[001]
Harry Potter was dying.
Thum-thump
As he had every year on his birthday since the age of six when his aunt and uncle had decided that knocking him unconscious might quiet him down; Harry Potter lay in the fatal position with a sock of all things clenched between his teeth to muffle the screams of agony as he felt as if his body and soul were being torn asunder.
Thum-thump
He couldn't remember when the yearly torture started. If it happened before he was three then he didn't know, but from the age of three, each year and every year, the anniversary of his birth was accompanied with pain and agony.
Some years were better than others and some years were worse, and this year, his fourteenth, was the worse by far.
Thum—thump
Harry spasmed as another wave of pure pain flowed through his veins and the action smacked the back of his head hard against the wooden panelling that made up the walls of his cupboard under the stairs.
His third birthday, was the first he could consciously recall and that had been bad. His fourth, fifth and sixth had also awful but his seventh had almost killed him. The pain had lasted near the entire day, as if someone had been driving nails into his forehead through the scar that never seemed to heal.
His eighth, he had been able to suffer in silence, teeth clenched as he curled in the dark and let the waves of pain flow from his core like fire ants biting him from the inside. His ninth was worse than the eight but not as bad as the seventh and it had come in waves throughout the night… it had been a long night of trying not to wake the Dursleys lest they add to his suffering with a belt or a backhand.
Thum- -thump
The Dursleys had of course, known about his suffering. They had somehow blamed him for it. Another freakish thing the freak did on his freaking birthday. His uncle had once said that it must be the world punishing him for being born such a freak and Harry… couldn't disagree. There was nothing he had done that would countenance such yearly torture. Truly he was cursed from the day of his birth.
It was odd that stating the idea out loud to his aunt and uncle hadn't gotten him some sort of understanding recognition or approval of him recognising his place. No. Instead his uncle had beaten him while shouting about 'curses' not being real.
Thum— —thump
Another spasm. Another muffled gasp for air as his insides burned and felt as if rotting from within.
The pain… was more than pain. It was as if something inside him was being diminished or drained out of him with all the finesse of a back-alley dentist sans Scotch. Each year, the night of torture left him weak for days. Left him vague and muffled as he did his chores around the house and went to school on short rations. Again.
Thum-
A small, clinical part of him noted that this was the worse yet. More intense than the one on his eleventh birthday that had knocked him out for two days afterwards and more encompassing than the one on his thirteenth that had left him with self-inflicted scarring on his arms as he had attempted to claw into his own skin in a pain induced delirium.
-thump
The Dursleys had not been happy about that. The school had actually taken notice of what had appeared to be evidence of self-harm and once they had smiled and flattered the social worker away from the door, they had turned on Harry with an even greater anger and malice than they had shown before.
If he had been able, Harry would have left this household long ago.
It wasn't just his yearly night of torture that was weird about his life. It wasn't just that odd and strange and freakish things happened around him. Like a teacher's toupee turning blue, or him suddenly finding himself on a roof of the school when running from his asshole of a cousin. Though, those occurrences had been happening less and less over the years.
No. The worse strange thing about his life was that he couldn't escape it.
Thum-
Running away never worked. He always, always, inexplicable got lost and turned around and before he knew it, he was walking back down the path to Three Privet Drive. Catching a cab did the same thing. They would drive off in a direction and, within only a dozen or so minutes, the cabbie was dropping him back at the damn house and demanding his fare.
Calling the bobbies and reporting his living conditions worked about the same as telling his teachers. They would be shocked, horrified and going to bring the wrath of God and law down on his relatives… and then they would forget. Or worse, remember but have twisted his account into some sort of tall tale told by a troubled teen.
It cemented Harry's opinion that the world, truly, hated him. He was cursed. Cursed to suffer the reminder of the day of his birth. Cursed to be starved and beaten for being the poor, pathetic orphan of parents who would have never loved him anyway. Cursed to never escape this hell on earth.
-thump
Tears threatened as Harry squeezed his eyes shut, the ragged nails of his hand cutting half-moons into his palm as he clenched them tight again the rictus of agony that was pulsing with every slowing beat of his heart. But worse than the pain… there was something new this time. A threadiness underneath the agony. He could feel it as each wave swept through him, more and more of himself was lost to the pain. His heart beat weaker with every excruciating beat. Slowing. Ending.
Was it strange to want the pain to continue when you knew, knew, with certainty that once it stopped… so too would his heart?
Harry could barely suppress a chuckle, though it was more of a chocked sob.
He was dying. He was going to die, alone and in pain with a god damned sock shoved in his gob.
Thum-
…
…
…
Albus Dumbledore shed a tear as the wavering, wobbling spinning top that had spun on a small copper plate in his desk for the last twelve and a half years, clattered to a stop.
It was done. Harry Potter was dead. And with him the fragment of Tom's soul that was entrenched into his scar was gone with it.
He had done many things in his life that he had not been proud of, but what he had done to the lad was perhaps the worse. Sometimes, acting for the greater good, was a painful and cruel burden.
"Should I have done differently?" He rasped to his companion his throat dry with guilt.
Fawkes' warble of grief and acceptance was uplifting even as it brought more tears to his eyes.
"Thank you, my friend." He solemnly replied to the crimson and gold bird of life and light. He had decided this path on that awful night so many years ago and though he had often seconded guessed himself. It was now, well and truly too late. The sacrifice had been needed. The boy had had to die for Evil to be truly overcome. He had done what he had to do. The ritual he had enacted would allow the other to have the power needed to save them all… it was for the best.
After taking a minute to gather himself and drying his eyes. Dumbledore rose wearily to his feet and shuffled over to the fireplace. He was usually spryer for his age of one hundred and thirteen, but these last few years had weighed heavily on him… he had never expected the boy to have lasted this long. Truly, Harry Potter would have made a powerful wizard. At least it hadn't gone to waste.
Taking a pinch of green sand in his hand, Albus cast it into the flames with a flare of emerald and he knelt before the flames.
"The Pottery." He said firmly before sticking his head into the fireplace.
There was, as there always was, a feeling of disorientation as his head spun and swam through the myriad of fireplaces between here and there while his knees remained firmly on the cobbles of his office — their protests remining him for the hundredth time to remember to grab a pillow before making firecalls.
Eventually, the twirling stopped with a sudden jolt and he found himself staring up into a familiar loungeroom. As luck would have it, the intended recipient for his call was sitting on the quilted couch, a paper open in his hands, legs crossed and one foot tapping with a absent anxiety on the floor.
"James." His calling of his name startled the man into dropping the paper, jumping to his feet and reaching for his wand.
"D-Dumbledore?" James Potter relaxed as he noted the source of the disturbance, his weary countenance morphing into a welcoming smile. "What can I do for you? You know, Junior's birthday celebration isn't until tomorrow."
"I'm afraid this call is not about young James Junior." Albus said solemnly. "It's about your eldest."
James stilled. His eyes wide as he woodenly opened his mouth only to close it again as he struggled to find what to say. Eventually he made out a strangled, "Harry?"
Dumbledore nodded. "I'm sorry to inform you that despite our best efforts of keeping him isolated from magic; his core has, after so long, ruptured from the injury of that night. I'm sorry James, but Harry died just moments ago."
James Potter appeared to crumple in on himself. He folded down to his knees, his wand clattering softly to the carpet. Tears ran down his cheeks as an old wound was torn open again with a suddenness that stuttered his heart. "Oh, Harry, my boy." he softly gasped.
"I'm so sorry, James." Dumbledore said, and he meant it more than the man could or would know. "At least it was likely he went peacefully." He lied.
James let out a shuddering breath, the tears still flowing. "I… I need to tell Lily."
"I'll arrange for someone to collect him." Dumbledore assured the man.
James nodded, already wearily climbing to his feet. "Please, please bring my boy home."
"Of course, James." Dumbledore assured the man. "And once again, I'm sorry."
Dumbledore pulled his head out the fire and took a deep breath, coughing slightly at the soot that clung to his hair and beard. It was hard, in many ways, to bear the burden of the Leader of the Light.
He rose shakily to his feet. He needed to go and make a request to Hagrid and he knew the man would not take the news well, but he would be best to collect the body. Less questions at least.
In the vastness of eternity, the Celestial Grimoire took notice. A gap in a story had been created. Magic abhorred a vacuum and here a child had been stripped of its magic and gone before their time. Their soul, even now, slipping into the Beyond.
As was it's prerogative; the Celestial Grimoire reached out and grasped the fleeting soul.
It was damaged. Beyond the Grimoires capability to repair. Which was ironic, really, as within its pages were methods and powers that could easily heal a damaged soul or tear it apart. But utilising its own gifts was not its Purpose, it could only bestow and enhance the soul of one selected. One to write their own Story into the pages of existence.
The Celestial Grimoire was about to release the torn soul of the teen back into the Beyond when, by pure chance, another soul drifted close.
This soul was nothing special. It had no Power, no Authority and no Presence. It was of the lower tiers of mundanity. Its proximity to the Grimoire was only through its awareness of the Grimoire through the echoes of thought that had rippled out into the realms from the Grimoires actions within other realities.
The Celestial Grimoire reached out and took hold of the new soul. This soul was whole. It could be enhanced, be elevated through the Grimoire's blessing. Yet it had no Purpose. No Fate. No Story to tell.
In an odd moment of consideration, for the Grimoire was not Designed to make such decisions, the Celestial Grimoire brought the two souls together.
The weaker yet whole soul came apart, it seeped into the cracks of the stronger yet damaged one and in the process, filled those rifts. Of the two, there now was only one. One whole soul, with both capacity and a Story. If the Grimoire could smile or feel satisfaction, it certainly would have.
Embossing its mark on the soul, the Grimoire returned it to write its story anew.
Connection Established.
Examining Histories…
+200 CP
Examining Magical Potential…
Magical Potential Lacking.
Initiating 'Source' Protocol: One Free Source.
+100 CP
Rolling…
Power Overwhelming (The Dragon Prince) - Free
If one thing above all else defines a dragon, it is POWER! You contain within you the might of an entire raging storm, a torrent to drown any insects who try and match their magic to yours, and the physical strength to snap steel chains as if they were a minor irritant.
Accepted
300 CP Banked.
I wasn't sure what caused me to wake; the lingering pain in my everything or the somehow loud and imposing text that was impressing itself into my very brain. I had a fleeting glimpse of pages as black as night and writing writ in starlight.
Still, any drowsiness was immediately swept away as sheer and unadulterated POWER pulsed through me. Like a storm raging inside my chest, a burning wildfire of possibility blazed though my soul. It was exhilarating. Greater than anything I'd ever felt before and I couldn't help but yell out at the ecstasy of the feeling… only to then almost choke on my tongue as I almost swallowed a fucking sock of all things. WHY?
The cyclone of power stuttered out as I sat up, coughing and spluttering and spitting out the foul grey fabric only to then bash my head, hard, against the low ceiling of whatever dark and dingy hole I'd seemed to have woken up in. Which was fucking weird because I didn't remember drinking that much last night.
My hand groped blindly at the small wooden shelf that was above the flat and hard foam mattress in the cramped space and I grabbed my glasses and slipped them on with a practiced ease… which caused me to freeze as I didn't wear glasses… didn't I?
Who… am I?
I wish I could say that this was my first existential crisis waking up in strange location after a night of heavy drinking but unfortunately this was my third. I'll never claim that I make good decisions. What this did mean was that I did have a sort of history and understanding of what was most important in this situation and so had a series of steps that should be done before getting too introspective.
First: Hydration.
You can't question your life choices when you have a hangover and are suffering from severe dehydration.
Somehow knowing it was there even in the dark, I managed to unlatch the door to the… cupboard? I had awoken in. Seriously, how much did I drink? And why do I feel like I just injected a cocktail of caffeine, dopamine and oxytocin directly into my bloodstream?
I stumbled out into that appeared to be a clean, if quite dated, house that was disturbingly familiar and yet I was also certain I had never been here before all the while also knowing the exact route to the kitchen.
It was late and the lights were off so I quietly navigated my way to the kitchen with a confusing sureness of step and easily fetched a glass and filled it with water from the tap; slowly, because turning the faucet on hard would cause the pipes to rattle and that would wake Aunt Petunia or worse Uncle Vernon.
That thought made me almost cough again mid gulp and I release a quite strangled gasp as water spilled down my front. Aunt Petunia? Uncle Vernon? What in the Harry Potter was that?
And suddenly I was gripping the counter top hard and the glass was falling towards the lino as the Name Harry Potter burned into my mind along with years of memories.
The glass shattered on the floor and from upstairs a gruff and angry voice called out. "What the ruddy hell are you doing, Boy?"
But I didn't hear that. Too caught up in the vivid slideshow that was happening in my head detailing the life and depressing times of one Harry James Potter… my life as Harry James Potter.
I don't know how to explain how I knew other than I just knew that I was Harry Potter and yet I was also someone else. I had memories of both lives and the combining of the two was leaving me bent over the counter, muscles tense and tumbling like some sort of addict.
Growing up in Melbourne, Australia. Growing up in Surry, England. A normal enough life with a single yet loving and hard-working mother contrasted against the shitshow that was the Dursley household. An average school life against dull and dreary isolation that was imposed on Harry at school. Growing up and going to university ran headfirst into yearly seizures and agony that eventually ended a life short… A car accident on the way to my twelfth job interview. The world suddenly going black.
"I said clean that mess up, Boy!" A meaty hand clasped down on my shoulder and I hadn't even noticed the light had been turned on and Uncle Vernon was behind me, red faced and yelling with spittle flying.
Anger. RAGE. WHO DARES?!
A hot, bubbling surge of SOMETHING erupted forth from my gut, a rising tide of power and I spun to face the fat man with an actual growl on my lips. The sudden movement had my arm push against the asshole and I pushed him back wanting him to NOT TOUCH ME!
I didn't expect to send him flying against the kitchen cabinetry with just a push of my arm yet found a certain satisfaction in the act.
"Oof! BOY! How dare you?!" The fat man hollered from the floor yet whatever he was going to say next was cut short as I slammed my fist down on the countertop, cratering the faux laminate marble in an unsatisfactory dent rather than the shattering of stone.
"Don't. Touch. Me." My words left my mouth with a deep growling undertone and a hint of… something laced between the words and giving them a gravitas that was not natural. The storm inside me was raging up and through and out of me as a wind seemed to spring forth from my body and my hair fluttered in the leaking fury. The air felt heavy as my power swept outwards, flowing and flowing, bringing the smell of ozone and thunder. Though I did not know it, my eyes flickered a glowing green. Viridian lightning in the storm clouds.
We stared at each other for a moment. His ruddy face becoming pale at whatever he was seeing. Yet before I could do or say anything more, words crashed into my mind with a feeling of stars streaking across the night sky and the flow of the storm puttered out as I was distracted.
+100 CP
400 CP - Rolling…
Half-Veela (Harry Potter) – Free
One of your parents was a wizard, and the other was a Veela, a shapeshifting race of sirens. Right now, you are a cute little girl, but once you hit puberty, you will become absolutely gorgeous. Makes you female, regardless of previous gender.
Accepted.
400 CP Banked.
What? I… what?
I had dropped whatever gathered power I had been unconsciously wielding and in that moment of distraction when I must have been staring into space like an idiot; Vernon had seemed to regather himself and was in the process of climbing to his feet as quickly as his bulk would allow.
"Now see here, you freak! How dare you attack me in my own home, you good for nothing, pathetic delinquent! I want you out! OUT! of my house or else I'll… I'll…" He trailed off as he just stared at me with a look of fascinated horror and… something else.
I, on the other hand, squirmed in my oversized hoodie and jeans as a full body tingle shivered its way from the top of my head down to the tips of my toes. I felt my body shifting as it went, the hand me downs become looser in some places and tighter in others.
Oddly enough, I grew taller; not by much, but certainly by a few inches. I also felt better than before, less tired, less sore. It was not the same as when I woke up feeling powerful or when that same energy had welled up inside me with my rage against my uncle. No, instead I somehow felt heathier than before as if years of near starvation and mistreatment were being washed away as my body changed.
As the changes wrapped up, I stumbled backward and almost fell as I unbalanced, my centre of gravity had shifted. I caught the counter to catch myself and had to snag the waist of my pants and they began to slip over my now much curvier rear but now loose around my slimmer waist.
"What the bloody hell…" Vernon hoarsely whispered.
I brushed a now longer strand of black hair away from my face and tightened my belt to prevent any further mishaps while at the same time trying not to freak the fuck out as understanding of the words that had filled my mind filtered through.
I was a chick now. Specifically, I was half-veela, the get of a wizard and a magic-bird-like-siren-non-human-being that existed within this universe. I was also pissed the fuck off!
WHY!? What fucking trickster god would think that turning me into a chick on top of my earlier identity crisis was good fucking idea? Can I not say 'no' to whatever just stole my dick? Can I change back? PLEASE? How is being a girl right now going to help?
"Boy! What the ruddy fuck did you just do?" Vernon was on his feet now and pressed against the damaged cabinetry as if trying to back away as far as he could from me. He eyed me with fear, anger… and OH FUCK! He eyed me with lust.
I shuddered. Nope. No. Nah-uh. NO the fucking WAY am I dealing with this or with a horny-angry-fat walrus who I know is prone to physical violence. I'm leaving. Now.
And I turned around and walked the fuck out of the kitchen.
"Where do you think you're going?!" Vernon yelled but thankfully didn't follow and I just ignored him and walked down the hall, making a beeline to the front door and hopefully away from this… everything.
I passed Aunt Petunia and Dudley as they both stood on the stairs eavesdropping my confrontation with the asshole in the kitchen. Aunt Petunia was slack-jawed, her eyes wide as saucers as she watched me go without saying anything. Dudley, the fucking idiot that he was, had put two and two together and got an erection.
"Whoa. Hey sweetheart, where you come from?" The piglet tried to act cool. It might have been funny if his piggy little eyes weren't trying to undress me. Yeah. Not dealing with this seems like the plan.
I didn't even pause to open the door. I just reached into that burning storm inside of me that I was starting to realise hadn't gone away since I woke up under the stairs and let it flow through me. I kicked the door off its hinges with a loud crash and the splintering of wood as the deadbolt was torn from the wooded frame and I just kept walking into the warm summer night. FUCK EVERYTHING.