On a Similar Path
This uses Tom Riddle (and others) as inspiration to how Harry develops. True, he won’t be nearly as villainous as Tom, but he will clearly be similar regardless.
This story contains coarse language and violence!
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I don’t own the ‘Harry Potter’ franchise - J.K. Rowling does; I also lay no claim to ‘His Dark Materials’ book series which is referenced in this story (Philip Pullman owns that).
(Yes, the anachronism of 'His Dark Materials' existing in 1986 is deliberate; I moved them up ~12 years, so that the second book came out in 1984-85 and the third comes out in 1988. I claim artistic licence, and point at a Playstation in 1992 or so in canon.)
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Harry had just become six years old. Most children his age were pretty carefree, even with school included; however, Harry Potter was contemplating heavier matters, even for adults. To be exact, he was considering dropping his efforts to impress his relatives. Why? Because he was certain they would never care.
“Aunt Petunia! Aunt Petunia!”
“What is it, boy? Out with it!”
“Look, my progress report! Perfect scores all around!”
Petunia looked it over, then turned her nose up and looked to the side, whispering “far better than Dudley.”
She returned to her usual shrill, loud voice. “That’s it, boy! Off to the cupboard, with no dinner! You are not better than Dudley, no matter what delusions might enter that head of yours. You hear?”
His aunt’s reaction to a mention of a birthday party was just as bad; rather than angry and cruel, she was casually cruel (‘of course there will be no party; it’s not like something important happened.’)
Even though he was awfully young, some people mature quickly. Harry realised the futility of seeking his ‘family’s’ affection; something which, for some people, might continue well into adulthood. Worse, with others, despair would set in and they likely ended up mentally broken or at least horrible (and usually malicious) shells of their previous selves.
There were also the rare people who, while seriously affected, still functioned; and, above all, were pure of heart. Harry could have been one of those, but his patience had worn thin. Thus, while he was unbroken and not truly malevolent, he was far from pure-hearted.
‘What should I do? I’ve been studying far ahead, but since I know it won’t change anything now, I should stop. Right?’ After a bit of thinking he decided. ‘No, definitely not. I’ve put too much work into my studies to stop now -heck, I learned how to read and write when I was four to five with only some help from a librarian after close to a year of effort- so why would I stop now? I won’t do it for anyone other than myself; after all, didn’t I want to read to find something to do then?’ Though, to be truthful, he started learning how to read out of envy and spite, because he saw Vernon trying to teach Dudley (and mostly fail at the time).
Of course, nicking Dudley’s never-used books from the second bedroom without being noticed had been a staple for Harry since early on; though, recently it was more of a passive-aggressive form of revenge than about finding a way to pass the time.
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Our protagonist’s temper was a lot more volatile than before, due to his optimism having run dry; or it would have been, had cold calculation not held him back. In the past few months, he had progressed in the arts of deception and manipulation. He was much better at acting submissive and using flattery to his advantage, and had managed to keep the Dursleys from ever denying him food, through carefully mentioning the school nurse and how inquisitive she was. Not that they would, but they wouldn't have stopped Dudley from stuffing himself, grabbing everything in reach, otherwise.
Harry prodded Petunia and managed to get her to put more vegetables and fruit in their diet, even if Dudley never touched them and Vernon only ate them on rare occasions. Another skill he had developed was ‘reading’ people; their body language, small face twitches and mannerisms, the meanings hidden in words and other such things. His morals, already ‘flexible’ enough, had become more something in the line of ‘don’t get caught’. Whereas before, he only took Dudley’s books and even returned them afterwards, recently, Harry had sold some of those he no longer needed as ‘slightly used’ at a shop on the other side of Little Whinging. He used the earnings to buy a small lamp for his cupboard; also a torch, in order to better read in other dark places. Otherwise, he was pretty careful about what he did; he only ever took things from his relatives, did so on rare occasions and never directly stole money or something that would be missed.
Time went on, Harry got far more clever and deceptive in a gradual process; he progressed in his studies, reaching early secondary school work. His grades hardly reflected his progress, since Harry looked painfully average; which was an apt description for his cousin, Dudley, after whom he modelled himself in class to keep the boy from punching Harry, though Harry still beat his cousin in marks by a small margin. Okay, so maybe Dudley had a decent level of intelligence, but he was so lazy it didn't matter!
Harry also became a bit more skeptical and tended to try to ascertain the truth of things he was told, since the Dursleys lied constantly about everything, and they weren’t the only ones (recently, even Harry himself followed their example); he even questioned things he had taken as granted before. For instance, he realised that writing with his left hand had not been a mistake caused by him learning how to nearly on his own, unlike what he had assumed when his schoolteacher had corrected him when he had been in year one. Of course, after he realised that, Harry made sure to learn how to write (and how to do anything, really) with either hand equally; with the same level of skill and, if possible, simultaneously. All that thinking, though, left him wondering just how his parents had died and what they had truly been like. He couldn’t think of a way that would make his relatives tell the truth, unfortunately.
Close to a year had passed since Harry gave up on the Dursleys, he was nearing the age of seven and his carefully controlled emotions were about to show themselves.
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Harry was running to save himself. That school year, Dudley had taken to a game he called ‘Harry Hunting’. It involved taking his gang of junior delinquents, catching the aforementioned cousin and beating him up. This time, for some reason, they had managed to chase him for much longer than usual. He was out of breath, so he stopped for a bit. (*Huff, huff, huff.*) "Have, I, lost them?” Harry said to himself.
“You wish, Potter!” Piers Polkiss said, the newest, rat-faced addition in Dudley’s gang.
Piers was the fastest of them; he very well might be the fastest in their grade -along with the next-, with the exception of Harry, who was his equal. Of course, Piers, Dudley and the rest of them had the advantage of numbers - so Harry, for all his speed and stamina, tended to run out of energy and get beaten up for the few weeks since Piers and his family moved to Little Whinging; even if he sometimes managed to use his brain to hide well enough to dodge the proverbial bullet. The beating that day was especially brutal, since Dudley was trying out his new plastic bat. Harry knew better than to fight back, since Dudley’s parents could make his life really hard, which was why he wouldn’t push his luck. It was fortunate that the bat broke rather easily, and that Harry was surprisingly durable. If he had got injuries as bad as they were trying to give him, he would have found a way to make them pay, no matter the consequences.
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“Potter!” Snapped the teacher, sneering. “Why do you look like that - have you been picking fights again?”
Harry rubbed his tender ribs and bruised face, then spoke. “A gang of bullies were picking on me, Ms. Muggleham,” he said, anger mounting.
“A likely story, boy," she replied, dismissing his words. “Does anyone know what truly happened?”
Dudley immediately spoke, without bothering to wait for permission. “Ms. Muggleham! Harry tried to beat up a first year girl and I stopped him. He tried to beat me up then, but he couldn’t.”
“I see. Apparently, you are incorrigible, Potter. Detention for the rest of the month.” She ignored the light fading out and in repeatedly, and said her piece. “I’ll have to speak to the Headmistress; perhaps expelling you is the only solution, after all.”
‘That- that bloody - bitch!’ Harry was trembling a bit in his rage and glaring at the fat-arse teacher. Nobody could tell for sure what happened then; the only thing that was certain was that Ms. Muggleham’s wig had disappeared somehow.
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“…So you see, Headmistress, there must be a logical explanation for this.”
The Head of St. Grogory’s Primary School looked unmoved, but she sighed. “I suppose I cannot blame you for this, Mr. Potter,” she told him. “There is also no evidence that you ever bullied any first year girls, so I will have to ask Mr. Dursley not to say such things.”
Soon after, Harry and Dudley got a new teacher; rumour had it that Muggleham had been fired because of serious favouritism - something had also been mentioned about her husband working in a certain company, and Harry had barely heard a whispered bit about drills. Thus, Harry was spared any punishment at school, and had come out ahead. However, Dudley described what happened in class that day to his parents (the filthy snitch), so Harry was not allowed to get out of the house for the next three weekends. His meals, on the other hand, remained exactly the same - there is a lot to be said of the value of subtle manipulation.
The Dursleys added to Harry’s chores: most meals became Harry’s duty, same with tending the garden. The tenuous peace he had established with his Aunt and Uncle had shattered; it was much harder to manipulate them, since they almost never spoke to him for longer than a few seconds, and usually only to… give him ‘fashion advice’ (‘Comb your hair, boy’, ‘fix those wrinkles in your shirt’). They even sometimes actively tried to make him miserable, something that very seldom occurred before. Taking care of the garden was relaxing to Harry; the rest, not so much. So, we could find our hero inside his cupboard, once again giving deep consideration to something; in this case, the nature of Ms. Muggleham’s wig’s disappearance.
‘There’s no doubt that the Dursleys were right this time. I caused Muggleham’s wig to vanish. No, the question is “how”. A better question is “can I do it again, on purpose?” ’ Harry’s mind had its gears turning at maximum speed.
After a bit of thought, he decided that either he was either some kind of mutant, or a potential magician; maybe both. Harry was reasonably certain that he could will reality to respond to his, well, will, but needed more information. True to the boy’s character, the answer lay in books. To be exact, he would read as much fiction as possible at the school library in order to think up a way to call upon his power deliberately. He would rather not have it respond to extreme emotions, since that would mean it could easily get out of control. Harry refused to have any more ‘accidents’. Considering Dudley usually angered him greatly, there was a chance Harry would do something to said cousin, and that might have his horse-faced aunt skewer him on a kitchen knife, or his walrus of an uncle get a shotgun and shoot him with it, or beat him to death. He could want things with all his heart without anger, hatred, envy or other emotions that could get out of control being involved much, thank you very much.
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Most of what Harry read was useless for his purpose (thus quickly discarded), until he stumbled upon a series called ‘His Dark Materials’. Research forgotten, Harry was immersed into a fantastical world of sentient Polar Bears, weird truth-divining devices and, of course, a protagonist who was too fun for her own good. He snapped out of that immersion when he reached the part describing the focus needed for the use of powerful artifacts such as the Alethiometer and the Subtle Knife.
To use them, one has to reach a state of mind in which he or she is focused on one thing, but also calm and detached; not pushing or forcing themselves.
From what Harry could tell from other books, it was a form of trance-like state. It seemed like a great idea, or at least a good start. He continued reading the book series on the side, but mainly kept experimenting in an effort to use his powers consciously. The attempts bore no fruit for quite a while. Harry only had a small breakthrough when he decided to try to transform something into something else, rather than make it disappear entirely. Despite failing to manage anything worthwhile for over three weeks, Harry persevered. He got better and better at the trance thing, thanks to daily practice, help from the librarian at school, a few books on meditation he read at the school library and the book on something called 'Divination' an elderly woman who looked Indian slipped into his pocket (or so Harry thought), which gave him the impression that his power was likely to be some form of magic.
On the other hand, 'Divination' sounded a bit woolly; he wouldn't dismiss it from the get go, but anyone without the natural talent, the 'Inner Eye' was doomed when it came to predicting the future -- the book said so, in not so many words. On the other hand, apparently magic might also have more... normal parts. Harry studied as much of chemistry and physics as he could; he wasn't certain it would help, but he had no access to magical books other than the Divination one. On a literal rainy day, Harry managed to turn a matchstick into a small needle, though not a flawless one. He had got the idea for this particular combination from the same elderly woman in odd robes, who was telling what looked like her grandchild that ‘At school, it’s matchsticks to needles first, Padma. Make sure to study the laws of Tran- my word!’
What was even weirder was that the old woman acted like she recognised Harry from somewhere, and even tipped her hat at him after she said a few words in a foreign language; that acknowledgement felt kind of like a violation of the rules of the universe. Petunia pulled him away immediately - another consequence of the wig incident was that he was no longer allowed to wander off on his own, and the Dursleys often had their eyes on him, which put an end to his creative acquisition of funds due to the risks involved. He didn't know how the old woman managed to slip him that book, but he was convinced it was her; he said nothing to his aunt, of course.
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“Wake up, boy!” His aunt shouted, with her oh so sweet screech. Petunia never failed to wake Harry up at half past six every morning. In a deviation from routine, she didn’t wait, and opened the cupboard’s door herself. “What in blazes-”
She had seen the new addition to Harry’s ‘room’, since Harry had forgotten to switch off the light when he had fallen asleep practising with his powers. “What is this, boy?” She interrogated, holding up the electric lamp.
“Wha-” Harry wasn’t exactly coherent so early in the morning.
“Don’t play innocent, Potter! Did you steal this?!”
Harry explained that he got it at a shop with used stuff, even told her which shop it was (fortunately, he was wise enough not to buy things from anywhere near where he sold what he stole) and, when the woman demanded that he tell where he found the money and if he stole it, Harry took advantage of his knowledge of his aunt’s weak points.
“You see, Aunt Petunia, people seem to think my family is hard up on money; not in this neighbourhood, but in other parts of Little Whinging, people sometimes give me money when they see me. I didn’t refuse the gifts; that would be rude, right?” He said, twisting the proverbial knife and savouring the changes in expression. He wasn’t truly lying, either, since that had happened more than once, though not often enough for Harry to buy anything more than a few sweets.
Petunia’s face turned a yellowish colour, then the shades of purple Vernon was so prone to, for the first time. Her anger turned into tired resignation quickly, though. She said, “just- stay in here, boy. No; make breakfast, then return to the cupboard immediately.”
At the moment, her already sour personality was showing on her face to the fullest extent. Anyone would agree it made for an ugly sight, including Harry, but he also thought it was a sight for sore eyes. Her suffering, that is. That would teach her not to only give him castoffs as clothes.
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Harry’s backtalk backfired, but he still thought that it was worth it just to see Petunia's face, even if he no longer had any money or a light source at his cupboard. Even the torch had been confiscated! Fortunately, he had hidden the books he had kept and money he had left in a place they wouldn’t be found. There was, however, a silver lining to the situation: while he didn’t usually get any new clothes (God forbid!), Petunia was more careful about which hand-me-downs she gave him, and even tailored them herself.
Yup, worth it.
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The next part in Project M (for Magic, which probably was the proper name) was, of course, to produce or attract light. Since Harry had already managed to use magic deliberately more than once, it didn’t take nearly as long this time. Being a bit of a perfectionist, he had practised the transformation repeatedly, until he could do it in less than four seconds. He especially tried to get into the trance-like state more quickly, but months or years of practice would be necessary for serious results. He did seem to have more of an affinity for transforming things (and possibly making and vanishing) than anything else, which he took note of. Making a light source was extremely easy as far as magical skills not of the transforming variety were concerned; the hard parts were to keep the light there while concentrating on a book, and to modify it so that it came from somewhere above Harry, rather than his palm or index finger.
After a few more beatings from Dudley, Harry was ready to call it quits, make a skill that allowed him to travel very fast and be out of there. However, another idea came to him suddenly: They fear my powers, and maybe me too. Why not give them a real reason to? It might make them less terrible. So, he started making a skill to move objects and, when that was mastered, animals. He dared not use it on his relatives until he was much better at it. His first true test? Killing Ripper by planting him into a wall, somewhere he couldn’t be seen, of course.
He made the corpse vanish (which made him feel as if he lacked sleep) and washed off the blood by making water (which made him feel as if he had jogged for over an hour), a skill which was obscenely difficult; he had managed it after studying the sciences a lot, especially about the composition of the atmosphere and chemical composition of water, and months of practice. At first, he had tried to use the vapour in the air, but he had felt as if he had burned himself on and even inside his hands and torso immediately afterwards (like his blood and skin had turned into lava at certain places); it was agonizing, and worst of all, it took a while to pass, though cold compresses helped a bit. He hadn't even succeeded beyond splashing himself with a few drops! Not to mention the terrible migraine!
He was wary of water spells from then on; after he had no longer felt the burning seven days of no magic use later (and waiting three more days without magic because he had been shaken and wanted to be certain), he tried a different way: he tried making water by combining two atoms of hydrogen and one atom of oxygen, repeated many times in the same second... which at least didn't cause him any suspicious burning sensations, nor did it cause him a headache immediately. He was a lot more aware of his limits from then on, though -- he always made sure to stop casting at any hint of a burning feeling on or in his body.
After killing Ripper, not smirking in front of Marge had been an immense challenge, but her face was still worth it when she couldn’t find her precious sweetie anywhere. She blamed Harry anyway, but even Vernon considered that 'irrational', as he put it. Making sure he could control how much force he put so that he didn’t accidentally kill anybody was going along fairly well - even if he maimed his aunt and uncle a bit, he wouldn’t truly mind, though, because it was their fault for Dudley being like that, and able to get away with beating up Harry. In the course of making his new skills, the most-likely-a-magician discovered other ones, such as how to summon an object to his position, though summoning made him tire mentally really quickly. He also made sure to have the extra skills to be able to manage what he wanted without problems.
Harry also considered something else after he was ready to try magic on his relatives: if they murdered him in his sleep, no level of magical skill would save him. So, as much as he hated what he was doing, he tried giving orders to Dudley. He failed, but had more success with giving him ‘suggestions’ on what to do, what to remember and when. Eventually, he reached a level where he could keep his cousin from remembering something which even he wouldn’t normally forget, and keep it that way for months. Undoing it immediately was another skill Harry practised.
Making Dudley do something he truly didn’t want to was easy after that, but Harry still avoided using it for anything more than practice. Mind control was something that sickened him to the core; his intelligence and free will was something he had been certain couldn't be taken away. To find out that there might be someone out there who could make his mind not be his own horrified him - normally, he wouldn't even wish that on his relatives. Unfortunately, he didn't exactly have good solutions. By this point, he realised he was stalling. When he could use his suggestion magic on five people (the Dursleys, and Piers and Gordon from Dudley's gang) and make it stick for longer than two months (potentially much longer, since he didn’t take the time to see his limits yet), he 'suggested' to Vernon, Petunia and Dudley not to ever kill him or try to; it wouldn’t even occur to them and if someone else suggested it, they would by extremely likely to refuse. Then, the 'fun' part began.
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“Aunt Petunia, please give me back my money and lights,” said Harry, stating rather than pleading.
Petunia seemed taken aback, but she sneered immediately afterwards, moving the hand with the empty frying pan to and fro. “Out of the question, boy. Now go to your cupboard.”
“I think I will stay right here, thank you very much, Aunt Petunia.” Harry answered, a light sneer also present.
She screeched something about a lack of respect and how she would teach him manners. Petunia once again moved the frying pan as she spoke.
Harry smiled (probably in a way similar to complete and utter psychopaths), lifted his left hand and magically drove his aunt into a wall, back first. She started screaming bloody murder, so the young magic user floated the pan above her, then struck her in the ribs repeatedly with it to silence her. However, Vernon came running to the kitchen, panicking horribly, and Dudley’s thundering footsteps echoed through the entire house. When the man noticed Harry looking pleased over Petunia’s injured frame, he immediately came to rather accurate conclusions and dove for his nephew’s arm-
Then fell upon something reminiscent of an invisible wall generated through Harry‘s right hand, a disgusting noise resounding as his nose broke and bled freely. The 'wall' spell had been the hardest for Harry to master -- it took him many months and tired him out mentally something fierce; it even affected his body, making him tired. Even now, Harry had to put a lot of effort into not showing his fatigue and looking confident and ruthless; Vernon was stronger than Harry had expected. Dudley was magically immobilized before he could snap out of the shock, and Harry gagged him with a handkerchief, since he hadn’t found a way to make someone shut up using magic yet. He also looked his Uncle in the eyes and gave him a vision of Marge dead to keep him docile, though the boy wasn’t sure how realistic he had made it. In the aftermath of the beating, only Vernon’s broken sobs and knuckles striking the ground, Petunia’s own sobs occasionally interrupted by wet coughing and Dudley’s muffled screams could be heard, with a boy who had hopefully returned to looking like a well-adjusted child a couple months off his eighth birthday making no sound.
When Harry spoke, his voice was quiet and calm. It didn’t need to be any louder, he knew. “Things need to change here, and will. I have tolerated you three being poor excuses for human beings long enough, and have to lay down some ground rules.
One: you never take my things. That is a shortcut to making me angry, and you wouldn’t like me angry.
Two: you never try to hit me, because I will return it a hundredfold.
Three: you never try to make me miserable; I’m a merciless little shit, and you’ll eventually pay.
Four: you are hopefully intelligent enough to understand what would displease me - things that displease me are a big ‘no’, though you may ask if unsure.
Five: Live and let live. Nod if you understand.”
He looked his relatives over when he finished speaking, relishing in their fearful looks and squashing down his guilt, mild physical fatigue and moderate headache. He could worry about going too far and recovering his stamina later - he had to make sure nothing was suspected at the moment, since he had roughed them up pretty badly. Harry smirked as he got an idea, and the Dursleys all cringed. He permanently modified Dudley’s memories to remember that his parents had been fighting very intensely, and 'suggested' that the boy go to a friend to stay for the day. Vernon was protesting very strongly, and Harry made the man’s arms move in a punch, likely breaking several knuckles as the fists struck the floor very forcefully; Harry had really improved his fine control when it came to moving things, even though humans were harder to move than dogs.
“Now, now, Uncle Vernon. I’m not going to do anything to Dudley, so don’t get your knickers in a twist; I am not stooping to your level. Of course, that also depends on your behaviour, right?”
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Harry was thinking over what he had done to his relatives and one thing stuck out: I could have been less violent. Even breaking a vase might have been enough to scare his relatives into submission, considering the fact that they feared the supernatural. Harry decided to be less violent in the future. If someone tried to treat him the way his relatives used to, though, he would still be utterly ruthless; only the method of his retribution would change and be more subtle. He went to sleep, mostly undisturbed by nightmares.
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Harry got out of the ophthalmologist’s office whistling, clad in clothes that were brand new and far from rags. He had a bit of trouble seeing the blackboard at school, and so got his uncle to take steps. An optometrist would have been fine, but Harry wanted to make sure he had no serious problems (which he didn’t). The doctor claimed that it was lucky he had visited early on, since without spectacles or ill-fitting ones, his eyesight would likely worsen at a greater rate. The elder Dursleys had considered trying to tell someone of Harry’s behaviour, but when they realised what Dudley remembered of that day, they backed off. Harry had spied on their talks, but the fact that the threat was also directed on their son eventually sank in, so his aunt and uncle stayed on their best behaviour.
Dudley had to be treated to an aura of instinctive terror, as Harry called it -an easier to cast variant of illusions- more than once to learn; Harry was unwilling to beat him up or return his memories of the incident. His cousin, though a bully, was more a victim of his foolish parents than anything, and Harry didn't want to risk Dudley telling anyone. More recently, Harry had had cause to think that someone was in his head, though he tried really hard not to panic. Since the time he had beaten up his relatives, a mental voice had been trying to get him to kill people. Fortunately, it wasn’t very subtle, thus easily noticed. Still, Harry couldn't even begin to guess why it was there - he was glad that the voice didn't manage to control him, but the more he thought about it, the more paranoid he became about his thoughts being his own.
The voice could also become really annoying (the lack of subtlety actually made Harry less paranoid). So, Harry sought ways to annoy it back. Mimicking a kitten worked wonders; whistling at high frequency was even better. Those usually got the voice to back off, though when he dealt with Dudley, it was more persistent. Also, since the voice appeared, his magic had been harder to use - to be exact, the spells needed better mental focus to use, which was also harder with the distracting presence in his head. The slightest mistake or loss of concentration could and would make the spell fail, and some -like his Torture Vision, what he used to make Vernon see Marge dead- were unavailable at the moment; he also had a loss of both power and control as a result.
Harry was certain the voice and his weakened magic were related. His recent project had become a lot harder, which was to use magic not with his hands, but the rest of the body too. He still could try, but only basic transformations had a chance of working, and even those hadn’t worked yet. Which was a far cry from being able to get light from any part of his body like before. He didn’t give up though, even if he had less time on his hands. He had been accepted into a secondary school, after a month of showing his teachers what he could do uninhibited. In fact, Harry would only go through the last few years of schooling; he had been given a pass on the rest, after a lot of effort and convincing. Of course, while he would be known as a child prodigy, his name was kept off the papers at his request.
“H- Harry,” Petunia addressed him for the first time in a while. “I need to tell you something.”
The boy raised his eyebrows. That was new. “By all means, then.” Pathetic. This woman would be better off dead
“I know you want to skip ahead a few grades, but please keep your name, ours and the location of this house off the public eye. Maybe even use a pseudonym and a disguise.”
Harry was intrigued; he did not think his aunt would pass on the opportunity to get fame.
“Does this have anything to do with the reasons you think I won’t be able to finish schooling from the age of eleven on?”
When Petunia flinched, he knew that he had hit the nail on the head. “Never mind. You can tell me whenever you like,” Harry said, shrugging it off; he wouldn't concern himself with the human-shaped piece of garbage. Force her to tell everything. It’s safer for you
“So, you’ll do it?” Petunia pressed, with a bit of disbelief mixed in.
She will backstab you at the first opportunity “Of course. I can tell you have a good reason, and will trust my gut this time; but if there’s a catch, there will be no mercy to be found from me.”
Harry hoped that he had injected the right amount of menace in his voice. Too much and his relationship with his aunt would worsen further (which might mean she would become more annoying), too little and she might think to test him.
Petunia cleared her throat. “You don’t need to tell me that you are a little psychopath. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She left after saying that, with Harry remaining thoughtful, ignoring the whispered part of her words.
‘She didn’t sound deceptive and didn’t stutter in fear again, even if she’s getting a little uppity. All in all, this went well.’
His relationship with his aunt remained distant, with Petunia fearing and distrusting him; filthy Muggles he could also see the bitterness and disgust was as strong as ever. Strangely enough, Harry actually got along with Vernon decently, despite what the boy had done. The man had embraced the saying ‘live and let live’, at last, after Harry promising not to mess with their minds again and actually apologising. It might also have something to do with how Harry never seriously harmed Dudley, and that he had no problem taking care of a large portion of the housework. He had also shown that he wouldn’t constantly hang his powers over their heads - nowadays, he never needed to threaten them, or at least Vernon and Dudley.
He got along with his cousin, but it was a bit awkward, since Harry actually remembered his own brutality and Dudley was clueless. First though, to do something about that blasted voice in his head! Since he had started annoying it back, it had abandoned what little subtlety it was able to muster up.
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“Vernon,” Petunia told her husband, “we need to talk. Now.”
The man nodded in agreement, though Petunia could see he braced himself for a difficult conversation.
“Why are you so… accommodating to the boy? Especially after what he did!” Petunia said. She continued by saying, “don’t tell me he… bewitched you?!”
Vernon shook his head in the negative. He said, “This is not about facing Harry. It’s about myself, Petunia.”
“What do you mean?” Petunia asked, confused and wary.
“When Harry was tormenting me with images of Marge dying, he lost control for a bit; at least, that is what I assume happened,” Vernon said.
Petunia scowled - she hadn’t known that- that the freak’s violence had gone beyond the physical (apart from the intimidation factor). In fact, the two of them hadn’t talked about that day at all.
“Anyway,” Vernon said, “for a few moments there, I saw myself as I truly was; and let me tell you, Pet, I really didn’t like what I was seeing. I got a glimpse of what I looked like from Harry’s perspective. But what cinched it for me was the signs he showed.”
“What signs?” Petunia asked, “signs of being a psychopath?”
“Not exactly,” Vernon replied, “rather than worrying Harry will be an axe murderer, I’m more concerned about him becoming like the one who murdered his parents, or like Hitler except with m-magic. He needs some positive interaction in his life, Petunia - preferably before he loses the few moral scruples he still has.”
Petunia made a sour face. She said, “even if you have a point, I can’t bring myself to treat him like you are, Vernon. Could we simply agree to disagree on that?”
Vernon nodded. He said, “all right; just don’t anger him too much. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”
Petunia's face softened and she nodded as well.
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School started in less than a month; Harry had skipped many grades and would start with the second year of Key Stage 4 - that is, with fifteen-year-olds as his classmates, at most sixteen-year-olds. Thus, he would go through the last year of compulsory education, along with two extra years. The school he was about to go to technically had a very low admission age, even if nearly all who had entered it thus far had been eleven. His magical practice had come to a halt in favour of suppressing the murderous, alien voice in his head (and to read the third book in His Dark Materials series, which had just come out). His otherwise brilliant solution of annoying it to near-catatonia hadn’t worked for long, after all. The only point he had to go off was that extreme negative emotions made things easier for the creepy voice.
Again, the boy sought out fiction. After all, anything magic-related (he couldn’t call what he was involved with anything else; after all, it was the word ‘magic’ that made Vernon and Petunia clam up faster than anything else, not to mention the references in the Divination book) was widely considered to be fiction. The meditation methods he had already learned helped, but he needed something more. Failing to find something especially useful, Harry turned to anger management advice. Along with his meditation and taking up football, the voice was mostly silenced and his magic got easier again, though not quite as easy as it used to be. Still, he thought something was missing from his methods to isolate the horrible voice.
With the relative clarity of thought suppressing the murderous voice brought (not to mention that the voice was clearly magical and it being isolated may have kept it from direct interference against his magic), Harry managed to channel his spells through places other than his hands again after more practice, though not as well as before. His feet were the hardest, as in ‘all but impossible’.
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Yeah, this Harry is brutal. It might be that it seems worse to me because I wrote it, or that I tried to go for realism and not the usual fanfiction depictions of violence. (Harry is characterised like this on purpose, including the minimal initial guilt in case you’re wondering. No, the soul fragment had nothing to do with it, it awoke just after.)
It’s written in British English because I know it decently well and, anyway, why not.
This uses Tom Riddle (and others) as inspiration to how Harry develops. True, he won’t be nearly as villainous as Tom, but he will clearly be similar regardless.
This story contains coarse language and violence!
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I don’t own the ‘Harry Potter’ franchise - J.K. Rowling does; I also lay no claim to ‘His Dark Materials’ book series which is referenced in this story (Philip Pullman owns that).
(Yes, the anachronism of 'His Dark Materials' existing in 1986 is deliberate; I moved them up ~12 years, so that the second book came out in 1984-85 and the third comes out in 1988. I claim artistic licence, and point at a Playstation in 1992 or so in canon.)
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Harry had just become six years old. Most children his age were pretty carefree, even with school included; however, Harry Potter was contemplating heavier matters, even for adults. To be exact, he was considering dropping his efforts to impress his relatives. Why? Because he was certain they would never care.
“Aunt Petunia! Aunt Petunia!”
“What is it, boy? Out with it!”
“Look, my progress report! Perfect scores all around!”
Petunia looked it over, then turned her nose up and looked to the side, whispering “far better than Dudley.”
She returned to her usual shrill, loud voice. “That’s it, boy! Off to the cupboard, with no dinner! You are not better than Dudley, no matter what delusions might enter that head of yours. You hear?”
His aunt’s reaction to a mention of a birthday party was just as bad; rather than angry and cruel, she was casually cruel (‘of course there will be no party; it’s not like something important happened.’)
Even though he was awfully young, some people mature quickly. Harry realised the futility of seeking his ‘family’s’ affection; something which, for some people, might continue well into adulthood. Worse, with others, despair would set in and they likely ended up mentally broken or at least horrible (and usually malicious) shells of their previous selves.
There were also the rare people who, while seriously affected, still functioned; and, above all, were pure of heart. Harry could have been one of those, but his patience had worn thin. Thus, while he was unbroken and not truly malevolent, he was far from pure-hearted.
‘What should I do? I’ve been studying far ahead, but since I know it won’t change anything now, I should stop. Right?’ After a bit of thinking he decided. ‘No, definitely not. I’ve put too much work into my studies to stop now -heck, I learned how to read and write when I was four to five with only some help from a librarian after close to a year of effort- so why would I stop now? I won’t do it for anyone other than myself; after all, didn’t I want to read to find something to do then?’ Though, to be truthful, he started learning how to read out of envy and spite, because he saw Vernon trying to teach Dudley (and mostly fail at the time).
Of course, nicking Dudley’s never-used books from the second bedroom without being noticed had been a staple for Harry since early on; though, recently it was more of a passive-aggressive form of revenge than about finding a way to pass the time.
-----
Our protagonist’s temper was a lot more volatile than before, due to his optimism having run dry; or it would have been, had cold calculation not held him back. In the past few months, he had progressed in the arts of deception and manipulation. He was much better at acting submissive and using flattery to his advantage, and had managed to keep the Dursleys from ever denying him food, through carefully mentioning the school nurse and how inquisitive she was. Not that they would, but they wouldn't have stopped Dudley from stuffing himself, grabbing everything in reach, otherwise.
Harry prodded Petunia and managed to get her to put more vegetables and fruit in their diet, even if Dudley never touched them and Vernon only ate them on rare occasions. Another skill he had developed was ‘reading’ people; their body language, small face twitches and mannerisms, the meanings hidden in words and other such things. His morals, already ‘flexible’ enough, had become more something in the line of ‘don’t get caught’. Whereas before, he only took Dudley’s books and even returned them afterwards, recently, Harry had sold some of those he no longer needed as ‘slightly used’ at a shop on the other side of Little Whinging. He used the earnings to buy a small lamp for his cupboard; also a torch, in order to better read in other dark places. Otherwise, he was pretty careful about what he did; he only ever took things from his relatives, did so on rare occasions and never directly stole money or something that would be missed.
Time went on, Harry got far more clever and deceptive in a gradual process; he progressed in his studies, reaching early secondary school work. His grades hardly reflected his progress, since Harry looked painfully average; which was an apt description for his cousin, Dudley, after whom he modelled himself in class to keep the boy from punching Harry, though Harry still beat his cousin in marks by a small margin. Okay, so maybe Dudley had a decent level of intelligence, but he was so lazy it didn't matter!
Harry also became a bit more skeptical and tended to try to ascertain the truth of things he was told, since the Dursleys lied constantly about everything, and they weren’t the only ones (recently, even Harry himself followed their example); he even questioned things he had taken as granted before. For instance, he realised that writing with his left hand had not been a mistake caused by him learning how to nearly on his own, unlike what he had assumed when his schoolteacher had corrected him when he had been in year one. Of course, after he realised that, Harry made sure to learn how to write (and how to do anything, really) with either hand equally; with the same level of skill and, if possible, simultaneously. All that thinking, though, left him wondering just how his parents had died and what they had truly been like. He couldn’t think of a way that would make his relatives tell the truth, unfortunately.
Close to a year had passed since Harry gave up on the Dursleys, he was nearing the age of seven and his carefully controlled emotions were about to show themselves.
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Harry was running to save himself. That school year, Dudley had taken to a game he called ‘Harry Hunting’. It involved taking his gang of junior delinquents, catching the aforementioned cousin and beating him up. This time, for some reason, they had managed to chase him for much longer than usual. He was out of breath, so he stopped for a bit. (*Huff, huff, huff.*) "Have, I, lost them?” Harry said to himself.
“You wish, Potter!” Piers Polkiss said, the newest, rat-faced addition in Dudley’s gang.
Piers was the fastest of them; he very well might be the fastest in their grade -along with the next-, with the exception of Harry, who was his equal. Of course, Piers, Dudley and the rest of them had the advantage of numbers - so Harry, for all his speed and stamina, tended to run out of energy and get beaten up for the few weeks since Piers and his family moved to Little Whinging; even if he sometimes managed to use his brain to hide well enough to dodge the proverbial bullet. The beating that day was especially brutal, since Dudley was trying out his new plastic bat. Harry knew better than to fight back, since Dudley’s parents could make his life really hard, which was why he wouldn’t push his luck. It was fortunate that the bat broke rather easily, and that Harry was surprisingly durable. If he had got injuries as bad as they were trying to give him, he would have found a way to make them pay, no matter the consequences.
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“Potter!” Snapped the teacher, sneering. “Why do you look like that - have you been picking fights again?”
Harry rubbed his tender ribs and bruised face, then spoke. “A gang of bullies were picking on me, Ms. Muggleham,” he said, anger mounting.
“A likely story, boy," she replied, dismissing his words. “Does anyone know what truly happened?”
Dudley immediately spoke, without bothering to wait for permission. “Ms. Muggleham! Harry tried to beat up a first year girl and I stopped him. He tried to beat me up then, but he couldn’t.”
“I see. Apparently, you are incorrigible, Potter. Detention for the rest of the month.” She ignored the light fading out and in repeatedly, and said her piece. “I’ll have to speak to the Headmistress; perhaps expelling you is the only solution, after all.”
‘That- that bloody - bitch!’ Harry was trembling a bit in his rage and glaring at the fat-arse teacher. Nobody could tell for sure what happened then; the only thing that was certain was that Ms. Muggleham’s wig had disappeared somehow.
-----
“…So you see, Headmistress, there must be a logical explanation for this.”
The Head of St. Grogory’s Primary School looked unmoved, but she sighed. “I suppose I cannot blame you for this, Mr. Potter,” she told him. “There is also no evidence that you ever bullied any first year girls, so I will have to ask Mr. Dursley not to say such things.”
Soon after, Harry and Dudley got a new teacher; rumour had it that Muggleham had been fired because of serious favouritism - something had also been mentioned about her husband working in a certain company, and Harry had barely heard a whispered bit about drills. Thus, Harry was spared any punishment at school, and had come out ahead. However, Dudley described what happened in class that day to his parents (the filthy snitch), so Harry was not allowed to get out of the house for the next three weekends. His meals, on the other hand, remained exactly the same - there is a lot to be said of the value of subtle manipulation.
The Dursleys added to Harry’s chores: most meals became Harry’s duty, same with tending the garden. The tenuous peace he had established with his Aunt and Uncle had shattered; it was much harder to manipulate them, since they almost never spoke to him for longer than a few seconds, and usually only to… give him ‘fashion advice’ (‘Comb your hair, boy’, ‘fix those wrinkles in your shirt’). They even sometimes actively tried to make him miserable, something that very seldom occurred before. Taking care of the garden was relaxing to Harry; the rest, not so much. So, we could find our hero inside his cupboard, once again giving deep consideration to something; in this case, the nature of Ms. Muggleham’s wig’s disappearance.
‘There’s no doubt that the Dursleys were right this time. I caused Muggleham’s wig to vanish. No, the question is “how”. A better question is “can I do it again, on purpose?” ’ Harry’s mind had its gears turning at maximum speed.
After a bit of thought, he decided that either he was either some kind of mutant, or a potential magician; maybe both. Harry was reasonably certain that he could will reality to respond to his, well, will, but needed more information. True to the boy’s character, the answer lay in books. To be exact, he would read as much fiction as possible at the school library in order to think up a way to call upon his power deliberately. He would rather not have it respond to extreme emotions, since that would mean it could easily get out of control. Harry refused to have any more ‘accidents’. Considering Dudley usually angered him greatly, there was a chance Harry would do something to said cousin, and that might have his horse-faced aunt skewer him on a kitchen knife, or his walrus of an uncle get a shotgun and shoot him with it, or beat him to death. He could want things with all his heart without anger, hatred, envy or other emotions that could get out of control being involved much, thank you very much.
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Most of what Harry read was useless for his purpose (thus quickly discarded), until he stumbled upon a series called ‘His Dark Materials’. Research forgotten, Harry was immersed into a fantastical world of sentient Polar Bears, weird truth-divining devices and, of course, a protagonist who was too fun for her own good. He snapped out of that immersion when he reached the part describing the focus needed for the use of powerful artifacts such as the Alethiometer and the Subtle Knife.
To use them, one has to reach a state of mind in which he or she is focused on one thing, but also calm and detached; not pushing or forcing themselves.
From what Harry could tell from other books, it was a form of trance-like state. It seemed like a great idea, or at least a good start. He continued reading the book series on the side, but mainly kept experimenting in an effort to use his powers consciously. The attempts bore no fruit for quite a while. Harry only had a small breakthrough when he decided to try to transform something into something else, rather than make it disappear entirely. Despite failing to manage anything worthwhile for over three weeks, Harry persevered. He got better and better at the trance thing, thanks to daily practice, help from the librarian at school, a few books on meditation he read at the school library and the book on something called 'Divination' an elderly woman who looked Indian slipped into his pocket (or so Harry thought), which gave him the impression that his power was likely to be some form of magic.
On the other hand, 'Divination' sounded a bit woolly; he wouldn't dismiss it from the get go, but anyone without the natural talent, the 'Inner Eye' was doomed when it came to predicting the future -- the book said so, in not so many words. On the other hand, apparently magic might also have more... normal parts. Harry studied as much of chemistry and physics as he could; he wasn't certain it would help, but he had no access to magical books other than the Divination one. On a literal rainy day, Harry managed to turn a matchstick into a small needle, though not a flawless one. He had got the idea for this particular combination from the same elderly woman in odd robes, who was telling what looked like her grandchild that ‘At school, it’s matchsticks to needles first, Padma. Make sure to study the laws of Tran- my word!’
What was even weirder was that the old woman acted like she recognised Harry from somewhere, and even tipped her hat at him after she said a few words in a foreign language; that acknowledgement felt kind of like a violation of the rules of the universe. Petunia pulled him away immediately - another consequence of the wig incident was that he was no longer allowed to wander off on his own, and the Dursleys often had their eyes on him, which put an end to his creative acquisition of funds due to the risks involved. He didn't know how the old woman managed to slip him that book, but he was convinced it was her; he said nothing to his aunt, of course.
-----
“Wake up, boy!” His aunt shouted, with her oh so sweet screech. Petunia never failed to wake Harry up at half past six every morning. In a deviation from routine, she didn’t wait, and opened the cupboard’s door herself. “What in blazes-”
She had seen the new addition to Harry’s ‘room’, since Harry had forgotten to switch off the light when he had fallen asleep practising with his powers. “What is this, boy?” She interrogated, holding up the electric lamp.
“Wha-” Harry wasn’t exactly coherent so early in the morning.
“Don’t play innocent, Potter! Did you steal this?!”
Harry explained that he got it at a shop with used stuff, even told her which shop it was (fortunately, he was wise enough not to buy things from anywhere near where he sold what he stole) and, when the woman demanded that he tell where he found the money and if he stole it, Harry took advantage of his knowledge of his aunt’s weak points.
“You see, Aunt Petunia, people seem to think my family is hard up on money; not in this neighbourhood, but in other parts of Little Whinging, people sometimes give me money when they see me. I didn’t refuse the gifts; that would be rude, right?” He said, twisting the proverbial knife and savouring the changes in expression. He wasn’t truly lying, either, since that had happened more than once, though not often enough for Harry to buy anything more than a few sweets.
Petunia’s face turned a yellowish colour, then the shades of purple Vernon was so prone to, for the first time. Her anger turned into tired resignation quickly, though. She said, “just- stay in here, boy. No; make breakfast, then return to the cupboard immediately.”
At the moment, her already sour personality was showing on her face to the fullest extent. Anyone would agree it made for an ugly sight, including Harry, but he also thought it was a sight for sore eyes. Her suffering, that is. That would teach her not to only give him castoffs as clothes.
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Harry’s backtalk backfired, but he still thought that it was worth it just to see Petunia's face, even if he no longer had any money or a light source at his cupboard. Even the torch had been confiscated! Fortunately, he had hidden the books he had kept and money he had left in a place they wouldn’t be found. There was, however, a silver lining to the situation: while he didn’t usually get any new clothes (God forbid!), Petunia was more careful about which hand-me-downs she gave him, and even tailored them herself.
Yup, worth it.
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The next part in Project M (for Magic, which probably was the proper name) was, of course, to produce or attract light. Since Harry had already managed to use magic deliberately more than once, it didn’t take nearly as long this time. Being a bit of a perfectionist, he had practised the transformation repeatedly, until he could do it in less than four seconds. He especially tried to get into the trance-like state more quickly, but months or years of practice would be necessary for serious results. He did seem to have more of an affinity for transforming things (and possibly making and vanishing) than anything else, which he took note of. Making a light source was extremely easy as far as magical skills not of the transforming variety were concerned; the hard parts were to keep the light there while concentrating on a book, and to modify it so that it came from somewhere above Harry, rather than his palm or index finger.
After a few more beatings from Dudley, Harry was ready to call it quits, make a skill that allowed him to travel very fast and be out of there. However, another idea came to him suddenly: They fear my powers, and maybe me too. Why not give them a real reason to? It might make them less terrible. So, he started making a skill to move objects and, when that was mastered, animals. He dared not use it on his relatives until he was much better at it. His first true test? Killing Ripper by planting him into a wall, somewhere he couldn’t be seen, of course.
He made the corpse vanish (which made him feel as if he lacked sleep) and washed off the blood by making water (which made him feel as if he had jogged for over an hour), a skill which was obscenely difficult; he had managed it after studying the sciences a lot, especially about the composition of the atmosphere and chemical composition of water, and months of practice. At first, he had tried to use the vapour in the air, but he had felt as if he had burned himself on and even inside his hands and torso immediately afterwards (like his blood and skin had turned into lava at certain places); it was agonizing, and worst of all, it took a while to pass, though cold compresses helped a bit. He hadn't even succeeded beyond splashing himself with a few drops! Not to mention the terrible migraine!
He was wary of water spells from then on; after he had no longer felt the burning seven days of no magic use later (and waiting three more days without magic because he had been shaken and wanted to be certain), he tried a different way: he tried making water by combining two atoms of hydrogen and one atom of oxygen, repeated many times in the same second... which at least didn't cause him any suspicious burning sensations, nor did it cause him a headache immediately. He was a lot more aware of his limits from then on, though -- he always made sure to stop casting at any hint of a burning feeling on or in his body.
After killing Ripper, not smirking in front of Marge had been an immense challenge, but her face was still worth it when she couldn’t find her precious sweetie anywhere. She blamed Harry anyway, but even Vernon considered that 'irrational', as he put it. Making sure he could control how much force he put so that he didn’t accidentally kill anybody was going along fairly well - even if he maimed his aunt and uncle a bit, he wouldn’t truly mind, though, because it was their fault for Dudley being like that, and able to get away with beating up Harry. In the course of making his new skills, the most-likely-a-magician discovered other ones, such as how to summon an object to his position, though summoning made him tire mentally really quickly. He also made sure to have the extra skills to be able to manage what he wanted without problems.
Harry also considered something else after he was ready to try magic on his relatives: if they murdered him in his sleep, no level of magical skill would save him. So, as much as he hated what he was doing, he tried giving orders to Dudley. He failed, but had more success with giving him ‘suggestions’ on what to do, what to remember and when. Eventually, he reached a level where he could keep his cousin from remembering something which even he wouldn’t normally forget, and keep it that way for months. Undoing it immediately was another skill Harry practised.
Making Dudley do something he truly didn’t want to was easy after that, but Harry still avoided using it for anything more than practice. Mind control was something that sickened him to the core; his intelligence and free will was something he had been certain couldn't be taken away. To find out that there might be someone out there who could make his mind not be his own horrified him - normally, he wouldn't even wish that on his relatives. Unfortunately, he didn't exactly have good solutions. By this point, he realised he was stalling. When he could use his suggestion magic on five people (the Dursleys, and Piers and Gordon from Dudley's gang) and make it stick for longer than two months (potentially much longer, since he didn’t take the time to see his limits yet), he 'suggested' to Vernon, Petunia and Dudley not to ever kill him or try to; it wouldn’t even occur to them and if someone else suggested it, they would by extremely likely to refuse. Then, the 'fun' part began.
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“Aunt Petunia, please give me back my money and lights,” said Harry, stating rather than pleading.
Petunia seemed taken aback, but she sneered immediately afterwards, moving the hand with the empty frying pan to and fro. “Out of the question, boy. Now go to your cupboard.”
“I think I will stay right here, thank you very much, Aunt Petunia.” Harry answered, a light sneer also present.
She screeched something about a lack of respect and how she would teach him manners. Petunia once again moved the frying pan as she spoke.
Harry smiled (probably in a way similar to complete and utter psychopaths), lifted his left hand and magically drove his aunt into a wall, back first. She started screaming bloody murder, so the young magic user floated the pan above her, then struck her in the ribs repeatedly with it to silence her. However, Vernon came running to the kitchen, panicking horribly, and Dudley’s thundering footsteps echoed through the entire house. When the man noticed Harry looking pleased over Petunia’s injured frame, he immediately came to rather accurate conclusions and dove for his nephew’s arm-
Then fell upon something reminiscent of an invisible wall generated through Harry‘s right hand, a disgusting noise resounding as his nose broke and bled freely. The 'wall' spell had been the hardest for Harry to master -- it took him many months and tired him out mentally something fierce; it even affected his body, making him tired. Even now, Harry had to put a lot of effort into not showing his fatigue and looking confident and ruthless; Vernon was stronger than Harry had expected. Dudley was magically immobilized before he could snap out of the shock, and Harry gagged him with a handkerchief, since he hadn’t found a way to make someone shut up using magic yet. He also looked his Uncle in the eyes and gave him a vision of Marge dead to keep him docile, though the boy wasn’t sure how realistic he had made it. In the aftermath of the beating, only Vernon’s broken sobs and knuckles striking the ground, Petunia’s own sobs occasionally interrupted by wet coughing and Dudley’s muffled screams could be heard, with a boy who had hopefully returned to looking like a well-adjusted child a couple months off his eighth birthday making no sound.
When Harry spoke, his voice was quiet and calm. It didn’t need to be any louder, he knew. “Things need to change here, and will. I have tolerated you three being poor excuses for human beings long enough, and have to lay down some ground rules.
One: you never take my things. That is a shortcut to making me angry, and you wouldn’t like me angry.
Two: you never try to hit me, because I will return it a hundredfold.
Three: you never try to make me miserable; I’m a merciless little shit, and you’ll eventually pay.
Four: you are hopefully intelligent enough to understand what would displease me - things that displease me are a big ‘no’, though you may ask if unsure.
Five: Live and let live. Nod if you understand.”
He looked his relatives over when he finished speaking, relishing in their fearful looks and squashing down his guilt, mild physical fatigue and moderate headache. He could worry about going too far and recovering his stamina later - he had to make sure nothing was suspected at the moment, since he had roughed them up pretty badly. Harry smirked as he got an idea, and the Dursleys all cringed. He permanently modified Dudley’s memories to remember that his parents had been fighting very intensely, and 'suggested' that the boy go to a friend to stay for the day. Vernon was protesting very strongly, and Harry made the man’s arms move in a punch, likely breaking several knuckles as the fists struck the floor very forcefully; Harry had really improved his fine control when it came to moving things, even though humans were harder to move than dogs.
“Now, now, Uncle Vernon. I’m not going to do anything to Dudley, so don’t get your knickers in a twist; I am not stooping to your level. Of course, that also depends on your behaviour, right?”
-----
Harry was thinking over what he had done to his relatives and one thing stuck out: I could have been less violent. Even breaking a vase might have been enough to scare his relatives into submission, considering the fact that they feared the supernatural. Harry decided to be less violent in the future. If someone tried to treat him the way his relatives used to, though, he would still be utterly ruthless; only the method of his retribution would change and be more subtle. He went to sleep, mostly undisturbed by nightmares.
-----
Harry got out of the ophthalmologist’s office whistling, clad in clothes that were brand new and far from rags. He had a bit of trouble seeing the blackboard at school, and so got his uncle to take steps. An optometrist would have been fine, but Harry wanted to make sure he had no serious problems (which he didn’t). The doctor claimed that it was lucky he had visited early on, since without spectacles or ill-fitting ones, his eyesight would likely worsen at a greater rate. The elder Dursleys had considered trying to tell someone of Harry’s behaviour, but when they realised what Dudley remembered of that day, they backed off. Harry had spied on their talks, but the fact that the threat was also directed on their son eventually sank in, so his aunt and uncle stayed on their best behaviour.
Dudley had to be treated to an aura of instinctive terror, as Harry called it -an easier to cast variant of illusions- more than once to learn; Harry was unwilling to beat him up or return his memories of the incident. His cousin, though a bully, was more a victim of his foolish parents than anything, and Harry didn't want to risk Dudley telling anyone. More recently, Harry had had cause to think that someone was in his head, though he tried really hard not to panic. Since the time he had beaten up his relatives, a mental voice had been trying to get him to kill people. Fortunately, it wasn’t very subtle, thus easily noticed. Still, Harry couldn't even begin to guess why it was there - he was glad that the voice didn't manage to control him, but the more he thought about it, the more paranoid he became about his thoughts being his own.
The voice could also become really annoying (the lack of subtlety actually made Harry less paranoid). So, Harry sought ways to annoy it back. Mimicking a kitten worked wonders; whistling at high frequency was even better. Those usually got the voice to back off, though when he dealt with Dudley, it was more persistent. Also, since the voice appeared, his magic had been harder to use - to be exact, the spells needed better mental focus to use, which was also harder with the distracting presence in his head. The slightest mistake or loss of concentration could and would make the spell fail, and some -like his Torture Vision, what he used to make Vernon see Marge dead- were unavailable at the moment; he also had a loss of both power and control as a result.
Harry was certain the voice and his weakened magic were related. His recent project had become a lot harder, which was to use magic not with his hands, but the rest of the body too. He still could try, but only basic transformations had a chance of working, and even those hadn’t worked yet. Which was a far cry from being able to get light from any part of his body like before. He didn’t give up though, even if he had less time on his hands. He had been accepted into a secondary school, after a month of showing his teachers what he could do uninhibited. In fact, Harry would only go through the last few years of schooling; he had been given a pass on the rest, after a lot of effort and convincing. Of course, while he would be known as a child prodigy, his name was kept off the papers at his request.
“H- Harry,” Petunia addressed him for the first time in a while. “I need to tell you something.”
The boy raised his eyebrows. That was new. “By all means, then.” Pathetic. This woman would be better off dead
“I know you want to skip ahead a few grades, but please keep your name, ours and the location of this house off the public eye. Maybe even use a pseudonym and a disguise.”
Harry was intrigued; he did not think his aunt would pass on the opportunity to get fame.
“Does this have anything to do with the reasons you think I won’t be able to finish schooling from the age of eleven on?”
When Petunia flinched, he knew that he had hit the nail on the head. “Never mind. You can tell me whenever you like,” Harry said, shrugging it off; he wouldn't concern himself with the human-shaped piece of garbage. Force her to tell everything. It’s safer for you
“So, you’ll do it?” Petunia pressed, with a bit of disbelief mixed in.
She will backstab you at the first opportunity “Of course. I can tell you have a good reason, and will trust my gut this time; but if there’s a catch, there will be no mercy to be found from me.”
Harry hoped that he had injected the right amount of menace in his voice. Too much and his relationship with his aunt would worsen further (which might mean she would become more annoying), too little and she might think to test him.
Petunia cleared her throat. “You don’t need to tell me that you are a little psychopath. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She left after saying that, with Harry remaining thoughtful, ignoring the whispered part of her words.
‘She didn’t sound deceptive and didn’t stutter in fear again, even if she’s getting a little uppity. All in all, this went well.’
His relationship with his aunt remained distant, with Petunia fearing and distrusting him; filthy Muggles he could also see the bitterness and disgust was as strong as ever. Strangely enough, Harry actually got along with Vernon decently, despite what the boy had done. The man had embraced the saying ‘live and let live’, at last, after Harry promising not to mess with their minds again and actually apologising. It might also have something to do with how Harry never seriously harmed Dudley, and that he had no problem taking care of a large portion of the housework. He had also shown that he wouldn’t constantly hang his powers over their heads - nowadays, he never needed to threaten them, or at least Vernon and Dudley.
He got along with his cousin, but it was a bit awkward, since Harry actually remembered his own brutality and Dudley was clueless. First though, to do something about that blasted voice in his head! Since he had started annoying it back, it had abandoned what little subtlety it was able to muster up.
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“Vernon,” Petunia told her husband, “we need to talk. Now.”
The man nodded in agreement, though Petunia could see he braced himself for a difficult conversation.
“Why are you so… accommodating to the boy? Especially after what he did!” Petunia said. She continued by saying, “don’t tell me he… bewitched you?!”
Vernon shook his head in the negative. He said, “This is not about facing Harry. It’s about myself, Petunia.”
“What do you mean?” Petunia asked, confused and wary.
“When Harry was tormenting me with images of Marge dying, he lost control for a bit; at least, that is what I assume happened,” Vernon said.
Petunia scowled - she hadn’t known that- that the freak’s violence had gone beyond the physical (apart from the intimidation factor). In fact, the two of them hadn’t talked about that day at all.
“Anyway,” Vernon said, “for a few moments there, I saw myself as I truly was; and let me tell you, Pet, I really didn’t like what I was seeing. I got a glimpse of what I looked like from Harry’s perspective. But what cinched it for me was the signs he showed.”
“What signs?” Petunia asked, “signs of being a psychopath?”
“Not exactly,” Vernon replied, “rather than worrying Harry will be an axe murderer, I’m more concerned about him becoming like the one who murdered his parents, or like Hitler except with m-magic. He needs some positive interaction in his life, Petunia - preferably before he loses the few moral scruples he still has.”
Petunia made a sour face. She said, “even if you have a point, I can’t bring myself to treat him like you are, Vernon. Could we simply agree to disagree on that?”
Vernon nodded. He said, “all right; just don’t anger him too much. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”
Petunia's face softened and she nodded as well.
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School started in less than a month; Harry had skipped many grades and would start with the second year of Key Stage 4 - that is, with fifteen-year-olds as his classmates, at most sixteen-year-olds. Thus, he would go through the last year of compulsory education, along with two extra years. The school he was about to go to technically had a very low admission age, even if nearly all who had entered it thus far had been eleven. His magical practice had come to a halt in favour of suppressing the murderous, alien voice in his head (and to read the third book in His Dark Materials series, which had just come out). His otherwise brilliant solution of annoying it to near-catatonia hadn’t worked for long, after all. The only point he had to go off was that extreme negative emotions made things easier for the creepy voice.
Again, the boy sought out fiction. After all, anything magic-related (he couldn’t call what he was involved with anything else; after all, it was the word ‘magic’ that made Vernon and Petunia clam up faster than anything else, not to mention the references in the Divination book) was widely considered to be fiction. The meditation methods he had already learned helped, but he needed something more. Failing to find something especially useful, Harry turned to anger management advice. Along with his meditation and taking up football, the voice was mostly silenced and his magic got easier again, though not quite as easy as it used to be. Still, he thought something was missing from his methods to isolate the horrible voice.
With the relative clarity of thought suppressing the murderous voice brought (not to mention that the voice was clearly magical and it being isolated may have kept it from direct interference against his magic), Harry managed to channel his spells through places other than his hands again after more practice, though not as well as before. His feet were the hardest, as in ‘all but impossible’.
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Yeah, this Harry is brutal. It might be that it seems worse to me because I wrote it, or that I tried to go for realism and not the usual fanfiction depictions of violence. (Harry is characterised like this on purpose, including the minimal initial guilt in case you’re wondering. No, the soul fragment had nothing to do with it, it awoke just after.)
It’s written in British English because I know it decently well and, anyway, why not.
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