Shadow Hallows

I chapter

His fingertips were aching, his wrists were throbbing, weakness was travelling down his arm… his hand twitched. His eyes wouldn't move, his face felt slack, his body was heavy and stiff. He felt numb as he stared up to the sky. The sky was dark and from the corner of his eye he could see something silvery shining. Maybe the moon. He blinked. Something was wrong.

He tried to move, thinking that the problem lay there. It was difficult and painful, he felt weak and tense, but by pushing his weight to his elbows and then to his numbly aching hands, he managed to get into sitting position. His head nearly fell lax against his chest, but he managed to get enough energy to his neck to raise it. After managing to balance his weakened body, he looked down to his hands to see why they were aching.

There were wounds in the inner side of his wrists, many cuts over cuts, deep… like suicide wounds but he had stopped bleeding long ago. Blinking slowly he looked to his left and then to his right side. At both side he could see pools of dried blood. Had he tried suicide? No, he didn't think so. He had… died, he could remember dying… but it had happened by green light, not by self made cuts. And he wasn't dead. Uncomfortable, weak and in pain, but not dead.

Green light? Yes, the Killing Curse, Avada Kedavra… Voldemort. Voldemort had cast it on him, that's what happened… and he had taken it willingly? Yes, he had chosen to die. That had been the plan, of course. Dumbledore's plan. Destruction of the last Horcrux, the Human-Horcrux… him. It had had to be done, he had accepted it willingly… and Voldemort had killed him. And the Boy Lived No More…

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, son of James Potter who had Lily Evans' eyes, best friend of Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, Godson of Sirius Black, student of Hogwarts, member of Gryffindor House, Youngest Seeker in Century, Victor of the Triwizard-Tournament, former Quidditch Captain of the Gryffindor Team, Head of DA, Godfather of Teddy Lupin… just Harry.

He was supposed to be dead. His chin fell down against his chest and he nearly fell over, but managed to catch himself in time. Opening his eyes tiredly he saw a piece of paper sticking from the chest pocket of is button-up shirt. Taking it weakly to his hand, he read through it. It was short suicide note written with horrible handwriting. Just to understand what he was reading, he read it aloud.

"To who find me," he read in raspy voice which did and didn't sound like his own. "Im Harry. dont look for family. parets ded in carrash relativs hate me. no vriends too. liven n streets. no recorts too newer wend to skhool. Im sorry."

He blinked at the note slowly before lowering it to his lap. Not his, it wasn't his note. It couldn't be. He could write well. He had friends. He hadn't lived in the streets. He had gone to school. He wouldn't kill himself. It wasn't his. It wasn't.

But whose was it then? Because his wrists had been cut open and he had bled for a long time, long enough for the blood to dry. He was weak with blood loss, but alive… it didn't feel right. Last thing he could remember was a green light heading towards him. Dumbledore's plan… his surrender, pre-chosen death in his enemy's hand. Not suicide. Never suicide. He had wanted to live… but the plan…

No. His eyes and insides steeled while he pushed the note to his pocket. He wasn't dead. He hadn't been killed by Avada Kedavra and he hadn't been killed by blood loss - he was alive after all, he was hurting and stiff but alive. "Alive," he grunted out and started to struggle to his feet. He was alive and there was a war to be fought. He needed to get to Hogwarts.

"Hogsmeade… Hogsmeade, Hogsmeade…" he muttered to himself while trying to gather enough strength to Apparate. Gathering energy was surprisingly easy even though he barely had enough strength to stay standing. Trying to concentrate onto Hogsmeade was another thing - he simply couldn't do it. Frowning slightly he tried to remember what the place looked but nothing came to mind.

Frowning a bit, he swayed where he stood. Then he shook his head. "Diagon Alley," he muttered and concentrated there was a small alcove near the Leaky Cauldron where wizards Apparated to get to Diagon Alley - No one Apparated to the alley itself because there was a chance of someone standing in the exact place you tried to Apparate to. That alcove he could remember, and concentrating onto that he pushed his magic into working…

And found himself standing in the dark alcove. Coughing softly and leaning to the a bit damp wall at his side, he looked up to see if anyone had seen him. There was no one there, thank goodness. So he stepped forward carefully, glancing towards the Leaky Cauldron…

Or the spot where Leaky cauldron was supposed to be in. It wasn't there, instead there was an old, ruined and clearly abandoned building standing there, its windows broken, door barred and walls painted with ugly graffiti. Too confused to be shocked, he stumbled closer weakly and stared for a while. Was this what Leaky Cauldron looked to muggles? But that made no sense, he wasn't muggle, he had just done magic…

Unable to believe that what he saw was actually real, he stepped forward and tried the barred door - which wouldn't move. He tried to push and pull it for a while before giving in, and staggering to the side to look through the broken window. The building was as ruined from the inside as it was from the outside - filled with graffiti and broken glass. There were broken beer bottles and cans on the floor so it was obvious that someone had been there once, but the dust over the bottles and crushed cans told him that it had been a while ago.

"This can't be," he muttered a looked at the wall. There was a bend, rusty pipe there and in the wall there was a rough dent. Using these as footing, he climbed inside; nearly falling flat against the broken glass but managing to catch himself in time. What he saw still didn't change, the building was still abandoned and nowhere near Leaky Cauldron as he knew it.

"Maybe they enchanted it to keep people away from Diagon Alley. Right, a safety measure…" he muttered and headed towards the direction where the back alley would be - and with it the entrance to Diagon Alley. Except it wasn't there, the door which would've led into the back alley led into storage room. And none of its walls were barriers to anywhere.

It made no sense. This was where Leaky Cauldron was supposed to be, except it wasn't. Leaning onto a wall heavily, he tried to sort through his thoughts. He couldn't find Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley didn't exist. What on earth had happened? It made less sense than him waking up after apparently trying to kill himself.

Fishing the note from his pocket, he read it again in dim light. He hadn't written it, he was sure of it. The horrible scripture was no where near his handwriting and he could get his spelling better than who ever wrote the note. Yet the way Harry had been written was familiar - it reminded him of the time when he had first begun going to muggle school, when he had just been learning to write.

"Not mine," he muttered with a frown before glancing at his wounded, bloodied wrists. The note wasn't his, yet he was scarred by suicide scars. Diagon Alley didn't exist, he couldn't find Hogsmeade… something was going on. "Think, think," he muttered while sinking to sit on the floor against the wall.

Voldemort had killed him, that he could remember clearly. Dumbledore's plan, he had followed it through. He had used the Resurrection Stone to return his parents, Sirius and Remus so that they could fetch him… yes; they had been there but vanished just before the green light. And the light had hit him, of that he was positive, the Killing Curse had hit him… and he was supposed to be dead.

But instead of going where ever dead people go, he woke up here, with his wrists cut open… in a world where Leaky Cauldron apparently never existed. If it had, there would be some signs of it, wouldn't there? Sighing heavily and rubbing his burning eyes, he tried to comprehend what it meant. Looking down to the note again, his attention was caught by something glinting at him near by. Piece of glass - no. Piece of mirror.

Reaching for the shard, he took it to his hands. Trying to not cut himself with it, he held it up to look at himself. The piece was dirty and didn't reflect perfectly, but he could still see himself staring back at him… except he looked different. His hair was longer than he remembered, it was dirty and messy. His cheek bones stood out from thin face, his chin was sharp. And… the lightning bold scar was gone. By the looks of it, it had never been in his forehead.

It was him… but wasn't? Running his fingers confusedly against the sharp cheekbone and then up to the unmarked forehead, he blinked. This was he… but wasn't. "Another me?" he muttered with confusion. Harry Potter who hadn't been a Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter who had lived in the streets, who couldn't write properly, who had killed himself?

Harry Potter of another world?

The mirror shard slipped from his numb fingers and he slumped against the wall heavily. As the shock drained him of his last bits of strength, he pondered weakly how he could've ended in another word and another body. The next moment he passed out.

He woke up feeling worse than he had felt before. The floor and wall had been hard on his already weakened body, and as his consciousness returned he only felt the aching. It took several minutes to regain mobility and even then he was help back by the stiffness and loss of strength. He had been weak before, but never this weak. Groaning he struggled to get to his feet. Faltering a little, he gained something similar to balance by leaning onto the wall. Only then, as he looked around, he remembered.

Leaky Cauldron which… wasn't Leaky Cauldron. Slowly looking around he tried to see any sign of the magical civilisation as he knew it, but there was nothing there. This abandoned building was clearly a muggle one. There wasn't even a fireplace there.

The thought of fireplace made him realise how cold he felt. Too weak to even shiver, he merely frowned at the feeling while trying to figure out what else was wrong. Blood loss made him weak and cold, his wounded wrists were aching… and he was hungry. Hungry! That's it, his stomach was aching painfully - very painfully… and he had no idea when he had last eaten anything.

Coughing softly he glanced around in the abandoned building. No, there wouldn't be any food to be found in this place. He needed to get out and… and what? Where could he get food, did he even have money? Slowly checking his pockets he found that he didn't - only thing on him aside from the clothing was the suicide note. But he was so hungry… so very hungry.

Staggering, he headed towards the window he had used to get in. It was painstaking to try and climb out without falling painfully but somehow he managed. It was early in the morning apparently, and there were no people around in the backstreet where, in some world, was entrance of the Magical World. Sighing he looked left and right before deciding to hear to right. He had a vague memory that there were shops in that direction.

But how could he get the food he wanted? Asking would probably be no use; people didn't just give things to strangers for free. Without money he couldn't buy either… and in this state, he wouldn't be able to steal food either. But maybe… maybe he could find something somehow.

The first people he saw looked like ordinary muggles dressed into ordinary muggle clothing. They eyed him crossly before quickly heading away, whispering and glancing. He ignored them, supposing that he did look rather terrible, being this thin, this dirty, this unkempt… not to mention the fact that his wrists were covered in dried blood. Nothing in him probably prompted any sympathy from the muggles.

As he was staggering past a jewellery store, his eyes caught a sight of a watches hanging on display. Stopping to catch his breath and regain his strength, he looked at the watches thoughtfully. If they were in right time - and they probably were seeing that they all told the same time - it was little past five in the morning. The chances of any stores being open at this hour were quite small.

"Hey, you there!" someone called, causing him to look up. A police car had stopped near him and an officer was glaring at him through open window. "Move a long, pal!"

He blinked slowly before realising. He probably didn't look any better than a street rat - scratch that, he was a street rat. The police probably thought he was planning to smash the window and steal the watches in display. With a sigh he turned his back to the police car and continued to stagger onward slowly. After following him some dozen meters, the police car accelerated and drove away.

With none of the shops open, he continued to walk down the street without really knowing where he was going. Eventually, he wasn't sure how much later though, he came to a small park. By that time he was shivering with fatigue and the idea of resting a little was very appealing. Seeing a comfortable looking patch of grass underneath a tree, he made his way there and slumped to sit down, leaning against the tree trunk. With a heavy sigh he relaxed and passed out again.

Someone was talking. The voice was soft but somehow sharp - like voice of a boy whose voice hadn't broken yet. The voice sounded worried and questioning, and it came from near - very near. It was speaking to him.

He cracked one eye open more out of confusion than anything. It took few seconds to remember what happened and that he had once again passed out because of the darned blood loss. For one ridiculous moment he felt happy that he didn't have anything, because if he had had then it might've been stolen while he had been unconscious… but then he shook the thought out of his mind and concentrated onto the sight before him.

There was a boy before him, crouched on the ground to get to the same eye level with him. The boy had worried and kind brown eyes and short pure white hair. Nearly albino, but not quite. The boy asked something while tilting his head to the side. Then the boy continued to ask something in what ever language he was speaking.

"I…" the elder one coughed weakly, finding his throat painfully dry. "I can't understand you," he said in rough voice. The boy frowned a little in turn, looking troubled. While the boy thought, the elder one rubbed his eyes with his hand, as his eyes seemed strangely blurry. Only then he realised that he didn't have his glasses - he hadn't had them before either.

The boy let out a cry and grabbed hold of his hand. Confused, the elder one looked at the white haired boy, who was turning his hand around. Oh, the wounds, he realised. The boy had seen the cuts… and now the boy was making a fuss about them, speaking quickly in his strange language, nearly panicking. The elder one smiled weakly to him, somewhat amused by the way the child was acting - it was kind of cute.

Noticing the look he was giving, the boy frowned a little. Then, looking serious, the boy stood up without releasing his hand. Urgently the kid tugged onto the elder one's wounded hand, until the young man finally started to get up. Then the boy started to tug him away from the tree and towards the buildings at the other end of the park. Without knowing what else to do and wanting to see what the boy wanted, the black haired young man compliantly followed.

The white haired boy led him through the park, ignoring the looks people were giving them. Then he lead the elder one over a street, down another, over another street and down few more, until they came to an apartment building. There the young man was led up to the third floor, where the boy sought for keys.

The elder one of the two frowned a little. Had the kid really led him to his home? Looking down to the boy with worried look, he couldn't understand why the boy would do something like that. The boy didn't know who or what he was, he could've been a mad man, murderer, thief, anything… the boy really shouldn't have brought him to his home.

But apparently the boy had. As soon as the door was open, the boy led the young man inside, through short hall to crossing and from there to kitchen. After clicking the lights on - it was obvious that there was no one else in the house - the kid started to go through the drawers. With a sound of triumph, the white haired boy pulled out a bottle and bandages. Antiseptic liquid probably.

The young man sat a bit awkwardly to the kitchen chair while the boy fetched a paper towel. Then the boy was standing before him, rolling up the blood stained sleeves to get to the wounds. The young man decided to let the boy do as he wished, and while the boy concentrated on measuring some of the liquid to the paper towel, he examined the kid's face.

The boy wasn't completely English, of that the elder one was sure. His eyes were shaped differently, and there was something foreign in the general shape of his face. Something Asian. Maybe the kid was from China or something, that would certainly explain why he didn't speak English.

Then his thoughts were cut short. The kid started to clean the wounds - and it hurt. The elder one had experienced antiseptics before, but it had been years and years ago - when he had been under eleven and had hurt his knee in school after which the school nurse had cleaned him up and given him a band aid. He hadn't remembered how much it could sting - and the wounds in his wrists weren't exactly simple scrapes. They were cuts deep enough to reach a blood vein.

Biting his teeth hard together to keep the hiss of pain inside, the young man shut his eyes tightly. If the boy noticed, he didn't let it show as he continued to carefully clean the wounds. It took several painstaking minutes, until the boy then took the bandages and started to wrap them around the elder one's wrists.

When the young man opened his eyes, his hands were shaking slightly, but at least now they wouldn't get worse. Looking down to the worried boy, the black haired elder one smiled and nodded his head. "Thank you."

The boy smiled in return. "Dou itashi mashite," he said before snapping his fingers as if with realisation. "Ara! Boku no namae wa Bakura Ryô," he said, tapping his chest. "Wakarimasu ka?"

"Ah…" the elder one frowned with confusion. "Huh?"

"Ryô," the boy said slowly, patting his own chest. "Ryô."

"Oh, your name!" the elder one nodded. He rouse his now bandaged hand to his own chest. "Harry." He said, and then blinked a little. As soon as he said the name, he felt somehow… surer in this place. His eyes clouded in thought as he realised that no matter how gone Hogsmeade, Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley was, he was still Harry. Slowly the young man repeated his name, re-familiarising himself with it. "Harry."

"Hari," the boy said slowly as if trying to taste the name. Then, with a wide smile he nodded. "Yoroshiku onegaishimasu, Hari-san!"

Though the elder one couldn't understand what the boy was saying, he couldn't help but smile a little. "You, kid, are entirely too trusting and kind for your own good," he muttered while raising his still slightly shaking hand to ruffle the boy's white hair. The boy giggled a little return, trying to half heartedly push his hand away but even so obviously liking the attention he was getting.

Then a loud grumble coming from Harry's horribly empty stomach drew the boy's attention away from the contact. Before the elder one could do or say anything, the boy was bustling around the kitchen, gathering up food supplies in way which looked like he was doing it randomly… which he was. After moment of watching the boy try and start to do what ever he was about to do, Harry stood up and decided to take over. He figured that he, with his unfortunate history of existing as free labour for the Dursleys, was better cook than Ryô.

The kid stepped back hesitantly and then watched with awe, as Harry started to make a simple English breakfast from the eggs, bacon and sausage the boy had managed to find. The thought of soon getting food was enough to give him energy to complete the task and thankfully it didn't take long to cook. When the bacon was crisp and eggs suitably fried, Harry looked through the cupboards for plates. In the mean while, Ryô rushed back and forth between the fridge, filling the table with bread, butter, milk, juice and things like that.

"Itadakimasu," the boy said once they were seated to the table. Then he begun to wolf the food down as if he hadn't eaten anything proper in a while - he ate as if with the hanger Harry felt. Smirking crookedly, Harry decided to follow suit and begun to fill his empty stomach with much needed nourishment.

I'm not entirely sure where this thing came from, idle pondering possibly. Even though there are many crossovers with Yugioh characters as main characters (and in most cases going Hogwarts) I have only read one where it was other way around, Harry Potter characters going to Japan or to the Yugioh world in general. And the one I read didn't actually make an impression as I can't remember much of it (or anything at all). I may or may not continue this thought, we'll see.

Sorry about possible grammar errors and reviews are much appreciated, thank you.