A bit dark, a bit angry... written for brokenbottleaurora's Film Tagline Challenge: "It's time for the odd to get even."

I don't own Harry Potter.

TW: child abuse, some violence (not super explicit), some character death

Power(less)

The first few years of Harry's life were lost to him, but for the presence of a few glimpses of green light and flying motorcycles and half-giants that manifested in the form of dreams from time to time. Harry didn't know if the flashes of memories of his first year of life were a result of the horrific events that had characterized it, but he was sure that magic and all of the horrible, disgusting things that came with it were partially to blame.

Harry remembered his first instance of accidental magic clearly. He had been four years old and far too young to grasp what he had done when a blast of sheer energy had exploded from his body and thrown Uncle Vernon backwards when the man had backhanded him hard enough to send him crashing into the corner of the coffee table. The rest of the memory was somewhat blurred – likely from the blood in his vision from the nasty cut above his eyebrow and his probable concussion – but he clearly remembered the fear and disgust in his uncle's eyes.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had wasted no time in telling him all about the repulsive force living inside of him – the creeping tingle of magic that crawled through his veins and reminded him exactly how much of a freak he was. He couldn't quite understand the significance of the role that he had played in his own parents' deaths when he was only four, which was far too young an age to firmly grasp the concept of death and culpability outside of the most basic of circumstances. But although it had only been a few years since, seven-year-old Harry knew exactly what he had done – and he knew exactly what he was.

The three years since he had sent Uncle Vernon crashing over the arm of the couch and into the wall had only served to solidify his understanding of the destructive, dirty nature of magic. He had seen the humiliated look in the eyes of his primary school teacher when Harry had turned the man's hair blue. (Uncle Vernon had confirmed that the bit of magic had been a sign of Harry's true vindictive nature and had locked him in his cupboard for a week). He had seen the sheer confusion in his principal's face as the man explained to his relatives about the way that Harry had somehow – impossibly – ended up on the roof of the school. (Uncle Vernon had shaken him forcefully by the arm when they returned to number four, Privet Drive and assured Harry that the principal's expression was a clear sign of how unnatural and revolting magic was). He had received the cuffs and slaps when only the fringe of his hair had grown over his forehead after Aunt Petunia had shaved his head, and he didn't need either of his relatives to assure him that it was all his fault that he had been punished. He already knew.

Since the day that Aunt Petunia had sat him down at the kitchen table after Dudley had gone to bed and told him about his parents and the fact that he was a wizard, Harry had felt the magic beneath his skin. He hated it – hated himself and all of the things that he was capable of. He knew that he was repulsive, unnatural, maybe even evil, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never hesitated to drive these points home. They punished him by hitting him and withholding food and water each time that he let his magic slip out, but Harry knew that he deserved all of it. The beatings had only gotten harder and the punishments longer as Harry had gotten older, which only served to make Harry fearful of his relatives and hateful of himself.

But at some point – perhaps around his sixth birthday following a particularly violent beating from Uncle Vernon – Harry's magic had changed. He could still feel it creeping beneath his skin but it was different now – hateful somehow. Sometimes it felt as though the magic itself was eating away at him, rather than just the thought of it. And sometimes when he was particularly angry or in the midst of a scolding or punishment, he felt like his magic was ripping him apart at the seams, tearing through his skin rather than slithering beneath it like it normally did. Perhaps his magic loathed him just as much as he loathed it.

With his relatives' hatred of him and his inability to control his magic, it didn't ever take long for Harry to find himself in trouble at Privet Drive. Sometimes he found himself in small bits of trouble that he left with a simple cuff or banishment to his cupboard for the rest of the night, but sometimes he found himself in bigger trouble – no food for a week, bruised ribs kind of trouble. Harry had gotten himself into that kind of trouble. Accidental magic kind of trouble.

Uncle Vernon had woken up in a particularly bad mood that morning. Although Harry always received a list of chores to complete throughout the summer when he was free from school, the days that Uncle Vernon was in a bad mood were the worst. Harry always ended up with a list of chores that was significantly longer than usual – and significantly too long to complete before Uncle Vernon returned home at the end of the day.

Sure enough, Uncle Vernon had left for work and had given Harry an impossibly long list of chores to do for the day. Harry had gotten to work. While Dudley had been sitting in front of the television and eating handfuls of jelly babies, Harry had pulled weeds, fertilized Aunt Petunia's flowers, and painted the shed until he was sweaty, dehydrated, and sunburned from the hot summer sun.

When Harry heard his uncle open the front door, he hadn't even had time to vacuum the sitting room (scattered with jelly babies and empty crisp packages, thanks to Dudley) or start dinner.

"Boy!" echoed through the entryway of number four, Privet Drive, and it was all that Harry could do not to cower. He slipped out of the bathroom – where he had been scrubbing the tile with an old toothbrush – and stood in front of Uncle Vernon with his head bowed. "Where is my dinner?"

"I haven't made it yet," Harry mumbled weakly, still staring at the floor between his dirty socks. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were sore from bending over the garden all morning, and they protested as he raised his head to glance warily at his uncle.

Uncle Vernon raised one large, meaty hand in the air between them, and Harry flinched. As Harry had learned over the years, Uncle Vernon liked it when Harry showed that he was frightened. However, the anger boiling up in Harry's chest was unfamiliar; in fact, it was dangerous. Anger was unpredictable and more than anything, it was a sign of defiance that would only serve to get Harry in more trouble than he had already found himself in.

The hand hit Harry hard across the face, knocking his glasses to the floor. The bubble of anger in his chest expanded and combined with the wave of fear within him, and Harry felt his magic tremble.

Perhaps there had been a flash in his eyes or frisson of it in the air, for Uncle Vernon latched onto it, his eyes alight. "You feel your magic, freak? Is it trying to protect you? Doesn't it know that you deserve this?"

Another fist collided with Harry's face, causing a rivulet of blood to run from his nose. He stared at the blurry outline of the man, awaiting the next blow. It hit him hard in the side, just as Dudley wandered over from the living room to see the show.

The combination of the unexpected third person in the situation and the splintering pain in his side strained his magic, and for a moment, Harry felt as though it was tearing him apart at the seams. He doubled over, clutching his chest, torn between protecting himself from his uncle and trying to keep the magic contained within his body.

"Well?" Uncle Vernon growled, and the cuff that came with the man's words was the breaking point for Harry's strained nerves.

Harry felt his magic burst from him in a terrifyingly powerful wave, tearing him apart in a way that he had never experienced before. The walls of Privet Drive splintered around him, shattered fragments of wood and plaster remaining suspended in the charged air, orbiting around Harry.

The anger within him had taken on a mind of its own, and it seized Vernon by the throat – carried him beyond the hovering rubble of the house. Vernon's mouth opened in a silent scream – his eyes wide with horror – before he collapsed to the ground, motionless.

Aunt Petunia's scream pierced the air as she rushed toward Harry and Vernon, seeing Harry's shuddering body and his milky eyes. She was stopped in her tracks and lifted into the air as her husband had been, remaining suspended in the air for a moment before being jerked around violently and thrown to the ground.

When his aunt hit the wood floor of the entryway, the orbiting rubble of Privet Drive abruptly dropped to the earth. Wood and plaster rained on Harry and Dudley, who was huddled and crying in what used to be a corner of the home. Harry himself was curled in a ball, rocking back and forth. Though his magic seemed momentarily sated, he could feel the anger and hatred still burning beneath his skin. It made him sick. He knew what he had done; he knew what it had done.

Though silence reigned in the stillness, it was broken by three distinct pops from the front yard of the home. Harry knew who they were – what they were – without even turning around. His strained magic could sense its counterpart, for their aura was sending frissons of magic up and down his spine.

"Oh, Harry." The voice from behind him was fragile, heartbroken.

Harry turned toward the voice and saw three figures, each standing in flowing robes and holding a long thin stick of wood in one hand. The man who had spoken was wearing a garish purple robe, and his long white beard was tucked into his belt. The anguish was clear in his face, and Harry was sure that he could see tears glistening behind half-moon glasses. The other man was tall and thin, with greasy hair and a hooked nose. His unreadable, calculating expression set Harry on edge, and Harry quickly glanced at the third figure – a tall, stern-looking woman with a tight bun. While the old man seemed desolate and the unreadable man's true emotions were hidden, the woman's emotions were written across her lined face. The hint of disgust, the blatant fear – they were clear to Harry upon first glance, and he looked away quickly.

Their expressions confirmed Harry's deepest fear, and he felt the hatred within him grow deeper and stronger. Even in the world of magic, he was a monster.

You'll never know what I became because of you.

POWERLESS, Linkin Park

I've been toying with the idea of an Obscurial Harry for a while now, and the challenge prompt just fit perfectly. Let me know what you thought!