Original Summary: Alone and afraid, locked in his cupboard as punishment for something he didn't do, Harry Potter (age five) desperately wishes for a way out. This story is AU and will have no pairings. Evil!Dumbledore
Disclaimer: All HP characters are the property of JKR, the WB, and respective publishing companies. All portions of the Pokémon universe/worlds/characters are the property of The Pokémon Company, Nintendo, Creatures Inc., and GAME FREAK Inc. This story is nothing more than a simple FanFiction that I have written for my own enjoyment. I have made no money from this or any of the other stories I have posted on this or other sites.
AN1: I just wanted to take a moment to say that the HP side of this story will mostly be AU. The Pokémon portions will also be somewhat AU and will draw from the TV series, the movies, and the various games (excluding the most recent releases.) That said; I will not just regurgitate canon events/facts from out of the HP universe or detailed episodes/scenes from the Pokémon worlds. The entire plot is, I think, somewhat original and based upon my own imagination.
The timelines of both worlds will actually flow separately. IE: Harry's universe will progress in normal time while the Pokémon world will actually flow more rapidly. The exact time differences between the two worlds will be explained in more detail later on in the story.
AN2: This latest revisions of this story have been self-beta'd; so there may still be occasional grammatical or spelling errors that crop up every now and then and for those I apologize in advance.
The Wishing Door
Chapter 1: The Drawing of the Door
Tuesday Evening, July 30, 1985
Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging
Tear filled green eyes watched miserably as the door to his tiny cupboard slammed shut hard enough to shake a cloud of plaster dust loose from the walls and ceiling. Through the thicker than normal wooden door he could hear his uncle's raspy breath and the sound of an electric drill as his uncle added two new locks to the outside of the door. Angry curses followed by the banging of the hammer interspersed with the return of the whine of the power tool caused the tiny boy with messy hair to cover his ears with his tattered pillow. Several minutes later, the drill shut off and the child could hear the sound of the new locks being jammed into place.
"That will teach you to steal food from Dudley's mouth, you ungrateful Freak!" his uncle roared through the cupboard door.
Sniffling, the cowering child that was now locked inside the dark crawl space under the stairs simply shrank back away from the door and listened to the sound of retreating footsteps as his uncle stomped off towards the kitchen. There was no point in trying to deny the accusation; neither his aunt nor his uncle had ever listened to his pleas of innocence. In fact, the more he protested or denied involvement, the harsher his punishments would be.
Oh, they never beat the child; in fact the two adults seemed to be repulsed with the mere idea of touching him. That didn't stop them from withholding his usual meager food rations, adding extra difficult chores to his already overflowing chore list, and locking him in the cupboard under the stairs for days or weeks at a time. That was in addition to the harsh words and name calling that he endured on a daily basis.
Several hours later the ceiling of his tiny room shook and rattled loudly as a heard of elephants stormed up the stairs over his head. Blinking the newly fallen dust out of his eyes, the boy stared up at the ceiling wistfully as he imagined what it would be like to have a mother and father tuck him in at night. A few minutes later, he could hear the dainty steps of his maternal aunt following his uncle and cousin up the stairs. Holding his breath, the little boy listened to the faint sounds of Dudley, his cousin, being tucked into bed.
A few seconds later, he heard the sound of a closing door followed by more thundering footsteps and then by a second door slamming shut. His aunt and uncle were going to bed early tonight. Reaching tentatively underneath the crib mattress that he used as a bed, the tiny child pulled out a four inch plastic tube with green liquid and a miniature glass capsule inside. Grasping the plastic tube with both hands, he held it tightly as he waited intently for something to happen. Fifteen minutes later, a grinding snort rumbled through the house as his uncle began to snore.
Sighing in relief, the small boy quickly bent the ends of the tube together until he heard the tinkling sound of breaking glass snapping from inside of it and then he shook it vigorously until the soft green light of the glow stick lit up his tiny cupboard. The inside of his makeshift prison looked even more depressing in the sickly light of the glow stick but the boy felt safer with the feeble illumination than without. Carefully, he set the activated stick down on the middle shelf of the small shoe rack that doubled as his dresser and dug beneath his mattress a second time.
This time he brought out eight broken bits of crayon. These small bits had been rescued from the brand new box of crayons that Dudley's Aunt Marge had given his fat cousin for his birthday two weeks earlier. Dudley had disliked the gift the moment he unwrapped it, and snapped the entire box in a childish fit. Harry had been made to clean up the mess under the watchful eye of his Aunt Petunia. When carrying each handful of broken colored wax to the rubbish bin, the boy had managed to sneak the biggest pieces into the pocket of his oversized pants.
He would have preferred to save the entire mound of shattered crayons but knew his aunt or uncle would discover the duplicity far too quickly. So he chanced just a few pieces each trip, being careful to only transfer the pieces into his pocket when no one was looking. The result was that he now had eight stunted crayons in red, red-orange, blue, blue-green, brown, gray, black, and white. There wasn't a huge variety of colors at his disposal, but the boy wasn't going to complain because what he had was better than nothing.
The child sifted through the bits of wax and selected the stub of black crayon before tucking the rest of the pieces back under his mattress where they'd be safe from discovery. Grabbing the light stick, he scooted deeper into the cupboard where the bottom stairs and the floor crowded together. Moving down onto his stomach, he pushed as deep as he could go before rolling over onto his side to face the outside wall. Once he was comfortable, or as comfortable as one can be stuffed into the smallest corner of a cramped cupboard, the boy set the glow stick down on the floor in front of him and cradled his head with his left hand while he used his right hand to draw the crude outline of a door on the drywall between the studs.
When he finished, the childish drawing was sixteen inches wide and about fourteen inches tall, with a deformed oval on the right side edge representing the doorknob. A single sniffle escaped the boy as he lay there staring at the pretend door he'd drawn onto the wall, his heart heavy with the knowledge that the door wasn't going to lead him away from his tiny prison. Tears leaked out of his green eyes and he set the crayon down beside his light stick so he could wipe the salty drops from his face.
As he moved his hand, he caught the side of it on one of the sharp nails protruding from the stairs above, drawing blood as the rusted iron bit deeply into his skin. He had to bite down hard on his lip to keep from crying out in pain as his flesh tore free of the nail. More tears flooded his face and his nose began to run as he bit down hard on his bottom lip to stifle the shrill scream of pain he felt rising in the back of his throat. He dared not make a sound though, for if he woke his relatives he'd be in even deeper trouble than he already was.
As the stinging and burning of the open wound slowly faded, the boy reached out and placed his injured hand in the middle of his crayon door and rolled back onto his stomach; leaving a bloody handprint in the center of his drawing once he moved his hand. Awkwardly he wiggled his way back into the main portion of the cupboard while carrying the glow stick, his right hand uncomfortably tucked between his neck and shoulder to prevent any of the abundant dust that coated ninety percent of the floor in his small room from getting inside still bleeding wound.
Once back on his bed, he dropped his makeshift light into his lap and tore a stripe off the edge of his ratty blanket and used it to bandage his hand. Satisfied that he'd not be bleeding all over his bed, something that was sure to anger and disgust his aunt, he curled up on his pillow and tucked the still glowing light stick under his mattress. As he gradually drifted off to sleep, he made a desperate wish that his new door would magically allow him to leave his relative's house, if only for a little while.
Unseen by the fitfully sleeping boy, on the floor in the far corner of his cupboard, several drops of his blood began to glow with an eerie dark red light. One of these drops of blood just happened to be sitting on the forgotten stump of a broken black crayon. Small sparks began floating in the air around the crayon as the glowing blood began giving off an aura of heat. In a matter of seconds the wax of the crayon had melted completely and spread out enough to connect to several more of the splattered blood and a few salty tears that had landed on the floor.
Each additional drop added to the mixture generated more sparks which fanned the growing heat in the cramped corner until the wax lines that the boy had drawn onto the wall began to shimmer and liquefy.
In the very center of the door, the large, bloody handprint the child had left on the wall smoked and sparked. Soon the blood on the wall began to bubble and ooze, the now strangely electrified fluid expanding out towards the black boundaries of melted crayon; as if an invisible being was pouring more of the charged liquid onto the wall. As the blood touched the fluid lines of melted black wax, it would stop flowing briefly before reversing directions and crossing to the opposite side of the drawn door. In this way, the small drawing was soon completely covered in the shimmering liquid.
While this was happening, the blood, tear, and wax mixture on the floor began cooling. As it cooled, the sparks pushed at the mixture, causing it to form a long, slender cylinder vaguely reminiscent of the original crayon, only longer and smoother. Once the last bit of warmth fled the newly molded crayon, the sparks gently settled onto the drawing utensil where they slowly sank down inside the dark wax.
At the exact moment that the last spark disappeared into the wax, as the clock in the parlor struck midnight, the blood on the door rushed towards the stylized handle of the drawn door in a wave of red light, acrid smoke, and dancing sparks. Red and black lights rippled around and through the now solid lines of black that defined the edges of the make believe door for a full seven minutes before vanishing completely. In the renewed darkness the soft creaking of an opening door could be heard as the section of wall where the childish door had been drawn swung open just enough to allow a soft summer breeze to slip into the room and disturb the multitude of cobwebs that hung along the steps that made up the ceiling of the cupboard.
On the mattress, the small boy whimpered and sighed as the breeze gently ruffled his hair as he slept on through the next thirty hours.
Friday Morning, August 02, 1985
Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging
Sleepy green eyes slowly opened and blinked tiredly as the pounding footsteps of his uncle's feet rumbled above the head of the small child. Knowing he'd be in trouble if he wasn't ready to get started on breakfast the moment his uncle opened his cupboard door (unaware that he'd slept through two full days), the boy sluggishly pushed himself up into a sitting position, only to hiss out in pain as he put too much pressure on the hand he'd cut after drawing his door. Gingerly he cradled the now throbbing hand closer to his body while he used his left hand to scoot closer to the door.
Slightly worried about how his uncle would react to the recent injury, the child sat pensively as the larger man's footsteps left the stairs and thumped around into the hallway. As the footsteps moved closer to his cupboard, the small boy held his breath, only to let it out in surprise as his uncle passed by without even slowing down to yell at him through the door. Confused, he leaned back against the wall behind him and frowned at the door thoughtfully while he tried to recall exactly what his uncle had said to him when he'd locked him in his cupboard.
Had there been any indication that he was to be confined to his cupboard indefinitely? No, he didn't think so. Only the usual snarl of disgust, because his uncle had been forced to touch him as he was pushed into his room. There'd also been several foul obscenities directed his way due to the fact that his uncle had needed to spend several pounds at the hardware store the evening before in order to purchase the new locks for the cupboard door.
It was at that point that the child remembered why he was being locked inside his room. He'd been accused of sneaking out of his cupboard to steal all of the biscuits from the brand new tin his aunt had just purchased as a bribe to keep Dudley from fussing about having to start school the first week of September. As the thought of school drifted through his mind, the child vaguely wished that he'd been allowed to attend Infant School with his cousin. Term was due to start in just over four weeks and according to his Aunt Petunia, the boy was too young and too stupid to attend classes.
Shaking off his distraction, the boy turned his attention once more to the sounds of his relatives getting ready for the day. He could hear his aunt banging pans around on the stove and hear her shrill tones as she called loudly for Dudley to come down for breakfast while his uncle made rude comments about the local politicians. Maybe they just didn't want to see him right now, they were pretty angry at him over the missing biscuits – even if he really hadn't been to blame for the loss. The boy was pretty sure that Dudley had taken the missing biscuits up to his room while Aunt Petunia was out in the back yard gossiping with the nosy lady who lived next door.
While he waited for his relatives to fetch him, the child dug out the now weakly glowing light stick and unwrapped the makeshift bandage on his hand to inspect his injury. He gagged briefly over the putrid smell of the infection that had quickly set into the unwashed wound while he'd slept as the half formed scab was pulled off when he pulled off the final layer. His entire hand was badly swollen, the area immediately surrounding the cut an angry red mixed with a sickly greenish tinge. The cut itself, now that it was reopened, oozed a steady stream of thick, yellowish-green pus.
Careful prodding of the wound caused a stream of the vile pus to explode out of the ragged flesh with a nauseating wave of decaying flesh. Thankfully, the throbbing in his hand eased a bit as the pressure that had built up while he slept was released with the stream of disgusting fluids. It still hurt, quite a bit, but no where near as badly as it had when he first got up. Using one of his oldest shirts, a castoff from his older, heavier cousin, he carefully cleaned away the pus as best as he could before he tore a clean strip of fabric from the bottom of his blanket and tenderly rewrapped his hand.
Outside of his dim room, he could hear the sounds of his aunt washing dishes as his uncle bade her goodbye on his way off to work. Ten minutes later, the rumbling pounding of his cousin's footsteps running into the drawing room shook the floor for several seconds followed by the blare of the television as his cousin sat down to watch his favorite morning programs.
Odd, the boy thought to himself. It's as if they've forgotten all about me.
The thought was oddly comforting, knowing that he wouldn't have to listen to them berate him for at least a few more hours. The only problem with them ignoring him was that they hadn't let him out to use the bathroom yet this morning and he really needed to go. He took a moment to replace the glow stick under his mattress before moving closer to the cupboard door as he listened for his aunt's softer footsteps. The moment he heard her leave the kitchen, he knocked on the door and loudly called her name – she ignored him.
Fear laced through the boy. If he wasn't let out to use the bathroom, he'd end up making a mess in his cupboard and then he'd get in even more trouble. Aunt Petunia always made sure he used to the bathroom twice a day, in order to prevent his cupboard from developing the stench of an overfilled cesspool (to quote his relatives) because of the number of clients Uncle Vernon entertained on a semi-weekly basis. Panicking, the boy beat both fists on the door and called for his aunt at the top of his lungs in an effort to attract her attention. Unfortunately, she didn't notice. Or, if she did notice she chose to ignore his cries.
Pain; burning, throbbing pain, shot through his injured hand and forced the child to immediately cease pounding on the door. Tears streaked down his face as he pressed his left hand over his mouth while cradling his hurting right hand tightly against his stomach, his entire body shuddering and shaking as he fought against his rising terror and the unbearable pain in his hand. Eventually, the moment passed and the child sank down onto his mattress and pressed his face into the thin sheets that made up his bedding.
It was as he lay there, with his eyes closed tight, that a soft breeze carrying the scent of freshly cut grass wafted through the tiny room and teased his hair. Thinking his aunt had finally seen fit to let him out, the child sat up and faced the door, only to freeze in confusion when it became obvious that the door hadn't been opened within the last minute.
The breeze returned a second time, this time it smelled of fresh, ripe berries and baking bread. The scent made the boy drool as his little tummy rumbled noisily as the scent of food reminded him that he hadn't eaten since lunch time on the day his uncle had added the locks to his door. Curious, he lifted his nose and sniffed the room in an effort to find out where the smells and the breezes were coming from. He knew it wasn't his aunt, because she was no longer in the kitchen and she never baked her own bread or bought fresh fruits from the farmer's market.
As he glanced towards the smallest corner of the cupboard he caught a splash of shimmering blue light reflecting on the back wall. Curious about the source of the strange light, for that part of his room was always – without fail – the darkest area, he grabbed his glasses from the shelves behind his head, slipped them on his face, and slowly crawled forward on three limbs while protectively cradling his injured hand against his stomach. As the ceiling sloped down, he moved onto his belly and continued moving forward by using his elbows, until he was just about even with his drawing from the night before.
The child gasped out loud the moment he discovered that his pretend door now hung open several centimeters. As he stared at the transformed drawing, he felt the breeze brush against his face, bringing with it the scent of blooming marigolds and apple pie. Tentatively he reached out with his left hand and pulled the childish door open all the way so he could look through the opening unimpeded. The shimmering blue light flooded his tiny room as his green eyes grew wide with wonder as he breathed out a soft, reverent; "Wow…"
AN: Hello again everyone, just a quick note here to let everyone know what is going on with this series. I recently spent over thirty-six hours cleaning up Wishing Door in order to avoid stressing myself out over some unpleasantness in my life and in order to help me finish writing WWYR2 (which is currently half completed with my revisions on what is written nearly complete). I've decided to start uploading the edited/revised chapters of this story in preparation of posting the first chapter of the third story in the series (which I hope to have up around the first of the New Year) and to let everyone know that I haven't abandoned this series.
There is no real need to re-read the entire story at this point since very little actually changed in the story over the course of the edits (though I think I added at least 3000 words total to the story); details as to what was done to the chapter can be found at the bottom of this author's note. That said, you can expect to see between two and five chapters of this story updated daily since all of the edits have been completed (not counting the ones for the omakes at the end).
I'm also working on editing WWYR1 in order to fix the plot holes that I left behind (which contributed to the issues I was having in completing WWYR2) and will post those updates once I've finished with the updates for this story. In between the updated chapters of this series, I will continue to post chapters on Banished Destiny (my Gundam Wing/HP crossover) and on Haunted (my Natsume Yujincho/HP crossover). My Chaos series and my Discovering series will both be given attention around the first of the year as well.
Anyway, enjoy the chapter! – Jenn
12-05-12: This chapter has just been edited to correct a few minor punctuation errors, a grammatical error or two, clean up of a few sentences in order to smooth out a few awkward areas, break a few paragraphs down so as to improve readability, and had the date and place stamps added to the top of each section to allow for easier tracking of the timeline.
12-26-12: Corrected a small mistake in the timeline that was pointed out to me by a very helpful reviewer – Harry slept through two days not just one since he'd fallen asleep just before midnight on the 30th and slept through both his birthday and the first before waking up on the morning of the second.