Summary: When Harry's heritage becomes unsealed, who will teach the boy to master the "Power the Dark Lord knows not"? Set during Harry's sixth year and eight years following the Naruto series (Making Naruto and Sasuke 20).
Authors Note: The story is rated R as it contains extremely graphic violence (with Naruto and HP combined what did you expect?), as well as a lot of profanities and implied (and possibly more) Slash. If you don't like these, don't read. You have been warned. Also, just to note, this was written after Order of the Phoenix, and follows everything through the first five books. Due to the fact that the Naruto series is not complete, I have invented my own ending.
Pairings: Undecided. As far as I know now there is only going to be heavily implied slash. This does not mean there will be all slash pairings (Ron/Hermione will probably feature but it isn't definite).
Now, without further ado, you can read the Fic.
Note: The Naruto series is near complete AU in this fic. Here they were never Ninja, they were raised as Wizards. Also, there is no such thing as the Byakugan or any other Advanced Bloodline. The only Advanced Bloodline is that of the Uchiha, and this will be explained later.
Prologue
Harry lay on his bed, staring towards the ceiling with imperceptive eyes. He refused to sleep; sleep was a one-way trip to the nightmares that haunted him during the hours he was supposed to be "resting". His eyes were heavy and he could not help but stifle a yawn as the realisation of how tired he really was dawned upon him. Glancing towards the luminous alarm clock on his bedside table, Harry noted the time - 23:47 - a mere 13 minutes until he turned 16 years of age. He thought of the number, sighing as he listed it as another hell-filled year he had survived. To him tomorrow was just another day, though one that marked another year passed in his miserable life.
To many, the nonchalant way in which the boy looked upon his own birthday may have seemed strange, but then Harry Potter was unlike any other boy his age in the rest of the world. For one thing, Harry loved his school more than any other place in the world, and for another he enjoyed doing his homework more than going out to play in the streets like most boys his age. However the thing that made Harry so much different from any other child in Privet Drive was not his enthusiasm about school or his dislike of socialisation; what made Harry Potter special was whom Harry Potter really was.
Harry Potter was a Wizard.
Possibly the most famous Wizard of his age, Harry wished merely for a normal life; to be treated with some sense of normalicy was a thing Harry had craved for years, and something he was sure he would never be given. Since he was a year old his name had been known to everyone in the Wizarding world, along with the title that went with it. Since the day that the Voldemort turned up at his home and murdered his parents, Harry had been known throughout the Wizarding world as the only person to ever survive a direct attack from Voldemort. That, coupled with the fact that the curse cast at him by the Dark Lord had rebounded upon its caster, stripping him of his body and his powers, had made him even more famous. From that day on, his name had been little more than three words, ignored by most in favour of his title; the majority of the world knew him as nothing more than "The Boy Who Lived". It was a title Harry was not entirely thrilled to receive.
He also wished he could be anywhere other than his dreaded Aunt and Uncle's house right now. The Dursley family were Harry's only living relatives and they despised magic in any sense, especially if that magic happened to involve Harry who they seemed to hate more than magic itself. Usually when Harry returned from Hogwarts the Dursley's would immediatly lock away his school supplies and give him a list of chores to do. This summer had been better in some ways, and yet for the majority worse. True, his Aunt and Uncle had been so scared by the warning presented to them by the Order that Harry no longer had to cook the breakfast, wash the dishes, tidy the house and clean the garden during the day. He almost wished that they would tell him to do something; anything to take his mind off of the events that had transpired only a few weeks ago. Sirius' death was still hard to take, and Harry doubted whether he would ever truly be over it.
"I don't deserve to be over it, after all it's my fault he died."
Lying upon his bed he tried to shake the thoughts from his head. He once again fixed his eyes unseeingly towards the ceiling. All he wanted was for it to be over; no more pain, no more death, no more fighting. And Harry knew it would be, one day. Whatever the outcome of the final battle, the responsibility rested upon his shoulders alone, and everything he wished away would never leave until he had stained his own hands.
"And either must die by the hand of the other,
For neither can live whilst the other survives…"
The words flowed through his mind, painfully etching themselves into his brain even as Harry tried to forget them. The prophecy was the least and the most of Harry's current worries, along with his mourning over his godfather and the fact that he had received word from his best friends that he would not be joining them during the summer until the start of term when he would meet them on the train. Harry couldn't help the pang of hatred that rose up inside him against the Headmaster; it was undoubtedly he who had refused to give him permission to leave Privet Drive. Harry wasn't sure he had completely forgiven the man for the events that had caused the death of his godfather only weeks beforehand. Even as he thought it Harry couldn't decide whom he blamed more; Professor Dumbledore or himself.
"There's nothing you can do, Harry…nothing…. He's gone."
Pushing the voice away, as far to the back of his mind as he could mange, Harry walked to the window, looking out for any sign of Hedwig returning. She had flown away a week ago, a bundle of letters tied to her leg; letters to Ron and Hermione and the usual three-line long note to the Order to tell them everything was fine at the Dursley's. Resting his head against the cool glass of the window, Harry searched the skies for any sign of his faithful pet returning.
Privet Drive was bathed in moonlight and lamplight combined, an odd silver-orange glow washing over the hedges and pavements. Against the sky there was no sign of an owl flying, and he was sure he would have seen her if she had been coming; there were no clouds to hide behind. He watched for what felt like an eternity, but what was really no more than a few minutes. The only thing out of place he could see in the window were the empty streets, his own reflection and the illuminated numbers of his alarm clock reflected backwards, the 23:58 only just discernable.
Two minutes until he turned 16. He didn't care. 16 was just another number, another year he had survived when others had died because of him. The events of the year washed over him then as he stood, waiting for the time to tick by.
"THEN – I – DON'T – WANT – TO – BE – HUMAN!
Kill me now, Dumbledore…
I'VE HAD ENOUGH, I'VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON'T CARE ANYMORE…
HE – IS – NOT – DEAD!
SIRIUS!
AARGH!"
The last thought burst from his mouth as midnight came and pain exploded from every cell in his body. Every fibre of his being felt as though they were on fire, burning brightly until all that was left was ash. The pain wasn't centred on his scar; instead it circulated towards his eyes and he scrunched them shut, trying to block it out. He screamed again, unceasing even as he heard his Uncle's enraged shouting and the door being kicked open. Harry was far beyond caring, the pain coursing through him was greater than anything he had ever felt before.
It was like his blood had boiled and was burning him from the inside.
It was like his eyes were being pierced with a thousand needles.
He felt his Uncle pull at his top, dragging him to his feet from where he had collapsed onto the floor. He could hear him shouting, yet was unable to make out what the man was saying. He felt himself being shaken, pain intensifying in his neck as his head was thrown backwards and forwards. He felt pain intensify in his shoulder as he was thrown roughly to the ground, but it was barely distinguishable from the pain that had taken hold of his entire body. He screamed even more as the pain seemed to be gathering towards his eyes.
It was like fire and ice attacking his body simultaneously.
It was like the Cruciatus Curse cast on him a hundred times.
It was burning.
It chilling.
It was power.
There was no use in him fighting anymore.
With a heart-wrenching, pain filled scream, Harry opened his eyes.
In a single, thunderous crash every single window of number four Privet Drive exploded outwards, showering the street in a million shards of glass, glittering beneath the silver-orange glow of the mixed moonlight and lamplight. A moment later the street became silent again.
Everything in his brain seemed fuzzy, a thousand questions layered upon another. There was only one thing he knew and that was that he must not open his eyes. At first, why this was so important was a mystery to him. He lay there for several minutes, nostrils filled with the stench of burning and destruction, before his memories of what happened returned, and as they did he squeezed his eyes shut all the harder.
Pain.
Struggle.
Power.
The feelings had coursed through him, each fighting for dominance with the other until Harry no longer knew which it was that he felt. His eyes burned, stinging with only a shadow of the pain he had felt earlier in the morning. Still he refused to open them.
"I might have been here for hours...maybe more."
He tried to sit up, each muscle aching with its own individual pain. Pulling himself into a sitting osition was a struggle, still blinded to his surroundingsand still blind to his surroundings he pressed his hand onto something sharp. He quickly withdrew it, feeling the warmth of the blood cascading across his palm and running down his wrist. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes, fighting to escape from his closed lids.
It was then that he chanced to open his eyes, only slightly in case he needed to shut them again quickly.
The first thing that occurred to him was that he would not need to shut his eyes again. Unlike before when he had felt the power building behind them, there was nothing now. It was as though all the power within him had vanished, used up in the blast that had torn painfully from his eyes.
"I need to get to Dumbledore...he should know..."
He froze. His surroundings were starting to sink in, the complete destruction of his room finally hitting him. There was almost nothing that was not burning or destroyed, the remnants of his room indefinable from the wreckage that now filled the space. Parts of the ceiling had caved in and through what had once been his door Harry could see that the rest of the house was as destroyed as his bedroom. Staggering through the rubble Harry tripped several times before making it towards his bed. The metal frame of the bed was a mess - twisted and melted as though under extreme heat - although it remained for the most part standing. Falling on the floor beside it Harry quickly pulled up the loose floorboard and grabbed his few meager possessions from within it; his wand and photo album tightly wrapped inside his invisability cloak for safekeeping.
Harry tried not to collapse as he stumbled from the room, almost falling downstairs as he made towards the Dursley's room. Before he could reach it he saw something that made him want to vomit.
Lying in the hall at the bottom of the stairs was Vernon Dursley, caked in filth and blood. His arm lay sprawled in a way that made it obvious it was broken in several places and he had one of the long, wooden poles from the staircase protruding from his stomache, blood slowly pooling around his prone figure. All hatred for the man seemed to evaporate in a second as Harry jumped through the wreckage and down the stairs. He felt for a pulse desperately, fingers unable to find anything underneath the layers of filth and blood.
"I've killed him... I'm going to go to Azkaban, and..."
The thoughts stopped at once as he felt the pressure under his finger. A tiny, almost indefinable beat deep within the neck where Harry's fingers still rested. A pulse, weak but still here. Vernon was alive, but not by much. With a crash the roof began to collapse in, and Harry watched the walls of the upstairs rooms crash down as plaster began to rain on him. Pulling his wand from the folds of the invisablility cloak, Harry weakly pointed it towards his Uncle's almost lifeless body.
"Wingardium Leviosa." he said panicking. Nothing happened and he tried several times before giving up. Grabbing Vernon under the arms he began to drag him towards the front door, kicking it open as he reached it. The night outside was dark and the once orange glow from the streetlamps had dissapeared completely. Vernon's head hit the step of the door as Harry dragged him through it, sending Harry falling backwards onto the path, too weak to move.
He managed to make out the image of Dumbledore appearing, bright robes illumintaed in the moonlight and wand drawn. He was running towards the house, but before he could reach him, Harry's world caved in around him and darkness descended upon him.
A/N: The Prologue. Not as long as I wanted it to be but nevermind.
Erishon