Chapter Text
I
- HARRY POTTER -
12 July 1996 (T) // 33 Air 1265 (N)
No. 4 Privet Drive, Surrey
Great Britain, Terra
The pain should have gone by now. It had started a few weeks ago with an uncomfortable feeling under his skin, a slight fever, an ache in his bones. Nothing worse than normal.
Now, Harry lay in his bed, his vision blurry and his fingers dug into his bedsheets, stopping himself from clawing at his skin through sheer willpower and grit. He groaned as a spike of pain hit his spine.
Not for the first time that summer, he wondered if it was leftover magic from the Department of Mysteries — some kind of slow-acting curse that would end up boiling him alive from the inside.
The Blood-Boiling Curse had been a Death Eater special during the last war, he recalled faintly. It had come up in one of their discussions for Dumbledore's Army. He remembered sitting with Hermione in the library, trying to figure out which counter-curses to teach the others and which curses they wanted to learn themselves.
He tried to focus on that memory as much as he could, anything to avoid thinking about the pain.
Those moments had often resolved into moral discussions. What line did they want to cross? What line did they need to cross if they wanted to survive?
The Blood-Boiling Curse had strictly been in the 'leave this well alone' category. Slow-acting and virtually impossible to detect by regular healing scans, the curse would do nothing to win you the fight and everything to slowly torture and kill your target, leading them to an early death.
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted when something inside him cracked and sent a sharp wave of pain through his entire body. His back arched and his muscles contorted. Harry tried to silence his scream and let out a pitiful "hahh" instead. He couldn't stop himself from sobbing.
This didn't feel like boiling blood. This felt like his body was falling apart! It was going from bad to worse.
He tried to think through the pain, but he could barely concentrate. What was it? What could Madam Pomfrey have missed? A bone-breaking curse? Some evil voodoo ritual by Voldemort?
He'd already sent Hedwig to Dumbledore an hour ago, and yet the pain was getting exponentially worse by the minute. Surely, he would know?
What was it?
God, everything hurt. It was the middle of the night, and yet here he was: groaning and moaning, sweating and breaking apart, and he COULDN'T FUCKING REMEMBER!
Every bone breaking curse he knew of was instant. Everything else, Madam Pomfrey would have noticed and cured. He'd been stuck with the Dursleys for almost a month now. No Death Eater could have cursed him; they could have easily just killed him instead, had they had the opportunity.
Harry screeched when another flare of pain came. He turned onto his stomach and buried his head in his pillow, hoping to dear god that it would be over soon. Something was drumming against the walls. Someone was yelling.
Deep inside his soul, something finally broke.
The pain was excruciating. It felt like he was literally being torn apart, like a huge dam had finally broken.
His magic went haywire. It spread around his room, through the house, outside. It collided against something, and for a moment that felt like an eternity, Harry felt everything: the anger from the Dursleys, the electronics short-circuiting, the magical items in his trunk and room, the flowers and grass in Aunt Petunia's garden, and the dome — the massive, fraying dome pulsing with energy and tying his essence with everything inside.
Unfortunately, his magic was still building, and the pressure was only getting worse. Something had to give, and it wasn't his magic.
The dome shattered, and his magic was finally free. The pressure was gone. He finally felt like himself again.
Harry's consciousness returned to his body, though he wished it hadn't.
His skin was hardening and burning simultaneously. Something was growing on his skin, and he didn't know what. His back flayed open, and a huge weight settled upon his body.
Harry bit into his pillow, and it immediately tore apart. Tears rolled over his cheeks and he whined in confusion and pain. He clawed at his mattress, tearing his bedsheets. It felt like he was wearing a different skin. With a single glance, he knew that something was deeply wrong.
Those weren't fingers; they were claws.
They were bigger than his hands should be, with long, misshapen nails full of silver scales that glinted in the moonlight.
Something was seriously wrong.
He didn't have time to process it, though. Something tugged at his back, hard, and Harry fell off his bed.
Uncle Vernon stood above him, his eyes bulging with madness. He was yelling, but Harry couldn't even comprehend what he was saying. But he knew that tone, and he knew what would follow.
He growled.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry knew why his uncle was freaking out. He should try to appease him, try to tell him that no, he didn't know what was going on either, that he was just as confused.
But his instincts were going haywire. In that moment, Harry couldn't think much beyond: Hurt. Threat.
His uncle stepped closer, his hand poised to grab Harry's collar—a mistake. On instinct, Harry bared his teeth and tried to push him away, not realising his body's new changes until it was too late. His claws tore into Uncle Vernon's chest as if it was butter. Vernon cried out and stumbled back. The puncture wounds started to bleed through his pyjamas, and Harry's eyes widened in shock. Oh god. He didn't mean to—
Vernon's scream was something inhuman and primal. It froze Harry in place. He watched as his uncle looked down at his chest, touching the wounds with trembling fingers, before his mad, bulging eyes landed back on Harry.
Harry took a step back. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but all he could release was a whine. It was like his mouth couldn't form any words anymore.
As he looked Vernon in the eyes like a deer in headlights, he was reminded of his eleventh birthday, when Vernon had grabbed his shotgun and Harry was so sure he was going to die—
Uncle Vernon walked towards him and punched Harry in the face. Harry stumbled to the right, suddenly faint as spots entered his vision. He tried to create some distance, but his uncle viciously grabbed his hair and pulled him back in range for another punch.
Without meaning to, Harry swiped at his uncle, desperately trying to defend himself. Before he could stop it, his magic rose to the surface and moved with him, as if it was an extension of his body.
It threw his uncle off his feet with a vicious gale and slammed him against the window. His head collided with one of the bars, and he immediately fell unconscious.
For a moment, everything was silent.
Harry closed his eyes and tried his best to breathe. Instead of calming down, Harry started crying his heart out.
Why was it always him? Why couldn't he just be normal? What was happening? His whole body shook from the stress. He felt pain all over his body, now joined by dizziness and a headache. The thing on his back was too heavy and pulling at his already sensitive skin.
He took another shaky breath, forcing himself to just stop crying, god damnit. He rubbed his cheek to get rid of his tears and barely stopped himself from stabbing his eye out with his new nails.
Harry opened his eyes and looked at his new, strange hand. He still had claws and scales, and he also noticed a leathery skin beneath. There were slight bumps and spikes, making his hand look all the more draconic.
Draconic. That seemed to fit better than anything else he could think of.
The scales spread along his arms. They shone silver and peach, like flattened pearl armor. Most were covered in blood, and the skin around them was irritated. While Harry was still very much freaked out and confused, he also had to admit to himself that they were quite pretty.
The scales seemed to lessen the higher up his arms they went. However, when Harry turned his head to check his shoulders, he noticed something far more pressing.
Wings.
He had wings.
Covered in blood, Harry could still see the similar coloured scales and leathery skin on its bones. They ended in sharp spikes and had a silver, almost white, membrane in between. They were huge, bigger than his own body. The ends almost touched the floor. They fluttered and twitched as if they had a life of their own.
Harry whined. His instincts screamed at him to clean them. The blood was already drying, and it felt like spiderwebs trapping his scales.
There was no time, though. His aunt had already entered his room to check on the racket.
"What in heaven's name is going on?" Aunt Petunia gasped as she ran to her husband on the floor. "Vernon, Vernon! Wake up!"
Harry stared at her, eyes wide. Only now did it sink in what had happened. "Is he... is he okay?"
"Oh, oh my darling husband..." Her hand trembled over his chest that was covered in dried blood. With some effort, she twisted him to his side in a recovery position and hissed when she saw the side of his head bleeding profusely. Vernon groaned and twitched under her administrations. Soon, he would come around again.
Harry's stomach sank. Oh, he'd done it now, hadn't he? Once he woke up...
"I didn't mean to," Harry stammered, "he was coming at me and—"
Petunia scoffed and turned her hateful look on him. "It's all the same with you freaks. I should have known you would turn out just like your mother. You turn into... into that, and throw your magic around without consequence, and it's us normal folk who have to pick up the pieces!"
"I don't even know what happened!" He took a step forward and his aunt flinched back. He swallowed. He'd never seen her look at him like that. It wasn't just disgust or hatred now. It was fear.
"Don't come any closer!" She snarled, before she looked back down on her husband. "Oh, oh Vernon..."
His uncle groaned as Aunt Petunia cleaned some of the blood from his hair. She let out a croon to soothe him.
Harry watched her, trying to decide whether he should run or help, when her words caught up to him.
"My mum? She's like me?"
His aunt ignored him.
"Please, Aunt Petunia. I have to know. I don't know why I have these wings or why my magic is acting up. I really didn't mean to hurt him, I swear, but he came at me and punched me, and—"
"Shut up! I don't want another word from you, you monster—" The anger almost rendered her incapable of speech.
"I didn't mean to!"
"Oh, so it was your instincts, right? You felt oh, so threatened and couldn't control yourself."
"Yes! Yes, exactly."
She sneered, the hate and disgust clear on her face. She was about to reply, when Dudley's voice stopped her. It came from downstairs.
"MUM! Mum! Freaks are barging in!"
"Those blasted—How dare they? Not again!" Petunia glared at Harry. "YOU! You will go down and get them out of here this instant! You will NEVER come back here! Do you understand me? I do not want to see your freakish face near my family again!"
But Harry wasn't listening anymore. He was filled with relief. Wizards. The Order, maybe. Professor Lupin or Dumbledore. Surely, they would know what was going on. They could heal Uncle Vernon and stop him from attacking Harry in retaliation. They could take him to Grimmauld Place and explain why he was some kind of creature now and—
Dudley screamed.
Harry and his aunt locked eyes, and suddenly their argument didn't matter anymore. Together, they rushed downstairs.
What he saw was something straight from his nightmares.
They weren't wizards. They were creatures, avian with dark blue wings and feathers, clad with white armor and armed to the teeth with translucent weapons. At least half a dozen of them. The air was cold, and Harry's instincts screamed at him to run. Predator! Threat!
They were speaking, yelling at each other about procedures, caution, and children, while his cousin was bleeding out on the living room carpet. Aunt Petunia screamed, and their gaze snapped to her and Harry.
Their eyes narrowed, focusing on the blood on his wings and claws, on Aunt Petunia's hands covered in Uncle Vernon's blood, and they attacked.
Harry's wings covered his body just in time, before something cold and sharp slashed against his scales. His aunt wasn't as quick. He couldn't see what happened to her, but he could hear her scream and cry out. His imagination did the rest.
He had to get out of here.
Some kind of ice magic crashed into his wings and spread across the membrane. He cried out in pain and desperation. Something inside him cracked, but didn't break.
There were at least a dozen of those creatures all over him, trying to rip his wings apart. With a yell, Harry pushed them away with his magic, still uncontrolled and wild. He didn't stay to look at what happened to them.
He ran.
The front door was barged open. Harry was outside within seconds. His wand? His broom? Inside his trunk, in his cupboard. No flying. No Knight Bus. Order guards?
Harry looked around desperately, but all he saw were even more bird-human hybrids coming his way. With no other options presented to him, Harry ran away as fast as he could. His wings fluttered as he ran, and he hoped to whatever god was out there that he could use them to fly.
He didn't get the chance.
He was only just past number 12 when his feet were abruptly stopped. Harry fell flat on his face as frozen chains sprouted from the ground and twisted around his legs. The cold felt like burns on his skin. He tried to struggle, but he was already caught. A spear pierced his right wing, sticking him to the ground. Harry cried out in pain.
Something cracked again, deep in his chest.
Pure ice rose from the ground, trapping his hands to the pavement. The creatures were coming closer. Harry struggled to stand, but each movement just tore his wing further apart, and the ice clung to his claws so tightly that his scales plucked loose.
At this rate, he would surely die.
Harry reached deep inside him, clutching at the one thing that had never let him down, not even now: his magic. He released everything he had. Gusts of wind raged around him. Shadows lengthened. The sky grew dark. Claws as dark as night came out of the shadows, clutching the creatures and ripping them apart.
It wasn't enough.
He didn't see the strike, but he felt it. Something sharp and cold pierced through his wings and slashed his back. Harry looked at the sky and screamed. His soul, everything in his being, cried out for help.
But the scream barely lasted a second before it was cruelly cut off.
He collapsed. A creature stood above him. Its talons, soaked with his blood, pressed down on his wing.
Harry gasped, but there was no air. All he felt was pain, pressure, and blood. What happened? He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe!
The creature conjured a lance of pale blue ice and pointed it at Harry's throat. Harry's already clawed open throat.
This is how he would die, he realised as he choked on his own blood; not to Voldemort, not to Death Eaters, not to the killing curse, but to creatures on the streets of Privet Drive, for reasons he didn't even understand.
He looked up at the creature, silently begging for mercy, for any semblance of reason. He didn't even know why they were doing this. He didn't want to die!
But the creature was determined and consumed by fury. Without hesitation, the lance pierced his throat.
Harry choked on his blood, and for a moment, he knew nothing but pain.
The world faded as Harry stared at the darkened sky. He heard howls, loud and angry, but they didn't matter anymore. He struggled to breathe, every movement more painful than the last. His vision darkened.
Angry barks and snarls cut through the silence. Screams and screeches filled the air. A hand pressed against his neck, trying to stem the flow of blood.
But it was too late.
"Pup! Pup, wake up!"
Who?
"Please, please kiddo, open your eyes for me. DO SOMETHING!"
Sirius?
"Come on." A choked sob. "Stay with me, pup."
It's okay. It'll be okay.
...
"Please..." ...
I'll see you again soon... Sirius...
...
...
Mum, Dad... I wished—