Prologue
A/N: Hello everyone! I am posting my original Harry Potter/Supernatural Fanfiction story I wrote years ago on Fanfiction.net here. It was extremely popular at the time. So if it seems familiar to you than you read it before…most likely anyway. So to everyone I say, welcome, to readers both old and new.
Enochian thought
"Enochian speech"
Thought/flashback
Beast tongue
Dean Winchester is born January 24, 1979
Harry Potter is born on July 31st, 1980
Sam Winchester is born May 2nd, 1983
November 2nd, 1983 Mary Winchester dies
Prologue
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I will fear no evil…
Tiny dirt-encrusted hands held a chipped and rusted crucifix in the darkness.
Tracing the lines of the cross in reverence. A small bloodied body, malnourished in its form, shrouded in oversized blood-stained garments lay curled up on a ratty cot.
The decaying bed taking up the three-foot length of the floor. Spiders scurried across a peculiar scar on the young male child's forehead, making webs in the corners of the small room.
A lightning bolt.
Hair that seemed to absorb the shadows fell over intense emerald eyes that were alight in longing and pain. Cradling the small piece of metal, the child pulled it closer to his cherubic face.
For thou art with me
Through the haze of pain, the child lifted the cross to sparkle in the light that shone through the grate of the cupboard door. A smile tilting his mouth as the metal glowed.
The child then traced his tiny finger first horizontally across the crucifix, then vertically. From the left to right, then top to bottom with the pad of his thumb.
Thy rod and thy staff
A wave of warmth engulfed the child as the cross took on a brilliant shine. The haze of pain the child felt clearing away as wounds faded. Awe and euphoria filled the young boy.
They comfort me
Urgent whispers filled the child's head. The sounds rising and falling as one voice becomes many. Unintelligible.
The knowledge to understand just out of reach. The voices all-consuming, but the pain, absent in the grip of the cross.
They give me strength
The boy grips the crucifix tighter and the whispers fade to a low hum. The sounds of the occupants of the house waking overriding them.
Descending steps sound above the child, sending a bolt of fear into his heart. Then banging on the door shake the child from his musings. A voice pierces the quiet.
"Freak! Up! Up you get!"
The voice spoken through the grate is the boy's female master. Freak grips the cross and then buries it beneath the folds of the cot. His one treasure.
He would not let his tormentors take it from him. They gave him so little already.
The door opens and a hand shoots through the opening to drag him out into the foyer. For a moment the harsh light of the morning blinds him.
Then his eyes adjust and he gazes into the face that his tormentors say is his aunt. But Freak knows that such is a lie.
To be his aunt there would have to be some familial resemblance, but there is none to be found.
Freak's "aunt" resembles that of a horse with her overly long neck that she would say is perfect for spying on neighbors. There is no resemblance in any of the residents of Privet Drive except for the father and son.
Vernon and Dudley Dursley both resemble beached whales, with their double chins and beady eyes.
The two adults were obsessed with being normal and Freak was anything but. Strange things always happened around Freak.
Freak heard things, things he wasn't supposed to hear. Whispers that rose and fell to silent music, buzzing in his head.
Sometimes he understood, but most times the meanings escaped him. Sometimes when Freak was angry a storm would rage and the house would shake.
These things and more made the passive dislike his "relatives" felt for him to evolve into burning hate. When something strange happened Freak would be blamed.
Then he would be punished.
Those days he would be locked in his cupboard for days without food, blood drying with his shirt plastered to his back. When the hunger and pain got too much, Freak would hold his only treasure, squeeze it tight and the pain would fade.
A piercing sting erupted across Freak's face as his head was whipped to the left in the force of the blow.
"Stop daydreaming Freak!"
His tormentor dropped him on the ground and roughly grabbed his raven locks pulling him toward the kitchen by the head. Freak struggling, gripping his head in an attempt to relieve pain, shrieking in agony.
His "aunt" ignored his plight as she continued to her destination.
"You are to make us a full English breakfast! Don't you dare burn the bacon this time or you will be locked in your cupboard for a week. Then you are to tend the garden, only then can you have some toast and cheese. If you finish before noon you may have ONE glass of water. Don't let me catch you drinking from the hose again or you'll be punished!"
Petunia Dursley threw her nephew to the kitchen floor, where he gave a pitiful cry.
"Get started Freak! My Dudikins is hungry!"
Freak scrambled to obey as he cradled his wrist where he fell on it. Anger filled him. She was supposed to be his aunt. The adult. She was supposed to be the one who made breakfast and tend to the garden.
What had he ever done to be treated such? Surely if they had raised him like their precious Dudikins then he would be what they wanted.
Normal.
His "aunt" goes to get out the ingredients for breakfast since his arms are too weak to carry them to the counter. She rants all the while about how much of a good for nothing he is. Thunder crashed. His mind goes back
To his treasure underneath his cot.
Petunia shrieked, scrambling away from her nephew, eggs crashing to the floor in her haste to getaway. His face was upturned in her direction. Eyes blazing a brilliant white.
Vernon races towards where he hears his wife's distress, his son following.
They enter the kitchen as they are consumed in radiant light. The cross beneath the cot pulsed and failing wards that had been decaying for eight years shattered. And the family of Privet Drive knew no more.
Whispers rose and fell once more in Freak's fading mind. Only one, though, understood following his thoughts into unconsciousness.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I will fear no evil…
For thou art with me…
~Psalm 23:4~
"I am with you, my son."
And the storm raged.