Warnings: Slash. LV/HP (Slow burn). Dark/OOC/bitter Harry who has been renamed 'Izar' for this AU.
Summary: Orphaned and having no tolerance for Muggles, Harry arrives at Hogwarts a bitter boy. Unusually intelligent, he's recruited by both the Unspeakables and the Death Eaters at a young age. His loyalty, however, is not to the Ministry nor to the Death Eaters, but to the cause of bettering himself and becoming his own force in the Wizarding world.
Not only does he struggle to balance Unspeakable work, Hogwarts schoolwork, and Death Eater politics, but he also finds himself woven into the mystery of his parentage.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter characters/world!
She pressed the newborn against her chest and inhaled his scent deeply. Her eyes fluttered closed as the aroma permeated her senses, and she willed it to become a permanent imprint in her memory. Movement on the other side of the orphanage door alerted her to the diminishing time she had with her her son. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped him tighter.
She should have left him on the doorstep with a letter. But her legs were heavy. Her heart heavier. She needed to see the face of the stranger she was surrendering her son to.
An unthinkable act. A selfish sacrifice.
But it needed to be done.
Frozen in place, she hardly reacted as the door's several locks finally unlatched and the heavy door groaned opened.
"Can I help you?"
Lily instinctively noted the stranger's warm, elderly tone. She inhaled the baby—her baby—once more and opened her eyes to the Muggle standing before her. Outwardly, she appeared kind enough, gentle enough, to raise her son. There were laugh lines creasing around her mouth and eyes, and her hands were wrinkled with age-old experience and wisdom.
As Lily bowed her head, her deep hood further veiled her features from the Muggle's curious observation. Adjusting the small newborn in her arms, Lily was unable to satisfy her marvel at the purity, the beauty she had created. The baby, no more than a few weeks old, was a precious and painfully bittersweet sight.
But such pain—that had once seemed crushing and suffocating—had long since dulled and flatlined. There was no emotion left to feel but a sliver of remorse and possessive greed.
Her arms extended stiffly.
They felt like weights as she handed over her baby to the Muggle woman. "Here," she whispered. "Please, please take him. Take my baby."
The Muggle's eyes widened. Quickly, she took the newborn child from her arms. With skilled hands, the elderly woman supported the child's neck and cradled the silent bundle closer. "Are you alright, dear? Perhaps you'd like to come inside?"
Lily remained silent, staring at the small newborn now in the Muggle's care.
"Izar." Lily struggled with a whisper. "His name is Harry—no Harrison…" Another part of her soul died as the Muggle cradled the black-haired little baby. She only wished she could feel the pain more deeply. For what she had done, she deserved every bit of emotional cruelty thrown at her.
"Izar?" The woman questioned, a frown creasing her lips at the foreign name. "His name is Izar Harrison?"
Lily nodded erratically, backing away with small, jerky steps. "Take good care of my baby." She turned and fled.
"Wait!" The Muggle called after her.
It was for the best.
It was for the best, became Lily Potter's lifelong mantra.
1: Chapter One
Lips parted and spit flew. "Freak."
Izar flinched away from the droplets of saliva, trying not to let the larger boy bother him. His shoulders drew up defensively as he focused on the distant swings. The only sign of his anger were the nimble fingers slowly curling into fists and disappearing deep within his sleeves.
"You're a freak!" The boy laughed before shoving Izar from behind.
The dark-haired boy stumbled, trying to regain his balance. The toe of his boot hit the rocks and he went down hard, scraping his knees and palms as he struggled to support himself. As the children laughed, Izar remained there motionlessly, staring blankly at the blood seeping from the cuts on his palms. His dark eyes watched the crimson trail as it descended down and around his wrist, coiling like a snake.
No tears fell when the larger boy kicked him hard in the ribs before turning to leave.
Tears had stopped long ago.
Instead, his eyes turned from his bloody hands to the boy's back. His lips thinned furiously as he struggled to sit up. Around him, the world spun and he was more than aware of the other children watching him from afar. No one approached him. They were either too afraid of him, or they were afraid of being targeted by Louis, the orphanage tormenter.
Izar despised those other children.
He glowered, holding his bruised chest as he stood up and escaped the courtyard. It was his fault anyway. He knew better than to go to the courtyard at this time.
He roamed through the orphanage hallways, a place he had always called home. Nothing in these hallways had changed. It never improved and had only worsened. It was old and worn, not dirty, but in desperate need of repairs and updates. Potential parents who visited the orphanage either felt pity for the children's current living conditions, or they felt uncomfortable enough to hurry their visit along.
Izar rushed up to his room that he shared with a younger boy.
Nursing his scraped palms, Izar entered his room and collapsed on the bed. The thin mattress groaned as it collided with the rusty springs. Paying no heed to the blood on his hands, Izar picked up the side of the mattress and took out the bit of parchment he had hidden there.
Staring at the letter, he allowed a small smile to cross his lips.
Cradling the letter to his chest, Izar closed his eyes, imagining a world of witchcraft and wizardry.
He imagined a world where he was like all the others, a world where children wouldn't tease him for being different. He imagined a world full of new and vast knowledge. Most of all, Izar earned for a chance to prove himself. He wanted to make a name for himself in this fresh beginning. He didn't want to be known as an orphan, no, he wanted to use his special powers and make new discoveries.
Izar flinched, stuffing the bloody parchment under his pillow and turning toward the door. A caretaker stood near another woman, an older woman who was unfamiliar to Izar.
"A Professor McGonagall is here to see you."
Izar straightened from his lounged position, his curiosity piquing. With sharp and observant eyes, he watched as McGonagall nodded stridently to the caretaker before entering the room. Izar examined the way the older woman walked. She had an uptight stance, clearly suggesting a stern and professional demeanor.
"Mr. Harrison, it's a pleasure to meet you. I assume you got your Hogwarts letter?" McGonagall asked once the caretaker had retreated from the room.
Izar stared calmly at the woman, sensing the change of atmosphere with her presence. Something—a certain pressure and static—seemed to encircle her. It was faint and he felt himself a bit disappointed. He had thought that wizards and witches would have something more about them. Something more superior that separated them from ordinary men and women.
"Yes, Professor," he whispered respectfully as he continued examining her.
Suddenly, something in her posture shifted. He took note of her stiffening spine and her darkening expression. Unsettlement crossed her features briefly before she masked it expertly. "I am here to assist you with your shopping, Mr. Harrison," she continued, her voice hard and stern, yet her eyes tried to soften.
"Shopping?" Izar asked naively. He assumed she meant shopping for school supplies, for wizard supplies. His pulse jumped at the prospect, but he sobered quickly. "But I don't have any money, Professor."
"Hogwarts creates an account for students who cannot financially afford supplies, Mr. Harrison." She offered him a smile he didn't return. She then settled her mouth into a stern line. "Would you like to accompany me today?"
"I would enjoy that very much, Professor."
For the first time, in a long time, he offered another human a smile. From the look of McGonagall's expression, Izar assumed he needed more work.
Death of Today
Izar pulled self-consciously at his robes, straightening out the small wrinkles.
Walking the length of the platform, he absorbed the sights, still in silent shock at everything around him. Outwardly, he appeared disinterested and collected despite his internal turmoil. There was so much of it. He hated being behind the rest of the children. From what he learned from McGonagall, most of these children were raised in this magical world.
They knew more than he did, he was already so many years behind.
Nonetheless, Izar would remedy that as soon as possible.
After getting over the initial shock of Diagon Alley, Izar had followed obediently behind McGonagall as they navigated through the village. Together, they purchased the required objects on the list and only the required objects on the list. There were more books Izar would have liked to purchase, but he realized he was on a budget, borrowing like some beggar.
Izar aimlessly wandered toward the train.
There were students and parents everywhere, seeing their children off to another year at Hogwarts. He eyed the parents, watching mothers kiss their children's reddened cheeks and fathers proudly clasp their shoulders. Izar liked to pride himself on being independent, but he was only eleven, and watching the loving exchanges gave him a brief sting of bitter discontentment.
One handsome couple caught Izar's interest.
Judging from their similar blond hair and pointed features, the pair were father and son, saying farewell in their own particular way. They stood stiffly, separated by an aloof distance. Neither of the two showed any inclination of being emotional over their upcoming separation like the mass of other families on the platform. Their attire—Ezra noted—appeared just as formal as their interaction. The clothes looked as if they were spun in the finest silk and material. Even the buttons and stitching stood out luxuriously.
Izar's feet shifted closer to the entrance of the train, as well as closer to the two blonds.
The father's majestic form turned. He glanced at Izar before looking away dismissingly. It wasn't until the man gave a double take when Izar turned rigid. He found himself under the scrutiny of frozen grey eyes. For the first time in ages, Izar found himself feeling vulnerable to another.
While McGonagall exhibited a faint difference from all the other adult witches and wizards in Diagon Alley, this blond man possessed an even stronger allure that Izar had hoped every wizard would have possessed.
He was suddenly reassured.
Wizards weren't ordinary! They weren't like the others at the orphanage! They were powerful!
"A First Year?" the blond boy whispered to his father after noticing his guardian's averted attention.
Izar approached the two quicker, eager to get on the train and away from the older man's stare. He passed them, boldly keeping his eyes on the man's grey ones. Once he passed completely, he heard the man's voice, a deep, silky baritone. "He will no doubt be a Slytherin, Draco. Stick close to him and help guide him through his first year at Hogwarts."
Izar's shoulders sagged as soon as he locked himself inside an empty compartment.
Slamming the back of his head against the glass compartment door, he released a shaky breath. His hands trembled and his pulse raced.
He didn't understand his body's reaction. Yes, he had felt defenseless and vulnerable around the man, but there was more to it. Izar had almost felt the static around the older man. It was similar to both electricity and heavy air. It was almost as if Izar had sensed the man's magic. But that should be impossible, shouldn't it? Did wizards and witches sense magic?
He couldn't help but smile.
Finally, he had seen a real wizard, a real magical figure that stuck out from non-magical folk. Izar only hoped he was like that blond man. He hoped he wasn't like all the other adults and children here. He did not want to be ordinary, but extraordinary.
The train lurched to a start and Izar clutched the door for balance.
He was off to a new life, a new world, leaving behind his horrible orphanage until the summer holidays.
A sharp rap at the door had Izar straightening up quickly. He neutralized his expression when he saw the blond boy standing on the other side, accompanied by a few other children.
Before Izar opened the door, he pondered on this predicament called 'friends.'
He had never had a friend at the orphanage. He had seen the workings of the orphanage, observed the other children and their friendships. Never once had he seen them stick to the definition of loyalty. There was always a situation in which a friend stabbed the other in the back in hopes of gaining something from the betrayal.
It was human nature to think and act for oneself and only oneself. There was no such thing as friendship to Izar. However, he could use the blond boy as an ally. He could gain information about the Wizarding world from him.
Reluctantly, Izar opened the compartment, allowing the small group of four to enter.
"Do you mind if we sit here? Everywhere else is full," the boy drawled, sitting down without invitation. The girl sat down next to him, leaving the two larger boys to squeeze together on Izar's side.
Izar eyed the other boy, remembering how his father called him Draco. It was an unusual name, though Izar shouldn't pass judgment. He certainly knew his name wasn't traditional or conventional.
"Your lenses. Where did you get them?" the girl breathed with excitement. "They're breathtaking."
Izar frowned at the dark-haired girl as she leaned forward and eyed him with an uncomfortable amount of interest. "My lenses?" He didn't wear glasses or contacts.
"Yes, your eyes are dark silver with flecks of green. Conveniently Slytherin colors, so they must be lenses. Where did you get them?" she repeated as if he were thick.
"They're my real eyes," he replied darkly, irritated. He turned away from her and onto Draco. The blonde-haired boy was clearly amused at Izar's irritation. "I take it you're looking to be Sorted in Slytherin?" he questioned, proud he remembered that fact.
He had read a few passages from Hogwarts: A History after the trip to Diagon Alley. He knew of the four Houses and their qualities. Izar secretly wished he'd be Sorted into Slytherin. Everything sounded spectacular at the castle, and his excitement had only grown after reading about it. Now, on the train to Hogwarts, he could barely contain his relief at being away from the orphanage and with his own 'kind.'
Draco's eyes became hooded. "I'm already in Slytherin. This is my second year at the school. Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle are both second years as well. All of our families have been sorted into Slytherin many generations back. How about your family?" Before Izar could clearly understand the boy's question, Draco continued. "Oh, I apologize. I haven't properly introduced myself yet. I'm Draco Malfoy."
A pale hand held itself out toward Izar. He looked at it just briefly before reaching out his own hand.
"Izar Harrison," he greeted back.
Before he could touch Draco's hand, the blond dropped his offered hand quickly. Izar blinked, confusion breaking through his sturdy mask. What had he done wrong? Had he forgotten a Wizarding custom? Why was Draco's face slowly turning into a sour expression? He'd only been in this world for a few minutes and he'd already made a mistake.
"Harrison?" Draco repeated his last name, the scowl on his face turning into a repulsed grimace. "You are a Mudblood?"
"I'm unfamiliar with the term 'Mudblood,'" Izar repeated coldly, feeling his barriers rise at the dismayed glances he received from the lot.
"Of course you would be unfamiliar with it," Draco stressed, leaning away from Izar. "Mudbloods, otherwise known as Muggle-borns, are raised in the Muggle world by Muggle parents." Seeing Izar's blank expression, Draco gave a tight laugh, his eyes taunting Izar's lack of knowledge.
Izar immediately felt belittled.
Draco deepened his tone into that of a superior drawl. "Muggles are non-magical people," he clarified slowly, taking special care to humiliate Izar's intelligence. "They are the pathetic lot of this world. I, a pure-blood wizard, am superior in the Wizarding world. We don't have a drop of Muggle blood in our family line. And you—a Mudblood—are the scum at the bottom of our boots."
Izar sat there numbly, unable to believe something like this could happen here in this world.
He thought every wizard was the same…only separated by their power and knowledge level.
"Crabbe, Goyle, show this scum out of our compartment. I can't believe father was wrong in his assumptions."
Before Izar could comprehend it, two hands grabbed his arms, hauling him from his seat. Izar stiffened at the contact, his mind flashing back to the orphanage when the children bullied him. He shut himself down as the two boys pulled him out into the corridor and pushed him to the floor. Izar landed on his knees just as the compartment door slammed shut behind him.
Turning to look over his shoulder, he caught sight of Draco's superior smirk before the blinds were pulled shut.
Izar stayed on his hands and knees in the dark hallway. No students were mulling about at the moment. Instead, he could hear their cheery voices coming from the compartments. He bowed his head, staring blankly at the carpeted floor. He finally had a name for non-magical folk. Muggles. Those children and caretakers the orphanage—the very same ones Izar hated—were Muggles.
Yet, apparently, according to Draco, he was just like them. Izar was a Muggle-born, a child born to non-magical parents. The very same Muggle parents who abandoned him at the Muggle hell.
Izar hissed between his clenched teeth as his fingers clawed into the carpet. His shoulders shook with suppressed rage and sadness.
Draco may be 'purer' than Izar. And pure-bloods may be the superior race, but Izar vowed he'd be the best damn Mudblood the Wizarding world had ever seen. He would surpass everything Draco did, and he would be more powerful than any pure-blood. Izar wouldn't allow himself to be compared to the filthy Muggles, simply because Izar knew he was better than those ordinary creatures.
He wouldn't be ordinary.
"Er… are you alright there, mate? Need a hand?" Another pale hand was thrust into Izar's face.
His shoulders trembled once more before his head slowly arched up to stare the redhead in the eye. It was a boy about his age, with freckles and second-hand robes. He appeared friendly enough, but Izar wasn't fooled. This may be a pure-blood as well.
The younger redhead backed away hesitantly, his hand falling uncertainly to his side.
"No," Izar whispered. "I don't need help. Not from you. Not from anyone." He stood up and brushed past the stunned redhead.
On his path to prove himself, he wouldn't need anyone.
Death of Today
Izar still felt a bit cold and shaken as he waited for the hat to finish its song. Despite being in a bad mood, he had taken notice of the beauty Hogwarts presented. It portrayed a warm glow to the students, yet the shadows were also alluring, welcoming an escape to Izar if he needed it. There were probably several places in this castle to hide away.
He couldn't wait to explore.
He couldn't wait to learn.
Knowledge was power. Was it not? The smarter someone was, the harder it was to destroy them. Intelligent people were difficult to be controlled. Right now, Izar was clueless about the politics in this world, about the magic, the spells, and the people. He didn't know anything about Wizarding traditions or how to interact with his betters. He had a lot to learn in seven years.
His fists clenched as he waited for McGonagall to call his name. He was more than aware of the taunting eyes on his back belonging to none other than Draco Malfoy.
However, Izar refused to let the blond-boy rile him up more than he already had.
"Harrison, Izar," McGonagall spoke sharply, clearly.
Izar maneuvered his way past the unmovable forms of the other first years. He climbed up the stairs and approached the tattered hat. Whatever would transpire here would alter his future. It would either change things for the better, or for the worse. A House was a very important factor in the Hogwarts life.
But the Sorting Hat was skilled in the art of minds and character. It would know which House Izar would succeed in.
Before he sat down on the stool, he met eyes with the Headmaster. Izar paused in his advance, feeling the same sensation he had with Draco Malfoy's father, only this time, it was a great deal stronger. The sheer amount of static and hair-raising power surrounding the man was dizzying. Those kind blue eyes twinkled back at Izar, making the man appear ignorant of his own power.
Izar continued forward after the Headmaster gave him a warm nod.
Just as he sat, he caught a pair of black eyes looking back at him from the Head Table.
The hat covered his eyes a moment later.