Look, if you're expecting one of those stories where the hero gets his powers, saves the world, and gets the girl all in one neat package, you might want to try a different book. This is the story of how Harry James Potter—ten years old, severely malnourished, and possessing all the upper body strength of a particularly weak butterfly—accidentally became bonded to an alien entity with the moral compass of a particularly sarcastic pirate and a vocabulary that would make a sailor blush.
But we're getting ahead of ourselves.
It was Tuesday morning on Privet Drive, which meant it was officially Harry's turn to play "Dodge the Flying Uncle Vernon." For those keeping score at home, Vernon Dursley was built like a refrigerator that had been stuffed with concrete and rage, and he had all the charm of a constipated rhinoceros with a hangover.
Harry was currently wedged into his cupboard under the stairs, trying to become one with the shadows. Unfortunately, Harry was about as good at being invisible as a neon sign at a funeral, which is to say, not very.
"BOY!" Vernon's voice exploded through the house like a sonic boom mixed with pure hatred. "GET YOUR WORTHLESS CARCASS IN HERE THIS INSTANT!"
Harry's stomach did a triple axel with a side of impending doom. Vernon had approximately four different yells, ranging from "mildly annoyed" to "start writing your will." This particular bellow ranked somewhere around "begin composing final letters to distant relatives."
He crept out of the cupboard on feet that had learned the ancient art of making no sound whatsoever—a skill that came in handy when your relatives considered your existence a personal insult to their way of life.
Vernon stood in the kitchen like an angry purple mountain that had decided to put on a mustache and develop opinions about property values. Next to him, Aunt Petunia stretched her neck like a giraffe who'd just spotted something particularly offensive in her salad.
"You," Vernon jabbed a finger at Harry that looked like an angry sausage with anger management issues, "are going to explain why there's a burnt pan in MY kitchen."
Harry blinked up at his uncle through glasses that were held together with more tape than actual glass. His green eyes—the kind of green that made people think of emeralds or traffic lights or other things that were definitely more valuable than Harry himself—widened with genuine confusion.
"I was making breakfast like you asked, Uncle Vernon," Harry said carefully, his voice carrying the practiced tone of someone who'd learned that wrong answers could result in very right hooks. "The pan got too hot and—"
"AND YOU RUINED IT!" Vernon's face went from its normal shade of angry purple to a color that probably required its own name in the Crayola catalog. "You clumsy little freak! Can't do one simple thing without destroying my property!"
"Now, Vernon dear," Aunt Petunia said in her sweetest voice, which was about as sweet as lemon juice mixed with broken glass, "perhaps the boy needs to learn about consequences."
Harry had exactly 2.3 seconds to process this ominous statement before Vernon's ham-sized hand connected with his cheek. The slap echoed through the kitchen like a gunshot, and Harry stumbled backward, his vision going white around the edges. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
"There!" Vernon spat, flexing his fingers with the satisfaction of someone who'd just solved world hunger. "Maybe that'll teach you to be more careful with things that don't belong to you!"
Harry pressed his hand to his burning cheek, fighting back tears that absolutely could not fall. Crying was like blood in the water to sharks, except sharks were probably better conversationalists than the Dursleys.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I didn't mean to—"
"Oh, save your pathetic excuses for someone who cares," Petunia sniffed, examining her perfectly manicured nails like they held the secrets of the universe. "Back to your cupboard. No meals today. Perhaps hunger will improve your coordination."
As Harry turned to shuffle back to his prison, something deep inside his chest snapped. Not broke—snapped, like a rubber band that had been stretched beyond all reasonable limits and had finally decided it had enough of this nonsense.
He pressed his small hands against the cupboard door and closed his eyes tight, making a wish to whatever cosmic forces might be listening to the prayers of severely underfed ten-year-olds.
"Please," he whispered into the darkness, so quietly that even he could barely hear it. "Someone, anyone. I can't do this anymore. Help me."
He didn't expect an answer. He especially didn't expect the answer to come from three miles above his head, traveling at roughly the speed of "this is definitely going to leave a mark."
—
Three miles above Privet Drive, something that definitely wasn't supposed to exist according to any physics textbook was having what could generously be called a "sub-optimal atmospheric entry experience."
Drakor had been minding his own business, drifting through the cosmic void like any self-respecting symbiote on an extended vacation, when he'd picked up something that made his metaphysical teeth ache. It was a psychic distress signal so powerful it practically screamed "HELP ME" in seventeen different languages of pure, concentrated misery.
"Well, that's depressing," Drakor muttered to himself, adjusting his trajectory toward the source of the signal. "That's the most heartbreaking thing I've encountered since that planet where everyone communicated exclusively through interpretive dance about their feelings."
The signal was coming from a small blue-green planet that looked about as interesting as watching paint dry in a vacuum. But that cry for help... it reminded him of something important. Something that made his symbiotic essence twist with an emotion he'd almost forgotten he could feel.
Compassion. Ugh. He'd really hoped he'd gotten over that particular character flaw.
"Ah, what the hell," he decided, preparing for atmospheric entry. "I was getting bored of the whole 'drifting aimlessly through space while contemplating the meaninglessness of existence' thing anyway."
What Drakor failed to account for—and this was a miscalculation that would haunt him for approximately the next thirty seconds—was that Earth's atmosphere was significantly denser than he'd calculated. Also, he may have been going just a tiny bit faster than what most aerospace engineers would consider "advisable."
The crash landing could be heard from three counties away, registered on seismographs in four different countries, and probably confused at least seventeen different government agencies whose job it was to investigate things that fell from the sky and made loud noises.
—
The explosion sounded like someone had stuffed a freight train into a blender and then thrown the whole thing off a cliff.
Harry jolted awake in his cupboard, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to file a formal complaint with his cardiovascular system. Outside, it sounded like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were having a dance party with the Incredible Hulk.
Car alarms wailed in seventeen different keys, dogs howled like they'd just discovered the meaning of existence and weren't happy about it, and somewhere above him, the Dursleys were stumbling around like confused elephants who'd wandered into a china shop during an earthquake.
"WHAT IN BLAZES WAS THAT?" Vernon's voice boomed through the house, followed by the sound of his considerable bulk thundering down the stairs like a purple avalanche with anger management issues.
The cupboard door was yanked open with enough force to nearly tear it off its hinges. Vernon's massive form filled the doorway, his face purple with rage and something that might have been fear if Vernon had been capable of emotions more complex than "angry" and "hungry."
"You!" Vernon grabbed Harry by his oversized shirt and hauled him out of the cupboard like a rag doll that had personally offended him. "Get outside this instant and find out what caused that racket! And don't you dare come back until you have answers!"
Before Harry could protest—not that protests had ever worked in the history of Dursley interactions—he was shoved out the front door wearing nothing but his threadbare pajamas and a confused expression that had become his signature look.
The summer night air was cool against his skin, but that wasn't why he was shivering. Privet Drive looked like it had been hit by a very localized and extremely cranky meteor with a personal vendetta against suburban landscaping.
Street lamps flickered like dying fireflies having existential crises. Windows were spider-webbed with cracks that looked like abstract art created by someone with serious anger issues. And right in the middle of the pristine suburban road was a crater that could have housed a small car—or a medium-sized dinosaur, if dinosaurs were still in the market for suburban housing.
Steam rose from the impact site like incense from some otherworldly altar dedicated to the god of Really Bad Tuesday Mornings.
"Okay," Harry whispered to himself, his voice shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. "That's... that's definitely not normal. Even by Dursley standards."
He approached the crater with the careful steps of someone who'd learned to expect the worst from any given situation and had rarely been disappointed. His bare feet crunched on scattered debris—chunks of asphalt, fragments of what used to be Mrs. Figg's prize-winning garden gnome, and something that looked suspiciously like part of a satellite dish that had given up on life.
In the center of the crater was something that made Harry's brain perform several impressive mental gymnastics routines before giving up entirely and filing for workers' compensation.
It looked like living shadow—a mass of dark, writhing substance that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. As Harry crept closer, he could swear the thing was watching him with invisible eyes that were probably judging his fashion choices.
"Well, hello there, little human."
Harry nearly jumped out of his skin, which would have been quite a trick considering how little skin he had to spare thanks to the Dursley Starvation Diet™. The voice was coming from inside his head—smooth, amused, and carrying just enough otherworldly menace to make Harry's survival instincts start screaming and filing formal complaints.
"Did... did you just talk to me?" Harry whispered, his voice cracking like ice on a frozen pond during the world's most awkward adolescent phase.
"Guilty as charged," the voice replied with what sounded like a grin that had read all of Harry's thoughts and found them mildly entertaining. "Name's Drakor, and you, my severely undernourished young friend, are about to have the most interesting day of your remarkably unfortunate life."
"Interesting how?" Harry asked, because apparently his brain had decided that questioning mysterious alien entities was a perfectly reasonable Tuesday night activity.
"Oh, you know," Drakor said casually, "the usual. Flying, enhanced strength, the ability to punt your relatives into the next time zone, that sort of thing."
Before Harry could ask what exactly that meant—or point out that punting his relatives sounded more like wishful thinking than an actual plan—the dark mass surged toward him like liquid lightning with serious attitude problems.
Harry tried to run, but his legs had apparently decided to take an unscheduled vacation to somewhere with better working conditions, leaving him standing there like a deer in headlights if the deer had been starved for ten years and the headlights were sentient alien entities.
The symbiote enveloped him in what felt like the galaxy's most aggressive—and surprisingly warm—hug.
"Easy there, kiddo," Drakor's voice was everywhere now, wrapping around Harry's mind like warm honey mixed with cosmic energy and just a hint of "this is going to change everything." "This is going to feel weird for about thirty seconds, and then it's going to be absolutely awesome."
Harry felt the symbiote settling over his skin like a second layer of muscle that had decided to move in permanently. It seeped into every cell of his body with the efficiency of someone who'd done this before and had figured out all the shortcuts.
His reflection in a broken car window showed him covered in sleek, dark material that seemed to shift and breathe like it had its own opinions about fashion. His eyes—already an unusual shade of emerald that made people think of expensive jewelry or traffic lights—now practically glowed with inner light.
"Whoa," Harry breathed, flexing his fingers and watching the symbiotic material ripple like water with excellent timing.
"Oh, we're just getting started," Drakor chuckled, and Harry could feel the alien's amusement like warm electricity in his veins. "Tell me, Harry—and yes, I know your name now, perks of the psychic bond and extensive mental filing system—how do you feel about flying?"
"Flying?" Harry's voice jumped about three octaves and achieved frequencies that probably confused several bats. "Like... actually flying? In the air? Without a plane or any reasonable explanation for how physics is supposed to work?"
"Unless you know of another kind," Drakor said, and suddenly Harry felt something sprouting from his shoulder blades. The sensation was bizarre—not painful, exactly, but like having a sneeze that lasted thirty seconds and ended with wings instead of embarrassment.
He twisted around to see two magnificent wings unfurling behind him, dark as midnight with edges that gleamed gold and crimson in the streetlight. They were easily twice as wide as he was tall, and they felt as natural as his own arms—if his arms had suddenly developed the ability to defy gravity and make him look like the world's most underfed superhero.
"Holy—"
"Language, young man," Drakor interrupted with mock severity that fooled absolutely no one. "Though I do appreciate the sentiment. Now, shall we take these babies for a test flight? And by 'shall we,' I mean we're doing this whether you're ready or not, because patience has never been my strong suit."
Without waiting for an answer—a habit Harry was beginning to suspect Drakor had picked up from someone with severe impulse control issues—the wings flapped once, powerfully, and Harry shot into the air like a rocket fueled by pure amazement and several laws of physics that had decided to take the night off.
He probably would have screamed, but his voice seemed to have joined his legs on vacation to somewhere with better working conditions and dental coverage. The ground fell away beneath him, and suddenly Harry was soaring over Privet Drive like something out of his wildest dreams—the good dreams, not the ones where Uncle Vernon chased him with a rolling pin.
"This is impossible," Harry gasped, banking left around a street lamp with surprising grace for someone who'd never flown anything more complex than a paper airplane.
"Kid," Drakor said, his mental voice practically radiating smugness that could be seen from space, "you have no idea what impossible looks like. We're just getting warmed up. Also, you might want to look down and wave to your adoring public."
Harry glanced down to see Uncle Vernon standing in the doorway, his mouth hanging open like a broken mailbox that had just received news of its own obsolescence. Even from fifty feet up, Harry could see his uncle's face cycling through several interesting shades of purple and red that probably required their own entries in the medical textbooks.
"I think," Harry said slowly, a grin spreading across his face for the first time in months, "I'm going to like this."
"Now you're talking," Drakor laughed, the sound echoing through Harry's mind like rolling thunder mixed with the purring of a very large, very satisfied cat. "Welcome to your new life, Harry Potter. Trust me—it's going to be one hell of a ride."
As they circled back toward the crater, Harry felt something he'd almost forgotten existed: hope. For the first time since he could remember, tomorrow actually looked promising instead of like a dental appointment with someone who'd lost their license for excessive enthusiasm.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, Drakor was already planning their next move with the efficiency of someone who'd been waiting his entire cosmic existence for exactly this moment.
—
Harry woke up in his cupboard the next morning and almost convinced himself it had all been the most vivid dream in the history of ten-year-old imagination. Almost.
Then he tried to sit up and accidentally punched a hole through the ceiling.
"Oops," he whispered, staring at his fist embedded in the plaster above his head like some kind of very small, very confused superhero who'd skipped the part about controlling his strength.
"Morning, sunshine," Drakor's voice rumbled cheerfully in his mind, carrying the mental equivalent of someone who'd had several cups of cosmic coffee and was feeling chatty. "Sleep well? Because judging by the new skylight you just installed, I'd say you're still getting used to the whole 'enhanced strength' thing."
"You're still here," Harry said, somewhere between relief and terror, with a healthy dose of "what have I gotten myself into" thrown in for good measure.
"Where else would I be? Starbucks?" Drakor chuckled. "We're bonded now, kid. I'm not going anywhere until one of us dies, and since I'm functionally immortal and you're now significantly harder to kill, you're pretty much stuck with me. Besides, someone needs to teach you how to use your new abilities without accidentally demolishing the house. Though, given your living conditions, demolition might actually be an improvement."
Harry carefully extracted his fist from the ceiling, trying not to bring down more plaster on his head. A few white chunks scattered onto his pillow anyway, joining the growing collection of evidence that his life had taken a sharp left turn into Weirdsville, population: him.
"What kind of abilities are we talking about exactly?" Harry asked, because apparently his Tuesday morning routine now included casual conversations with cosmic entities.
"Oh, the usual starter pack," Drakor listed cheerfully, like he was reading from a menu at a supernatural restaurant. "Enhanced strength—as you've just discovered in your ceiling renovation project—flight capability, accelerated healing, improved reflexes, night vision, and that's just the basic stuff. Oh, and I'm essentially indestructible, which means you are too now. Pretty sweet deal, right?"
Before Harry could ask what "essentially indestructible" meant in practical terms—and whether it came with a warranty—the cupboard door rattled ominously like something out of a horror movie.
"BOY!" Uncle Vernon's voice boomed through the thin wood, carrying its usual undertones of barely contained rage and what sounded like a slight hangover from whatever he'd been drinking to cope with the previous night's events. "GET OUT HERE THIS INSTANT!"
Harry winced. In all the excitement of discovering he could fly and accidentally gaining an alien life partner with the personality of a sarcastic pirate, he'd momentarily forgotten about the Dursleys. Somehow, facing down cosmic entities seemed significantly easier than dealing with his uncle's morning routine.
He opened the cupboard door to find Uncle Vernon looming over him like an angry purple hippopotamus in a bathrobe that had seen better decades. His mustache was bristling with indignation, and his small, piggy eyes were narrowed to suspicious slits that could probably cut glass.
"Well?" Vernon demanded, his voice carrying the subtle menace of someone who really, really wanted an excuse to be angry about something and wasn't particularly picky about what. "What was that godawful racket last night? I've had three different reporters calling about some kind of 'meteorite incident' in our street! Do you have any idea how this affects property values?"
"Tell him it was swamp gas reflecting off Venus," Drakor suggested helpfully, his mental voice dripping with enough sarcasm to power a small city. "Or better yet, tell him to mind his own business before you demonstrate your new ability to punt him into the next time zone. I bet I could calculate the trajectory. It would be fun. Educational, even."
Harry nearly choked trying not to laugh, which came out as an odd coughing sound that made Vernon's eyes narrow even further—an impressive feat considering they were already practically closed.
"I... um..." Harry struggled to find words that wouldn't result in his immediate grounding until he turned thirty or possibly forty. "I think it was a meteorite, Uncle Vernon. But it's gone now."
Vernon's face began its familiar transformation from normal purple to "call an ambulance" burgundy. "Gone? Meteorites don't just disappear, boy! What kind of fool do you take me for?"
"The kind who yells at ten-year-olds for things completely beyond their control?" Drakor suggested. "The kind who—"
"Maybe someone from the government took it?" Harry interrupted quickly, remembering something he'd seen on the Discovery Channel during one of Dudley's brief educational phases before he'd discovered that cartoons required less thinking.
"Government," Vernon spat like it was a dirty word that had personally insulted his mother. "Probably your lot, causing trouble as usual. Freaks, the whole bunch of you, with your... your abnormalities and your complete disregard for normal, decent people."
"My lot?" Harry blinked, genuinely confused. As far as he knew, his "lot" consisted of one severely undernourished ten-year-old with broken glasses and a growing collection of bruises that could double as a color chart for various shades of purple.
Vernon's face achieved a shade of puce that probably didn't exist in nature and definitely shouldn't exist on human faces. "Nothing! Nothing at all! Get in that kitchen and make breakfast, and if you burn so much as a single piece of toast, you'll be eating nothing but bread crusts until Christmas! And possibly Easter!"
As Harry shuffled toward the kitchen, Drakor's mental voice dropped to a dangerous whisper that made the temperature around Harry seem to drop several degrees.
"You know, I could make him forget this entire conversation. Want me to scramble his brain a little? Maybe improve his personality while I'm at it? I'm thinking something with more kindness and significantly less shouting."
"Can you actually do that?" Harry asked, fascinated despite himself and the moral implications of alien brain surgery.
"Kid, I'm a cosmic symbiote with psychic abilities and a very creative interpretation of ethics," Drakor said proudly. "Brain-scrambling is basically my Tuesday hobby. Though I prefer to think of it as 'aggressive personality management' or 'therapeutic attitude adjustment.'"
Harry almost smiled as he reached for the frying pan, then caught himself. "Better not. He's awful, but..."
"But you're a decent kid with a functioning conscience," Drakor finished, and Harry could sense approval in the alien's mental voice like warm sunshine on a cold day. "I can work with that. For now. Though if he hits you again, all bets are off, and I'm going to introduce him to some very creative applications of cosmic justice."
In the kitchen, Harry began the delicate process of making breakfast without accidentally destroying any more cookware. Every movement required conscious effort to dial back his new strength. Cracking eggs became an exercise in extreme delicacy, and picking up the milk jug felt like handling a soap bubble made of hope and good intentions.
"This is going to take some getting used to," he muttered, gingerly flipping bacon with the concentration of a bomb disposal expert who'd had too much coffee.
"You'll get the hang of it," Drakor assured him. "Though I have to ask—and feel free to tell me to mind my own cosmic business—how long have these people been treating you like their personal punching bag?"
Harry's hands stilled on the spatula. "It's not that bad."
"Kid." Drakor's mental voice went dangerously quiet, like the calm before a cosmic storm that had personal vendettas against child abusers. "I can access your memories now. I've seen everything they've done to you, and 'not that bad' doesn't even begin to cover it. What they're doing is called child abuse, and where I come from, we have very creative ways of dealing with people who hurt children. Very creative and very permanent."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, focusing on the sizzling bacon and trying not to think about the fact that someone—something—actually cared about what happened to him. The idea was so foreign he didn't know how to process it without his brain short-circuiting.
"What would you do?" he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Oh, nothing permanent," Drakor said casually, though Harry could sense the predatory satisfaction lurking beneath the words like a shark circling in dark water. "Maybe just give them a little demonstration of what happens when you mess with someone under cosmic protection. Show them what fear feels like for a change. Let them experience some of that helplessness they're so fond of dishing out."
Harry carefully transferred the bacon to a plate, his hands surprisingly steady. "Not yet," he said quietly. "But... maybe soon?"
"That's my boy," Drakor chuckled, the sound warm with approval and just a hint of anticipation for future mayhem. "Patience and planning. I knew I picked the right human."
As Harry finished preparing breakfast, he realized something fundamental had changed. For the first time in years, he wasn't afraid of what the day might bring. He had backup now. Really, really terrifying backup with a vocabulary that could make pirates blush and a creative approach to problem-solving that probably violated several cosmic treaties.
The kitchen door swung open with enough force to rattle the dishes and probably register on nearby seismographs, and Dudley Dursley waddled in like a small, blonde whale in pajamas that had given up all hope of containing their contents.
At ten years old, Dudley had already achieved the impressive feat of weighing roughly twice as much as Harry, despite being only a month older. His piggy little eyes immediately zeroed in on the bacon with the focus of a heat-seeking missile that had been programmed exclusively to find breakfast foods.
"Move it, freak," Dudley grunted, shoving Harry aside with the casual cruelty that came as naturally to him as breathing or complaining about things being unfair. "I want extra bacon today. And make sure it's crispy. But not too crispy. And if it's not perfect, you're not eating for a week."
"Now there's a target-rich environment," Drakor commented dryly, his mental voice carrying the tone of someone who'd just spotted an opportunity for educational violence. "Want me to give little Lord Lardington a taste of enhanced strength? I promise it'll be educational. Possibly life-changing. Definitely memorable."
Harry bit back a laugh and somehow managed to keep his voice level. "Sure, Dudley. Extra bacon coming right up."
"Good," Dudley said, settling into his chair like a king claiming his throne, if kings were shaped like oversized beach balls and had the personality of spoiled milk. "And hurry up about it. I don't have all day to wait for freaks to serve me breakfast."
"Breathe, kiddo," Drakor murmured, sensing Harry's rising anger. "Save it for later. But when the time comes... oh, when the time comes, we are going to have so much fun."
Harry smiled as he added extra bacon to Dudley's plate. For the first time in his life, he had something to look forward to.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, Drakor was already making plans.
—
While Harry was busy trying not to accidentally crush breakfast ingredients with his newfound strength, Drakor was doing what any self-respecting cosmic entity would do when moving into a new neighborhood—conducting a thorough inspection of the property.
Harry's mind was... well, it was like exploring a house that had been lived in by someone who'd never been allowed to redecorate. Lots of locked rooms, boarded-up windows, and an overall sense that the previous management had been less than stellar. But as Drakor settled in, making himself comfortable in the mental equivalent of a cosmic La-Z-Boy, he noticed something that made his metaphysical hackles rise.
There was something else here. Something that definitely hadn't been invited to the party.
"Well, well, well," Drakor muttered to himself, his mental voice taking on the tone of someone who'd just discovered an unauthorized tenant in their rental property. "What do we have here?"
Nestled against Harry's lightning bolt scar like some kind of psychic parasite was a fragment of something dark and twisted. It pulsed with malevolent energy, feeding off Harry's life force like the galaxy's most unwelcome houseguest.
"Oh, hell no," Drakor growled, his protective instincts flaring to life. "I don't care what you are, buddy, but there's only room for one cosmic entity in this kid's head."
The thing—because calling it a "something" seemed too generous—seemed to sense Drakor's attention. It writhed and hissed like an angry snake that had been caught raiding the chicken coop, radiating waves of pure malice that would have made most beings back away slowly.
Drakor was not most beings.
"Listen up, you parasitic little worm," he said, cracking his metaphysical knuckles with anticipation. "I'm evicting you from the premises. You can leave voluntarily, or I can make this extremely unpleasant for you. Personally, I'm hoping you choose option two."
The soul fragment—because that's what it was, though Drakor didn't know it yet—launched itself at him with the fury of something that had been disturbed from a very comfortable feeding arrangement.
Big mistake.
Drakor engulfed the fragment like a cosmic vacuum cleaner with anger management issues, absorbing it with the efficiency of someone who'd done this sort of thing before. The process was... interesting. Like swallowing a particularly spicy meal that fought back and had opinions about the whole experience.
"There," Drakor said with satisfaction, settling back into his mental armchair. "Much better. Now let's see what you were hiding, you little—OH."
The memories hit him like a freight train loaded with nightmare fuel and daddy issues.
Tom Marvolo Riddle. Lord Voldemort. The darkest wizard in centuries, a man so thoroughly committed to evil that he'd literally torn his soul apart to achieve immortality. And this fragment—this piece of pure malevolence—had been living in Harry's head since he was a baby, slowly poisoning his thoughts and feeding off his magic.
"Magic," Drakor repeated, his mental voice filled with wonder and just a hint of "oh, this explains so much." "The kid's a wizard. A honest-to-cosmos, wand-waving, spell-casting wizard."
More memories flooded through him—Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a hidden world of magic that existed parallel to the mundane one, prophecies about chosen ones and dark lords, and the rather important fact that Harry Potter was famous in the wizarding world for supposedly defeating Voldemort as a baby.
"Supposedly," Drakor mused, processing the new information with the speed of someone who had eons of experience sorting through alien databases. "Except the bastard didn't die, did he? He just left a piece of himself in the kid like some kind of psychic landmine."
The more he absorbed from the soul fragment, the angrier Drakor became. The abuse Harry had suffered at the hands of the Dursleys was bad enough, but this? This was worse. For ten years, Harry had been carrying around a piece of his parents' murderer, a fragment of pure evil that had been slowly corrupting him from the inside.
"Not anymore," Drakor said grimly, completing the absorption process with the thoroughness of someone who really, really didn't like parasites. "Welcome to the Drakor protection program, kid. Nobody messes with my host. Nobody."
As the last of Voldemort's memories settled into his consciousness, Drakor found himself in possession of centuries of magical knowledge, dark spells that could level mountains, and a very clear understanding of just how screwed up the wizarding world really was.
"Oh, Harry," he murmured, his mental voice filled with something that might have been paternal affection if cosmic entities were capable of such things. "You have no idea what you're in for. But don't worry—Uncle Drakor's going to make sure you're ready for whatever comes next."
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Harry was blissfully unaware that his cosmic roommate had just consumed the soul of one of the most dangerous wizards in history and was currently planning what could only be described as "aggressive educational interventions" for the wizarding world.
He was too busy trying not to accidentally crush the eggs he was scrambling.
"Drakor?" Harry asked quietly, sensing some kind of shift in his alien companion's mental presence. "Is everything okay? You went quiet for a minute there."
"Oh, everything's fine, kiddo," Drakor replied, his mental voice carrying a note of satisfaction that probably should have been concerning. "Just doing a little spring cleaning. Nothing you need to worry about."
"Spring cleaning?"
"Let's just say I found some unwanted pests in the attic and took care of them," Drakor said cheerfully. "The important thing is that you're safe now. Safer than you've ever been, actually."
Harry frowned, sensing there was more to the story, but before he could ask any more questions, Aunt Petunia swept into the kitchen like a disapproving crane who'd just spotted something particularly offensive.
"What's taking so long?" she demanded, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Dudley's breakfast should have been ready ten minutes ago!"
"Sorry, Aunt Petunia," Harry said automatically, even as Drakor's mental voice took on a decidedly dangerous tone.
"Oh, we are going to have so much fun with her," Drakor murmured, and Harry could practically feel his alien companion's grin. "But not yet. First, we need to have a little chat about your heritage, Harry. It seems there are some things about yourself that you really should know."
"What kind of things?" Harry asked, carefully plating Dudley's breakfast with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.
"The kind that involves wands, magic spells, and a castle full of teenagers learning to turn teacups into hamsters," Drakor said casually. "Also, you're famous. Really famous. Like, 'they write books about you' famous."
Harry nearly dropped the plate. "What?"
"Oh, did I forget to mention?" Drakor's mental voice was pure innocence, which fooled absolutely no one. "You're a wizard, Harry. And not just any wizard—you're the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the kid who supposedly defeated the darkest wizard in centuries when you were just a baby."
"I'm a what now?"
"A wizard. You know, pointy hats, magic wands, the works. Though I have to say, after reviewing your educational options, we might want to consider some supplemental tutoring. These 'Hogwarts' people seem to have some interesting gaps in their curriculum."
Harry stared at the perfectly plated breakfast in his hands, his brain trying to process this latest revelation. Magic. He was magical. He was famous. He was apparently supposed to be living in a castle learning spells instead of living in a cupboard learning how to avoid his relatives' fists.
"This is insane," he whispered.
"Kid," Drakor said with the fond tone of someone who'd just adopted a particularly confused puppy, "you haven't seen anything yet. Now, shall we deliver Prince Dudley his breakfast? We wouldn't want to keep his royal roundness waiting."
As Harry carried the plate to the dining room, he couldn't help but wonder what other surprises his life had in store for him. Magic, aliens, and cosmic entities—Tuesday was turning out to be a lot more interesting than he'd ever imagined.
And in the back of his mind, Drakor was already planning their first magic lesson, complete with a curriculum that would probably give the Ministry of Magic several heart attacks and definitely wasn't approved by any educational board in existence.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
Thank you for your support!