This is my first story I've ever posted and is, obviously, a Harry Potter/ Akame Ga Kill Crossover set mainly in the Akame Ga Kill world. So go easy on me… Please?
I do not own, in any way, shape, or form Akame Ga Kill or Harry Potter.
With a sickening crunch he landed inside the small cupboard, rolling onto his aching back just in time to see the door slam shut behind him, the sound of a bolt slamming into place with the thud of a tombstone and a heavy figure stomp away. Sitting up painfully and suppressing an involuntary whimper as the movement's aggravated his injuries, he began to look himself over.
He ignored the pain. Pain was something he could handle.
Methodically checking over his injuries he let out a small sigh of relief. Mere bruises and a couple of scraps from landing in the cupboard that would be gone by morning. He wouldn't have to worry about bleeding all over his sleeping area or banging a fractured bone in the small confines.
Lying back carefully he stare up at the ceiling. A long time ago he would have been angry right now, full of hatred and rage at the world, at the parents who abandoned him, at his relative for being such horrible excuses of human beings.
But just like all things hatred is not infinite. It did not fade in him. He simple ran out.
Just like he ran out of tears and grief. And now he was empty. No happiness or joy. No love or hate or tears of misery.
In his life there was only three true constants, three things he took a kind of twisted comfort in.
Pain, a reminder and proof of his continued existence.
Labour, a distraction from the things he didn't want to face.
Finally the eternal cold that seemed to be everywhere he went, his constant and only ally through the years.
They were things not child not yet eleven should ever find any form of comfort in, but they were his and they were all he had. Them and a single, hollow wish. Every night, like a clockwork machine engraved into his very soul he would wish to be somewhere else, anywhere else, away from things he had ran out of hate for.
Somewhere he could learn to be human again.
The final part of that wish was never really granted.
Magic is a funny thing. If it is sentient then it is so vastly different, its morality so blue and orange to our black and white that humans, or any living beings for that matter, cannot comprehend it as a sentient thing.
That makes it no less effective.
A single, simple wish, repeated for years by a empty boy whose emotions had died long ago, combined with the body's natural instinct to escape that which could cause its termination, and a dash of unpredictable, incomprehensible magic that may or may not have an odd sense of morality and even odder sense of humour.
In a flash of light the boy named Harry Potter vanished from the cupboard under the stairs that was his home.
Now it would be noted that magic can be rather unpredictable. So is fate. So it may or may not have been a vague concepts odd sense of humour that the next Monday a teacher, realising Harry hadn't shown up for his detention, would give Harry's home a surprise visit.
He would then speak with a flustered and suspiciously uneasy Vernon Dursley.
He would then notice Vernon's less than subtle attempts to keep attention away from the door under the stairs with a rather odd bolt on the outside.
Driven by curiosity and a growing feeling of dread that same teacher would then, while shrugging off Vernon's attempts to stop him, open the door and see the small, filthy sheets that someone had slept in recently within.
In less than half an hour the police would then arrived and, after restraining Vernon after a violent outburst that really didn't help his case, had begun investigating the cupboard under the stairs.
They found the small, ragged, filthy sheet that someone, the missing child, obviously slept in.
Further inspection then lead to the discovery of the bloodstains throughout the cupboard, some of which were years old.
Even further inspection resulted in Vernon being kicked in the balls by and furious female officer.
By the end of the week the local news revealed that the delinquent of 4th Privet Drive was actually the victim of a horrifying case of child abuse and forced child labour.
The community of Little Whinging would then come to question how exactly they believed the smaller than average, polite ten year old boy who was always in old clothes far too large for him was a delinquent.
Not that Harry knew. Or cared. He had his own problems.
Far, far bigger ones.
And in a place between places, on a throne that was not quite real, a being that was more fantasy than reality laughed the kind of laugh that sent empires tumbling into ruin and gave rise great nations from nothingness.
In other words a ridiculously OP entity found something amusing. Why? Well… who knows?
Magic is incomprehensible. That means you can't comprehend it. That's why it's magic.
Now it begins.
The beginning of something…