Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or Inuyasha---etc. etc. etc... You get the deal.
EDIT: I have gone through everything, absolutely everything, in every chapter and smoothed out the story quite a bit. That means getting rid of those annoying ‘lose’ – ‘loose’ and ‘to’ – ‘too’ errors as well as some nasty clichés.
The Book
A red Mercedes pulled into the gravel driveway at number four Privet Drive, rocks crackling under its weight, slowed to a park just outside the of the garage.
A thin, long-necked blonde woman first exited the vehicle, stepping from the passenger’s side. A saccharine smile plastered its way across her face in a conditioned reaction as she waved readily to the neighbors next-door. The door on the driver’s side opened next and up stepped a large, staunch man with a thick mustache and a grumpy mien. He shut his door with much more force than necessary and doddered to the trunk without giving his surroundings so much as a glance.
The third person to leave the car exited from the back right seat. He was a heavy-set young man with thick, blond hair gelled into a quiff. The boy simply shut the car door and scurried into the house, followed closely by his parents.
Finally, the very last occupant of the car dragged himself out with deliberately slow movements and walked to the back of the car where his uncle had kindly left the trunk open. He heaved out a large, heavy-looking chest with one hand while using his other to pull out an empty cage and, after some maneuvering to shut the trunk, proceeded to drag both up the walkway.
The boy was thin, making his average height seem less so, with wild black hair and thick-framed, round glasses hiding once brilliant-green eyes. Those eyes were now haunted, filled with regret and anger and self-loathing. Those eyes belonged to Harry Potter.
The boy-who-lived.
The boy who just killed his godfather.
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Lugging his trunk up the stairs had become increasingly easier with every year Harry returned to the Dursleys, not that he would ever notice. He continued up the stairs with a scowl on his face, his trunk loudly smashing into each step, the cage rattling wildly against his thigh. He didn’t care how much noise he made. What were his relatives going to do about it? They were scared shitless after the little threat Moody gave them.
After much clattering Harry finally made it to his room. He placed Hedwig’s empty cage on his desk and deposited his trunk at the foot of his bed. A faint clanging sounded near the bottom of it, most likely the broken pieces of the mirror his godfather gave him. Harry didn’t want to look at them right now; it hurt too much. He had hoped his anger would deflate some during his last week at Hogwarts—and it had. But one look at his summer ‘prison’ and it all came rushing back to him.
‘Just like Sirius,’ Harry thought miserably, glancing about the dusty, drab setting.
Would he meet an end much like his godfather's? Locked away until he was desperate enough to sacrifice his life for a bit of fresh air? Or would Dumbledore keep him in storage and take him out only to land the final blow to Voldemort?
He tried to think of any spells he knew that could take out such a monster aside from the obvious. He even tried to focus on the hopelessness of his situation, of how screwed the wizarding world could be because of one, stupid prophecy. Yet his thoughts always strayed back to Sirius, and those thoughts always gave rise to the same emotional reaction. His heart filled with a now familiar pain and he wished he could ease that heavy feeling in his chest and that sickness in his stomach, if only for a moment. Perhaps then he could think clearly.
“THEN I DON’T WANT TO BE HUMAN!”
Harry frowned as the words he shouted a week ago echoed hauntingly in his mind. Humanity. Would it be worth it? To give up humanity if only to end the pain? It could make him stronger, that he knew. Without human needs and emotions he would be free of mind to focus on gaining power. Voldemort was able to use his own powers to their full potential because he never felt any guilt or remorse. Because he wasn’t human. Harry had that power too—he just needed to apply himself, make some sacrifices...
‘No!’ Harry thought angrily. ‘Don’t think like that.’
He could not start thinking like Voldemort. He was better than that. He was simply experiencing a moment of weakness. He would get through this; he had to be strong—for Sirius’s memory at the very least.
Suddenly feeling very heavy, Harry sank down onto the creaky, broken-in mattress and sighed, running a hand over his face.
Life sucked, and it wasn't about to get any better.
Despite his current mood, Harry couldn’t stop a wry smile from forming on his face. After all the psychological torture he’d been, intentionally or not, directed through in his life via Dumbledore’s decisions, he had to wonder if he was supposed to defeat Voldemort or become him.
‘You’d think the man would take better care of his precious weapon.’
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For three more days Harry stayed in his room mourning in the only way he knew: immobility and brooding. He mourned for his godfather, the missed chance to have a real family, and his future in general. While he was at it, he contemplated about his part in the death of Cedric Diggory and the death of his parents, as well as Voldemort’s resurrection. He almost never left his room unless he needed the bathroom or to nibble on a bit of food. The Dursleys had next to no qualms about his behavior. The longer he stayed out of their sight the better.
The routine Harry adopted may have continued for at least another week, if not for a strange occurrence on his fourth day back from Hogwarts. That morning, Harry woke to find an unfamiliar weight resting on his feet. He groggily fumbled for his glasses and propped himself up on his elbows to have a better look at the foot of his bed. There, weighing down on his legs, was a large, thick book. From where he was positioned the leather cover looked cracked and musty, revealing its age. Harry looked for an owl or any sort of way of delivery but found none. Even his window was closed.
For one wild moment he thought the Dursleys left it on him, but dismissed the thought in the next second. The only Dursley light enough to sneak up on him while he slept was Aunt Petunia, and she would never touch anything covered in such a thick coating of filth. Plus, there were no fingerprints.
Grabbing his wand from his bedside table, he cautiously crawled out from under his covers and to the end of his bed to get a better look at it.
He had to blow away some dust so he could read the title with less difficulty. The title of the book that would change his life forever.
Blood Magic and Rituals
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