Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling
Title: Frozen Sanity
A/N: This is set in Prisoner of Azkaban. They had found a compartment on the train that didn't conveniently have Remus Lupin in it. The dementors instead drove Harry mad, and caused his brain to think he was constantly cold.
Warnings: Insanity, blood, homicide.
It was always so cold. So cold. He was numb, inside and out. He hated this icy unfeelingness. It stole his cheer, his hope, his love, until all that was left was the cold and the hate, and a want, no, a need to feel warmth.
They embraced him, once, whispering that he would get better, but their warmth was not enough, never enough, and he though, surely, surely if the surface was warm, wouldn't the inside be warmer? Something that the cold had frozen over tried to say that they were his friends, Ron and Hermione, Professor Dumbledore, and Hagrid, but its voice was feeble, and was ignored.
He scratched at them, bit them, tore their skin until he felt a liquid warmth coursing down his arms, and a coppery heat in his mouth. That was good, but it cooled too fast, and they were taking him away, restraining his movement. No! He had to find the warmth!
Somehow, he escaped. It was strange: a huge power enveloped him, squeezing him elsewhere. He remembered, faintly, having felt this before, when his pig-like cousin had chased him around their old school yard.
His thoughts had guided him to a destination, and with a crack he found himself in front of a house that seemed so very distantly familiar to him. He opened the door.
"What the ruddy hell are you doing here, boy? And what was that bloody noise?" A man that something inside, not frozen, but barely there called Uncle Vernon stomped up to him, red in the face. The boy grinned. This man, this Uncle Vernon, he would give him warmth.
Uncle Vernon faltered, taking in his nephew's appearance. The thirteen-year-old's arms, fingernails, face and teeth were stained red with what had to be blood. His eyes were crazed, and his smile screamed insanity.
"Petunia, Dudley, get away! Call the police, the freak's gone mad!"
Police? His mind provided an image of two uniformed men capturing a third man and carrying him away. No, they shouldn't be allowed to get the police, what was left of his reasoning said. His power reached out, and the woman and the large boy froze. Aunt Petunia and Dudley, his mind supplied. They yelped like frightened puppies.
This power, what was it? Magic, said that strange inner voice. Magic can do anything. But it didn't make him warm. It can help, the voice insisted.
"You freak! Take your unnaturalness off them!" Uncle Vernon was again charging toward him. The magic forced the man to stop. An idea struck. The boy grinned, and approached the huge man, hands outstretched. His magic made it as though sharp knives were attached to his fingertips, so that when he raked his fingers down the man's face and side, blood poured like a waterfall. Uncle Vernon began to scream as he was slowly stabbed to death. Absentmindedly the boy let his magic silence the fat man. It wouldn't do to get caught, said his tattered reasoning.
The boy soaked in the man's blood, dizzy and somewhat drunk with the lovely warmth. Why did it have to cool so fast? Why didn't it last? No matter: there was still two other people waiting to provide heat.
The boy who once would have been sick with horror at being covered with another's blood was gone forever.
Years went by. The death toll mounted, climbing higher each day, until the killed numbered in the thousands. The muggles were frightened, confused at this killer's ability to strike with out a trace, and the Aurors (who kept his identity a close-guarded secret) could never detain him. He was like a rabid wolf, deadly fast, crazed, and most dangerous when cornered. His apparitions were astoundingly powerful: even the very best anti-apparition wards wouldn't hold him. He had somehow mastered wandless magic, and was hell-bent on spilling blood. The Wizarding World grew to fear him more than even Voldemort, whom he had killed quite coincidentaly when the man attempted to capture him.
Then, after nearly a century of bloody deaths, the killings stopped. Even he was not immortal. Those precious few who knew his real name realized he had passed, and were torn on whether they should feel releived or heart-broken. A gravestone was placed in the Godric's Hollow Cemetery, next to the parents who had died for him. It read:
His frozen sanity made so many cry tears of blood
Until a river flowed a mile wide
And his skin was dyed crimson
Yet, those who knew him before still love him
May he rest in peace, and perhaps find warmth in Hell's ever-burning fires
A single blood-red rose lay upon the solemn stone.
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