Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11498784.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Voldemort
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Voldemort_(Harry_Potter), Albus_Dumbledore, Alastor_“Mad-
      Eye”_Moody, Severus_Snape
  Additional Tags:
      Obscurial_Harry_Potter, Hunt, Manipulation, Child_Abuse, Third_character
      narrator, Character_Death, Angst, Psychological_Trauma, Slow_Burn,
      Ministry_Bashing, Murder, Suicidal_Thoughts, Torture
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-14 Updated: 2018-03-05 Chapters: 6/? Words: 25942
****** Black Waves ******
by LadyBraken
Summary
     Let me tell you a story. It is a story about what happen when a child
     is let alone to suffer. It's a story of how nobody could have see the
     end coming, a tragic story, really, of expectations, anger, love,
     madness, pain... A story that changed the world, maybe not for the
     best. A story of a boy I knew, a long time ago.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** A story no on wants to know *****
                                        
 
Let me tell you a story.
It is a story about what happen when a child is let alone to suffer. It's a
story of how nobody could have see the end coming, a tragic story, really, of
expectations, anger, love, madness, pain... A story that changed the world,
maybe not for the best. A story of a boy I knew, a long time ago. A boy that
was supposed to be the light of our world, but that was consumed by an internal
darkness.
But nobody saw it.
All of you,who hear that story, I ask you to forgive us. We didn't know,
Merlin, how could we?
This is a story that nobody want to hear again.
This is the story of Harry Potter.
Harry Potter was a good boy. A very resilient one. He was abandoned in front of
the doorstep of his uncle and aunt by some very strange looking poeple. But I
ask you all, what could they have done? It was chaos, outside. The boy's
parents were dead, the poor child had saw their murder. Killed by the most
dangerous and feared man walking the earth- Lord Voldemort. He was the child of
the prophecy, designed to kill the Dark Lord since his birth. Oh, I had myself
the privilege to hold him in my arms as he was only a infant. He was radiating
with life... Our savior. He was our savior. So, after having killed the couple,
Lord Voldemort had attacked the boy... a very bad choice, in my humble opinion.
The spell rebounded, and the Lord was gone.
And it was chaos. In only a few hours, trahisons were discovered, loves ones
were lost, hearts were broken. Dozens of people were arrested, some had gone
mad. The Lord's most faithful had gone rampage, the Potter's friends had gone
rampage. There was so much death already... The ministry was corrupted, the
aurors were all mighty. Trials were forgotten. Make it stop. Everybody just
wanted to make it stop. The world was set on fire for a night, a last pyre for
the Dark Lord, and when the little Harry Potter was let on that terrible
doorstep, his little fists clenching the letter explaining the situation for
his muggle family, everybody thought it was for the best.
How wrong we were...
Harry was a very talented magical child. He had accidental magic, turning his
father's hair green or summoning his fake broomstick. Every time, his parents
celebrated it.
But he wasn't with his parents anymore.
Three years after the attack, the young Harry Potter was sitting in a small
bed, in the cupboard under the stairs, completely oblivious of how wrong the
situation was.
But well, three year old kids are often oblivious of a lot of things.
The door was open, and the TV was running in the living room, and a child was
crying upstairs. A woman passed quickly in front of his cupboard. Aut 'Tunia,
as he called her. A thin woman, bony, always nervous even in her affections.
She rushed upstairs and went back with an enormous child in her arms. The poor
thing was crying like all the legions of hell were after him, his chubby face
red and swallow.
Harry, being the curious little thing that he was, decided to follow her into
the living room. Baby Dudley was now jumping on his father's knees, his little
arms in the air, babbling and laughing under the warm gaze of his mother.
And little Harry, being the great kid he was, felt no jealousy. He just stood
and watch, hoping he could have a jump too.
He didn't notices Petunia's hard look until it was too late.
"Return into your cupboard, boy!"
Of course, Harry didn't expected such treatment. Petunia had ignored him
before, but never talked to him like that. Of course, he didn't understand.
"Can I jump, 'Tunia?" He asked innocently.
"No, you cannot, jump!" She said harshly.
"But..."
"Go. To. Your. Room."
Uncle Vernon had stop playing with his son, and was now looking at Harry with
all the disgust in the world.
It was the first time that Harry's heart broke. Tears blurred his vision and he
clenched his fists. Why, he thought, Why are they angry?
"I didn't do bad things!" he exclaimed.
And with theses words, his cousin's heart turned red. Quite a normal burst out
of magic, I can tell you, and quite fun too. Harry though the same, and
chuckled, completely oblivious of the horror on his aunt's face, and the
abysmal rage bursting through every muscle of his enormous uncle. Said man rose
from his sit, disregarding his son on the floor, and silently went to his
nephew. The silent approach was enough to stop any laugh- any joy- coming from
Harry, and it was a fearful little boy that Vernon faced.
The man caught the little boy buy his shoulders, effectively lifting him.
"Listen to me, Boy!" he said, every consonant slamming its way out of his
mouth. "I will NOT tolerate your freakiness in MY HOME. We FEAD you, we gave
you CLOTHES! How dare you troubling our day, how dare you show your freakish
face in front of us! LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID TO MY SON! Undo it! UNDO IT NOW
FREAK!"
The more he spoke, the more the shook the boy. Of course, Harry didn't know
about magic. He didn't understood. He had done something wrong, but what? And
confusions lead to sadness, which lead to self denigration.
And that, my friends, is a dangerous mix. Especially in a young, influential
mind.
As obviously, the boy wasn't going to do anything but to cry between his hands,
Vernon tossed him into his bed and slammed the door.
The kid cried and called for comfort that he knew he wouldn't have. He was let
alone, in the dark, in the cold.
They didn't allowed him to eat for the rest of the day.
Of course, Harry knew he could do things. And, if his family didn't want to
believe him, maybe someone else would.
That's why when one of Dudley's friends came to their house, during a nice
Sunday afternoon, Harry tried to talk to him.
The boy was a bit older than him, around six. Blond hair, dark eyes, a bit
exuberant, always running somewhere, breaking some toy, screaming something.
The perfect friend for Dudley.
But not for Harry.
The boy hadn't be introduced to the word "bully". But he would know the idea
after that.
He had been forced to stay in his cupboard for a few hours. He was alone,
playing with a small wooden knight he had found in a trash can. He was bored.
Such a young kid in a close space, immobile, it can only lead to disobedience.
Especially when said kid could hear the laugh of his cousin and cousin's friend
in the bedroom, above him.
They seemed to have such a good time!
So Harry slowly opened the door of his cupboard, picking his head out to check
if any adult was here to punish him. Luckily, Petunia and Vernon were in the
living room, drinking tea with the mother of the other kid, talking about
important things such as gossip, weather, golf, work, gossip, food, news, and
the way Miss Hudson took care of her lawn.
Giving enough time for Harry to sneak out of his cupboard and run into the
stairs to his cousin's bedroom.
He had never ask why his cousin had a bedroom.
Dudley and the other boy was jumping on a small plastic car with the obvious
purpose of destroying it. Harry remained at the door for a moment, hesitating
to enter. He had never been to this room, and had learned in the worst way of
ever approaching toys.
But even at this age, Harry Potter was very brave, so much so that it came
close to irresponsibility.
So he entered his cousin's room, determined to play with him and try to
convince the other boy that he could do some great things.
"What are you doing here, you?"
That was a you that sounded a lot like Freak.
"Who's that?" asked the other boy.
" 'Sort of my cousin. He's no fun and weird. I don't like him. Go away!" He
made great movements of his big red hand, as if he were trying to make a bird
fly.
"I want to play with you! I can do a lot of things! magic, even!" Desperately
exclaimed the boy, clenching his little fists.
He didn't understand why they were mean to him. Why everybody was- he was nice
and fun! Dudley was a liar, he only had to show it to that other boy.
"Magic uh? Are you like nuts? Like old'Mary, she said that she was a mermaid!
Completely nut!"
"'M'not!"
"Yes you are! Dad said there's no magic! You're a liar and a weirdo!" exclaimed
Dudley.
"You're the liar!"
The other boy seemed to think that he had enough and pushed Harry out of the
room. The poor lad ended his arse on the floor, the door slamming on his nose
and Petunia's angry footsteps in the stairs.
He didn't eat for two days after that. Who knew such a thin lady could throw
such a tantrum? Well, of course Lily Potter could have, but she wasn't her to
tell the tale, nor to protect her only son.
He didn't tried to talk to that other boy anymore.
A few month later- the boy had just turned four- Petunia thought it was about
time for him to learn how to cook alone. If he wasn't good for anything, at
least, that boy could be useful. Even if it had cost her to let him touch the
family's food, it was better than doing it herself.
Of course, little Harry was far too small to grab the pan, and after a few
unsupervised and messy attempts, boiling water fell on the boy.
Well, it attempted to anyway.
You see, magic is an energy which is rule by one purpose: to keep you alive.
And as little Harry was very close not to be alive anymore, his magic acted,
and sent the water to fall elsewhere, in a place were conveniently no little
boy was around.
Unfortunately, little Harry's cousin was nearby.
"Papa! Papa! Harry did a freak-thing again!"
Shouting that, he ran to his enormous father, arms in the air. As Vernon got
angrily closer to the boy, redder than a phoenix's feather (and much uglier
too), magic reacted again. Of course, magic can only react depending on the
character of the child, and Harry was such a sweet little thing that the worst
he could thing to defend himself against the threat coming for him was to make
him trip.
Therefore, Vernon did tripped.
Therefore, Vernon was pissed.
And that was bad.
And the realization of how bad it was crushed the little boy as he sa his uncle
slowly get pack on his feet, a very, very dangerous expression on his reddish
face.
The first hit got the head. The second, the belly, cutting off his breath.
Then, a large sweaty hand took him by the collar and tuck him into his
cupboard.
And little Harry started crying, whimpering, begging, telling his uncle how
sorry he was.
Of course, harry's magic reacted, in a defensive way.
Vernon's hair turned green.
Because in his anger, little Harry couldn't even think about something more
dangerous than tripping and colorful hair. It was quite fun and effective the
first time, after all.
"Petunia, I swear I will put a locket on that damn door!"
Petunia nodded, nursing her boy, which was quite oblivious about everything,
mostly because he couldn't see his father's hair. Otherwise, he would have
found it quite fun too.
But Harry, how poor little Harry, had cowered in his bed, his knees against his
chest and his head between them, sobbing. And the more he cried, the more
things were shaking around him. And the more things shook, the more he knew he
was going to get punish. His emotions created the energy, and the energy gave
him stronger emotions.
He had no control.
He was a freak. It was his fault, his, he deserved what Vernon would do to him
but oh god he couldn't stop he couldn't he could-
"Boy stop that NOW!" Roared Vernon, drumming at the door.
"I can't! I don't know what's happening!"
"BOY I WEAR THAT IF YOU DON'T STOP IT NOW YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK TOMORROW!"
But Harry couldn't hear his scream through his own fear. It was making his
heart drum and hurt, and his lungs wouldn't just take air, and panic was taking
avery inch of his little and malnourished body. The more he tried to control
himself, the more he knew he couldn't do it, the more he panicked. His toys
fell from their shelves, falling on his head.
"Make it stop... MAKE IT STOP!" He screamed as the door exploded behind him.
His uncle and aunt swore. He had never heard such words before. One of his arms
was broken later that day. The next day, someone came to repair the door, and
add a lock.
But it didn't matter. What mattered, was that something very dark, a seed, a
clock-bomb start flourishing into the child's chest. A lock had been
put inside.
 
And that, my friends, is the beginning of the tragic and unfortunate story of
Harry James Potter.
***** The Beginning of the hurricane *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
What mattered, was that something very dark, a seed, a clock-bomb start
flourishing into the child's chest. A lock had been put inside.
And that, my friends, is the beginning of the tragic and unfortunate story of
Harry James Potter.
 
Oh my dears! I didn't expect you so soon. Please, take a seat! You're well?
Tea? No, of course not, you cannot drink here. I miss drinking too, you know?
Oh, but I forget myself, you are here to hear more, aren't you? Yes, the
Potter's case is quite... fascinating. Don't worry, I will tell you the rest of
the story. It's not like I had anything else to do anyway!
A few months after a lock had destroyed Harry Potter's last hopes of freedom,
things started to turn badly. Well, I mean even more badly than they had
started, which means a lot, considering.
You know, I, among other people, thought that Lily's love would protect the boy
from harm – most of it anyway. But we hadn't thought about the necessity of
protecting Harry from himself. Quite a blatant error, I must confess.
Harry passed days in the cupboard, refusing to get out. Afraid to get out.
Afraid for him and for the others as he was now totally convinced that he was a
freak. That something was wrong with him. As a consequence, he didn't eat, and
became thinner than any kid should ever be. His night were sleepless, or
dreamless. He was trying to stay awake to stay in control of whatever was wrong
with him. He was scared.
But in the end, his aunt had enough of that. Neighbors would talk if the kid
looked like he just came back from a very unpleasant trip to Siberia. As school
was getting near, she tossed him out of his prison, which had became his
refuge, about as unceremoniously as her husband had tossed him in, and sent him
cook something.
Of course, the boy thought it was an other punishment. Forced him to serve, to
burn himself on the plates. He was too young to see the regrets in her eyes, or
to understand that the best way to make him eat was to expose him to food
odors. And it wouldn't look strange to Vernon, and start an other tantrum.
No, for him, it was an other punishment. That he deserved.
Petunia's plan worked. Harry was a five year old child, and no child this age
would voluntarily starve himself, especially in front of some hot pancakes.
Little Harry did burn himself, but he did eat.
Of course, Harry had other reasons than just anger and childhood. Something
inside his head, his core, his soul one might say, was pushing him to live, at
all cost. It was the lasts remains of something that was dying from magical
deprivation in him. From emotional deprivation.
The love one gives, as strong as it can be, is of no use if forgotten or
tainted.
After he ate, Petunia sent the little Harry do manual work in the garden. Her
way to say that he was too pale and could do good of fresh air. Or maybe she
just didn't wanted to put her own hands in the dirt. Or maybe a bit of the two.
That was why a five year old, skinny, pale and utterly sad Harry Potter was
planting geraniums in front of the Dursley's garden.
He was there, under the sky, hands in the ground, dirt on his little cheeks,
trying to plant flowers with his clumsy -I-don't-want-to-fail ways.
Of course, Harry had never heard of sunstroke, something that happened when an
unprotected head meet a glazing sun and hot weather.
And it was very, very hot that day.
It took about two hours of his efforts for the boy to faint a first time. Harry
found himself lying on the bare ground, something hurting his side. A lot.
It took him a whole minute to focus his poor sight and come back to complete
consciousness. Every inspiration hurt. He pressed a shaking hand to his side,
where the pain was, and when he held it in front of his face, it was red.
Blood.
Harry was a brave child, and it wasn't the first time he saw blood – even his.
But not that amount if it, combined with the pain and the loneliness... He was
alone in the garden, alone in the street and utterly helpless. Something was in
him, piercing his skin, and every breath was painful.
Harry cried. But sobs were pain, whimper were pain. Contracting all his muscles
to prevent himself from moving more than necessary, he set out to locate what
had been planted in his side. It was a pair of scissors that he used earlier;
at least he thought, his vision being blurred by tears and myopia.
He grabbed the handle of the scissors. Harry was a child accustomed to doing
things alone and by himself, and could only rely on his own strength to
survive. It didn't even occur to him to call for help, or to go and fetch a
member of his family.
In an excruciatingly slow movement, for fear of hurting himself more than he
was already, he removed the blades. Of course, he did not know that one should
never remove an object buried in a living body.
He screamed, twisting on the floor, clenching his eyelids and teeth. He tried
to stifle the sounds, but the pain was just too strong. He felt every
millimeter he pulled out of his flesh, cutting the skin a little more back.
Once he had done that, he fainted again.
But he didn't only faint, no that would be too simple. No, little Harry was a
young magical child, and a very afraid one on the top of that. A very powerful
one too...
As black dots started to stain his poor sight, he felt the magic escape his
body. He felt it because, for the first year of his life, he had seen it. He
had heard the word magic. The grass around him started to decay, and the garden
tools start shaking. And Harry saw that, and he knew it was his own power and
he didn't understand.
He was scared.
He started to lose control. Or, more accurately he gained an unnatural control
over something that was so wild that control could only hurt.
Because he was so scared and it hurt, it hurt so much, and it had to stop and
No!
It stopped. Apparently.
As you may have guess now, these things never really stop. Putting fences
around a hurricane isn't quite the best way to stop it, or to survive for that
matter.
It took only a few minutes for Harry to wake up again – magical children are
quite resilient, you see – and his wound was already halfway gone.
Half way was the problem in that sentence.
He was still bleeding. A lot.
I can't go home, he thought, I'll mess up the floor with my blood.
It had to be said that Harry had washed the floor earlier that day.
Little Harry, covered in blood and with an open wound just under his ribs,
decided to enter in one of his neighbour's house in complete illegality.
I think he takes after his father, if I may.
Pressing his forearm on his ribs to compress the wound as much as he could (he
had seen someone do this in one of the police series that Vernon and Petunia
were watching on television), he staggered to the house of his neighbors,
determined to go through the window if necessary.
Harry was a very small child - even for his age. He had no difficulty other
than the pain caused by his wound, to pass under the barrier of painted wood.
He had noticed that Aunt Marge's dog went there regularly to go and sack the
flowers of the poor Mr. and Mrs. Dandelion.
He slipped under the fence with difficulty, leaving a red trail in his path. He
clenched his teeth so much that they squeaked and struggled to make the pain
disappear.
Little Harry was a brave kid. I must say that even know, as I'm a grown adult,
I couldn't do what he did at the venerable age of four.
Having no luck with the door, Harry climbed on the windowsill as best he could,
and fell back on the other side. Luckily for him, the house was built slightly
differently than the Dursleys, and there was no sink or stove under the window,
only a meter of void that snatched a little cry of pain from it as he struck
the floor.
He sat up slowly with a grimace. He was totally unaware of the red puddle he
had left on the floor.
Of course, no four-year-old child could have heard of hemorrhage.
He managed to reach the bathroom by standing on the walls to keep his balance.
The owners of the house took a nap in their room and did not wake up to the
stifled sound of the child's footsteps.
Harry went to the bathroom and started wrapping himself in bandages. It was
quite clumsy, and useless, but the kid felt a bit better.
And that was something.
Putting back his shirt, he crossed the corridor in reverse on tip-toe, his hand
well placed on the wall. Tho poor kid had learned to walk about three years
ago, and had never heard about walking when not having enough blood in one's
body.
He got back to his own home, well, the Dursley's home, to find Petunia pacing
in the garden, looking for him.
The strong weight of fear came back to his frail shoulders.
"Harry James Potter; what are you doing? I've been looking for you for hours!
What- Why did you come from the Dandelion's?"
As Petunia asked her questions, her voice grew louder and louder, and Harry
knew he was going to get in trouble.
Big trouble.
His aunt crossed the garden with great strides and grabbed his shoulder. Her
long extra-ordinary nails, like the rest of her person, sank into his shoulder.
Harry shrieked, his eyes drowned with tears.
But Petunia had no pity for her young nephew. Not when he risked tainting her
perfect, so perfect reputation.
She did not notice for a moment the air that was distorted around the child's
malnourished form. Or as his muscles trembled with spasms, as he sought to
control the terrifying thing in him, and howling him out, to heal him, to free
him from this hold that terrified him, to allow him to survive.
She did notice the hole in the Dandelion's fence, though. Priorities,
priorities, my friends. It is quite fun how things appeared different of what
they are depending of what we want to see in them.
Something I learned quite late, unfortunately. Too late, some may say.
But back to the matter of the tragic events of Harry Potter's life.
Petunia Dursley was a woman obsessed with reputation. She was a great woman
with a great family because the people in her neighborhood thought so. A normal
life, conducted without excess, without a fuss. The Dandelions were good
people, because everybody thought so, and because they made the best cookies at
the communal parties. Not even mentioning that their lawn was clean and green,
even if a bit less luxurious than the Dursley's. Which, for Petunia, was great.
No jealousy, just enough of contempt andrespect.
What Harry did could break this fragile lawn-equilibrium.
The angry woman crossed the pavement and her neighbor's garden with astonishing
rapidity, dragging little Harry behind her as if it were nothing but a bag.
She had not even noticed the blood.
She knocked on the door three times, and at each stroke the little Harry felt
even closer to faint. He was terrified, weakened, and the loss of blood and
days without food began to be felt.
When Madame Dandelion, awakened by the noise, went to open the door, she burned
her hand.
Harry was very, very scared.
The ensuing cry panicked Petunia. However, it's easy to forget that Harry
Potter's aunt was also Lily Evans's sister. She knew what magic was, and she
had already seen magical incidents.
Although she would have given everything, apart from her dear family, to forget
these experiences.
It is also easy to forget, because of her reserved attitude and her voluntary
inactivity in Harry's life that Petunia Evans was a very intelligent woman. Oh,
certainly not of an academic intelligence, not even of a genius, of an artistic
sensibility or something.
No, Petunia Dudley was shrewd.
She had always wanted to be normal, and had wanted it with talent. She had to
reject her sister in every way imaginable, to the great shame of her parents.
Then she had married Vernon, a strong man, not very clever but tender with her,
and especially who loved her passionately. With her, she had successfully
founded the family she had always dreamed of, and never, never before had a
dispute broken out within the precincts of the Dursleys landmark. Even when she
found herself embarrassed by Harry's problem, she continued to lead her
lifestyle, again with success despite some incidents.
As soon as Madame Dandelion's cry was heard, a succession of thoughts occurred
to , it was magic. She recognized its sensation and its effects. Then, the only
one to have had magic in the neighborhood was Harry, so he was the culprit.
Then Harry was a monster, since he had magic, and moreover dared to use it on
his venerable neighbors, that is how unusual the boy was.
And finally, this boy was under her responsibility and tarnished her
reputation. It was up to her to punish him.
Petunia Dursley was a smart woman, but a terrible, terrible one. I can't help
to wonder, if I had knew before all of that happened... But there is no use to
dwell in the past, or to try to bring back the dead. That is a lesson quite
hard to learn, I know.
Fear. She started to feel fear.
Little Harry didn't even see the hand that hit him in the face.
But Petunia did see the black thing appearing behind her nephew.
Harry had sense the fright of his aunt. He had felt in him grow the will
to hurt and the fear, the complete and crushing fear of himself, but above all,
of his magic.
But the lock was strong, too strong to save him. He had put all his will in his
fear for it to go away, and it did.
Away from him it was. Filled with his anger, his fright, his pain, his slowly
constructing trauma, his strong, so strong will, but above all his magic.
Because Harry didn't understood why he was bad, why he was hurt, and just
wanted it all to end.
It only stayed a second. Petunia thought later on that she had imagined it,
that terrifying tall and bottomless shadow behind the small frame of her
nephew.
Harry was looking at her, pale as death. He was wondering what other beating he
would have for his actions; it wasn't the first nor the last time something
like this occurred.
"Stop it now, freak, or you'll have another coming." She spat, looking at him
with disgust.
Abnormal. Freak. The boy was now used to theses nicknames. And he believe them.
No one else could do what he did, something must have been wrong with him.
"Sorry, aunt 'Tunia." He almost begged. His expression was so desperate that
his aunt's face smoothed a little.
Without another word, she opened the door.
"Mrs Dandelion? What happened?" She asked to the old woman, still looking at
her hand with shock.
"Yes, I think so. I was surely just some static electricity. My old bones
didn't like it!" She answered merrily.
Mrs Dandelion was an old, proud woman. She was about a foot shorter than
Petunia, but one could say that she was representing what the woman would
become in the years. She had the same clean house, the same perfectly cut hair,
the same too heavy makeup, but without lipstick, because in her old-fashioned
mind, lipstick was vulgar.
And she had the same disgust in the eyes when she looked at the young Harry
Potter, albeit weaker.
But Petunie was about to destroy that last difference.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I saw... Harry coming from your house. I know
it's the hour of your nap, so I imagined that he walked himself on his own. You
see, I just left him in the garden to do something with his hands for once, and
I thought that it could make him better. It seems... that I was mistaken."
"Oh my, Oh my Petunia! What a child! How are you dealing with that, I would
never know! Thank you for telling me, my dear, I'm going to check if the little
devil didn't steal anything. Do you want some tea?"
Every insult was another knife in the little boy's heart. He didn't even heard
the answer his aunt gave to the woman. He just followed her, trying to blend in
the shadows, not even daring to sit . His heart was beating so strongly in his
chest...
The old woman was quick, too quick, to come back.
"Oh my god Petunia, that boy left blood everywhere! What did you do boy?"
It was strange how 'boy' sounded like an insult. Harry didn't answered, barely
lowering his head in fear.
"He must have kill some animal. I've read that this type of kid liked to do
that. You know, he is going bad Petunia, really you should do something!"
Harry feared that Petunia would agree and left him somewhere. Get rid of him.
She wanted it this so many time...
"I'm so sorry, Mrs Dandelion, I am. You know, Vernon think the same thing. I
didn't agree, You see, he's a delinquent, or he will be, but he's still my
nephew... But if he do think like that, oh no! Blood shouldn't be on children's
hands."
She said it, totally omitting how many time blood had been on the poor Harry's
hands by her fault.
"I didn't!"
Both women turned to the angry and fearful little boy that had stepped out of
his shadows. It was an injustice, he only wanted to heal himself without using
some freakish method! He wasn't a bad boy, a delinquent!
"How dare you boy! My god, young ones don't know any respect, these days!"
Exclaimed Mrs Dandelion, outraged.
"Stop lying, Harry." Simply said Petunia, already desperate.
"M'not! I didn't kill anything! It's not my fault, I just-"
"Stop that boy, God helps! You're the Devil's root, everybody knows that!"
"M'not!"
Harry had no idea what Mrs Dandelion was talking about, but he didn't liked it.
He didn't liked how it make him feel. One again, thing started to shake around
him, and fear came back over the brashness of his character.
"Yes, you are." Dangerously whispered Petunia, taking him by the arm and
dragging him out. "I'm sorry, Mrs Dandelion. I should take him home, he'll
brings to much trouble here. If you need anything to help repair what he did,
just ask."
"Of course, Petunia, of course! Goodluck, my dear."
"Oh thank you, I'll need it."
She almost stormed out of the house, her grip so tight the it left bruised on
the child's arms.
And that, my friends, was how Harry's heavy reputation started. Of course, we
should have seen the lies, but once again how?
But I forget myself, Mea Culpa.
Meanwhile, the ministry began to move. It was rare for the aurors to record
cases of magic in the Muggles, at least since the last war. Most of the magical
muggleborn accidents involved only their family, or were so weak that no one
paid any attention to them.
Again, we only believe what we want to believe.
And the ministry believed that the muggleborns were safe and happy with their
family, each of them. How could it have been otherwise? How could they have
thought otherwise? Not a single muggleborn had reached a post of senior
official since the 1800s, and none had entered the wizengamot since its
inception.
To my great shame, I believed the same thing.
Anyway, at a certain level of magic concentration over a short period of time
and in a small area, radars (in this case camouflage and detection spells
cleverly mixed) began to resonate.
The procedure was that aurors had to assess the situation by working with the
Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. The goal was to send agents
as quickly as possible to clear the memory of the Muggles who had come into
confrontation with magic, to keep the Statute of Secrecy in place.
However, the energy had only been detected one microsecond. It disappeared
immediately.
This is why Arnold Dubonpois agent, I see you at the back, hi Arnie! So that's
why Arnold Dubonpois, although dedicated to his work, decided not to refer to
Auror office. Arnold was an almost bald and very friendly little man, formerly
a Gryffindor, but most of all, he was one of the few obliterators who existed,
and one of the (even more) rare competent obliviators. Surveying these kind of
incidents was not his original work. As the name suggests, this work focused on
destroying the memorial to the Muggles who did not need it. However, the agent
who previously occupied the position usually had an accident, something really
stupid, in relation with stairs, I believe, and Arnold had taken its place. The
department, due to budget cuts, had decided to use Arnold, in need for money
and extra hours, to replace the more competent agent.
Perhaps someone more accustomed to this task would have reported the incident,
but Arnold did not. Something as fleeting could not be dangerous, was it?
I must say that his reaction was also my fault. No one was aware of the
presence of the Boy-Who-Lived in the area, much less the boy being in direct
contact with Muggles.
Where somebody more aware would have seen the danger of a magical incident
caused by a boy powerful enough to anchor a Black Mage, if not the most
powerful Dark Lord of all time, at one year on the job, Arnold saw only one
anomaly on a card that blinked like a grotesque Christmas garland.
Little did he knew that this very mistake would one day cost his life, along
with many other's.
Really, for everything. I'm so, so sorry…
But it's time for us to say goodbye, I believe.
Be careful, children, be careful, but not too much!
Chapter End Notes
     Hy! Thank you all for the kudos and comment! And thanks to my beta,
     Star-Scrap!
     I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!
     ~LadyBraken
***** The First Wave *****
Oh, here you are! Come on, sit down, sit down. My my, there’s more and more
people! I’m glad. This is a very important story, you see. Very important
indeed.
The more I think about it, every and each of you have the right to know. After
all, ignorance is what brings you here in the first place, isn’t it?
And it’s sort of my job.
So, before we continue with the story of the young Harry James Potter, I need
you to understand something. Thus, we are going to pay a little visit to one
very important person. I know many of you don’t want to see him again, or even
to hear his name, but you didn’t care about Harry either, did you? And yet,
you’re here!
Of course, I’m talking about Lord Voldemort.
You see, after that fated night of October, Lord Voldemort passed his life as a
husk. A ghost, if you wish. He passed from animal to animal, not even strong
enough to possess humans. A real blow for his ego, as you can imagine, but his
ego was the last of his concern at that moment.
He was in pain. A pain none of us could have imagined, and will never be able
to. His body was destroyed and he felt its destruction every second of his
doomed existence.
He traveled, somehow, to Albania.
Why? Well, Albania a a land of strong magic, with an important magical
community and a very, very big foundation of Dark Wizards. That, and it was
very far from anyone that might have recognized him.
Lord Voldemort was too weak to be angry. He was too weak to feel fear. Too weak
to feel.
And that, my friends is an important notion that you would do well to remember.
There are things far, far worse than death.
Anyway, everybody thought he was dead. I have come to believe that he may have
thought so as well.
Voldemort wandered in the dark forests of Albania for a long, long time. He was
used to the cold andthe starvation, mind you. But an human mind in an animal’s
body is a very risky thing. It leaves traces, especially when it last such a
long time. He was living hell, and maybe he deserved it. He was alone.
But you are here for Harry Potter, aren’t you? Yes, people tend to pity him
more than Voldemort, that’s for sure. However, the story of Harry Potter is
always linked in one way or another of the story of Lord Voldemort…
Let’s get back to our favourite little boy.
I regret to tell you that at the age of seven, Harry was as far from good as
possible. A year ago, Vernon had lost his job- due to a relocation. That night
he had used his belt on Harry for the first time. In the beginning, Harry
screamed. Then… then he cried. Then he stood silent.
He never begged. Harry was that kind of strong spirit, you see. But he learnt
than making noises only made things worse.  
He grew in fear. He was afraid of his uncle, of his aunt, of every adult.
Adults hurt. He was afraid of children, especially when they were in groups.
Children hurt.
He was afraid of himself, of his magic. Magic hurts. It was simple but very,
very clear in the boy’s mind.
He knew it was magic, he had overheard his aunt and uncle whispering about it.
He didn’t understand everything, but he knew one thing: it was bad, dangerous,
freakish.
So, even more so than before, he bottled it up.
A few months after that, Vernon found a job again. But unlike what one could
hope and expect, things didn’t get better.
Vernon… had gotten into it. It was so easy to hit such a young body. He
couldn’t fight back. At first, he didn’t even want to. He didn’t understand why
he was beaten, he hadn’t done anything wrong! The pain made him lose that type
of logical thinking. He was abused because it pleased Vernon, and because it
was how things were. But he had to stop his magic. It was the magic that caused
him pain. He had to block it by any means. He knew that for sure.
Vernon was a disgusting being. I need all of you to understand that. Oh, he was
lovely to his wife, if a little  aggressive sometimes, but he loved her. He was
a good father for his son. He had to be because it was his pride,name, and the
future of his family; by extension , his very being.
But Harry had none of these protections, worse, he was a freak. But his
greatest crime was to be beautiful. He was pale, thin, small, with black locks
framing his sweet face and bright, intense green eyes behind his long lashes.
He clearly had inherited from his mother’s eery beauty, and from his father’s
temper. With his large, bright eyes, he looked so innocent!
Vernon didn’t understand why he had so much satisfaction to taint that pale,
smooth skin. He didn’t have that kind of comprehension of himself. But Petunia,
oh the poor Petunia felt the uneasiness. The unspoken.
Don’t pity her so quickly, she didn’t make a move. Yes, of course, you might
say that no one did, but does that excuse her?
At some point, when he was seven, Harry tried to talk to one of his teachers.
Her name was Mrs. Tacklebot, a young and timid lady. Once again, maybe someone
with more experience would have handled the situation differently. Maybe
someone who was less afraid of doing something wrong.
But fate hadn’t favoured Harry Potter. And by extension, dare I say,  she
refused to favor any of us
Harry waited after the class. He was quite nervous about what he was about to
do, but he reassured himself, thinking that he was only getting help. He had
seen one of the programs on Vernon’s Tv:  if someone is hurting you, try to
talk to the police, your family or a person of trust.
Harry had no family, and was quite scared of the police (what if they saw he
was a freak and locked him up for the rest of his life?), so he went for the
person he was supposed to trust.
It is very common, for children around that age, and even older, to see a
parental figure in their professors. Thus the numerous mispronunciations and
confusions in the names, children calling them ‘mama’ or ‘papa’ by mistake.
Sometimes it goes well, of course. The teacher become a mentor, or a protector.
Sometimes… sometimes things just get awkward.
Mrs. Tacklebot was a nice woman who understood the bullying Harry was
suffering.
 She hadn’t quite acted on it, but she helped him in her own way, giving him
sympathetic looks, or allowing him to stay in class between periods, such
things as these. It was little, but it was enough for a child that was starving
for care,among other things.
Slowly, he started to feel hope.
 It was in the dead of the winter that he dared go and talk to her. He was
cold, too cold, and it felt like he wasn’t going to survive the next flu. He
had no choice.
He rose shakingly from his seat, and made a few steps in direction of his
teacher. She gave him a warm smile to encourage him as the other children were
quite literally running out of the classroom (ah, the energy of youth!).
“Do you want something, Harry?” She asked with a gentle smile.
He nodded. He had to use all of his bravery to lift up his eyes and whisper:
“I… I think I need help…”
He saw his teacher’s face paled, and convinced that he had done something
wrong, lowered his eyes immediately. She was his only chance, as far as he
knew, he couldn’t waste it.
She sat on her desk, and waited patiently.
“Why do you need help, Harry?”
He looked up to her, opening his mouth hesitantly. He didn’t knew how to put
things with words. Where to start? From what did he want to escape? He didn’t
really know. He didn’t know anything else but servitude, he couldn’t think,
this is wrong. He was used to the beatings, he couldn’t think, this shouldn’t
happen. But he knew, something was amiss, misplaced, something, something…
“I think my family doesn’t like me.”
He had said that with such determination, his voice firm and sure. She had
never heard him talk like that, Merlin, he had never heard himself talk like
that! If possible, she paled even more.
“I’m… I’m sure you’re exaggerating things, Harry… Surely, they’re just a bit
mad at you for some reason… you’ve been punished for something, that’s why you
feel like this?”
Harry said no with a sake of his head. He couldn’t let her believe that, she
had to… to help him! But she only looked at him with some sort of pity, of
distance…
“No, Ma’am, you have to believe me!” He asked- almost begged.
She quite panicked at the despair in such a young boy’s voice. No training was
given to the young teacher to handle deep childhood trauma - something that
should have been done- and it was the first time for her.
“Ok, ok Harry, I believe you. I’ll… I’ll do something. Don’t worry.”
The boy seemed, and was, quite satisfied with the answer. He thought he had
done well, talking to his teacher like the PSA on TV indicated. Maybe some
adults cared? Maybe he wasn’t a freak, it was his family that was wrong.
He had the deep down hope that, if he didn’t show any sign of magic, he could
get out of it. He had understood, from what Petunia had angrily whispered to
Vernon, that it was magic that had killed his parents.
He just had to behave and everything would be fine.
He returned to the Dursleys’ a little later than expected (he was supposed to
arrive before his cousin, to have time to prepare a snack before continuing his
other chores, doing homework and preparing dinner), and for this he received
ten blows of sticks and a volley of insults, but he did not care.
Soon, very soon, he was going to be able to leave here. He was convinced of
this. Was his teacher not the sweetest person he knew? The most comprehensive?
Had she not sent him signs and encouraged him to speak to her? Of course she
could have done something sooner, but maybe she needed him to ask for legal
things and things like that.
He did what was asked of him, flayed his knees to wash the ground, went out in
the cold to maintain the lawn - always perfect - without even casting a look
wrong, without cowering in this desperate submission that gave the impression
that his uncle could have even more power over him.
He was waiting.
The next evening, the Dursleys received a letter from the school indicating
that the mistress wanted to make an appointment with them. Luckily for Harry,
she did not specify  which child the appointment was for, since the two boys
were in the same class.
Harry had no excellent notes despite his blatant intelligence, simply because
if he passed Dudley, he could not eat.
This was largely enough to deter the boy from working. He even went so far as
to sabotage his notes.
Yet, if anyone had really paid attention to him, they would have seen that the
child spent his time surrounded by books in the school or city library.This is
because because Dudley and his band never did.
In any case, the reputation of silly and silent child - some would tell you
that he was somewhat disturbing, albeit still beautiful - prevented the family
from even imagining that Harry might have the intelligence to attempt to
approach another source authority.
No, really, in the heads of the Dursleys, the mistress summoned them to
congratulate them on the progress of their dear Dudlynouchet.
Harry ate that evening and even put a bandage around his arm, which had been
broken a few days earlier.
Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you about that. It’s quite logical, in fact: Harry
was blocking his magic. He was fearing it. But magic respond to fear. In others
words, magic was protecting Harry from what his mind and body remembered as
threat, meaning magic itself.
He had stopped healing.
The next day, around 6 pm, the four inhabitants of number 4 Privet Drive took
their car, all pumped and shiny (they could not afford to launch rumors of
neglect in the neighborhood anyway!)  Pulling into the school, all of the
passengers had a different expectation:
Petunia hoped that Dudley's efforts had paid off, and it was true that the
little boy had applied himself to his studies after he had been promised a gift
of his choice if he had better results. Vernon hoped that his family would be
admired by all the other neighbors they could meet. For them to think: how
beautiful, mannered, and normal! Contrary to this freak, that useless child he
had to endure!
Dudley had hoped he would not get into trouble and that the mistress had not
learned that it was he who had put Little Greg's head in the toilet.
Harry, he ... Harry hoped to find a friend, a support. He hoped the pain would
stop that night.
Well, only one of them got what they wanted.
The little family, if one can call it a family, entered the establishment with
all the pomp which was supposedly due to them. In a way, the Dursleys behaved
like our medium-sized pure-blooded families, not rich enough or important to
have real responsibilities, but essentially self-sufficient to allow themselves
to be atrocious.
They joined the professor in his class. The young woman was waiting, obviously
a little tense, and made a sign to the Dursleys to sit down.
"Hello, sir, mrm. Heu, mhm ... I think at first it would be better to get the
children out, you see?"
Her tone was hesitant, too hesitant, and Harry immediately felt that something
was wrong. Something was not like it should be.
The teacher had not looked at him once.
Harry had many instincts, and they were screaming to him that he should run
away right now. But, he had been beaten into some sort of devious obedience. He
followed his cousin and waited in the corridor. Dudley didn’t know if he was in
trouble, and therefor didn’t dare touch him.
Harry was starting to feel panicked. His heart was beating fast, his breath was
quivered, his lips crushed against one another. He waited, sitting still on a
chair in the corridor.
His curiosity getting the best of him, he decided to eavesdrop a bit. If only
for his own safety.
“...You must understand that the boy isn’t… normal…”
Harry felt like sinking into the floor. No, no, Mrs. Tacklebot couldn’t believe
Petunia. It wasn’t fair!
“Yes I have heard…”
“It’s very hard having him around. He keeps lying to mess with us. He even
broke into the neighbour's house to steal things! Truly, we don’t know what to
do anymore…”
Oh, how the poor boy’s head was turning at that moment! He wanted to scream:
Lies! All lies!
But talking led to pain, screaming led to pain. He only sat back on his chair,
the back bowed, defeated.
The drive back passed in silence. Harry could only brace himself for what was
to come.
His uncle beat him, of course, and broke two or three of his fingers and ribs
in the process. It didn’t really matter. For Harry, it was only an physical
manifestation of the pain he felt inside. Betrayal, mistrust.
No adult could be trusted, and nobody would believe him.
“You’re a Freak, do you hear me boy? How can you be so ungrateful?! We gave you
a roof, clothes and food! That’s much more than what a … a freak like you
deserves! Nobody wants you! Nobody ever will! You don’t deserve a name, you
don’t deserve a home, nor a family! You are just Freak!”
His uncle’s words were ringing through his body and mind. He was shaking, but
this time, it wasn’t in fear.
It was in anger.
As he was still trying to control his magic, because it was dangerous, Vernon
tossed him, bloodied and broken, in his cupboard. Harry heard the door slam
shut with a loud bang as darkness crept over him. As there was no light, he
couldn’t see, he couldn’t know that it was coming from him.
With all the resolution his young heart could procure, he took the one and only
pencil he possessed, the one with which he took all of his notes. I'm not going
to lie to you, it was really his one and only possession. A shopkeeper had
given it to him one morning when he had gone to get a special paper for his
aunt. He shook his little hand and, blind in the dark, began to scratch the
wall, ignoring the pain of his broken fingers, ignoring the sensation of the
blood flowing down his forearm.
Harry.
He had engraved Harry. Perhaps to prove to the world that he had a name, that
he was someone. Perhaps to remember it to himself. Perhaps to leave a trace, to
say, Harry passed here, Harry lived here, Harry tried. Perhaps it was to forget
the crushing loneliness and claustrophobia, the feeling that the cupboard was
shrinking on him. Perhaps, it was to put all his rage into a physical action,
to feel his muscle tense for something else than just restraining his tears or
trying to cope with his starvation. I’m not quite sure he knew it himself.
He did not cry, he was not crying for a long time, but his heart was heavy. His
breath uneasy. When he had finished his work, he huddled up on the dirty
mattress soaked with blood.
 
He had a strange dream that night.
 
He was in another world. A world where he didn’t have to give the slightest
damn about good or bad, but only about what felt right. It was magical, superb,
and he was powerful.
 
But most of all, he was angry. He could see himself in the cupboard, small,
pale, skinny, where he was doomed to stay because of one person. He was angry
at that person, so angry… Everything was blurry as raw anger took the last
strings of his conscience, as his will hardened on one and only idea: to make
her pay for her betrayal. It came in waves, dark, dangerous waves of hatred,
absolute and pure bliss of destruction. It hurt, but it didn’t matter.
 
He moved. He flew, passing through the streets in a screaming whisper, in a
black wind. All light shut down in front of him to let his anger pass. His
magic filled every pore of his body, every drop of his blood, and it started
running even faster and faster as he was getting closer.
He knew where she lived. It was hard to hide such things in a small suburban
area.
 
He could see her. She had felt him approach, of course. Who could miss that
unbearable pressure in one’s bones, mind, the shaking of the earth, the
darkness of the sky, and the strange but terrifying feeling that someone was
screaming outside, while the whole world seemed to be dead silent?
But Harry, oh poor little Harry, didn’t know what he was doing, for he wasn’t
doing it. It was and wasn’t him…
He only wanted to hurt her like she had hurt him. So he attacked her. He
attacked her with everything his young mind associated with pain. He thought
about fangs, and it became fangs piercing her skin, he thought about his
uncle’s belt and it whipped her, leaving bloodied marks all over. It was all
around her, attacking from everywhere, gnawing her body, burning, and freezing
all at once and in an instant, as the child was screaming his anger, his
sadness, the unfairness of it all. And in a minute, she was dead.
But it wasn’t enough. Little Harry had a lot of anger in him, years and years
of abuse and neglect. He crushed the walls, he tore apart the clothes, the
furniture, he destroyed everything he could.
And then, there was nothing else to destroy.
 
Harry woke up in the morning, sweaty and tired. He only remembered glimpses of
his dream, but it was just a dream, right?
He didn’t notice that his wounds had healed. He did notice, however, the black
hand shaped mark on the cupboard’s door, and the fact that the door was open.
Afraid of what might happen if his uncle found out, he  swiftly closed it.
 
In the meantime, the ministry of magic was in panic.
But I’m getting tired, and so are you! Oh, and the tea must be cold now… Right,
there isn’t tea here, I forgot. You must forgive an old man for these things,
I’m doing my best… Don’t worry. I will tell you how the ministry reacted, how
Harry fell, how everything went… well the way they are today?
It’s not good to dwell on the past, but sometimes, it’s necessary. To
understand. And please, my friends, don’t judge Harry too harshly. Remember, my
friends, remember.
He was only a kid.
***** 4- Consequences *****
Hello hello! Already here I see!
 
Yes, yes, I know, it isn’t like you had anything else to do, is it? Not that
I’m complaining. I enjoy telling stories, and, may I say, I am rather good at
it. Stories to smooth the pain, stories to send people in the right direction,
stories to give hope back…
 
That particular story is of a different kind, isn’t it?
 
For you to understand how the ministry panicked like a five year old losing his
mom in a shop, you need to know how it was working before the incident.
 
The ministry was ruled since years by Millicent Bagnold. She was a very
efficient minister, mostly because she had been named under Voldemort’s rise to
power, and fall, in 1980. She saw to political backlash of the Potter’s murder,
she managed through the trials of the most feared and violent death eaters.
 
It is said, but it’s only a legend, that she threw  threw a man that tried to
bribe her out of a window . A fierce woman, I tell you. She was a clever
student during her youth, I remember.
 
Said woman was very attached to the International Statute of Secrecy. She had
helped to put it in place once again, after Voldemort’s downfall. Come on,
don’t be afraid of his name! He cannot hurt you here anyway, can he? Anyway,
she was known to have defended the wizarding celebrations, thus conserving our
ways and traditions, with the famous sentence:  " I assert our inalienable
right to party. "
 
The declaration was, as you can imagine, welcomed by cheers and applause from
the very serious (and maybe a bit drunk) assembly. She rebuilt the ministry,
the wizarding Britain, as much as she could.
 
The aurors under her care were the same ones that had fought Death Eaters. They
were people that had seen war, death. Some had been tortured, some had lost
their family, some had sent their own children to a fate worse than death for
their country.
 
They had had ten years to heal as much as they could.
 
Some of them backed down and kept low profile, such as the Malfoys, for obvious
reasons. Some just went back to a normal life, if such thing is possible.
 
Some kept screaming ‘CONSTANT VIGILANCE’ randomly.
 
You guessed it, there is no such thing like effective psychiatric services, a
consideration for war’s trauma or a special service for veterans in the magical
world. There were too many veterans and not enough wizards for that.
 
All these people could be separated in two groups and two subgroup. First they
were dark and light wizards, meaning wizards that were in favour or against the
integration of the wizards in the muggle world, including the acceptance of the
muggle-borns. Of course, it wasn’t all black and white, mostly a lot of people
wanting to survive and to assure their families’ future, but the lines were
drawn anyway. Then, within these groups, there were the wizards who believed
the Dark Lord was dead, and the others. Which mean that about half the ministry
was fearing acts of Dark Magic as the announcement of another Rise, and the
other half was fearing any kind of magic out of control, because it could break
the Statute of Secrecy.
 
The worst part was that there were people that belonged in two of these
categories.
 
It was exactly at 3:24 a.m. of the 12th of December 1987 that an alarm rang in
the Surrey.
 
Immediately, all the aurors on guard received the order to go check what was
going on. That’s how, at 4.30 a.m., Mad-Eye Moody and John Dawlish, aurors,
along with Arnold Peasegood, member of the  Accidental Magic Reversal
Department and obliviator ,  arrived at number 7, Abkey Road, Little Whinging,
Surrey. Or at what was the number seven before what happened… happened.
 
Luckily, the attack had happen at night; only a dozen of muggles were gathered
around the ruins.
 
Muggles weren’t a problem. It was true that there weren't many obliviators,
even a fewer good ones, but such accident could be explained by a gas
explosion, or something like that.
 
That would explain the house. The corpse was an other problem.
 
A corpse left after an obscurius attack have some very distinctive marks,
mostly the fact the the victim was unrecognisable, and the weapon nonexistent.
It looked like the person had burned, frozen, and was attacked by an animal
with  very human precision...
 
Something utterly horrifying, but, and it is an enormous but, obscurials aren’t
supposed to exist.
 
It is like a lot of things, racism, slavery… We think: it has disappeared, and
if it happens, it is only in some far away country that we imagine as being
somehow more dangerous, less civilized than ours. Ignoring the bigotry of the
very idea, it is also dangerously false.
 
The last obscurius acknowledged in the wizarding world was a certain Credence
Barebone, and he was used by the feared and powerful Gellert Grindelwald. The
last obscurial, was a young girl named Maya Campanula, in the 60’s.
 
 Oh, yes, forgive me, some of you might not know the difference! It isn’t very
complicated, don’t worry.
 
 An Obscurius is created from an obscurial; the obscurius is the disease, the
entity, while the obscurial is the child. Not every obscurial let out a raw
obscurius, actually, almost all of them die before that, unable to contain the
flow of power in their frail body. It is even more true that all of these
children were abused - it is often the very source of the disease, which mean
that they were weaker, and more inclined to...wish for death.
 
Don’t gasp that way! None of this information is new or uncommon. First, yes,
children suffer from depression. Especially when they are so terrified of
themselves that they repress emotions, feelings, social interactions, and, in
this case, magic. It isn’t uncommon for a wizard to die because he wants to.
That’s why torture spells are far more violent and quick to act than muggle
techniques in that area: if someone has nothing else to live for, his own magic
will kill him, to protect him.
 
It is sad but true. I myself had the displeasure to encounter that fact when I
had to study the case of Merope Gaunt - Voldemort’s mother. Some may said that
she died out of love, because of a broken heart, because of the delivery,
because of the starvation, or the beating she suffered before. But no, her
death was the result of a pile-up of abuse and depreciation that led her to
undervalue her own life.
 
Therefore, her life without the presence of the one she loved had lost its
meaning. Her will was destroyed in a life of servitude and verbal abuse, making
her depend on the will of her family. Without it, she only had the one she
loved to give her approval. Her magic, feeling that the life she was living was
considered a danger, started to kill her. I think that her death would have
been much sooner if the baby’s magic hadn’t protected its host.
 
But I’m losing myself! oh, my my, the bad habits of an old man…But these are
important facts! It would be better if I told you everything.
 
Moody was the first to arrive on scene, of course, constant vigilance. He
walked- limped- through the small crowd of muggles until he put his foot on the
house’s landing.
 
There, rolling his electric blue eye in all directions to watch both the sky,
the basement, the house, and the muggles, stopping with suspicion on a poor cat
passing by and who started to run for its life without any apparent reason, he
began to murmur an infinite number of spells and charms to detect if anything
could still explode in the muggles face, and irremediably to his own.
 
About a minute later, as it was the procedure, Arnold Peasegood arrived in
order to take care of the now not in immediate danger muggles. He waved at
Moody, who waved back without turning around, and started to work quickly.
Arnold, who shares his first name with Mr. Dubonpois, but only that I can
assure you (they don’t quite like each other), was the sort of person you feel
like you can trust with your life. A bit like Mr. Weasley, he  emits an aura of
a clumsy-but-nice father than could cool down any panicking muggle. Which was
great, as it was the point of his job.
 
He stopped next to a woman in her forties. One could tell that she had children
by the way she stood and dressed, the way she seemed ready to run home with the
slightest sign that there was still danger. From her point of view the wizard
was an ordinary man, who, drawn by the crowd, had stopped to observe the
disaster.
Certainly, he had some strange clothes, but in view of the hour, his wizard
robes could be taken for pajamas.
 
“What’s happening here, M’aam?” he asked in a whisper, as if he was asking her
to confess him a terrible secret. It is the best tone for rumors of all sorts,
after all.
 
“Oh I don’t really know, sir. We just heard… something strange. All the lights
went off and it was like the very air was crushing us! It even woke the
children, poor things! Then, we heard something like an explosion, and so I
tell Peter- my husband- that I had to see, because if there’s fire it may
extend to our house by the roofs.  I came here and well, you can see the rest
by yourself!”
 
“Blimey, what a story! Did someone else see anything?”
 
“I’ve asked other people, but everybody is telling me the same thing, y’know?
Light out and poof! The house crashed, or exploded or something. What do you
think it is?”
 
“Probably an electricity accident. That would explain the lights!”
 
“Makes sense, but electricity, causing that type of explosion? I just hope
nobody was hurt!”
 
“Merl- I mean Good Lord, yes!”
 
When he discretly removed some of her memories from the tip of his wand, hidden
in his sleeve, John Dawlish arrived and joined Moody on the house’s steps.
 
“How’s the situation, Alastor?”
 
Only a few people were allowed to call Mad-Eye Moody ‘Alastor’, and Dawlish was
certainly not part of them. But he was really, really nervous. For all of his
career, he had worked on children’s incidents, such as colorful hair changes,
and dark artefact trafficking. Now he had a muggle house destroyed and the very
air was  reeking  magic.
 
Moody growled at the young Auror. He was a good element, after all, no need to
scare him away. He had the feeling that this, whatever it was, was going to
need a lot more aurors than expected.
 
“Whatever it was, whomever it was, came from the outside. Fell on the house
like a lion on his prey and left. Should have taken him an hour to destroy the
house that much,” he muttered, almost for himself, passing his hand in his gray
hair.
His magical eye came back in front of his face and seemed to fix over
something.
Without a warning, he walked into the ruins.
 
It was quite sad to walk in the middle of these ruins. You could see all the
remains of life that had been here: tattered clothes, torn photographs,
fractured frames, papers flying in all directions, furniture of the house had
to be from a living room, with a room below, but everything was mixed during
the incident.
 
“I’m not sure if it’s a good idea - Hey Moody wait!” exclaimed the younger
Auror, trailing to follow his mentor and superior among what was left of the
house.
“Dawlish, we have a body,” Moody said abruptly before taking a sip out of his
personal gourd.
 
Dawlish approached the man warily, eyes fixed where he was looking.
 
As you may imagine, it wasn’t a pretty picture that waited for him.
 
“We should call for backup.”
 
Moody only noded.
 
It took five more minutes for the wizarding press to arrive.Moody wasn’t
pleased.
 
A few hours later, a not-that-completely-clueless Harry woke up. He had dreamed
the strangest thing, about screams and black mists. Yes, a dream. He couldn’t
say that it was a nightmare because out of the terrifying imagery it had felt
right. Not morally right, but… good would be a better way to describe it. He
felt relief.
 
He knew it was wrong, to feel that way in front of violent images, but it was
just a dream, wasn’t it? He had only dreamed about a well deserved revenge.
Nothing to worry about.
 
He winced when he tried to turn to look at the small clock that was next to his
bed. It was nearly 6 in the morning. He had only a few minutes before having to
get up and prepare the breakfast.
 
He pondered for a moment the idea of not getting up. Just… just stay here with
the satisfaction of his dream, oblivious of the day ahead of him. He sighed,
shivering under the coolness of the room.
 
He was tired.
 
Bracing himself for the day - and not noticing that his ribs were all healed,
his skin scarred but not wounded, he sat on his bed and stretched. His hair was
forming a messy black cloud of fluffy locks around his head. He tried to comb
it for a few seconds, but of course nothing could tame a Potter’s hair.
 
Petunia had learnt that one day, trying to comb it because ‘the freak should at
least look decent in front of the teachers, a disgrace for the family really’.
In despair, she had try to cut it.
 
The next day it had grown back.
 
He replaced his T-shirt (three times too big) on his shoulders in vain, the
right sleeve just did not want to stay in place. He smoothed his shorts on his
legs, also a hand-me-down from Dudley, and moved his hand toward the door to go
out to eat.
 
But the door wasn’t quite as he had left it last night.
 
Which, you will recognize, is quite unusual for a door.
 
The door had black markings that slid from top to bottom, far too big to be
from Harry's hand. The door was ajar, and the first boards, the closest to the
lock, looked as if they had been destroyed by hammer.
 
First, Harry was afraid of whatever had done that. Then, he panicked imagining
his relatives’s reaction to it.
His first reflex was to quickly close the door and hope no one would notice.
 
But Harry was a smart boy.
 
He only had half an hour ahead of the Dursleys, but it was enough. This meant
that he could cheatthe rules. He didn’t know who destroyed the door, maybe a
prank by his cousin, maybe he had been a freak again…
 
But the fear of the beating was stronger.
 
He had to be ingenious. If he couldn’t count on others, he would only rely on
himself.
 
He grabbed the door and put it back on his hinges gently, to prevent the noise
from waking his family prematurely. The black markings inside were not
important, nobody  paid attention to what was  in  the cupboard.
 
He replaced the boards gently, so that the fissure could only be seen if looked
at closely. He took the screws and replanted them, slightly looser, to put the
bolt back in place. Once that was done, he went into the closet that contained
Vernon's garden tools which only Harry used since Vernon largely preferred to
sit on his couch watching TV.
 
There he found the glue he was looking for. He went back to his closet and
pasted glue to the inside of the boards, relying on gravity to hold them in
place until the time it dried. Once that was done, he cooked the bacon for the
family and broke eggs in a salad bowl, taking care that no shelsl fell in; It
would be worth five belts lashes.
 
He took advantage of the cooking time to set the table and put away the glue.
He grabbed his day clothes, piled in a corner of the closet, dressed quickly
and closed the door cautiously. He returned just in time to turn the slices of
bacon and hear the heavy footsteps of his uncle and the light and fast ones of
his aunt upstairs.
 
Of course, the food was impeccably prepared, but he had forgotten a knife while
at the table. He took a punch in his stomach that took his breath away. Without
a word, without a protest, he caught his poor school supplies and followed
Dudley at a respectful distance, to avoid provoking his cousin.
 
He wondered if it would be better not to return home. Something, in the pit of
his stomach, was telling him that something wasn’t right, something more than
usual, that is.
 
By the time young Harry and his cousin arrived at school and sat in their usual
places (Dudley at the far right, in the middle of his gang, Harry in the middle
left, near a window), the Ministry of Magic had been informed that a large
amount of black magic had been used in Surrey, causing the death of a muggle.
 
The public was also informed, thanks to the intervention of Rita Skeeter. That
is how most of you were informed of the beginning of this tragedy, reading your
paper in the morning in front of a chocolate or a coffee before going to work.
 
A dark wizard on the loose, there was something to excite the readers, to bring
a feeling of fear and excitation. The newspapers sold like hotcakes, and
everybody was waiting for the rest, and the answers.
 
This is how I, myself was informed of the situation, a few minutes before I
received a letter from the minister. And this is how I enter into the storm
that was the Potter case.
 
There were only five wizard in the world that knew where Harry Potter was
living : myself,  Professor McGonagall, the Minister, Mad-Eye Moody and Miss
Figg. And all of us, knowing what we knew, thought that something was terribly
wrong.
 
That’s why, at 8.30 sharp, I was in the minister’s office, debating the
situation.
 
The minister was sitting in front of me, her head in her hand, looking quite
tired and much older than the last time I had seen her, but who was I to make
such remarks?
 
In front of her, the newspaper was displayed.
 
MURDER IN THE SURREY- WHAT IS THE MINISTRY DOING?
 
Your very dear and devoted reporter was awakened by secret ways this morning at
a strange hour. The only thing I knew was that something important had happened
in Surrey. Of course, I did not suspect the gravity of the situation, but I
went to the spot, with the eternal mission in my heart to inform you of all
that is happening in our country, my dear readers.
 
The rest of the article was hidden, but I knew how devastating all this was
going to be for the minister's career. Skeeter accused the ministry of
committed budgetary displacements, lacking of attention of the aurors, and
being visibly incapable of doing its duty and protecting the brave citizens of
this country.
 
It was incredible how many people could read this tissue of lies. Well, there
were only three journals in circulation, and one of the three was the Quibbler…
 
And objectively, Rita was good. Too good for our sakes, dare I say.



“The muggles have been handled. The problem is that the public heard of the
story, and therefore we need to find answers quickly. This isn’t an incident
involving a muggle, but a direct attack on a muggle by a magical being,” she
explained, her long white hair falling from her bun.
 
“Albus, don’t you think that it would be safer to move Potter from the area?”
muttered Alastor.
 
Oh dear Merlin, that was the question. Moving the boy would be screaming his
location, the past and the present, at the face of the entire wizarding world.
Which would mean that he would be in danger, along with his family. His muggle
uprising meant that he was more at risk, he was utterly defenseless and
helpless. Not even mentioning the scandal, and the message sent not only the
the ex-Death-Eaters, but also to every politician in the wizarding world.
 
But if we didn’t move him, we took the risk of the child being harmed, not in
his house of course as the blood wards were protecting him - the very reason we
put him there in the first place. But the wards weren’t active at school, or in
the street, in the shops, anywhere a seven year old child could go. But, the
attack was possibly unrelated with the boy, and moving would put him in an
unnecessary danger… and kick the anthill.
 
Especially if the public discovered how the Dursleys  were treating the boy.
That information, at the time, was only a deduction on my part. I had no idea
to the extent of the abuse, but for the boy it was that, or the risk to be
kidnapped, sold, corrupted, killed or Merlin knows what fate he could have if
found by an ancient servant of the Dark Lord. And again, it was his family.
 
Truth was: I was quite worried for the boy. But there were too many things at
stake.
 
“We’ll let the boy where he is until further informations. Maybe… ask the
aurors to investigate around the boy and in his immediate neighbourhood? As
long as the public doesn’t know where he is, there is nothing immediate to
worry about.”
 
It was a question, and it wasn’t at the same time. Everybody in the room knew
that I was the one in charge of Harry Potter. It was better that way. The
minister nodded and wrote something on an official note that she sent to her
secretary.
 
“They will know, at some point. I’m pretty sure Skeeter is already putting her
disgusting nose in the neighbourhood. And with Malfoy pushing me out on my
control on the media, I cannot do anything about it…”
 
The silence was tense. Of course, Malfoy should be in Azkaban, but he was that
kind of person that just got out of every situation without a problem. In
short, he was rich.
 
‘Is the victim identified yet?” she asked with energy.
 
Crisis situations were more of her habit than not.
 
“Yes. Mrs Tacklebot, 25. Muggle, single, no children. She was a teacher.”
 
Alastor wasn’t the most talkative man there is, that was for sure.
 
“I know it is sordid to say it like that, but at least she’s a muggle. I don’t
even want to imagine what it would be if she had been a witch - or even a
squib. With the law on the magical creatures I’m trying to pass, my position is
most… precarious.”
 
I didn’t frown at her for that. I knew she wasn’t the type of witch to think
she was above the muggle, it was just that politics were a very cynical art.
But the idea that it was a common idea among my pears… It felt like I had
fought for years in vain.
 
“I’ll keep an eye on the wizard community around the crime scene. there is only
one wizard and one squib anyway,” blurt out the Auror.
 
“Thank you Alastor. I shall be going, Minister.”
 
“But of course. We will take the necessary measures concerning Mr Potter; I’ll
keep you informed.”
 
And with that dismissal, I went out to face the masses.
 
At the same moment, Harry and Dudley were waiting, worried and excited. Their
teacher had still not arrived, and Dudley’s little gang was starting to become
agitated. Children that age often do after about ten minutes of waiting.
 
However, it didn’t take long before someone entered the class, pale and
nervous. How do you explain to seven year olds that their teacher had been
murdered? I understand the nervousness, it took me years to master the concept,
and my students are much older!
 
“Children, please, keep quiet. I have something very important to tell you,” he
said, trying to keep composure. “You will not have classes today. I regret to
inform you that your teacher died last night. We called your parents for them
to take you home. I want all of you to know that a service have been put in
place if you want to talk about what happened to someone. That will be all.”
 
It wasn’t the most… subtle way to announce the tragedy, but it did it’s job.
 
Of course, when the Dursleys came to get their son, they did not allow Harry to
get into the car. “As if I would let a freak like you in my car! Walk, you good
for nothing cunt! This will teach you to make me waste time!” whispered Vernon
angrily when Harry tried to put a foot in the vehicle.
 
Harry was so shaken he couldn’t even answer. His teacher was dead. He had
dreamt of it! What was happening?
 
Something was wrong, he could feel now it in his gut. He was stricken by the
not so irrational thought that everything was because of him. For the first
time in his life, it wasn’t fear or anger.
 
He didn’t know that it was guilt.
 
He had to check, to see it himself. He had to be sure that his teacher had died
in her sleep, maybe because she drank too much, or some other accident. That
her house - unlike in his dream- was still standing between the other eerily
similar houses.
 
Not quite thinking about what would be waiting for him at the Dursleys if he
came home late, he took the road to the other end of the town, where he knew
his teacher was, used to be, living.
 
He passed the streets as discreetly as he could, shivering. Of course, he
didn’t have gloves or a scarf to protect himself from the harsh winter weather.
He sighed and slid his arms against his chest, slightly leaning forward and
hands curled in the sleeves to leave as little exposed to the cold as possible.
 
There was a lot of wind these days, and it was messing with his hair, making it
slap his face with every step. He didn’t mind, he was lost in his thoughts. He
didn’t really want to know if his dream was true, but he had to. Something akin
to morbid curiosity was pushing him, like when you’re paranoid someone is
following you and you turn around to see, even if it’s not going to change
anything.
 
Harry armed himself with all his determination and ended up passing the corner
of the street facing the house of his teacher.
 
He stopped in shock.
 
It was ... exactly as in his dream. Except that here, in reality, destroyed
beams cut themselves on the winter sky like an inaudible threat to the heavens.
Something heavy was floating in the air. He could see from where he stopped
small points - people - walk through the ruins, inspecting the house.
 
Police officers.
 
He had committed a crime.
 
He didn’t know how but he had, he could feel it, he was here last night and he
had… he had actually killed her and he had enjoyed it…
 
The realization that all this was true - was  true , crashed on his heart and
he began to tremble. Of guilt, sadness, anger towards himself and others,
towards the whole world, but above all, especially from fear.
 
What if the policemen could find evidences? There were marks on the cupboard’s
door! It was evidence, as in the police shows that Petunia was watching on
Sunday afternoon. He had to leave so that he should go home before the Dursleys
suspected anything, so that he would erase all traces …
 
And in his head he could only think:  what the hell did I do?  His body was
frozen, and he could not look away from the ruined house that seemed to scream
at him: assassin! murderer! Freak!
 
“Are you ok kiddo?”
 
Harry jumped and looked at the man that called him, and who was looking at him
with worry.
 
But he was an adult, and adults are liars. He was not worried, he just wanted
to trick him into confessing what had happened.... And Harry couldn’t let that
happen, could he?
 
“Yes sir… It’s just…” he stammered, trying to mask his real feelings - and
failing brilliantly. Luckily for him, the man interpreted them in his own way.
 
“You knew the victim, is that it boy?” he ask, his face softening.
 
“Yeah… shewassortofmyteacher…” the boy muttered, eyes stubbornly fixed to the
ground.
 
“I’m sorry can you repeat?”
 
“She… she was my teacher…”
 
“Oh, I see. I’m sorry for… your loss… Don’t worry, young lad, it was an
accident. You should go to your parents, right?”
 
The man had no idea how his words were truly affecting the distressed kid.
Harry closed and opened his little fist in a desperate effort not to lose
control in font of the stranger, and before him laid the scene of the crime, of
his  crime. He took a deep breath to calm down.
 
Harry nodded and went back home. As his head was lowered, Dawlish didn’t see
his scar. But he most certainly felt that something was wrong, absolutely wrong
with that kid. Maybe something haunted in the way his back seemed to carry the
whole world.
 
He quickly went to inform Alastor of this strange encounter.


And that, my friends, was how i was reintroduced to the young Harry Potter,
while said boy was introduced to the concept of guilt.
===============================================================================
===============================================================================
A big thanks to Rynn, my wonderful Beta!


I hope you liked this chapter, please review!
***** Forgiveness *****
Chapter Notes
     Hyyy! Merry Christmas, Happy New Year everybody!
     It took so long to write and correct this thing! I'm sorry for the
     delay; but I hope the next chapters will arrive a bit more quickly.
     However, my teachers are drowning me with work so I can't promise
     anything ^^
     I'm trying to work hard on this story because it touch hard/
     important/ complexe themes (and I really like it so yeah )
     I was very, very happy to read all the reviews I got on this, thanks
     everyone! (And please continue to review haha)
     You can still follow me on Tumblr under the name "LadyBraken"
     An illustration for this fic is disponible on my deviantart page:
     http://fav.me/dbybh54 (I did it myself and I quite proud of it for
     some reason)
     Enjoy this chapter!
 
 
Come on, come on, take a seat! Oh, yes on the floor is good too, of course. Ah!
youth. I remember when I was myself a proud young man, hormones skyrocketing
and with a pain-free back!
 
But anyway, it isn’t my story that you want to hear, is it? Even if I must
confess, it is quite an interesting one, there is nothing quite like the one
that is holding your attention. Don’t worry, it’s quite normal.
 
As I was saying last time, an upset Harry was coming home. He was freezing, his
cheeks pink from the cold, wrapped in his too-long clothes. Something was
choking him, blocking his throat.  His mood matched the weather, tempestuous
and fluctuating. Every fiber of his body was trembling in fear and self-
disgust. He had become what Vernon had predicted all along: a criminal. He
didn’t know how, and frankly, it was even more terrifying. Should he turn
himself in? Tell one of the cops? But how could he explain to them how much of
a freak he was, how could they see how disgusting, how dangerous and worthless
he was?
 
He stopped, pondering the situation. He should tell the cops. Yes, that was for
sure, his duty. But what for? He knew he was a monster, and the very result of
that… monstrosity was death. No jail, no cop could keep what had done that at
bay. If the Demon- he didn’t quite know why the word had popped in his mind,
but it had- was able to get through walls, then it would only endanger more
people if he were to put himself in a situation where he would be forced to be
among people.
 
And no prison could be worse than the Dursleys. If he turned himself in, he
wouldn’t really be punished. Of course, it was an excuse. Because, deep down,
he knew that being punished for that was unfair. he couldn’t bring himself to
do it because he didn’t really want to.
 
What did he wanted to? To hurt himself, to hurst the others, to make the pain
stop...
 
What convolutions one’s morals can go through, when unsupported by anything!
The only thing the little Harry knew about right and wrong were his emotions
and what the Dursleys had told him, so to say, not much. No adult could easily
find the solution of such a Cornélien dilemma, what was a child to do?
 
But children never think themselves as children, they don’t have the same mercy
towards themselves and their fellows that we do. So, the only thing Harry
decided was that he shouldn’t be alive anymore.
 
Harry was home late.
 
His aunt appeared from the kitchen to scold him. “Where were you you little
freak?” she said, “You’re not even able to come home on time. You really are
good for nothing!”
 
Worthless.
 
“We accepted you into our home, we gave you food and clothes and this is how
you thank us? By breaking one of the few  simple  rules we gave you?”
 
Ungrateful.
 
The child lowered his head, keeping his eyes fixed to the perfectly clean
floor. He couldn’t bear the disappointed, angry and disgusted tone of his aunt.
It sounded too much like his own train of thought.
 
Except that the voice in his head never stopped. Since he had seen the house it
was there, it wouldn’t quiet. Petunia, on the other hand, ended by ordering the
boy to prepare something for her dear Duddykins that was traumatised (sitting
in front of the TV, leg crossed on the table) by the death of his dear teacher,
the poor thing.
 
But that order was even worse than the rest. It reminded little Harry that
people were grieving because of him. Not only had he hurt his teacher (that had
taught him so many things and been nice to him and was innocent, with her
smile, and he had killed her, tore her apart, how ungrateful, how monstrous!),
but because of him, other people were grieving. He had made people sad.
 
He prepared the most beautiful sandwich of his life despite his shaking hands.
His eyes lingered a moment on the knives - he wondered how they would feel
against his skin, if they would be enough to get rid of him and the Demon-
before serving the other boy obediently.
 
He didn’t directly touch the food. Maybe his uncle was right, maybe he was ill.
Maybe the Demon would touch his cousin, hurt him or worse, contaminate him if
he touched his food. It didn’t appear to him that if it was the case the other
boy would have been sick for a long time; he felt dirty and it was overwhelming
his mind.
 
The child was feeling empty. He was too tired to be sad or angry, so he stayed
in an apathetic state that wasn’t really sleep during the entire night, staring
at the wall beside his ‘bed’, and the little inscription on it. Despair was
crawling in his chest, agonisingly slow. He could feel it humming inside him.
 
He was locked. Alone.
 
Pathetic, he thought. Not even a real criminal, not even something strong and
terrible, no he was weak and dirty like a bug, a parasite.
 
He looked at the wall and let his fingertips caress the word. He wanted it to
disappear. He wanted to disappear.
 
Tears were falling despite all his will. He thought he didn’t deserve to cry,
he was the one doing the wrong, not the victim.He clasped his fists on the old
cover that he was using as a pillow and buried his face in it to muffle his
scream.
 
The next day, I received a report. Ah, but I am an old man, and my memory isn’t
what it used to be! Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’ve brought it with me. I
thought it would be nice to show you some evidence, sometimes. It brings a
reality to the narration, doesn’t it?
 
Don’t worry, I’m going to read it out loud. I know some of you have some
trouble with words, I corrected your essays in my time!
 
Hum hum.
 
“Albus,
 
We’ve been on the crime scene. Nasty business. Everything’s destroyed. Magic,
no doubt. It’s dark, but I have never seen anything quite like that. Might be a
new spell. Or a potion, like these muggle bombs. Whomever did it wanted to
destroy everything, especially the victim. The corpse shows traces of torture,
but we don’t know for how long before the death. It’s violent, uncontrolled, so
I’m thinking the perpetrator is a newbie that lost control. Death Eater’s kid,
maybe, or one that go away but took a brick in the face.
 
The identity of the victim led me to think that the attack was random. A
teacher, not much ambition, no family except a brother in America, no ties with
the magical world. But the state of the house leads to the idea of a revenge,
because of the rage and whatnot. Muggle-hater, maybe? I’m going to check if a
Reaper didn’t get out of jail these in last few weeks. There’s no mark, no
symbol, no claim. Could be a lunatic.
 
We have to keep an eye open for other attacks. Be careful, Constant Vigilance
(these words are underlined twice).
 
For the moment, I don’t see any link with the Potter boy. One of my men saw him
around, told me that the kid was strange. Too fidgety (he made three attempts
at writing that word), looking at the ground like it was going to collapse
under his feet. I’m going to send people to check in tomorrow, but the kid is
safe. Probably just afraid/ impressed by the events or just living some kid’s
drama. I’m going to send people around though, just to be safe.
 
I’m far too old for this shit. I swear that after this case I’m going to
retire.
 
Respect,
 
Moody.”
 
As you can see, Alastor’s prose is quite… Alastorestque, I might say. But the
most important part, I thought, as I leaned back in my favourite armchair, was
that the boy was safe. I must confess that at first I had thought that this was
one of Voldemort’s crimes (who was, in fact, still possessing some innocent
animals in Albania at that time), but if I trusted anyone to detect a Death
Eater, and thus their master, it was Alastor.
 
Looking over the letter, I saw my dear Nicholas, arms crossed on his chest,
staring at me with amusement. He was still in his night-robes, of a magnificent
shade of purple.
 
“You shouldn’t be awake at this ungodly hour, Albus!” he said half-mockingly.
“Your old bones will not accept such a bad treatment.”
 
“Not everybody can be immortal, Nico.” I said
 
It was an old joke between him and I. Am I allow to tell them, Nico? Good,
good. So, as most of you may know due to that  wonderful  book  dear  Rita
wrote on my person, I used to chase immortality as a young man. Well, it was
more knowledge, possibilities, and power, but I would not have said no to
immortal life.
 
I met Nico a few years after Grindelwald’s fiasco. He had heard of me, thanks
to my work, and invited me to France. Beautiful country, France. Mostly thanks
to Mr Flamel, as I used to call him, at least. He took me under his wing. As
you may know, Nicholas Flamel is the inventor of the Philosopher’s Stone, the
stone of immortal life, among other deeds. After a few years of friendship,
between tea and biscuits, he proposed that I rely on the stone as well.
 
Of course I refused. Death wasn’t something I feared anymore, and such power…
Well, it was unwise to let myself touch to such a thing. What a joke! When I
had finally eternity in my hands, I refused it. I said to Nico that I refused
to be an old coot for more than twenty years.
 
It made him laugh the first time, and decades after that, it still brings a
smile on his face.  There he is, lurking in the back of the crowd. You’re quite
handsome when you smile don’t you know?
 
Nico gave me a kiss on the forehead like he did the first time I collapsed on
his couch after too many hours of hard work.
 
“Well,  old man ,” he said, “Do you want some non-poisoned-by-immortality-serum
tea?”
 
I accepted gladly, and took one of my lemon drops. I wonder why there isn’t any
addiction service for these, really. But my point is: at that moment, for me,
all was well. The ministry could handle the press and one of my best men was
investigating the case. My family was safe and little Harry was safe. The
winter sun was slowly raising behind my window and warming the room,
enlightening the beautiful garden Nico liked to take care of.  Even if the
remarks on Harry’s behaviour worried me slightly, there wasn’t much more than
usual to worry about.
 
Of course, retrospectively, I couldn’t have been more wrong. However, contrary
to a common rumor, I’m not omniscient, nor am I the second Merlin.
 
But let’s get back to the main subject of our story.
 
A few hours after that, little Harry screamed himself awake.
 
He didn’t have the time to really get out of his dream when threatening
footsteps went down the staircase, step after step. A cloud of dust fell on his
head, making him cough. He tried to make as little noise as possible, placing
his hand on his mouth, effectively choking himself. He couldn't make any noise,
or the monster would find him. He was too scared and confused to place where he
actually was, to understand that the footsteps were his aunt’s, woken up by his
scream and coming to check that her nephew wasn’t actually having a heart
attack inside of her home.
 
No, he thought that it was something coming for him, to punish him for his
crimes. He had heard of hell in his school. He had read about it. He was sure
of one thing: he really didn’t want to go there, even if it was where he
belonged to.
 
The footsteps were coming closer.
 
Harry tried as much as he could to stay quiet and calm, but a pitiful whimper
escaped his throat. His cheeks were still damp from tears. He couldn’t see
anything. The only sensation he had was the noise of the footsteps above the
roaring of his own blood in his ears, and the cold wall behind his back.
 
The footsteps stopped in front of his door. The wood squeaked. Whoever was
outside was waiting for something.
 
Harry felt something building up in him. Some sort of electricity, power,
something pressing from inside, craving to get out. Just as his fear was
starting to transform into panic, the familiar, albeit unpleasant, voice of his
aunt sounded.
 
“Boy, silence! You’ll wake Duddy!” she spat from the other side of the door.
 
Harry couldn’t answer. His voice was trapped in him, his fist clenched on his
chest. If his aunt had dared open the cupboard door, she would have seen his
eyes wide, pupils blown wild, and his face screwed into an expression no child
should ever have. She would have seen his scar darkened and pulsing and she
would have felt the intense oppression of what was growing inside him. Maybe
she could have done something. She would have seen that he was sick with an
illness that she couldn’t ignore.
 
But she didn’t.
 
She waited a moment, and then left. Harry heard the footsteps above him and
everything went back to silence. He pushed out a trembling sigh. To be afraid
of some noise, to cry, to have nightmares: he thought he was weak. Uncle Vernon
would probably punish him for this. Harry thought he would be right to, as
well.
 
The boy curled up under his damp sheets and waited until the morning. Trapped
in his own head, the boy prepared breakfast at 6 p.m. precisely, jumping at the
tiniest sound. His aunt finally came down and Harry went to place himself in
the corner of the room, in his spot. He didn’t look up to meet her gaze. He
could still feel the tension inside of him.
 
Vernon and Dudley got up next, sitting around the table and positively stuffing
their faces with the food Harry had prepared. The smaller boy, of course,
wouldn't be able to eat. He glared at them behind his curtain of his hair. Of
course he was envious, but his jealousy was mingled with so much self
depreciation that his anger was turning on himself. Of course he wanted to have
a family, he wished he could eat, he craved for the sweet motherly touch
Petunia was giving her son, but he couldn’t have that. He didn’t deserve that.
 
It wasn’t worth it, nobody could love him.
 
He clenched his fists, unaware of the pressure his magic started to push into
the room.
 
“What is it, freak, you sick?” taunted his cousin, noticing his gaunt face and
too-pale skin.
 
He didn’t answer. He didn’t know if he could. It was like his voice had
disappeared. He was too scared that if he opened his mouth, he would suddenly
confess everything.
 
So he only clenched his teeth and lowered his gaze even more. Maybe, if he
ignored the plump boy, he would just go away and leave him alone. His cousin
was many things, but patience wasn’t part of the lot. Harry was quite good at
blending into the walls, making himself disappear.
 
“Answer me when I’m talking to you!” snarled the other boy, pushing Harry to
the ground. He hadn’t even noticed Dudley move towards him, concentrated as he
was at trying to be non-existent. He fell on the ground hard, bruising his
forearms and knocking his head on the ground.
 
He just let it happen. He didn’t even try to get off the ground. It was
useless, his cousin would just push him again. He stayed there, curling up in a
protective pose, hands around his knees, looking at nothing, waiting for Dudley
to grow tired of bullying him.
 
It didn’t take long. It isn’t fun to bully someone that doesn’t try to escape.
And Dudley was still young, he didn’t yet have the cruel imagination that came
from teenagers. He only kicked Harry once or twice and went on with his day.
 
Harry would have preferred him to scream, to beat him until he fainted. At
least, it would had meant something.
 
He got up and prepared himself to go to school.
 
He was, of course, reluctant. The school was where she had been. She would
never go back, but he would, even if he didn’t deserve it.
 
The closer he was to school, the more he could hear his own heart in his
ribcage. The guilt and fear were too much. He wanted to cry at the simple idea
of putting a foot in the damn building. What for? He couldn’t really work, he
would be teased and pushed until he broke, and when he did, he would hurt them.
 
It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t safe for anyone.
 
He closed his eyes to muster all the courage his tiny heart possessed and
break the rule . He waited until his cousin met one of his friends and started
to pointedly ignore him, and he ran. He didn’t quite know where to go, but it
didn’t matter. Somewhere without people. With a bit of luck, nobody would
notice he wasn’t there.
 
He wasn’t sure if that idea saddened or relieved him. He continued to walk
among the empty streets. Every house was the same as its neighbour. The sun was
slowly rising, coloring the sky with pale blue and the cloud with soft pink. It
was peaceful.
 
He finally arrived in a small park. There, in one of the cabins which had been
set up to amuse the children, he sheltered himself from the cold wind. He
snuggled deep into his orange scarf, which was too big for him, and tightened
his hands in his sleeves to keep them warm.
 
He liked being there. It was like a home away from home. He placed delicately
before him the few packages of cakes he had managed to store; he always had
them on him in case his aunt suddenly decided to do an inspection of his
closet. He felt like a squirrel making reserves before hibernating. The
enclosed space sheltered him but let enough light enter so that it does not
feel choked, unlike in the cupboard.
 
He wondered if there was a way to be forgiven. He couldn’t talk to anyone. He
couldn’t apologise to a dead woman. Nothing could do that, not even…
 
There was a small church not so far from Privet Drive.  He had seen it during a
school trip in the zoo nearby. He didn’t knew much about religion, and god, but
he knew that people believed in it and that there was a thing for people that
wanted to be forgiven .
 
The boy stood up, cracking his joints made painful by the stillness and began
to walk.
 
Maybe he could fix what he had done, even a little.
 
It took him nearly an hour's walk to get to the church. The building was not
very large, far from the gothic and richly decorated cathedrals that one could
find in the capitals. It was a small Romanesque church, the walls of which were
covered with ivy. Harry pushed the metal gate and crossed the well-kept
gardens. He had never entered this kind of building. He was filled with
apprehension as he pushed open the wooden door with his hands reddened by the
cold.
 
The place was quite small, even inside. A little warmer than outside thanks to
the wind absence. Harry was impressed by the subdued light, the candlesticks,
the colored spots that the stained-glass windows painted on the floor. The
place was austere. He felt even less in his place here than elsewhere.
 
“Can I help you?”
 
Harry jumped and turned around.
 
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Did you want something, child?”
 
Harry didn’t know how to answer. The man was about forty, quite tall even with
his curved back. A priest, his mind supplied.
 
He was at loss of what to do. He had expected a severe man, already knowing
what kind of a monster he was, punishing him and promising him the seven hells.
But that? Nobody had talked to him like that, ever… not with that disinterested
kindness. Except…
 
It must be a trap, he though. Who would want to be nice to a freak like him
otherwise? Maybe he was even able to see into his mind, like the people on the
TV show he had seen once.
 
He kept his gaze firmly on the ground.
 
“Son? Is there something wrong?” asked the man in the I’m-a-friend voice.
 
Harry wanted to say that everything was wrong, that he needed the man to ask
his god to end it right now before the Monster came back, but once again his
voice was stuck in his throat and he was unable to make a sound.
 
Feeling the kid was distressed, the man made a move to put a hand on his
shoulder, but he stopped as soon as he noticed the wince on the child’s face.
He wasn’t idiot, and in his profession, one could say he had seen a lot of
things. People came to him to tell their secrets - even if there wasn’t as much
of them as there used to be- and these secrets weren’t often sweet.
 
He let his hand fall to his side to Harry’s relief.
 
“Come, you’ll make a confession.”
 
The boy frowned but didn’t look up.
 
“If you do, it means that you tell the wrong you did, but I cannot repeat it
after. Don’t worry, boy. It’s my job and my vocation,” continued the man
smugly, with a dramatic gesture toward the crucifix.
 
Harry looked up and paused.
 
“Sir, why is there a tiny dead man on the wall?” he asked, before clasping his
hands on his mouth, afraid of the consequences of such an irrespectful question
.
 
To his dismay, the man only laugh.
 
“Oh my, that’s a long story. If you tell me yours, I’ll tell you his.” He said.
 
Harry was a bitcomforted by the friendly tone the man used. It was like he had
absorbed all the warmth of the room and  spread it along to anyone he spoke to.
 
But a little voice in his mind kept telling him that it was a trap.
 
He warrily followed the priest to the confessional, but he couldn’t muster his
will to get inside. It was too small, too dark, to much like his cupboard.
 
Taking the hint, the man motioned the child toward one of the benches. Harry
sat, His hands dutifully crossed on his knees, ready to run for dear life if
necessary.
 
The man waited patiently for him to start talking.
 
“I’ve done something wrong. A lot of things. Freakish things.”
 
The man frowned. He didn’t much like where this was going, as you can imagine.
Words don’t come from nowhere, and there often the result of what parents tell
their children.
 
“Well, we all do bad things in our life. What’s important is to make amend and
try to repair the wrongs, you see?”
 
Harry nodded, avoiding eye contact. It was easy to talk to the man. Because he
didn’t know him. Not even his name. It was like talking to a wall. A wise wall,
perhaps.
 
“I… I can’t repair it.”
 
“You can still try. It’s the intention that counts. What did you do that you
cannot repair yourself?”
 
“I’ve… I’ve hurt someone,” said the child. His face was twisted with so many
conflicting emotions that a shiver ran down the man’s spine. Harry had pinched
his lips, frowned, his mouth crooked in contained pain, and the man couldn’t
help but to wonder: was it always so dark in here?
 
“I see. Well, you have to ask to be forgiven. The people, of course, but also
to God.”
 
“To God?”
 
Harry’s voice was quiet and high with fear. It hadn’t occurred to him that
someone more powerful than his aunt may have watched what he did.
 
“Yes, and if you’re good after that, if you don’t do it again, He will forgive
you. He will give you absolution. Like nothing happened at all.”
 
Something started to blossom in the child’s chest. Something like hope.
 
“Do you want to tell me something else?” asked the man after a minute or so of
silence.
A choice. The man was offering him a choice. It was the first time in his life
that things weren’t decided for him.
 
He panicked... and ran away.
 
When he arrived at the Dursley’s home, Aurors were knocking at the door.
 
Oh oh oh I know. I’m an evil man to leave you there, but I’m afraid it’s time
for me to end this chapter of the story. Ha, the faces of children craving
knowledge have always been my favourite. Yes, I know, you’re not quite
children, but if you could see what I see, you wouldn’t protest that much.
 
I bid you good day, my friends.
***** The Accident *****
Chapter Notes
     Hy people!
     First: sorry for the delay. I've been working quite hard on my new
     short serie Regulus ( go check it out), and my beta had a bit of
     trouble with internet. I will try to be quicker next time, but I
     can't promise anything as my concours is coming up. Anyway, here's
     the chapter!
     I want to thanks all of you for the wonderful comments, especially
     Scaranpannoir: I love your work and I'm so glad that you read mine! I
     was very touched by your comment. I chose to write this story like my
     grand'ma tell me hers too, so I relate a lot (sorry for you grandpa
     tho).
     Thanks too to YaoiReaperChan for all the niceness of your comment, I
     was very, very pleased that you liked my story so much!
     You can follow me on tumblr at ladybraken, where I post a lot of
     fanart and can answer to questions is there is some ^^
      
     For this chapter: Warning: graphic description of the violent death
     of a child. There is a small warning in the chapter in itself before
     the scene.
Hello hello! It’s been a long time I know. You must forgive the lack of energy
of an old man… It’s not that I have better things to do, but we have all our
time to talk about Mr Potter, don’t we? As palpitating as this story is, it’s
already over…

As I said last time, when the young Mr. Potter came back to Private Drive, the
head full of the idea that maybe he could be forgiven for what he had done -
for what he was- he saw aurors knocking at the door.

Of course, Harry didn’t know what an auror was, but the long cloaks, serious
faces, and poised manners led him to think that they must be inspectors - cops
of some sort. He heart skipped a bit, and fear ran down his throat.

The seven year old was - due to malnourishment - quite small for his age. As
regrettable as it was for his health, it gave him the advantage of being able
to sneak everywhere as efficiently as he had that one time in his neighbour's
house.

Oblivious to her nephew’s attempt to pass through the fence and hide under the
kitchen window to spy on  these men, Petunia Dursley, like the good housewife
she dreamed herself to be, opened the door to the two men.

Now I need your full attention because a lot of things are going to happen at
the same time.

At the front door, Petunia opened the door to two uninvited - but not
apparently strange - individuals. She looked at them up and down before
inquiring “Can I help you?” This was asked politely, if a bit warrily.

“Yes, we are here to ask questions about the incident of Miss Tacklebot.”

She looked at them up and down, lips pinched. “Do you have a warrant?” she said
with disapproval. What if her neighbours saw them on the front door?

Luckily, Moody was under glamours. I dare not to imagine Mrs. Dursley’s
reaction to his electric blue eye and missing leg. Not to mention… the rest of
his face. It is already quite impressive to anyone in the wizarding world,
Muggles would have been terrified.

“It’s just the procedure, Ma’am, nothing to worry about. No investigation on
your family. Can we come in?”

“Oh yes, yes of course,” she said briskly.

During those few minutes, Harry had managed to pass through the little hole he
had made in the fence ( the perks of being the one repairing it, one might
say). When Moody passed the door, Harry ran to the wall, where he wouldn’t be
in the field of view of Ms. Fig whom he knew was probably watching from behind
her once-white curtains.

She wasn’t mean to him, but she could go and tell Aunt Petunia like Miss
Tacklebot had. He couldn’t take that risk. He didn’t trust her.

He stuck to the wall and crouched. He walked slowly until he was under the
window, within perfect hearing range of what was happening in the kitchen and
the living room. Aunt Petunia always let the window open during the day ‘to
clean the air of  freakness, dust, and impurities,’ she had spat when he had
asked.

That thought made him blink to fight back the tears. But his curiosity, his
fear, was too great.
He had to know what these men wanted. He had to know if he was in danger.

If he had to run.

As the little Harry settled in the snow under the window, Moody and his
colleague sat on the sofa, trying hard not to stare at the strange black box in
front of them. Moody had seen one or two before, and  it was always intriguing.
He still hadn’t managed to understand how the Muggles made this thing work.

Petunia came back with coffee, a sat across from her guests. Petunia was many
things, but a bad hostess she was not.

“So, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” she asked.

“Your children were in Mis Tacklebot’s class, weren’t they?”

“Yes, yes of course, my son was in it. A very good student, that he is! It’s
such a shame what happened to Miss Tacklebot, he liked her very much.”

The two Aurors looked at each other for a second. “Good, good. Did one of your
children tell you something during the week that preceded her death? Anything
might help us: if she looked depressed or worried, if she left class earlier…”

“Oh no, my dear Dudley didn’t told me anything like that… He is a good kid, but
he doesn’t tend to notice that type of things, you see. But if she had changed
her timetable during the week, that we would have known.,” she said, and then,
more conspiratorially, “ We don’t let Dudley go home alone, you know. It’s not
responsible, with all the… strange people one may find in the streets. Just
yesterday, a Punk was walking on the pavement!”

Of course, none of the two men knew what a “punk” was, but they nodded gravely,
immediately earning Petunia’s respect. Proper people hated punk it was well-
known. Natural, even. Adding to that that, it reinforced her attitude that two
officers - representation of the country’s order - agreed with her.

Under the window, Harry was almost shaking with relief (and bitterness) that
his very existence hadn’t been mentioned at all. It was like he had been
forgotten already.

He was invisible. He liked and hated the idea at the same time. He tilted his
head in order to have a better sight of the room.

 He didn’t notice that his breath was forming a little cloud in the cold winter
air above him.

Alastor, however, did notice. Just like he notice the small frame behind the
wall when they had entered the place. Just like he noticed Petunia was using a
singular instead of a plural to talk about the two boys, effectively keeping
Harry shut out, even in her speech.

And Alastor didn’t like that. No, he didn’t like that at all.

The records say that he thought at that very moment: “I smelled bullshit two
miles around this house, and even with that the Dursleys kept surprising me.”

“Did you see Miss Tacklebot yourself during that week?” he asked, fixing his
eyes onto Petunia’s.

The woman immediately tensed, but smiled politely, her hands folded around her
wrists in a nervous gesture. She fidgeted a bit under Moody’s stare, but kept a
calm countenance.

“Well, yes, but it wasn’t for anything important…”

But, Harry thought, if Petunia told them why they had talked to Miss Tacklebot,
they would know he existed. They would know he was there.  They would see he
was a freak.

What else could they know?

Panic wasn’t forgotten for so long and rose again to crush his chest. He was
threatened. He felt threatened. And thus, his magic did too.

As the magical bomb that was inside Harry’s head started to grow again, Vernon
was parking his car in front of his impeccable house. His mood was grim - his
most hated colleague had just gotten a promotion (“ He probably let the boss
fuck his wife, that fucker!”, silently raged Vernon), and of course, Mr.
Dursley, despite the fact the he was a better salesman, didn’t get one.

It was thus, a very unhappy and vindicative Vernon that opened door that day.

 Harry heard the noise of the car stopping against the gravel in front of the
house, and he knew Vernon was coming - too soon to be normal, certainly far too
soon to avoid a disaster. He stilled, holding his breath, and waited with
horror for what was to come.

Moody saw the car parking behind him through the wall, and the man (that
strangely reminded him of oversized beef) got out of the car, his face already
red from badly hidden anger. Not that Vernon was known to hide very well -- or
even try to hide-- his anger.

Petunia was too occupied telling the Aurors the latest gossip of the
neighbourhood to hear her husband coming home - it had to be said that it was
quite rare for her to be able to share all the gossip, as her only accointances
were the very people she was gossiping about. Apparently, Mrs. Mackinnon had a
lover - and not  any  lover, her husband’s best friend, could you imagine?

It is of no use to say that the Aurors in question were bored to death and
seriously starting to questioning they’re life choices.

Vernon’s steps sounded heavily in the corridor.

“What th- What is happening here?” asked Vernon loudly, barely stopping himself
from swearing in front of the officials.

“Mister Dursley,” Moody said. Of course he spoke politely, but something in his
tone was implying that he really didn’t want to be polite. Luckily, Vernon
wasn’t that subtle. Moody held his hand out for the large man to shake it with
his sweaty palm; Moody had to resist the urge to wipe it on his pants.

“Yes, that’s me,” grunted Vernon.

“Vernon, these men are here to talk about what happened to the teacher, Miss
Tacklebot.,” she said, and as her husband was becoming red again, she added
quickly, “They are just asking a few questions, nothing to worry about.”

He nodded and followed his wife to sit next to her. His mood was far to
improve. At least from where he was he could see the door, and if his nephew
came home, send him back somewhere else before these men start to ask
questions.

You may ask yourself: if he thought that what he was doing was normal, why was
he hiding it? Well, that is what a lot of abusers do. They pretend that their
behaviour is natural, that their victims deserved it, sometimes until the
victim starts to believe them. But deep down, when they face the mirror, they
know that it’s wrong. Cases of abuse without real recognition of it by the
abuser are rare, and fall under different pathologies.

All of that isn’t to say that Vernon wasn’t insane, or idiot. Not a clever man,
granted, and maybe not the most stable one, but he had no excuses. Chains of
event, of bad choices, of bad temper, maybe, but no excuses.

Most of them don’t.

Petunia had followed her husband’s train of thought, but unlike him, she wasn’t
happy at the idea of what might happen to little Harry later that day. She knew
her husband’s mood was dark, and she feared that he would  go too far this
time. He didn’t really control himself in these moments, she told herself, it
was her duty to protect her husband from prison, and to avoid something too....
permanent... from happening to the child.

Harry, on the other hand, was still frozen outside, body and mind. His hands
were numb and he was starting to regret not having thought about taking
something warmer to wear outside -- he still had two shirts and a blanket
inside his cupboard. But if he had taken them, they would have been soaked in
cold water, and he would have had nothing to sleep in…

He shook his head to send away his thought. He had to be really, really
attentive to what was happening. Like in class, because otherwise he would
forget things and have bad grades. Bad grades were good, because he wasn’t
beaten for them, but also bad, because he teachers looked at him with
disappointment, frustration, and then acceptance.

 The last one was the worst, it meant that they truly thought he was stupid.
Incapable of the easiest thing.

On the bad days, Harry believed it too.

Moody continued to ask random questions to the Dursleys (when did they leave
the house, did they noticed someone strange? - question to which Petunia had
made a very unforgiving portrait of the real Moody, indicating that she had
seen “this frighteningly ugly man roaming around the other day.” The other
Auror had to cough to hide his laughter.), but his attention was focused on the
small child outside who was moving less and less with each minute that passed.

The less the child was moving the more his magic was spreading, becoming thick
and aggressive. It was curling, crushing, like smoke in an enclosed space.
Something was ringing every bell in Moody’s mind and his well-developed
paranoia was screaming bloody murder.

However, he had factually so little proof or physical elements that he couldn’t
act, especially in front of muggles.

What he didn’t know was that each question was stressing the young Harry to no
end, and the child was wishing for it to  end already !  He was cold, hungry,
and tired. His hand were shaking from the aftermath of the fright he kept
having, and he was quite sure that at this rate his hair would be whiter than
snow before he reached puberty.

Luckily, Vernon too was starting to be inpatient. His son would be home from
school soon enough and he didn’t want the kid to worry about policemen in the
house, no matter how decent they were. Surely, it would remind him what had
happened and Vernon was adamant on the fact the Dudley shouldn’t had been even
aware  that such thing as death existed, not so soon that is.

Too much time had already been spent on that little teacher - nobody was crying
for her after all! Why were they bother good and quiet families about it?

The tension and awkwardness was spreading through the room, and Moody took his
cue to leave - he didn’t want the muggles to suspect something after all, and
he wasn’t that good at obliviating. Better to avoid trouble, especially with
all the public’s eyes on him and his men.

So, despite the fact that every muscle in his body told him to take the child
and run away to the Ministry with him, Moody rose from his seat, shook hands
with the Dursleys, and continued his patrol in the neighbourhood.

Harry let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Vernon was following them to the front door, half to be a polite host, half to
be sure they would leave his property as soon as they were out of the house.

Harry quickly walked to the back wall of the house, hoping to pass by the
garden door and not to be noticed, but his relatives nor by the cops.

But fate don’t favour the miserable, and the door was locked.

Harry panicked and his breath started accelerating dangerously. What if he had
to pass by the front door and Dursley wasn’t already home? It was one of the
rare days he went home alone, because Pier’s mom accepted to accompany them.
What if one of the cops saw him and sent him to jail? Worse, what if Vernon saw
him?

His uncle hadn’t screamed yet, but Harry knew him well enough. Enough to know
the way his lower lips went forward, showing teeth as if his jaw was too heavy
to be held normally, making him take deep, hot angry breaths. The way his vein
pulsed under the red skin of his temple. The way he was constantly cracking his
thumb in his palm. The way his movements were a bit too quick, a bit too much
strength in them.

His uncle was internally boiling and just waiting to find someone to release
 his anger on. Said someone being Harry, of course.

The child was terrified and his rational mind had stopped working a long time
ago. He couldn’t go in by the front door, but the more he waited outside the
more time he gave Vernon to find him and to brew his anger. Plus, it was far
too cold outside to stay in the snow: his fingers were already starting to turn
blue. He simply had to go in before his legs buckled under him and let him fall
asleep against the snowy door.

Petunia watched her husband escort the cops out of their home. She too knew
what was happening in Vernon’s head. She looked around her kitchen, checking
that the child had had the time to do all his chores in the morning.

It wouldn’t do to give Vernon an excuse.

Not that Petunia particularly liked her nephew more now, or cared about him
even. But a scandal can happen quickly, and these cops might interrogate the
kids afterwards.

As she turned around, she saw it. The little cloud of white smoke under the
door’s window. She pinched her lips even more when she noticed the the doorknob
was turning without success, again and again.

She sight. If she wasn’t sure before, now she knew there was nothing to do with
that  child.

She pushed the key in the keyhole and opened the door, making Harry stumble
inside and crash on the floor with a small  thump . She didn’t take the time to
check on him, of course, and grabbed him by the collar before dragging him into
his cupboard and throwing him inside.

Harry heard the door lock behind him, leaving him in the semi-darknesses of his
small room. He let himself fall against the door, breathing hard. His chest
still hurt slightly from when he had fallen and his mind didn’t have the time
to process everything that had happened. At least he was warm now.  He stripped
off his shoes, coat, and scarf and put them in the farthest corner of the
cupboard where the heating was on the other side of the wall.

He put his trembling hands against the warm wall and flexed his fingers.

“I hope uncle Vernon will not try to look for me…” he whispered to the spider
running on one of the shelves full of bottles, tools and cleaning products.

Ths spider stopped for a second, as if understanding what the child was saying,
as if understanding what the child  wasn’t  saying, before continuing its way.

Any other child would have been scared by this behaviour, but Harry had
accepted these little miracles a long time ago. As long as he didn’t
consciously notice he was actually using magic, he was fine.

Well, not  fine . Harry was very, very far from fine as it was.

Shivers were running down his spine as his body slowly got used to the warm
temperature of the inside. Of course, his cupboard wasn’t heated, and his
relatives took care to cut the heating at night, turning the room into a little
fridge, but during the day, it was nice enough.

Harry closed his eyes, trying to sort out his thoughts.

Cops were searching for him, but they didn’t know it was him. They would know
he was a freak, they may not know that he was a monster. So what?

What was going to happen to him now? What more than what had already be done to
him could happen in prison? Would he be less free than here? Eat less? His
young imagination summoned images of terrible places, dark, cold and damp, full
 of people in black, screamings and green lights. If normal life was the
Dursleys, then surely, prison must look like something like that. They would
make him do pointless work all day long, without food or water, but worse, he
would never see the sunlight again. Never feel its warm rays against his skin
like a hug from the sky. Maybe, even, they would kill him. He had learnt at
school that there wasn’t any death penalty in England, but surely for someone
as abnormal as he was, they would make an exception…

They wouldn’t believe that he didn’t do it on purpose, that he didn’t want it,
that he was just a little boy...

No, they would only see the freak, and they would be right to.

He was a freak after all. Undeserving of love, friendship. Surely they would
know he didn’t deserve forgiveness or kindness either - just like his uncle had
said.

“Do you think I’m a freak too?” he softly asked the spider that had appeared
again at the other side of the shelf.

Once again, the arachnid turned around and stared at the boy for a moment,
before returning to its activities.

They never talked back.

Swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth, Harry took his knees in his arms and
concentrated on observing the spiders to forget the heavy footsteps of his
uncle in the corridor -- far too close to his cupboard for his tastes. He
couldn’t even really see them.

His glasses had never been for his sight - they were some old thing Aunt
Petunia had found, but as the years passed, they hurt his eyes more than
anything else. Harry, of course, hadn’t noticed it, as his sight had lessened
slowly. Without his glasses, he was almost blind, with them he could still see
a few meters ahead.



As Harry was trying his hardest to pretend that he didn’t exist, Alastor
apparated to the ministry. Quickly, he went into his office, locked the door,
raised the wards, closed the floo, and shut the windows. Then, he sat behind
his desk and put a small file in front of him. Frowning, he opened it.

It wasn’t in his habits to check the files - it wasn’t his job. And Alastor
tended to stayed within the limits of his job - except when he didn’t.

And something was telling him that Alastor was putting his feet in a very, very
deep pool of mud right now.

It took him about two hours to give up. To be frank, even with the information
that had been given to him by the order, he had nothing. There was no
information to find. The night of the Potter’s murder was a mystery, where
different sources contradicted themselves, and after that… Pages and pages of
casual reports from Miss Figg about the boy drinking tea at her home, going and
coming from school… Nothing that could explain 1) why the boy had been waiting
outside in the snow, 2) why his magic was lashing out this way (there was only
one report of accidental magic, a child set on a roof by accident, a powerful
feat, yes, but nothing out of the ordinary), 3) why Petunia Dursley had refuse
to even acknowledge his very existence, and 4) why the entire neighborhood
seemed convinced that a seven year old was the worse delinquent that they had
ever seen.

His instincts were telling him that something was wrong, but he technically had
no proof. He grunted, scratching one of the scars on his chin in a pensive
gesture.

If something happened to that kid, he wouldn’t forgive himself. Along with the
other members of the Order, he had promised to protect James and Lily, and
failed.

He would not make such mistake again.

Grunting, he hid the file in his desk, cast a few (very powerful) wards around
it, lowered the ones that were around the office, opened the curtains, unlocked
the door, and sat back in his place, head leaning on his fist.

He didn’t have much time until his retirement. He wasn’t in favour in the
public’s mind. Not that he really cared on a personal level, but he knew that
the person that would replace him might do the exact opposite of his own action
- if only to show off. Moody had been a Head Auror during Voldemort’s (please,
don’t flinch at his name, it’s unbecoming) rise, and he knew how politics work,
and where actions can lead.

Alastor leaned back in his chair and sighed.



Back in Little Whining, Vernon passed the entire evening pacing, frustrated,
lashing his anger out on everything that fell under his meaty hands.

Luckily, little Harry stayed in his cupboard and didn’t move until the next
morning. He entangled himself in the cover that he had since he was a baby as
in a protective cocoon, and pretended that the small noises he emitted were not
gulped, anguised sobs.

It was a Saturday, quite sunny for the season. That was the reason which pushed
Petunia to take the kids to the playground. Yes, the two of them - no matter
how much she hated her nephew, she couldn’t leave him alone at home for too
long - he might burn the house to the ground with his “freakishness”.

She didn’t know, of course, that it would be the worst decision of her life -
despite, maybe, being a poor excuse of an human being.

Harry had the most horrendous nightmare that night. His mind had mixed his fear
of prison, remembrance of green light, cold, screaming (his mother’s, Vernon’s,
Voldemort’s), and fear.He didn’t remember it later, when his uncle jolted him
awake by screaming “BOY!” and drumming on his door. He had cried out during his
nightmare.

The image of a pale, monstrous face towering towards him was still engraved in
his retina.

At the second drumming, he knew he had to get ou of his bedt, unless he wanted
a beating for breakfast. He wiped his tears from his cheeks, put on some old
clothes, took his glasses and opened the door of his cupboard…

… only to be thrown back by his cousin, running in the hallway for some more
bacon - not that he wouldn’t have had all of it anyway.

Harry didn’t understand what had happened for long, long seconds - only that
somehow he was back on his dirty mattress, facing the little  Harry  he had
carved in the wall.

For a moment, he thought he would burst out of laughing, maybe of tears, maybe
just explode, but he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

A few seconds later, he was serving breakfast to his uncle - knowing that he
couldn’t have any. The smell made his mouth water and his stomach growl.

“Don’t look at my food like that, Boy. You freaks don’t deserve it, so stop
dreaming and go fetch the orange juice! You should be grateful to have a roof
above your head already!” taunted Vernon with a mean smile. Harry obeyed,
conveniently forgetting to tell his uncle that half of his breakfast had ended
on his moustache.

“Tell me Duddikin, would you like to go play at the park with Piers today? You
could use your new ball and maybe the ice-cream man will be there!” cooed
Petunia.

Harry ignored the painful pit in his stomach.

Dudley’s face illuminated immediately- that type of amusement had been rare
since the demise of his teacher. He nodded with enthusiasm and jumped out of
his chair to run into his second bedroom and gather his toys. Harry had to
throw away the food the other boy had recklessly left behind and that he
couldn’t eat.

For all his self-hating mindset, when the slices of tasty beacon fell in the
trash along with all the other wasted things, it was anger that boiled inside
Harry. Somehow, a deep sense of injustice clutched his empty belly, drowned in
the mantra that he didn’t deserve it anyway.

Sighing softly, he close the trash can.

“I’ll take…  him  with us so you can rest, Vernon,” continued his aunt, putting
a bony hand on her husband’s shoulder.

“Are you sure? I want you to have a good day with Dudley… after what happened…
I don’t want him ruining everything.,” said Vernon.

“I’ll send him to the swings, and Dudley will play with little Piers. He won’t
even be near the other children.”

“Alright.”

Harry stayed in his corner, waiting to get the dishes, listening to it all,
eyes downcast. He blinked to chase the tears away, but never moved.

He knew he was unwanted, but it hurt each time.

An hour later, they were all ready to go. Dudley had his red ball under his
arm, bouncing around with excitement. Even Harry’s mood lightened a bit: he was
allowed to play! no chores for an entire afternoon! That was a little miracle
in itself. Maybe at the park he would meet new children and they would accept
to play with him for a bit- if Dudley was distracted.

Harry walked a few meters behind Petunia and Dudley, his aunt insisting on
holding her son’s hand. He was kicking the little stones on the road.

He had a very bad feeling about his all, but he tried to forget it. Usually he
was left in his cupboard while his aunt went to the park with Dudley. He wasn’t
sure why she had taken him with her today - surely to avoid bothering Vernon
with his presence- but he knew he should make the best of it.

It was a good day, he thought. Sunny, with just a bit of wind, so that he could
let the rays warm the skin of his face.

A few kids were already playing in the park. Dudley ran to them - Piers not far
behind him. As tacitly promised, Harry went towards the lonely swing. He kicked
his legs back and forth, not tall enough to touch the ground from the swing.

He watched his cousin playing football with the other children. Dudley kicked
the ball into one of the children’s legs and they laugh at his clumsiness. The
game started again and the tiny children were running back and forth, laughing
to their heart’s content.

Harry sighed. He didn’t know if he felt good or if this jealousy was
uncomfortable. He was used to it after all.

He raised his head to face the sky and took in a deep breath, his hair floating
slowly around his ears, tickling his neck under the heavy scarf Miss Figg had
knit for him a long time ago. He liked the scarf, even if it had holes in it
and it was threadbare at the ends- it was warm and red - his favourite color.
It hadn’t been a gift, really, one winter he was just sittin on the front
porch, waiting for his punishment to be over, and she had simply put it on him
as she had passed.

Somehow, it had warmed his heart - and his neck, even if he knew she didn’t
care - as he wasn’t worth caring for.

“What are you doing here alone?”

Harry startled and turned around. A little girl that he didn’t know was
standing behind him, a big stuffed doll in here hands. She was about Harry’s
eyes, maybe a bit older. Her hair was separated into two braids which would
have looked ridiculous on somebody older, but which surrounded her face and the
fair plaits and gave her an adorable air.

Harry only shrugged, not quite knowing what to answer. Then: “Because I’m not
worthy of anything that’s Dudley’s.” He said with bitter conviction.

“Who’s Dudley?” asked the little girl.

Harry pointed at his cousin who was running after the red ball.

“I don’t know who that is. Do you want to play?” she asked on the same
dismissive tone.

Harry nodded with enthusiasm. She couldn’t see his smile, hidden under the
large scarf that only let the end of his little reddened nose out, but she
could tell he was happy. She held out her hand, and, after a moment of
hesitation, he clasped his little hand in hers and she lead him a bit closer in
the park to the other children.

“This is Miss Dolly,” she said, sitting the doll next to them so they would
form a circle. “Do serve tea to Miss Dolly, she likes it a lot!”

Harry didn’t asked how a doll could like tea, or show that she liked it and
observed the little girl mimic something. It was the first time someone
accepted to play with him, so he was a bit lost. It took a moment for him to
understand that she was pretending to set the table. It wasn’t too far from
what he was used to do, so he faked serving tea and giving it to the doll. The
whole ordeal seemed quite pointless to him, but the little girl seemed so sure
of herself, he didn’t dare to ask.

“My name is Mary,” she said after being sure that her doll was indeed enjoying
her air-tea.

“I’m Frea- Harry,” stumbled the little boy shyly.

“Now, Harry, you’re my friend!” decided Mary, with a pointed look. The idea of
having a friend was so magnificent for him that he beamed and radiated with
happiness.

He had a friend! He wished he could just jump and dance around to show his joy
to everyone, but he didn’t dare to move.

“What do you think, Miss Dolly, can you be friends with Harry?” continued the
little girl, turning towards her doll.

The doll was made of purple rags which made him a pretty dress, belted in the
middle of her body by a little piece of cloth. Her eyes were made from black
buttons that fixed his gaze with an empty air, a too big smilesewn on her
woolen face.

Harry was suddenly taken in an irrational grasp, that if the doll refused to be
his friend, Mary would throw him away too; it was obvious that his friendship
was worth less than that of a rag doll. This apprehension increased every
second that the little girl went to fix the doll, waiting patiently for an
answer. He felt threatened, in danger of losing the only thing he held, even if
it was only a few minutes.

For a child as deprived of affection as Harry, the attachment to the few who
could be good with him was very, very fast forming.

And, as we have explained, the magic of small children reacts mainly to danger.
Not an objective danger, but what the child  feels like  a danger.

As a result, the little rag doll got up and raised her arms to the sky as if to
ask Harry to hug her.

The little girl screamed.

Not that the fact the the doll hand stood was frightening in itself; maybe she
could have found it fascinating, or amusing, or she would have been comforted
in the idea that her dear doll was alive. But, even if muggle cannot see or
perform magic, they can feel it, especially children.

And the magic from a Obscurial  reeks  of threat.

By chance, the adults in attendance were too busy gossiping to take in a single
cry in a park full of children who were causing chaos in every directions, but
Dudley and Piers, they heard perfectly.

Harry started to panic after Mary screamed and did everything to make himself
as small as possible. When his cousin joined them, accompanied by his little
band, the young boy was already in a ball, his eyes fixed on the ground in
front of him.

"What is it, Mary?" asked Piers, who, as her cousin, felt a little responsible
- as much as a child can be at this age.

"He did something weird, I'm scared!" cried the little girl, running behind her
cousin.

“Yeah, that’s because he’s a freak. You shouldn't have gone close to him. Dad
said it might be contagious!”

Of course, Dudley had to jump to the occasion to lower and humiliate his
cousin; he had been raised to believe it was a normal and good thing to do
after all.

“I don’t like him!” cried Mary.

Dread filled Harry at her words. He was confused, scared, and angry. His heart
couldn’t choose between hating her or hating himself, and his eyes started to
wet.

“But you said you were my friend!”

She hid even more behind the other boy at his outburst. The fact that she was
scared of him was probably the worst for Harry, even more than the betrayal
because it was the proof that he was a monster. Why couldn’t he stop these
things from happening?

“I’m not your friend anymore! You’re mean and weird!”

And that was how a little girl managed to break something every adult in
Harry’s life hadn’t succeed to…

“Bu-”

Harry was cut off by the slap his cousin gave him, making him fall back on the
ground.

“Shut up, Freak! Now leave the park or I’ll hurt you!” screamed his cousin,
looking disturbingly like his father. The plump boy got closer to him with a
smug smirk and gave him a kick in the ribs for good measure.

“Nobody will ever love  you .” he spat.

With tears in his eyes, Harry ran to the edge of the park, just behind the
white fences that led down the sidewalk, then down the road. The place was
actually not very big, and he could still see and hear his cousin, who had
resumed his football game, a little further away. Now, Mary was sitting on her
side, looking at her doll with suspicion.

Harry took his knees in his arms and sat on the ground, nursing his new bruise.
He had a sore throat from holding back his tears but he refused to cry and be
humiliated when someone found out.

He watched the cars pass, glareing at the little girl and the other children
from time to time, sometimes observing from afar his aunt who was still talking
to Piers' mother with great gestures of her bony hands.

Frustrated that his angry look had no effect on the other children, Harry ended
up stubbornly staring at the ground, murmuring insults that were supposed to
relieve his frustration. It did not work. With every bad word, Harry felt more
angry, more distraught, simply because he did not understand. Everything was
going so well, and all of a sudden he did not even have the right to go on the
broken swings that nobody was using.

The fact that he could hear the other children having fun while he was cast out
made his blood boil. He scratched his forearms, leaving red trails behind his
fingers, trying to get what was ascending inside him in control to avoid any
other freakiness, but it hurt and the cold made it worse .

Now I must warn you that what happen after isn’t for sensitive souls; it is a
tragic story, and for you to understand what will happen next, I am going to
have to tell everything in  great detail . Be sure that I do not enjoy it in
any way, but I must warn you. Molly, please, do go fetch some tea, for your own
good; and I feel like we are going to need it afterwards.

Now...

… Harry heard the cries of the children come closer and saw from the corner of
the eye a figure passing near him to run after a red spot. He recognized Mary,
and, seized with a sudden surge of resentment, cast a glance at her that
conveyed all the storms of broken feelings, tears, and hopes that swirled in
his head.

The little girl did not see him and continued to run after the ball, which
rolled on the road, one step, then another.

Harry was so angry that his breath had caught in his throat and his pupils had
dilated, darkening the bright green of his eyes. For a second only, Harry
thought that it all was  her fault .

All the pain, the anger, all the things that were crushing him. The electric
feeling of magic on his fingers, the poison in his veins, everything that made
him a freak and that made the others monsters…

For a simple second, it was all her fault.

Mary stumbled over  nothing .

Harry watched in slow motion as the little girl lost her balance while she was
still on the sidewalk, the ball still rolling on the asphalt. She fell, still
between the earth and the sky, and the child's eyes widened when he saw the
lights illuminate Mary's blond curls as a car approached. He heard the distant
echo of the screaming adults, perceiving the danger, Piers' mother starting to
run, though she simply could not get there in time.

The roaring of the car became enhanced as Mary's right knee slammed onto the
asphalt and her eyes closed with pain, soon joined by the strident sound of the
horn that lingered for hours. Harry opened his mouth, and a piece of parchment
hit the little girl in the hip, making her fly against the hood, then the
windshield.

A horrible crack rang out when the little girl's skull hit the windshield that
split into a million shards. A splash of blood spurted and splattered Harry's
face, whose squared eyes could not yet understand what was happening.

Red, so, so red...

The screech of the brakes rose in crescendo as the rubber wheels smoked against
the asphalt in a desperate attempt to stop what had already happened, and the
car continued in spite of everything, while the body of the little girl rolled
on the roof, each of her limbs bumping on the metal, before falling heavily on
the ground.

The car stopped a little further away, and the weather resumed its normal
course.

Harry stood there, staring unblinkingly at the little girl's body, whose still
limbs were in impossible angles, open skull letting him see the grey matter
behind it, a pool of blood slowly spreading around her. He felt something
sticky on his cheek. As the screams and voices drew closer to him, he raised a
trembling hand and put his fingers in the trail of blood that stained his face.

His mind still hadn’t processed what had happened, but his heart, his  soul ,
already knew.

Oh, I feel that my story shocked you. But it is important for you that I do not
hide anything from you, including the most atrocious details, simply because to
understand Harry, you have to understand what he has seen and what he has
experienced. .

However, I don’t want to overwhelm you, so I shall stop here for today. I’m
sure Molly’s tea will be of great help. Take care, my friends.
End Notes
     Hello everybody!
     This is a new story about Harry as an obscurial. I know someone
     ( many people) probably already did it, but I wanted to give it a
     shot. I don't think I will go for an evil/dark Harry, but mostly for
     something about how feeling and situations make you do things you
     wouldn't otherwise. So no evil laugh and happy killing here. I'll
     update it quite often as soon as I found a beta.
     Of course, the story will touch some hard topics: child neglect/
     abuse, manipulation, physical and psychological trauma, abusive
     relationships and probably other things of that kind, so if you
     cannot guts theses, this fanfic isn't for you.
     Also, there is slash I'm not sure yet, but I think I will go for some
     twisted HPLV. Maybe.
     The first chapter is quite short as it is mostly some sort of
     introduction, but don't worry it will be much longer after! Don't
     hesitate to tell me what you think about it!
     ~LadyBraken
     Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Including the computer I'm writing
     on. Sad life, really.
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