A/N: Well everybody, I thought that it was time for me to start a new story. This time, it's a crossover between Harry Potter and the Dresden Files. The latter part of the crossover will initially be very small and very well explained, but depending on how far I take the story, that role will grow. I recommend anybody who likes Fantasy novels to have a go at this series.
Harry gave a short cry of pain as he was roughly pushed into the mud, his emerald green eyes glinting with pain behind his taped glasses and his mouth open in a silent cry of pain as the wind was forcefully pushed from his lungs. He lay there, panting and wheezing in near silence as Dudley Dursley's chubby face leered over him, grinning with savage pleasure as he deliberately stepped on Harry's schoolbag as he hopped up to the red school bus.
Harry tried to get up but winced in pain as the school bus doors closed and the driver, unable to see Harry stuck in the mud on such a cloudy and gloomy day, slowly pulled away from the curb and onto the street. Harry glanced after it with pained eyes as the clouds rumbled overhead, thunder booming and lightning flashed through the air as the first pelts of rain drifted downwards.
“I hate you Dudley,” Harry whispered softly to himself, picking himself up from the mud and glancing down at himself in disgust and dismay. His blue school pants were dripping and his shoes, newly polished, were caked in wet mud. His eyes drifted towards his school bag, where Dudley's muddy footprint and his eyes widened with horror. He scrambled through the mud towards it and with fingers numbing from the cold, opened up the zipper.
Harry reached in with shaking hands and pulled out a pair of expensive binoculars. A large crack ran through one of the lenses and Harry groaned in misery. He had “borrowed” the binoculars from his Uncle Vernon so that he could show them off to his favourite teacher at playtime. He had meant to put them back when he got home, but now that he had missed the bus, Uncle Vernon was going to return from work sooner than Harry would be able to, and he would definitely notice that his binoculars were gone. What was worse, Dudley had broken them and Harry shuddered, dread settling in his heart as he placed the binoculars back in his schoolbag and lifted it up onto his back. Uncle Vernon was going to kill him, or at least, inflict a world of pain on him.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” Harry muttered to himself, panic tearing in his voice. The seven-year old was shivering madly and only partly because of the cold. He was breathing deeply, fear etched into every scar on his body, most courtesy of Uncle Vernon. “Please no. Not the binoculars, anything but them.”
With fumbling hands, Harry reached into his shirt and drew upon his last article of faith, a small crucifix given to him by his Sunday school after church. Clasping it tightly between whitened knuckles, he closed his eyes and chanted to himself fervently.
“Please God; don't let this happen to me. Don't let them hurt me again,” Harry mumbled softly, barely audible to himself over the noise of the rain. He squeezed his eyes shut and continued his prayer. “I always ask and you never answer, just this once God, don't let them.”
Harry opened his eyes but the binoculars remained broken and worthless as they had been a few seconds ago and Harry sighed in resignation, his hope dying and his eyes fluttering shut. When he opened them again, they were dull and lifeless as he mentally prepared himself for what he knew was coming for him. Slowly, the seven-year old packed up his schoolbag and trudged his way down the road, ignoring the cars the sped past him.
As he stood on the corner of the street waiting to cross the road, a car screeched past, zooming into and out of a large muddy puddle on the road. The resulting spray struck Harry with moderate force, drenching him with muddy water and causing him to stagger back a few steps. Harry wiped the mud out of his eyes and glanced down at his shirt, which was covered in muddy grime. A glint caught his eye as his crucifix swayed in the wind, and suddenly anger surged into his body. His emerald eyes glinted with fury as he grasped the golden-coloured cross and yanked it with all his strength, snapping the cord that held it around his neck and hurling it at the muddy ground.
“You must hate me to make me live like this,” Harry said angrily, glaring at the crucifix with all of his might as raindrops dripped down his cheek, mingling with the tears that fell from his eyes. “But I hate you just as much.”
And with the shattering of his faith, Harry crossed the road, not knowing that he had just forsaken the one thing that could have saved him from a temptation that would soon enter his life. Of course, had Harry known in advance what power succumbing to this temptation would give him; it was likely that he wouldn't have changed anything.
In a dark alley behind a small shopping centre located in Little Whinging, Surrey, a worn and shabby door was slammed open with such force that it was almost ripped off its hinges. A man, tall and gaunt with fiery eyes and a face that seemed to have been chiselled into an expression of anger and pain, staggered down the steps, leaning heavily against the rusty metal rail as he quickly limped away from the door. His clothes, a dark overcoat and a tattered pair of jeans, were ripped, burnt and splattered with blood, most of it his own. In his right hand, he held a sword, a lean and intricate blade that emanated a faint light as bolts and crackles of electricity ran through it, and in his left hand he clutched something close to heart as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
“I'm not getting out of this one,” The man seemingly growled to nothing, exhaustion creeping through his voice. He cocked his head as though he were listening to somebody as he limped forward, staggering against the hard brick wall and leaving a thick trail of dark blood behind. His eyes quickly swept over the alley, noting the rusty metal bins, the large stack of full rubbish bags and the puddles of water forming beneath them all as the rain continued to pour.
“That's fucking bullshit and you know it,” The man growled angrily, retorting to a statement that apparently only he could hear. He cocked his head again, before he stiffened as he heard something beyond the doorway.
He whirled around; moving far quicker than a man with his apparent injuries should be able to and levelled his sword at the dark doorway,. With a roar of fury, he thrust his sword forward and from the sharp tip came a brilliant flash of light. Lightning zapped forward, illuminating the entire alley for a split-second, before a thunderous echo blasted through the surrounding area. The conjured bolt of lightning disappeared into the darkness and although the man couldn't see into the unnatural shadows, he gave a dark smile as something behind him loudly screeched in pain, a horribly chilling noise that would have sent shivers down a lesser person's spine.
The man panted softly as he leant against the brick wall of the alley, wincing in pain as more blood seeped from his wounds. He shook his head dazedly and lifted his left hand up from his heart, opening his bloodstained hand to stare at what lay inside. On his calloused palm lay a single silver coin, no bigger than the size of the man's knuckle. On one side of the coin, there was a rough and faded portrait of a solemn woman and when the man flipped the coin over, the other side revealed an insignia of some kind, made up of three short wave lines and a jagged triangle.
Suddenly there was a loud crashing noise from behind the man and he took a deep breath, steadying himself, before he clasped the coin in his hand and with all of his strength- which was far greater than that of a normal human being- hurled it over the shopping centre roof. He watched the silver coin arc through the air with wide eyes; as if he couldn't believe what he had just done, tracking it until it went over the roof and out of sight. The man was shaking, his hands trembling and quivering as he turned to face the threat alone, his sword coming up as darkness leapt from the doorway. Quivering and twisting shadows lanced out towards the man, who cut them down with deft strikes of his sword as if they were real matter. The injured man spun around, his sword flying through the air with a whistling noise as he struck down another tendril of darkness with ease, his teeth bared in animalistic rage.
For a few seconds, it seemed that the man was easily able to hold his own, but whether it was the wounds that caught up to him and slowed him down or the warped shadows that started striking out at faster speeds, after a mere fifteen seconds of battle, a shadow twisted out from the darkness and struck forward, twisting into the man's arm during mid-strike. The man screamed in agony as liquid shadow poured into his body and his hand reflexively convulsed, his sword flying out of his grasp, through the air and landing in the midst of the rusty metal garbage cans. The man fearfully glanced around him, his eyes wide and pleading as the shadows enveloped him and a torturous scream left his throat. It was at this time that a man emerged from the darkened hallway, dressed in a tan trench coat with dark hair streaked with silver and sleepy, amused eyes as he regarded his foe.
“You will regret crossing us,” He said quietly, and the fallen man screamed again as the shadows converged on him. “Both of you.”
The screams intensified as the shadows twisted and flailed about madly, echoing in the small alley and bouncing off the walls into the open air.
On the other side of the building, Harry shivered as another piercing scream echoed around the desolate parking lot of the shopping centre. He stepped up his pace as he pulled his schoolbag closer to his shoulder, his nervous green eyes darting around his surroundings. In a last ditch attempt beat Vernon Dursley home, Harry had decided to take a shortcut through the shopping centre, which had been temporarily closed for a few weeks now after a freak power surge had somehow fried every electronic circuit in the building. He had been almost half-way across the parking lot when the horrible screaming had started, screaming that sent chills down his spine and tears to his eyes.
Another scream pitched in the nearby distance and Harry quickly broke out into a run, fear coursing through his veins, his eyes wide with terror. Because of the very-distracting screams and the constant rainfall, Harry didn't see the small crack in the parking lot pavement until it was too late. Harry gave a small cry of surprise as he lost his footing on the slippery surface as his right foot got caught in something and he fell heavily to the ground. Pain splintered in his knees and elbows as he whimpered to himself, his face half-covered by running water, which was circling to the nearby drain. Shivering, Harry tried to stagger up but pain lanced through him and he looked down at his legs. He had ripped the fabric of his pants around his right knee, which had been scraped badly and was bleeding already. His elbow was in a similar situation and Harry, like most seven-year-old boys, felt the onset of tears as he struggled to compose his face. Suddenly, something tinkled on the ground in front of him and Harry blinked behind his glasses, looking down. The moment he did, he instantly forgot his pains.
The object that had attracted his attention was a small, silver coin. Harry could see a faint profile of a solemn-looking woman on the side facing upwards, but it didn't look like the Queen at all. What's more, there was something about this coin that had Harry instantly hooked. His pains and fears forgotten, Harry studied the coin with supernatural intensity, his eyes staring at it unblinkingly. Although his left hand was trembling with both fear and coldness as he used it to prop himself up, his right hand steadily and slowly reached out to grab the coin. The fingers hovered over the coin for a split-second, before Harry grasped it with the tips of his fingers and clasped it in his palm.
Immediately, Harry felt something searing into his palm, something unbelievable hot and painful and he screamed out loud, flailing and kicking about as he shook his right hand about. His body collapsed to the wet asphalt again as he shook his right hand up and down, trying in desperation and fear to let go of the coin, or whatever was causing his pain. Tears flowed from his eyes as pain wracked his body and he continued to scream, a childish whimpering that could barely be heard over the rain and thunder. Suddenly, the previous screaming started again and this time, it hit Harry like a shockwave. Fear spread over his body like he had never felt before, dread settled in his stomach and his head pounded. He had to get out of here, he had to get home! He had to get anywhere, as long as it wasn't here! He had to get up, to run, get up and run….get up and run…get up and run…get up and run! Get up and run, now!
For a second, Harry could have sworn he heard somebody screaming for him to run, a woman with a beautiful and melodious voice, but he darted his eyes around him and there was nobody there. Still, his instincts served him well as he jumped up and grabbed his schoolbag, his other pain seemingly fading away into nothingness as he started his flight at a sprint, tearing through the car park at speeds unusual for a normal seven-year-old. As he ran, another scream belted out into the air, which only served to spur Harry on, but this scream was suddenly cut off in its peak and Harry somehow knew that the person screaming was dead.
So he ran faster.
It only took Harry ten minutes to arrive at Privet Drive, a time especially impressive for a seven-year-old boy, but Harry didn't know this as he sprinted past Mrs Figg's house, the batty cat-loving babysitter and approached Number Four. Relief sagged on his features at the sight of the house, which would have been most unusual for anybody who knew of the true environment of the house, but Harry tiredly staggered past the white-picket fence and approached the door as if he would rather be no where else. With wet and muddy hands, Harry opened the door and jumped inside, slamming it shut and locking it instantly and pressing his back on it. For a second, he stood there, his heart thumping in his chest and his breaths coming out short and gasping. A smile of relief curved his pale and trembling lips as he stood up, his legs aching from the run and his hand still clasped around the small coin, which had stopped burning him.
But the smile disappeared an instant later as he looked forward to see Vernon Dursley standing in front of him in a long-white shirt with his tie partially undone. The man's beady eyes were narrowed and his face was darkening in anger as he regarded his most hated nephew, the bane of his prefect suburban life. Vernon's beady eyes flickered over to the mud and water that was dripping from Harry's sopping clothes onto the shiny floorboards and his mouth tightened in anger.
“So boy, do you have a good reason to explain your lateness?” Vernon spat out angrily, his piggy eyes reflecting the vast amount of hatred that he felt for his abnormal nephew. “And you've made a big mess! Who do you think will have to clean this all up? I know it won't be you, you ungrateful dirty slob! It will be your poor Aunt Petunia, who has enough to do around the house without adding your negligent mess to her workload!”
Harry kept his head low and mumbled an apology, his entire body shivering as the adrenaline left him and the chill settled in. He kept his head low as he tried to shuffle around his Uncle, heading for his small cupboard under the stairs. But Vernon wasn't finished with him just yet and a meaty hand clasped itself roughly around Harry's shoulder, whirling him around painfully to face his Uncle, who regarded the boy with eyes full of disgust and anger.
“You didn't answer me, boy,” He growled softly, squeezing down painfully on Harry's shoulder and causing the boy to whimper softly. “Where were you?”
Harry squirmed as his shoulders ached under his Uncle's hand and he stuttered out his answer, his eyes wide and fearful. “I m-missed the bus so I had to w-walk home!”
“That's not what Dudley told me,” Vernon growled, tightening his grip and eliciting a small cry of pain from Harry. “He told me that you said you had better things to do than to come home, like you were told!”
Harry once again squirmed under his Uncle's grip, and his soaked schoolbag slipped off his other shoulder and onto the ground with a loud thump, far louder than a seven-year-olds bag should be. Vernon's eyes flickered down to the bag and a tight smile came over his face as something occurred to him.
“You've been stealing, boy, haven't you?” He whispered harshly bending down to pick the schoolbag up with his other hand. He let go of Harry, who scooted backwards as he quickly pulled open the zipper, talking all the time. “You've become like you're parents, a rotten, pathetic low-life criminal, despite our best efforts to turn you into a normal, civilised person. Who did you steal from, boy? Was it the school, the shops? Have you been shoplifting? Have you any idea what the neighbour would say if they found out that…”
Vernon's voice trailed off as he pulled out his broken pair of binoculars, cracked and useless from Harry's dreadful afternoon, and his eyes widened in shock and fury. Although Harry didn't know it, those binoculars had been a gift to Vernon by his father before he had passed away, and now they were broken, destroyed and ruined, and it was all that stupid boys fault!
“How dare you!” Vernon boomed angrily, his voice rising to epic propositions as he glared at Harry with the utmost fury his beady eyes could deliver. His face was purpling as blood rushed to his cheeks, his veins throbbing with rage, and he growled incoherently as he moved forward, seizing Harry by the shoulder with a tight grip. Ignoring Harry's cry of pain and stammered protests, he dragged the wet and shivering boy from the door to the cupboard, kicking it open with his feet.
Harry gave a loud cry of pain as his Uncle tightened his grip on his shoulder, until he was positive that the beefy man had broken a bone, before Vernon hurled him into the small cupboard under the stairs like a rag-doll. Harry was thrown to the floor and landed roughly, pain lancing through his small and already-aching body. Tears welled in his eyes as struggled up, turning around to face his violently angry Uncle, who stood outside the cupboard as he glared down at his nephew.
“Uncle Vernon…” He started in a pleading tone.
He was interrupted as Vernon raised his hand and backhanded Harry aside with great strength, his brawny palm slapping Harry aside with ease. Harry gave a cry of pain as he slammed into the wall and his vision flared as his head cracked on the edge of his small, wooden bed. He lay there, barely conscious as Vernon slammed the cupboard door shut. Distantly, Harry could hear the sounds of the locks on the cupboard being bolted and with a shaking hand, reached up to touch his head. Amidst the wet hair and muddy skin, Harry could feel a thick, oozing liquid gashing from his skull and took one look at it on his hand before he promptly fell unconscious.
The next time Harry opened his eyes, he was lying in complete darkness. There was no light and no sound, and Harry could only hear the noise of his breathing, which had quickened in fright as he desperately tried to feel his bed or clothes box or anything else in his cupboard. But his hands came up empty and a soft whimper escaped his mouth as he hugged himself close. Suddenly, a speck of light burst out of nothingness right in front of him, a small sparkle of silver that instantly gained Harry's attention. With a shaking hand, he fumbled in the darkness until he touched the sparkle. The instant he did, the sparkle flared in a powerful, bright light and everything instantly changed.
The darkness receded in a blink of an eye and from the light came the most beautiful garden Harry had ever seen. Grass sprouted from every inch of dirt, lush thick and healthy. Rows upon rows of flowers appeared from nowhere, purple-hued violets, red roses and white lilies sprouting from the ground with the grass. Trees appeared in much the same manner, as if they had been set to fast-forward, popping from the ground and stretching out to touch the sparkling azure sky, branches budding off from the trunk and leaves shooting out form on the branches. The sun beat down from the sky, partially hidden by a few white fluffy clouds. Harry picked himself up from the ground in amazement, his green eyes wide behind his glasses. Although the sight of the garden was more than amazing, it was the feeling of the place that had Harry instantly hooked. The entire place smelt of something so fresh and beautiful that Harry had never experienced anything like it before. The mere smell took away his pains and aches, leaving his entire body revitalised. His mind cleared of sorrow, of pain, of despair as he spun around, laughing happily as he gazed at this little stretch of paradise.
However, his laughter faded as he gaped open-mouthed as the most beautiful woman he had ever seen approached him, smiling serenely. With dark hair that sparkled in the soft light and silver eyes that regarded him with affection and fondness, the woman seemed to glide rather than walk over the grass and flowers, her white and silver dress flapping slowly in the soft, comfortable breeze. Harry watched with wide eyes as the woman approached him, stopping a few metres away from him. His mouth open and closed as he tried to say something, anything, but his mind was a blank, so he just stood there, staring.
The woman seemed to recognise this and spoke first, a melodious and beautiful voice that soothed Harry's heart with ease and adoration.
“I am Meciel,” She introduced herself quietly. “And you are Harry Potter.”
This was enough to temporarily break Harry out of his stupor and he licked his lips nervously, his eyes still riveted on the angelic figure in front of him.
“W-Where are we?” He asked softly, his voice small.
“We are in your mind,” The woman answered, gesturing to the beautiful surroundings. “I created this garden to put you at ease, to make you feel better. I hope it has had the intended effect.”
“This…this isn't real?” Harry asked softly, his eyes finally moving away from the woman as he knelt down, taking the stem of one of the flowers and plucking it out of the ground. He raised it to his nose, inhaling the beautiful scent of the rose, before he looked back at the woman, his face crestfallen. “But it feels so real.”
“I made it feel real, just for you,” Meciel answered softly and gestured to the patch of grass where had just plucked the flower.
Harry blinked and looked down, seeing another dark-red rose sprout from the ground in less than a second. He returned his gaze to the woman, his face serious.
“Are you an angel?” Harry asked her.
Meciel smiled, and although there was a faint trace of bitterness to it, Harry wasn't aware of it as the smile burned into him, his heart soaring as he absorbed the radiance of the woman's beauty.
“In a way,” Meciel answered pleasantly.
“I meant what I said before,” Harry said softly. “I still hate God.”
“As do I,” The woman answered softly, a smile of understanding on her face. Harry's startled eyes met hers as she folded her arms together and began to explain.
“I was once an angel, a servant of God, existing only to do His bidding,” Meciel started softly, her silver eyes distant. “In those times, both heaven and the mortal realm openly lived side-by-side, mortal by angel, and we were all happy. However, after some time, mortal women and angels fell in love with each other and produced offspring. This angered God greatly and He decreed that all such offspring should die. I was given the task of hunting one of these hybrids down; however, as I faced it, sword of blazing fire in my hands, I could not strike it down, for it was an innocent, unknowing of what it had done wrong. God saw this and for my punishment, He banished me to the darkness, away from heaven and mortal realm, alone in the shadows, similar to what you experienced before I created this garden for you. That is my punishment, which is the punishment for most of the angels He has banished. We are the Fallen and we are alone in the darkness. We have only light, one object that can tie us to the mortal world.”
Here her gaze drifted down to his right hand and Harry followed it, unclenching it and staring at his palm, where he had picked up that coin. The skin was unmarred and undamaged, except for the centre of his palm, where a symbol comprised of three short wavy lines and a jagged triangle had been engraved into his skin.
“My coin allows me to communicate with a single human being, to experience happiness and light once again. In exchange, I offer my wisdom, my experiences and my power to aid this human for whatever he or she needs it for,” Meciel dropped to her knees, her silver eyes locked onto Harry's emerald orbs. “I can help you, Harry.”
“How?” Harry asked in a whisper.
“I can guide you and aid you. I can share my knowledge with you, knowledge of powerful magic and skill lost to the ages. I can show you how to become powerful, show you how to become strong and great. I can help you become the most powerful man in history, if that is what you wish. I can show you how to defend yourself so that nobody will ever be able to hurt you again, even your Uncle.” Meciel whispered intently.
“You saw that?” Harry asked softly, ducking his eyes from her gaze.
“I see everything you see, I hear everything you hear, I smell everything you smell, I feel everything you feel and I know everything you know,” Meciel said softly and gently. “That is the price for my aid, my power, my strength.”
She regarded Harry with tender gentleness, a sad smile on her face as he refused to meet her eyes.
“Feel no shame, beloved one,” Meciel whispered soothingly. “You are the victim here, a victim of your Uncle and a victim of a world that doesn't care about you. Allow me to help you and you will become so strong that nobody will ever hurt you again.”
Harry hesitated, wanting desperately to agree, to accept, to allow this beautiful and kind woman, or angel, to help him. But she wasn't an angel anymore. God had banished her, and Harry knew from Church and Sunday school that if he accepted this offer, his soul wouldn't go to heaven.
“Harry, God has forsaken you,” Meciel said softly, intently. “He has left you to your fate, he has abandoned you. He doesn't care about your pains and sufferings and He doesn't care about you. Why honour such a being that refuses to help those who worship Him in their hour of need?”
Harry sagged as the words struck him with full force, desperately wanting to deny it. But God had let Uncle Vernon beat him and hurt him his entire life, God had let Aunt Petunia shove him in this cupboard ever since he was a baby and God had let Dudley pick on him and bash him up everyday. God had even let his parents die to that stupid drunk-driver, and Harry knew that his parents would have at least loved him, if nothing else.
“Harry, God does not care,” Meciel repeated intently and then allowed a soft, gentle smile to curve her lips. “But I care, Harry. I care about your pains. I care that you suffer. I care that you live alone. We are alike, Harry, so very alike. Help me help you. Take my hand, Harry, and let us both never endure the darkness alone ever again.”
Meciel extended one of her pale, dainty hands and regarded Harry with an expression of kindness and gentleness. Harry took a deep breath and slid his palm into hers.
The first thing he noticed was that the skin was warm and soft as Meciel's fingers enclosed around his hand. However, a split-second later Harry cried out in shock as something seared into him, a torrent of liquid heat that started from Meciel's hand and flowed into his body. He glanced down at his hand in panic, and then raised his head to stare at Meciel, who was eyeing him intently, her eyes serious. Around them, the grass and flowers withered away as steam rose in the air. Harry could smell sulphur and brimstone in the air. The ground cracked and rumbled, trees withering and becoming no more than wasted, petrified husks. The darkness enveloped him, roared through him, bright yellow and red flames bursting in large geysers from the ground. Harry desperate tried to tug his hand away from Meciel, but her grip was as hard as steel. For a brief second, Harry's emerald eyes met those of Meciel's silver eyes, before everything went dark again and the smell of burning sulphur overpowered his senses.
When Harry awoke in his dark cupboard he could still smell and taste the lingering remains of sulphur and his face scrunched up in disgust. He suddenly stiffened as everything flooded back to him and he sat up from the cold ground, his eyes frantically darting around his cupboard. There were no signs of a garden, or of fire and steam, and for a second Harry thought that it had just been a dream. But the aches and pains that had accompanied him into this cupboard were gone and his clothes were dry. That was when he felt a quick burning sensation in his right palm and he quickly brought his hand up into the light coming through the cracks of the door. When he unclenched his hand, he saw a small silver coin lying in his palm.
'I am here, beloved one,' said a soothing female voice. 'I have healed your wounds for you.'
Harry whirled around, his eyes wide as he tried to find the source of the voice. But his cupboard was completely empty as usual, save for the few spiders that walked darting out of their webs and away from Harry, as if they could sense something about him that they didn't like.
'I exist only in your mind,' Meciel said. 'However…'
Suddenly Meciel appeared in his cupboard, dressed in the same silver and white clothes as she had been before. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders as she sat on his small bed, glancing around the cupboard with barely hid disgust.
“You're really here!” Harry breathed softly, his eyes glued to the woman.
“No,” Meciel said in her lilting voice. “I am merely creating an illusion in your mind that let's you see me. If anybody else were to come in here, although I do not know why they would want to, they would only see you talking to your bed.”
Harry frowned and hesitantly reached over with his hand and laid it on the Fallen's arm. It felt real, warm and alive, and Harry quickly pulled his hand back.
“You're making me feel that, aren't you?” Harry asked softly.
“Yes,” Meciel answered simply.
Harry nodded slowly. “What do I do now?” He asked her.
Meciel cocked her head in thought, regarding him carefully. “I can sense your skills, my beloved. I feel that you have little inborn skill with thaumaturgy. Your evocation skills are also below average. However, I sense great potential in your skills as a wand-wizard. We shall work from that to begin with. With practise, we can make a very man out of you yet.”
Harry stared at her in incomprehension, clearly not understanding a word of what she had just said. He frowned and was about to ask a question when he saw a flicker of something out of the corner of his eye. His head snapped to the left, but there was nothing there, merely a darkened corner of his small cupboard. Yet as he gazed around, he could feel rather than see something that lay below his ordinary sight.
“What is this?” He asked quickly.
“That is your Third Sight, a Wizard's Sight,” Meciel answered. “Most wand-wizards are unable to use this gift and the few that do quickly go insane. Whenever you gaze at something with Third Sight, it will remain in your memories forever.”
“What's Third Sight?” Harry asked, struggling to keep the panic out of his voice as something else flashed in the corner of his eye.
“The ability to see beyond the physical surface, to see into the deeper surfaces of emotion, magical phenomena, and so forth,” Meciel answered and a slight smile appeared on her face. “The next time you see a flicker, I will activate it for you, if that is your wish. Once I have done that, you will know how to turn this gift on and off at your will. Do you wish me to continue?”
Harry slowly nodded and waited in near silence. The only sound was his breathing as he sat in his small cupboard, until another flicker appeared in the corner of his eye. He felt a small tingle beneath his eyes and reflexively closed them. The retina of his eyeballs briefly itched, and then it was over. When Harry opened his eyes again, he was using his Third Sight, and what he saw made him scream in horror.
The true physical appearance of his cupboard was still there, but it had faded and something else had appeared. Later on, when Harry was coherent again, he would express to Meciel that he couldn't find the words to describe what he had seen. The most he could say was that it was as if a thick cloth had just been lifted over his eyes and he could see with every one of his senses. The wood of the cupboard, although long rendered from the forest, were also large, spectre trees, swaying gently in the breeze. The wood was also a piece of burning timber, which was being consumed in ghostly flames. Harry could smell the smoke from the flames and the soft scent from the trees as he wrestled with past, present and future. The cupboard was a place of misery and pain for the one who lived in it and under the Sight; these emotions were visible in ways Harry couldn't describe. Dark blotches of fear and loneliness permanently etched itself into Harry's mind, searing into his memory. Anger and hatred burnt their way into his eyes, igniting an unholy bloodlust in his veins. Despair hung like a slimy moss, sickening and a perversion of true human nature. Harry saw all of this, more and everything. He saw ghostly figures of himself crying underneath sadness and despair, angry spectres under hatred and desire for revenge and so much more. In the middle of all of this, untouched by Harry's Sight, sat Meciel, who watched him with luminous silver eyes and an all-knowing gaze.
In the end, Harry couldn't take stand that cupboard for a second longer and without knowing it, crouched up as far as he could and slammed his shoulder into the locked door. Demonic strength filtered into his veins and he blow, which ordinarily wouldn't have hurt a seven-year-old girl, knocked the cupboard door clean off its hinges, allowing Harry to escape from the cesspit of negative emotion that was his cupboard. He emerged in the hallway, panting as if he had just run a marathon while still gazing around the house, where ghostly fires burned away, unseen by all. He barely heard the rumbling footsteps as Vernon exited the kitchen, his face twisted up into annoyance. Harry glanced up as he felt somebody approach and shuddered as he saw the true form of Vernon Dursley. Dark emotions clung around the man, irritation at those below him, disgust for the abnormal, revulsion for those who didn't fit his vision of a pure society, and a high degree of malevolence and hatred for Harry. The instant Harry glanced at his Uncle, a leering skull appeared above the portly man's head. It was death. His Uncle would be involved in a death in the near-future and Harry, under the influence of his Sight and the physical manifestation of the hatred Vernon had for him, soundlessly cried out for help, certain that he was about to be killed.
'How may I aid you?'
“I can't let them kill me, I won't let them kill me, help me!”
“You have my power, beloved. Take your revenge and defend yourself!”
Harry let out a twisted laugh as dark power flooded through his body, sulphur burning into his nostrils. Power lay at his fingertips, a force that Harry had never felt before. He was in control, he was powerful! Nobody could hurt him again! Nobody could kill him; destroy him, especially not his pathetic, weak-minded Uncle! He was invincible and almighty and as he felt his body change into something strong and terrifying, he allowed himself to roar as he faced his uncle, who was frozen in fear, and prepared to take his revenge.
Mrs Sutton from Number Five Privet Drive was an aging woman with a penchant for dramas, especially The Bill. She, much like Vernon Dursley, enjoyed the normalcy and reliability of her suburban life, and despised those who differed from her. However, like Petunia Dursley, she was also had a very nosy nature, so when she heard a young boy screaming for his life from across the road, she hurried out of her chair and peered out of her curtains. Frowning, she regarded Number Four with calculating eyes, almost certain that the scream had been that bastard Potter boy. After a few seconds, she dropped the curtains and turned back to her flickering TV screen. It was at this moment that a loud, bestial roar blasted throughout the street.
Mrs Sutton turned back to the window, quickly opening them and peering down at Number Four, where loud screams of agony and terror, both male and female, young and old, could be heard. Fear rushed through her as the screams continued and her hands were shaking as she peered out of her curtains. Suddenly one of the screams was suddenly cut off and the female shrieking stopped. The lone male continued screaming in anguish, an ear-splitting screech, and the curtains were parted. Mrs Sutton watched with wide eyes and trembling lips as Vernon Dursley pounded against the window, his face bloodied and desperate, before he suddenly whirled around. Vernon screamed again as something approached him, although Mrs Sutton couldn't see who it was. Suddenly Vernon was snatched from the window, torn in half and thrown aside; blood splattering against the windows planes in thick rivers of crimson. Something screeched again, this time in triumph and victory, and the very notes of the screech send goosebumps down Mrs Sutton's spine and she fled the curtains, using her trembling hands to pick up the telephone from the receiver and dialling the police.
“Hello?” she said in a quavering voice, fear wracking her entire body. “There's been a murder at Number Four Privet Drive! You have to come now!”
Suddenly an explosion rocked the ground and hurled Mrs Sutton to the floor. With a groan, she landed on the ground roughly and pain spiked through her ribs. She looked up towards the window and through the curtains; she could see flames jutting from the house across the road.
Number Four was alight.
No less than a minute later, a small, young boy completely drenched in blood staggered from the house, using the shadows to hide his form as he ignored the searing flames, which seemingly had no effect on him. The powerful scent of sulphur and brimstone filled the air as the fires continued burning, and the small boy slipped away as the first of the neighbours arrived outside the former Dursley residence, staring at the flames with wide eyes, dripping a trail of blood behind him, the blood of his hated relatives, now all dead. As the Police and Fire Brigade tore up the residential street, sirens wailing furiously, thousands of kilometres away, in a large magical castle, Albus Dumbledore looked down at one of his instruments with dread.
Number Four Privet Drive was no more.