Harry Potter and the Witch of Karres

[RomanQrr]

Disclaimer

This is a fan-fiction based on Harry Potter books, and inspired by "Harry Potter and the Egger Route" by @dogbertcarroll, as well as first several chapters of Witches of Karres. Not only does that mean that I don't own anything belonging to actual rights holders, so please don't sue me. But also that this fanfic is going to be trying to stay true to (the first-7-book canon) Harry Potter as much as I'm able, but only take inspiration from the other two works mentioned. Which means I will probably mangle the Karres portion of the canon to suit fanfic's needs, while avoiding a few of the fanon staples, like high importance of lordships and titles, Daphne Greengrass, incompetent and/or malicious Dumbledore, and physically abusive Dursleys. Let it also be known that by writing this I'm not expressing my agreement with any political leanings any of the authors of the above works may have.

Also don't expect updates at any reasonable time. I have ideas for chapter 2 and some for chapter 3, but still, I suffer from condition I like to call "My Muse has ADHD".

Chapter 1: The girl in the cupboard.

In the rather boring community on a rather boring street of a rather boring country stood a rather boring house going by the address of Number 4 Privet Drive. To an outsider it would appear that a rather boring family by the name of Dursley was living in that rather boring house, going rather boringly through their rather boring day to day life. It would never occur to an outsider that anything strange would ever happen in that rather boring house. Especially not because of how rather forceful the rather boring family living in the rather boring house was shoving their rather boring normality in the faces of anyone who dared to speak to them.

But if you ask the neighbors of said rather boring house, they would be the first to tell you, though never out loud, that if anything strange would happen on their quiet street, it would definitely be connected to that house.

The patriarch of the family was a rather sizable gentleman spotting a sizable mustache and a sizable belly by the name of Vernon Dursley. His seeming lack of neck and his deep pockets were almost convincing enough to believe that Vernon was an Industrial Age American Rail Magnate instead of a British drill seller, if not, that is, for his quite vocal dislike of most things American. His fleeting presence on the Privet Drive could only be felt in the mornings, evenings, and during weekends, but even in that time his booming voice made it abundantly clear what were the things he didn't appreciate in life.

That being said, most people were more familiar with his wife Petunia. And even though the term "Karen" wouldn't be coined for another few decades, anyone who ever came into contact with her will always claim the term was severely mis-named. You see, Petunia Dursley could simply not stay out of other people's business. She would spend a considerable time of her day simply sticking her long nose into other people's troubles, for which her long neck and amazing memory were frankly disturbingly effective tools. If rumors were to be believed, during her stay at Number 4 Privet Drive Petunia Dursley ran the third largest domestic intelligence campaigns in British history all on her lonesome.

Another well known face around the block was the son of the two: a round boy by the name of Dudley. If you'd ever ask his parents, Dudley was a good hearted and radiantly pleasant sort of a boy who could do no wrong. And not even the fact that a football was slowly deflating inside the freshly broken window with Dudley's leg still in the air would dissuade them from saying otherwise. Simply put, Dudley was a menace of a boy, often seen throwing tantrums in front of his parents, something he was rather good at, and acting coolly in front of other children, who trailed after him like a school of fish hoping to get a turn with one of Dudley's numerous expensive toys that he broke at about one toy per week at the least.

And if that was all the members of Dursley household, their reputation would probably be as rather normal if somewhat annoying neighbors. But there was another boy. A boy so rarely seen that outsiders would not believe he exists. A boy, that, for all his plain and rather un-Dursley-sh look, would always send the Dursley family into fits of unimaginable weirdness. A boy going by the name of Harry Potter.

There was surprisingly little known about the boy. Even Petunia, a woman who will tell you wherever you liked it or not just 'how', 'what', 'where', and 'with whom' any manner of dirt took place in a 3 block radius of her house, would not say anything more than "He's my nephew! His drunk parents died in a car crash!" and storm off like you just insulted the Queen or something. He himself was rather rarely spotted outside of going to school, running away from Dudley, or aimlessly wandering the streets on hollidays. He wore oversized old shirts and trousers that were clearly his cousin's hand-me-downs and was spotting a wild mop of dark hair that it seems he never bothered to brush. His most striking feature, except for his rather weathered and cracked glasses, was a small lightning shaped scar on his forehead that many simply never saw hidden behind his hair.

And yet for how plain Harry was, he was somehow the catalyst for Dursleys to act like complete buffoons. There wouldn't be a week without at least one outcry by Vernon about one strange thing or another booming through the neighborhood. Things of the kind that kids would imagine while playing like fast growing hair or flying brooms or people transforming into cats. And any time you would interact with senior Dursleys in the presence of the boy you could practically hear the cogs crunching in their heads as they tried to find any excuse to end the conversation as quickly as possible and move the boy out of your field of vision. It was rather amusing that simply shouting every 5 minutes that there was some dark secret connected to Harry Potter would be more effective at hiding that fact than anything else they ever did.

So, it was only unexpected to the inhabitants of Number 4 Privet Drive that on June 23, 1991 their rather normal house will become the lunching platform of a rather chaotic set of inexplicable and wonderous events.

---

On that quiet morning, Harry Potter is fast asleep in his cupboard under the stairs where he usually slept, dreaming about giants and their flying motorbikes. As useful as that dream was for narrative connection between chapters of the original narrative, it nonetheless does nothing to stop Harry from feeling the stifling pressure of his house life on his chest. Harry does not know too much better, but he heavily suspects that he just might be living in a bad environment. If nothing else, the similarities between his life and Cinderella's before the faithful ball are really disturbing, as well as explained why Dursleys were so adamant at keeping the books of fairy tales from him. They claimed that they didn't want him getting any "dangerous ideas". And that notion Harry found himself completely agreeing with. Why would the evil stepmom want Cinderella to know how bad her life is? How much better it could be? Why would Dursleys want the same for Harry?

However, Harry knows perfectly well that his life was not a fairy tale. Oh yes, some strange things did happen to him from time to time, like him ending on the roof after being chased by Dudley, or the ugly sweater shrinking right on top of him, or his hair regrowing in a single night. But those are clearly just some good luck Harry picked up from somewhere. It is obviously not magic! Because if it is, then he obviously wouldn't have to live in the cupboard under the stairs with all the spiders, in the house of a family who hated his guts. It is obviously not magic if no one answered his daily requests for help just before he goes to bed. It obviously is not magic if he had to be all alone all the time.

Thoughts like these weigh down on Harry even through the thrill of riding a flying motorbike through the familiar skies above Privet Drive. But, as his conscious thought worms its way into his dream, Harry is starting to slip back into the same oppressive despair of the waking world. Despite a good night's sleep he feels wrung out and tired. Despite the pleasant dream he feels sad and ready to cry. Despite being simply in his cupboard he feels the weight of the world crushing down on his chest-

"<Excuse you, I don't weight THAT much...>"

Dream shatters in Harry's head, as a most beautiful voice cuts through the silence of the house. It was a girl's voice! Melodic like a singing glass and with a solid core of confidence. And even though he doesn't know what it said, Harry finds that he likes the voice. It is exactly what he imagined a fairy godmother to sound like, if a bit young. Harry decides that he really would like to hear it again.

Then, as he starts to wonder where the voice came from, the silence is yet again broken by the sound of cupboard's lock unlatching, a quick series of fast but rather light knocks, and a shrill voice of Aunt Petunia screaming "Up! Get up! NOW!"

Harry's eyes fly open by the sheer force of habit of being woken like that for as long as he could remember, only to stare in shock at a small form lying on his chest. The form is dressed in a comfortable looking set of outdoorsy green clothes, spots a plume of neck long blonde hair and a pair of annoyed misty-gray eyes glancing angrily at the door Aunt Petunia is still hammering. After a moment, the grownup decides that poor door received enough suffering for the time being and moves towards the kitchen. The frying pan can be heard being put on the cooker, and the 10 year old girl, and it is undeniably a girl, relaxes and puts her head back on Harry's chest like she is a cat disturbed from her nap by a strange sound only she could hear.

Harry's mind, meanwhile, is running a mile a minute. How can there be a girl lying on his chest? Harry doesn't know too many girls, but all of them don't want to spend time with him because of Dudley and none of them looked so cute or so intense. Moreover, Aunt Petunia just opened the lock on the only entrance to his rather small abode. How could anyone end up here with him if they weren't there when he went to bed?

Before Harry's mind caches up to his body, he lifts a finger and pokes the napping girl in the cheek. The cheek is soft and elastic and very much THERE. It is possibly the softest thing Harry ever touched and he enjoys the feeling immensely. He then guesses that the girl doesn't like being poked when her eyes open and spear into his own with an intense glare. He stares back and gets lost in the gray oceans so beautiful, he feels himself say "I must still be dreaming."

"You are not dreaming." The same melodic voice from before answers him, now speaking English. "I am very much real." The girl gets up and saddles his legs, a confident smile spreading through her gorgeous face. "I am here to help."

---

A few minutes later Harry sits in front of still sizzling plate of bacon, stunned, and watching the girl hum a catchy song he never heard while she cooked. That is usually his job (and humming wasn't tolerated), so it feels weird to just sit and wait for her to finish. So naturally Harry wonders: 'How did we get here?'

The few moments of shocked silence that followed the statements she made in the cupboard were interrupted by the invading rays of light revealing the blurry image of the angel on his chest, the lazy creak of the door sliding aside, and the ear shattering screech of one Aunt Petunia losing her mind from the sight. The commotion naturally caused Uncle Vernon to rush down the stairs in his sleeping wear to protect his dear wife from whatever evils she perceived.

But before he was able to get down, the suddenly grumpy girl barely gave Harry the chance to grab the mass of duct tape he used for glasses before she pulled him out of his bed, sat him in his current chair, and thrust a bundle of cloth in his hands, that turned out to be some very nice clothing his size. His relatives, meanwhile, have huddled by the door and were having a very intense whispered conversation about something. The fact that Harry couldn't hear more than few words like "their lot", "you know what", or "how", was a testament to how shaken his normally loud caretakers were.

The girl, however, without asking any questions, just stepped to the pan full of bacon put on the flame by Aunt Petunia, quickly found and seasoned the meat, and then proceeded to cook it to practical perfection. The only thing she said before now and then was "Why aren't you dressed yet?" when she put a good helping of roasted meat on the plate in front of him and went back to the now greasy pan to fry some eggs.

This still seems more like a dream to Harry than the bloody flying motorbikes.

Heedless of the ruminations of the now clothed boy, the Dursley couple seems to finally reach some kind of conclusion, because Aunt Petunia strides forward, even if a bit shakily, and finally addresses the girl in her usual falsely sweet gossiping voice. "Dear. It is nice of you to help us in the kitchen this morning, but surely your parents are worried about where you are."

"They aren't." The girl answers like cutting off a particularly stubborn head of a fish, with Aunt Petunia shuddering accordingly. "They know I will be fine and teased me long enough about it."

"Well, I should still speak to them. By phone or-" Aunt Petunia begins, but is interrupted by the girl flipping the eggs over with a single movement.

"You won't reach them." Again, an answer like a shot in an echoey amphitheater. She ignores the appalled woman opening and closing her mouth like an aforementioned fish out of water, and brings the well cooked meal to Harry, before frowning. "And why aren't you eating?"

Her tone is so demanding that Harry immediately digs into the plate and has to swallow not only the food, but also a moan of satisfaction. Though he almost immediately regrets his action as he hears a screech of a dying animal raging from Uncle Vernon's throat.

"Listen here, girl!" The round man spits, taking a couple heavy steps in her direction. "I don't know how you got here or how you ended up locked up in there with him!" His tone rising slowly, none of his body language even acknowledging that Harry is in the room. "But if you think that I will let some random kid eat my food you have another thing coming!"

Uncle Vernon is now towering over the blonde girl, holding his finger like a judgement of God. The girl meanwhile looks bored as she chews a bit of bacon and eggs from her own plate. She gives Harry a look that quite clearly says 'So that's what you have to deal with all the time?' and seems to smile slightly as he gets what it means. She doesn't even deign the outburst with a response, as tension in the room grows thick enough to be cut with a knife and-!

RING RING!

Harry gasps together with Aunt Petunia, as the ringing of the phone causes Uncle Vernon to jump and go ramrod straight. He practically rushes out of the living room, muttering something about people calling at the wrong times. His massive visage isn't even out of the room when the girl takes another forkful and triumphantly eats it.

The delicious smell of bacon and eggs tempts Harry to do the same, but he has another hunger that he, despite being always punished for it all his life, can't help but try to satisfy. "Who are you?" He asks, his voice small, yet she still manages to hear him.

"I'm The Leewit." She answers easily, her brilliant smile threatening to blind the boy. "This answer was a freebee. The next one gonna cost you."

"Cost me what?" Harry asks without thinking and immediately winces.

"A forkful of bacon and eggs." The girl- The Leewit says, punctuating her words with one from her own plate.

Harry sighs, gives a glance to the still speechless Aunt Petunia, and cuts off a bit of bacon and eggs. He puts the rather generous portion of both on his fork and, holding it with the knife, tries to move it to her plate. Only to be stopped by her own fork.

"Not what I meant." She shakes her head and gives him a fond look. "You are going to eat one for each answer you want."

Harry blinks, as realization of what she just said slowly spreads through his mind and quickly is met with disbelieve that something like this is possible. But the way her look hardens as he thinks that makes him hurry the fork to his face and quickly scarf down the bite. The food barely makes its way past his throat as he asks another question: "What is a 'leewit'?"

"That's THE Leewit." She says with a bit of exasperation, but her smile never falters. "And it's my name. Only one person may ever be named The Leewit at one time, and I am that person."

The explanation rang alarm bells softly in Aunt Petunia's mind, even as Harry eats another bit of protein. Before he can come up with a fourth question, a booming "WHAAAT?!" of Uncle Vernon shakes the house and probably the neighboring ones as well. And in the ensuing silence almost nobody notices the grumpy form of Dudley Dursley.

Dudley was having a terrible start to his birthday. Not only was he woken up at the ungodly hour of 8 AM on a summer break, by his parents loosing their minds! Not only did nobody come to dress him up and roll him out of bed! Not only did he get 2 less presents than the previous year (though this point Dudley won't know until way after the events of this morning (and is also not true, as it is only 1 less present))! But, more importantly, Harry was eating Dudley's breakfast!

The notion that Harry could have his own breakfast as large as this was completely inconceivable to the round boy. It had to belong to Dudley, and Harry somehow managed to steal it! It was so out of sorts, that he didn't even wonder what the hubbub were his parents about, or that there was a completely unknown (and very pretty) girl in the building. No, all that mattered, was Harry, the plate of warm, expertly cooked (clearly by Dudley's mother) bacon and eggs, and the empty space behind Harry that he could be easily shoved into.

Which is exactly what Dudley proceeds to attempt. He huffs forward dashing through the open doorway towards the other boy, hands rising, palms opening and!-

Barely manages to stop as an eating knife suddenly Thunk!s into the space Dudley's hands were about to occupy. Slowly, as if in a presence of an apex predator, Dudley turns his head to the side from which the knife came from and finally sees the calm and confident Leewit sending him the stink-eye.

"Careful." She said, her voice dripping with the promise of violence. "Another stunt like that and you might get hurt."

"Dudleykins!" Outcries Aunt Petunia, quickly moving to her son and pulling him back out of the harms way.

Like a magical incantation, the sound summons Uncle Vernon who just finished talking to Mrs. Figg about her broken leg and inability to watch for one adolescent kid, much less 2. It doesn't much matter though, as the real danger to his kid seemed to snap something in Mr. Dursley, causing him to flip the table aside, sending uneaten food crashing to the floor.

"YOU DARE?!" Vernon bellows, towering over the Leewit, who casually stood up and kicked her chair away. "You dare threaten MY child in MY home?!"

"Your idiot son needs to learn some manners before it gets him in trouble." The Leewit says, coolly. She radiates so much confidence that Harry isn't even sure it could be real.

"You come! Into MY HOUSE! UNINVITED! Eat MY FOOD! Assault MY SON! And now tell me! How to RAISE HIM?!" With each word, Vernon's face got more and more red, as blood rushed up into his head.

"Well someone has to give you pointers as you are failing both children in your care-"

The last word was lost in the Uncle Vernon's roar of rage, as he literally shakes and raises clenched fists up into the air. In that moment the world goes still for Harry. He sees as Aunt Petunia's horrified visage became paler than a ghost, trying to keep Dudley behind her. He sees Dudley trying to get from around his mother, clearly eyeing the broken plates on the floor and giving the rest of the events in the room absolutely no heed. He sees how Uncle Vernon moves his center of gravity forward, clearly intending to rush the small girl speared with his bloodshot eyes.

And he sees The Leewit taking a small, gasping breath that fills her lungs as she stares death in the face.

And Harry moves. And Harry is faster. Faster than the raging man finally loosing it after years of tention. Faster than that man's son hellbent on getting his morning meal. And most importantly, faster than The Leewit's whistle is forming in her mouth.

So it is a complete shock to the girl, when the boy she came to protect, to save, drapes himself over her, blocking his mountain of an uncle from view, and thinks very very hard that 'I don't want us to be here!'

Mr. Dursley crashes through the two figures, his hand bashing into the hard wood floor. The pain of it all suddenly clears his mind, focusing and horrifying the man of what he allowed himself to do. He takes a shuddering breath, his eyes not seeing as he comes to terms with what he is about to witness, the squelching sounds disturbing him immensely.

Finally, he sighs out an even and heavy breath, and opens his eyes.

And sees nothing, but a pale statue of his shocked wife, a pig of a son eating from the floor and making those horrifying meaty sounds, and not a clue that the two other 10 year olds were ever here.