Title: The Weapon
Summary: (After OotP, PreHBP) Harry leaves Hogwarts after the death of his godfather, Sirius, depressed and angry. At the Dursley's, he thinks about his life in and outside the Wizarding World and comes to a decision – about his past, his present, and what remains of his future. Powerful! Harry but not Independent! Harry (you'll see)
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter; that belongs to Rowling – I just like to mess with Harry.
Chapter 1 – The Boy
Darkness shrouded the barren room, empty except for a single bed and its lone occupant. Even wearing the glasses that were carelessly thrown to the floor, the boy wouldn't have been able to see the ceiling he appeared to be studying so intently.
Shaggy black hair that normally defied gravity laid flat on his head, weighed down by weeks of accumulated grease. A slightly offensive smell permeated the room but with the absence of physical activity, with the few exceptions when he willed himself to eat, the smell wasn't bad enough for his 'family' to abandon their standard policy of ignoring him.
And so, for Harry Potter, the Boy-who-lived, defier of Voldemort and beacon of light for the Wizarding World lay on his bed as he had for weeks, staring upwards and thinking.
At least, he thought it had been weeks. Time had since lost all meaning to him – standard time, anyways. He knew it was the second day since he had last sent a message to the Order and that tomorrow he would again send a small note stating simply:
I'm fine. Nothing to report.
Beyond that there were no days, no deadlines, no waiting…he just was. And as despondent as the boy was he felt a strange sense of satisfaction at the opportunity to simply be, for the first time in his life.
Living with the Dursleys the boy had been expected to be a slave, and a punching bag; then in the Wizarding World he was their savior whom they loved to tear down from the pedestal they themselves had placed him upon.
But all these titles and names – the Boy-who-lived, the Harry Potter – they weren't him. All they saw were what the expected – wanted – him to be. Revered for an event that was not the result of any of his actions but those of his mother. Hated for the same reasons.
The boy chuckled grimly at this new thought; not only was he not loved for himself, but he was hated for the same reason. Draco, who hated him because he was trained to; Snape, who hated him because of James Potter; even Voldemort hated him because of an inept Seer's prophecy.
The prophecy…another subject that the boy spent a great deal of time pondering. A twist of fate, a flip of the coin, one chosen and the other not…
…kill or be killed.
When the boy had first heard the prophecy, he had railed against the injustice of becoming a murderer to survive – until sometime during his 'exile' he realized he already was a murderer twice over – Quirrel and Sirius.
Sirius.
The boy had loved his godfather, even though they hadn't known each other for very long. In Sirius the boy had thought he had finally found the family he had wished for so many years. It didn't matter to him that Sirius was like the rest – seeing the mirror image of his best friend James Potter and the baby the boy had been instead of who he had become. He was sure that with time Sirius would come to see Harry.
But he died instead, and as much as the boy mourned his godfather, he grieved more for the loss of what-might-have-been. But even then, how can you miss what you've never really had?
So instead, the boy was left alone again surrounded by the friends and of Harry Potter, the self-sacrificing Gryffindor hero. Someone who only existed in their own minds.
For his friends he is the burdened hero that they pitied.
For Remus he is the last link to the Marauders.
For Dumbledore he is the epitome of Gryffindor, the weapon to defeat Voldemort.
What do you do when you have no identity of your own…
…except that of a weapon.
A weapon.
As much as the boy struggled against the idea, once taken root the thought refused to budge. But the more he thought about it the more it made sense. His entire life had been spent having others manipulate him – forge him – into a better weapon. Every year the boy experienced trials and tests -- becoming harder, stronger, and determined to fight Voldemort. And when he was no longer needed, he was sheathed and sent into storage at the Dursleys until he was needed again.
When the boy had accepted these facts, he tried to argue to himself that once Voldemort was dead he would be free. But the boy had always known that wouldn't be the case from the moment he had found out his role in the Wizarding World. He was the Boy-who-lived – the only person to ever survive the Killing Curse. He was a miracle…and miracles only happen once.
And martyrs aren't any good alive.
Even if he somehow managed to survive a duel with one of the two most powerful wizards alive, the boy would spend his entire life looking over his shoulder. Surviving Death Eaters wanting revenge; aspiring Dark Lords wanting to make a name for themselves; politicians afraid of his political power.
A small noise broke the boy's concentration and the small amount of light coming from the now flapping doggy door revealed the meager meal Petunia had left. Unable to remember the last time he ate, the boy wearily sat up and dragged himself across the floor to retrieve the plate. Panting slightly at the minimal effort it took to eat, his thoughts again turned to his previous revelation.
If he had no freedom and no future, what choice (if any) did he have?
He could kill himself, but despite Sirius' death and the revelation of the prophecy, he still couldn't bring himself to end his life – not when his parents had sacrificed their own so he may survive.
He could try to join Voldemort, but the only way the Dark Lord would accept that the boy's change of heart was genuine was for the boy to reveal the full contents of the prophecy. And the boy had no doubt that he would be killed immediately afterwards.
He could runaway, but the boy suspected that either the Ministry or Dumbledore (or even both) had tracking charms on him or his wand and that it would only be a matter of time before he was caught.
Absently, the boy reached for another morsel of food only to be surprised when he saw his plate empty. For a moment, he examined the empty feeling that he felt at this discovery. It had been the same amount of food the Dursleys had always fed him, but having experienced the feeling of being full and content, the portions they served him seemed smaller. The Dursleys had taught him to be content with what he was given, to make the best of the situation and accept.
It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.
Was Harry -- just Harry -- only a dream and the Weapon a reality?
For the first time since he had arrived at the Dursleys, the boy felt a sense of purpose and determination fill his soul. If he was to be nothing more than a weapon for the Light, so be it. He would become strong, and powerful, and fulfill his purpose.
But he wouldn't let those who would wield him keep their delusions. He was not Harry Potter, the Boy-who-lived; he was not the Gryffindor Golden Boy; he wasn't even Harry, the boy.
He was the Weapon.
It was an unpleasant surprise for the Dursleys when the heard footsteps down the stairs as they ate their breakfast that Sunday morning. Vernon's face grew red as he imagined the inconvenience and freakishness the boy would bring to his day off. It all of Vernon's self-control not to get up and grab the brat by the collar and haul him back up to his room. But no doubt the boy would complain to his freakish friends about any mistreatment and having the brat in his life was enough freakishness for Vernon.
"What is it, boy?" Vernon asked gruffly as the boy stood quietly by his chair.
To the Dursleys immense surprise, the boy didn't respond immediately but kneeled down before his uncle.
"I request more food, since I am unable to serve you properly without the required nourishment," the boy said in an empty voice, eyes on the floor.
Vernon's eyes narrowed shrewdly at the boy's statement.
"Serve us?"
"Yes, sir." The boy didn't need to see his Uncle's face to know that a cruel and self-satisfied smiled was on it. But as much as he loathed his relatives, as a Weapon he needed to learn to obey the orders of his wielder quickly and without hesitation. He didn't have to worry about the Dursleys treating him kindly, or try and change his new attitude. By the time the Order came for him at the end of the summer, the change would be complete. Then he would serve his true master – whether the man liked it or not.
As the boy predicted, the smile grew on Vernon's face – echoed by his family.
"Very well, but if you serve this family, that would make us your masters and you will address us as such. Understood?"
"Yes, master," the boy replied without hesitation, in the same empty voice.
After all, what need did a weapon have for dignity?
TBC