Harry Potter and the forced Hero

Hey guys, I'm back and I'm writing this story again! I've decided to rewrite it all, because I feel that it's just missing some things in the story that would make it so much better. Please, do review on the story, because I love to read your feedback. It helps me to rewrite the story in better detail, and to make it much better for your reading purposes.

I doubt that very much will change in the story. However, there will be some major changes, such as his love life. I doubt that he will be sorted into another House, of course, I could always be persuaded otherwise…just review giving me a decent argument why he should be in that particular house.

Anyway, I hope to hear from you all soon.

Peace out, Kaeim.

Beta-ed by the wonderful, awesome, ect. ect. P.R.M.A.S.

A six year old Harry screamed as he was thrown into the cupboard again. His back hit the back of the cupboard, where the majority of his bruises were located. Another one of his scabs broke again, and fresh blood poured down his back, again.

Life, for the young Mr. Potter, had always been difficult for him. Ever since he had been abandoned by his freak parents who had died in a car crash after his father, a systematic wife-beater, (so Aunt Petunia had hissed at him) who had a disgusting wife who deserved every beating she got, (so Uncle Vernon had yelled at him) and had crashed into a bus full of innocent people, who had died because his father had been drunk at the time. And Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, out of the kindness of their hearts, had taken in Harry instead of leaving him in the streets to die, even though he deserved it.

Ever since his abandonment by his parents, things had more or less stayed the same for Harry. At school, he was constantly picked on by the children. Boys punched and pushed him at school; girls pinched and spread rumors about him. Harry would've been content, however, had it not been for a certain group of people who were centered around his cousin, Dudley. They had it in for him since day one. Harry knew that if it hadn't been for him, he would've been accepted in the school. Perhaps, Harry sometimes dared to dream, even have a friend all to himself. But he deserved it; there was no doubt about that! He was a repulsive, disgusting, ugly little freak who ought to have been put down at birth!

In short, for a small boy of the age of six, he was quite mature. Harry didn't know it, but the constant cruelties and harshness that had been thrown in his path were major factors in forcing him to abandon his childhood. Even with his newfound maturity, he was still prey to the whims of his relatives. Just like now.

It had been after his standard beating yesterday that Harry suddenly had agonizing pains in his stomach. But one of the rules that Uncle Vernon had installed into him was to never speak of what his relatives did to him, and to never talk to any authority teachers. That policy had gotten him into trouble at school, when he never answered the questions that his teachers had asked. They had given him up as a bad job, and as a result of that, he had been ignored by the teachers. His class work was atrocious, it was expected of him. Dudley was obviously the smarter person, Harry was just a freak. He didn't deserve kindness. He needed punishment.

It was during one of those punishments that Harry had found himself with an acute stomach pain. Harry had ignored it, of course, not showing any pain to his uncle as he had been repeatedly told to not show any pain. He had crawled into his cupboard to once again curl up into a ball and try and ignore his pains caused by his beating before trying to get some sleep.

In the night, however, Harry woke up again, almost crying with the pain that had erupted in his stomach. But he couldn't cry. If he did, then he would wake up Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia from their well-earned rest. Then they would have to stay up all night, and he would have to be taught another lesson. Therefore, he remained silent. He quietly sobbed his eyes out as the pain in his stomach every so often erupted in a bout of acute pain. He remained curled in his ball, desperately begging for sleep.

Suddenly another massive pain hit Harry and he only just avoided screaming by biting his own tongue hard, causing blood to seep into his mouth, out of his red lips and down his deathly pale coloured skin.

Pain…there was so much pain. He felt agony, he felt so much hurt. How could he live on like this? How could anyone do this to him? What had he done to deserve this, Harry asked himself mentally. Fresh tears poured down his face, and snot ran freely. He clutched his stomach with one hand, and wiped his nose with his other arm, not caring that it only caused the mucus and tears to be spread across his face.

Another pain hit him, and Harry couldn't help it, he felt blackness spread from the corner of his eyes, he felt his body collapse under the twin weight of pain and tiredness. Somehow, Harry's last thought pondered as he fell to the darkness; somehow, this was going to really cause him a great deal of pain in the morning…


Vernon boomed his way down the stairs, taking deliberate care to stamp on the stairs directly above the freak's room, which would cause dust to fall on his bed. Speaking of the freak, why didn't the house smell like breakfast? It usually did at this time of day. Petunia wasn't up, she was upstairs basking in her beauty sleep like she deserved. And while she was a wonderful woman, she certainly wasn't a morning person.

Vernon wandered into the kitchen, expecting to find his meal cooked and ready waiting for him on a plate on the kitchen table. However, to his shock and dismay, the kitchen was unused, no food was ready and the table wasn't set. The freak had been neglecting his duties!

Snarling in rage, Vernon stormed out of the kitchen and to the tiny cupboard underneath the stairs, where the boy had been living for as long as he had been here, ever since that day those damned people had left him on their doorstep, expecting them to look after and feed him, all for nothing! It had only been after great deliberation that Petunia had decided that they would look after the boy, but only if he would work to the very bone for them. And he had, of course. He had been trained well. Until this morning, that is.

Without knocking, Vernon pulled the cupboard door open, crouching down and reaching a hand out to grab the boy by his collar. The boy was currently curled up. Vernon's attention was so focused on the boy, that he didn't notice the pool of blood that had gathered around the prone object. As Vernon pulled the boy out of the cupboard, he opened his mouth to start yelling at the boy, his hands just an instant away from shaking him, when he noticed a bloody stain on the side of the boy's shirt.

Curious now, Vernon tugged at the boy's shirt, ripping it in places. As he lifted the shirt, he let out an involuntarily gasp of shock. There was a lump on the boy's side, just below his ribs and above his waist. He poked it experimentally, ignoring the gasp of pain from the boy, who appeared to have just awoken from his self-imposed blackout. Ignoring the boy, he turned his head inside the cupboard, wincing as he saw the huge amount of blood that was there. The boy shouldn't be alive, should he?

His face suddenly darkened. It was that damned power wasn't it? One of those things that made normal decent people different from those freaks. Magic. It must've been that that had saved the boy. But the damage had been done. The lump was still there, and blood still poured weakly from the wound. The boy looked likely to die from his injury.

'Petunia!' Vernon roared upstairs. He waited a few moments before his wife; still sleepy appeared at the top of the stairs, rubbing her eyes.

'Yes, Vernon?' She said drowsily, one of her hands clutching to the banister to support her.

'The boy,' Vernon said simply, watching as his wife's eyes light up with both desperation and disgust. He hated it when his wife was affected like this; he constantly saw those two emotions every time her eyes landed on the freak. She had nothing but hatred for those people who dared to approach them and force them to do their bidding. As though they were nothing other than simple cattle! They had both worked hard for their current lives, but then They came and ruined their normal lives. Perhaps Dudley was infected by the freak. In any case, they did their best to keep Dudley away from the boy, and if there was any contact, he was to treat the freak with the utmost hostility, like any normal person would if they were faced with him.

'Well? What's wrong with him,' Petunia said with disgust in her voice. It was as though he didn't and shouldn't exist in Petunia's mind. Maybe she intended it to be this way. As far as she was concerned, there was no doubt that it wasn't for the best.

Vernon wouldn't know, of course. He'd never had any experience with these Freaks other than with the boy. It was Petunia who had to suffer with her sister and her boyfriend. She knew exactly what they were and what they could do to their family. She had hatred in her mind whenever she deigned to think upon Them. Why she had that hatred in the first place, Vernon had no idea, but she knew best, he supposed.

'There's something wrong with his side,' Vernon said, ignoring the boy who had once again curled up into a ball. 'There's some kind of lump there, and he's bleeding heavily.'

Petunia looked at the boy's side. 'It doesn't seem to be bleeding that badly,' she stated, looking puzzled. In response, Vernon pointed inside the cupboard. Petunia poked her horsy head in, quickly backing out again within a few seconds, distaste on her face. Vernon looked at her curiously, wondering what to do.

'Perhaps we should take him to the hospital, Petunia?'

She shook her head distractedly. 'We can't do that. They'll take one look at him and scream "abuse"! They'll take our darling Dudley from us, and everything we have will be ruined.' She chewed her bottom lip distractedly, her face clearly thinking. Finally, after several anxious moments of waiting by Vernon, Petunia's face cleared, becoming decisive.

'We'll have to get rid of him.' She said simply.

Vernon gaped. 'But Petunia, what about Them?'

She shook her head distractedly. 'It won't matter about them, Vernon. It doesn't matter what they do or don't want anymore. I certainly don't want him in this house any longer, and there is no way whatsoever that I will be taking him back in any longer.'

'But the letter…'

'Screw the letter!' Petunia said suddenly, her face showing her true colours for once, pure and unadulterated hatred. 'They forced him upon us, Vernon. Not once did they bother asking and neither did they question whether we were able to or even if we wanted to take him in, Vernon. What I did do the boy was my own way of paying off my last dues that I owe to my sister. I saw fit to take in my own flesh and blood, no matter how unwanted it was. As far as I'm concerned, we've done what we were told to do. And that is that. Like I said, we've done what we were told to do, and so we're free to do as we wish.'

Vernon frowned. 'But surely, Petunia, what about that old man with the long white beard, didn't he say he'd be checking up on us?'

She waved an arm airily. 'Do you see him here? In fact, have you ever seen him at all? And even if he did, why did he never intervene when we got a bit out of hand with the boy? The fact of the matter is that he doesn't care. And, we have a top trump up our sleeves.'

Vernon looked interested now. 'Top trump, dear?'

She smiled bitterly. 'Yes. That letter that was left with the boy, it told us that we would be protected by wards that work thanks to his blood.' She pointed in the cupboard. 'I see plenty of blood in there, don't you?'

Vernon nodded, but still looked unsure.

'Now then,' Petunia said slowly as though she were talking to a child. 'Take the boy and leave him somewhere, Manchester, London, anywhere!' Vernon nodded again, reaching down for the boy and hoisting him up into his arms.

Vernon turned towards the door, the boy in his arms. He reached for the keys to the Volkswagen, taking them out of pocket as he walked towards the car. However, just before he passed the door, Petunia interrupted his march.

'Oh, and Vernon?' Vernon stopped, his attention instantly back on his beloved wife.

'Make sure no-one sees you put him in the boot.'

Vernon raised his eyebrows, but Petunia had already turned away from the sight of the boy and Vernon. Sighing, Vernon took advantage of the fact that it was still dark and very little people would be awake. He quickly walked towards the boot of the car, depositing the boy in the boot of the car, closing it quickly.

Meanwhile, Petunia, inside of the house in the front hall turned towards the kitchen, her mind already on the special breakfast that she would make for her darling Dudley and Vernon. Her shoulders were less slumped, as though a great relief had been granted to her, and a great weight had finally been removed. She hummed happily as she decided to make a standard English breakfast, with eggs, bacon and sausage.

Several hours later, Vernon made it to the outskirts of London into a wasteland. Outside of the car, there was no grass growing except for small clusters of weeds and cracked concrete. A few men were gathered around a burning barrel. Vernon quickly walked out of his car and towards the boot, opening it up. He recoiled as the smell of dried blood and unwashed body scent hit him all at once, almost causing him to gag reflexively.

Quickly casting his eyes for a place to dump the boy, who seemed to be unable to move anymore, he found a small ditch. He quickly threw the boy inside, before half-running to the driver's seat. He noticed one of the men separate himself from the pack around the burning barrel. His breath catching in his throat, he started the car and reversed out of the wasteland, not daring to look back. A few miles out, he relaxed. His only worry now was whether he had enough petrol to make it back to his beloved normal home with its normal family.

It wasn't for many more years that his mind recalled that fatal day when he abandoned the hope of the Wizarding world in a ditch. Never in his wildest dreams could he imagine the instant despair and worry that hit the Wizarding world as they realized their saviour was missing, and they looked for someone to blame. Unbeknownst to Vernon, his family would be in the direct firing line. After all, Muggles deserved what they were getting.

Didn't they…?


The man who had separated himself from the others at the burning barrel spat after the retreating car. Its driver, a fat man with no neck, didn't seem to take any notice as his attention was on the road ahead of him. As he disappeared from the sight of the man, he walked towards where the car had been previously parked. Hopefully, something of worth had fallen from the car, something that he could hopefully sell off for some decent money. These days, very few people other than pawn shops and small-time shops bought from people like him. Even so, it was enough to keep him going.

As he reached the car, he looked around. Sighing in annoyance as he found nothing, he made to go back when suddenly he saw a shoe. His interest caught, he wandered over towards the shoe, only to see a leg attached to it, then a bloody shirt, and then a head. Hoping that it wasn't yet another dead body, he'd seen far too many over them on the streets during his time. He walked over towards it. What he found was a small boy, probably no more than six years of age.

He took hold of the boy's wrist, feeling for a pulse. It was there, even though it was incredibly weak. Not surprising really when you looked at the amount of blood that was stained on his shirt. Obviously, the boy was near death, unless he did something to help. Gods, but he had a sensitive nature at times. He quickly took hold of the boy, lifting him in his arms and started jogging towards a hospital. He passed several men, most of which knew him. However, he ignored their calls as he concentrated on helping the boy. He may have been rejected by most of society, but that didn't mean that he rejected society itself. He still had his honour, and that honour clearly dictated to help those who needed help.

The boy gave a soft moan in his arms as he ran towards the hospital, no more than a mile away from where he currently was. He looked down at the boy, smiling at him and talking to him.

'Hey kid, what's you name then, eh?' He hoped that the boy wouldn't be scared by him, even though he couldn't really blame the boy if he was. He knew that he wasn't a pretty sight. Long lanky hair, yellowing teeth, and a battered face that had gained it's scars through various fights.

'B- Boy, sir.' The boy said in a soft whisper. The man frowned slightly as he continued running. It seemed likely that the boy was abused or something.

'Do you have any other names?' The man asked, concerned now. He ignored the gaping mouths of the passer-by's as they saw him running with a bloodied boy in his arms. When the boy didn't answer, he panicked slightly. 'Kid? Hey, kid. Come on, keep up kid. You got any other names?'

The boy seemed to respond to the man. 'F – Freak…' the boy whispered again.

The man winced, just as they reached the hospital doors. 'Freak?' He muttered to himself as he reached the receptionist.

'Excuse me, miss!' He said to the woman at the desk, her mouth in a perfect O of surprise. 'Please, you have to help me. I found this boy, he's hurt, really hurt. I think he's going to die if you don't help him!'

The receptionist nodded quickly. A nurse ran over when she saw the bloodied form of the boy in the man's arms. She quickly called for a doctor, and carried the boy off in a bed towards what he hoped was a surgery. He looked at the back of the retreating bed, ignoring the noises the receptionist was making.

'Sir? Sir? Excuse me, sir?'

The man started as he looked at the receptionist.

'Sir, can you please tell me your name please?'

'Oh right. My name's Dave.'

The receptionist nodded as she filled out a form. 'If you could please just sit down.'

Dave nodded absentmindedly as he took a seat. Several hours passed before the receptionist called him over.

'The boy you brought in is alright, we fixed him right up.'

Dave smiled. 'Thank you very much.' Dave suddenly paused. 'Can I see him?'

The receptionist nodded. 'Of course, he's in room 492.

'492,' Dave repeated to himself, making his way towards the room.

A few minutes later, Dave passed reached the corridor that was adjacent to the room 492. He suddenly heard a doctor and nurse just outside of the room, talking. His eyebrows suddenly rose up as he heard them discussing the boy.

'Cleary abused,' the doctor said. 'Do we know anything about who did it?'

The nurse apparently shook her head. 'No, however, we do suspect that it was the guy who brought him in caused the damage to the boy. I hope you don't mind, doctor, but I took the liberty of informing Ivan to call the police about a case of abuse and possible attempted murder.'

'Yes, quite right as well. The police do need to be informed, and the most likely suspect is the man, I suppose. When did Ivan call them?'

'About five minutes ago, I guess.'

'Doctor!' A nurse rushed past Dave towards the pair. 'Doctor, we have a case in room 274. You're needed down there, right away!'

'Do you need another pair of hands?' The other nurse asked.

'Sure, the more the better, now come on!' The three of them rushed past Dave, who watched them pass by as he put his back to the wall. He swore as he realized the police would probably be here very soon, and he had no intention of leaving in their custody. He turned on his feet just as he accidentally walked into a man.

'Umph!' Dave grunted as he walked into the man.

'Sorry, mate, are you alright?' The man asked, obviously concerned.

'Yeah, yeah. I'm alright.' Dave looked up, just as he suddenly saw a badge. Chris Wright, Social Worker. Dave looked at the man. He was quite handsome, a brushed beard and short cropped hair.

'You wouldn't be going for that boy in room 492, are you?' He asked, concerned. If he was, then the boy would be going to an orphanage. No one deserved to go to one of those places. There were always at least five orphans out on the streets every month, if not more. They were usually snapped up by various sweatshops, but a few, a lucky few found sanctuary with others like them. But in this case, there was no way that he was letting this particular boy go to the orphanage.

Dave couldn't exactly say what it was that made him want to look after this child, but for some reason, he felt that he was needed by this child. His emerald eyes looked helplessly at him, and yet, there seemed to be such potential in those eyes of his. There was a separate person in there, someone that could be great. And Dave wanted to let that person out.

'Hello, mate?' The social worker was asking, obviously concerned. Dave looked up, alerted.

'Uh, yeah. I was told to tell you that the patient has been moved to another ward.'

The man looked confused. 'Are you sure? I was told by the receptionist that –'

'Hey, that's my message I was told to give to you, mate. He's been moved to room 153. Someone else needed this room.'

'Oh…' the man looked confused, but even so, he left in the opposite direction to where Dave knew the boy to be. Dave let out a sigh of relief, before turning and entering room 492. The boy, who had no more than a few hours ago been in Dave's arms, was lying on a bed, bandages on his side. He looked up when Dave entered, and a scared look entered his eyes.

'Hey, kid.' Dave said, smiling at the boy.

The boy made no effort to reply, except looking at Dave.

'I'm Dave, and I'm here to get you out of here.'

There was no reply from the boy, who simply stared at the man.

'Right…' Dave muttered to himself. He looked around the room, casting his sight on a wheelchair. He quickly picked up the boy, who gave no resistance at all. He quickly took him out of the room, passing the receptionist quietly, not looking at her. On her part, she didn't notice Dave or the boy who had a few hours ago come running inside the hospital.

Dave sighed a sigh of relief as he made it out of the hospital. He'd made it. There had been no coppers and he had managed to take the boy with him as well. There was only one place now where he would take the boy. There was a certain gang that owed him a few favours…

'Hey kid, do you have a name then?'

There was no reply from the boy. Dave sighed, slightly frustrated. 'Alright then, I'll give you a name.' He paused slightly, wondering what to do. Suddenly, the boy looked at him, his eyes burning into Dave's own. He smirked slightly; those eyes would be a real heartbreak when he was older. Suddenly, the answer hit him. His eyes were deeply emerald in colour. That was a good name, Emerald.

'Emerald…' Dave sounded it out. 'You got any problems with the name Emerald?'

There was no reply. Dave sighed deeply, just as the boy spoke. 'Emerald…' he said softly. Dave grinned.

'Emerald it is then. Right then, Emerald. We're going to see some old friends of mine to help you out.'


Meanwhile, up in Scotland in a place called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in an office that housed the headmaster, a instrument was screaming out a warning. This particular instrument was intended to monitor the health of Harry Potter, and was directly tied into the blood wards that surrounded Privet Drive. Normally, while this would've caused a general alarm with the headmaster, who would've immediately gone to check on Harry, there was no warning.

No more than a few minutes before the instrument had started it's warning, Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had been called by the newly elected Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, to give advice to him.

Suddenly, the ward stopped its alarm and all remained was silence once inside of the office once again. Opposite to this machine was yet another machine tied to Harry Potter. This particular machine checked the blood-wards on Privet Drive. While normally this would've given off a huge alarm, Petunia had been correct. The Blood-wards relied on blood, and that was its only purpose. With the amount of blood left behind, the blood-wards remained stable, and so the machine continued on its quiet way.

And so it passed, that Harry Potter, AKA, Emerald, disappeared from the eyes of Albus Dumbledore and the Wizarding World. It wasn't for many more years that the disappearance of Harry Potter was discovered, and it wasn't for many more years after that that Emerald was finally discovered, captured and forced to become a hero.

And so began the tale of Harry Potter and the Forced Hero.

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