Summery: Xanatos is in Britten on business when he stumbles across a silent green-eyed boy. Intrigued by the unusual boy he sends his aide, Owen to the boy's house. There, Owen is forced by magic into becoming a new daddy to the boy who lived. Harry, with his new father, goes to America where he will experience adventure and healing with some extraordinary new friends.
Rated: T (for now).
Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Gargoyles; all belong to whoever came up with the idea and their affiliates, just borrowing for personal amusement, no money being made. I also don't own Harry Potter, which belongs to J.K Rowling and her affiliates, again for personal amusement and not for profit.
A Voice That Doesn't Speak
Chapter 1: Meeting
David Xanatos was a brilliant man.
That was the first thing that anyone thought after meeting the 28-year-old Billionaire. Of course, the second thing they think, or perhaps even the first before the brilliant bit, was that he was an attractive man. Physical features have only ever mattered to David Xanatos as another tool to use in his games of power. As such, like any tool, he kept good care of it. His physique was that of a man who didn't shun exercise, and was indeed a black belt in several martial arts. He had a well-groomed goatee, and his hair just this shade of rakishly long held back in a ponytail, and was his mother's milk chocolate brown. He had well tanned skin that contained the trace of his father's Italian ancestry along with his father's dark chocolate eyes. His features were neither to pretty nor to masculine, but were the rare fine line between the two that made him arresting and strong. Yes, David Xanatos was indeed a powerful man, a brilliant man, a handsome man and every one of those qualities he exploited for his own ends in countless plots and schemes with the seasoned outlook of a chess player in a infinite sea of game boards.
Xanatos did not think of things such as sentimentality or compassion, though he would admit to a few concessionary soft feelings when he thought of Fox, his current girlfriend, who was a powerful women in her own right, and was David's match in every way. He wouldn't be surprised if he ended up marrying her one of these days.
He would like to think that whatever emotions or thoughts guided him that particular day and the events that followed were nothing of the soft sort.
He had been sitting in a small, secluded clearing in Surrey, not far from an abominable subdivision of houses in Little Winging near Private Dr. He had been taking a break from the negotiations with a burgeoning Computer chip manufacturing company that was showing promise that he was currently trying to merge into the collective powerhouse that was Xanatos enterprises. The owners were more astute then usual, and were defiantly aware of their own worth. Truthfully, the offer was more then satisfactory but the owners seemed to delight in the thrill of the negotiation. David could understand and had parried with them for amusement and goodwill's sake. Eventually the owners had decided to prolong the inevitable and gave David 5 hrs to stretch his legs from the bargaining table while they considered his offer. David leaned his head back in the relative peace of the secluded park he had stumbled into by chance.
David was definitely a city man, but occasionally, the echoes from his more humble beginnings growing up in a rural farm had him seek out the relative peace of nature on occasion.
He was pleased that this small park, just a small clearing of overgrown grass surrounded by tall trees and thick bushes, with an old bench that had seen better days but not rusted. He wasn't far from the company owners home on 7 Private Dr. He took breaths of the hints of growing things.
He was almost dozing when something seemed to catch his senses, those born of years on the dojo mat.
He straightened, and was surprised to find a small boy sitting cross-legged no more then 10 feet away, his tiny frame surrounded by almost to tall grass. The boy appeared to be bent over a black sketchbook, a broken pencil moving over the page that he couldn't see, and his shaggy wild mop of ink dark hair nearly hiding his face.
The boy was definitely small, Xanatos would have said 6 years old at first glance, but there was something about the boy, a stillness in the way he sat that said something older.
He noted that the boy's cloths were faded and, though clean, were much to big, they practically hung off him. Xanatos was intrigued. Normally he didn't take much notice of children but for those that were the children of other influential men and women in the circles he treaded with ease. This boy was definitely not one of those. What intrigued him was the fact that the boy had managed to get so close, and obviously having been near by for a fair bit, without David noticing until now. Then the boy paused in whatever he was drawing and looked up, his eyes meeting David's for the first time.
He couldn't help but suck in a breath. The boy's eyes were not like anything he had ever seen on a human. They were a bright green of a shade and intensity in hue that almost glowed. At the same time, there was something that was shuttered in those emerald fire depths, something that looked out at him and spoke of a maturity that was breathtaking, infinitely sad, and somehow wrong with a boy so young.
The boy held the billionaires gaze for a moment, unblinking, and David had the strangest feeling that he was being judged. Then the boy blinked and closed his sketchbook. He got to his feet. His entire posture screamed wariness.
"Hello" David greeted, his voice coming out in a harmless, great-to-meet-you-farm boy tone he used with nervous clients.
The boy's eyes narrowed suspiciously and David had the odd thought that the boy had seen through the voice some how.
'The boy is disturbingly observant' David mused.
"I apologize if I have intruded on your sanctuary." David said again dropping the act, and trying for that rare show of sincerity.
It worked, the boy seemed to relax, though he made sure that he was within running distance to a large, probably hard to get into for anyone bigger bush.
'Definitely cautious' he thought again, finding himself already mentally categorizing every single observance and clue the boy let drop.
David raised an eyebrow. The boy had yet to say a word to him.
He tried another tact.
"I notice that you seem to be a fan of art." David drawled gesturing to the sketchbook clutched in his arms.
The boy cocked his head, eyeing him thoughtfully. Then, in a starling perfect mimicry of David, he cocked a black eyebrow and the look seemed to say,
What? You actually want to see?
David was amused by the boy's silent mimicry rejoinder.
"I would very much like to see your work, if you don't mind showing it to me," he said kindly enough. Truthfully he found himself rather curious about what had held the to silent boys attention so diligently on his paper.
The boy cocked his head again, as if he were contemplating his request, and his sincerity, then after a moment, walked towards David hesitantly, his body tense as if waiting for the man to suddenly lunge at him. David was careful to remain absolutely relaxed and still, trying to be as non-threatening as possible. He had to admit to the spurt of…dislike that the boy was afraid of him. It was the first time anyone, child or adult had reacted to him in such a manner that didn't have a valid reason behind it. For some reason he highly doubted that the boy knew anything about him.
The boy stopped four feet from David's reclined position on the bench, projecting the air of a man to relaxed to move.
The boy didn't come any closer, but tore something out of the sketchbook and handed it to David who took it in his hands.
He glanced down at the page and froze as he stared at himself. It was amazingly portrayed. The light shining off his hair, the relaxed face. Even the folds of his expensive slacks and dress shirt, with its one button at the neck undone. David swallowed he had never seen himself look so at peace. He looked up from the amazing picture in his hands, words upon his lips to praise the obvious artistic savant that he had stumbled across, only to find the small clearing empty. The boy had used his own work as a diversionary tactic and slipped away without David knowing.
He stood up, finding himself looking for any trace of the little artist, but he was gone.
He shook his head, and finding himself experiencing one of those few rare moments in his life. Sheer amazement.
Ooo ooo ooo
David Xanatos told himself that he didn't feel relief that Owen had phoned him, and informed him of he delay involving superstitious locals in regards to David's current project, the acquisition of Castle Riverne, and it's rebuilding in America.
He had made a comment about paying a man enough and he'll walk straight into hell. Normally he would be annoyed about delays for something so important to his and his and his allies' plans, but he found himself actually not to bothered. It added a week to his stay. He had already acquired the computer chip company, everyone walking away with handsome checks and secure futures and investments. Since he had no pressing needs Owen had dryly suggested him doing something novelty quaint like taking in the sights.
David did take in the sights, usually with the current Prime Minister, and a brief visit with the queen for tea, but the rest of his time he found himself back in that little nameless clearing were he had meant the boy.
Each day he had gone back, not knowing why exactly, only that there was something compelling, and utterly mysterious that perked David's interest. There was very little that was a mystery to David in the world around him, but for the first time, he found himself confronted with that very thing. He would have thought it was all a dream, perhaps conjured when he dozed, but he had only to look at the sketch that rested in an expensive obsidian frame with clear glass of the finest quality that sat in his brief case to know that the boy was real.
The days past, until his week was nearly up, and the boy had not returned. His last day in Britten, he packed, sending all but his carryall on ahead to his private jet. Owen Burnett, the blond stiff aide of David Xanatos had noticed his employer's preoccupation of late. Curious about what had caught his interest, he requested to accompany Mr. Xanatos on his mysterious expedition. His boss and friend had merely shrugged his shoulders but allowed Owen to accompany him.
Owen frowned at the peaceful little clearing. He knew that Mr. Xanatos often sought these little refuges from time to time. He didn't see what was so compelling about just another bit of clearing. Owen would admit though, that despite it's unimpressive looks, it was…calming.
He sat down stiffly on the other end of the bench as Mr. Xanatos leaned back and relaxed.
The sun continued it's slow journey across the sky. A soothing wind lightly ruffled the blond mans unrufflable hair. He found himself leaning back, and closing his eyes, deciding to indulge were iron was scarce, and again admitted to himself that there was something about this place that was soothing.
Then a presence alerted Owens other senses. He straightened at the same time that Mr. Xanatos did.
There, sitting in the same spot that David had first encountered him, was the boy. He was even bent over his sketchbook, drawing away.
Owen stared incredulously at the boy, then at the amused look on his boss' face.
Owen stiffened, drawing his stoic persona around him like a shield. The two men waited for the boy to take notice. They didn't have to wait long.
Owen sucked in a breath, some of his control slipping form his Owen Persona, a little of the real him peeking through as his eyes opened in amazement.
The boy had some how been there long enough for Owen to not realize his presence, let alone his arrival. It wasn't possible, only a very few select number could catch him unawares.
David was amused. It was again another oddity to add to the growing mystery surrounding the boy that he had even caught Owen off guard. And it was also worth the weeklong fruitless wait to bring Owen along and witness his friends shock, something he had never seen on the stoic Owen or even in his other persona.
'Interesting' he mused, 'there is something different about this boy'
Then the boy smiled tentivly. Though it was in the direction of Owen, not Xanatos. Owen gathered his stoic demeanor around himself, until he was again the same emotionless, most stiff spined human on the planet.
David watched with interest as the boy watched Owen. He looked down at his book, suddenly looking shy. It was such a normal, boyish expression that again David could taste the oddness of the thought that it seemed unusual on the boy.
"So this boy is why you have been returning to this clearing for the past week?" Owen asked in his usual stoic way.
The boy's head jerked up, and he eyed Xanatos with surprise.
"Well, the boy did such an excellent job drawing me, I just wanted to learn more about such a valuable artist." David said smoothly.
Owen raised a brow. "Indeed?" his tone was the same, but David had known him long enough to recognize the nuances in his friend's voice. It was both curious and disbelieving.
The boy bit his lip again, his brow furrowed as though David's compliment made no sense to him.
It was David's turn to frown. 'Surely he's been complemented on his talents before? He's a savant if ever I saw one, why should the boy be disturbed or confused by something so obvious?'
"May we see what you drew this time?" David asked, clearing his face of the disturbed feeling beginning to grow.
The boy blinked, again looking confused by David's eagerness, but otherwise shrugged and carefully ripped out his latest picture, handing it to Owen this time.
Owen glanced down, and then froze. It was a perfect replica of him all right, but not the 'him' that anyone saw unless he allowed him or her to see.
A breath escaped him in a hiss. The boy's talent wasn't just stunning, it was not normal.
His head snapped up his blue eyes pinning green. He sent all his senses directly at the child.
He was immediately repelled. Wards flared up around him in multilayers of shields, unseen by Xanatos.
Was he one of Oberon's Children? Perhaps one of the various fey off spring that popped up now and then from dalliances in the mortal realm?
The boy began to tremble, stepping back.
Owen suddenly realized that the boy looked absolutely terrified!
Owen felt a sudden spurt of shame. He had not meant to strike out so savagely, it had just caught him so off guard. Normally, in his Owen form, children didn't exactly love him, and that mortal form did not call for the necessity of such. In his original form though, children and he had always gotten on. He had even raised a child or two over the centuries. In all his existence, he had never frightened a child through his actions.
"I apologize Little One," Owen said, making sure that he allowed the regret to come through, "I was…surprised and I acted foolishly."
David stared back and forth between his friend and the boy who was looking pale and shaky. Then he noticed the picture held tightly in his aide's hands.
He stared down at the picture.
He knew what Owen was; after all, he had made the choice that had bound Owen to him for the rest of David's life. He had never come across anyone who had even thought to guess that Owen had another nature, and here the boy had drawn a perfect likeness!
David Xanatos made the first steps that would change the course of history forever.
Ooo ooo ooo
Harry Potter laid huddled in the safety of his cupboard.
It had been a 2 days since he had run from the ponytail man and the two faced man. Not that he thought that the blond was dishonorable, he just quite literally saw the man with two different faces. Twoface seemed unhappy with something that Harry had drawn in the picture that he had made of Twoface. Twoface had done…something that Harry didn't understand, but it made his body tingly and weary. He had run from them as soon as he was able to unglue his feet from the ground. The two adults had called after him, but Harry had not stopped until he was back at number 4 Private Dr.
He had liked Twoface, it was the first adult he had ever felt comfortable with. There had been something about him that felt familiar. Some part of him, the part that for some reason still existed after the Dursleys years of neglect, still thought that there might be at least one other who would be different like him. For a brief, glorious moment he had thought it might be Twoface. After all, he was one man with two faces. But Twoface acted appalled (at least that's how Harry had interpreted Owens reaction).
'So I really am alone,' he thought miserably as he shifted futilely, tying to get a better spot on the thin baby mattress that he had for a bed. His body hurt and he could see blood flowing from the deep gashes on his small chest. Harry pulled out his sketchbook and his priceless pencil stubs' that he had snuck from school. He drew a sketch from memory of Twoface, then of Ponytail. Harry had always had a good memory. It was one of the things that led to beatings if he wasn't careful to do worse then his cousin Dudley in school.
He hugged the book to him. It was the greatest possession he owned, and had been given to him by a teacher, one of the same hundreds the teacher had foisted off on other faculty and students from a cousins over stocked stationary store. Harry didn't care, though he could see that he was running short on paper soon, so he was careful only to draw in it when he needed to.
The house was silent around the soon to be 10 year olds house. The Dursleys had gone out for the weekend to Aunt Marge's for Dudley's 10th birthday. Harry was pleased that he would have the house to himself.
He pushed open his cupboard door and hobbled out into the silent to clean house. After washing his wounds with antiseptic that didn't even make Harry blink at the sting, he was long used to the sensation and dismissed it as minor. After wrapping a bandage that he had carefully filched and hidden from his schools nurse station, he felt marginally better. He made sure to clean and leave no evidence of his presence. The Dursley's always locked the cupboard if they had to leave Harry behind and could not be watched by the crazy cat lady. What the Dursley's didn't know was that Harry had never been anywhere were locks have existed that work correctly around him.
He didn't know why they didn't work, but knew it was more of that freakishness that his relatives were always on the look out for. Harry had so far managed to keep his drawing and his freakishness with locks from being found out. Harry did some chores that the Dursley's wouldn't notice so that the job load would be lighter when they returned. He then carefully nicked some scraps of food from the fridge, making sure it wouldn't be anything big enough to notice. Harry thought about sneaking outside to the clearing, but his little sanctuary may still have those men using it. He didn't begrudge them his one place of peace. By nature, as inconceivable as a boy with his history it may seem, Harry was not a hateful boy. He never begrudged, nor hated, despite everything his relatives had done to him, he had experienced his relative's hate first hand. To him, hate seemed a hurtful, exhausting emotion. So Harry crept back into his cupboard and curled up with one of numerous books he had carefully hidden from his many forays into the Dursley recycle bin. It was amazing what his cousin threw out in his disinterest from blind parents who didn't realize he wasn't any sort of the genius that they thought he was. He was lost in a bit of poetry from his latest acquisition, a poetry book that Petunia had bought Dudley in the hopes that it would help him with his creative writing. That book had not even had the plastic removed before Harry rescued it from the trash.
He read the words before him, spell bound.
They gather to watch
A single soul trembling before the horde.
Their savoir, their guide
A single being
Made a god by eyes
By needy hearts
And guilt driven desire.
Bravery is standing before opinion
Heart, is loving when to much love is given
Wisdom is knowing
That one is not all wise
So the single soul loves
Stands before countless eyes
Poetry fascinated him in the way that art did. It was like painting masterpieces, only instead of paint or pencil, it was done with words. Harry smiled at the words, enjoying himself in a rare moment. Then, as if fate were working against his little moment of bliss, he heard a knock on the door.