Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter, nor the Mangekyo Sharingan
Author's note: My Beta Nlaw is doing this Retroactively. Heart of gold, he has...
He was three when it happened. He had just learned the meaning of fear, of pain, when his uncle's hand rose to strike him once again.
His perception of the world slowed, it became... sluggish, to a degree. A million whispered languages were in his ears, a timeless moment, and he settled on...
It was a whispered word, but it held so much power. It was with that word, a dam was broken.
He moved out of the way as fast as possible, and his uncle managed to hit only the wall he was standing next to. When he closed his eyes, in preparation for the next blow, time sped up again, and he didn't feel as if he were moving through molasses anymore.
The world slowed again, and he looked around the room, at the fearful eyes of his 'family', and then the world slowly faded to black as he passed out from exhaustion.
It was the only word that made any sense in his world. The only thing that marked him as anything different, anything more, anything beyond, anything transcendent.
So, for years, that was the only word he ever said.
"Sharingan." The world became a red haze, and he understood how things... worked. He understood what people were about to do. He understood what people thought, most of the time, the little expressions they made, known only to the world as microexpressions, before they acted.
Then it changed again.
When he was seven, Dudley attempted to hit him with a bat. His eyes itched for just the slightest moment, and the single comma marks in his eyes (he had looked up what the mark was, too, in a dictionary he had to teach himself how to read) sprang into existence.
Dudley became even slower, the world became sluggish yet again, and he felt inexplicably stronger. He even managed to grab the bat and wrench it from Dudley's hands.
Dudley's face changed in very, very slow motion, so slow that he would have noticed it without the Sharingan, and he screamed. The scream was also so very slow. He heard the difference in the warbles that Dudley made.
The Sharingan was different now. It had two comma marks per eye, instead of one, and they rotated around the invisible circle that the original had, with more speed than ever before.
He was just as fast without the Sharingan, and just as able. Fighting became second nature to him.
A group of boys had cornered a girl in a back alley, and their laughs and jeers rang out. His ears, so much more sensitive now, due to his understanding of sound, picked up on a lone, distant cry.
It wasn't a cry of help, or anything an nine year old would understand. It was a primal cry, one of the wounded, the defeated, the destroyed. No child should have understood it.
But he did. He understood it better than anyone in the world for his eyes were those of one who has seen misery and lived to see more.
He heard it, and he was enraged. Words rang through his mind. No one should be subjected to this.
His eyes itched more than last time. If he looked in a store window as he ran through the sluggish red haze, he would have seen three, rapidly spinning comma marks.
But all he cared about now was getting to the source of the singular cry of help. His speed was superhuman as he tore through the air and an familiar feeling that he attributed to his eyes ran through his muscles and veins.
A prepubescent fist snapped outwards and crushed a boy's windpipe.
His elbow had found its way into a nose, destroying it and sending a shard of cartilage rocketing into another boy's brain before anyone on the scene realized what was happening.
The girl screamed, a raw catharsis of disbelief. But the relief was evident in her eyes, her partially naked form hidden in the shadows.
He didn't stop. A finger slid into the soft tissue behind another boy's ears, and even as he fell to the ground, gurgling and choking on his own blood, a heavy kick had been aimed for the last boy's solar plexus, snapping the lowest rib and driving it his heart.
The girl gasped in surprised, but he was gone.
She, too, ran away. The crime was never solved.
He was ten when he discovered he could speak to snakes in a zoo.
He was as surprised as anyone. He was dragged forcibly away, and back into the Dursley car.
When they arrived at Number Four Privet Drive, his uncle tried to raise a fist to him, but even without his Sharingan active, he saw it coming easily, and ducked out of the way, and into his cupboard.
He discovered a little grass snake in the garden, newly born, and befriended it. Its name was Ovid, short for its species, and it wasn't particularly bright, but it was better company than any of the others in the house.
It was particularly fascinated with his Sharingan eyes, and theorized at great length about it, before deciding that it was a gift from the great Basilisk, and it was a blessing.
He disagreed. On different days, he believed that either his eyes were begotten of his misery, or his misery was begotten of his eyes.
One warm July morning, his aunt stuck her head inside his cupboard, and saw a small snake coiled next to her hated nephew's head.
She shrieked, and brought a kitchen knife down on it.
Harry woke to the dead body of his only friend, and wept.
He wept and wept, until his eyes began to burn. Then he wept some more. The burning increased, and pain that he had never felt before - it was always misery, never true pain, lanced through him.
And then he knew another word, one that preceded Sharingan in his mind's eye.
He stared into the entryway mirror as his uncle told him to get the mail.
An alien, three-petalled flower appeared in the mirror, each petal connected by an ever-thinning line.
And he knew that this held a whole new level of misery, a whole new level of power.
He saw little distortions in time and space. He felt flames building in his right eye, ready to destroy things with impunity. He felt the thoughts and even memories of others in his left eye. And he knew he needed only three words to activate any of these new feelings.
He read a letter addressed to a Mr. H. Potter.
Apparently, he was a wizard.
Did wizard describe people with Sharingan eyes?
Or did it describe people with Mangekyo Sharingan eyes?
He began to laugh, for the first time in nearly eight years. He laughed and laughed, clutching onto the paper in front of him. He grabbed a marker off of a desk, and scribbled 'OK' on the back of the paper.
He concentrated on the name Professor McGonagall, and on the rips in space-time. "Kamui." The paper disappeared.
Then he stared at the owl. He remembered briefly that owls were the natural predators of snakes.
"Amaterasu." The owl burned to ash in front of him.
He went back into his cupboard.