Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to Daystar Clarion and is the sole property of J.K Rowling
Warnings: Graphic violence, child abuse, torture- or reference of torture
Servant of the Dark
Chapter One- Michael and his Two Girls
He was not afraid of the teenager lying on the table- he had no reason to fear him, because he was dead, newly dead, with parts missing. The boy stepped up on the small stool by the examination table and eyed the damage done to the body. The teenager's left arm was missing from the elbow down, his chest was ripped open- ribs broken, and one eye socket remained empty.
He had seen worse.
He stepped from the stool and moved the tray full of medical instruments next to the examination table, then headed for the adjacent room to the one he occupied. Inside of the room smelled heavily of formaldehyde and other preservatives that the spare body parts had been stuck in. He moved past jars full of fingers, eyeballs, buckets full of feet, and a tank bobbing with heads. Another tank held what he was looking for- arms, but to his chagrin, nothing to match the bodies' pale olive skin tone. The only arm severed close enough was the arm of a black man, and he pulled on a protective glove to pull the arm out. He examined the severed edges, seeing that Grem had been slow in removing the arm- no doubt the man had screamed until he could scream no more, judging by the irregular edges.
He returned to the room and began to work on the body, first shaving the severed arm's jagged edges, doing the same to the elbow so they could properly be attached. Carefully he inserted a thin metal rod into the marrow of the bones to hold them in place, stitched muscles together, and skin with quick, nimble fingers, used to the labor. About him was the steady drip of water from cracked pipes, surrounded by an echoing silence as the boy worked.
Around him were other bodies, some missing parts, others clearly having been worked on- miss-matched limbs put on bodies they didn't belong to. They varied in age and sex, from youths to old men and women, different colors and nationality. The boy worked alone, making no sound, looking no where beyond the work that he was doing, only once returning to the other room to retrieve an eyeball for the empty socket, having reset the ribs and sewn up his exposed chest. His heart had been missing.
"Please! Please, someone help me!"
The boy lifted green eyes that had been focused on putting the eyeball into the socket. They moved up towards the vents where the man's voice had traveled.
He was a family man, with two young girls, a beautiful wife, a mortgage and future college tuition to pay. He was too young with too much responsibility to die, but so had the other hundreds of victims. They all had ended up beneath his scalpel and thread, their pleas like the buzzing of flies, annoying and quickly snuffed out.
"Pleeaase!" the man cried, and he was sure that Grem had worked on the man, judging by the sound of pain in his voice- it hadn't been there yesterday.
The boy wiped away the stains from the body, finished, and retrieved his bag full of medical supplies to stave off infection, numb areas so he could sew them up with minimal fuss. Grem required this of him until he no longer garnered pleasure from his victims, and then he would kill them, sending their remains down to him. The boy left the room and padded calmly down a hall, dark and lined with rusted metal pipes; the place was an abandoned sugar mill, that had gone through some hard times. He followed the sound of the mans pleas until it brought him up to a square, caged off area with a cot and nothing more on the cold stone floor. The air stank of urine and fecal matter- and it always would, the past visitors had left their mark upon this area.
The man- Michael, stopped his pleading to stare wide-eyed at him- perhaps he hadn't expected anyone to actually come. He was an average sized man, around five-eleven, with a full head of greasy blond hair, reddened gray eyes, and the beginnings of a belly, which seemed to plague men in their thirties. He knew this, because Michael had said so, before Grem had gone to work on him. Michael was a policeman, had joined the force straight out of High School, dedicated his life to peace and security. Michael believed that if he saw him as a person, he would somehow feel sorry for him, aid him. But Michael was trying to appeal to the wrong person.
He was missing several fingers which had been wrapped in a dirty cloth and was probably on their way to being infected. His right foot was crushed pitifully, pieces of bone jutting past the skin, swollen and purple. He had seen much worse, much, much worse. The man was filthy from his own sweat, dirt, and blood.
"W-where did Alejandro go?" Michael asked, grey eyes wide with pain but very aware of his surroundings and situation. His eyes ran over his body, taking in the cuts and bruises. "What happened to you? Did he do that to you?"
The boy ignored his questions, instead exiting the cage and pulling out the hose that connected to a pipe. He unfurled it, turned on the pipe faucet, and proceeded to spray the man down. Michael tried to muffle his cries as the freeing water poured over his skin none too gently. This was routine for the boy, and Michael's body looked no different from the countless other bodies he had dealt with, cleaned, treated, put back together.
With a rag, he wiped down Michael's body, immune to his shame, uncaring really. He inspected his fingers, seeing that they were cleanly cut, though they still oozed blood. Harry opened his bag and pulled out an ampule of morphine and a syringe.
"What's that?" Michael asked, sliding away from him, groaning in pain as he put pressure on his damaged hand.
"Morphine," Harry moved forward as he crouched, reaching for Michael's wrist. "So I can take care of you hand."
Despite the pain, Michael was clearly a man of reason, and allowed Harry to numb his hand. He cleaned the area with alcohol and antibiotics as Michael watched sickly, then pulled out a cigarette lighter. He opened his mouth to protest, but stopped himself when he looked at the boy's calm, composed face. He averted his eyes at the smell of his burning flesh, grateful to not feel any of the pain, though his foot was a lump of pain.
"What happened to Alejandro?" he inquired again to take his mind off of what was happening. Alejandro had been a young Mexican kid who had been in the process of returning to LA from a three day weekend in Tijuana. Needless to say, Alejandro hadn't made it home; he'd been caught the same way Michael had. Both had seen a man dragging a naked, screaming boy into a business van. He had rushed to the child's aid, and here he was, a captive to a serial killer, a serial killer involved in a group that had gripped the country for the last forty years. Grem and his associates didn't follow the usual profile of a serial killer- didn't stick to one sex, one age, color, or region. The only things his victims had in common were the miss-matched body parts. One victim had been mixed with three different people, all identified as normal people, living in different states, missing at completely different times- years apart, to be exact. Several more bodies had been found that way; the CIA, FBI, and other secret government agencies had been on the case of the International Terrorists for years- whole divisions were created for the capture of this horrid group. Who knew that the group supposedly consisted of one man, a twenty something man with short spiky black hair, normal features- he could very well be the next Hollywood heartthrob. What chilled him was that this man claimed to be the same one that popped up almost forty years ago. He did not look nearly old enough to claim such, not to mention the sheer amount of bodies found around the world seemed too much work for one man to accomplish without help. Michael believed he lied about these things to make himself seem more important.
But he supposed it was all irrelevant as soon as the man had strapped him down to the table and cut off three of his fingers on his right hand, thumb, index, and middle finger. The harder he screamed, the happier it seemed to make the man- he didn't think he had ever hated a human being as much as he hated this one, if he was even a man- though he knew this was just the pain, fear, and desperation talking.
An explosion of pain rushed up his left leg, and he stifled a yelp as he turned his head to see that the boy, Harry, was examining his foot, his thin long fingers flitting over the appendage, his eyes focused, face empty. His hand had been wrapped up in clean gauze and bandages. He believed his only chance of escape was with this boy, probably in his early teens, who had fed them, cleaned their cell, this boy who was also Grem's victim, and judging by the bruising along his body and the numerous scars, a frequent one. The boy had spent the last three days in his underwear- he didn't know if it was in response to the heat, or if Grem was also a pedophile along with all of his other sick habits, but he didn't want to anger the boy, so he dared not ask. He needed him to survive. He had asked the boy where had come from, if he missed his parents, if he had siblings. He told him of his two daughters Brittney and Ashley, twins, twelve years old and growing older every day. He spoke of his wife Maggie, how she enjoyed being a soccer mom though in her youth she swore she wouldn't. How she must be beside herself with worry- how many days had he been here? Ten? It was hard to tell, down here in this metal death trap.
He told the boy all these things, and his only response were empty green eyes, apathetic, conditioned to everyone's pain and terror. But he had hope, he knew that the boy was listening to him, thinking about his words. His face was young, but his eyes were ancient.
"Where's Alejandro?" he asked for a third time, wincing as the boy injected his leg full of drugs.
"Dead," the boy replied, voice cracking slightly from puberty, and he placed the boy between twelve and fourteen. The boy wiped his purple swollen foot down with antibiotics, and he stared coldly down at his wrapped hand. Alejandro was dead. Jesus- the kid had only been eighteen years old.
"Why? Why does he do this? Why do they do this?" He tried to be confident, unshakable- but one session with that monster had shaken his resolve- he dreaded seeing that man again. The boy was wrapping up his foot, seeming not to have heard him. He was no longer in any physical pain, the morphine had done wonders, but he had never been more aware of his mortality until now- not even when he had dodged a shoot out between two rival drug dealers two years ago.
The boy straightened from his steady crouch and ran an eye over his body. He was ashamed of his nakedness, to be completely exposed to an indifferent eye, but he would not let the boy know. He gathered up his tools, put them back in the green bag, and as he turned, Michael spied the large bruise spanning along his lower back, black, purple, and red.
"We can help each other," he called after the mostly naked child, receiving no reply.
When Harry returned to his workroom, it was to a ghost, Alejandro to be exact, who hovered about his body in apparent distress.
"That's not my arm, man! That's not my arm!" the ghost was wringing his fingers, transparent eyes wide in horror. "What have you done to me, you little bastard?!" The ghost whirled about the ceiling before zooming down into the basement floor of the sugar mill. Harry sighed and dropped his bag on top of a body and followed the ghost of Alejandro, going down a set of stairs with only pieces of the railing still in tact.
On the basement floor was where the bodies were stored, some so full of preservatives that they had hardened, others frozen in the unnatural chill. Men, woman...children- he averted his eyes from their bodies, small like his, or even smaller. He stepped over them carefully, moving through the vast room, feeling the chill on his flesh as he approached a door out of place compared to the may wooden and metal doors. It was solid gray stone, with dark words written in blood, his and Grem's. The door had no hinges, and in fact, couldn't be opened by any normal or magical person unless they spoke parseltongue and had some of his or Grem's blood. He ran a finger along the words, feeling the familiar magic touch him; the stone door shuddered and dematerialized, revealing a simple metal door with a window, frosted over.
The source of the unnatural cold lingered behind that door, and he turned the knob just as Alejandro chose to rant some more.
"What is this sick shit, man? How could you do this?"
He glanced back at the ghost, who floated about the room, staring at the bodies in their various places. He opened the door and allowed the cold and emptiness to rush over him. He didn't suffer ghosts, they were too talkative, didn't hold secrets well, and tended to go places where they weren't wanted. They moved toward him, sucking up any emotions they could find, the Dementors. As they entered from the room, they ran skeletal gray hands over him, feeling him, knowing him. Dementors didn't have eyes, could not see, however they had sensors, ears, smell, touch, and of course, their ability to sense souls and human emotion.
The ghost gasped and zoomed up through the metal ceiling, but the Dementors sensed him and quickly floated across the room and up the stairs after him. Grem had never been specific on where he had gotten the cloaked creatures, but they proved useful in ridding ghosts, or sucking souls from his victims. Across the room the thirty or so Dementors occupied was another door, a regular one. It held a completely different workroom, a room where they performed magic, wondrous and powerful. At the back of his mind, the Devourer stirred, a sudden warmth at the base of his spine.
*Food?* the Devourer asked, its simple voice drifting through his mind. He rubbed the back of his hand against his lower back where the Demon resided, looking like a large bruise. His touch silenced the Demon, and he turned from the room, aware of its hunger. There was a howl above accompanied by a cry of terror. He grimaced at the vents and pipes that carried sound around the mill. No doubt the Dementors had caught Alejandro and were in the process of tormenting Michael.
He didn't know why the man was still alive, and why so little damage had been done to him, but that's how it had been lately, Grem was either distracted or gone, off somewhere, hunting someone or something. Harry went back up to floor level where his workroom was and began the process of wheeling bodies down to the lower floor where they would be stored with the rest.
Grem and Harry had arrived in the very small, very diminishing town of Betteravia two years back after a short stint in Kansas where they had collected farmers and watched the state panic at the disappearances. It was at the point that if a person didn't come home or went missing, it was believed they had been captured. When the authorities had come in on the abandoned meat packing farm that they had been in, the two of them had been long gone, leaving the bodies behind. They had traveled west to wherever the road took them, until for some reason they stopped in the town. At the time Betteravia had been a small town founded back in 1897 and depended mostly on the sugar mill for its main employment and source of economic income. But competitors, a fire, a devastating dust storm, and several fatal casualties had shut the mill down for good only a few months earlier, and with it, left most of the residents of Betteravia. He and Grem had stayed, and promptly moved into the factory when it was clear that no one was going to claim it.
After he had placed the bodies below, he went back up and headed through the rusting, dilapidating mill toward the place he and Grem slept, the only area that was still in decent shape. It had once been an employee lounge, now turned into a bedroom. He headed for Grem's side of the bed and picked up the black rod that rested between bed and counter. The rod was also carved of stone, about three inches thick and three feet long. Embedded at the end of the rod were teeth from wizards, witches, and a few goblins.
A tiny bell caught his attention, and he looked up to see the numerous dreamcatchers he had created sway gently. Harry had made several of them, to fend off the nightmares, made them from the bones of birds, cats, dogs, but mainly crows; they hung from the ceiling above the bed, each one unique in its makeup and design. Sadly, the magic in them wore off after a while, or with the intensity of a possible nightmare, which was why there were so many of them.
Harry moved from the room and followed the cold feeling of dread that the Dementors gave off, and as he came across one, he gently tapped it, not unlike a cowboy prodding his herd along. The Dementor moved along in the direction that was implied, and he began to round them up, lest they wander off the premises, though there wasn't likely to be anyone around besides him, the crows, Michael, and the dead. He herded them back into their room, reluctant as they were- the rod was made from Grem's magic, his painfully cruel magic. He did not know if the touch of the rod was painful, but the Dementors immediately reacted to its gentle prod. In the process of returning them, he removed several from Michael's cage, where they crowded, sucking up his terror and pain. The man's eyes were wide with shock, his skin grey; he huddled in the middle of the cage as far from the Dementors as he could.
*Hungry,* the Devourer murmured, and he silently assured that it would eat soon.
Finished with the day's work, Harry retired to the room, replacing the rod back to where it had stood and curled up on the bed, the gentle ring of the bell relaxing him as he slipped into an uneasy sleep.
"You have lots of magic Harry, more than I ever suspected a human could have," the dark eyed man called Grem stood over him, where he huddled, shaking in terror. The man smiled down at him, a smile that until an hour ago seemed so friendly. "I'm going to shape you and your magic, into the perfect tool."
The man pulled out a cooking knife, and Harry began to scream. He knew what people did with knives when they weren't preparing or eating food. He jumped to his feet and tried to dive between the man's legs, but Grem reached down and grabbed him by the arm. Harry felt the knife sink into his back and gave a squawk of surprise right before the pain set in. And then he was screaming, flailing, feeling the blade plunge into his back again, into his side, through the muscle of his arm. Above his screams he could hear the man's laughter. Harry curled up into a ball, covering his head and face, screaming, feeling the blade sink into his thigh before the man stopped.
He whimpered, his small body on fire, slick with his own blood, and felt the man pick him up. He screamed in the man's arms, sure that he was going to hurt him more, and continued to scream as the man lay his bloody and injured body down on a bed. There was only pain then, pain and encroaching weakness, and he wished mommy and daddy were there, they would stop with man from hurting him.
The man leaned over him, his pale skin turning gray, black veins mapping his face as he took hold of his face and pressed his lips against Harry's. Harry tried to jerk away as the man forced his mouth open, there was a sucking sensation, and suddenly...it was as if he had been freed from his body. He was rushing through a black tunnel of darkness and flame until he seemed to settle in a dark place. He lifted his hands to his face, and he could see right through them. He looked about, but all he could see was darkness, thick like water. Then something touched him, pushed through him, something dark and foul, and he tried to move away from it, but he could not escape-it was becoming a part of him.
The darkness faded then, and he was in the park near Privet Drive, standing on the familiar hill with the sandbox. He was home! He looked down at his body, looking for the cuts, but again, he was see-through. He turned to run, run home, which was just down the street, when a loud roaring whistle filled the air, loud enough to make his ears hurt. He looked up, mouth opened wide as he watched a large fiery rock roar across the sky, so bright that he could almost not see it. It roared through the sky from east to west, disappearing at the horizon where a giant flash occurred, and the ground trembled.
He shut his eyes at the flash, covering his face, feeling heat touch his body, and then he felt fabric under him, and cool darkness- when he removed his hand he was on the bed, the bad man's arms around him. He was bloody and hurting, hurting badly, and he was whimpering again.
"There, there," the man Grem soothed, stroking his head. "A little pain never hurt anyone. If you stop crying, I'll give you that ice-cream I promised. How about that?"
And he shut up, not because he wanted ice-cream, no, he had all but forgotten that, but because of the veiled threat behind those words.
Harry woke to the heat of an October afternoon and the jingle of the dreamcatchers. *Nightmare?* they whispered and swayed, unsure if what he had suffered was an actual nightmare, which it wasn't. It was merely a memory of a new beginning; he shuddered as he uncurled himself from the fetal position, sitting up and turning on the TV. Though the mill had been shut down for several months now, Grem still managed to get electricity after he had stolen several back up generators from different hospitals. He had needed help for this, and after hiring a group of professionals to assist him, he then killed them for confidentialities' sake. He didn't know how they managed to get water though.
The newscaster was in the middle of giving an update on the missing policeman, Michael Montgomery, a respected policeman from Long Beach in the Los Angeles county. They'd been through the whole county down through Orange County looking for the man, because officers of the law didn't just disappear. They showed pictured of Michael in uniform, then with his family, girls Brittney and Ashley, his wife Margaret, and Michael had not lied, she was lovely, even though she was sobbing into the camera, pleading for her husband's return. They showed scenes of the FBI talking to one another, looking like they had clues, but really didn't have anything at all beyond blind speculation.
Harry uncrossed his legs and crawled off the bed, heading for the shower room. The fact that the FBI was now involved didn't alarm him, most of the law enforcement agencies had gotten involved over the long span of Grem's terror. He had told him, that it had taken the world a decade before it would admit that the random disappearances of people all over the world were connected. Grem had purposely left several corpses behind that had his signature, sewn on body parts that did not belong. It had at first been believed to be the work of Nazi's- another way to frighten and oppress, especially since they were found all over Europe. However, in 1950, a small abandoned church in Brazil that was being torn down had a basement full of bodies, natives and tourists alike, all mutilated and miss-matched. The media went crazy- maybe not Nazi's then.
By the 1960's, bodies were found here and there in the United States, any age, race, sex, status- it didn't matter if a person had money or not. It was then concluded that this was the work of mass terrorists- there were simply too many bodies in different places at different points in time for it to be the work of the regular text book killer.
Whole sections of the government were dedicated to capturing at least one member of this evil, wicked group with apparently no objective beyond ruining lives and taking them. Little did they know, until 1986, Grem had been working alone- well, with help from his little herd of Dementors and the Annihilator, his Demon.
Harry stepped from the shower, dried himself off, and dressed in a red shirt and blue jeans. He put on socks and shoes, turned off the TV, and moved from the room, heading into the damaged parts of the mill. First he went to see Michael, who was still in the middle of the cage, huddled in an uneasy, pain-filled sleep. He'd been here for more than a week now, the longest of all the victims he had seen so far.
Harry turned from the cage and walked to the entrance of the mill. Betteravia was a small town, just a little inland from the coast, though close enough to still get some of the cool ocean wind that eventually made its way from the coast. It was a bit dry from the fall heat, growing more thistle and bramble now that it was mostly empty, but during the spring and winter times it was very green. He moved sedately from the unkempt property and headed into the dying town- for some reason, Grem was attracted to small towns- did most of his damage in them. He passed the General Store- out of business, the Sugar Hotel- out of business, the schoolhouse- gone, the Fire Department- empty. He stopped in front of the steps to the Betteravia Catholic Church, pausing to turn and survey the town; he hadn't seen anyone on his way here. Had the last of them moved on? He wouldn't be surprised if the church was closed too.
Harry didn't know any of the people here, the small amount that had still remained, and though they had been nosy and curious, he had long learned that silence caused him less pain. Eventually they stopped asking questions and had moved on to being cautious and wary. He opened the door to the church and stepped in, feeling cool air rush over him, faint with incense. He headed down the aisle between the pews and sat midway, settling in to stare up at the painted murals of the Virgin Mary and Jesus. Harry wasn't religious, but neither was he against it. It simply existed, and there weren't dead people in here besides the ones in the pictures, nor the smell of decay, preservatives, or rusted metal. There wasn't the chill of the Dementors, the cawing of crows attracted to the scent of death, or the screams of pain from Grem's victims.
So he sat and stared.
Grem didn't seem to care what he did on his free time, and had no aversion to places of worship- nay, he had claimed to have done some of his best work in churches, temples, synagogues- any place that believed in a higher power. The pastor hadn't liked Grem upon sight, and seemed even more concerned to see that they were related. Most people believed so, for they were both pale, thin, with black hair.
"Son," a soft voice murmured, and he turned to see the pastor, Father Daniel approaching. He was thin with gray hair combed back, face lined with age, and a pair of bright blue eyes that ran over his body, looking alarmed. "What happened?" Harry followed his gaze and realized a short sleeved shirt hadn't been a wise idea, with the line of bruising from elbow to wrist. Stupid. Instead of hiding the bruise-it was too late for that- he smiled up at him, with what he hoped was a smile. Father Daniel sat down beside him and stared into his eyes. "You suffer, I can tell," he stated in his gentle voice, and Harry felt his smile melt away. "I'm leaving tomorrow to lead another congregation..." he ran a hand through his grey hair in agitation. "I don't think I can leave here without knowing you'll be okay."
Harry stared at the murals in silence.
"I know a few people in Guadalupe who can help you-"
"Foster Homes?" he asked. "Orphanages? I've seen one before. A prison for small people."
Father Daniel opened his mouth, then shut it.
"I live," Harry said as he stood up. "That's all that matters, but thank you for caring." Grem said to always be polite, even when you were peeling someone's face off. He left the soon to be abandoned church and headed back to the mill. A moving van roared by, one of the last, he was sure. Betteravia already looked empty. He glanced back to see that Father Daniel was in the doorway, watching him. He smiled and waved; the man lifted a hand in response and he turned at the General Store, not wanting the man to know that he lived at the mill.
He had not lied to the pastor, he had seen an orphanage during a stint in New York; he and Grem had stood by the barbed-wire fence, watching the juveniles mill around benches and black asphalt, angry and listless.
"That's where you'll end up, if you ever take it upon yourself to leave me. Then I'll come and get you, and you'll be sorry you ever dared to leave," he had then patted Harry's head affectionately, and he knew it to be true.
Back at the mill he searched for food and found a bag of bread and cheese- slim pickings, now that the General Store was out of business, they would have to travel all the way to Guadalupe for food. He retrieved his bag and went to Michael, who no longer hovered in the middle of the cage. His eyes were glazed over in pain, eyes haunted. The Dementors must have been a shock. The man looked up at him warily as he approached. Harry sat down and began to check his fingers and foot; Michael remained silent and shivering, that was, until he injected the sites of pain. Then his shoulders sagged in relief. Harry served him bread and cheese, and the man ate gratefully.
When he was satisfied, he spoke. "How long have I been here?"
Harry picked at the bottom of his shoe. "About a week and a half."
Michael sighed. "Feels longer."
*What are you doing?* A familiar voice, Grem's, came through his head.
*Feeding the prisoner.*
*Ah...Michael Montgomery, the policeman. How is he? Cried like his two little girls when I cut off his fingers.*
Harry stared at the officer, out of pain, slightly alert.
*In pain,* he lied, and felt the flavor of it echo between them.
*You lie,* Grem replied, but Harry could taste his disinterest, and Harry could tell that the man wasn't alone. Another victim? Grem could feel his interest. *I've brought someone for you all the way from Vegas. You're going to like him.*
Harry sat in the cage feeling a bit startled. Grem had brought animals for him, dogs, cats, a horse when they had been in Kansas, but Harry had forgotten it and eventually it had escaped. Two of the cats he had killed testing out poisons, three of the dogs had fled like the horse- except for a small Pomeranian that had barked so much that he had drowned it in bathtub after a week in its company. Grem had watched from the doorway, black eyes full of delight, though he had felt guilty about it later. So bringing an actual human for him was a bit puzzling, unless he had a special purpose like a previous victim, who had been a neurosurgeon. Grem had originally followed the man randomly from a gas station and taken him from his home, but had decided not to kill him when on the torture table, the man babbled about how important his life was. Granted, it kept him alive for a month, where he was forced to show Harry everything about the human brain that he could. When his time was up, Grem had given him to the Dementors.
*What does he do?*
"He makes bombs.*
Harry smiled, interest blooming. He'd never blown anything up before- most of his work was either magical or biological. He felt Grem thoughtfully thinking on the man with him. *Take Michael down to the storage room- I don't want this man to see him. Yet.*
Harry nodded and dug into his back, pulling out an extra strength Dreamless Sleep draught, which he usually used for himself.
"What's this?" Michael asked as he handed the potion over.
"It helps with infection."
The man looked at him. "Why won't you let me help you? Are you afraid that he will hurt you if you help me? I'm a police officer, the government will protect you from him. You would be doing the world a great service- you would be a hero! You would be bringing down one of the world's most horrendous organizations."
Harry nudged the draught towards the man's lips, and he sighed, swallowing it quickly. As Michael's eyes began to droop, he spoke. "That man, is my God."
Facts: Betteravia is- or was, a ghost town in the Santa Barbara County area. It is 92 miles northeast of L.A. And 332 miles south of San Francisco.
Though this story starts in the U.S, it will trickle back to Britain because that's where all the OC's are. You'll find about about the Dursleys and all that too once the muggles find Harry. Also things like the Annihilator and the Devourer will be explained.