Harry Potter: The Shadow Raven
Prologue: Three Weeks Before First Year.
A/N: So glad to be back! I've got a whole lot of stories this time, and most are in work on paper right now! For starters, before this story begins, you should know that I got the idea from a story called 'True Elemental' by Impish Delight. They made Harry a Shadow Panther, I made him a Shadow Raven. This is my way of saying 'their idea, I tweaked it'. I do hope they don't mind.
Disclaimer: Imma say this once, so listen. I'm not J.K. Rowling, I'm not a professional writer, and I sure as hell don't have billions of dollars. I DO NOT own Harry Potter nor it's characters, I merely borrow them and own this story. I've gotten the formalities out of the way, let's begin.
It was a sweltering summer afternoon in Surrey. All over the place you could see people either drinking gallons of icy water, swimming, or in the case a certain house on privet Privet, a young ten year old raven haired boy was sitting outside, not a drop of much needed water in sight. Instead were gardening tools, a garbage bag, and pools of sweat.
The child, known as Harry Potter, was weeding the garden. Before he could have lunch (or rather, what was left of it) he needed to wash the car, weed the garden, water the plants, mow the lawn, and paint the fence.
Harry was incredibly small and fragile-looking for his age. He had a slight tan from working in the garden for so many hours a day. He had cuts and bruises of all shapes, colors, and sizes.
He was hardly fed. His relatives, the Dursleys, would give him tap water and small scrapes of food after his lengthy list of chores. He also was small because of where he slept; the cupboard under the staircase.
He was Dudley Dursley's cousin, and was sent to live with him and his maternal aunt and uncle, Petunia and Vernon, after both of his parents died when he was barely over a year old.
Drunk driving, he was told. That was how his aunt had said they died, and how he got his peculiar scar. It looked like a bolt of lightening.
They, at the very best, treated him like dirt. He thought that was because of his appearance. He looked absolutely nothing like them. His aunt was thin and looked very much like a blond horse. His uncle had brown hair and a large mustache of equal pigmentation. He looked like a whale, and hi son fared no better; His cousin was fat and pink faced like his father, but had blond hair like his mother. He looked like a pg and humanoid hybrid.
Harry, on the other hand, was scrawny, nothing like his aunts thinness and a far cry from being a whale like his cousin and uncle. He had jet black hair that was rebellious, it would not stay straight and one night, when his aunt shaved off all but the bangs (to hind the ugly scar), it all grew back over night in all its messy glory.
But the strangest thing about him was his unnerving, deep emerald eyes. They were just like his mothers. They displayed many emotions at the moment; anger, hurt, sadness. When he looked one right in the eye, they would swear up and down that he was staring into their soul. Another thing that was disconcerting about those eyes was an odd black ring around them. When he was angry enough, his eyes would turn a deep crimson.
Last, but certainly not least, was his scar. On his forehead, he had a scar like no one had seen. It was not a straight line, nor was it jagged and weird It was the spitting image of a lightening bolt. His aunt had said it was because of the car accident almost eleven years ago.
Harry had long since finished with the gardening, and was finishing up the last chore, when his back started to feel like it had broken. He thought nothing of it and went inside.
Lunch was the scrapes of a peanut-butter and apple jelly sandwich, and he started to feel progressively worse. He retired to his cupboard for the night and tried to get some sleep. Which of course was a failed plan before it had happened.
He tossed and turned, fluffed what little of a pillow he had, and even tried hanging upside down. Nothing worked, and the pain just kept getting worse. The Dursleys had left after lunch and hadn't returned yet, which was probably a good thing for what happened next.
Harry hadn't thought much of the pain other than years of exhaustion and little to no food or hydration catching up to him, and it would go away soon enough.
But know, as he lay on the make-shift bed of his, he thought the pain was going to kill him. It felt as though someone poured gasoline on him and lit him on fire, put the flame out before it could kill him, stuck white-hot hooked needles into every pore, and then yanked them out once the were hooked tightly. If he had known what the Cruciatus curse was like, it would have been a walk on a cool spring day (even if dealt by a very angry Voldemort) compared to this.
He was screaming, but about two minutes ago his vocal cords gave out, leaving him without a means of distracting himself of the pain. By now, his brain and all thought process was reduced to a puddle of goop.
He felt his bones break, and something coming out of his back and the back of his head. Then, it just stopped. It didn't fade, it didn't wither away. It just stopped. Slowly, the boy pushed himself off the bed and over to a mirror.
He blinked owlishly for a minute or two and pinched himself in case he had passed out, because that pain was no dream.
He had wings. Black, feathery wings. His hair, he noticed, was still there, but something was amiss. He felt his hair, and then it it hit him like a ton of bricks; his hair had feathers underneath it.
He felt sick, and went to bed, hoping and praying to any and every god that came into his mind that was just a horrible nightmare.
He didn't know this was the first of many horrendous and alarming things to come in his coming years.