"What's your name?"
"H-harry Potter, ma'am." He stammered, praying that politeness would keep him safe.
"Potter? Potter – hmmm. The Potters trace back to the Peverells." She muttered, still studying his face. A finger reached over and prodded at his scar – it burned with pain. He gasped, grabbing at his forehead. "Oh dear. That's a bit much, even by my standards."
"What's happening? Who are you?" Harry demanded. His hand revealed fresh blood from the old wound.
"I am Alabasandria Adams – necromancer. And you! You're touched by Death," she repeated, as though that explained things. "A natural-born necromancer. I reckoned I was the last one. Great news for me, terrible news for your enemies and those foolish self-proclaimed 'Light' wizards who've claimed you - like Albus Dumbledore. What is our esteemed Boy-Who-Lived doing in a muggle campground anyway? Shouldn't you be watched a bit more thoroughly? Where are your guardians? I don't sense any other magical beings."
Harry gave a quick glance to said guardian - the prone form of Vernon Dursley – who, like all the other bodies strewn about, was laying deathly still, carved symbols bleeding into their flesh. Horrified, the child forced his attention back to Adams.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he stuttered out. "I'm not sure what you're talking about at all. What does being touched by death mean? And what do you mean by enemies? I don't think I have any except for Dudley maybe. And who's watching me?"
The woman stared at him for a very long moment, before she burst into hoarse, cackling laughter that trickled down his spine like gooseflesh.
"They didn't tell you anything? Are you serious! Please, tell me you know that magic exists, correct?"
"Magic? What?" Well, that explained the odd shadow monsters, he thought, a bit overwhelmed with everything happening.
"What were they thinking?" she laughed. "Leaving you vulnerable like this. Absolute idiots, honestly! What if I had been working with Voldemort!"
"Please explain things," Harry cried, hysteria settling in his bones. "Or just kill me already, I-I don't- I don't understand!" He held back his tears.
"Shhh," she said. "It's alright, little Potter. I'm not going to hurt you. I'd rather keep the Ministry off my back. Surely they'd notice if you popped up dead! Or maybe not, I mean, look at you." She gave a deep, annoyed sigh at the situation.
"Look, you're a wizard, you can do magic. I can also do magic. I mostly do necromancy – hence the dying people around us – and you are very, very famous in our world. When you were an infant a dark lord killed your parents, tried to kill you and failed. No one knows what happened, most people think he's dead. He clearly isn't, based on the chunk of him in your scar." She paused for a moment – her cold eyes focused on his face while Harry's brain ran in circles trying to process everything that was happening. The heady drum of fear disappeared a bit as he realized with excitement that he was a wizard. A wizard! Wicked!
The woman gave him a sharp, alarming grin. It stretched across her face to unnatural proportions, and she released another cackling giggle. The action promptly returned Harry to a state of fear.
"Through your ancestors, the Peverells, you were born with an affinity for necromancy and the Dark Arts, but it is because of the events of that Hallowe'en night that made you touched by Death. Everyone can do necromancy, to some extent. As a Peverell, you could naturally do quite a lot. But as a Peverell and a survivor of the Killing Curse? Really, you'd make for a perfect apprentice."
Harry stammered over what the strange woman told him.
"You aren't going to kill me?" he asked with hope. It was the main thing to focus on as most of the words she'd spoken sounded like nonsense.
"No. I wouldn't dare harm someone with a bloodline like yours. Besides, the gods brought me here for a reason and that reason has to be you. You have a gift, and I can teach you how to use it."
The necromancer was undoubtedly unhinged, but Harry didn't have an example of what a normal adult was supposed to be, and so far Adams had not hurt him, so that put her tentatively above the Dursleys for now. Plus, magic!
"But – but what does that mean? Do all wizards kill people, I don't want to kill people," the young boy asked. He eyed the bleeding form of his uncle, the grotesqueness of the scene not fully registering – Harry couldn't bring himself to feel bad for his uncle, or perhaps he was in shock, but either way, he was more focused on how this life-changing night was going to affect him. "Are my aunt and uncle dead?"
"They aren't dead." She explained, her face neutral as they looked at the pile of bodies. "I suppose I have enough for the ritual that I could spare your family if you'd like." She looked rather disgusted to even offer such a thing. Harry opened his mouth to say something but closed it once his brain caught up. He didn't love the Dursleys… but that didn't mean he wanted them dead right? He didn't want to go back with them – dealing with them while they recovered would be a pain, and how was he supposed to live quietly under the stairs now that he knew he had magic? But no – murder was wrong, he knew that. He knew that but he also knew that if any one of them were in this position they would not hesitate to leave him for dead.
"Hmmm," Adams continued, "but perhaps that won't be necessary. You don't seem fond of them." She thought over her words. She had communed with the Death Gods, had asked for their fortune and favor, and they had sent her here. On this night, to do this ritual. The sight of another necromancer was a command from them she would be foolish to ignore. But Alabasandria was not familiar with dealing with children. "I can sense you're injured. Lots of old wounds that have never healed correctly. Did your uncle do that to you?"
Harry paused, startled at his deepest secrets coming to life and the sudden change in topic. She continued. "You don't belong with these people, Harry. You belong in the magical world. Do you want to come with me and learn magic?"