Ebony Sun

Resident Evil: Extinction / Chronicles of Riddick (Post films.) / Harry Potter (AU from post OotP onwards.)

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I do not own Harry Potter, Resident Evil or Chronicles of Riddick and/or anything affiliated with the afore mentioned.

All original concepts, designs, ideas and characters not recognized by the canon series are mine unless otherwise stated.

This is a work of Fanfiction and is open for public viewing; I gain no monetary prophets nor any royalties via writing this piece.

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WARNING

Will contain: excessive and graphic gore and violence, substance abuse, graphic scenes of a sexual nature, homo-erotica, hetero-erotica, Post-apocalyptic scenarios, character development equalling to Out of Canon Characterizations i.e. Dudley Dursley, Petunia Dursley and Draco Malfoy (Basically meaning that I’ve developed their characters to such a degree they are unrecognisable from the canon. Deal with it.).

If you have an issue with any of these, kindly either: go and find something a little more to your tastes, or, carry on reading and skip over the parts you may find uncomfortable. Any harmful comments that hold useless browbeating will be deleted and the perpetrators reported.

Fact of life people, I’m not going to put up with your shit-slinging.

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I have only two words for you: plot – bunnies.

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Ebony Sun

Chronicle One: Escape

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It was funny how everyone in my world assumed that their biggest problem was Voldemort.

It never even entered their minds that there was an even fouler evil lurking out there.

One not even capable of magic.

The world we once knew is no more.

Six-years-ago a Virus produced in America was set loose, it started with The Hive – an Umbrella Corporation laboratory set deep underground to avoid detection or question – next it was Racoon City, nuked to prevent the further spread of the infection without checking to see if it was communicable via water or animal life that managed to escape the blockades. Hey, if teenagers can do it, so can the Undead.

Yes. The Undead, because that’s what this Virus does.

It reanimates dead cells, injects new life into the dearly departed and leaves them with only their base instincts.

The need to feed.

There are few of us left now; our numbers keep dwindling, while theirs keep growing. We learn early on that while they may want our flesh, they have no real need for it; we keep moving, never staying in one place because if we do... they’ll follow and like insects, they will swarm us until there is nothing left.

Keep moving. Keep running. Keep living. Even as everything around us dies.

That’s all we can do in this living nightmare.

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Cat-like green eyes leered through the cross-hares, sniper rifle held tight against his shoulder eyes lined down the barrel through the scope.

“Sorry about this Pansy.” He muttered, mentally pasting the face of the black haired Slytherin onto the dried out decayed features of the little girl stood listlessly in front of a motel gas-station, her once pretty white dress dirt and bloodstained as she swayed on the spot with lifeless eyes. He squeezed the trigger and the girl dropped like a rock, a splatter of black and red blood decorating the sand behind her head.

Carefully scanning the terrain, Green eyes and Sniper-rifle took out five more of the Walking dead before a slight rustling behind him brought the young man to his senses and rolling to the side, 50cal Desert Eagle wrenched out of his thigh-holster and discharging three somewhat panicked shots into the shuffling corpse that had been behind him intent of chewing on his tasty brain-meats.

Watching as the blue clothed woman dropped to the ground with a sad mocking rattle of life, the 21-almost-22-year-old collapsed back on the sand with a pent up sigh of relief. Clearing out gas-stations and similar areas was always a nightmare, you never knew who or what you would find in the surrounding area, he shivered remembering the not-so-fun time he had playing Virus Tag with what he called a Human Blast-End-Skewert. That creature certainly looked like one but skinless, and... Skull-less, leaving its brain free for anything to get into the crevasses, and that tongue too, that thing would have really hurt if it had hit. He’d seen the slices it had made to the furniture and walls while dodging through the motel.

Deciding that now would be a good time to get up and finish securing the place before something else came along and tried to take a bite out of him, the man formally known as Harry Potter – now as whatever the hell he felt life – rolled to the side and got up, grabbing his rifle and slinging it over his shoulder as he gave the corpse at his feet a spiteful kick as he passed.

He held nothing but ill-will to the corpses that hunted him, the souls had already departed and while they may hold him some ill-will for mistreating their bodies, he intended to get their revenge for them by stringing up the bastards who caused this monumental fuck-up and feeding them to a pack of severely pissed of Inferi-Crups. That would be interesting. Until he set Norbert on the whole lot.

Smirking vindictively to himself the black haired male sling his rifle onto the crotch-rocket motorbike he’d boosted from one of the cities during his practically suicidal jaunts to fetch food and gas when he couldn’t find any in the Out of Town spots. At first he had no idea how to drive and did everything via trial and error, which was how he got the majority of the scars that were half healed littering his body, falling off in the desert at high speed was like getting dragged over dragon-scales the wrong way. Painful and unpleasant.

He still had his Firebolt but avoided flying, since Dragons were one of the few creatures immune to the Virus, they now ruled the planet and snatched up every thing that flew, the Wyverns weren’t so lucky and were infected as were the nundus much to his horror when he came across one feeding upon a felled Dragon. But that was life, and you had to deal with it.

Wheeling the bike into the Motel gas-station the black haired male kicked the stand down and began to pile up the bodies, pausing only briefly to close the eyes of the little girl as he placed her with the others.

Harry sighed adjusting the metal arm-guards on his hands, the things had saved him from Infection before so he wasn’t about to take them off any time soon, before he pulled his gun. The green-eyed male so very rarely got to sleep in a bed, usually it was whatever blankets or jackets he could find and stuff into his trunk to sleep on out in the open. He couldn’t even use much Magic anymore, his wand had snapped a few years back during one of his more stupid escapades into San Francisco to fetch medicine for a small group of travellers, one of the women had slashed her leg open escaping her house and it had gone sceptic.

Investigating the Motel was his first order of action; clear the rooms of Undead should they be there, secure a safe room to sleep and store his bike and then clear the Gas-station, get petrol, food and water and anything else that could be of use... clean clothes if they’re going, Harry had already rendered his school robes unrecognisable over the last few years.

The short male worked quickly and efficiently, checking every room, making sure the reception and lobby was clear before going down the corridor and making sure every door was closed, the ones that were open were checked first, the doors then left open before he went back to the lobby and began opening the doors methodically. When he was done three more corpses joined the six outside and all the doors save for one – the one he had chosen to doss down in for the night – were closed and locked. Thankfully, the gas station was empty save for a small pile of decomposed bones in one of the closets; someone had cut their throat and bled to death if the ominous black seeping stain on the floor was any indication.

Harry sighed tiredly and gathered up the bones to be placed with the others and to be burned before he left, he didn’t want the scent of smoke and cooking meat to attract anything while he was still there.

Once again sequestered in his room, the black haired male collapsed back on the moth-eaten bed and just lay there, shivering every once in a while and just hoping that nothing would be able to get in. Normal Inferi – created via magical means – and those Vampires who had ingested the T-virus, basically anything magical and undead, were unable to enter this room due to the blood wards he had smeared on the back of his door and the window sill. But it wouldn’t stop those undead powered solely via the T-virus, so essentially, the only thing between him and death was a locked door.

It seemed to happen far more than he would have liked, but again, that’s just life.

Harry sighed and rolled over, his knife held firmly in his hand even as he felt his gun press against his leg from where he had holstered it, dragging a sheet to fold over him as he closed his eyes, attempting to go to sleep even as his mind whirled with memories he had best left forgotten.

When the Outbreak hit Privet Drive Harry had been staying with Mrs Figg, trying to get some information about whether or not Dumbledore knew of the Dursley’s behaviour towards him over the years. Mrs Figg had painted a rather grim portrait of the Headmaster without knowing that she was giving away such information, Harry rarely indulged his Slytherin mentality sharpened through years of self-preservation he knew that if he did it would raise red flags in Dumbledore’s mind and possibly frighten his friends. They all considered him a true golden Gryffindor, if he showed a silver underbelly... things would become difficult.

They had been sat in the Living room chatting with the cats practically crawling all over them when the truck ploughed in through the front window, hurling rocks and debris everywhere. He didn’t see what hit her, but Mrs Figg died before Harry got his senses back, her skull caved in and bleeding out across the floor, by the time his brain had finished rattling around the driver had staggered out, bleeding sluggishly from several small cuts but it was the fact he had vacant metallic eyes and a hole right through his stomach that clued Harry into the fact this wasn’t right. He was lucky he hadn’t been infected there and then, he’d frozen up the minute that this snarled and attacked, blood stained teeth aiming for his throat. He froze, his magic didn’t and the driver had incinerated where he stood until there was little more than ash left.

After that he raced to Number 4, fearing an attack from Voldemort, what he found was worse. Uncle Vernon sat in Number 6’s front garden splashed with blood and pinning a body to the ground, Mrs Owen – whom Harry knew for a fact was cheating on her husband with Uncle Vernon for the last three years – he panicked and bolted into the house. Where he would remain for two weeks waiting for someone from the Order, or at least one of his friends to send an owl to contact him, unable to open the doors or windows as vacant eyes and bloodstained teeth groaned and pressed against the front windows of his house.

He finally realised that no one would be coming and made his own mind up, he raided the house, tossed anything that could have been of use into his trunk and shrunk it to fit in his pocket before setting Hedwig free and following her out of the window on his Firebolt.

He raided Diagon Alley looking for supplies and survivors, he found one little Muggleborn girl who had watched a few too many Zombie movies and knew exactly what to do, aim for the head and get up high, don’t let them bite you or catch you. Eventually he and the little girl Charlotte found some muggle refugees fleeing to America, one of them was a pilot so they were heading for the nearest airport – Gatwick – to steal one of the smaller private jets. The Place had been crawling with Undead and they’d lost at least three of their companions before reaching the plane, once they hit America... their numbers dwindled even more until it was just Harry, Hedwig and Charlotte and even then... Charlotte was sick.

She had Lupus and without the right drugs, her blood would clot, her immune system would attack itself, she would die, and that was exactly what happened. It started with headaches at first, Harry just thought it was the heat getting to her and made sure she drank at least half a bottle of water every hour and a half. Then they got worse, Charlotte would cry and cry and cry and Harry would ply her with whatever pain killers he could find in a panic, he’d even resorted to casting a general healing charm and over powering it to the point where she threw up due to Magic Overload. Nothing. They met up with another group of survivors; luckily this one possessed a doctor who recognised the signs straight off. Charlotte had blood clots forming in her brain and in her liver, she told him what drugs he needed to get and the green eyed wizard took his first suicidal jaunt into a big city to raid a hospital for warfarin and other assorted pills. Harry didn’t know when it was exactly but he woke up one morning with a cold feeling of dread in his stomach, the world just seemed... grey as he stepped out of his makeshift tent in the caravan merely hours after his return and the distribution of medication to the Muggleborn girl, Charly usually slept in with him but lately... she spent as much time outside as possible watching the stars.

That was when he found her, unmarked, curled up in the sand as if asleep, that tatty stuffed polar bear clutched tightly in her stiffened hands.

Harry had cried. He left the group the day after she had been burned, to prevent the carrion birds or desert scavengers from digging her up. After that, he never stuck with anyone that long, never got attached. Charlotte taught him that it was better to be alone than let your heart get hurt again.

Hedwig died not long after. Dehydration and a combination of her thick winter plumage and stress. He still keeps one of her feathers with him as a reminder.

“Fuck I need a smoke.” The green eyed male complained lowly in his tangle of bed sheets, wanting nothing more than just to sleep and state his nicotine cravings. He travelled alone so smoking was his only stress relief; he couldn’t fuck someone blind just to feel something.

There was no one around.

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He was using the ship he’d boosted off Toombs.

Drifting in and out of Cryo, mind locked in turmoil and nightmares.

Pale green eyes, deep red-brown hair, dark crimson blood from between untouched pink lips. Still just a kid. Just a kid too young to die, to young to be caught up with him. A kid.

Kyra’s last moments played out in his mind over and over and over again, coupled with the sight of Imam’s broken and battered body on the floor, the stains of blood, his broken glasses and discarded necklace now dangling around the throat of his daughter. Carolyn’s face as she was pulled into the darkness, Ali’s pink boned corpse – picked clean – hitting the ground after an agonising death of being eaten alive, Pope Joe’s face in the first moments of silver and mauve a new world. Ursa Luna – the Slam City – Tangiers Penal, Ribbald Correctional and Hubble Bay... memories of the old Slams floated to him. Faces of guards and In-mates alike. The Wailing Wars. Oh god, 500 men, 500, and he was the only one to get out alive. The blood. It was everywhere. They thought he had turned on his own people, not likely; you don’t turn on someone who guards your back, shares their food with you and tells lewd jokes about girls in various cities in distant planets to pass the time, bring a smile to your lips. He may have hated mercs... but he hated their profession more than the people themselves, because once you were thrown together for survival, you’ll inevitably find a friend or at least a comrade. Johns killing those two kids, that memory hadn’t featured in his nightmares for a long time, now that it had, gory self punishing ghosts of his mind and memory conjured him and Kyra mocking him. The Blue-Eyed Devil laughing about how he no longer needed a trailing bait, bitch had died anyway, Kyra’s silently accusing eyes demanding why he had let her live only to let her die when she held hope for life.

The Furyan wasn’t one for introspection; he didn’t dwell on things if he could help it. He had a ‘get over it and move on’ attitude for all save a few grudges.

Kyra’s death changed everything.

Zhylaw’s death changed everything.

He became a traitor to his people, to his vengeance, to himself. His sleep was unsteady, restless.

He never noticed the Fail-safe system malfunction along with fuselage, or the planet careening into view, at least, not until it was too late to do a damn thing. Silver eyes flickered open as blue and tan flooded his vision in shades of silver and mauve, Riddick snarled out a couple of choice words that would have made Johns or Toombs blush a pretty princess pink as he grabbed the controls and pulled up. Desperately trying to level the ship out as the purple desert landscape spiralled closer and closer along with an almost certain death if he didn’t level this bitch out!!

With a final hard yank on the controls, the shitty undercutter Merc ship finally levelled out, and very nearly took a nose plant into the hard packed desert sands. Belly dragging harshly in the abrasive hot sand Riddick hit buttons and pulled levers until the ship finally snapped to a stop, sending his head and body forwards to crash into the consol in front of him.

Darkness.

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Growing up in England, Harry had very little experience with earthquakes, the first time he experienced on in the states he had, quite literally, pissed himself. No one really noticed though because it was one of the more violent ones and they were too lucky to get out of it alive for anyone to begrudge the young British boy a little urine. Even if no one sat next to him at the camp-fire that night.

But in the years he had been hopping around America he had become intimately familiar with the quakes, even going so far as to immerse himself in the magic around him during one out of sheer curiosity. That’s when he learned that quakes were not only caused by the tectonic plates rubbing together but also because of concentrated expulsions of raw magic from the planet’s core, that was why various people on earth had magic and there were no records of it growing on other planets. What few Elementals that had returned to the Wizarding society shared their findings before finding the chaos and racism of their home world too distasteful and leaving again.

So when the 21-year-old jerked away as the room around him shook violently, the green eyed male looked around in sleepy confusion before his senses confirmed that no this wasn’t an earthquake. It was impact tremors.

Tired, but determined to find out what the fuck was going on, the Gryffindor kicked aside his sheets and began gearing up, pausing briefly to tear a page out of a blood splattered bible and writing ‘CLEARED’ in large bold red marker across the page to tack to the door outside. It was a ritual of his, whenever he cleared out a place like this of Undead, he would always post a sign so that anyone looking for shelter would know that someone had gone through and cleared it out. But there was always a chance of one wandering in since then so Harry only hoped they were smart enough to remain on guard when venturing inside.

Once outside in the relatively early morning light – damn he must have been really knackered to have slept this long and still be tired – the man swung onto his bike and gunned it, tires kicking up a trail of sand behind him as it moved off in the direction that Harry guessed the impact was from.

The faint, almost unnoticeable, cloud of kicked up sand in the far distance gave him a pretty good clue of where to go.

Unfortunately, a disturbance that big would bring every undead from here to Vegas shuffling over. If there was a survivor, he had to work fast.

He had found Nundu tracks not far from here.

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First chapter finito.

All my Chronicles of Rid info is from Riddickstyle Portal. Everything you need to know about our favourite baldie headed bastard.

Araceil