeth bared in a sharp grimace of disgust. A wizard turned into a ghoul was even more ridiculous, something that he would have also assumed to be categorically impossible, seeing as there had never been a single record of a ghoul showing any predilection for wand magic.
Some strange control over the elements? Certainly. Some ghouls had been known to encase themselves in flames of their own making, one of whom Newt Scamander himself had encountered and been lucky enough to escape from, albeit somewhat singed when all was said and done.
But magic? Proper magic, with any measure of control or intention beyond the will to burn, freeze, or otherwise destroy that which was directly in front of you?
Unheard of.
Yet all the same Harry's wand still hummed that wordless tune, something that could not be heard rather than felt. It sang of magic, and with a flick of his wrist it left its holster to lie steady against his palm. Another sharp flick and Harry had summoned the plastic cutlery that accompanied his meal into his open hand, swiftly transfiguring the spoon and fork into a pair of glasses that he rested upon his face.
Between a freak accident and waking up, Harry had become an anomaly. Something that had never existed until that very moment, something new and strange and terribly, terribly dangerous. Strength and magic… it was a frightening thought.
What the hell am I supposed to do now? His eyes widened as another thought came unbidden. How am I supposed to survive?
No stranger to death, Harry had lived his entire life in uncomfortable solidarity with the concept. His parents, Sirius, Dumbledore, and… he sighed, not at all eager to go down the road of remembrance.
Too many people that Harry knew, had loved, had met their end much too young. And here he was, forced to decide whether his continued life was worthy of the death of others.
But now… now he had…
Harry could hardly bear to think about it.
If there was one creature – being – that he had made sure to read up on before traveling eastwards, it was ghouls. Not the piteous things that the British Isles called ghouls, but something far more dangerous. No, he'd grown up hearing of creatures that were all but miniature trolls, without the magically resistant hide. Bar the complete lack of any sort of intelligence, western ghouls were more of a nuisance than any real threat, making their homes in the attics of magicals and, on occasion, making enough of a ruckus to be taken away from their abodes.
A true ghoul was something entirely different. A human in almost every respect, except for the fact that humans were the only thing they could survive off of. Well, except their own kind, of course. Or the unnatural strength, speed, and a predilection for violence that made even Harry unnerved. It was why he had pored over as many books he could find on the subject before even stepping foot anywhere east of the Tian Shan mountains.
And now he was one of them.
The light fabric of the blanket laid over his lap felt distant, his hands, even as they moved, the pads of his fingers tracing over the rough linen, were a world away. Harry knew, in the back of his head, that this was shock – a sensation long made familiar from his time at Hogwarts. But that familiarity brought with it some small blessing.
Clarity.
Already Harry was making plans. Ideas swimming through his head as to how he could come through all of this unscathed, to somehow manage to make a life for himself even with this new, terrible thing come to visit at his door.
He would visit Kanou in the night, to try and find out if there was some way to reverse this. To regain his humanity. His estate, well-guarded as it was, was nothing in the face of a wizard with no intention of ever being caught.
Harry didn't know whether or not he would kill the man. The fury coursing through his veins told him to, begged him to, but killing… he could never muster up the will to act out on those thoughts.
But then I'm not going to last very long if I don't get used to it, will I?
It wasn't as if he could just walk into a grocers and ask for their best cut of thigh – grass fed, married with a wife and kids, and slaughtered at the ripe age of sixty-five. Letting out a tired huff, Harry rubbed his chin, scowling again at the state of his beard.
The worst part of it all was how good he felt. As if he could run a mile and not once stop to catch his breath, and, now that he thought about it, he could. Something like that would be frighteningly easy. Even the wiry cords of muscle in his arms now brimming with the kind of strength that could crumble stone, crush wood to splinters and come away unblemished.
Every heartbeat in the hospital could be heard if he focused hard enough, the scuffle of rubber soles on tile as near as though it were happening in his own room. The smell of it all cut across his senses with enough ferocity as to blend into taste, the acrid stench of every chemical wash the floors had ever been privy to completely suffusing him. Funnily enough his vision had gone completely unchanged, leaving Harry as blind as he'd ever been.
With a light cough, Harry drew his senses away from what was swiftly becoming overwhelming, able to distance himself from it all with the moderate experience he had in occlumency, a skill he'd cultivated during the long, quiet years spent abroad.
To Kanou's then, this evening. The image of it had been seared into his mind, the man's memory clear enough to allow Harry to comfortably apparate to his sitting room. But, he had the rest of the day available to become acclimatized, so to say, to the new sensations brought about by his sudden circumstances.
Wand waving, Harry quickly transfigured his scrubs into something more suited to the summer heat, a simple t-shirt and trousers, and a comfortable pair of leather boots. His usual fare, though his actual clothes and the small bag that held his entire life within it were sitting in a hotel room on the other side of the city. A light muggle repelling charm accompanied the sensation of an egg cracking over the top of his head, Harry's form shimmering out of view.
Practically invisible and not likely to have anyone walk into him as a result of it, Harry took his first few steps out of the hospital room, glancing up and to the right to see a camera pointed directly at the doorway. Kanou's VIP room, he imagined.
It was with silent footfalls that Harry made his escape from the hospital. Nurses, doctors, and patients alike sidestepping around him without even realizing they'd done so. If there was one thing that Harry had learned since leaving Britain it was how to go unnoticed, especially after that first photo of him was taken in Egypt and summarily lit a fire under his arse.
Not a soul noticed him as he stepped from the bright fluorescents of the hospital out into the waiting sun, the heat beating down on Harry from above as only it could so far from home. Still, he felt distant and unsettled as his feet carried him south, towards the heart of Tokyo and crowds he could easily find himself lost in. It was as he grew closer to those crowds and he allowed his charms to fall away that Harry's nose twitched, his stomach growled, and a cold shock ran down his spine.
The people around him, their scent and the steady, rhythmic beating of a thousand hearts, that number rising with every step…
Harry swiftly retreated into his mind, allowing his feet to take them where they would. As if through a foggy lens he witnessed those around him bustling about, the occasional odd glance cast his way at the sight of a foreigner. He could hardly focus at all, the thump, thump, thump of their hearts bursting in his mind like supernovas. Saliva pooled in his mouth as a particularly delicious man walked by, fat with excess and reminding Harry far too much of the wagyu he'd treated himself to not a week before, marbled from top to bottom and so delightfully tender.
He stared, unable to tear himself away as the man shouldered past him, cursing loudly and turning to face Harry. They both froze, Harry in rapture, watching as a vein pulsed against the side of the man's head, carrying with it a nectar he knew would be divine in its flavour. The man, on the other hand, grew pale, eyes widening in fear at whatever it was he had seen in Harry. With a small cry he shrunk back, pushing his way through the crowd and as far from Harry as his legs could take him.
People turned to look, some of them frowning, others watching as the man ran off. A few set sight on Harry, their frowns deepening, wondering what could have possibly startled the man so. A woman tugged on her son's arm, pulling him away from the strange foreigner that stood in their midst. Harry's gaze shifted, dragging to the window beside him, and the horrifying visage that met him left Harry stumbling.
Through a curtain of greasy hair shone a single, horrifying red eye. The skin around it run through with veins that arced this way and that, mirroring the scar on the other side of his face – a hideous, jagged bolt of faded red that tore through his brow and laid roots across his eyelid and danced over the bridge of his nose.
In an instant Harry shimmered out of sight, a muggle repelling charm thrown into full effect and turning every eye away from him. Barely holding onto his mind, it was only instinct that led him to cast a light obliviate that washed over the street and wiped the last minute from everyone nearby.
Heart pounding, he marched through the parting throng to a nearby alley, and the sudden crack of apparition that rang through the street left the already confused crowd dumbfounded. In an instant Harry had disappeared, only to reappear in his hotel room, stumbling towards the nearest mirror. He planted his hands on the dresser, staring dumbly into the reflection that met him.
Harry's entire body shook as he pulled at his eyelid, gaping in horror.
The eyes. The eyes. He'd forgotten about the bloody eyes.
Or eye, it looked like, brushing his hair out of his face to make sure it was just the one. A half ghoul, came a small voice in the back of his head. His own, echoing with detached resignation. And it seemed this was what it took to make it all click.
Numb, Harry trudged towards the bathroom on unsteady feet, balancing against the wall until he could simply throw himself into the shower, hands planted against the cold tile. Half aware and half stunned, he let the transfiguration of his scrubs shatter into nothingness – ripping the thin polyester from his body and leaving it to soak as he pawed at the shower handle, letting out a choked sigh as lukewarm water spattered across his back.
It wasn't until the water felt like hammer blows that Harry blearily shook his head, nearly falling over as he took a step back from the wall. His knees locked, blood rushing to his head, and he slumped to the ground, weakly pushing himself into the corner of the shower and away from the spray and steam.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Harry's jaw squared into something more stubborn than determined, and as he clawed his way back to his feet his gut swam with indecision.
It's just like Voldemort all over again. C'mon, you know how to deal with a crisis, he told himself, chanting 'you can figure this out,' over and over in his head as if it were a mantra. And slowly, very slowly, even as the steam began to choke him in the small confines of the shower, glass fogged to the point in which it more resembled marble, a sensation he hadn't felt in years began to take over.
The focus Harry had experienced an hour ago was but a pale shadow in comparison to the almost frigid clarity of mind that had now swallowed him whole. It was the panic of an eleven year old boy face to face with the spectre he had only heard whispers of, told to him by men so mighty he couldn't bear to look up at them with anything but awe. It was the stark realization of his own mortality, his body numb from the blackened poison that rippled out from a gaping hole just above his wrist.
A hundred dementors bearing down on him, so small yet stalwart before their advance. A dragon lurching towards the rock he had hid behind, praying desperately for a bit of wood and straw to come and save him from his fate.
His god-father, passing into the beyond behind a flicker of ethereal nothingness. A tear in reality.
A man already dead, falling hundreds of feet to have that still warm body broken against the hard earth below.
The monster that had laid waste to his entire life slumped over amongst the rubble, crimson eyes faded and the wails of his underlings echoing dimly in the night.
Harry crawled to the shower door with a rigid spine, some sense of finality in his clumsy gait. And it was with measured steps that he trudged out and took to the mirror, wiping away the thin sheen of steam that clung to its glossy face. He stared at the visage locked behind that still murky glass, the stern eyes and hollowed cheeks, a hardness to it that had been there for many years, but he had never before noticed.
He had spent so very long running from the ghosts of his friends, evading the ever watchful eye of a country that had fastened him to the altar and from there been deified. A whispered name the likes of Merlin within the rainy isles, and a figure approaching that mystique beyond. All of that because of a stroke of luck, a boy soldier not yet eighteen who had conquered the unconquerable, only macabre luck to thank for his survival.
All he had done was flee from his broken life, and as the confusion, horror, and no small amount of determination flooded his mind, he came to once again accept the fact that his life was in jeopardy. Harry's future was clouded in intimately familiar mystery, and all that remained before him was a tightrope spun from steel barbs.
In that moment he realized that he missed all of it, and began to stand just a little taller.