A/N: Okay.. this is going to be really Alternate Universe, with a manipulative Dumbledore (evil too) and a semi-nice Tom Riddle (Controlled by Dumbledore),
Ginny, Percy, Molly and Arthur, plus possibly the Twins bashing(probably not.), a good, understanding Ron, a nice Hermione, a fickle Wizarding World, and horrible Rita Skeeter, a homosexual, nice, independent, abused and powerful (NOT all-powerful) Harry and a nice Severus, Remus and alive Sirius. It will also involve a nice Draco, Neville, Blaise (Zabini) and Theodore Nott, with a fairly intelligent and nice Pansy. Okay? Cool.
Resolutions – A Prologue
A soundless scream tore at Harry Potter's throat. He writhed on the bed; ratty sheets tangling around pale legs, sprinkled with scars, and clawed bloody furrows in his chest. His screams cut off abruptly as awareness returned im from Morpheus's clutching hands.
Harry bolted upright, panting harshly, eyes wide and unfocused. A whimper, barely held in check, erupted into his mouth, and Harry wandlessly Summoned the small bin he had scrounged from a local junkyard towards him just in time. He vomited, bile choking him, and then wordlessly Vanished the mess.
Black and purple bruises marred his chest, five long sliced sluggishly bleeding, and he winced as he grabbed a cloth to mop up. His rib had been broken by Vernon just the other day, and his new injuries were really not helping at all with the pain factor.
The dark-haired teen stared out of the slots in the cupboard, the darkness never lifting.
This had to stop.
Harry made a resolution as he sat in the dark, damp cupboard under the stairs, sitting on moldy sheets, a transfigured mattress his only comfort, bruised, battered and bleeding (courtesy of his relatives and nightmares).
He would leave. Who cares that Voldemort could get him once he was past the wards? All HE wanted was to kill him, not make his life a living hell.
Mouth set in a line grim from pain and eyes hard with determination, Harry hauled himself off his tiny bed, grunting in pain. His eyes gleaming somewhat eerily in the dark, he grabbed his trunk, unwrapping the heavy chains binding it with slow, pain-filled movements. He stuffed his muggle backpack, which he had filled with money, his few raggedy hand-me-downs and the photo album Hagrid had given him into the trunk, tapping it with his finger. He watched in satisfaction as it shrunk, before smirking somewhat evilly.
He had just remembered something. Harry reached down, removing a brick from the wall, and grabbed a collection of photos and sheets.
He had made a small portfolio, which included his real diary up until the age of eleven, several photos he had taken of himself when he was hurt before he left for Hogwarts, and a few tapes, recording taken from the 'erase' box the Dursley's kept for their home cameras. He took a final snapshot of his cupboard from the door, making sure to include the small, crudely drawn picture from when he was four, done in blacks and reds, which proudly proclaimed the cupboard as 'Harry's Room'.
He was going to post it to the police, as he had planned to do since the age of ten, when he learnt that, no, starving, beating, verbally abusing and locking a child in a cupboard was not okay, and nor was it legal. He had known, even as a young child, that something was not right about the way the Dursley's treated him, just look at Dudley! But he had been too young to do anything about it… And even the 'nice' Mrs. Figg had done nothing when he asked, tearfully, if she could help him.
She had smiled, patted him on the head, and sent him right back to his 'relatives'. For that alone, she was still one of Harry's least favourite people… Dumbledore being in the Top Five. Of. All. Time. Most. Hated. Bastards.
Ahem.
Harry shook his head, concentrating instead on being the quietest he could be as he snuck up the stairs. His uncle had locked his wand, school books and anything not bolted down in the trunk up there, before throwing the trunk at him and barking at him to 'get back to your cupboard, you freaky child' with a kick to his ribs. He was, quite frankly, surprised his foot managed to reach that high, even if Harry was really short for his age, only around 5"2. Thrice-damned malnutrition.
He reached the ladder, pulling it down slowly; thanking whatever gods did not hate him up there that he had been forced to oil the hinges just yesterday.
Climbing up one step at a time, Harry froze, heart jumping up to get friendly with his tonsils, as Vernon snorted in his sleep. Closing his eyes with a sigh of relief, Harry renewed his climb with more speed than before. Unknown to him, his speed made the old wooden ladder splinter slightly, before his weight lifted, and the step returned to its normal shape.
Muttering to himself, Harry quickly un-shrunk his trunk, stuffing all the things he could get his hands on into the wooden compartments. Getting ready to leave, he noticed an odd box, seemingly deliberately hidden, with the name 'L. Evans and M' barely visible. Hardly daring to breath, Harry reached for it with trembling hands. He finally had something of his mother's. He finally had something to remember her by, besides photos and his last memories of her death, and the vague, half-there dreams of a gentle voice and soft hands.
They were all he had had as a young child to combat the overwhelming despair his so-called relatives bestowed upon him.
He paused, foot nearly touching the step, when a sudden snort broke the silence of the early morning. Shrugging, he shrunk his trunk, with the large box safely inside, and put it on the black shoelace he had charmed invisible while at school around his neck. It may be paranoid, but he liked to carry everything around with him, even while at school.
This probably saved his life. The step shattered loudly.
Vernon Dursley, 200% overweight mass and muscle, mean, vicious and determined to be 'normal', awoke to the sound of his wife snorting beside him. He thought he had heard a cracking sound… He glanced with mixed disgust and hate at his wife, and then froze as he heard a faint footstep from the direction of the… he strained his small ears. Yes, from the direction of the attic. His fat jowls wobbled dangerously as he undertook the great feat of hauling his body out of bed, grabbing the nearest belt, and strode out in to the upper hallway. He would teach the freak a lesson he would never forget, or kill him trying!
That horrible, nasty, freakish boy would soon be begging for him to stop, and the cupboard would have to be cleaned of blood again… by his freaky hands. Besides, he had a new form of punishment tonight. He had watched a crime show last night, and he had heard a nice piece of news.
"Raping a victim will often be the most effective way of breaking them mentally and emotionally. This may lead to comas or even death if the case is extreme enough."
He smiled. HE wouldn't touch the lump of bones and freakish blood, of course, but he was sure his darling Dudders, and maybe a couple of friends, would be glad of the practice, until they could get girlfriends of their own. Gang raping had to be better than just a single rape in order to break him, right?
His large, flabby feet creaked on the last step, and the freak, whom was half-way through picking the locks, froze. Green eyes, oh how he would love to see him broken, gazed at him with a curious mix of disgust, fear and hatred. What did he have to be disgusted about, and what RIGHT did the boy have to hate him? It wasn't like he had feelings, not like normal people, after all. And he was the disgusting bit of freakish meat, which woke up screaming its throat out and did weird things, not him.
Harry froze. His uncle was barely a few feet away, and he knew, after having glanced back, that he was carrying the three-tied belt, with the sharp silver buckles and the studs that ripped his skin so brutally. The last lock clicked open under trembling fingers, and Harry dropped to his knees, lashing out flat-footed, hitting Vernon right on the knee. Hearing him grunt with no small amount of satisfaction, Harry kicked out again, this time breaking his nose, and cast a strong stunner at him, and by extension his wife and son.
Harry ran.
He ran to the Post Office, just barely open, and gave his portfolio to be sent to the Police Station, ignoring the clerk's worried expression at his ruffled, bleeding state.
He moved outside, staring for a brief moment at the burst of pinks, reds, oranges, purples and violent greens and blues that preceded the rising sun. He wondered where Hedwig had flown to after school's end.
Holding out his holly and Phoenix feather wand, he frowned at the decreasing amount of connection between his wand and himself. Perhaps he ought to pay a visit to Mr. Ollivander? Shaking his head, rather like a wet dog, Harry gave Stan the Knight Bus driver his required two sickles, and sat down in one of the cushioned chair at the far back.
He had his back to the wall, all entries and exits in sight, and so he was the first to notice the oddly dressed, rather short figure emerge, seemingly from the shadows, and stalk purposefully towards him.
" Harry B-R J Potter? Son of the unwilling Lily Rose Evans and James Brian Potter?" came a voice from inside the hood, as a long fingered hand pushed what appeared to be a small silver coin into his hand. " Show this to Griphook at Gringotts, Mr. Potter. And remember, Mr. Potter! This was a dream. You will remember me when the time is right, but for now… A gift, before you awaken."
The strange being leaned forward, pulling the hood back, and dropped a kiss on his scar. A strange, silver mist that flowed from the figure's mouth, and it sucked and pulled a screaming black cloud out and away from him, before settling back into his skin.
Harry blinked.
He felt rather vague, confused, like there was something he ought to remember, something important. All he knew was that he was going to Gringotts, and the strange, silvery coin on his palm had something to do with his memory loss. He also felt lighter, more free, like a great chain had just dropped away from his body.
"Diagon Alley!" shouted Stan Shunpike, and Harry quickly exited the bus. Madame Marchbanks smelt something awful.
"Hey, Tom. Can I get a room for a few days?" asked Harry, flattening his fringe over his scar. He really did notwant to be mobbed.
"Sure… Harry." Tom winked, and Harry gave him a grateful smile.
"Thanks, Tom. Its four sickles a night, right?"
"Yeah. Just make a drop deposit when you leave, no need to pay me now. May I ask what exactly you plan on doing for the next… month and a half until school, Mr. Harry?" Tom inquired, brown eyes looking at the too-large clothes, the skinny frame, the dried blood.
"Just… Some problems at… my relative's place." Harry said nervously, not noticing the sudden narrowing of Tom's eyes when he said 'my relative's' instead of 'home'. The suddenly understanding light in the barkeeper's eyes made Harry uncomfortable.
"Your room is just near the stairs, Mr. Harry. Take a right, the first door you see. Number 3."
"Thanks, Tom. I'm heading out to Gringotts, so can I have my key now? I may be out late, I don't know how long my business will take." Harry explained, feeling relieved when Tom slid him an old silver key. With a quick smile to the innkeeper, he went out into the small outside area.
With a quick smile at the dustbins, which he swore winked, Harry drew his wand, tapping the bricks in the right order. He breathed a sigh of relief, sliding quickly through the crowds to reach the crooked white building of the Goblin's Bank, Gringotts.
He bowed to the two Goblin guards outside, ignoring the jeers from the entering Wizards, and gave a quick smile when the swarthy guards bowed slightly back. It was good he had gotten that right. Goblin bows were like a whole other language of their own. If you meant to say 'Hello', but tilted you head slightly to the left, you were saying 'Oh, go and sleep with your grandmother, jerk.'
The next two guards also bowed back, the same bow, which meant 'I am confused as to why you are doing this, but still relatively grateful.', followed by another which meant 'Ha! Those wizards are getting it rubbed into their faces so bad right now!' to each other, a bow which used a complicated finger movement… Or it could have meant 'I love you too.' Harry wasn't entirely sure, but went with the first option, just to be safe.
He walked through the doors, into the grand marble interior, and went to the one free goblin teller. He looked vaguely familiar…
" Hello, master Griphook. I have come to see my account manager." Harry began, taking his gold key from the sewn pocket inside his shirt and sliding it across the desk. He got a grunt and an inclination of the head ('I'll be right back', not to be confused with ' Mushrooms are delicious'.) as an answer, and Griphook shouted something in Gobbledygook at a waiting goblin.
Waiting patiently, Harry gazed around him, noticing with disgust the brusque, sometimes disgusted or dismissive way the wizards treated the goblins. He was frankly amazed at their stupidity. How idiotic did you have to be to insult the very beings that control your money, for Merlin's sake?
" We goblins often ask ourselves the very same thing, Mr. Potter." Replied Griphook.
" Oh, did I say that out loud?" Harry said sheepishly, smiling awkwardly. "Well, I still think that they should treat you better. What would they do if you just upped and left, sick of being treated like dirt? And people wonder why the Goblin Rebellions start!" Harry muttered, scoffing. Griphook smiled nastily at Harry, which he recognized as a 'nice', by goblin standards, smile, not the smile that meant 'I'm going to kill you slowly, painfully and then torture you to insanity before killing you'. That was the trademark smile of the goblin clans, and it had been perfected over the millennium.
" We quite agree, Mr. Potter. Here comes your account manager now. Lord Ragnarok." He muttered, bowing so low his head nearly touched the floor. Taking his queue from Griphook, Harry bowed himself. The tall, scarred goblin gestured impatiently at them to rise, and the two, goblin and human, obediently trooped after him.
They were led to a large conference room, plain and simply decorated, with a broadsword hanging above the head of Ragnarok's desk.
" First, Mr. Potter, I would like to enquire as to why exactly you never answered any mail Gringott's sent to you?"
Harry frowned. " What letters? I have never received a letter from Gringott's before. Ever."
" That cannot be right, Mr. Potter. We have sent you forms, overviews and property ward management letters ever since the age of ten." Ragnarok frowned.
" Well, I never got any. I lived with muggles." Harry retorted, folding his arms defensively.
Ragnarok studied Harry intently. " You… lived with muggles?" A strange expression crossed their faces, before a furious shuffling of papers ensued. " We have it written down here, by your magical guardian himself, that you are living with Aberforth Dumbledore."
" What magical guardian?"
" You were not aware that Albus Dumbledore is your magical guardian?"
" No…" Harry sighed, looking down. " I never even knew about the wizarding world until I was eleven." A brief sneer twisted his face. "My relative's made sure of that."
" Relatives, Mr Potter?" asked Griphook. Harry turned to look at the goblin, and their eyes met. Harry felt himself go numb, his mind clouding, as he reached out with the silver coin.
"TaKe IT GriPhOok." Came a voice out of his mouth, one that Harry even in his dazed state recognized as not his own. It was raspy and low, and the accent was not mortal. The voice made Harry shiver.
" My Lord." The Goblins bowed deeply.
" THis bOy Is thE Key oF FAke PrOphEcy. TrEaT HIM WelL."
Harry blinked dazedly, the fog slowly clearing from his mind as the goblins straightened from their prostate positions.
"You have been Marked by the Lord of Prophecy and Ruin." Ragnarok breathed, eyes for the first time studying his scar. "And he has relieved you of a great burden."
"Lord of… Prophecy and Ruin?" Harry parroted, frowning in bewilderment.
"What do they teach you at that school? No, don't answer that, boy. The Lord of Prophecy and Ruin is otherwise known as Merlinaes. Merlin was his great-grandson. He controls all the prophecy's in the world, and is the source of the Seer's gift. Do not scoff!" Ragnarok warned him harshly, and Harry gulped. "Prophecy's are great things, Mr. Potter. Terrible, yes, but great. Do you know of your prophecy?"
At Harry's confused look, he sighed.
Griphook spoke. "I know his prophecy, sir. If you would permit me to tell Mr. Potter?"
"Please." Harry sighed, one hand over his eyes. "Call me Harry. Mr. Potter sounds so… stuffy." He made a face to which the goblins snickered.
Ragnarok turned. "If you so wish… Harry. Griphook, if you would?"
" This is the prophecy recorded in the Department of Mysteries, although fake, Harry:
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ...
This Prophecy is a fake. The real prophecy is this, Harry.:
The one with the power of the four approaches… born to one who has thrice been bound, born as the seventh month dies… and he will be Marked as the Fate Holder, the Fake Child, but he will overcome those who seek to tear him… and Light must die for Shadow to thrive, and Dark shall turn to grey… The one with the power of four in nigh! The night of the moon is darker than silver, and he comes! Born, born as the seventh month dies… He will be Marked… and he rises…"