Scintilla
(noun. a tiny trace or spark of a specified quality or feeling.)
A Harry Potter & Percy Jackson Crossover
Story Three of the Amalgamation Series
by Tannin & Tele
Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling and Rick Riordan, voiding that of original content and characters.
. . .
Warnings: Chapter includes child abuse, child neglect, minor character death and descriptions of violence.
The opinions expressed by characters may not reflect that of the author's.
Early 1986 thru Late 1990
Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, England
At the tender age of six, the summer before his first day of primary school, Freak had lost all semblance of health and beauty from his formative years. Once round cheeks were hallow and pale, his skin near-translucent from malnutrition and anemia. His eyes, colored a deathly green, were far too big for his thin face.
Freak's scraggly black hair was long and limp, despite his Aunt and Uncle's many attempts at sheering it off. The dull razor they used left small bloody nicks on the boy's scalp, above where a remaining patch of fringe covered Freak's 'hideous' lightning bolt scar.
Freak hated his relatives with a passion and they weren't particularly fond of the boy, either. Freak didn't mean for them to happen, but strange things always seemed to happen around him - just like a few nights before, when all of his hair grew back in a single night, scaring the wits out of his Aunt and Uncle.
Called out to cook the bacon, Freak tentatively climbed out of his cupboard under the stairs only to be greeted by screams of horror. He was taken by the shoulders and shaken roughly before being thrown into his cupboard, hand-shaped bruises marring his fragile shoulder bones.
Freak was left to starve for the weekend, but Freak was a smart child.
His cupboard was a very small space beneath the stairs, equipt with a shelf full of cleaning supplies and chemicals. His cot was a moth-filled thing, with a smelly pillow and a thin quilt. Beneath the bed was a cardboard box for his 'treasures'. Even at his age, Freak knew the benefits of stockpiles and hoarding. Anticipating punishments like these, Freak took the risk of stealing food and water, even though he knew it was immoral and a sin.
But so was locking up a child.
(He'd had that lesson on theft harshly beaten into him last winter, when he was found in the possession of a knit scarf that Dudley didn't want. Freak owned nothing but an old, over-sized coat and a frayed jumpers to keep him warm in the colder seasons. With Vernon often threatening to throw Freak into the shed if he misbehaved, Freak wanted to be prepared. After Vernon amused himself by singing the Twelve Days of Christmas in tune to the swinging of his belt, Freak swore to himself he'd never get caught stealing again.)
Three days later, Freak was still being punished for his show of magic. The boy lay back on his cot, biting his lip to keep out soft cries of discomfort. His back, while on it's way to being healed, was still incredibly tender.
Staring at the bottom of the stair-case, he daydreamed of a secret family member taking him away. He imagined a world where his family loved him, where he was wanted.
Perhaps it was too much to hope for, but that didn't stop Freak from his daydreams. Even the tiniest scintilla of hope in that desolate place was enough to keep Freak from succumbing to that ever-present Darkness.
He wasn't going to give his relatives the satisfaction.
. . .
Freak's Aunt and Uncle had been demanding retribution for his 'freeloading' since he was old enough to hold a frying pan, and by the age of six, Freak had already learned his inferior place in the household.
Anything but safe and happy, Freak was treated like a slave in his own home, forced to cook and clean and garden when he could hardly reach the stove. The boy didn't understand, at first, why he was treated as such. Like in the movies, Freak's cousin Dudley was the Prince in the household while his Aunt and Uncle were the King and Queen.
As far as anyone could tell, the Dursleys had a perfect little life in their cookie-cutter house, picket fences and all. Vernon was the director at Grunnings Drills while Petunia played trophy wife, spending her days gossiping and holding tea parties. Their son, Dudley, was the perfect addition to their pristine, normal life. He was high-maintenance and prone to tantrums, sure - but ignoring that, Dudders was just a lovely child! So cherubic and polite. Like any growing boy, Dudley loved to roughhouse with his gang of friends, play games with his parents and eat his fill; he was the very definition of normal.
Freak was the exact opposite. He was a nasty little child, (quietly planning their demise, they were sure) as he stared straight through the Dursleys with those eerie green eyes of his. The boy was hidden away, kept out of sight and out of mind - for the Dursley's own 'safety', pah.
Petunia and Vernon were certain he deserved everything he got, but Freak just didn't understand why he couldn't be a Prince, too, or maybe a Princess - he didn't care. He just wanted to be loved. He wondered if he was like Cinderella or Snow White, just biding his time and following orders until someone came to love him. To save him.
Freak made the mistake once, asking his Aunt if she loved him. The answer was a resounding no and a slap upside the head.
Another time, still quite naive, Freak asked her why - and, this time, he got spittle in his face as Petunia ranted and raved about his ungratefulness, his freakishness, his unnatural parents and their dangerous magic. At this, Freak perked up. What was that about his parents? About magic? Petunia immediately shut down, locking Freak into his cupboard without another word. But she'd said enough, and suddenly, a lot of things started to make sense.
Was it possible? Could Freak have - heaven forbid- magic? Freak tried to think about it.
When food was scarce, his rations would subtly multiply, lasting weeks instead of days.
On cold winter nights when he was likely to get hypothermia from sleeping in the shed (he's been kicked out of the house more times than he can count), a sheath of warmth would suddenly cascade upon him, warming him to the bones.
When he was sick or injured, a strange repulsion would keep his relatives away until he deemed himself healed - and he always did heal abnormally fast. Lingering pain never lasted very long, nor did his wounds. He had more scars than he could count, but he at least knew with each injury gained he had survived. His innate magic helped him survive, kept his body from collapsing.
And, of course, Freak couldn't forget the monsters.
. . .
The blood wards surrounding Little Whinging were. . . inefficient at keeping out monsters, both from outside Privet Drive and within. And monsters were attracted to young Freak like a moth to a flame.
Freak didn't know the name of the monsters that prowled around him; there were zoo animals with wings, half-man half-beast creatures, scaled creatures and dark, overlarge shapes that appeared when he least expected it. He could tell by the rage and hunger in their eyes that they were just waiting for a chance to pounce.
But no one else saw them; he was, like in most situations, all alone.
Whenever Freak spotted the creatures, he ran for his life - as though he was being chased by Dudley and his gang. The monsters wanted to follow, he could tell, but they never did. The monsters spoke to him sometimes, whispers in the wind and howls in the night that chilled him to the bone.
He wondered how his relatives couldn't hear them, hissing swears and promises of death, turmoil, war and spilled blood. But then again, his family would probably find some way to blame that on him too. Scared out of his wits, Freak never told a soul.
On the rare instances he was forced to get the groceries or he was simply kicked out, Freak could see the monsters staring at him, watching from shadows and between alleyways. Only the smaller monsters were brave enough to approach him, hissing serpents and overenthusiastic harpies. Freak didn't worry about those - the birds didn't like the lawn mower and the snakes he could easily talk out of attacking.
Freak wondered what the serpents meant by the 'revolting smell of mortals' that surrounded him, the reason most monsters wouldn't attack. Couldn't attack. He was 'protected', the serpents told him, by a strange magic.
'Strange magic' was an apt description, if Freak's own innate magic was any indication.
The first time Freak showed signs of 'abnormality' began with his Aunt shrieking bloody murder.
. . .
Freak was absently constructing a Knickerbocker Glory in the kitchen for his lazing cousin, easily distracted by the tantalizing dessert. Freak was supposed to be cleaning up after dinner, but had allowed himself to be bullied into Dudley's demands. Freak wasn't even even aware of the floating dishware behind him until Petunia had wandered into the kitchen and screamed like a banshee.
Understandably startled, every last piece of floating dish shattered to the floor, and the sentient dishcloth floating above the sink tore itself into shreds.
The two had stood alone in the kitchen, the television and Dudley's snorted laughter running loud in the background. Freak was wearing a terrified deer-in-the-headlights expression, while Petunia was glancing frantically between her nephew and the shards of white marring the clean tile. Her face was spectacularly pale, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
To be honest, her expression would have been funny in another circumstance. Any other circumstance.
The melting ice cream went forgotten as Petunia stepped forward, her expression pinched in swiftly growing anger. Before Freak could even begin stammering apologies, a stinging pain erupted in his cheek.
Her slap was firm, and Freak was suddenly on the floor, several shards of debris piercing the skin of his hands. Breathing heavily, his eyes watered dangerously from the pain. Tears began streaking down the boy's face as he stared his aunt down with panicked, glowing green eyes; eyes eerily reminiscent to another child Petunia once knew.
As much as Petunia wished to take her nephew by the throat and tear out those disgustingly freakish eyes out of his skull, she restrained herself, glaring darkly. Her own eyes spoke with more malevolence than her actions did.
. . .
Freak - or Harry, rather, as his teachers called him - was six-and-a-half when he first learned the taste of death.
Not long after his first-grade teacher had caned his hands with a ruler for 'speaking out of turn', Harry somehow managed to turn her blonde, bee-hive wig a bright cerulean blue. The classroom had found it hilarious and the teacher was mortified, but no matter who interrogated him or how roughly it was done, Harry couldn't admit to how he had managed it.
Later, when the words 'it was just like magic!' were used to excuse his actions, Harry's Uncle had only hastened to snap the belt a bit harder on his backside. The slashes in his side nearly caused him to bleed out, but by morning, the pain had all but vanished. Ugly scars had remained, lacerations tinted an equally hideous pink across his pale skin.
As soon as Vernon left for work the next day, Petunia had taken her nephew by the throat, slamming his small body against the wall and snarling under her breath about freaks and abnormal devil children. Although Petunia often tried to maintain some level of control, her anger was much more dangerous than Vernon's. Petunia's wrath, Harry knew, was more horrible than anything his uncle could dream of managing.
Harry was quick to bow under her pressure, submitting against his better judgement. He had choked on air, frantically swearing over and over to be a good boy!
She let him drop to the floor with a hiss, deep purple bruises on his jugular and a mild bump on his head. Strangely, his wounds wouldn't heal for weeks, and Harry didn't 'speak out of turn' again for nearly a year.
. . .
Harry was seven when his Aunt Marge's dog, Ripper, chased him up a tree. Harry was almost positive that the dog was part beast, if the green slime dripping from his chops were any indication.
The chase was exhilarating, the rush of air beneath his feet enough to give him a high. Harry always enjoyed running, the sensation of practically flying through air as he was abnormally sprightly for his petite size. Despite the intoxicating thrill, terror crept up his throat like a vice, an old fear of all and any monstrous creature urging him to literally jump into the tree.
The dog slammed it's body into the tree trunk as Harry rose higher, Ripper snarling and spraying thick spit. When Harry reached the highest branch he could reach, the boy leaned his back onto the tree trunk, relief rolling through his stomach. The relief hadn't lasted long.
The tree branch shuddered under Harry's weight, it's rotten limbs creaking as the branch suddenly broke with a deathly snap . Toppling down, Harry knew for a fact that he should have snapped his neck on the impact with the ground. Instead, he somehow landed on Ripper- despite the dog had being on the opposite side of the tree when Harry fell. The boy was left without a scratch while Ripper . . . was reduced to dust?
Marge had been furious, torn between screaming at the young orphan and sobbing hysterically. Vernon was a shade of red never-before seen, Dudley was bawling into his mother's blouse while Petunia was . . . well, let's just say, from her response, Harry wished he had stayed up in that tree a bit longer.
Harry - murderer or not - was forced to attend Ripper's 'funeral' in their backyard, while the pain of a recent lashing kept his eyes red and his back ramrod straight. Marge never brought another mutt to their home again, but made it her personal mission to have Harry pay for Ripper's death.
All the while monsters crept in the background, silently fuming over Harry's callous murder of the disguised baby chimera.
. . .
Another instance - a year before he was kicked out of school - had Harry suddenly teetering on the edge of the cafeteria roof after a terrifying game of 'Harry Hunting'.
One second, he was racing down the cement, the calls and jeers of Dudley and his gang becoming steadily closer- and the next, he was stumbling across a firm platform, looking down at the shocked faces of his schoolmates. He was terrified, confused, and a bit unsteady on his feet. The act of flying, teleportation, whatever had him disoriented and exhausted, and Harry promptly kneeled over.
The boy remained unconscious until the authorities were called, and he was forcibly removed from the otherwise inaccessible roof by a firefighting apparatus ladder. Everyone had assumed he climbed the building on purpose, and Harry didn't bother correcting them.
They wouldn't have believed him, otherwise.
His relatives and the school were terribly upset by the disturbance, and Harry was forced by the principal to write apology letters to everyone involved. Harry scoffed at the punishment, dreading the upcoming three-week suspension. His relatives took relish in Harry's lack of obligations, and worked him to the bone. He was given a ridiculous amount of chores, and if unfinished by Vernon's return from work. . . well, I'll leave that up to your imagination.
Harry's absence had spurred the rumor mill, and by the time he returned to school, he was officially Little Whinging's resident juvenile delinquent. Harry was the butt of his classmate's jokes, his cousin's punching bag, Vernon's whipping post and Petunia's greatest disappointment. He tried fruitlessly for years to prove he wasn't a bad person, but by that time, he couldn't bring himself to care.
No one else did.
. . .
After that, school was horrifically difficult for the soon-to-be eight year old, much to the Dursley's delight.
Harry had a low attention span and was almost unerringly silent in class. Although - to be fair - the boy was often distracted by Dudley's pestering and teasing in class; finally, someone had the good sense to split the two, mostly at Petunia and Vernon's prompting when Dudley's grades began to suffer exponentially.
Mr. Christopher Luther, Harry's first hour English Language teacher, was a kindly man with clear hazel eyes and tufts of peppered hair. He was the first to notice Harry's dyslexia, the first to show the skinny third grader care and comfort.
He often held Harry back after school, asking about his home life and hobbies as they went over the alphabet, letter by letter. Soon, Harry was able to distinguish the difference between certain letters, despite the headaches and anxiety.
One day, as Harry took off his glasses to rub at his bright green eyes, his shirt sleeve slid down to reveal a bony wrist. Dark blue-tinted ring layered his thin wrist, showing a long history of harsh pulls and grasps - Christopher was horrified. It wasn't his first clue that Harry's home life left much to be desired, but it was the instance that spurred Christopher into action.
Christopher had noticed that all Harry's clothes were disgustingly frayed and several sizes to big, while his cousin (Christopher had the misfortune of having Dudley Dursley in his second hour) was never dressed as such. Most teachers would simply consider it a case of unfortunate hand-me-downs, but Christopher had always prided himself on seeing past the obvious.
Harry was almost obscenely emaciated, smaller than even the youngest girl in his year. Harry's hair was always unkempt, his porcelain skin dirty in odd places while callouses marred otherwise delicate hands. Christopher wasn't ignorant of the bruises, either.
He knew Dudley liked to roughhouse on the playground, but Harry could usually be found in the library, practicing his reading. Outside of school, Christopher couldn't imagine what Harry was subjected to. Sometimes the boy came to school with his arms wrapped in bandages, his arm or wrist angled oddly, bruises darkening his neck and face. No primary-school child could inflict such injuries without help, and Christopher had an inkling as to where Dudley earned his temper.
Vernon Dursley was always a bother during Parent-Teacher meetings, and Christopher was not mistaken as to whom Vernon's easily bridled rage was directed upon.
In an attempt to be discrete, Christopher put in a few hints with his colleagues, although very few of them took the bait. Not many of them trusted the young Potter boy, never taking the time to see past his raggedy appearance, quiet presence and 'trouble-making' history.
Resigned to his fate, Christopher attempted to contact the proper authorities, but upon mentioning the name 'Harry Potter' . . . the line went flat.
And Christopher was found dead in his classroom three hours later by the very boy he was trying to save.
Harry wasn't happy, to say the least. An explosion of grief-filled magic shattered the windows and set fire to Mr. Luther's desk, causing alarms to sound and teachers to be alerted. Harry was found passed out inside a ring of blue-tinged fire, completely uninjured - but clearly guilty.
Luckily, no one blamed the boy for Mr. Luther's death, but Harry was still expelled for destruction of property, student and teacher endangerment as well as disruption of the educational process.
The Dursleys were fiercely unimpressed.
Harry spent his last years of primary working outside of the neighborhood (no one in Little Whinging trusted him anymore, except old Miss Figg, who was bat-shit crazy) in an attempt to pay for textbooks and tutors. In between fleeing from the ever-present monsters and Dudley's gang, Harry spent the school year mowing lawns, painting fences, walking dogs and entertaining old folks.
His relatives punished him often for skiving on housework, but Harry tolerated it all without a word. He had long given up on fantasies of secret family members and freedom, knowing that it did no good to dwell on his dreams.
As another lash was brought down on him, the purpose of the punishment long forgotten, Harry often wondered if it was all worth it. His eyes slipped closed briefly as he remembered a slumped body, unseeing hazel eyes and deathly pale skin. As he solemnly recalled Mr. Luther's fierce attempt at teaching an eight-year-old freak (and a dyslexic, to boot) how to read, Harry resigned himself to several more years of hell.
It was nothing more than Freaks like him deserved.
June 24th, 1991
The first night after Dudley's birthday, Harry awoke in a firmly locked cupboard.
Harry took his time accounting his injuries, ignoring the pang in his stomach and the jaw-breaking bruise on his cheek for the excruciating pain in his ribs and back. His glasses were snapped nearly in half, the metal bridge just barely held together by an old strip of sellotape. He felt sticky and worn, both his clothing and cot soaked with dried blood. His stomach rolled dangerously at the sight, and within seconds bile came up his raw throat. Vomit was plastered across the dusty floor, Harry's mouth bitter as he coughed up the last of his stomach acid.
Silence and darkness were his only company, and - while grimacing darkly in pain- he reveled in the moments of deathly peace. Harry would rather be alone and in mind-wracking pain than with them.
The boy laid awkwardly on his cot for hours, staring up pensively at the spiderweb on the ceiling. Beyond the overwhelming thoughts of pain and anxiety, Harry wondered if he had perhaps dreamed up the last day and a half. Talking snakes, vanishing glass, distraught cousins, enraged relatives- it was both the beginnings of a wondrous dream or a terrifying nightmare.
After the zoo excitement, Harry could no longer deny that he was special. Harry had thought his name was 'Freak' until he was old enough to differentiate between the cruel moniker and his birth name; and after ten years, Harry was finally coming to realize that his family was right.
He really was a Freak.
Harry's thoughts tapered off as he scratched a bloodied bandage around his torso making himself comfortable in the cupboard under stairs. His eyes slipped shut and before he knew it, he was dreaming again of a bright green flash, burning red eyes and and lightning crashing from the sky.
("Not Harry, not Harry, please, not Harry . . . " the red-haired lady pleaded desperately from beyond wooden bars.
Her executioner sneered nastily at her, his eyes flashing to same color as blood. "Stand aside, you silly girl. Stand aside, now . . ."
"Not Harry, please no, kill me instead," she begged, body quivering all over. A baby was wailing, and distantly, Harry recognized it as him.
The stranger's voice grew sharp with impatience as he raised the gnarled stick in his pale hand. "This is my last warning - "
"Not Harry! Please, have mercy. Have mercy! Please, save my son!"
And the woman fell, Harry's vision filled with a sickly, acidic green. Red eyes blinked at the boy, a shrill laugh slicing through his consciousness and shattering his soul.)
Mid July, 1991
Weeks later - unbeknownst to the boy - a miracle would discreetly occur just outside his front door.
The sun rose beautifully in the sky as a sleek tawny owl dove towards the Dursley's doorstep, carefully dropping it's delivery onto the dark blue doormat with a soft hoot of satisfaction. The bird took off to the orange-colored skies, a long brown tail-feather fluttering quietly to the driveway of Number Four.
The delivery was a peculiar yellow envelope, about half an inch thick and emblazoned with the image of a badger, an eagle, a lion and a snake entwined in a beautiful, united harmony. On the front, emerald green calligraphy addressed the letter to ' Mr. H Potter, The Cupboard under the Stairs, Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey', while the flap was stamped with a scarlet wax seal.
It was the sort of occurrence that would soon become a common sight on Privet Drive, much to Petunia and Vernon's chagrin. Nearly half-a-hundred birds would take the trip to Number Four, Privet Drive in the next week, while Harry's his frantic relatives were slowly driven insane.
By the end of his first week, Harry found himself smiling in smug satisfaction at their descent into madness. Unbeknownst to them, Harry was a smart boy; he'd stolen the very first letter, read it and believed it whole-heartedly.
If he had been raised to be merciful, Harry might've responded right away to save everyone the trouble. But Harry wasn't raised (at all), and vengeance was so very sweet . . . especially when he couldn't be blamed for it.
. . .
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Highlands, Scotland
"Only the revered Boy-Who-Lived could rile up so much trouble," a colorfully dressed man would comment to himself later, sitting primly behind a large desk. Miles away from Harry's hysterical family, the elderly man stroked his long white beard thoughtfully, before flicking his wand and addressing another letter to Mr. H. Potter.
As a lumbering, hair-covered man knocked on the door to his office, the man's blue eyes seemed to twinkle most unnaturally. He beckoned the half-giant in with a genial welcome, resisting a wince as his familiar's perch was nearly knocked over by Hagrid's large girth. The fiery phoenix squawked indignantly, sending a beady-eyed glare at the giant before vanishing haughtily in a shower of orange flames.
"Ah, Hagrid!" Albus Dumbledore exclaimed, as if he hadn't just summoned to man to his side. He gave a bright smile. "Just the man I needed to see."
Tobe continued inInitus,Story Four of the Amalgamation Series