Summary: AU - Harry's locked in Azkaban – for life. Or so he thought. He's come into his magical inheritance a year too early and is spirited away. Now he's at Nueva, where students are seduced by incubi, the vampires snarl and fight for the submissive new kid, and the werewolves want to mate and mark said kid. Did Harry mention that his demonic teacher has some sort of issue with him too?
To make matters worse, he's even gotten a psycho ex-headmaster on his trails, followed by an ex-best friend and his little sister. Well, at least he has a werewolf who thinks of him as his cub, a dog for a godfather, and a greasy git for a 'parental figure'. Life's never normal with Harry.
Warnings: This will be male/male, slash!, het! Rating may or may not go up, depending on readers and their wishes. It is OMC/Harry, Sirius/Remus, Snape/Lucius, Neville/Luna and more.
Disclaimer: I owneth not the amazing and magical world of the Harry Potter series, sadly, the lovely writer J.K Rowling does. Howeverrrrr, I do own this story line in this fan fiction.
Guys; here's a tip – read the times.
Chapter I – Visiting Times
Twelfth of July, 1704 Pacific Time, 12 Grimmauld Place
"Pray, tell me Minister Fudge," murmured the elderly man, deceptively calm. "How did a boy; of sixteen years of age, without a wand, and in Azkaban, escape?"
The said man shrivelled up in response, his shoulders sagging and quivering in fear of the Supreme Mugwump, "D-Dumbledore, sir!" Behind him, he could see one of the Weasley sons cover up a snicker. He snapped around angrily. "Do you find something funny, Weasley?"
Ron covered up his snort behind a hand, his eyes flashing as he glared angrily at the Minister for putting him on the spot. He had been 'accepted' into the Order alone, his twins for brothers turning down the offer politely. Or in a way they thought was politely. Something along the lines of: 'you can go shove that offer up your arse, you dirt licking scum!' They had said more, but Ron had found his mother of seventeen years covering his ears with a horrified look on her face.
Things had slightly gone to hell after that, with Molly Weasley belting out loudly that the stupid twins had better get their heads screwed on straight or she'd do it for them!
He could still remember her face as the twins had looked at her with revulsion, glanced at each other then muttered, "Like hell we'd ever let you get within three feet of screwing us in any way." It had been the pure disgruntled, monotonous voices that had tipped Severus Snape, who burst out in dark chuckles. The 'greasy git' as Ron referred to him as, had quickly replaced his laughter with an indifferent scowl and glare.
The ex-best friend of the Gryffindor Hero was snapped out of his thoughts by his boss's next sentence – a simple few words which snatched and demanded everyone's attention.
"I specifically told you to assign double the amount of guards, Cornelius, because tomorrow he comes into his inheritance."
Blue eyes did not twinkle. If anything, they froze the very ground that the Weasley patriarchs, the Minister of Magic and various others members of the Orders' walked on.
A gasp from Ron. "Shit, his…his inheritance starts tonight! How long do we have to find him?"
"I suspect that Harry will be inheriting a long dormant Magical Creature in his blood," The headmaster regarded him coolly in the next sentence. "And we have fewer than seven hours to find him."
The Order was thrown into panic as Albus Dumbledore, Vanquisher of Grindelwald and Heralding Saviour of the Light rattled off orders, orders which specified the retrievement of an emerald eyed, inky haired teens person –
–much to a distinct persons pleasure.
Twelfth of July, 0358 Pacific Time, Azkaban
A small body lay huddled on a mat, a thin sheet of material separating his tatty clothing from the harsh coldness of the prison cell. His eyes took on a decidedly glazed sheen as yet another visitor passed by his cell.
By Merlin, you'd think that the Minister or something would have created some laws regarding visiting times! It was bloody three in the morning – and the fact that it was almost four didn't make a flip of a difference. He made himself snarl at the offending person who waved at him like he were a dog, and unsurprisingly, he didn't find it hard at all to slobber at them, his eyes taking on a crazed glint that sent them backtracking to the bars of the empty cell opposite his.
As the person all but ran away, he flopped over onto his stomach with his head cocked to the side, listening. No sound was made, as he was the only prisoner on Cell Block D - safe. Biting his thumb lightly, he hovered his body over the freezing stones and drew four runes, his mouth hissing a swift 'aberto'.
The surrounding area around the runes creaked softly, rising up slowly from the ground. It took a while for the dust to settle, and by that time the young teen had ravaged the case, ripping off the top and twisting around.
He paused briefly, his body half way into the case and listened. Still no one. Deeming it safe, he quickly clanked down the steel ladder and entered his multi-dimensional case, the musty air entering his lungs. He reached the bottom, muttering softly to himself as he hurried towards the bookshelf on his right. He had no time to explore, he was in a rush. He couldn't have one of the dementors pass by, only to find no one in his cell but an open luggage – that would be a huge give away to the fact he'd had it since day one.
Currently he was situated in his compartments cavern where he had chucked in as many books, as fast as he could, into. He had been owled by Fred and George just before his capture, demaning that he get his ass out of the Leaky Cauldron and run for his life. It was a warning that the Order was coming for him, and he had had barely even ten minutes, shoving everything he deemed a worldly possession into the waiting area he had.
Harry considered himself rather lucky. The summer just before his warning and capture, he had spent his days in the Hogwarts Library reading up Ancient Runes and Travelling, when he had stumbled across the handy rune which could enchant boxes of any kind, preferably larger than a shoe box, and turn it into a study room; much like the one he was currently sifting through. He had enchanted it to shrink at the word 'encoller', and open at the word 'aberto', written also in his blood.
Once he'd had that down to pat, he had stocked up on books – loads and loads of books, heck, he'd bought almost a thousand due to the fact that he had though he was going to waste away his summer at the Dursley's. Lucky enough, it turned out he'd be rotting in Azkaban instead.
It had taken him a year or two (he wasn't quite sure of the date anymore) in Azkaban to find enough time away from scrutiny to be able to read his books in peace. Over time, he had found himself immersing himself deeper and deeper into the books.
Now though, he had one last book to read; the last of his lot. He was rather pleased to find that book in the corner at the back, and quickly grabbed it by the spine; Blood Inheritances for the Faint Hearted – G.L Runer.
Intriguingly enough, it housed details on the top schools around the world for every being – magical creatures, muggle-borns, purebloods and half-bloods alike.
Hogwarts, unsurprisingly to him now, was not even ranked in the top fifteen. Rather, it was the twenty-fourth, only! And after all that time Dumbledork had bemoaned about how grand and first class it was – bullocks.
Gripping the book tightly he stuffed it into the waistband of his rags and began his ascent, tiredly rubbing his eyes as he reached out of his luggage and into his cell once again. Slipping onto his mat and wrapping his sheet around his shoulders snugly, he prepared himself to read, utterly unready for the burst of light that blinded him.
The teen choked back a squawk and stumbled to the side, his arm raised over his eyes. After a long silence, he slowly lowered his arm, blinking away the dots that blemished his vision. He blinked again after another moment of staring at the book; this time in confusion.
He could have sworn that there wasn't a letter as he'd flicked through it at the bottom of the stairwell earlier. Tentatively he poked it, wary of any hexes or curses that could be flung at him. When dangerous attacked, he picked it up between two fingers loosely.
It was made of a sort of paper – stronger though, as he struggled to open it. It was clear white, unblemished but for the clear penned cursive which was tacked neatly onto the front. He bit his lip, before unravelling its contents and sitting back on his heel.
To Harry James Potter – our beloved son,
It's amazing, isn't it, to realise that one moment your life is perfect – the next, it is nothing more than a never ending nightmare? I must admit, I held hope you would never have to read this letter as undoubtedly, we both know what this means of mine and your father, James's, fate. Harry. Your father and I both love you very much – never forget that, no matter what hellish forces you may face.
Did I mention that you have magical entity bloods?
No? Pity. Well, you find out now.
There was a scribble at that part, and Harry couldn't help but clack his teeth together. Lovely way to find out he was going to turn into an animal of a sort.
Prongslet! It's your father here, don't mind what Lily-flower said. She's insane, er beautiful. And yes, she just slapped me. Well son, it's grand to talk to you like this (in a way, it's weird you know, knowing that I'm sort of talking to myself) albeit a bit saddening. I had wished to see you grow up – and smash those Malfoy's in Quidditch, studies, or anything, for that matter!
But at least I rest knowing that you already do. (You do, right? I can't have the Malfoy's beating me in anything, capiche?)
Back to the point. What you mother was saying earlier though too bluntly, which is why I've overtaken her place, is that you are special. Harry, your bloodline is that of a higher fox– a fox that the demonic Kitsune's are derived from, to be exact. Once you hit your seventeenth birthday, on the thirtieth of July at the last hour, you will come into your inheritance. Before we get buried between your gasps of astonishment I have just a warning - you have one minute; grab the belongings you need, you will be transported to a safe house. Read the rest of this once you have reached there!
He tore his eyes away from the page, mouth gaping. If…If he could really get out of this hell hole, he didn't care if he was part wolf, fox, demon or whatever!
With a quick slam to his luggage compartment, he made sure to hold it tight within his arms, fingers still gripping the letter with fervour, a small quirk of his lips. He couldn't wait to be free. He would show Duckydork that he was sane – more than sane, actually. His touch on reality hadn't diminished in the slightest, and he'd had the time span of a year plus more to mull over the offenders which had placed him into this hell hole.
His hands shook with an undefinable emotion as the letter lit up, the bright light illuminating his cell and the dingy hallway outside his metal bars. His eyes widened as he felt a tug on his navel, yanking him to a place unknown. The last thing he saw was his sheet of ragged material in a messy tangle floating in the air before drifting down – and then nothing.
He fell on his rump – that much he knew, as his ass was currently rather sore. He glanced around the room half-heartedly, the realisation that he was currently out of Azkaban not having sunk in yet. He was pretty sure it would though. Dropping his trunk to the floor, he spied a couch, plunking himself down with relish. He'd spent way too many nights on those cold floors to not enjoy the feeling of soft leather beneath him. With a soft sigh, he picked up the letter and pinched his nose. Harry had an inkling that he'd have a splitting headache soon.
So you're safe now, right? I guess an explanation's in order here.
Harry snorted. His father was damn right.
Right now you are situated in a safe house, North-West Italy, Genova. This place was built by my many times great grandfathers for the sole purpose of safety should any of us Potters be persecuted for any reason. Your mother and I visited a seer who warned us something may befall you, and we set to work. Harry, it pains us both to not be able to nurture you and help you grow into a fine young man, but know we are watching you. So no funny business until you come of age!
Harry snorted. Typical, most thought he wanted to go on a shagging fest, which wasn't true! Females held no appeal, though Cho and Fleur had swayed him a little.
Now for details on your heritage – as I said before, you are a Kitsune– a form of fox. No, you are not like the werewolves who are forced to change as the moon shines, but are of a higher class. You can change at will, and yet still hold an animagus form. As a Kitsune you are not of the same breed as most, but have ties with your ancestors who are the royalty of them. You our son, are not only a Kitsune, but a Magi Kitsune, one who holds the power over healing, elements and nature. Oh, and easily acquired wandless magic, too.
You are powerful. Some who you inhabit the same air with will find you repulsive, but not for the reasons you are thinking. They will find you extremely hard to be around, and generally hate you for one reason – they are jealous. They may even wish to harness your power through mating with you. Magi Kitsune's have mate/s to protect them from harm, and their mate/s have been predestined for them.
However your mother and I have been lead to believe that one of my ancestors had been drugged and forced into a mateship with one who was not meant for her. Due to the severity of the situation which messed up the whole linage, causing the genes of the Magi Kitsune to jump from generation to generation, even skipping some wholly, we have found some who have their sights on you. Some who will stop at nothing to have a Magi Kitsune under their control.
Son, our dearest son, be wary. We are regarded highly in the Goblin world, who will undoubtedly swear fealty to you as they have to us. We ask that you visit Gringotts as soon as you finish coming of your inheritance, and that you emancipate yourself. We, like most, come into our inheritance at seventeen – however our kind experiences much more pain due to the fact that you will be growing new…appendages, per say.
Once you emancipate yourself, the goblins will explain more.
We must sign off here our beloved son, as time is ticking. Hours, days, months or years on you will find other letters tucked away safely somewhere. You will discover these letters slowly and surely. All the best, Harry!
Lily Potter, nee Evans
Wife to James F. Potter
James F. Potter
Lord of the House of Potter
Lord of the House of Gryffindor
Lord of the House of Ravenclaw
Lord of the House of Ilnoches
He placed down the letter slowly, emerald eyes glazed over. He was a Magi Kitsune? Well, snap. He hummed lowly under his breath, before stretching his arms and legs. He may as well explore this safe house.
Light streamed in from a window, enlightening the room and bathing it in golden sunshine. The room was simply furnished, with a large bed and canopy in the corner, a wardrobe of simple wood, and a couch, table and desk in the corner opposite the bed. The desk was what caught his interest as he ran his fingers over the light oak wood.
Weird. There wasn't any dust on it. Quills and parchments were stacked neatly on one side of the desk, and Harry contemplated sending a letter to someone, before realising that he had no one to send one too. It was a depressing thought. Briefly he considered the Weasley's, but squashed it quickly. He couldn't chance Molly or Arthur – lord forbid Ginny or even Ron seeing it. He shuffled the parchment in his hand thoughtfully.
He'd had years to muse over the betrayal of his best friend and CO. Frankly he wasn't too torn up about it anymore. However if you'd've asked him about how he felt about the situation once he had first gone through it, you probably wouldn't even have been able to see the next dawn.
Moving away from the desk, Harry made his way over to the door, entering the next room which appeared to be a small kitchen, complete with the necessary equipment for baking, grilling and frying. All in all, he was quite pleased. Although his thoughts kept returning to the fact that he needed a new wand.
Glancing out the windows, he found himself physically and mentally tired. Making his way back to the bedroom, he threw himself onto the bed, knocking himself out to the world.
Silk against his bare skin stunned him to awareness, his back immediately upright; posture rigid, before he relaxed minimally, regaining his senses of where he was. The room spun around him, his eyes decidedly glazed and bleary. He rubbed his nose, wondering where he'd put his glasses. Then he froze, confused.
"It's bleary," he murmured to himself, a feeble attempt at trying to placate himself. "But I'm wearing my glasses. Oh gods, don't tell me I need stronger glasses already…"
Sighing, he threw off his glasses and pushed himself further under the warmth of his quilt. He would deal with it in the morning—
"What the hell?"
His scream pierced the room and bounced right off the walls and echoed around – lucky the place had built in silence wards. Backtracking to the matter at hand, he picked the sheets off his lap and stared downwards at himself.
He remembered wearing clothes to sleep.
He swore, he wore clothes to sleep.
So why in the world was he as bare as a newborn baby?
No, he shook his head numbly, he didn't want to know. He closed his eyes once again, absolutely unready for the burn of fire that pierced through his body, burning every nerve ending and every synapse. The electrical impulses fizzed and sped up, their pulses raging up towards his brain, relaying every creak of his bones and every burn in his body to him in great detail.
Too much detail. He was swamped with pain; dagger-like pain, pinching and stabbing into his skin and twisting. The raven haired teen wailed loudly, his bones compressing and condensing into thinner, harder fibre, his skin re-stretching and shrinking to fit his depleting body. Pain burned behind his eyelids, and he could hear a scream cut through the air as the inferno burning through his body diminished for a second.
Quiet peace, but for his heavy panting. He didn't let himself sink into the embrace of it, his instinct telling him that the worse was still to come.
How right he was.
He felt as though someone was skinning him alive, his scalp raw with pain as something sprouted out. His spine arched in a torrid display or flexibility, as though orchestrated by a sadistic puppeteer who wanted to see how far his minions could bend until they broke.
He sweat profusely, but he refused to give in to the darkness. Blood ran down his forehead, black as petrol and tainted with the stench of death. Something pierced just above his ass, and one last ear-piercing shriek filled the air; before silence.
Author's Note: Er. So. Do I carry on, or not? That is the question. Was this interesting for you guys, or boring? Is there any things that you guys want incorporated into this storyline? Go on, you know you want to reply.