Long summary: Harry was never going to be a member of the Dursely family; but with a little effort, he could be tolerated. Knowing this, and well aware of his freakishness, Harry-the-child makes a decision that has ever-reaching consequences. Now, after his last chance at a family has died, and learning that normality was never to be his, the darkness he once sealed away begins to break free, and Harry-the-adult does everything he can to hasten its process. Harry was never a good boy, not really. And its time the world knew that. There's more to Privet Drive than you knew.
Warnings: Dark!Harry. Ruthless!Harry. Intelligent!Politicallyaware!Harry. Powerful!Harry. Varying types and stages of abuse, see below for details.
I don't know what pairing this will have, but most likely a very rare one. I enjoy writing those. By very rare, I don't mean Susan,Daphne, Draco either, something along the lines of Fleur's mother, Justin, Piers. Ideas would be welcome, both slash and otherwise. Even crossover pairings.
This isn't a Super!Harry fiction, but I will say that it may come close. He is a child of prophecy, and I personally wish to think that his power could have been just that, power. Love seems a bit far-fetched to me, considering how many mothers would have sacrificed themselves for their children, even if it was on halloween. In this story, Harry was born Dark. He didn't decide to become dark, or gradually become that way, he was born dark, as a phoenix is born light. (Yes, I am comparing him to a magical creature). I've made him the champion of magic and you will see what that means in later chapters.
Anyway, to explain a few things, as a child, Harry sealed up his magic and 'darkness' in order to better fit in with the Durselys. The Durselys in this are not physically abusive, but do enjoy corporal punishment, even for Dudley (in the first book, Vernon cuffed Dudley on the back of the head when fleeing Privet drive. What I want to do is therefore not much of a stretch). They are, as in the book, neglectful and emotionally abusive, and in this story Harry is exposed to sexual misconduct. Not rape, and nothing physical, but you will see what I mean.
I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to it.
On with the prologue.
"Cold", thought Harry, wiping the moisture off, onto his jeans. His finger throbbed slightly with numbness.
Lines cut through the haze of condensation on his window, showing clean, sharp slivers of face whenever he glanced at the reflection, hoping vaguely to see through the frost, and into the garden.
It was summer. His summer had begun only the day before, when the order had seen fit to inform the Dursely's of Sirius's passing.
Something painful gripped his heart, something disappointed and mournful and bitter. Sirius had promised him something he'd never had. Something he'd wanted, desperately. Something he thought, for once, he might be able to have.
He had been a fool.
The Durselys had never stopped reminding him of his place in their world. Of his place anywhere.
For all of their hatred, and fear of the abnormal, they had been quick to begin telling him that he wasn't worthy of being a wizard either. That he didn't deserve even that (their obvious opinion that nothing could be worse had already been forced, rather bluntly into his head). He was less wanted than the dust on Dudley's broken toys.
The summer after his third year, bolstered by the lack of action taken at him having spent his life in The Cupboard, and later, in Dudley's wretched second room, they had begun subtly testing the waters. An extra chore, one less meal, and he had almost been back on his way to his hole under the stairs. A strange protest from his uncle had Harry back in the smallest room within a week.
Harry had never wondered why no one had noticed his treatment. He wasn't, contrary to what Hermione might sometimes think, stupid or unobservant. As a child, his tentative attempts to reach out to people who might help him were rebuffed in the firm manner of an adult who thinks they know best. And Harry, as the neighbourhood knew, was different. A bad, sickly sort of different.
The Durselys, rather cleverly, had told people his parents had both been mentally ill. They whispered, quietly, of Harry's illness. His delusions. His hallucinations. His habitual lying. Once, they had said, when Harry was four, he had attacked Dudley with a pair of scissors: teeth snapping, eyes blazing, and screaming of demons.
Dudley had attempted to push Harry down the stairs, and the momentum had forced him down instead. He had landed on a pair of scissors Harry had used earlier to cut away at Aunt Petunia's garden.
Oh yes. Harry potter of number four private drive was twisted and broken, and they had genuinely feared him as a child. Even now, despite his rare outings, they shied away, eyes dilating in panic, mouths fixed in a rigor mortis grin as they greeted him.
Harry doubted the order knew of his reputation, though he was sure Dumbledore at least was aware of it. Dumbledore was aware of a lot of unsavoury things.
When Harry had started school, a young teacher had tried to help him. He hadn't believed that such a young child could be schizophrenic, and had attempted to have him counselled, in order to find out the truth. A week later, a strange man in a purple suit had shown up, and the teacher had never approached him about it again.
At the end of the year, Harry graduated his class with a smooth yellow certificate, and a cheerful bid to say hello to his physiatrist for him (if he would be ever so kind), and to keep trying hard. He assumed that he hadn't meant academically, because that had been the first and last year harry had done so well at school, and he hadn't needed to try at all. He had been naturally bright, and hungry for knowledge. And despite his current marks, that hadn't actually changed.
Harry had never seen a physiatrist, and at five, hadn't known what that word meant. But he had dutifully nodded anyway, as the adults around him seemed to like him doing, and trudged back home to have his certificate ripped carefully in four, and receive a firm scolding for overshadowing Dudley.
Now, years later, Harry's willingness to be swayed was flickering. He was tired of trying to be nice and pliable. He was tired of grinning when he wasn't happy and frowning when he wasn't mad. He was tired of pretending to be something he wasn't.
I need to change.
He was tired of mourning Sirius, when he hadn't even known him.
And with a shudder, something clicked into place.
Slowly, Harry descended the stairs. His cousin was watching the television and his aunt was out, having been invited to a neighbour's house. Vernon had taken a day off, for no discernible reason, but was giving no obvious clues as to his location.
In the kitchen now, Harry began to make lunch. While chopping the vegetables and dicing the meat for what promised to be a hearty stew, he let his mind wander.
What did he want, now that temptation had been rather forcefully ripped from him?
No. Who was Remus really? He respected the man for his skills as a teacher, and felt a glimmer of affection for him, but underneath all of that, Remus was a man who had avoided responsibility for 12 years. He had ignored the fact that the son of his best friends had also lost someone, his parents in fact, and left him to rot. He had left, even knowing that he wouldn't be with Sirius, but not caring to see who had been chosen instead.
No. Not Remus then. Not really. Hermione? Ron?
Friends, yes. But friends he needed to revaluate. He had been stumbling through life with fogged lenses, and his past decisions all needed to be accounted for and analysed.
Oh, but I hope…
Was there no one else to spring to mind when he considered possible precious people? Dumbledore was most definitely not on it. And at the revelation of the prophecy, he had in fact been put on a different list.
People who want to control and potentially ruin my life.
It was one thing to condone abuse, but another to promote suicide. And that was exactly what Dumbledore was doing, because Harry sure as hell couldn't hope to defeat Voldemort with 'Love'.
And really, do I even know what I'm fighting for?
The only other people on that list were Voldemort, the Dursely's and surprisingly, Molly Weasely. Sirius, despite the future he offered, had walked a very fine line. One too many mishaps with his name and his father's had offered little in the way of paternal comfort.
But still, he had offered a future. One with the potential for love.
But Harry knew now that things had worked themselves out. In his favour hopefully, no matter how much his heart twinged, and told him to grieve. To feel guilty for his thoughts. He knew he had been given another chance, and he was going to take it.
A slow, wide smile spread across his face, stretching his gaunt cheeks painfully and causing his eyes to glimmer.
He had power. And he knew it wasn't love. Memories and knowledge streaked across his mind, and he knew that he wouldn't (couldn't, even) pretend anymore. The flimsy anchor 'child-harry' had planted in a desperate bid for normality had corroded, and the darkness it had held, was rising.
His emotions- those horrible, human atrocities- had begun, once again, to mute. His ambition, his thirst to survive, and not only to survive, but to dominate, once forced dormant, had begun to awaken.
Soon, Harry would be who he was meant to be, instead of what remained of a child's faulty dream.