Chapter One – Of Two Prisoners
The casino was in full panic mode. Neither hide nor hair had been seen of its owner, one Sae Niijima, for what felt like hours. On the floor, hulking security guards scurried to and fro, stopping customers from reaching the exits either by reason or by force. In vain, they searched for the mysterious thieves who had gained entry to the high limit floor, only to then seemingly disappear. Coins and chips sailed through the air as bodies went flying, and raised voices drowned the cavernous room in a veritable sea of noise.
From his position atop the chandelier, Joker grinned as he watched the spectacle unfold. Their plan had gone off without a hitch thus far, but the worst was yet to come. All now depended on his quick thinking and ability to forge a bond with the errant prosecutor. Queen had assured him he would succeed, that she knew her sister well, but even she had been shocked by the magnitude of Sae's distorted form during their battle earlier.
Nevertheless, Joker was confident; he had come this far and he was not going to give up now. He believed in his own strength of will, and all of his friends trusted his judgement. The group desperately needed to win this one. If he failed, the Phantom Thieves were doomed, perhaps literally. An expulsion would be the least of their concerns if the SIU caught wind of who they really were, and this was a risky game of cat and mouse to keep one step ahead of the organisation.
Smirking as the adrenaline coursed through his system, Joker nimbly leapt from one of the lighting fixtures to another, little more than a shadow in the corner of the eye to those below. Of course, some of these were real Shadows in the Metaverse; most of them were mere cognitions of people, but the security guards were another matter. He would remain hidden until Oracle gave the signal to proceed.
And there it is, right on cue, he thought, as he felt something buzz in his ear. Phones did not work in the Metaverse, as they had discovered months ago, but this sort of communications system was different. Perhaps their phones were simply controlled by the Metanav and could not be used for another purpose whilst inside. Something to ponder later.
"T-there's something here!" came a panicked voice below, as Joker sprung across a gap onto a perpendicular chandelier.
From there Joker jumped once again, this time into view of the security below, and stood perched over them with a briefcase clutched beneath his arm and a hand grasping the festoon that connected the chandelier to the ceiling rose. The grin on his face notably widened as a Shadow suddenly pointed at him.
"Hey, up there!"
One of the security guards spoke into his radio, and then the three of them made for Joker's position, although they found it difficult to get through the throngs of people. Joker quickly moved out of view and stashed the briefcase, then reported his success to the others.
"I have their attention," Joker said, his tone as calm as ever.
"Good, now get running!" Mona replied.
"This is our only chance!" Crow said, and Joker's fist clenched briefly, but he said nothing in reply. There would be a reckoning later, if he made it out of this alive.
"Stay calm; you can get away now!" Oracle informed him, which was the signal that made him start running from platform to platform, moving away from the security below. He trusted her navigation completely.
"We'll retrieve the briefcase on our end," Queen said, almost as calmly as Joker felt. It was impressive, as this night could not have been easy for her in particular.
Joker was running across a suspended glass platform when their comms were interrupted by garbled chatter, likely from security cutting into the frequency. He couldn't make any of the words out, not that it mattered. If it was actually the police, then it only proved they were indeed preparing an ambush.
"Hmm? What was that?" Oracle asked, and he imagined a frown on her face as she asked it.
"Don't worry about us; just concentrate on getting away!" Mona interrupted, and Joker chuckled to himself at the implication he would abandon the plan to rescue them if they got into trouble; Mona knew him well. "But I have to say, showing yourself above that crowd was an excellent move. Nice work as always, Joker."
"I bet Skull wouldn't pull it off that smoothly," Panther teased.
Skull must have said something off-radio in response, judging from what Fox said next.
"This happens because you have no sense for aesthetics."
Joker snorted with amusement, but again said nothing in response. Not that he could have, for his path was suddenly cutoff by the appearance of a group of Shadows, who stood on a nearby balcony next to the emergency exit.
"There he is! Don't let him get away!"
"Just run! Get out of there!" Oracle exclaimed.
Joker nodded to himself and changed direction, this time heading straight for the opposite end of the room. He dashed across a group of light fixtures in the shape of arches, long having lost his amazement at the grandiosity and design of any palace. This was nothing more than the imaginings of a corrupt individual with an inferiority complex, and he was determined to change her heart, even if this time it would be on his own merits in the real world.
"Okay, the enemy's focus is on him. The rest of us can slip away," said Mona.
"Everyone remember where we're meeting up?" Noir asked.
"No worries; I can guide all of you," Oracle said. "Warlock, can you take us to the exit if needed?"
"I can take everyone two at a time," came the soft-spoken response. "More than that will be difficult. I still think I should be the one to retrieve the briefcase first, though."
"Joker made the decision, so forget about that. We need your strength to get out of here," Queen said, not unkindly, but in a tone that brooked no argument. It was all for show, at any rate.
Joker left them to it and dropped from the platform onto the upper floor of the casino, only to be met with a pair of security guards, who twisted in place as they prepared to engage him in combat and allowed their masks to form. In a flash, he darted forward and ripped his first opponent's mask off, just as the second enemy transformed and attacked. Joker called for Arsène and brought it down with a hasty curse attack. The Shadow he had ambushed fired a weak shard of ice at him, but he still could not allow the attack to hit Arsène and nimbly dodged, before bringing his pistol to bear and unloading a full clip into the creature's torso. It collapsed into nothingness with a shriek. These were evidently grunts, which meant the casino was throwing everything into trying to stop them, no doubt unnerved by the thought of the treasure being stolen.
"Good, you defeated them with ease," Mona said. "Let's not push our luck, though."
Oracle suddenly cut in with a warning of more enemies, and he dashed onto the upper balcony as they materialised. He ran through an open door into the backrooms, following Oracle's guidance all the while. Joker felt his heart racing, the aftereffects of the fight hitting him. He had long since come to understand Skull's enthusiasm for beating Shadows to a pulp; the rush was intense, and it could be difficult to keep a level head when so much was at stake.
He snuck past a Shadow and let it run off, suspecting that his commotion had drawn security in the opposite direction. That was good.
"I'm getting a weird reading here!" Oracle said suddenly.
That was not.
"What sort of reading?" he asked quietly, after coming to a stop. This was not part of the plan, real or otherwise. If something went wrong now…
"I-I don't know!" she said, sounding annoyed. Not at him, but at the rare fact. "But it's heading your way! Keep moving!"
"Joker, do you need help?" Warlock asked.
"No," he said immediately. "Get the others to safety and don't worry about me. I still have a smokescreen to use if needed."
The idea of Warlock coming to help concerned him. It was not that Joker doubted his combat abilities; hell, his friend had the propensity to do things that none of them could explain, not even Mona. He made the impossible happen when they needed it to and had saved Joker's life at least once. Given how smoothly things went when he fought alongside them, it was probably more than once, not that Joker hadn't returned the favour in turn. All of them had saved one another at some point – venturing into Palaces and Mementos was a risky business. However, that risk was offset here, since they had a plan. Joker would not see any of them in danger now, including Warlock.
And if this mysterious 'reading' Oracle had picked up was some sort of police presence, then it was completely out of the question for the others to come to him.
Damn you, Harry, he thought fondly as he ran, only to find his path blocked by a Shadow. With practiced ease, he fired his grappling gun at a hook on the ceiling and was launched into the air, sailing over the head of the Shadow onto the gratings of another level with an elegant backflip.
"Joker, stop!"
The next thing he knew, he was surrounded. A half-dozen Shadows had been laying in wait, and now they circled around him like coiled snakes, prepared to strike. He made to draw his knife and defend himself, but all of a sudden, a figure appeared on the far side of the room, the sound of its footsteps clacking in the sudden silence that had spread.
Joker stared at her, for he knew who that crimson hair and thin form belonged to, and his heart seemed to skip a beat.
Kasumi…
"Huh?! Joker, she's the weird reading I was getting earlier!" Oracle cut-in.
Joker understood now, but he wasn't concerned. If anything, he was pleased to see Kasumi, albeit worried she was in such a dangerous situation.
"I'll end this right now!" she exclaimed.
As half of the Shadows looked towards her, Kasumi drew a blade of her own, a stick-thin rapier, and hurled it with such speed and grace that none of the Shadows could react in time. Beside Joker, one of them was struck in the chest and fell to its knees, frozen in place. Joker couldn't help himself; he took in her palace form with interest.
Around her eyes was a black mask adorned with silver highlights and an equally dark ribbon tied back her flowing, scarlet hair. She wore a black jacket atop a strapless leotard, and around her waist was a belt to which she had fastened a scabbard for her rapier. He appreciated the coattails of her jacket, for they reminded him of his, and he appreciated the bare tops of her legs even more. His pulse quickened a tad as his eyes roamed over her, not only for the skin on display, but because of her confidence and strength. Her outfit was completed by pantyhose that started just above the knee and a pair of stilettos, but he smirked at her red gloves, which also resembled his.
In a flash and with an amazing display of acrobatism, she cartwheeled away from a charging Shadow, and then an old-style repeater was in her hand. Kasumi spun around, deftly avoiding enemy attacks as she blasted them at close range with the weapon, reducing each to dust one after another. To end the display, she backflipped and shot one the enemies in midair, leaving Joker suitably impressed.
So impressed that he had not even reacted, nor attempted to engage those who remained. He simply watched in amazement, even as she dispatched her final opponent and strode towards him.
"I relied on you too much when I was weaker," she said, and although he did not agree she was weak, he let her talk. They could not afford a full-on conversation here or now. "But that ends today!"
With aplomb, Kasumi wrenched her rapier free with a nimble kick, killing the Shadow in the process. Her sword spun through the air and she caught it, before standing at his side.
"Let's do this, senpai!"
Joker grinned almost ferally and drew his dagger at last, as it seemed to fit the occasion. The three remaining Shadows charged in, desperate to stall them before reinforcements arrived, but they could be under no illusions about their chances of success. Kasumi had proven to be a deadly warrior, and Joker was her superior in combat, laden with far greater experience as it was. He tumbled away from one of them, what seemed to be a bipedal leopard dual-wielding swords of its own, and counterattacked to fell it in one swift stroke. He had struck a critical part of its torso. Kasumi engaged an Ose too, but it couldn't land a hit on her. Joker watched as she tore her mask off and a lithe, azure Persona appeared to cast a blade of light at the creature, finishing it off.
Their final opponent was an enormous magenta vulture with a crown, which Joker thought was called a Jatayu. With a howl, it flapped its wings and tried to blast them with a powerful wind attack, but the pair of them both dodged, and Joker couldn't help but imagine how pleased she would be that her lessons had helped him become so agile.
Joker recalled Queen taking this creature down with a nuclear attack, but he had none to speak of, so it took a few strikes from both he and Kasumi to do the job, even as they dodged every single attack it threw in turn, much to its annoyance.
"For… real…?" it groaned, as it perished rather pathetically.
Kasumi let out a dramatic breath as she sheathed her rapier and turned to him, giving a bright smile that belied the fact she had just dispatched of a bunch of monsters with sublime ease. He thought it to be adorable.
"I think that was the last of them," she said. "I'm going to make it harder for any of their reinforcements to track you down."
"Be careful," he said gently, giving her a nod of appreciation.
"I will," she said. "You still have something to do as a Phantom Thief, don't you? I won't try to stop you; since I'm not a member of your group, I won't interfere, but you be careful too! And don't forget the promise we made!"
Joker watched as she jumped out of sight, then turned and made for the exit. He had lingered here far too long, as Oracle's sudden words reminded him. He let her directions guide him up a set of stairs and past a security area in the backrooms, where he briefly saw Niijima's security detail searching for him on their surveillance system. Not staying to chat, Joker darted past the window and made it to the adjourning stairwell, where he went up.
He heard the sound of approaching footsteps and redoubled his pace, thankful for the training he had done with Skull and Warlock. At the end of the hallway was a door, and he burst through it, finding himself on a balcony overlooking a lower part of the casino.
"The exit is just up ahead!" said Oracle.
Joker looked up and saw an enormous, stain-glassed window. He blinked in surprise.
"Through there?"
"That's just the way it is. After that earlier commotion, the bottom floor is completely closed off. Can you make it?"
Joker almost scoffed. His heart started to race, for he knew this was the end of his chase. They'd had to make it look good, but there would be no escape once he reached the outside. A part of him was apprehensive about what was to come, but he squashed it. This was for the Phantom Thieves. For all of Japan. For his justice. He would persevere, no matter the cost.
"Over there! There's nowhere to run!" came a Shadow's voice from behind.
Joker looked back and saw a trio, likely those that had followed him. With a cheeky smile, he leaped atop the banister and bolted around the balcony, until he reached the window. He crouched for momentum and looked back at the guards a final time.
"See ya!" he called cheerfully.
With that, he launched himself into the air and burst through the window, using a strength only found in the Metaverse to smash the glass apart with his arms.
The night air was not real, but it was still refreshing and he breathed it in, even as he dropped to the ground and rolled, ignoring the sudden panic of his teammates as he caught a glimpse of what awaited him.
There were hundreds of them. A part of him was even impressed; how the hell had the police gotten so many involved in this operation, including what looked to be riot police? Didn't these corrupt bastards have some actual crime to fight against? Was this the effect of having a reputation? Skull in particular had always wanted them to find fame; this was something else entirely.
The police tried to dazzle him with a number of spotlights, and what happened next was as a blur, which he would later put down to being smacked in the head by the butt of an automatic weapon. His friends tried to call for him to escape, although most of them knew it was not to be. He made a show of it too, but they cut him off and brought him down roughly, the blow to the head dazing him badly. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, pinned down, surrounded by uniforms and approached by one who seemed to be in charge.
"Hmm. Didn't expect to find some punk like you, kid. You have your teammate to thank for this; you were sold out," he said, sounding smug as he grabbed a fistful of Joker's hair. Joker couldn't even blame him; catching the leader of the Phantom Thieves would probably set him up for life… if Joker wasn't able to escape. Nevertheless, he adopted an appropriate look of surprise at the detective's words.
We'll see who gets the last laugh here, he thought, before they slapped a pair of cuffs on him and dragged him out of the Metaverse.
Harry sat with the others soon after Ren was captured by the police, worrying the inside of his lip and with his arms folded. Futaba had taken the key to Leblanc after boss fell asleep, and the group were currently sitting in silence, all of them far beyond nervous. Haru shuddered a little, and Harry wrapped an arm around her, which drew a smile that he returned, though he did not feel it reached his eyes. There was precious little to smile about in that moment.
The only one of them who seemed able to focus was Futaba, who was perched over her laptop, working on surveillance. The others started having a heated discussion.
"Where is he?" Ann asked with disgust.
"He ran off as soon as we left sis's palace," Makoto said, her brow creased. "He said he would try to find out what's happening from the inside and keep Ren safe."
"Gah, that dude's a piece of shit," Ryuji snarled. He scratched at his head and his foot tapped against the ground absent-mindedly. "He thinks he's better than all of us, but he's just as corrupt as all the rotten sons-of-bitches whose hearts we've changed."
"We just have to trust Ren-kun," said Makoto. "I have every faith in him to succeed."
"It ain't him I'm worried about," Ryuji said. "With Akechi sneaking around, who knows what he'll try? If he gets your sister thrown out of the room or something… I don't know, it could be bad."
"Try to remain positive about the situation," said Yusuke. "We have made our plans and must trust in our leader to deliver on his side. He has yet to let any of us down."
"But still… seeing them take him away like that… I feel awful," Makoto said, her eyes shut in pain.
"It was the most frightening moment of my life," Haru sighed, and Harry squeezed her reassuringly. It was interesting to hear her say such, given her own moments of peril with her forced near-fiancée. Harry felt it showed her kind and selfless nature. "I can't imagine what Ren-kun must be feeling right about now."
"Well, I can give you good news and bad news," Futaba called over her shoulder, drawing their attention. "First of all, the bug on Akechi's phone is up and running, so we can hear what he's saying if he makes any calls."
"What's the bad news?" Ann asked with trepidation.
"The police have done a real number on Ren," Futaba said, her eyes watering. It was no surprise; she thought of him as a brother.
"Damn it!" Ryuji slammed his fist on the counter, making Ann jump beside him. "Shit, sorry, Ann. But this is total bullshit! I can't believe they're treating him like this! He's a goddamn hero, not some criminal!"
"We know that," Makoto reminded him tersely. "But we also knew this would happen, Ryuji. Ren went in knowing how they would treat him; to be honest, I'd hoped some of the stories sis has told me about treatment in Japanese holding cells and interrogation rooms would scare him off the idea, but nothing can change his mind once it's made up."
"I know, I know," Ryuji sighed. "I just feel like I'm gonna lose it, not being able to help."
"We've already helped him, Ryuji," said Harry. "We led Akechi away, none-the-wiser, and we managed to escape without anyone getting hurt. You know, that was the main thing Ren was concerned about – all of us getting out in one piece."
"Heh, that sounds like him, alright," Ryuji muttered, but with good nature.
"Besides, it's either this or we take our chances with the SIU," Harry continued. "There's too much at stake here. I'm worried about those people I've seen hanging around the streets of Shibuya, Shinjuku and Kichijoji too. We need a win here."
"We can win this, can't we?" Ann asked, as she fidgeted nervously.
"Of course we can," Harry said, looking her in the eyes. "We're going to get through this, Ann. Ren will pull this off and be back here in no time, with that annoying grin and those stupid fake glasses of his."
There were a couple of chuckles at that.
Haru even giggled. "He doesn't wear them to make fun of you, Harry-chan," she said, as she straightened his own, very real glasses, causing him to flush slightly at her touch.
"It's to blend in," Harry said with a nod, mimicking Ren's deep voice almost perfectly. The effect was uncanny, and Ryuji blanched.
"Holy shit, dude," he said with wide eyes. "You could be his double. No wonder everyone at school thinks you're twins."
"I'll pass," Harry snorted. "There's only one Harry Takemi."
Just then, the door to the café was opened, and all of them jumped, expecting the police to burst in. Instead, it was what many would consider to be a simple black cat with startlingly blue eyes, which leapt onto the counter. Of course, the "cat" would scratch you with glee if you dared voice such an opinion in its presence.
"The coast is still clear," Morgana said, his girlish voice genuinely one of the more normal things the Phantom Thieves had going on in life.
"Not for long," Makoto reminded them. "We should all get moving, before they come to raid their 'prime suspect's residence. Futaba-chan, what's happening?"
"Your sister has just walked into the interrogation room," she said, having hacked the cameras. "I have no idea how long this will take."
"We know her time will be limited, so it's better to err on the side of caution and take our leave," Makoto said.
"We can go to mine," Harry offered. "Mum will be in the clinic overnight; she has a patient to treat. And there's no reason for the police to barge in there."
"Plus, we'll be able to see if they show up here!" Ryuji added.
"Then let's go. There's nothing more you guys can do in here," Morgana said.
"I could do with a cup of coffee to soothe my nerves before we leave," Yusuke sighed.
"Too late!" Futaba declared, causing Yusuke to flinch dramatically. At the very least, he did take the Sayuri with them; there was absolutely no chance the young artist would be leaving that priceless heirloom to the machinations of the police. He hung up a gawdy scribble in its place, so no one would question the gap on the wall.
With that, the lot of them quietly departed Leblanc. Ryuji took the lead and anxiously looked around the corner before he left. Silently, he motioned for them to follow.
Harry was glad some levity and reassurances had been shared, at least, but they were nowhere near out of the dark woods yet. If anything, they were lost, and Ren was the light they needed to help them escape. His terrible analogy aside, he wasn't wrong about the state of their situation. He doubted any of them would manage to sleep tonight, and he was grateful they had decided to stick it out together.
He was the last to leave the café and locked it when Futaba handed him the key. Even after filling his lungs with the chilly night air, his subsequent shiver had nothing to do with the cold.
Come on, Ren. Get through this.
In the interrogation room, Ren was almost slumped over the table that lay between him and Sae Niijima. The detectives had roughed him up, and he was in bad shape. His knee throbbed like hell, and there would be an enormous purple welt on his calf in the days to come. His face was scratched and bloodied, and at least one of his ribs had been cracked by a blow to the stomach. And yet, for all of their abuse, he had thrust away their signed confession before the injury to his leg was delivered by the "bad cop" of the two. Duress meant nothing in this place, and he hadn't bothered to respond to the man's sarcastic question about using the camera nearby for evidence, which had earned him another kick.
And yet, that was a double-edged sword; the camera could not help him, but as such, no one could use it as evidence of his escape or to corraborate any of what he said to Niijima in the near future. Of course, Futaba would still do her best to erase the footage in the first place.
"What the hell did they do to you?" Sae demanded, as she eyed the needle discarded on the ground next to him. "Those bastards…"
They had injected him with something, and his memory was hazy, but it had made him more compliant and was the only reason he had signed the forced confession, abuse or not. Ren was no fool; he had expected this sort of treatment before their plan had ever been put into action, had told Makoto that he could stick it out, but Japanese law enforcement was a merciless beast, and their actions had shaken him. It was no wonder the prosecution in Japanese criminal cases won ninety-nine times out of one hundred.
"I… I feel sick," he muttered, as he brought a clammy hand to his forehead and wiped away the sweat that glistened there. His hair was lank and plastered against it, and his breath was ragged.
"Can you hear me?" she asked, and he gave her a miniscule nod. "Good, then listen: you've been through a lot, but I can't stop them from going further with their interrogation. Almost anything can happen in this room, unless you cooperate. Answer my questions honestly and I'll do my best to get you out of here in one piece. What was your objective?"
"My… objective…" Ren half-whispered, as he tried to shake the pain out of his throbbing skull.
"I never thought this was a prank, not even from the start, but I could never assemble a prosecutorial team to act on it," Sae continued. "I couldn't figure out your method, after all, and the investigation into the incidents was still ongoing. The psychotic breakdowns, the mental shutdowns… even the other changes of heart that occurred over the months. All of it had to be investigated and the dots connected together, but that has finished now. We've arrived at this moment, you and I, and unless you choose to help me, things will only get worse before they get better.
"I hope you understand the nature of these charges; manslaughter is bad enough in its own right, but the combination of others would allow any prosecutor to establish a case for insurrection, on top of minor charges of blackmail, defamation, possession of weapons and a dozen others. Plus, look at the political angle of this: you've been a menace for the ruling party and you've embarrassed the police, no less. People will be screaming for life imprisonment or even capital punishment, and the politicians will pressure the court into delivering one of those sentences. If you want to avoid that fate, you'll tell me what I want to know."
Ren had to admit it was a good speech. It would have terrified most others, but he had a job to do, and it did not involve capitulation. In the back of his mind, he heard a voice warn him of his chances of winning, of how he was a prisoner of fate, and that this was an unjust game. And yet, it told him there was a chance he could succeed, which he fully intended to do.
With a sudden nod of determination, he looked Niijima directly in the eye.
"What do you want to know?"
"At least you're coherent," she offered. "How and when did you find out about that 'other world'? How is it even possible to steal someone's heart? I want to hear your account of everything, so start from the very beginning."
From the very beginning, huh?
"Okay," he nodded. His voice was still low, so she strained to hear him. "This all started when I first moved to Yongen-Jaya…"
Six months earlier…
The house seemed like a modest home to all passersby, with a neat lawn and matching flowerbed. The brickwork was framed by dark window frames and a matching door, and its rooftop and adjourning garage were well-kept, with equally-dark shingles. On the driveway was a car in top condition, and the neighbourhood as a whole was considered 'peaceful', with a relatively low crime rate and no gangs of 'hoodlums' to be found.
In other words, it felt perfectly normal to most folk. A typical suburban home in modern-day England, almost identical to those that surrounded it and utterly lacking in any form of personality. Normal, comfortable and unassuming, just the way its owners liked it. What those outside the house couldn't have known, was that it was a place of misery for one young occupant.
Harry Potter lay on the cot he had been given as a bed since he was old enough to walk, staring up at the roof of his 'bedroom' with sullen eyes. He shivered and pulled his threadbare blanket about him, glad that he had chosen to wear his clothes to bed that night. It was chilly in the cupboard, with no radiator to speak of, in the middle of a typical English spring.
The Dursleys had gone to bed some three hours ago, so it was now well past midnight, but Harry could find no sleep. His cheek stung from where Aunt Petunia had slapped him for asking for a second piece of toast at supper, and a tear rolled down his cheek. He quickly rubbed it away, knowing it would only lead to worse if he were caught crying. It didn't matter that his relatives were asleep; he was conditioned to mask his feelings at all times, as a survival instinct.
Besides, he was ten-years-old. He felt too old to cry now. His uncle routinely told him that boys should never cry, but Harry didn't understand why, and that confusion always earned him another smack or a missed meal. Now, he just went along with it, hopeful that his uncle would one day consider him an acceptable member of the family, if only to stop the punishments.
At other times, Harry wished his relatives would simply die. He felt guilty for having such thoughts, but they came and went. He imagined all three of them just never waking up some morning, and how it would be such a relief to make breakfast and eat his fill for once. How he would never have to put up with their hateful words and looks again. How he could just be free.
Harry sighed as he let go of the thoughts. He had to go to school tomorrow, so there he could be free for a little while, although Dudley would still be a threat. He sometimes wondered if the teachers ever caught wind of how sad he was, because they seemed to comfort other students when they cried for one reason or another, but maybe that was why Uncle Vernon told him he should never cry. Harry knew he would be in big trouble if he cried in school because of his homelife, so he never did. He bottled it up instead. That led to some of the boys and girls in his class saying he was a "grouch", but he felt every emotion deep in his heart. He often fantasised about having friends, and how good it would feel to be himself around someone else at last. This September, he would start at a new school away from Dudley, so he hoped that would bring a fresh start.
"I just want to be happy and loved," he whispered. But more than that… "I wish everyone could be happy, so no one gets hurt like I do."
He was an unquestionably kind child, after all.
Harry figured that the Dursleys hurt him because they were not happy with him, whether it was his behaviour or personality or something else. Surely if they were content with Harry, they would not try to "stomp the nonsense" out of him, as his uncle said on occasion? True enough, Harry had a habit of doing strange things no one could explain, like that time he ended up on the school roof, or when his hair had grown back overnight, so maybe the Dursleys would be happier when those things stopped happening.
He sighed again. It wasn't like he had asked to be "weird"! Dudley liked to call him that, and his aunt and uncle thought he was a "freak". He didn't know why they hated him so much, but he just wanted it to stop.
After some of this reflection, Harry would have normally drifted off into a restless sleep. Tonight, fate seemed to toy with him, for his eyes shut one moment, only for them to fly open the next, as his aunt banged on the door to his cupboard to rouse him.
"Get up, you lazy sod!" she snarled, before slamming the latch shut again.
Harry blinked and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, before putting his glasses on silently. His head was pounding, and he felt another unwitting emotion.
Anger.
He was lazy, was he? He wasn't overweight like his cousin and uncle. He didn't force anyone else to do the housework, like his aunt. He didn't fail to do his homework, or get angry when he outperformed Dudley. No. No, he worked his fingers to the bone every single day for his relatives, but they still thought he was some type of lowlife trash. They loved to call him a leech too, one who ate into their savings just to stay alive.
"It's already past seven!" the ghastly woman continued, oblivious to his thoughts. "Hurry up and get breakfast ready!"
Harry said nothing as he exited the cupboard and headed to the kitchen, but he resisted the urge to gnash his teeth as his stomach rumbled. She had called him lazy and now struck a nerve by reminding him of his most hated chore: cooking. Oh, he loved to cook and feel more 'adult' in doing so, but it was like sweet torture, savouring the aroma of the food he made, yet unable to eat any of it until the others had finished. They made sure Dudley ate his fill, and then the fill of about five others, before Harry got a scrap of leftovers.
This was a terrible start to the day; he was exhausted, angry, starving and in pain from the lack of sleep and overthinking things all night long. He wanted to crawl back into his cot and pass out, but there was no escape.
"Good morning, my sweet," Vernon said loudly, as he entered the kitchen and gave Petunia a messy kiss on the cheek. "Boy! What are you looking at? Get the teapot boiling!"
Harry flinched at the sudden shout aimed at him and nodded tersely, before quickly following his uncle's bidding. The man would down a half-dozen cups before heading to work, at a minimum. He should have immediately gone for the teabags, rather than loitering because of his headache. He had attracted Vernon's wrath.
"And try not to set off the smoke alarm again, you stupid little shit," Vernon added, harkening to when Harry had burnt the bacon last week.
"Sorry," he muttered in response. His head was pounding.
"What was that?" Vernon demanded, as he took a step towards him.
"I said I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon," he said clearly, swallowing.
"Just hurry it up," his uncle said, looking over his tiny frame with disgust. "And when you've finished with breakfast, wash those disgusting rags before you leave the house. I'll not have you embarrass this family by looking like a tramp at school. I got a call from your principal on Monday, you know; he told me your attendance rate is the worst in the year group. If I find out you've been cutting classes, I'll knock every tooth out of your head, boy. You should be grateful I'm paying for you to attend in the first place. If the workhouses were still around, you'd be making soup for all the other unwanted runts there instead. Understand?"
"I understand," Harry said, but he had to swallow again, both because of anger and tears welling up. His attendance rate was bad because they kept him in the cupboard so often.
"Sometimes I wonder why we even bother wasting money on you going to that damned place," Vernon continued, and Harry knew there would be no reprieve this morning. He should have made the bloody tea first thing. "You're going to amount to nothing after you leave Stonewall in a few years, and I doubt you'll have an O-Level to scratch your arse with."
"They're called GCSEs now, uncle," Harry said, and he immediately wished he hadn't.
"I don't give a tinker's damn what they're called!" Vernon hissed, as he grabbed a fistful of Harry's top and pulled him closer, so their faces were inches apart. "You're an ignorant little shit, aren't you? I pray to God that Stonewall will teach you to stop talking back to your betters, and maybe then you'll make it as a labourer throwing shit into a skip for a career."
"Vernon, there's no need for such language," Petunia tutted, as Harry blinked in fear. She didn't say it to spare him, but because she hated the use of obscenities in her home. "Really, Dudders is coming down the stairs, and I won't hear those words said in front of him. You know the brat won't learn from it anyway."
Vernon released Harry roughly as Dudley came bounding into the kitchen, every step he took almost enough to shake the floor. Harry immediately took the moment of freedom to turn back to the frying pan, where he had started cooking sausages and bacon. The teapot had started to whistle nearby too, so he kept an eye on it.
"Consider yourself lucky this time, boy," Vernon whispered into his ear, and Harry shuddered as his uncle made his way to the table, where he greeted Dudley with a hug that the boy reluctantly returned.
"I'm hungry!" he said immediately, and Harry almost scowled at him. Almost.
Here he was, slaving away for the three of them, and his hateful specimen of a cousin just ignored it, because he only cared about filling his fat stomach. Meanwhile, Harry's tummy growled at the scents wafting through the kitchen, and his head felt like it was about to burst from pain. He couldn't take much more of this and was very worried. In science lessons at school, he'd learned some people could have something called a "stroke" in moments of extreme stress; was that going to happen to him?
"Boy! What's taking so long?" Vernon demanded.
"It's almost ready, Uncle Vernon," Harry said, as he turned the bacon and added the eggs. He would do anything for a piece of that bacon right now, and the thought came into his mind that he could just snatch it while they weren't looking, but there would be hell to pay if he was caught.
"Take it. Take what is rightfully yours."
Harry jumped in fright at the baritone voice that suddenly entered his head, and he dropped the spatula he was using to transfer the bacon to the plates. Two pieces of bacon fell to the floor, and Dudley wailed as he saw them, which drew the attention of his parents.
"You clumsy little brat!" Petunia spat.
That, he could deal with. Of far more concern, however, was what his uncle said next, as the man rose to his feet and knocked the chair over with a bang.
"You did that on purpose, didn't you?!"
This was very bad. His uncle had been in a foul mood all morning, and had obviously been waiting for a chance to punish him for the slightest infraction. This more than qualified. Judging from how the man clenched his fists and the purpling of his face, Harry knew he was going to be in a world of pain shortly. He couldn't even attempt to deny what Vernon asked, because although it had been a mistake, the man would call him a liar and that would make things worse.
"I- I heard something that made me drop it!" he spluttered instead, desperate to escape the inevitable beating. "It was a voice!"
This was the absolute worst response he could have given, but he was too afraid to think clearly.
Petunia gasped and raised a hand to her mouth, and Vernon's eyes went wide as he bounded across the kitchen.
"You rotten liar!" he roared, as he took a swing at the side of Harry's head, although the boy ducked in panic and tried to crawl away, only for Vernon to kick him in the back of his legs, making him cry out in pain. "Or maybe you've finally lost your wits! Just as crazy as your parents, are you? They got what was coming to them too!" He kicked Harry again, this time in the ribs, drawing a yelp of agony. "Haven't I warned you we won't tolerate your freakish behaviour while you're in this house?! I'll squeeze it out of you if I have to!"
Harry tried to roll out of the way of another kick, but Vernon threw himself forward and grabbed the back of his top, almost ripping it off in his haste to drag Harry back into the centre of the kitchen. Harry struggled with all his might to escape, but Vernon's weight was an overwhelming obstacle, especially to a malnourished pre-teen. In the fracas, his glasses fell to ground and were crushed under Vernon's errant knee, causing the man to roar in agony as a shard of glass pierced his leg.
"You little bastard!" he shrieked, and his hands clenched around Harry's neck, where they began to apply horrific pressure.
Harry gasped in shock, but this only made the situation worse. He couldn't breathe. His hands clutched at Vernon's desperately, trying to get the man to loosen his grip. Harry felt his face turning red, and his eyes rolled upwards of their own accord. In the background, he could hear Dudley crying and Petunia shouting, although he could not hear the words. Without direction, his fingers started to slacken.
This was it, he knew. He was going to die. Maybe he would get to see his mummy and daddy again. With some good luck, he could convince them he wasn't an awful child, as the Dursleys thought.
"What are you doing? Destroy this vicious oaf!"
He wondered if it was his father speaking to him from beyond; was he dead? He thought he saw a bright light in the distance.
"You are not a weak and helpless child! You are Harry Potter, a wielder of such power it could shake the very foundations of this world! Do you want your parents to be ashamed of you?!"
That forced Harry's eyes to snap open. His energy was almost gone, but he felt a rush of anger in place of defeat, and he narrowed both of his eyes at Vernon, who faltered in response. The man's grip loosened a tad, and Harry took a breath at last, then let it out with a whoosh.
But the whoosh was not his breath at all; it was something far more potent.
With a flash of green, Vernon was thrown off Harry with a startled cry, and he landed on the cooker, straight in the frying pan. The obese man shrieked as the back of his shirt was covered in hot oil and began flailing around, while his wife and son screamed in fear. Petunia frantically ran to throw cold water over him, and Dudley cowered beneath the table, tears streaming down his piggish face. The teapot's whistle reaching a deafening crescendo, and then it flew into the wall and exploded. Boiling tea spurted onto the ground along with shards of metal. Surprisingly, no one had been struck by the debris.
"I've had enough of you," Harry heard himself speak, as he rose clumsily to his feet.
"Yes, that rage! That hatred! Finally, it has come to! You are not beneath them! You are not a wretched child, but a demon to strike at the heart of true evil! You are their reckoning! Forgiveness? Remorse? Ha! Release thine anger, and they shall rue this day! Swear it to me – I am thou, thou art I… thou shalt take what is yours, and throw down all in thine way!"
Both of the adults in the room had their attention drawn back to Harry, who now stood upright, his head straight and glaring at the pair of them. There was a leer on his face, and his eyes gleamed of their own accord. With another flash, this time of black, Harry felt something on his face. He reached up to grab it, his hands seeming to move of their own accord, and found a mask covering his mouth, nose and cheeks. Without a second thought, he gripped it tightly and ripped it off, roaring with pain and euphoria alike.
In front of him, the Dursleys stood in petrified silence, the pain of Vernon's injuries seemingly overcome by the terror he felt. They had grabbed Dudley and tried to flee, but the door slammed shut, and Vernon tried ripping it off the hinges in a bid to escape, but it was futile. Petunia screamed as she looked back, and with another whoosh, Harry threw his hand outwards and banished the trio into the far wall, where they collapsed in an undignified heap.
His clothes had transformed into something else; he could not understand why, but covering a dark tunic and red boots was a midnight black robe, trimmed with red and gold, and fastened across the chest by a golden clasp. There were black gloves on his hands, and some type of armoured gauntlets on his arms. The hood of his cloak was up, and it made him rather terrifying to the Dursleys, as it somehow obscured his face in shadow, the only visible sign of life beneath it the pair of narrowed emerald eyes that shone out at them from darkness.
Beside Harry stood a ghostly figure, one in a simpler set of pure scarlet robes, with a staff in his hand. It was an old man, to judge from the tangle of snowy hair and matching beard.
"This was unexpected, for we are in your world instead of mine, but your power is unique," it chuckled in a deep monotone. "Alone, you are strong. Together, we are deadly. I have added my power unto yours; use it as you see fit, and you may find that happiness you so crave."
"I will never let you hurt me again," Harry hissed, as he glared at the Dursleys with unblemished loathing. Idly, he threw back his hood and grinned at them like one would see in a death mask, causing at least one of them to soil themselves. "I will never let anyone say I deserve this hell, nor will I let others suffer in such a place. I'll crush you miserable bastards one at a time if I have to! No one will get in my way, not with Myrddin by my side! Suffer as I have!"
With that, Harry found a crimson oak staff with an ebony blade in his hand where it had not been previously, and he levelled it as his cowering relatives, who could not hope to understand what was happening. Harry did not understand it himself, yet it felt like justice. He did not hesitate to unleash what was inside of him, and a red beam of energy erupted from the tip of the blade, hitting his relatives before they could utter another sound of terror. It seemed to have no physical effect, and they looked around in confusion when, after blinking, Harry and the mysterious figure had both vanished from the kitchen, a resounding silence in their wake.
Vernon Dursley was a pitiful man, and he took his moments of pleasure in attacking his nephew to make up for the failings of life. He knew it deep down, but he would never admit it to anyone, nor would his wife. Their son did not understand either, for they had conditioned him to accept that it was normal, whilst the brat was not. He was a freak, and he deserved to be treated as such. They made sure teachers laughed off the treatment too, by pretending to be doting guardians who believed in strict discipline. And of course, they made sure the school knew Harry was a sickly child, so he missed more days than most; that was also why he was short, thin and gaunt. And they couldn't afford new clothes, so the boy had kindly agreed to wear Dudley's castoffs. It was an airtight story, Vernon thought.
Most of the teachers were pansies, but those who were not saw things Vernon's way. No one had ever challenged his story.
This was why he was shocked by a sudden knock on the front door, which startled him enough to jump to his feet. His back throbbed in agony, and he dimly remembered tripping onto the hot stove earlier. His knee hurt too, from where he had dropped a glass onto it earlier. He left his family quivering in confusion on the floor and waddled into the hallway as the door was banged again, this time with much greater force.
Blinking in surprise, Vernon opened the door to flashing red and blue lights, only to be met by the faces of two severe detectives from Scotland Yard, one of them brandishing a piece of paper in front of him, and a number of uniformed officers too. Beyond them, some of his neighbours watched in shock from their own doorways.
"Mr. Vernon Dursley? We have a warrant to search the property in the ongoing matter of the disappearance of Harry James Potter," the lead detective said, causing Vernon to sputter in confusion. "You and your family are to come with us for questioning on charges of kidnapping, child neglect, abuse and battery. Please turn around and put your hands behind your back."
Had the boy disappeared? Vernon couldn't remember. Wasn't he there just now, cooking breakfast for them before… no, that wasn't right. The brat had vanished days ago… hadn't he? Or was it years ago? Had something happened to him? Had Vernon done something? Blast, he couldn't remember! But the boy was definitely gone, and Vernon felt like this had been inevitable.
Unfortunately for Vernon Dursley, the police's investigation of the property was thorough and thoroughly damning alike. The evidence that they had forced their nephew to live in appalling conditions was bad enough, but traces of blood on the kitchen floor and underneath Vernon's fingernails later saw him charged with voluntary manslaughter, a charge that would later be upgraded to murder when evidence of the extent of the Potter boy's abuse became known. For no matter how "airtight" Vernon thought his scheme was, there were witnesses in Harry's school to the boy's awful condition, and teachers decided to wade in to condemn what they saw as evident abuse too. It even seemed that some had changed their ways of thinking overnight, much to Vernon's chagrin.
Indeed, even Dudley admitted to a child-specialist officer that Harry wasn't "normal", so they "punished" him regularly! He thought it was right, because that was how they taught him.
Eventually, Dudley was placed into foster care. Both his parents – and even his Aunt Marge – were tried and convicted of varying sentences ranging from neglect all the way up to homicide, and would now get a taste of just how it felt to be imprisoned against their will for a lifetime.
Harry slept until he was fully rested, for the first time in his short life's memory. He dreamed of nothing, but that marked a pleasant change in his psyche. He may have even snored, which was most unlike him, and he had a smile on his face all the while, satisfied in the knowledge that he had – somehow – meted out justice to his rotten relatives.
When he awoke, he yawned loudly enough to drive a bus through, and stretched out contentedly. He sat upright and opened his eyes, allowing the sleep to wear away naturally for once. As his vision cleared, he noted that he was in a room just as small as his cupboard, but it was barer than even that. The sound of water dripping from the roof caught his attention and he frowned, before gasping as he looked around.
There were bars in front of him. He was in a prison cell. Had the police captured him and taken him to jail for what he had done? Was his life truly over? It was so unfair, and he wanted to cry, but this time the tears did not come, not because he felt it was wrong to unleash them, but because something else distracted him.
Beyond the bars was a well-lit circular room, and in the centre of it was a simple desk, where sat an elderly man with tufts of grey hair and an enormous nose. To Harry's shock, the man looked up at him and cackled as he caught sight of Harry staring back.
"Outsider, welcome to my velvet room," the old man said in a voice so deep it sounded inhuman. "I must say, this is a surprise of great implications, for that cell was never intended to be occupied."
"This cell?" Harry wondered aloud, for it confirmed that he was imprisoned.
"Indeed," the old man chuckled. "One other is to have an inmate too, but you need not concern yourself with their fate. I feel that yours is to become intertwined with theirs in due course, no matter the choice you make."
"Choice?" Harry asked. He didn't understand what the man was talking about, but this seemed ominous. "Are you my jailer? Am I here because I tried to hurt the Dursleys?"
"In a sense, this is what you would call a 'jail'", the old man laughed again. He looked down his nose at Harry. "However, it is not one of my design, but yours. This room reflects the state of your heart, and freedom is what you covet most in your life, so you must earn it."
"I want someone who loves me," Harry whispered, as he clutched at the bars desperately. "Please don't leave me in here."
"Your place is not here," the man confirmed, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "The ones you call 'Dursleys' are not responsible for your being here, although you are responsible for their place in a real prison. You have punished them and for that, I applaud you. The speed with which you changed their fate is remarkable. Your power is a special one, born from the connection to the heart that your people possess which others do not. Never before has one from your bloodline awakened to the power of Persona and certainly not in your world… this is a truly fascinating moment."
"I don't understand," Harry shook his head. "Where are the Dursleys? What's a Persona? What do you mean my 'power'? What's going on?!"
"Silence, inmate!" came a voice from Harry's right, and he yelped in surprise as a diminutive girl struck the outside of the bars of his cell with a baton. She was dressed in a blue prison warden outfit and black skirt, with an eyepatch over one eye. To his surprise, an almost-identical girl stood to his left, this one with an eyepatch over the opposite eye. They were even smaller than he was.
"Ah, forgive me for my lack of courtesy," the old man grinned toothily. "I am Igor, and the two in front of you are Justine to your left, and Caroline to your right. They are wardens of this prison, and I am here to offer you my help, to avoid the coming ruin."
"Ruin?"
"There is no need to understand it all at once," Igor said. "You have been through quite an ordeal, and your body and mind need time to heal. You are in no state to serve your purpose like that. I have an offer for you, although you may also consider it a gift."
"What is it?" Harry asked warily. He had been told in school to never accept gifts from strangers.
"As I said, your power is a unique one when combined with that of your Persona. I too have my abilities, and together these can form a potent combination. If you so wish it, I will use your power and mine to bestow upon you the strength you need to help prevent the ruin, although you cannot do so alone."
"You're not making any sense," Harry muttered.
"Then listen up, inmate!" Caroline demanded, as she smacked the bars with her baton again.
"Our master will explain to you what you need to know," Justine added, in a surprisingly calm tone of voice. Harry noted she held a clipboard in place of a baton.
"You will fall asleep here and be reborn when you awaken," Igor smirked. "You will have someone who loves you most dearly and you will be strong enough to help prevent ruin, but your destiny will change. That is the price you will pay; a self-fulfilling wish that will change your future forevermore, and things that would have happened, shall no longer come to pass."
"Every choice has consequences," Justine said.
"So, you'd better think about yours before you make it!" Caroline said.
"What things will no longer happen?" Harry swallowed.
"That, I cannot say," Igor said. "But your path will certainly change, and you will have a measure of control over your own life for the very first time. Fortune's hold over you shall be weakened."
Harry was young and inexperienced, but he was not stupid. He didn't fully understand what these three were about, but he had seen and done some extraordinary things in the past few hours alone. He knew there was a power inside of him now, and if this man said it was possible to use his power and Harry's together to give Harry a fresh start, why shouldn't he take it? Igor said the Dursleys were in jail… where they belonged, he thought bitterly. That meant Harry had nowhere to live anyway; he didn't want to go to an orphanage. He liked the sound of starting again in a new school, where he could maybe even make some friends! And…
"Someone will love me?" he asked, astonished.
"Indeed. And I am sure you will love her as a mother, if you choose to."
"But… does she want me even though she doesn't know about me?" he asked uncertainly with glassy eyes. "I mean… um…"
He couldn't find the words he needed to explain his question, but Igor understood anyway.
"I assure you that she will love you in turn," he said simply, and Harry believed him. Perhaps it was because he pined for a mother.
"Then I'll do it!" he nodded happily, and Igor laughed.
"Be warned, Outsider: the changes you are to undergo may seem… daunting, at first. That is the cost of this change of fate, but you will accept them."
"Can you tell me more?" Harry asked, now hesitating a touch. The excitement he felt was running him ragged and although he didn't know why, it was because of adrenaline in his system. "And why do you keep calling me "Outsider"?"
"Your heart is in a state of flux, as it were," said Igor. "Another with a power much like yours attempted to destroy you as a child, and a part of him was imprinted onto you, where it remains even now, within that scar you carry on your brow. I know this because I can see the other's heart corrupting yours."
Harry felt ill and forgot his other question. Someone had tried to kill him?! Who? Why?
"Was it my uncle?" he whispered. That seemed most likely.
"Those you have punished do not have the power you do," Igor shook his head. It seemed he was enjoying this explanation. "It was another, also a victim of fate. Most fortunately, we have a method to remove that part of him from your heart."
"We're going to execute you!" Caroline exclaimed, with a sadistic grin.
Harry flinched away from the bars.
"Calm yourself, Caroline," Justine sighed. "The prisoner is but a child. Harry Potter, you will not be harmed in the process, but the remnant of the other shall be sloughed away."
"Think of it like scrubbing a layer of dirt off!" Caroline told him. "You'll still be there, but it'll be gone!"
"You shall be left raw beneath that layer, but this will give your heart and mind the chance they need to heal," Justine said.
"But… I don't understand," Harry sighed, his voice small, as he rubbed one of his arms. He yearned for the strength he had felt when Myrddin appeared, and all of a sudden, his entire being flashed into the robes and mask he had worn earlier, and then back into the striped prison pyjamas a heartbeat later. Furthermore, the prison cell in front of him burst open, and the twins took a step back, apparently in shock.
"Oh? It seems you have a remarkable sense of self," Igor laughed loudly. "Your power is fledgling, but it can be wrought into something truly magnificent. Fear not, for the amount of information we are attempting to impart on you will return overtime when required, and you will come to understand then. You shall not remember this room at first, but that is to your own benefit.
"In order for you to fit in where you are needed to prevent ruin, you must forge a new path in life. To that end, I will remove the memories of your first ten years of life and replace them with others. However, these memories will be more pleasant for you, and they will not change who you are as a person.
"Furthermore, this process will add new years to your life, for reasons that will become apparent in due time. You will still be young, but older than you are now. Indeed, I feel there is no other way for this to succeed, as this endeavour is beyond the limits of even my power alone," Igor finished, surprisingly softly. "A necessary compromise, in other words."
Harry, now clutching his fists desperately, looked down at the floor in reflection. If he agreed to this, he would forget about everything the Dursleys had put him through. All of the pain, the misery and anger. All of the times he was starved and parched. Each nightmare that woke him to a cold sweat and unbidden tears. Every punch and kick, every insult, every ugly look and every feeling of despair they instilled in him.
And for what? A mother who would love him, friends to be made, and a chance to live a happy life where he could do good in the world, prevent some type of 'ruin' and be a hero like many young boys dreamed of?
It wasn't even a choice. If he had been older and wiser and understood the implications of puberty, growth and making such a deal with a stranger, Harry might have felt differently. Or perhaps not. No matter, his mind was made up.
"I'll do it," he nodded firmly, looking at Igor once again.
"Then we have a deal," Igor chuckled, as a bell began to toll in the prison. "Step forward, Outsider."
Harry did so, taking a deep breath. He was trembling, but steadied his nerves as he crossed the threshold of his cell. As he did so, his eyes took in the prison; it was indeed circular, with a number of other, identical cells around the room. All of them were empty, and all of their doors were shut. The only other things in the room were the purple rug on the floor, the klaxon hanging from the roof, and Igor's chair and desk. He wondered where the light was coming from.
"This will be a special execution!" Caroline informed him, and he looked down at her nervously.
"Why do you keep calling it that?"
"An execution is the end of the old, and the beginning of the new," Justine explained. "It does not mean the end of your life as a whole."
"And sacrifice is needed for rebirth, so quit your complaining!" Caroline scolded him. "Sit!"
Harry looked at where she pointed her baton behind him, and noticed that a simple wooden chair had appeared out of nowhere, near the centre of the prison. He slowly took a seat, only for bindings to fasten themselves around his arms and legs. He couldn't move. There was no way out of this now, but he had already agreed to the deal. All he had to do was keep his nerve, and then everything would be fine. He shut his eyes.
It'll be fine, it'll be fine, it'll be fine…
"Indeed, you will be better than fine," came a familiar voice.
Harry's eyes snapped open. The ghostly figure of Myrddin stood before him, between the twins. He gazed at Harry affectionately, and Harry returned the grin that he was given, reinvigorated by the figure's mere appearance. His heart steadied down.
"You and I shall meet again," Myrddin promised. "In a time of need, once your heart regains its strength. But know this: I shall always be with you, helping to fight against the taint of evil that has besmirched your heart since the day you were marked by darkness. Together, we will succeed where no other ever could. Now, it is time."
Harry watched as Myrddin vanished into the mask that Harry had worn, now floating in midair. He felt it call to him, and began the process of doing just that when the twins spoke a final time:
"Now, inmate," said Justine.
"Prepare yourself!" said Caroline.
With that, the pair cast what must have been a spell of sorts. He saw no beam of energy like the one he had used on the Dursleys, nor did a figure appear like Myrddin, but he felt something inside his forehead recoil as a force overcame him. It started to wrestle with whatever lay in his skull, and Harry screamed in pain as he felt his scar split open. Blood dripped onto the floor. The twins struggled against whatever had tainted him with all of their might, trying to draw it out, but it was not enough. The taint inside of Harry began to recede, and Harry was scared the 'execution' had been a failure.
"No," he whispered. "No. Get out of my heart! GET OUT! MYRDDIN!"
He didn't know what possessed him to utter those words or to call for the Persona in a flit of inspiration, but the mask suddenly came to him, and Harry felt its presence fortify his mind, granting him a hitherto unknown level of strength. He willed the evil presence out, using the Persona in his heart to expel it. This was his body, his soul. Whatever had tried to harm him was not welcome!
And in that moment, the childlike innocence of Harry Potter died, and the soul anchor of one Lord Voldemort was expelled. A thick black sludge of sorts dripped out of his forehead. Before Harry lost consciousness, he saw the twins slumped over on the floor, apparently exhausted from using so much of their own strength, and he heard the mad cackling of Igor, although he knew not why. Before he could ask, the presence of Myrddin settled him, and Harry fell unconscious in his seat.
"Rest thee well, Outsider," Yaldabaoth crowed, as the child finally reached his limit. He stood to begin his work. "You shall be reborn when you awaken, and we will meet again in future, I am certain."
The air in Yongen-Jaya was crisp and cool, a marked contrast to the unnatural heatwave that had engulfed the city in the past week. It was rare for Tokyo to reach into the twenty Celsius range in April, but it had rarely dropped below that point since the close of March. Harry sipped his lemonade with contentment, revelling in the sweetness of the ice-cold beverage. Across from him, his mother swirled a spoon around her cup of coffee, muttering to herself as she looked over the formula for her latest batch of homemade medicine.
"What the hell is a six-letter word for a 'sign of allergy'?" the owner of the café asked aloud.
"A sneeze," his mother answered immediately, without looking up from her notepad.
"Huh… oh, that fits," Sojiro Sakura said, as he scratched the side of his head. "Missed the 'z'. Thanks, doctor. Slow day at the clinic? You're here early."
"Hmm," she said noncommittally, still not shifting her gaze.
Sojiro grinned from behind the counter. "You know, you should help your mum to run that place on your off-days," he said. "She deserves a break."
"Ha!" she said, finally looking up. Her eyes twinkled with amusement, even as Harry grumbled in response. "Not a chance; the last time I tried to get him in there after school, he dropped a sample worth almost ten-thousand yen on the floor."
"It was the contacts," he muttered, which made her laugh. "I couldn't see anything with them in."
"They're full of excuses when they're young," Sojiro chuckled.
Harry shook his head, but said nothing as he finished his lemonade. He loved coming here; Leblanc was a charming place, unlike all of the chain restaurants he was used to in the city. They had only moved to Yongen recently, after his mother had a run-in with Oyamada, the Chief of Staff at her old hospital in East Shinjuku, but it was his favourite place of all their homes thus far.
Tae Takemi was quite a young doctor, so she had juggled raising Harry as a single parent whilst also studying medicine and then actually practicing it afterwards. She had never asked for help, never demanded special treatment, and never given up on any aspect of her life. Harry had been given a loving home by his mother, but she had also fought tooth and nail for her career. Determined beyond belief, intelligent and no-nonsense, she was Harry's hero. He had adored her as a young child and even cried when she dropped him off at school for the first time. Since that day, he had only grown to love her even more, now that he understood the sacrifices she had made for him and her strength of will.
He had never known his father, and she wouldn't speak of him, because she said Harry deserved better. He didn't care; he had her, and she was more than enough. What little he knew was that his father must have been foreign, for he did not look like most of the other people around him.
Since arriving in Yongen, they had made a foray to Leblanc almost daily. Sojiro's coffee was exquisite, and his curry was the best Harry had ever tasted. The café was small, homely and the proprietor had a friendly relationship with all of his patrons. The intimacy of the place made it appeal to Harry; for some reason, he had always gravitated towards smaller settings such as this one. He felt secure and comfortable and disliked open spaces in comparison.
"I'm only teasing you," his mother said in a singsong voice, as she squeezed his hand gently.
He smiled, but then let it slip. "Oh, I thought you were being serious! I was about to demand ice cream to make up for it."
"You're not seven anymore," she snorted in response. "If you want ice cream, it's coming out of your allowance. And you'll be getting mint chocolate chip, so I can eat half of it."
"You're still punishing me for the ten-thousand yen, aren't you?" he pretended to be hurt.
"Every yen of it, Harry. Every single one."
The door to the café opened, and Harry looked up. As he did so, the smile really did slip from his face. There was a school student there, one who bore an almost uncanny resemblance to Harry; the boy was slightly taller than he was, but he had a similar style of messy, black hair, a lean frame and a pair of glasses on his face. He wore a Shujin uniform, but Harry had never seen him before; he doubted this was a first-year, so a transfer student, perhaps? Talk about déjà vu.
The boy looked around uncertainly, and caught Sojiro's attention.
"Huh? Oh… right. They did say that was today," the café owner sighed, as he slapped his newspaper down on the counter. He looked at Harry and Tae uncertainly, and Harry looked away, not wanting to eavesdrop, although that was almost impossible in this small space. "So, you're the guy?"
"Ren Amamiya," the newcomer said. He had quite a deep voice for a student. "Thank you for agreeing to take care of me."
"Uh huh," Sojiro said dismissively. "I'm Sojiro Sakura. You'll be in my custody for the next year. I was wondering what kind of unruly kid would show up, but you're the one, huh? I assume you've been told about your parents' decision to send you here?"
"I have," Ren said calmly. "They said a customer of yours is an old friend of theirs."
"Yeah. Well, not that it really matters," Sojiro said. "Follow me."
Sojiro led Ren to the back of the café and upstairs, and Harry took the opportunity to poke his mother gently in the hand. She had gone back to her notes and was completely disinterested in the conversation that had taken place.
"Hmm?" she asked, still glancing down.
"Shouldn't we go? That seems like a private conversation."
"In a public place," she snorted, causing him to harrumph. "Oh, fine. Let me just finish my coffee and we can go home, right after you buy me ice cream."
Harry smiled. Not everybody was fortunate enough to have a doting mother such as his. He had enjoyed a good life so far, and could only hope it would continue.
Author's Notes
A few quick points, as I imagine there will be questions regarding the below. Note that reviews are welcome. If someone raises a major point that will not be addressed in the story, I will answer it in a footnote. Otherwise, I will likely answer reviews in the reviews section, either with this account or as a guest. That way, other readers can see my responses if they take a look there. Flames will just be blocked without me actually reading all of the review, so don't waste your time in writing one.
1. "How old is Harry?"
Harry is, for all intents and purposes, sixteen-years-old. Physically, mentally and emotionally, he is a healthy, normal teenager. What happened to him will be explored in more detail later, but I assure you he is not a ten-year-old masquerading as someone older. Nor will his relationships with those around him be "creepy". This is different to what happened with Sumire in the game. Those "six months" are misleading. That's all I'll say here.
2. "Why do this at all? Why not just make him sixteen?"
Three reasons. Firstly, this is a pre-Hogwarts story and Harry from HBP is not who I wanted to write about. Frankly, the idea of that character in this tale bores me. I wanted to make things different. Secondly, his desire for a mother. I've found ways to make this fit perfectly (I hope) with the themes of Persona 5 (P5R in particular). Finally, my initial idea for this story was to have him remain a child, but that didn't work because he couldn't interact with the Phantom Thieves as I wanted him to. I've stuck with my initial muse, but shaken things up necessarily.
3. "How did Yaldabaoth age Harry up and why?"
A combination of their powers in a method that will be revealed later, and because he is intrigued.
4. "Does Harry realise what he has done to Takemi?"
No. He was a child and Yaldabaoth took advantage of his desire for a mother to manipulate him. Harry asked if she would "want him" because he partly understood she wouldn't be his birth mother, but he doesn't know anything about changes of cognition. Also, he didn't do it; Yaldabaoth did.
5. "What about Hogwarts and his wizarding education?"
You'll see. Eventually.
6. "Harry is OOC!"
No, he isn't. We never saw Harry at such a young age, and his escape from abuse in canon is to embrace becoming a wizard. Here, it is a different form of escape.
7. "Isn't Harry Potter set in the 90s?"
I have changed this because it really doesn't matter in the context of Rowling's series. Nothing of note really occurs involving year in any of her books, so that gives us the freedom to play around with things, thankfully. Therefore, this is set in 2017, when Persona 5 (and P5R) begin.
Things will diverge from canon overtime, but major events will remain the same in P5R terms. In these situations, I will endeavour to write between the lines, if that makes sense. I don't want to throw wads of canon speech at you, so I will shift things around frequently for the sake of pacing and smoothness. Dialogue will be similar to that of the game, but not a one-to-one representation. Of course, I will also add things in.
Chapters will be of varying length, but both this and the next one are over 13,000 words long each, so don't expect anything too short. I'll be surprised if this story ever has a chapter below 8,000-10,000 words. The beginning of the game is lengthy, so I want to streamline it here as much as possible. For reference, Kamoshida should be dealt with in Chapter 4, I think.
That's all for now. Is mise le meas.