Disclaimer – It has come to my attention recently that I unfortunately do not own any part of the Harry Potter or Avatar: The Last Airbender franchises or any of the Literary Universes or the characters that belong to those entities. One can dream I suppose. Although I did see a bison a couple years ago … he, unfortunately, did not fly … Yip Yip.
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Chapter 1: The Boy with the Scar
Harry accidentally discovers magic at a young age and ends up teleporting to another land far away in an attempt to escape. The presence of a sympathetic green-eyed firebender will certainly be a surprise for Aang, Katara, and Sokka. Can Harry Potter save the Avatar? Harry/Azula and Harry/Ty Lee pairing, bending with occasional HP magic
With the upcoming Avatar live action show I thought it would be a good time to share this. I hope you enjoy this story.
Warning – This story will start off seriously with scenes of abuse. I do apologize if this is a serious way to start the story. If this case makes you uncomfortable, skip to the halfway point of the story where Harry leaves Privet Drive and from there on it will be tame. I wanted to include this as it will serve as Harry's motivation later. But I realize it is not for everyone. I don't plan to include any other scenes like this for the duration of the story but if there is something that would require a warning I would indeed provide a warning beforehand. Additionally, while I do not have firsthand experience with this topic, this is a topic I am aware of and strongly suggest that anyone who has ever experienced any form of child abuse, hopefully nothing to the extent I have written about, to seek help, there are plenty of individuals who are available and willing to help.
If someone were to walk through Privet Drive, they'd be greeted by the standard image of suburban homogeneity. Each house, with its neatly trimmed lawn, mirrored the next, distinguished only by diminutive brass numbers. And amid this uniformity laid Number 4, perhaps the most uniform of them all, a seemingly nondescript two-story dwelling complete with four bedrooms and two bathrooms. To the knowledge of most, within its confines dwelt a normal family: a husband, a wife, and their son.
Despite what almost anyone who visited thought, there was an unspoken secret within this seemingly typical household. While visitors may have been quick to comment on the apparent familial affection evident in the home based on the sheer number of photos of Mr. and Mrs. Dursley and their son, most remained oblivious to the presence of another inhabitant—a boy whose very existence they attempted to hide by the absence of any photos adorning the walls and certainly never choosing to talk about his. This boy, housed but rarely tolerated, was kept not in one of the designated bedrooms, but rather in the cramped confines of the cupboard beneath the stairs.
At the tender age of five, this boy found himself burdened with responsibilities far beyond his years—tasks that most even the strictest of parents wouldn't even contemplate assigning to a child. By the age of four, he was already cooking and cleaning the house for his "family." As he reached his fifth year, the weight of additional chores, including yard work, was added to his already substantial list of responsibilities.
These chores were not merely assigned; they were enforced with an iron hand. Any failure to complete them on time or to Mr. Dursley's satisfaction resulted in swift and merciless punishment. Dropping a plate or failing to meet the exacting standards of cleanliness elicited not gentle reprimands but rather physical violence—usually a fist driven into his tender abdomen.
In this harsh environment, he quickly learned the art of efficiency and diligence … though his efforts were never deemed satisfactory by his relatives and as a result he was often punished.
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Our story starts one evening with the little boy sitting alone in his dark cupboard, where his aunt had angrily put him when he had accidentally dropped one of the fine china dishes. There he waited, in fear, for his uncle to get home to give him his punishment.
Looking around his dimly lit space, his gaze fell upon the sole item he could truly claim as his own: a tattered baby blue blanket, his name embroidered on it – the only thing he had from his parents.
The abrupt yank on the cupboard door jarred him out of his thoughts, signaling his uncle's presence. On top of the expression on his uncle's face, he could smell the alcohol coming off his uncle in waves and he knew was in serious trouble. Less than a half second later, with merciless efficiency, he was roughly seized by the nape of his neck, his frail frame forcibly hoisted to meet his uncle's steely gaze.
Clearly upset, Vernon's face distorted into a grotesque shade of purple as he unleashed a flood of insults and other verbal abuse upon the boy. Each word dripped with venom as he berated him. With each syllable that the man spat, the boy hung in his hand, still suspended by his neck as he bore the brunt of his uncle's fury, his frail frame subjected to violent tremors with every shake.
"We took you in out of the goodness of our hearts," Vernon's voice boomed, punctuated by the violent shakes he inflicted upon the boy after every word. "Fed you our food, clothed you, and all we ask is for you to do a few little chores around the house, and you can't even do them right! Instead, you go around breaking our stuff."
As he finished his thought he shook his head and mercilessly threw the boy against the far wall, the impact echoing throughout the room with a solid, albeit muffled, thud.
Approaching the crumpled form of his nephew, who was trying to catch his breath, Vernon's anger showed no signs of abating. He seized the boy again by the neck as he dragged him from the wall, subjecting him to a barrage of punches before callously dropping him to the floor, where a series of well-placed kicks followed. Satisfied that his nephew was sufficiently incapacitated, Vernon seized him by the arm and dragged him, limp and defenseless, into the kitchen.
Entering the kitchen, Vernon relaxed his grip on the boy's arm, allowing him to fall to the floor, and strode purposefully toward the stove. Turning back to his nephew a hideous smile on his face, he ignited one of the front burners, the flame dancing to life with a menacing flicker. Returning to the Harry, he grabbed a knife from the butchers block as he passed by.
"Boy …" Vernon's voice sliced through the tense air like a whip, his tone dripping with malice, " … am I ever going to teach you a lesson … perhaps this is one that you won't ever forget."
Harry's eyes widened in terror at the sight of his uncle. Though accustomed to the disdain of his relatives, a fact made obvious to him as they often pointed out how much of a burden they thought him to be, he never thought they wanted him dead.
As Harry watched his uncle slowly approach him …he felt a … stange feeling start to flow through his body. The feeling was … nothing that Harry could describe and caused Harry to freeze in confusion.
With a final look over his shoulder towards the stove, Vernon lowered the knife onto the counter, his face rigid as he pivoted to face his still trembling nephew. With a callous grip, he seized the boy once more, dragging him toward the searing heat of the stove.
"Now … you're … going … to … pay … for … everything … you and your freakish kind has ever done to my family." Vernon's voice dripped with venom as he uttered the chilling words, his anger obvious. Although Harry did not have more than a moment to try and puzzle out his uncle's words. With a swift, merciless motion, he seized the boy's face with one of his massive hands, as he forced the left side of his face onto the scalding-hot burner.
Vernon smiled at the sickening symphony of sizzle and hiss mingled with the agonized screams of the boy. Soon the bitter stench of burning flesh filled the air, mingling with the metallic smell of blood as the boy's cries quieted into nothing but quiet whimpers of pain.
With callous indifference, he roughly tore the mutilated face of his nephew from the searing heat of the burner, remnants of dead and partly dead tissue clinging grotesquely to both the stove and the side of his face.
Seemingly emboldened by his cruelty, Vernon's seized a thick shard of china—part of the plate Harry had accidentally dropped—and drove it into the boy's trembling hand. The resounding impact echoed through the room before Vernon slowly withdrew the shard.
In that moment, the boy's senses were overwhelmed by a searing, white-hot pain that threatened to consume him entirely. Fear gripped him like a vice, and blood flowed freely from his wounds, and Harry was confident that the only thing that prevented him from passing out was the fact that the strange feeling had magnified and was getting stronger.
Amidst the pain and panic, a desperate refrain took root within the boy's mind—a plea for escape from the clutches of his relatives. "I need to get away from here, somewhere safe, far, far away, someplace where Uncle Vernon can't find or get to me," he repeated to himself like a mantra, each repetition a desperate plea for salvation.
As the boy's thoughts spiraled and began to lose coherence, a strange phenomenon unfolded around him—a pink mist, appeared out of nowhere and began to envelop his trembling form. The sight only served to stoke Vernon's fury, his rage reaching a fever pitch as he seized the nearby knife, hurling it toward the boy.
With a sickening thud, the blade found its mark, embedding itself into the boy's shoulder moments before the pink mist flared brilliantly, engulfing him in a blinding burst of light … And in the aftermath of the dazzling display, as the light ebbed and faded, there remained no trace of the boy—only an empty, silent space where his pained cries once echoed.
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In a distant land, bathed in the soft glow of a vibrant pink light, a small figure materialized out of thin air, descending heavily and landing hard on the ground below unable to support itself. As the light faded, revealing the prone form of a young boy, a curious onlooker emerged from the shadows—a girl drawn by the sudden and inexplicable spectacle.
"Ummm … who's there? Are you a spirit?" she asked cautiously, her voice barely a whisper as she approached the scene, her curiosity tinged with a hint of apprehension. In response, a pained moan escaped the lips of the boy, a sound that pierced the stillness of the night, a sound that sounded more human than spirit.
Undiscouraged by the weirdness of the situation, the girl pressed forward, her steps confident. Drawing nearer to the figure of the boy, she called out once more, her voice infused with compassion and concern. "Hello … who are you?"
To her relief, a soft voice emerged from the boy—a voice laden with pain and desperation. "My name is … Harry. Please … I need … help," the boy pleaded.
But before she could ask anything else or he could provide more information, the boy's strength waned, his consciousness slipped away as he fell into unconsciousness—a fleeting respite from the events that had plagued him. Immediately the girl ran to her families estate, desperate to get aid for the mysterious stranger who had fallen from the heavens in a burst of pink light.
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As Harry gradually regained consciousness, his senses began to register his surroundings. The first sensation to penetrate his foggy mind was the comforting softness of the bed beneath him, a stark contrast to the rigid discomfort of his usual cot in the cramped cupboard under the stairs. However, this initial relief was quickly overshadowed by a chilling realization: he couldn't see. Panic surged within him as fragmented memories flooded back, reminding him of the cruelty he had endured at the hands of his uncle.
Frantically, Harry's hand flew to his face, encountering a barrier of bandages that seemed to cover almost all of his face. The next thing he became aware of was a wave of agony which crashed over his entire self … although this pain let him become aware of the numbed parts on the left side of his face, which worried him more than rest of the pain. Besides the pain in his face, along the edges of the numb area, and his sore neck, a pulsating ache was coming from his right shoulder, each throb synchronizing itself with the rhythm of his heartbeat. Though not the most excruciating pain he had ever experienced, it was undeniably severe, a reminder of the trauma he had endured and somehow escaped from.
The sudden sound of approaching footsteps jolted Harry from his thoughts, sending a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. His muscles tensed, bracing for the inevitable confrontation. A soft gasp followed by the clatter of something breaking against the floor echoed through the room, further heightening Harry's apprehension. Instinctively reverting to survival mode, ingrained by years of mistreatment at the hands of the Dursleys, Harry sprung from the bed, ignoring the searing protest of his injuries. He dropped to his knees, his voice trembling as he attempted to mutter frantic apologies and pleaded for forgiveness, an ingrained response to the looming specter of punishment after something bad happened.
Upon seeing his reaction and hearing the tremulous apologies of the young boy, the servant shook herself out of her initial shock, recognizing that this was not a normal reaction. Without hesitation, she hastened to send someone to summon the master of the estate.
While awaiting the arrival of the master of the estate, the servant returned to the injured youth's side, her heart heavy with compassion for his situation. She offered soothing words and gentle reassurances, trying to calm him. Eventually she was at least partially successful as she managed to convince him he was in no danger and she managed to help him back to the bed.
Finally, the master of the house made his entrance, his voice a soothing and comforting, a tone Harry did not always associate with conversations directed at him.
"Ah ... I see that you have awakened, young one," he spoke with quiet authority, his tone laced with genuine concern. "Truly, it astonishes me that you have awoken so swiftly, especially with your injuries. They are indeed … extensive, especially for one so young, as our healers have attested. Fractures, blood loss, and … a little … irreparable damage to your face... it paints a grim picture. Yet, fortune smiles upon you, for it seems that other than … a little … scarring to your face you shall suffer no other permanent damage."
Seating himself beside the boy's bed, the man regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and empathy, his gaze concerned yet gentle.
"I must ask you, child, … who did this to you?"
"Ma … ma … may I have a gl … glass of w ... wa ... water p … please?" Harry managed to eventually get out, his throat incredibly dry, and cracking from lack of use.
"Of course … my apologies for not offering that sooner," the head of the household responded to Harry's question, his tone tinged with a hint of regret. A delicate clinking signaled the retrieval of a glass from the nearby table, which he then placed into Harry's trembling hand.
With measured patience, the man occupied himself by idly twiddling his thumbs, allowing Harry a moment to collect himself and finish as much water as he needed.
As he observed the young boy, thoughts swirled within the head of the household's mind. His own daughters, close in age to Harry, flashed through his thoughts, prompting a surge of empathy and concern. "If all goes well," he mused silently, "they could find a friend in him, or at the very least offer him support until we discern the best course of action … maybe find his family."
When Harry finally stopped drinking and looked in the direction of him, the man returned to his earlier inquiry, his gaze steady as he awaited Harry's response. "Who did this to you, child? What happened?"
In a voice barely above a whisper, Harry confessed, "My uncle did, sir. I had dropped a plate … please don't send me back there. I'll do anything you want, I can cook or clean or do work outside … just please don't send me back. I don't know what he will do."
The desperation in Harry's voice broke the man's heart, that one so young should be so scared of their family and instilled a determination to shield the boy from further harm. With a gentle yet resolute voice, he assured Harry, "Fear not, my child. You are safe here. We shall protect you, and you need not return to a place you do not want to go. What is your name?"
"My name … my name is Harry, sir … I … I don't know my last name," Harry confessed, the sadness in his tone easily distinguishable.
"Well now, that won't do, that won't do at all," the man muttered, more to himself than to Harry, his brow furrowing in contemplation. Lost in thought, he pondered for a moment before a sudden realization seemed to dawn upon him. Straightening up with newfound resolve, he declared, "I've got it. From now on, your name will be Hadrian Lee. And you may use that name as long as you desire. But fear not, you can use Harry for short, so you can still hold on to something your parents gave you."
With this statement, Mr. Lee rose from his seat. "But you should try to rest, I am sure it will be good for your recovery. I shall return in a few hours' time," he informed Harry, his tone reassuring. "Until then, please do try to rest."
To Harry's surprise he managed to fall asleep almost immediately after he heard the man leave the room.
True to his word, Harry was woken several hours later when the man returned, this time accompanied by another person. Leading the newcomer to a nearby chair, he turned to address Harry once more.
"Hadrian, this is my daughter, Ty Lee, she was the one who found you," the man introduced, placing his hand on the young girl's shoulder who was seated beside Harry. "Ty Lee, meet Harry. He will be staying with us from now on."
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Up Next: Meeting the Avatar
Story Note 1 – Harry Potter will still have the ability for magic although due to lack of training this will be almost solely resigned to the use of accidental magic … well … until … Harry were to find a giant store of all the worlds knowledge … there he might learn about magic …
Story Note 2 – This chapter, especially the first part certainly started off much darker than I usually write. I try to stay away from such serious topics as Harry childhood abuse but I felt it was important to include for the development of Harry's character. And it will provide him motivation.
I hope you all liked the start to the new story, and I look forward to hearing your feedback. This is a story I have been looking forward to writing for a very long time.
Thanks to those of you out to those of you who enjoy my stories, I promise to keep updating the stories as long as you enjoy them, and a special thanks to those of you who have taken the time to leave feedback or reach out to me directly. All feedback is welcome (hopefully constructive!) Looking forward to hearing what you think!
Author Note 1 – All feedback is welcome (hopefully constructive!) Looking forward to what you think!
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