Demon Hunter

A New Resolve

Harry continued to stare at the book on his bed.

'What the hell?'

He decided the moment he saw it, it would be a bad idea to touch the book. Just in case it was a portkey. The last thing he needed was to be kidnapped and used to resurrect another dark lord.

Harry visibly shuddered at the memory. Shaking the thoughts from his head, he grabbed his wand and pointed it at the book...

And then poked it.

Nothing happened.

Deciding to throw caution to the wind, he set aside his wand and carefully picked up the book with his hands. The leather cover felt cool against his skin and it was surprisingly light for the amount of text it appeared to have. Harry ran his hands along the cracked bindings only to find his fingers tracing strange runes burned into the leather. The shiny black of the symbols camouflaged into the dark-brown skin of the book's face and could easily be missed.

Harry slowly curled his fingertips around the inside of the cover and tugged it carefully.

The book wouldn't open.

He pulled harder--digging his fingernails into the leather. It still wouldn't budge. Sighing in defeat, Harry frowned dejectedly and tossed the book onto the bed. He noticed there was an odd feeling of excitement fluttering in his chest when he held the book and he was unable to turn away from it. He read the cover again.

Blood Magic and Rituals

Blood Magic...

Harry stared at the title.

Blood...

His instincts were screaming at him. But it was crazy--it was sick. Then again...he was a wizard. And after some of the things he's seen...

With a look of newfound determination he began searching frantically for anything sharp. Finding nothing in sight Harry hopped over the edge of his bed and landed in a crouch next to his trunk. The lid was immediately thrown backwards and he began battling through the sea of robes and books until he hit the bottom. One of his hands grasped the cold jagged edge of a shard of the broken mirror. He pulled it from his trunk and walked calmly back over to his bed.

'I'm sorry Sirius,' Harry thought and he poised the once gift from his godfather over the book. He made a shallow cut on the tip of his index finger and watched the blood collect and bead under the appendage. The surface tension snapped and a single droplet of blood fell through the air before splashing onto the aged cover of the book. Harry held his breath as nothing happened. Maybe he needed more blood?

As if an enormous gust of wind suddenly blew through the open window, the book flew open; pages flipping through magically until they reached the beginning paragraph. Harry sat in awe as a warm power seemed to wash over him. It was comforting, invigorating.

With slightly shaking hands, he lifted the book up and began to read through the introduction.

In summary, blood magic was what was known as wild magic: unknown whether to be completely dark or light. It could easily be used for both purposes and always required some amount of blood. The more powerful and complicated a spell or ritual--the more blood required. Not everyone had the ability to use blood magic. Those with a pure soul would be unable to wield it because of the sinister process of taking blood.

It was dangerous. It was immoral. It was perfect.

'Voldemort,' Harry thought with smirk that would make Malfoy proud, 'you're going down.'

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The next morning Harry woke up bright and early at six A.M.. The day before had him banishing his sorrows and worries to the back of his mind and seeking comfort in the mysterious gift bestowed upon him. He knew it was dangerous to trust something that seemingly appeared out of nowhere, especially since it pertained to 'wild magic', something some might argue as dark. But Harry knew in his heart and instincts that this was something he was meant for. It just felt right. Most importantly, it would give him the edge he needed to finish and survive the war.

And with a brighter, more confident outlook on his destiny, Harry managed to scrounge up a resolve to go all the way in this saving-the-world business. And that included fixing himself.

Pulling on a pair of sweatpants and one of Dudley's old t-shirts, Harry slipped on some sneakers and snuck out the front door. Without delay, he started a light jog. He wanted to take it slow at first, so not to over exert himself, and gradually work up to a good stamina. After all, he hadn't been running much since his "Harry hunting" days.

Oh, one could count on a bit of running from a pack of ravenous arachnids, crazed werewolves, and a few sadistic death eaters, but that was nothing compared to 'Big D' and his gang. Harry suspected he was in better shape than most wizards his age, especially the purebloods (who probably considered getting up to physically look for something as 'muggle') even if he was a bit on the runty side. The combined efforts of demanding chores from the Dursleys and quidditch helped tone his body into a respectable shape, but not near enough for what he needed to be in. Power was useless without the stamina to back it up.

Harry returned from his jog about forty-five minutes later with the front of his shirt soaked in sweat. Being completely winded with a stitch in his side let him know how much more out-of-shape he actually was. He ran upstairs with jellied legs and proceeded to execute several basic sit-ups and pushups before stretching out to prevent any pulled muscles, as he vaguely recalled learning about from primary school gym class. Afterwards he jumped into the shower before heading down to cook breakfast for the family.

The Dursleys were a bit shocked to see him cooking breakfast for them again after being a recluse for the last few days, but were silently thankful. Though they'd never admit it, Petunia's omelets paled in comparison to Harry's.

Harry spent the rest of the day in his room reading his book and trying out different types small rituals, such as vanishing things or making small shields out of blood. The most advanced he'd gotten in the Book was creating and controlling tiny blood whips.

Not once in his trials was he sent a letter from the ministry.

Heartened by such progress, Harry continued this schedule everyday. Everyday he would gradually grow stronger magically, mentally, and physically. He would not be taking shit from Dumbledore, Fudge, or Voldemort. By the end of this war--they would respect him.

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Harry stood in front of the stove, flipping pancakes and whistling an unknown tune. The Dursleys were due to be up sometime within the next ten minutes. As he walked away from the stove for a moment to grab some juice glasses, he ran a hand through his damp hair and noted that it now ran well past his ears.

Usually his hair seemed to regulate itself, but perhaps his desire to change had made his hair grow as well.

A loud thumping noise shook the loose plaster from the ceiling as his uncle made his way down the stairs, shortly followed by his son. Dudley had lost a great deal of weight over his last year at Smeltings. While he still looked heavy, more of the arm muscle he developed in boxing was visible and a lot of his acne cleared up. Lately he and his gang took to hunting girls rather than small defenseless children. Had Harry not been so engrossed with his new book, he would have gladly spent time laughing at whatever pitiful advances Dudley employed on Little Whinging's females.

Harry silently served his uncle and cousin and set a plate aside for his aunt before dishing some out for himself.

"Boy," his uncle grunted while fixing him a glare, "the lawn needs to be mowed and your aunt wants the garden weeded before lunch today."

"Alright," Harry said passively. In truth, he did not mind the manual labor his relatives assigned him. It helped keep his mind off Sirius--which it was oft to do when he didn't have the Book in hand. His aunt chose that moment to enter the kitchen. She granted him one, petty sneer before sitting down at the table to eat.

Breakfast soon finished and Harry began cleaning dishes while his aunt and uncle discussed what was wrong with the world. Dudley seated himself in the living room to watch some T.V. All was right in the Dursley home.

Deciding it would be better to get the lawn work done now before the sun got too hot, Harry made his way towards the front door.

"It's Reg, Reginald Fairfield!" Laughter and applause sounded from the T.V. as Harry passed the living room. He rolled his eyes at some of the dumb sitcoms his cousin wasted time watching.

The weeding took longer than Harry had expected it to; most likely from the neglect it suffered while he was away for the year. It was almost eleven by the time he rolled the mower out of the shed. The sun had heated up to unbearable degrees and Harry was forced to remove his shirt before he sweated to death. He grimaced as he gazed at his light complexion. While not overly pale, he was in dire need of a tan and made a small vow that by the next time he saw Hermione he would at least be as dark as her.

He paused to cast an amused smile at himself. What a vain thought.

By the next half hour, Harry only managed to finish half of the lawn. He could tell by the random catcalls and snickering from one of the hedges by the road that Tonks was on duty. Therefore he made it a habit to make discreet, rude gestures in that particular direction.

"HEY SEXY!" a loud, feminine voice called from across the street. Harry's head snapped up and, to his surprise, saw an attractive, young woman running towards him from across the street. She wore a tight, white t-shirt that stretched across her large bust and revealed her midriff along with very short, red shorts and clunky, black hiking boots. Her light-brown hair was swept back in a half-ponytail and she looked to be a little older than he was.

There was no way in hell she was talking to him; she was just way out of his league. From his left he could hear an increasingly annoying snicker. Harry made a mental note to beat Tonks with that damn umbrella stand she always tripped over.

"Hi there!" said the girl warmly as she hopped in front of his face. Harry nearly swallowed his own tongue in shock; apparently she was talking to him.

He hastened to turn off the mower and then turned to face her, casually resting his thumbs in his back pockets. Unseen to the girl, he let his weary fingers brush his pocketed wand. Damn whatever Moody said--he'll put his damn wand wherever the hell he wants to.

Harry unconsciously blew some of his long bangs out of his eyes as he watched her. A small habit he picked up sometime before the end of his fifth year.

"Hey," he said as coolly as possible, hoping against hope that he wouldn't make a fool of himself.

"So anyway..." the girl continued, "I was chilling across the street over there and saw a potential sex god--which would be you, in case you're that slow--and I got this insane urge to turn you into my sex slave. I thought I should ask you before I took you by force."

Harry stared at her.

What...the hell?

He must have looked pretty dumfounded because the girl sighed with exasperation at his silence.

"So, what's your name?" she asked. "Unless you want me to call you 'sex god'?"

Just after she said this, a dreamy and lustful expression passed over her face. Harry continued to stare at her. This had got to be the weirdest bird he'd ever met. Of course it was not as though he had talked to a lot of girls before, being locked in a cupboard for the majority of his life and all that. He could tell that she was American by her accent and wondered if all of them were like this overseas.

Harry didn't want to tell her his name in unlikely case she was a witch, so just to be on the safe side: "It's Reg, Reginald Fairfield."

He blinked several times, not understanding his own response. Now where the hell did that come from?

The girl stared hard at him for a long while as if she knew he was lying.

"Shiva!"

Harry and the strange American girl both turned to face a young man with a short, dark ponytail jogging across the lawn to where they were standing. Harry immediately recognized him.

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