Chapter Text
Harry was eight years old. He was cold and alone, cramping from hunger in the cupboard under the stairs. It was the dead of night and the house was still. He clenched his jaw, gripped his throat and pressed his body into the lumpy little cot that was his bed. Silent sobs wracked his underfed body.
He deserved it. He knew. A freak should be silent. A freak should obey. A freak deserved no food, no affection and no company, especially after breaking one of aunt Petunia's fine china. A freak like him deserved the bruises from uncle Vernon's hard grip, deserved to have his hair pulled and his head slammed into the wall at the back of the cupboard from being thrown into his usual captivity.
He deserved it. He was a freak. But still, something vulnerable behind his ribs felt wounded, sending hot tears streaming down his cheeks and smearing against his glasses. He'd tried to suffocate this feeling, but it seemed to be stronger than him - and so he cried and mourned and yearned for something he had never known, even though a freak like him already had more than he deserved.
In the darkness, he didn't see the black smoke seeping out of the cupboard's walls, out of his stained mattress or his ratty baby blanket. He didn't see the black fog spreading from his fingers, his toes, out of his nostrils; and he had no clue that this fog from inside him was scraping the inside of his cupboard clean of all 7 years of misery he had spent there.
Little eight year old Harry Potter only knew the strange exhaustion that tingled from just above his heart and claimed his consciousness.
•《¤》•
When Harry awoke, he felt sluggish. A weak ray of light shone from the crack beneath the cupboard door. For Harry, who was used to the dark, it was plenty enough.
Enough to see the dark shade hovering above his cot, clad in tattered robes of some kind that seemed to suck in light. Harry froze beneath the entity, staring unblinking up at a pale, eyeless and noseless face with chapped lips. He dared not breathe when a long, thin and pale hand cupped his chin.
[MASTER] came a deathly rattle that echoed in his head.
Harry let out a shaky breath. "Uh, hello?" he whispered softly.
The dark shape cocked its head to the side. [WHY HAVE YOU MADE ME? HOW WILL I SERVE YOU, MASTER?]
Harry, now reasonably sure that whatever this being was, it wasn't here to hurt him, shuffled back against the wall at the head of his little cot. He drew his knees up against his chest and hugged his feet.
"Did I make you? I can't remember having done it, sorry. Do you want to serve me?"
The being nodded. [YOU ARE MASTER. MY MAKER. I AM YOURS.] It floated down until it was draped over him, nuzzling it's head against his shoulder, wrapping him in its cold arms and its surprisingly warm cloak.
Harry closed his eyes. He said nothing for a while, relishing in the feeling of being touched, being held, even if it was by a strange thing he had never seen before. His heart thumped hard in his chest. The shade was silent, deathly still.
"What are you?" he eventually asked, eyes still closed, not wanting to move for fear of driving the creature and its warm cloak away from him.
[DEMENTOR] it rasped. The sound shivered through his bones now that the creature's mouth was against his throat. [MADE FROM YOUR MAGIC AND YOUR SUFFERING]
This had Harry open his eyes, wide and disbelieving. "My- my magic?!" He didn't question the suffering. Didn't need to. But magic - was that another word for freakishness? For all the strange things that happened, that made his relatives fume and shriek and punish him?
The dementor rubbed circles into his shoulderblades and rumbled something that was probably supposed to be soothing. [YOU ARE A WIZARDLING, YOUNG DEATHMAGE. A LITTLE PEVERELL]
Harry's eyes shone with triumph. Wizardling sounded like a little Wizard, and that made him think of the covers of the books he had read in secret in the school library sometimes. He wasn't sure what to think about the word 'deathmage', but if it meant that he could turn suffering into dementors, it mustn't be anything too bad.
But more than that, there was the last new word.
Harry tangled his fists in the dementor's robes, pulled it closer. "Peverell," he said softly. "Is that my name?"
[YES] said the dementor.
It warmed something frozen inside Harry. His relatives had never told him his last name. If it weren't for aunt Marge spitting his given name like a curse, he wouldn't even know it. The Dursley's only ever called him either freak or boy. The school called him Harry Potter, but when he asked his aunt about it, she said they made up a name so they didn't have to call him Dursley, as if he were one of them.
Harry had been hurt by that. He didn't like being given a fake surname just so it was obvious to everyone that he was unwanted. He used to spend hours thinking up a new name for himself, something he chose himself. He quite liked Riddle, because it felt right somehow. Maybe because it was a total mystery to him how he ended up with Aunt Petunia when they were nothing alike. But now he didn't need to make up a new name anymore. He already had one. A real one.
"Harry Peverell," he whispered, smiling. "Wizardling."
•《¤》•
No one could see the dementor except for Harry. It hovered in his periphery as he did his chores, tall and chilly. Harry didn't mind its presence, but his relatives seemed to shiver when it was in the room with them. Usually, they avoided the dementor, which meant that they no longer monitored Harry as closely. Even Dudley hadn't come close for days now. For the first time in little Harry's life, he had no bruises. Not a single one.
He brought the dementor with him to school. The teacher complained about the radiators and failing insulation. The children huddled in their overcoats, subdued. They seemed to lack the energy to bully Harry anymore. While everyone around him fought off a sudden chill, Harry felt warm from the bottom of his soul, and when he felt cold anyway, his dementor friend wrapped him up in its wonderful robes and he warmed right on up.
As autumn neared winter, Harry's cupboard became too cold for even the dementor to keep him warm. Harry's teeth clattered as he whispered his usual nonesense to his one and only friend. He had almost drifted off to a cold, unsatisfying sleep when his dementor gently ran a finger down his temple.
[I WILL MAKE YOU A CLOAK, MASTER.] With that, it turned into black smoke, a thick cloud that flowed beneath the cupboard door and away from Harry.
Harry shot up in his cot. His heartbeat played a frantic staccato in his chest. What if his dementor got lost or got hurt? What if it left for a long time, maybe even forever? Harry had never been as happy as when his dementor friend came into his life. Everything was easier with his dark guardian hovering by him, keeping everyone away from Harry.
He only relaxed when the black smoke pooled back into the cupboard, along with three white-blue balls of shining light. Harry marvelled at them. They pulsed with light and warmth and felt so soft in his hands.
The dementor regained its shape. It started chanting in its deep, rattling voice that rang equally in the cupboard and in Harry's head.
[THREE SOULS I WEAVE FOR A HALLOWED CLOAK]
[THREE SINNERS PAY FOR BLOOD AND SHAME]
A pressure of some kind tingled through the cupboard, making the air heavy and hard to breathe.
[FOR EACH AND EVERY BONE THEY BROKE]
[FOR EVERY BRUISE AND MOCKING NAME]
[FOR EVERY CRUEL UNTRUTH THEY SPOKE]
The dementor's voice grew echoes and a choir of ghostly voices chanting in unison, more numerous with each ringing word.
[FOR EACH OF SEVEN YEARS OF PAIN]
[THREE SOULS FOR A HALLOWED CLOAK I WEAVE]
[SO WILLETH DEATH, SO MOTE IT BE]
By the end of the chant, Harry was flattened against his little cot, taking quick, shallow breaths, unable to move and tingling from head to toe. His head spun with the heady thrum of magic that filled his cupboard.
The three glowing balls spun around each other, faster and faster until at last, the chant crescendoed and all at once, the heavy pressure lifted with a flash of bright, hot light.
Harry blinked the spots from his vision as everything spun around him. When he felt like he could sit up without losing what little he had in his stomach, he noticed that the three balls were gone. In their stead, a dark gray cloak hung unsupported in the air between Harry and the dementor. It seemed to be the perfect size for Harry, delicately formed with gleaming silver seams giving it a timelessly elegant shape.
[FOR YOU, MASTER] the dementor said. It poked the cloak and sent it floating into Harry's waiting hands. [A DEATHSHROUD. IT WILL KEEP YOU WARM, PROTECT YOU FROM HARM AND MARK YOU AS A NOVICE DEATHMAGE.]
Harry ran his hands through the soft material. The cloak was light, weighing barely anything, and best of all, it set his magic tingling pleasantly in the same way his dementor friend did. Harry put it on over Dudley's far too big hand-me-downs.
The dementor sighed. [TAKE OFF THE RAGS,] it scolded. [THE DEATHSHROUD GOES ON THE SKIN.]
Blushing, Harry removed the cloak and the oversized, ripped sweater, before putting the cloak back on and tugging his trousers off from underneath it. This left him in only his new cloak, his pants and socks.
[GOOD, MASTER] rasped the dementor. [NOW, IMAGINE THE DEATHSHROUD TURNING BLACK AND MELTING INTO YOUR SKIN.]
Harry did as he was told. He closed his eyes and focused as hard as he could. When he opened his eyes again, the cloak was gone.
He shrieked and quickly wrapped his arms around himself to hide his modesty from his friend. The dementor didn't react to his shyness, it merely poked one long boney finger into his shoulder.
[GOOD. NOW, CALL IT BACK FROM THE SHADOWS. IMAGINE BLACK SMOKE SEEPING FROM YOUR SKIN TO FORM THE CLOAK.]
This time, Harry kept his eyes open as he followed the dementor's instructions. To his astonishment, the cloak melted out of his body and formed back around him, instantly. He repeated the exercise a few times. As he did, he noticed that even when the cloak was melted inside his skin, he felt warm, just as warm as when he was wearing the cloak.
Magic was so cool!
He thanked his friend profusely for the gift, blinking hot, happy tears from his eyes all the while. When the excitement finally wore off, Harry lay down on his cot in his warm new cloak, nuzzled into his dementor friend, and fell into a deep sleep.
•《¤》•
Harry jolted awake to the sound of multiple feet and the voices of strangers yelling throughout the house. He had no time to gain his bearings.
[WIZARDS,] the dementor hissed. Before Harry could react, his friend dissolved into black smoke, only to reform into a large, black raven with seven small, milky white eyes, sharp fangs in its sharp beak and a black, forked tongue. It sank its teeth into Harry's hand.
"Ouch," Harry complained as softly as he could.
[QUICK,] said the dementor raven. [PUSH SOME MAGIC INTO ME. CLAIM ME AS YOUR FAMILIAR. THEY WILL NOT KNOW WHAT I TRULY AM IF YOUR MAGIC SUFFUCES ME.]
Harry laid his bleeding hand on the raven and closed his eyes. Focusing intently, he located the warm, tingly ball of magic right above his heart, pinched off a small thread and guided it into his hand and through his fingers into the raven.
He felt something slot into place. The raven glowed, three pulses of dim, glittering light, as green as Harry's unnervingly vibrant eyes.
They were just in time.
The latch on the outside of the cupboard door clicked. Light flooded the dark cupboard.
Harry yelped when a grizzly face peaked down into the darkened little space. It was an ugly man covered in scars, with a bright blue, massive eye that spun wildly in its socket, surrounded by an engraved metal ring of some kind.
The strange man squinted into the dark. When his eyes met Harry's, his normal eye widened.
"Albus!" he roared. "It's Potter. He's alive!"
Multiple footsteps approached. A long swathe of colourful fabric was pulled over the cupboard opening. The pattern seemed to move. In fact, it did move, pictures of frogs in all colours hopping and blowing out their bellies.
An old man with a long white beard and long white hair bent over the fabric. His face was ashen and his blue eyes dull behind halfmoon glasses. The man lifted the corners of his lips into the fascimile of a smile, then held out his hands and sighed.
"Oh, Harry," he breathed in a pained voice. "Thank Merlin you're safe. Well done, my boy, well done, hiding in the cupboard. It may well have saved you from the fate that befell your aunt, your uncle and your cousin."
The old man still held out his hands as if he expected Harry to hug him. When Harry made no move to do so, the old man slumped and dropped his arms.
"What fate?" Harry asked.
The man studied him in silence. He eyed the bird on Harry's shoulder. "Why don't you and your little friend come to the kitchen for a warm cup of tea and I'll explain everything?"
Harry, who had been reeling ever since he woke up, nodded and followed the old man. The hallway by the stairs, the living room and the kitchen were full of people who wore cloaks and robes just like Harry and his dementor friend. The dementor said they were wizards.
Harry tried to suppress a shiver of excitement. All of these people had magic, right? And for some reason, they were happy to find him in his cupboard. They were happy to find him safe. Maybe...
Harry didn't dare finish the thought.
He sat at the kitchen table on one side, and the old bearded man (who was wearing the strange frog fabric) and the grizzly man with the weird eye, sat on the other side. A woman in militaristic looking red robes with her hair braided close to her skull took the last seat. She gave Harry a friendly looking smile and set a plate of sandwitches and a hot cup of tea in front of him.
Harry felt awkward, since none of the other three had any tea or sandwitches, but they all told him to eat, and so he did.
The woman asked most of the questions to start off with. Things like his name, his family's names, his school, if he had any friends...
For some reason, the three people at the table got weird expressions on their faces at some of Harry's answers.
"Peverell?" the old bearded man asked. "Are you sure?"
Harry shrugged. "The Dursley's never told me, but yeah, my name is Harry Peverell."
"And who told you that?" barked the grizzly man, strange eye moving wildly in his head.
Harry flinched at his sharp tone. The woman glared at the man, then put a steady hand on Harry's shoulder. He liked it. It was like she was supporting him, telling him that she was nearby and fully prepared to glare the strange, aggressive man into submission.
Harry looked down at his hands clasped together in his lap. "Just, my friend."
"Tell me, Harry, my boy, did this friend also give you your lovely cloak and your valraven?"
Harry blinked, cocked his head, blinked some more. "Valraven?" he asked.
The old man smiled softly. "Well yes, your friend here," he said, gesturing to Harry's dementor-turned-raven, "is a valraven. It's a rare type of magical bird found primarily in the northern European subarctic. A dark creature, but, well..." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "This one seems attached to you and well behaved..." He trailed off. Shared a silent conversation with his grizzly friend. Stared at the valraven contemplatively.
"He's my familiar," Harry supplied helpfully.
The old man nodded. "I can tell. It is very unusual for such a young wizard as yourself, Harry, to have already formed a familiar bond. Very rare."
"Almost unheard of," agreed the grizzly man.
Harry looked at his dementor, smiling. "Yeah," he said. "He's amazing."
Despite their kind words, Harry got the feeling that none of the three adults were comfortable with the valraven. But they seemed to be trying their best not to show it, so Harry considered that to be quite nice of them, actually.
"Now, Harry," the woman said. Immediately, the atmosphere grew heavier. "Can you please tell us everything you remember from last evening until today?"
Harry thought about how his dementor friend didn't want to be found and realized that he couldn't tell these people anything about his friend, how he got his new cloak, how his friend turned into a valraven and became his familiar. But maybe that didn't really matter. These people seemed to want to know about the Dursleys, since something happened to them.
"I finished my chores at around ten PM, ate my dinner and then aunt Petunia sent me to wash up and get ready for bed. At half eleven she locked me in my cupboard for the night. I fell asleep, and when I woke up, you guys were here."
Everything he said was true, although he skipped everything that happened in the cupboard during the night. For some reason, the three adults looked stricken.
"Your cupboard?" the woman asked kindly.
Harry nodded, blushing. "It's my room, ma'am," he said politely. "It's where I sleep and where I stay for my punishment when I've been bad."
"Let me clarify, please, Harry," the woman said. "Your aunt locked you in the cupboard because that is what she always does, and not to hide you away from any intruders or danger?"
"Yeees," Harry droned. "Why would there be intruders? Is that what happened?"
The skin at the corners of her eyes tightened. She didn't seem to like his answer. Harry had no idea why.
"Moving on," the woman said. "We'll get back to that later. Did you hear any commotion during the night? Did it feel unusually cold? Did you feel sad for no discernible reason?"
Harry shool his head. "It was cold, but it's always cold in the cupboard in winter. I didn't hear anything." He looked at each of the three adults. "Why? Should I have heard something? What happened to the Dursleys?"
The old man seemed to age by ten years. "Harry," he said, locking eyes with the boy. "Your family, the Dursleys, they are dead."
Harry stared. The words echoed inside his skull, a meaningless syllable of sound: dead, dead, dead...
He shook his head. His valraven crooned and jumped into his lap. Harry wrapped his arms around the large bird and gently petted his feathers, breathing in and out as slowly as he could, just like the dementor taught him.
"How?" he asked the dark plumage in his arms. "Who did this? Why?"
"We do not yet know why. We don't know who. But, we do know how." Harry met the old man's blue eyes. "Harry, my boy, have you ever heard of dementors?"