Bound by Blood(wbwl)

Protectors and Rituals

It was dark and cold. Harry knew that it wouldn't subside. The five-year-old had nightmares where the cold and dark seeped in, crawling into his bones. Sometimes it suffocated him, dragging him down into a field of ice cold shards. He knew it was winter when he had those nightmares.

Vernon and Petunia(he refused to give them an iota of respect, having been taught by Sirius and Remus respect was for those who earned it, and the Dursley's definitely hadn't) had quickly worked out a way to keep Harry a secret. During the day, he would remain locked in his cupboard. It wasn't a problem for Harry to sleep since it was dark, dark enough he couldn't see his hand if he waved it in his face. During the night, he would be let out to clean up after the Dursley's, cook breakfast, and tend to the garden.

Harry grew up quickly after spending a year with the Dursleys. He was never hit, kicked, or abused. That was a bonus. But humans are social creatures, and Harry grew lonely as the nights continued. Luckily he had been able to keep the few belongings he had. When he woke up at day or had some time to read during the night, he would open up the gift Remus had gotten him for his fourth birthday, a book titled: A Wizard's Guide to Rituals and Traditions, and simply spend the short reprieve he had flicking through the pages.

That night, Harry decided to try one of the rituals, his favorite. It was supposed to enable you to see the dead. He wanted to see if it was true, if magic was real. Isolation had left its mark on Harry's mental state and he suffered. The 'memories' grew clearer of his time spent in the Wizarding World, as if his imagination was fleshing out the details. Or maybe it was all the time to reflect on his thoughts.

Either way, if this worked it would prove that world was real, and that he had magic. Because if those really were memories, then everyone thought he was a ... squib, wasn't that the term they used? Everyone thought him to be a squib except his godfathers.

Harry drew out the bone-white wand he had for as long as he could remember. It felt familiar, yet foreign. It was like he knew this wand, almost the faintest memory. It was perhaps what kept him sane. He could do magic with, albeit very weakly. He was only five.

"Dicant mihi mortui, per ipsum Magicam.(Let the dead say to me, by the magic itself)

"Et me suscipiat proavorum magnum legatum (And let me uphold the great legacy of my forefathers)

"Ut faciant sapientiam saum ad me(By enabling them to pass their wisdom to me)" Harry paused and thought for a moment. There was an additional part, but the book said to only use it when you were irreparably lost.

" Rogo, ductus opus est.(Please, I need guidance)" Harry finished. Now for the next part.

"I don't know if that worked. I don't know if magic is even real. I'm trying, but I'm losing my grip on reality. Please, if anyone can hear me, give me a sign."

Harry knelt, and for the first time in a long time, he felt the familiar magic of his family run through him. Not the Potter's, this was older, stronger.

Child, why are you so lost? whispered a voice, a humming cadence that was neither male nor female.

"Who, who are, are you?" Harry stuttered, surprised.

I am known by many names. The voice held a lilting tone of amusement. What would you like to call me?

"I get to choose?" Harry's wonder was evident in his voice.

It is your choice. The voice confirmed.

Harry thought for a moment. What was that one Greek god's name he had caught a glimpse of? It had held a certain magic to it, and the voice felt like it.