Dark Lord Potter

Harry Potter was not a normal little boy. If someone from the neighbourhood was asked to describe the black haired, green eyed child they'd probably do it in one word.


Harry Potter was always so quiet. But it wasn't shy quiet or scared quiet. No, Harry was calculating quiet and examining quiet. Those vivid eyes of his seemed to look right into your soul.

So why was Harry so quiet? Why wasn't he screaming and shouting and asking question after question like the other children? Simply put, he had no desire to. He learned early on that making noise and asking questions was bad. It normally earned him a slap round the head, or a kick or three. Or a full beating, like that time when he was four and he asked why he wasn't allowed presents like Dudley at Christmas.

No Harry was quiet because he realised that if he wanted to find out information, he'd have to do it himself. Adults were not to be trusted. Especially not his relatives. After all who would lock a six year old outside and leave him in the rain for the entire day? Of course that particular incident led to a magnificent discovery for Harry. As he wandered around the neighbourhood, drenched from head to toe and shivering from the cold, he found the library.

By the time he was seven the children's books became boring. At nine years old most of the grown up books were the same. It seemed like every book Harry touched he absorbed the information like a dry sponge absorbs water. And every bit of information was given a place in his mind. On occasion he imagined his mind as a huge library, extending with each new book he read and protected from others by a variety of puzzles and tricks. He didn't realise that he was actually creating such a library in his head, which after a few years would be all but impossible to get into.

It was during one of these trips to the library, not long after turning seven, that Harry came across some information that greatly interested him. The book was for children, and described the magical acts of special people called witches, wizards and warlocks. This would have interested many a young child, but Harry's interest came from realising that some of the things these fictional people did, he himself had done. Like the story about the warlock who held a grudge with his neighbour and turned her hair into worms. Harry hadn't done that, but his teacher's hair had turned blue at the same time Harry had wished that she would stop yelling at him. And then there was the witch who could hop from one place to another, covering great distances that shouldn't be possible. Harry had done that too, when he wished hard that he could hide from Dudley and his gang, and found himself up on the school roof.

The more Harry thought about it, the more he realised that every time something "freakish" had happened, it was because he had wished hard enough. Eager to prove his theory, Harry looked round to check for anyone watching him, then concentrated hard on a book some other child had left lying by the window. He wished for it to come to him. He pictured the book rising off the table and hovering over. And, as if by magic, the book did just that. Awe struck, Harry reached out and plucked it from the air. He could do magic!

An idea came to him then, one that normal little boys wouldn't dream of thinking about. But Harry Potter wasn't a normal boy. Normal boys don't have a piece of a very dark wizard's soul latched onto their scar. Of course, Harry Potter wasn't a normal wizard either. A normal wizard would never have been able to live with a soul piece in their head. The darkness would have festered and possessed them until they were little more than a husk. Harry's will, and his magic were greater than that. With that simple deliberate act of summoning the book, Harry's magical core was unlocked from the bindings placed on it. It surrounded the parasite, closing in and absorbing the life and magic from it.

Harry had woken up twenty minutes later, with the worried librarian pressing a cold cloth to his head. He didn't know about the internal battle his magic had fought, or that he was now free from a plague that had been slowly growing inside him. All he knew was that his head hurt, a lot, and his scar had been bleeding. But the cold cloth helped, and he was able to tell the woman that he felt much better and leave the library, deep in thought about his plan.

This action also caused a beneficial side effect. The wards placed round the Dursley home, ones that the occupants weren't aware of, flashed for a brief moment, before settling. Any neighbour who saw it assumed they'd just seen a ray of sun on a window. Far away in an old man's office, a few odd little trinkets ceased humming for a moment, then resumed. The wards, specifically the blood ward, had been cast upon the magical signature of Harry James Potter. They would tell the old man where the boy went, what happened in the house, and how healthy the boy was. However they had been cast when the soul piece was in Harry's scar, and now that it was out his magical signature was no longer the same. The wards could still sense him, but now they were no longer able to tell the old man what was happening within the Dursley home. He would know only that Harry was alive.

No one noticed afterwards that the strange little scar on Harry's head had vanished. No one noticed the new and improved Harry Potter.