Author's note: After reading magentasouth's stories found in aff, I felt compelled to write something. There are five chapters written, but it needs some more polishing before I continue to post. I have not abandoned my other stories and I'm hoping to update TPH before June.
Fatal Magnetism is a story that branches off from the Chamber of Secrets. The story will involve underage non-consensual sex, torture and gore. If you are squeamish about that, then this story is not right for you. The prologue is fairly clean, however.
(5/2/11) Lots of thanks to the anonymous reviewer who pointed out my em-dash abuse. More thanks to JT for agreeing to beta-read this chapter. While there might be leftover grammar or spelling errors, I hope that they are not as obvious as before. Enjoy reading.
Harry Potter thought that he was not lonely.
In a class full of people who can laugh and live without complication, he was horribly out of place. They had no idea what it was like to be in his shoes – not that they'll ever be in his shoes. (How many people will survive an Avada Kedavra and vanquish a Dark Lord as a baby?)
He was not lonely.
The child in him had long yearned for a companion to share his misery with, and it was fortunate to find more of his kind, yet they will never understand his misery. It will not be wise to burst the bubble that their savior was a pathetic wizard who can't even protect himself from muggles. If word got out, he would not only be celebrated as a "savior", he'd have people pitying him for being a poor abused orphan.
Here he was idolized. His coming was that of a messiah. He was on a pedestal; the pedestal was high enough that a fall would break his neck.
Once or twice he asked for help. He wondered why no one could see him as a child. He was robbed of normalcy, but he could deal with that. The problem was, a role was being forced upon him. People wanted the dark lord gone and whoever did it deserved praise and so he got it. He was a miracle even when his defeat of the Dark Lord was a fluke. In the end, the people of wizarding world named him the savior out of convenience. His eleven-year-old mind did not understand that concept when he first entered the world of magic. His twelve-year-old mind still thought it was ridiculous.
So he had no choice but to accept his savior status. It was easy to pretend that nothing was wrong and the more he pretended, the more it became natural for him to let go and adapt. He adapted to the image the public wanted for him and thus he became epitome Gryffindor, Dumbledore's pet, and the boy-who-lived. He continued to fulfill the role because it gave him purpose. In his mind he thought, somehow he was useful and somehow everyone loved him for he was the chosen one. How could they be so blind? And so fickle?
Barely even able to think then, he saved them from the big bad wizard and was hailed a savior. He was famous for the fact that his parents died to protect him, and the wizarding world showed its gratitude by depositing him to his muggle family who abused him. If it was that easy to remove him from wizarding world when he was a child, then why can't the wizarding world forget about him? He did not want the spotlight.
His friends were clueless of his inner dilemma.
So what if he could talk to snakes. He was tired of being cast aside and judged. He wanted to give up. This was not the life he wished for. If it was possible to just disappear and live somewhere where there were no responsibilities, he will. As he was now, however, he can't.
Harry Potter was not lonely. Harry forced himself to believe that.
But he was alone now, and being alone brought all sorts of thoughts to the forefront of his mind. It was as if an endless amount of black tar kept oozing to the surface and it clouded anything and everything, even his common sense.
The feeling of emptiness always managed to consume him, and he was slowly being consumed by it.
In the middle of the Gryffindor common room, he was writing on a diary. It was a diary covered with black leather, enchanted to write back.
He writes because there is none who wanted to grant him their company. Harry knew that there was something odd about a seemingly alive person within the worn pages of the book, but he could not help himself. He needed to confide to someone and he needed to write in order to do that.
So he wrote of things that he shouldn't have written. He told a story of cupboards, of loneliness, of hate, of rejection, and of fear.
And dreams. And what is happening now.
The headmaster refused, Tom.
He said that he would talk to me soon though.
Now was not the right time.
No one wants to tell me anything...
Maybe you know, Tom?
The diary absorbed the words, and a perfectly loopy "I" appeared. It was followed by words that intrigued the young child.
…have shown you what I know.
Tell me Harry, why
are you so eager to learn?
Your handwriting... is choppy.
It informs me if your mood.
You are not alright...
Tell me why.
Harry took a deep breath and sighed. He wondered if spilling his secrets to the diary would help, but perhaps it would. His ink made a blot on the page and it spread and is absorbed by the paper like a sponge that never ever gets wet.
They hate me.
There was a big pause as Harry wondered if he should continue... but the thought of writing it on paper, and having the words discovered through a spell. If someone were to use the words he'd written and show to all how utterly spiteful their savior is of the wizarding world...
I can't tell you why but
they hate me for something that they don't
even understand. I'm tired.
Maybe tomorrow, I will write again.
The diary was quick to respond.
I am always here...
If you want me to.
Sleep well, Harry.
Harry nodded, feeling sleepy all of a sudden.
Harry hauled his tired self off the desk and got into his pajamas. He burrowed under the covers and whispered for the drapes around his bed to close. The dark surrounded him and he fell asleep with the diary under his pillow.
Harry was sore the next morning and told Ron that he was feeling sick.
"You sure, mate? Snape will be furious."
Harry mouthed with a grin. "Let him be."
Ron whined, "but Harry, the house points!"
Harry chuckled then, and buried his head on the pillow wondering why it smelt different, almost like... A pinch to his face brought him back to Ron who was a little bit ticked off.
"I'll make sure to visit Madam Pomfrey and get a pass so don't worry. We won't lose points and Snape can't fault me for getting sick. Um. Tell Hermione to lend me her notes later and... I just need more sleep."
While Harry was resting, the whole school was in an uproar. Another child had been petrified. A wall was painted red with a message that chilled their bones.
At dinner, Ron cried out in misery. Hermione whispered meaningless words in an attempt to soothe the boy.
Harry was transfixed by the black swirling on his plate. Ron noticed that. Ron wondered why his friend was not attempting to console him. Why was Harry ignoring him?
There was another reflection on the black soup of his plate. Harry acknowledged that Ron was angry again. Ron would blame him, and for awhile, ignore him, and after some time would pass, make up with him. They'd be best buddies again.
Had it always been that way? He felt like any moment now, he would wake up from a dream – and perhaps it was his nightmare. The perpetual idiocy of the events that surrounded his epic life. He did not ask for this.
He did not want to see the eyes that stared back at him in silent accusation.
He could not meet Ron's gaze when he wanted to deny him that call for help.
He was utterly helpless and he could only watch. Why did they think he should help when they also thought that he was the perpetrator?
There was a whole slew of whys that followed.
"YOU KNOW SOMETHING!"
Hermione tried to pull Ron back. The red-head promptly shot a curse to Harry and Harry doubled to the ground. Hermione slapped Ron and proceeded to shake him back to his senses. "Ron, stop. Can't you see Harry's tired? Just... let it go. Ron–"
Ron pushed her aside and stormed off to deal with his rage. Hermione's eyes widened when she looked at Harry, "Oh God, Harry," she knelt to the fallen boy and was at loss at what to do, "you're bleeding.
Hermione offered a hand but Harry ignored it. Hermione looked at Ron's retreating back and Harry's injured state. She backed away and left.
Harry remained on the floor of one of those unused corridors. He was trying to think but his thoughts weren't going anywhere.
His cheek stung and when Harry reached out to touch it, it felt wet. It was warm, metallic, and red. It dribbled down and left red lines on his face. There was disbelief on Harry's face while he covered his cheek with his left hand.
He should get up...
He blacked out.
Harry woke up and found himself in the infirmary. The matron barely allowed him to leave, and he had to lie through his teeth to get out. Tonight he said, he was supposed to be meeting the headmaster. It sparked an idea inside of him. What if he made the claim true?
Perhaps it was a last call for help.
He found himself in front of the rotating staircase trying to guess passwords and when he got in, he was disappointed to see no one.
Come midnight, he traversed through the castle like a mindless ghost. Even the thrill that usually accompanied the nightly mischief was lost in him. He was waiting for something special that might wake him up from a niggling fear.
Harry admitted to himself that he just wanted to connect to people. He felt sad that the only thing left to him was his owl and the diary.
Harry gave in to the urge and set for his quarters. He needed Tom.
I just don't get it anymore...
They call me the boy who lived.
But... I'm nothing.
If the wizarding world really wanted me...
they shouldn't have left me to suffer
my muggle relatives...
Harry huddled near the glass window and the leaves flew by swirling, as if dancing to his mood.
His quill dipped in ink and he watched as the words wrote itself for him.
And ink began to stain his hands.
If they truly did care.
They will not judge me for what I am...
I can speak to snakes...
Does that make me a dark wizard?
They kept staring at me once for this scar on my forehead.
They worship me and now they cast me aside.
Because I'm evil...
Now I'm hailed as the next dark lord.
Am I evil?
I want to hide... Tom. I didn't ask for this.
It's not fair.
I wanted friends... but no one understands.
I only want to be accepted... to live a normal life...
Harry wiped the tears off, and his hand trembled.
I want to di-
Words appeared before he could finish the sentence.
No you do not, Harry.
Believe me you don't...
And know that I am not lying when I tell you-
They will get what they deserve.
And there will come a time that...
you will not hurt anymore.
Harry trembled. When the diary knew that there was no helping the child in his depression, it did what it was supposed to do.
Harry was engulfed in a blinding white light.
Someone was rubbing his back. Harry felt helpless in his misery and allowed arms to wrap around him. It wasn't as warm as a real body should feel but Harry felt it all the same.
"Just let it out. You will feel better."
Harry failed to register that it was murmured in parseltongue. Had he cared to notice, he would have known then... The child might have saved the world from a terrible fate. Yet Harry was so distraught that all that mattered was the warmth. Tom Riddle possessively held the child against him and waited for a confirmation of his hunch. The boy felt so right in his arms, it was a wonder why his older self could not feel it.
"I'm so... tired Tom... thank you. And... I'm sorry... I don't know... why... it hurts... can't stop... crying."
The dark lord was delighted to hear the serpentine tongue from the boy's mouth and he kissed the child's forehead.
"Sleep, my little Harry."