Harry Potter Black Butler Cross 3
“Boy! These boxes will be unpack when we get back or no dinner!” Vernon’s face was an interesting mix of purple neck and cheeks and white lips. The black bags under his eyes gave him a look like a miscoloured clown.
“Yes Uncle Vernon.” The tiny 6 year old boy answered. The 20 odd boxes shipped ahead of the relocating family where stacked against one wall. Thankfully the converted farm house on the outskirts of Derby had come fully furbished. With 3 bedrooms. And no cupboard large enough to shove a boy in. Harry would have been over joyed with finally having a room, if of course, he had not been exhausted from the long, painful car ride, listening to Dudley’s constant complaints and being unable to avoid his fists. Now Harry was just sore, hungry and drooping from lack of sleep.
Harry considered not unpacking any boxes. It wasn’t like he would be able to finish, so the chance of dinner was nil anyway. Why bother even trying? But there would no doubt be punishment for not trying as well. So as the car pulled out of the drive to take the rest of the family to eat, Harry, slowly, and with no real enthusiasm, unpacked the top few boxes, and shuffled the rest so it looked like he had done more then he had. By then, the car was back, and he was of course sent to his new room without anything. After changing into a clean if threadbare tee shirt Harry crawled in to the, to him, frankly luxurious bed and dropped almost immediately to sleep.
Harry didn’t mind the new town. Thanks to Petunia, he was still considered a troublemaker and a delinquent (and now, as he ‘refused’ to attend church, disrespectful and possibly blasphemous), but now he had his own room. He still had lots of chores, making breakfast and dinner and mowing the grass either side of the short path from the road, but there was no ‘garden’ as such, just 10 raised vegetable beds, which immediately became Harry’s responsibility. As he was the one who tended the vegetables (despite what Petunia would claim to the visiting ladies), Harry also picked the best and eat them quickly outside. With that, Harry’s diet became extremely healthy, and he rarely felt hungry anymore. Harry’s cloths weren’t even really that bad, Dudley’s instance on wearing new designer brands was the stand out in the small rural township. Dudley was also strangely prissy, he hated getting dirty, even if he didn’t care about his clothes. In Surrey, with it carefully tended landscape and concreted everywhere else, it was easy to stay clean. Here though, a lot of the old roads where dirt, the plants wild, and everything so very green from the consistent rain. There was so much more space, with Harry loving to explore the woods and fields, meaning Harry-hunting became much too difficult for Dudley, both in distance and in mud.
So after 2 years in what Petunia still referred to as the new house, Harry was really the happiest he had ever been. He had relaxed.
Which is why it was so surprising when Dudley and his new gang ambushed him on the long walk back from school, and after the dull thump to the back of his head, Harry woke up somewhere he had never been before.
Dudley, his almost 9 year old body more fat then muscle, would have never carried him far. So when Harry looked around and saw an old crumbling tombstone over his head and overgrown trees, and he had no real idea where he was, he considered whether it was in fact Dudley who had ambushed him.
Harry’s head throbbed with each heart beat. His glasses where gone, everything outside of arms length became quickly fuzzy. He pulled himself to his feet slowly, and leaned heavily against the cold solid stone.
Harry squinted to read the inscription and then smiled, “Thanks for the hand, ‘Sebastian Michelles. 1866-1894, One hell of a butler’, I guess you’re still doing your job now huh?”
Harry dismissed the chill that crept down his spine and slowly turned. It was edging into twilight, and Harry knew if he wasn’t home to make dinner he might as well resign himself to school meals and veggies for the rest of the week. Carefully touching the back of his head, he hissed as he touched the large bloody lump under matted black hair. Letting his hand fall back to the tombstone, he didn’t notice as his blood dripped down the face, nor when it soaked into the name.
He did notice the increasing bitterly cold wind.
As Harry began consider which way he was going to stumble in to try and find something he recognised, the deep, starling loud call of a crow echoed. “Kraaa! Kraa! Kraaa!” Before Harry fell backward when black feather filled his vision.
The next instant he was looking up at a tall thin man, dressed in a incredibly neat black tuxedo suit. It was enough for Harry to momentarily forget the constant pain in his head, now joined but a sting where he had landed on his backside.
“What? Where did you…?”
Those eyes looked almost red in the deepening twilight blinked, “You called for me.”
Harry shook his head, “I did? I really didn’t mean to if I did. I mean, I think I was out for most of it if I did.”
Despite not even the slightest change in expression, Harry had the impression of amusement. Amusement with a very sharp edge. “Yes. I noticed your lack of consciousness. Perhaps we can help each other.”
“Um?”
“I can assist you to your abode.”
Harry was tempted, but he had live for 7 years with the Dursely’s and learned, if nothing else, that nothing he was ever given was without price. “And what would I help you with in return?”
That smile had way too many teeth. “I find myself in need of championship.”
Harry had never had a friend before. The strange man, who Harry learned was called Malphas, but said Harry should call Michealles, had escorted Harry home, along a path he had never seen before. Harry learned the strange mans name was Malphas, which Harry thought was a bit weird, but so too was Dudley. Harry thought, really, who would call their child Dudley Dursley? It was horrible. Malphas thought so too when Harry had accidentally blurted it out. The tea was oddly dark, but so very delicious. Every single time Harry meet Malphas in the grove, he pulled the thermos from somewhere, and poured into a beautiful tea cup.
Malphas had felt the slight tug of a summons, weak due to the use of a human name, working only due to the extra blood sacrifice. He could have ignored it, but Malphas had smelt the sweet rich blood and had known, before he even saw the boy, exactly what he was. A wizard.
The boy was young, but carried such darkness. He could hear the echo of the second parasitic soul sliver, clinging desperately to the boy’s blindly beautiful light. He could taste in the air the suffering the boy had undergone, nothing as deep as other souls which often attracted his hunger, but prolonged, as if the boy had never experienced kindness in his entire life.
And then he had seen the boys face and felt something inside him shift and snap.
Those deep green eyes, deeply soulful. The soft petal lips, square jaw which would strengthen as he aged. The hair which was wild, the twists of excess magic dancing among the strands.
And Malphas hungered for something other then a simple meal.